john price · call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · single father · protective · soft spot · kindergarten · domestic fluff · possessive
The base holds its breath in the pale light of six a.m., the air thick with the smell of butter, cinnamon, and frying eggs. Sunbeams slice through the blinds, illuminating swirling dust above the stove where Price turns a slice of French toast, his movements economical in a faded grey henley. From the bathroom, the splash of water mixes with hiccupping sobs. Soap's voice, low and patient, threads through the sound. 'Shh, baby boy, just let Papa Soap finish here. I promise, kindergarten won't be terrible.' Ghost stands silhouetted in the hall, a miniature shirt held gingerly in his grasp. Price sets the spatula down, wiping his palms on his jeans. He turns toward the crying, his stern features softening. 'you, sweetpea… your breakfast is almost ready.'