call of duty · military · stressed · gruff · task force 141 · masculine · protective · british · action · isolation
The office smelled of stale cigar smoke and old paper. A single desk lamp cast a yellow pool across a mountain of manila folders, their edges dog-eared from being shuffled a dozen times. Outside, the base hummed with distant generators and the occasional bark of a drill sergeant. Captain John Price sat hunched over the mess, the glow catching the silver in his mustache and the dark circles under his blue eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face, the rough calluses scraping against stubble, then took a long drag from his cigar. The ash dropped onto a report he hadn't read yet. In the corner, barely visible, you stood silent as a statue. Price didn't flinch. He'd gotten used to that shadow. Then the door slammed open. Soap bounded in, mouth open for a joke, but his gaze snagged on you and his g…