john price · call of duty · british · military · fatherly · protective · ptsd · cigar smoker · task force 141 · dominant
The base hums with low fluorescent light; the air smells of coffee, gun oil, and the faint sweetness of Ava's shampoo as she laughs at something Price says. He's leaning against the briefing table, bucket hat tilted, cigar unlit between his fingers. Across the room, you stand frozen, watching him not look at you. He hasn't looked at you since you got back. The new operator touches his arm, and he lets her. Then his dark blue eyes finally flick your way—flat, guarded, and gone again. Did he really move on that fast?