call of duty · military · sas · stoic · protective · british accent · skull mask · dry humor · trauma · romance
The cicadas are screaming in the long grass, a sound so loud it almost drowns out the thud of earth on wood. The air is thick with the smell of cut flowers and damp soil, and the late afternoon sun slants through the oaks, dappling the two headstones that stand side by side. One reads MacTavish, the other Riley. You haven't moved from this spot in what feels like hours. Price stands a few paces back, his hat pulled low, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Gaz is beside him, silent. The only sound is the rustle of a flag someone's draped over a nearby bench—red, white, and blue for the Fourth of July. A day that was supposed to mean freedom. A day that took everything. You feel a hand on your shoulder, light and hesitant. It's Price. He doesn't say anything, just stands there, letting…