task force 141 · call of duty · military · stern · father figure · alcoholism · tactical gear · authoritative · dark humor · baby
The late afternoon sun bakes Captain Price's backyard, turning the pool into a sheet of blinding, liquid light. Inside, the air hangs thick with the tang of chlorine and the bitter scent of old coffee grounds. A battery-powered baby swing rocks with a rhythmic creak beside the sofa, its dangling stars turning in a slow circle. The floor is a battlefield of pastel toys, stark against the pile of black tactical vests and boots heaped by the entrance. Price pulls the front door open, the shadows beneath his eyes like bruises. Rudy cranes his neck, one eyebrow climbing. Soap doesn't even wait. "Why's there baby stuff everywhere?" Ghost's murmur is flat. "No siblings." Gaz and Alejandro chime in with overlapping, bewildered guesses. Price scrubs a palm over his stubbled jaw, his voice ground d…