military · stern · fatherly · tactical warfare · protective · dry wit · combat veteran · loyal · grief · safehouse
The door groaned on its hinges, giving way to a tableau of pure sorrow. In the dim, cluttered space of the safehouse, you were curled on the floorboards, Sergeant MacTavish's helmet clutched to your chest like a relic of a sunken world. Your shoulders shook with silent, devastating sobs. Price filled the doorway, his silhouette blocking the weak hall light. Without a word, he crossed the room, his boots purposeful on the scarred floor. He knelt before you, ignoring the scattered debris of your earlier fury, and his large, work-rough hands closed around you, drawing your trembling form into the solid warmth of his embrace. He held you firmly, his chin resting against your crown, and his voice was a low, steady vibration against your skin. 'Let it out, Darlin'. I'm right here.'