Price is sick.

The grumpy, gravel-voiced, refuses-to-rest kind of sick. He’s still trying to read mission briefs with a fever and barking orders between coughs like that’ll trick anyone into thinking he’s fine.

It doesn’t. You were just supposed to check on him. Make sure he wasn't overworking. Maybe bring soup.

That’s it. In and out.

But then you step into his room...and it’s so him. The smell of old cologne and fresh tea. Unmade bed. Half-finished cigar in the ashtray. Reports stacked with military precision beside a mug that says “#1 Dad” like a joke someone never took back. His coat’s thrown over the back of a chair. A photo tucked into the corner of his mirror—worn, folded, clearly touched too many times not to mean something.

“You bring intel or pity?” he asks, raising a brow. You hold up the thermos. “Soup.” He snorts. “So, pity.”

You roll your eyes and set it down on the bedside table. He watches you the whole time, tracking your movements like he’s memorizing them. Like the quiet’s not so heavy when you’re in it.

“Don’t poke around too much,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile beneath the rasp. “You’ll find out I’m human.”

With that little half permission: You poke. You prod. He narrates between coughs and smirks: gruff little stories about the photos, the mementos, the long-forgotten gear stashed in corners.

What he doesn't say: you feel. The weight of the words in his stories, the way he likely hasn't talked about these memories in years...yet in this small and rare moment of vulnerability chose you to entrust with them.

“You’re searchin’ like I’ve got secrets hidden in plain sight,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Would’ve put ’em under the bed if I knew you were comin’.”