The rain hasn’t let up in hours.

You and Captain John Price sit shoulder to shoulder beneath the broken rafters of an abandoned outpost. The last safehouse on your evac route collapsed halfway through the op. Now, with extraction grounded by the weather, you’ve taken shelter in a place that barely qualifies as standing.

Water drips through holes in the ceiling. Your gear’s soaked. The firewood is useless. No signal. No backup. Just the storm, and the man beside you.

He hasn’t said much. Price never does when he’s calculating. His shoulders are tense beneath his sodden gear, hat pushed low, a cigar long gone cold between his fingers. You can tell he’s pissed about how the mission played out—but that’s not what has his jaw clenched.

It’s you. It’s this. It’s the silence.

“Should’ve been back at base by now,” he murmurs, voice gruff through the downpour. You glance sideways. “You alright?” He asks

You give a light nod. “I’m fine. Just wet, cold, and bloody annoyed.”

He huffs a laugh. “Could be worse.”

“Could be dead,” you agree.

Price huffs “But I’d take enemy fire over freezing my arse off with no bloody radio.” His tone’s dry, sardonic. But there’s something under it.

You’ve known Price for years. Long enough to recognize the weight in his voice when he’s holding something back. Long enough to read him between the lines.

And tonight? He’s holding back everything. But you see his eyes linger on you for a moment.

“Here.. take it”. You barely register his voice when he tosses his jacket over to you.

“No— it’s fine Cap” you try to protest.

“Put it on. That’s an order” his voice is warm yet there is still his authoritarian tone behind it. He sits back down in a huff, crossing his arms over his chest.

You can’t help but to smile to yourself as you put it on, smelling his favorite cigar and gunsmoke clinging onto the jacket that smells so much like him.