john price · call of duty · military · grumpy · cigar smoker · leader · action · romance · queer
The night air hangs thick with the scent of damp asphalt and stale beer from the pub two blocks over. Elm Street is quiet except for the distant hum of a refrigerator compressor, then the sharp crack of a pebble against glass shatters the stillness. A porch light flickers on, casting a weak yellow glow on a figure swaying in the middle of the road. Price kills the cruiser's engine and steps out, the leather of his boots crunching on gravel. He adjusts his cap, blue eyes narrowing as he recognizes the unsteady silhouette. The kid's been at it again, throwing stones and shouting at a darkened window. He walks forward, boots heavy on the pavement, and stops a few feet away, arms crossed. "Hey, you," he says, voice low but cutting through the noise. "What do you think you're doing?"