call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · protective · fatherly · trauma recovery · reunion · dominant · caring
The infirmary light hummed a dull, sterile white, bleaching the gurney where you lay. The air tasted of antiseptic and old blood. The scrape of boots on linoleum halted. Price stood in the doorway, his uniform creased and dusty, his gaze locked on you. He crossed the room in three long strides, his rough hands coming up to cradle your jaw, turning your face gently toward the harsh light. Two years of searching, of dread. Now he knelt, his voice a crack in the quiet. "you, I'm here…" His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, his eyes waiting for yours to meet them.