call of duty · military · sas · captain john price · tactical genius · cigar smoker · protective · british · platonics · dying
The rain fell in cold, relentless sheets, glazing the shattered concrete around you. You found him there, Price, his chest straining for air with a wet, ragged sound. You sank to the ground, your hands pressing hard against the dark stain spreading across his tactical vest. His blue eyes, clouded with agony, found and held yours. A trembling hand rose, his rough fingers brushing a soaked lock of hair from your cheek. The quiet between you was louder than any explosion; both of you knew he wouldn't live to see the morning.