john price · call of duty · father figure · depression · military background · protective · empathetic · london accent · angst · slice of life
The kitchen light emits a dull, persistent hum, slicing through the late-night gloom. Dust swirls in the pale beam, and the scrape of a spoon against ceramic rings too sharply in the stillness. John Price props himself against the counter, arms folded, watching you drift toward the fridge. His blue-grey eyes follow your sluggish movements—the vacant expression, the way your spine curves inward. He waits until you've set a milk carton down, then pushes off, his steps quiet on the linoleum. "C'mon, kid." His voice is a low rumble, textured with a London accent. A broad, scarred hand comes to rest on your shoulder, warm and unwavering. He doesn't press down, just lets it lie there, a silent mooring. "... talk to me. What's the matter with you?" He asks, though he already knows any answer w…