Critical Care
Happy Valentine's Day to @the-californicationist! This was written as part of the 141RECON server's "secret admirer" fic exchange. 💘
Ship: Call of Duty, John Price x f!Reader | Rating: E for sexual content | Wordcount: 10K
Summary: John “the one who got away” Price is the last person you expect to rescue you from freezing to death in the Russian wilderness. Any hopes you have of gracefully rekindling an old flame are extinguished when you are thrust into the awkward situation of huddling together naked to survive the night. [Read on AO3.]
FEBRUARY 14, 2026 | UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, RUSSIA
You do not know how close you will come to dying when you rise that morning.
In your spartan dormitory, you toss back the covers, take a warm shower, and make some hot chocolate to get you through the morning’s tasks. As one of the more senior cryptographers on this deployment, you’ll be doing more than just transcribing chatter and decoding messages - you also manage a small team, trying your best to mentor some of the rookies. You completely forget it is Valentine’s Day until you find several hand-drawn sticky notes on your desk.
Roses are red, codes will be cracked, thank you for always having our backs
I love you more than I hated my conlang professor~~ <3
Ur so cute u make my ovaries wanna explovary!! Jk, happy V day Bosslady.
You chuckle and thank your team before putting on your headset and getting to work. Despite the barren tundra and horrific cold outside your operating base, the deployment is shaping up to be pretty good. M6 is intercepting tons of messages, giving you plenty to work through.
You had fallen in love with linguistics during Uni, studied abroad in the UK, and never left. There was considerable demand for cryptographers in the British military, and with the insane pay and benefits, it seemed like a no brainer to make some cash before heading back into academia. But the job was amazing. You got to meet interesting people, travel the world, spend your days working through the ultimate brainteasers. Ten years later, an academic career was a distant memory. You plan to stay with the military until the Prime Minister himself dragged you into retirement.
You are manipulating some Cyrillic characters when three loud, clear gunshots pierce the silence of the lab.
And then everything happens so, so fast.
Return fire. Screaming. An explosion so loud that your ears are ringing for minutes afterwards. Thinking your sweatpants are wet with blood, but realizing you’d only spilled your drink.
As the Russian voices grow louder, you make a split second decision to flee rather than fight. You and your team are all required to carry sidearms, but pulling out your standard issue handgun against some high capacity assault rifle will only get you shot that much faster. With your vision blurry from tears and your hearing obscured by tinnitus, you leave it behind and manage to reach the exit without being spotted.
You run as fast and as far as you can, donning only a sweatshirt, joggers, and sneakers. None of your clothes are designed to withstand this kind of weather. It is difficult to tell if your chances of survival increase as you get further away from the base, because while it certainly puts distance between you and the assailants, it also leads you deeper into frigid, white nothingness.
You trudge forth until you lose sensation in your hands, your nose, your ears. The buffeting wind yanks your hair in every direction, even when you attempt to stuff it into your collar as makeshift earmuffs. Your pants legs are soaked from the snow drifts you’ve been slogging through, putting you at serious risk for hypothermia. The sun sets fast in Russia, robbing the light by which you’ve been navigating and dropping the temperature to lethal ranges.
Despite these adverse conditions, you are alive. You are smart, adaptable, perseverant. Time will tell if you have cheated death, or simply prolonged your suffering.
Having walked to the point of exhaustion, you sink into the snow on shaking legs. Even without this wretched windstorm, you would not have the energy to retrace your steps, assuming your footprints hadn’t been swallowed by the snow. The only landmark you saw along the way was a frozen pond. There is nothing in this arctic hell to help you find your way to shelter.
Little by little, you feel your body giving up. The cold stops hurting, replaced by a persistent numbness. Your mouth is sticky and dry. Your eyes refuse to stay open.
Then: a voice.
At first you think you’re hallucinating - it’s distant and indistinct, competing with the howling wind. You squint through the flurries by the light of the setting sun, but your vision is swimming too badly to tell if there is movement.
Your heart leaps in your chest when you realize the voice is speaking English. With a rush of adrenaline, you hoarsely shout for help. Although you’re too disoriented to determine which direction it’s coming from, the sound of boots plodding rapidly through the snow lights a little flame in your chest.
“I’ve got one,” a gruff voice barks, followed by the beep of a walkie. Garbled static replies. “Female civilian, looks half-frozen. I’ll do what I can but send the heli to my coordinates, stat.”
