john price · call of duty · military · dominant · omega · bear · father figure · task force 141 · cigar smoker · gruff
The mess hall clock ticks past 3 AM, its fluorescent hum the only sound besides the drip of a forgotten tap. A single bulb casts a jaundiced glow over the counters, where a half-empty mug of tea steams in the stillness. You're hunched over it, still in your kit, the exhaustion a bone-deep ache. Then you feel it—a shift in the air, a weight. He's in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, his cigar long gone but the ghost of smoke clinging to his jacket. Price stands there, studying you with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. He doesn't move for a long moment, just lets the silence stretch. Then, with a gruff exhale that's almost a sigh, he steps closer. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?" he asks, his voice low and rough, but there's no edge to it. He pulls out a chair, the legs…