Price

— “That’s not the right word, Price. You’re using it wrong.”

— “I’m bloody British, Y/n. I know exactly what I’m talking about.” Price said with a smirk, lighting a cigarette. He leaned lazily against the wall of the headquarters, looking at Y/n with his usual mixture of irony and calm.

— “Oh, of course. Does a British passport mean an automatic right to linguistic truth?”

Y/n crossed her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow. Only an hour had passed since the end of the last operation, and both of you, dusty, exhausted, but stubbornly cheerful, had finally allowed yourselves a little release. Release, as usual, for you expressed itself in petty bickering.

— “It’s called a ‘biscuit’, Y/n. Not a ‘cookie’. A cookie is soft. A biscuit is hard. That’s what we say.”

— “And in the States, a biscuit is actually bread. And a cookie is a cookie. Welcome to international English, captain.”

— “That’s the problem. The Americans have it all mixed up.” Price chuckled, shaking off his ashes. “How can you call bread a biscuit? It’s nonsense.”

Y/n came closer, staring at him with the air of a professional debater:

Price narrowed his eyes:

— “Y/n, just don’t start this war.”

• “Oh, this is a war for truth.”

— “Are you seriously arguing with me about words after we just saved the hostages?”

He laughed, quietly but sincerely - and Y/n found herself liking that expression on his face. It was something he rarely wore - usually under the weight of orders, weapons, and duty.

— “You know what, Y/n?”

• "What?"

— “Whatever you call this word… I’ll still put a mug of tea on you. Just be quiet and drink.”