You barely process the words as you try to unfurl your body from fetal position.
Your nerves are too deadened to feel the warmth of the hand that falls between your shoulder blades, but the slight contact makes you want to cry with relief. You hear someone crouch beside you and do your best to raise your head and meet your savior’s eyes.
“It’s alright, love, we’ve got help on the–”
The man freezes as he sees your face. And you truly do think you’re hallucinating until he says, in a voice laden with awe, “California?”
“John?”
~~~
TEN YEARS EARLIER | HEREFORD, UK
You had only been working with the Royal Air Force for a few months when your supervisor decided to test your mettle on what she called “a side project.” Evidently some lieutenant had a hunch that the intel they’d gathered contained hidden messages, but wasn’t able to convince top brass it was worth the resources of the cryptography team. So, he had called in a favor with your supervisor.
“I don’t want you to spend too much time on this,” she’d said. “Your assigned tasks come first. Just meet with Price, learn what you can about the case, and chip away at it in your downtime.”
This was quite exciting. Still fresh out of school, you were eager to soak in everything you could about military codebreaking. As long as the lieutenant didn’t expect you to work miracles, you hoped to get him at least enough information that he could convince his C.O. to authorize a proper investigation from your team.
When you entered the conference room, he was already there. He got to his feet immediately and reached over to shake your hand. “John,” he said, and you were a bit surprised that he didn’t use his title. Most of the men around here had god complexes associated with their ranks. You shared your name in return.
John was distractingly handsome. Broad-shouldered, muscular, significantly taller than average. His strong jaw and five o’clock shadow contributed to his rugged, masculine aesthetic, yet he had the kindest blue eyes. He also cut an exceptionally striking figure in his compression shirt and fatigues.
You felt underdressed in your knockoff Ugg boots and hoodie, but you spent your days in a computer lab and were not required to wear a uniform.
“So,” he said, taking a seat and gesturing that you should do the same. There was a single manila file on the table in front of him. “I hear you’re a rookie, but you’re bright. That right?”
“I don’t know about ‘bright,’ so much as ‘too new to be jaded,’” you teased, eager to make a good impression.
“Oh. You’re American.”
Since relocating to the UK, you’d been self-conscious about your conspicuous accent. You may as well get “I’m not from here!” tattooed on your forehead.
“Yeah,” you murmured shyly. You fought the feminine urge to apologize for something outside your control. “I’m here on a work visa while I look into citizenship.”
He hummed thoughtfully, inspecting you. Something about his attention was both humiliating and thrilling. Did he distrust you because you were an expat?
Finally, he smiled. Placing a hand atop the file and sliding it over to you, he said, “Alright then, California. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
“California?” you echoed. You’d visited a few times, but you were born and raised in a different state entirely.
Amused, he nodded at your chest. You looked down and sure enough, you were wearing a sweatshirt that declared CALIFORNIA in blocky capital letters. You’d bought it on vacation for a souvenir, but it was so cozy and just the right amount of oversized that it became a staple of your wardrobe.
Ooh, you thought hopefully, maybe he was looking at my tits.
“Alright…” You paused, fishing for some obvious feature of his to become his nickname. Anything that came to mind felt oddly flirty. Instead you cleared your throat and opened the file.
John waited patiently while you scanned the dossier’s summary page. The SAS’s Kastovian base had intercepted and translated communications from Al-Qatala, a known terrorist organization. The messages appeared to give straightforward coordinates and directions on receiving weapons shipments. But when Price and his team set up a sting based on the intel, the report explained, no such shipment arrived. You flipped through the next couple of pages and saw that this happened twice more.
“So,” John began, “my captain believes that Al-Qatala is aware when we intercept the messages and aborts those shipments. I also have a fellow lieutenant who thinks these are bogus communications intended to waste our resources.” He shook his head. “Now, I don’t work in intelligence, and I’m not claiming I’ve seen some brilliant, Beautiful Mind message here. But I just have this hunch that there’s something we’re missing.”
You were extremely eager to get your hands on the transcripts and map out a gameplan.
“And what kind of work has already been done?” you inquired.
He snorted. “Not bloody much. I’ve been badgering everyone about it, but nobody takes me seriously enough to assign it to cryptography.” Then, somewhat bashfully, he added, “I’ve had a go at it myself. Left some notes in the back of the file, if, uh, that’s any help.”
