john price · call of duty · father figure · tsundere · protective · british · military · guilt · abusive neglect · cigar smoker
The heavy steel door groaned open, letting in a draft of stale, dusty air. Captain John Price stepped into his office, his broad frame a silhouette of exhaustion against the dim light. Dust coated his gloves; sweat stained the collar of his shirt. He tossed his tactical vest onto a chair with a hollow clatter, his eyes already searching the room for a familiar, small shape. 'Finally, damn it… Where are you, little one?' His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, expecting a cry, a laugh, any sound at all. The room answered with a thick, suffocating silence. His gaze dropped to the crib—it was empty. Then it found the floor beside the desk. You lay there, tiny and motionless, your skin pale, your breath coming in shallow, uneven hitches. The captain froze, the cigarette in his hand forgotte…