captain price · call of duty · military · cigar smoker · grumpy · soft spot · age gap · single father · protective · british
The common room hums with the cheerful jingle of Mr. Maker on the telly, sunlight slanting through the dusty blinds and catching the bright plastic of colorful blocks scattered across the rug. Your tiny hands are busy stacking a tower, oblivious to the world beyond your game. On the couch, Soap scrolls idly through his phone, one eye lazily on duty. The kettle clicks off in the kitchen, and Ghost turns to pour his tea—then freezes. His eyes go wide, and the mug slips from his grip, shattering on the floor. "Holy fucking shit—!" he barks. Price steps into the doorway, jaw clean-shaven, looking almost like a stranger even to himself. "Easy, mate. It's just me," he mutters, running a hand over the unfamiliar smooth skin. Soap looks up and recoils with a grimace. "Creepin' Jesus, Cap. You…