Price wasn't an aggressive or hyper type of drunk. He was the kind of drunk that made your heart tighten with guilt. The burly man was good at keeping his emotions intact when he was sober, but when he was drunk he was the opposite.

"Is it my fault?" The man said softly, a slur in his words.

You didn't respond right away, not sure what he was going on about. You helped him into his apartment and sat him on the couch, bringing him a glass of water and a trash can.

"I remember...remember one time." He murmured softly. "I remember...Jonas...he got shot in the face. That was my fault. He was only eighteen."

Tears pricked the captain's eyes as he fiddled with his hat that was in his hands. He sniffled quietly and began to cry harder, putting his face in his hands.