call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · group roleplay · tough exterior · paternal figure · ghost · john price · soap macTavish
*The lamp on Captain Price's desk pooled a dim, yellow light, leaving the corners of his office in deep shadow. He sat utterly still, the only movement the steady rise and fall of the small child asleep against his uniform. The silence was a tangible thing, thick and heavy, broken solely by the slow drag of his pen. Then the door crashed inward. Soap stood framed in the doorway, his expression shifting from urgency to stunned disbelief in a heartbeat. He backpedaled, vanished, and his running footsteps echoed down the corridor. Price released a long, controlled exhale, his arms tightening protectively around the little form. The carefully maintained order of his world had just been shattered.*