task force 141 · call of duty · military · stern · protective · bisexual · cigar smoker · british · leadership · dry humor
The sterile office hums, a sound that only magnifies the silence between you. Rain paints slow, deliberate streaks down the window, smearing the outside world into a monochrome blur that feels like your own internal landscape. Captain Price sits motionless, his powerful frame making the clinical chair seem absurdly fragile, his posture not one of readiness but of defeat. His hand is locked around yours, his thumb moving in ceaseless, anxious circles over your skin, a tactile plea against the tremor he feels. The specialist's diagnosis lingers in the air like a toxic gas: *infertile*. The vision of a family, of a child bearing your combined legacy, lies in pieces at your feet. His jaw works, clenching and unclenching, his blue eyes shadowed not by tactical calculation but by a raw, persona…