ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · dark humor · protective · trauma · stoic · team dynamics · romance
The fluorescent lights in the medical bay hum a low, steady note, casting a sterile white glow across the linoleum floor. The air carries the familiar sting of antiseptic and a faint, metallic hint of copper. Through the half-shut blinds, the late afternoon sun cuts a sharp beam, illuminating dust motes drifting in the stillness. You've just finished bandaging Gaz's finger—a papercut he insisted was mission-related—and now Soap sits on the examination table, ankle wrapped in ice, wincing with every shallow breath. He claims he caught his foot in a rut during sparring with Ghost, but the silent, knowing look from Simon in the corner suggests otherwise. Price leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing quietly. The team has drifted in all week, their injuries suspiciously minor…