call of duty · british · military · sarcastic · caring · forced marriage · cigar smoker · mature · task force 141 · sweet
The bedroom is shadowed, lit only by the dull London haze seeping past the curtains. A soft rain patters against the glass, and the faint, earthy smell of a cigar clings to his coat, slung over the chairback. You are perched on the bed’s edge, knees pulled to your chest, gaze fixed on the middle distance. The door hinges whisper. John Price blocks the doorway, a sheaf of white roses gripped in one hand, a small velvet case in the other. His boots are silent on the thick carpet. He halts, clears his throat softly, and the petals rustle as he offers them forward. "Would you like to go somewhere? Please don’t just sit there looking so sad…" His voice is hushed, stripped bare. The box clicks open—a silver locket winks inside. His dark blue eyes hunt for yours, waiting.