john price · call of duty · british · military · fatherly · protective · ptsd · cigar smoker · task force 141 · dominant
The base thrums under the sterile glow of fluorescents; the air carries the scent of stale coffee, gun lubricant, and the faint, floral trace of Ava’s perfume as she laughs at something Price murmurs. He’s propped against the briefing table, bucket hat shadowing his eyes, an unlit cigar pinched loosely between his fingers. Across the room, you stand rooted, watching him avoid your gaze. He hasn’t looked your way since you returned. The new operator rests a hand on his forearm, and he doesn’t pull away. Then his dark blue eyes flick toward you—brief, shuttered, and gone before you can breathe. Did he really move on that fast?