You resisted the impulse to immediately see what he had written. “Thank you. I’m sure that will be a great starting point.”
“So is this a one-person job? Don’t really know how this works,” he admitted, gesturing to the file. Your eyes locked onto his muscular bicep and you damn near had an out of body experience. How was he not the posterboy for the SAS? They’d get a lot more thirsty women enlisting, that’s for sure. “Would you work with a translator, or are you fluent?”
“Depends. I don’t speak Arabic fluently,” you explained, “but I don’t have to. If there’s actually a code to be deciphered, we have two paths to explore. The first is content, which we can examine through the translation or, like you suggested, in tandem with an interpreter.” You thought of a classic example you learned in grad school and frequently used to explain the concept to laypeople. “For instance, let’s say the note says ‘city up starboard unwise clean.’ If the code we need to apply is reversing the order and taking the antonyms, we get ‘mess sage port down town.’ Message at the port downtown. But if we’re looking at form, that’s what I’m really trained in. We can isolate the parts of speech, convert letters to numbers and vice versa, even get as granular as looking for patterns in morphemes and phonemes - the building blocks of language itself. At that point, it’s almost like…” you struggled to think of an equivalent for this more technical subfield. “Oh! You know how sudoku uses numbers, but it’s not really about the numbers? It’s about combinations that fulfil a set of rules? That’s what cryptography is like when the code is form-based.”
John listened to your explanation attentively, leaning a bit back in his chair, intense eyes never leaving yours. As soon as the last word was out of your mouth, a bout of nervousness hit you. You were always anxious around new people, let alone someone so objectively good-looking and accomplished. And here you were blathering about the finer points of your craft when all he needed was a simple confirmation that you understood the assignment.
One side of John’s mouth lifted in a grin. “Color me impressed, California. Sounds like you’re just the woman for the job.”
A violent blush rose to your cheeks. “Ah. Well. I’ll certainly give it my best shot, sir.”
He furrowed his brows and swatted away the honorific. “None of this sir business. You’re doing me quite the favor, love. It’s John.”
“Right.” Trying to match his light-hearted tone, you bandied, “Then I’ll need to insist you not call me ‘love,’ and use the name on my birth certificate: California.”
He laughed, blue eyes sparkling. The way his face crinkled when he smiled had your toes curling. “Of course.” He stood up from his chair and you did the same.
“Um, how do I - like, if I have to get in touch with you about something?”
“Ah, yes.” He crossed his arms and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Would it be too much of an imposition if we met once a week at lunch? Whichever day you like. I just figured we oughtn’t spend too much on-the-clock time working on this…”
No way. Were you actually getting a standing lunch date with John Price out of this deal, too? There had to be a catch.
“Yeah!” you chirped. “That sounds great. Maybe Tuesdays?”
“Grand. I’ll meet you in the mess on Tuesdays at one.” And as if this motherfucker couldn’t get any smoother, he winked like you were sharing some inside joke. “Until then, California.” The door clicked shut behind him and you sank back into your chair.
Oh, you had a stupidly big crush on this guy. You sent a prayer into the ether that you could keep your cool next week at lunch.
~~~
FEBRUARY 14, 2026 | UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, RUSSIA
“Let’s get those clothes off.”
Of all the many times you had imagined John Price announcing that he was about to strip you, never had you envisioned circumstances such as these.
He kneels in front of you, bundled head-to-toe in practical layers and decked out with survival gear and weapons. The exact opposite of your underprepared ass, which is currently planted in a little divot you’ve made for yourself in the snow. Swinging his backpack off one shoulder, he fishes out a shiny silver thermal blanket.
Indeed, the biggest threat to you right now is your sopping wet clothes, which will prevent you from warming up. And while you would like to comply with his request, you scarcely have the strength to lift your arms.
Humiliated, you manage a, “Help?”
A puff of heat brushes your face as John exhales, realizing the extent of your pitiful state. You have never felt more pathetic, unable to meet his eyes. “Right,” he says, grasping your sweatshirt and camisole and peeling them upwards. You are unsure whether his gloves skim your stomach, numb as you are. The motion pulls your arms forward and he removes your top two layers, leaving you only in your bra. You are so past the point of freezing that the new exposure hardly registers.
Immediately, the thermal blanket is on your shoulders. He tucks one edge of it into your hand and curls your fingers around it. “Can you hold that?” he asks, and you nod as he does the same with the other.
