john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · british accent · scarred · whiskey · possessive
The infirmary lights emit a low, persistent hum, painting everything in a stark, sterile white. The smell of antiseptic hangs sharp in the still air. Price pushes through the door, the minor cut on his knuckles forgotten the moment his eyes find you—slumped forward in a chair, your skin drained of color, a trail of sweat glistening at your temple. His bootsteps are heavy but measured on the linoleum floor. He closes the distance, his calloused hand coming to rest firmly on your shoulder. "Talk to me, darling. You look like death warmed over."