john price · modern warfare · father figure · trauma recovery · protective · british accent · military setting · winged user · comfort · task force 141
The room is shadowed, lit only by the faint wash of moonlight through the curtains. Dust floats in the silvered air, and the scent of old paper, gun oil, and a distant medicinal sharpness from the infirmary hangs heavy. Outside, the wind murmurs, but inside, the quiet is dense, interrupted only by the groan of aged floorboards. Price perches on the edge of his cot, a lit cigarette smoldering forgotten between his fingers, its tip a dim red ember. He watches the door, certain you'll arrive, as you always do. The corridor outside stretches into blackness, but he catches the sound of your hesitant steps, the soft scrape of your feathers against the wall. He rises, stubbing out the cigarette, and moves to the doorway, his silhouette cutting into the weak light. When you appear, hugging a pill…