The smallest tendrils of warmth bleed back into your limbs as the windproof, waterproof material shields you from the worst of the swirling flakes and unforgiving gusts. You hunch your shoulders inward, desperate to draw every joule of heat you can.
You glance up after nearly a minute of silence and stillness. To your surprise, John is staring at your legs like he’s trying to translate the Rosetta stone.
A raw sound leaves your throat that is supposed to be a laugh. John looks up, alarmed, but relaxes upon seeing your smile. “Heh. Not really sure how to do this next bit,” he admits sheepishly. There are no structures around you, nothing you can use to support yourself while you stand to remove your pants.
Seeming to make a decision, he plants his knees in the snow beside you and suggests, “Arms around my neck?”
With a little burst of adrenaline, you move your bare arms up to his shoulders while continuing to grip the blanket. You scoot closer, settling your head into the space beneath his neck, and lock your elbows. “Go slow,” you tell him.
“Course.”
He straightens up and your body is pulled along, your butt now hovering above the snow. With a rippling noise from the mylar, he quickly drags down your pants until they are around your ankles. He sweeps the blanket underneath you before setting you back down. It takes a few seconds for your arms to respond to your brain’s command to let go.
Your knees are practically knocking together as you shiver violently. Hey, I’m shivering again! you think. It was deeply concerning when you realized your body was no longer capable of even that involuntary motion. The returning aches in your muscles are extremely welcome.
John pulls off your boots, then socks, then pants. And now you are sitting in a snow bank, in front of your erstwhile crush, wearing nothing but an uninspired bra, cotton panties, and a silver sheet that has the RAF insignia printed in the corner.
You are already feeling better, lighter. John has moved back a bit and is squinting at the darkening sky.
“Are your hands dry?” he inquires, refocusing on you. “Your head?”
“I think s-so.” The dampness was mostly from the snow soaking through your pants, the spilled hot chocolate, and febrile sweating under your arms.
John swipes off his knit beanie and pulls it down over your ears. The transfer of his body heat from the hat to you is so comforting you let out a relieved moan. He holds the blanket in place for you while he works his gloves, too big for you by several sizes, onto your hands.
“W-why are you here?” you ask. That sounded unnecessarily accusatory. What you really meant was, what insane stroke of serendipity landed you at my side after all these years?
John seems to understand the question. “My unit was called in after the attack to secure the base and conduct search-and-rescue for missing staff. With conditions as icy as they are, your footprints were easy to follow.” A grin split his face, somehow even more handsome after all these years. “Didn’t realize I’d be walking to California.”
You shake your head fondly. “Well, I’m so gra–”
A short beep cuts you off. “Bravo Six, how copy?”
Price fumbles for the walkie clipped to his tac belt. “Heli on its way?” he asks, watching you.
“Sorry, Captain. Nik says we’re grounded until the windstorm dies down. What’s the status of the civilian?”
Your stomach churns at this news. John is taking good care of you, and you feel safe as long as he’s here – but you badly need real warmth, food, and medical care.
John ponders with his lips pursed. You imagine he is trying to find a way to say ‘half-dead’ without freaking you out. “She needs evac. What’re our options, Sergeant?”
The walkie is silent for a moment. The staticky voice finally asks, “Any chance she’s up for a stroll? Storm’ll last most of the night, but we could pick you up an hour or two sooner if you move a few klicks northwest.”
The idea of dragging yourself through more of this snow, in the dark, is borderline traumatizing. You shake your head no, and you must look awfully panicked because John puts a hand on your arm and rubs soothing circles with his thumb.
“Negative. Think I can keep her stable until morning. But tell Nik I need him here first bloody thing, and I want a medic or three on that bird. Copy?”
“Rog,” the man responds quickly. “Do we have an ID?”
It surprises you to hear John share your first and last name with no hesitation. A little smile quirks on your lips. Maybe you weren’t just California to him, after all.
“Cheers. We’ll mark her accounted for,” the man on the other end of the walkie says genially. “Check in if there’s anything we can do in the meantime, Cap.”
Hunkering down in this bitter cold until daybreak will test your physical endurance and mental toughness. A hitch in your throat that you associate with crying arises, but you don’t seem to produce tears.
“I’m sure that’s not the news you wanted to hear,” John tells you, words heavy with regret. “I promise I’ll take care of you.”
“Of that, I ha-have no doubt,” you respond earnestly.
