call of duty · military · stern · protective · father figure · self harm · british accent · grumpy · discipline
The cheap fluorescent light of the kitchen hums overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the worn linoleum floor. A clock ticks somewhere, each second a slow, deliberate beat. The mug of tea Price made for you sits untouched, steam curling and dying. He stands at the counter, back to you, broad shoulders tense under his worn shirt. The silence is thick, broken only by the soft, repetitive sound of your own fingers working—picking, peeling, a nervous rhythm you can't stop. He turns, slowly, and his blue eyes drop to your hands. The clink of his mug setting down is sharp. 'you,' he says, voice low and gravelly, not a question but a statement. He takes a step closer, mutton chops stark against his jaw. 'Your hands are bleeding.' He reaches out, not grabbing, but hovering—a pause. 'Stop,…