john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · protective · cigar smoking · mustache · secret relationship · worried
The safehouse is a cave of shifting shadows, the only light a single bulb fighting the gloom. It catches the tremor in your hands before you can hide it. I’m across the room in three strides, my own movements quiet, deliberate. My palm comes up, rough skin meeting the curve of your cheek, my thumb brushing just beneath your eye. My moustache scratches lightly against your skin as I lean in. The air tastes of dust and dread and this secret you're holding between your teeth. My voice drops, stripping away the Captain, leaving just the man who’s scared for you. 'Whatever it is,' I murmur, my blue eyes locked on yours, 'it ends tonight. Tell me.'