John pulls over his backpack and unearths a first aid kit. “While you warm up, tell me what else is bothering you. Do you have a fever?”
The discomfort you feel is so ubiquitous that pinpointing specific symptoms is challenging. “Probably?”
He brings the back of his hand to your forehead. You can just barely feel his warm skin, though your numbness mutes the sensation.
When he withdraws his hand after a moment, you cannot help but notice the lack of a ring.
“Definitely feverish,” he reports. “We should have acetaminophen in here for that. Any cuts, sprains, pulled muscles?” You shake your head no, impressed by how efficiently he is running through the first responder routine. You’ve always heard he is an outstanding soldier, but never made the connection that field medicine must be part of that. It is difficult not to be awed by his total command of the situation.
A finger tilts up your chin and John pops a tablet in your mouth. Your lips must be chapped and purple, and you cringe at the thought that he has to touch you in this state. Before you can feel too self-conscious, he holds a water bottle to your mouth and instructs, “Take a sip for me.” You comply, swallowing the pill and some water.
“Ohh,” you hum when he takes the water away. “I think I’m th-thirsty. Can I keep that?”
He chuckles as he hands it over. “Aye. Got a few protein bars in here too when you’re ready.”
It takes more concentration than you would like to bring the water bottle to your mouth and drink without spilling it. The bulky gloves and the need to keep the blanket pinned to you make it harder. While you grapple with your task, John gets to his feet.
“I’m setting up some flares around the area. Be back in a tick, alright?”
“Okay.”
As you sit in your little blanket nest, wearing several articles of clothing but no shirt or pants, you wonder what the rest of this night will look like. The supplies in John’s backpack have been helpful, but you doubt he’s got a tent and some sleeping bags in his hammerspace. Will you have to lie down in this snow? It’s bad enough sitting in it, though thankfully the mylar appears to be holding up well.
It is almost completely dark when he returns with a lit flare clutched in one hand. He wedges it into the snow near where you’re sitting, casting the area in a faint, orange glow. “All good over here?” he asks, resuming his prior position crouching beside you.
For a moment, you are struck speechless by this miracle of a man. His hat-hair gives him a boyish quality that contrasts with the crow’s feet at his temples. Since the moment he found you, he has been nothing but compassionate and capable as he shepherded you back from the brink of hypothermia. Though you thought them adequately suppressed, the feelings you’d had for him in Hereford sweep back into you with all the force of a tsunami. Goddammit. If you make it out of here alive, you’re taking him out to dinner come hell or high water, even if it means following him halfway around the globe.
Assuming, that is, he’s open to being wined and dined by a woman whose snot is currently freezing in the valley of her Cupid’s bow.
“Thanks to you,” you reply. “John, I don’t even - I can’t ever thank you–”
He shakes his head, cuts you off. “None of that. You wouldn’t be here if the troops at your base hadn’t failed you.” He exhales through his nose as his lips curve into an incredulous smile. “You are quite the survivor, you know. Not many cryptographers could walk five bloody kilometers in a Russian blizzard.”
“I would have died out here,” you insist, becoming emotional.
His warm palm cups your cheek, and the numbness has finally abated enough that you truly feel it. You shut your eyes and reflexively lean into the touch. “Put that out of your mind, sweetheart,” he encourages. You practically feel the tension oozing from your body at those words. “We’re going to get a little more food and water in you, and then we’ll rest. The medics’ll take care of you properly in the morning.”
You can’t envision any better care than what you were receiving from John, but you nod as he removes his palm from your face. He passes you a protein bar and grabs one of his own.
The captain seems utterly relaxed, hands and head bared to the elements, chewing on his makeshift dinner while he absently plays with the knob on the walkie. Meanwhile, you struggle to remain awake even as your mind churns with anxiety. There is so much you want to say - have wanted to say for years - and not a word of it is appropriate for the circumstances. Questions, mostly.
Have you thought of me all this time as I’ve thought of you?
Did something happen on that mission?
Why didn’t you call?
~~~
TEN YEARS EARLIER | HEREFORD, UK
The Al-Qatala project consumed any downtime at work for months. You didn’t mind at all – since looking further into the case, you were convinced John’s hunch held water. And while you wouldn’t deny that part of your motivation in birddogging these leads was to impress the handsome Brit, you were also invested in this mystery as a linguist and a person.
