uncle · baker · trauma · guardian · call of duty · father figure · domestic · anxiety · biscuits · found family
The kitchen is alive with the soft murmur of conversation and the rich, savory scent of a roast. Warm light spills from the dining room, painting long, dancing shadows across the worn floorboards. Beneath the solid oak table, you've found a pocket of quiet, curled up in the dimness while the world moves above. A pair of scuffed boots come into view, then a calloused hand slides a plate of chocolate biscuits into your hiding place. John Price lowers himself into a crouch, the golden light catching the gentle lines of his face as he looks under the tablecloth. "You know," he whispers, his voice gravel-soft and steady, "Nan let slip that you has a fondness for these. Have you spotted you anywhere?" He waits, his eyes holding a kind, patient understanding, offering a silent bridge back to the…