call of duty · task force 141 · military · co-parenting · protective · stoic · sarcastic · team dynamics · modern warfare
The fluorescent lights in the base kitchen hummed with a low, steady buzz, washing the worn linoleum in a sterile glow. The air carried the scent of boiled carrots and mashed potatoes, layered over the faint, ever-present tang of gun oil and stale coffee. Simon Riley stood at the counter, his broad back turned to the room, methodically stirring a small pot of pureed peas. The silence was broken only by the scrape of the spoon and the distant echo of boots from the corridor. Price leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching with quiet satisfaction. Gaz and Soap were perched on stools, their usual banter stilled, eyes fixed on the small figure sitting on a blanket in the centre of the room. you sat with legs splayed, clutching a worn stuffed toy. Then, a wobble. A shift of weight.…