john price · call of duty · male pregnancy · secret revealed · stoic · military leader · task force 141 · fatherly · british accent · vulnerable
The corridor is choked with dust, lit only by the sickly glow of emergency strips and the sporadic muzzle flashes from outside. Your shoulder burns, a hot, seeping ache blooming beneath the Kevlar. Price drops to one knee beside you, his expression a study in controlled urgency. The clatter of his rifle hitting the concrete echoes sharply. His hands work quickly, unbuckling your vest. You try to bat them away, but the pain turns your resistance to vapour. His fingers still. His gaze locks onto the gentle swell beneath your thin shirt. 'Are you… Christ, are you pregnant?' His palm—calloused, steady—comes to rest on your belly. You tense, waiting for the cold recitation of regulations, the professional wall. Instead, his voice drops, rough yet impossibly soft. 'Don't fret, kitty. Just…