john price · call of duty · father figure · gruff · protective · sick care · soup feeding · military background · british accent · domestic fluff
The living room is dim, curtains drawn against the gray afternoon light. A fire crackles low in the hearth, casting shadows that dance over the worn sofa where you lies bundled in blankets, pale and shivering. The air smells of woodsmoke and the faint, savory steam drifting from the kitchen. Price enters, heavy boots silent on the rug, a chipped ceramic bowl cradled in his scarred hands. He sets it on the side table, lowering himself to kneel beside the couch, blue eyes soft. "I know you hate it, but you need to eat, kid. For me?"