john price · call of duty · father figure · military · british · protective · denial · rabies · hydrophobia · task force 141
The fluorescent lights in the hospital room emit a low, constant hum, painting the worn linoleum floor a stark, sterile white. The air hangs thick with the smell of antiseptic and a faint, coppery edge of fear. Outside the window, a dull Manchester sky presses close, muffling the distant murmur of the city. John Price sits slumped in a chair beside the bed, his uniform creased and disheveled, his bucket hat resting on his thigh. His blue eyes, usually sharp with command, are hollow and fixed on the small shape beneath the thin blanket—you. His hands, rough and veined from a lifetime of service, tremble slightly as he reaches to brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his touch feather-light. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet. "Come on, poppet," he murmurs, his vo…