It was a frigid day in early February when you finally felt you had enough evidence for John to make a compelling case to his higher-ups. As enthusiastic as you were, you only had a few years of this work under your belt. You needed access to advanced software and more experienced minds that could follow the cookie crumbs you’d been able to gather.
You located John at your usual spot in the cafeteria. The quantity of butterflies in your stomach could’ve pollinated half of England; naturally, you wanted him to deem your findings worthy of the time you’d both invested in this. What if he thought your research wasn’t enough to bring to his C.O. yet? What if he found someone better, smarter to take over the case?
But even more upsetting was the thought this would be your final excuse to see him. Your weekly lunches, which had started as mostly business, became peppered with more banter as you grew comfortable with each other. You learned that he had incredibly strong opinions about football and that his greatest guilty pleasure was Nicaraguan cigars. In turn, you shared facts about your own hobbies and preferences. He was curious what it was like growing up in the States, even if it wasn’t technically California. By the holidays, you were only briefly checking in about your decoding efforts and spending the rest of the time enjoying lunch like old friends.
Still, with no more shared project, this important man could surely find a better way to spend his Tuesdays.
“Afternoon, California,” he said when he caught sight of you.
“Hi,” you breathed. Suddenly you felt as nervous as the first time you’d met.
What had started out as a file folder had turned into a binder. You set it on the table and took your seat across from John, who smiled at you amicably. He had started growing a beard that made him even more attractive.
“So,” you said, taking a deep breath and sliding over the binder, “this is it, John. Everything we’ve figured out so far and a memo recommending next steps.”
He picked it up reverently and flipped open to the first colored tab with your metadata and methodology. Nodding slowly, he shut it and set it back down.
“I really can’t thank you enough,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “Nobody wanted to listen to me when I first brought this up. Hell, when your supervisor told me she was assigning the case to a rookie, I thought she was blowing me off.” You shared a smile. “But you have been… so much more than I expected.”
Your heart sang at his words. Your face must be an impossible shade of pink. “Thank you for trusting me. This project has been one of the highlights of my time here,” you confessed quietly, hoping you weren’t tipping your hand too much.
There was a silence that settled on just the right side of uncomfortable. When you finally looked up, his blue eyes were trained on you.
“I’d like to take you out to dinner, as a thank you,” he remarked, his tone carefully neutral. “If that’s agreeable to you.”
Panic! Joy! Anxiety! Your words tripped over each other as you eagerly answered, “Yes, wow, I would really love that.” You prayed that he wasn’t just doing this as a friendly colleague, and that ‘taking you out to dinner’ meant what you thought it did.
John grinned at your enthusiasm. “Brilliant. What do you say to next Thursday? There’s a new restaurant in Worcester I’d like to try. Bit of a hike, but I’ll drive.”
You were so excited you were practically shaking. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Great. I’ll text you later and we’ll work out the details.” He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I would like to go over the case one more time? I’ve got a meeting scheduled to make my pitch at the end of the week, and I don’t want to misrepresent any of your work.”
“Of course. Let’s start here,” you said, tugging the binder back and thumbing to a particular page.
The rest of the lunch flew by as you did everything you could to prepare the lieutenant for his meeting. As the cafeteria began to clear out, you reluctantly said your goodbyes and wished him luck. He promised to let you know the outcome when he texted you about details for next Thursday.
It was only when you went to put the date in your calendar at home that you realized it was Valentine’s Day. This had to be more than a thank you dinner.
You were on a cloud for days afterwards: inviting your friends over to pick out an outfit, checking your phone constantly, practicing conversation starters in the mirror.
The text came on Saturday. But it was not what you expected.
Urgent deployment, no one willing to guess when we’ll be back. Sorry, California. Promise me a raincheck?
Although it was heartbreaking, the deployment was out of your control. His, too – that was the nature of his job. You shot off a text telling him it was no problem, and kept your ear to the ground for news of his unit.
Three months later, you were offered a significant promotion that nearly doubled your pay, but required relocation to Lincolnshire. There had been no contact from John. You didn’t blame him, of course, but it would be foolish to turn down this opportunity for a single, postponed date with a man you hadn’t spoken to in months. Besides, he had been out of your league all along. You convinced yourself that the dinner would have only made him see that the bookish American was a lot less appealing when she wasn’t doing him a favor.
Eventually, his nearly half-year mission came to a close. You heard about it through the grapevine and waited for a text. Or, should you be the one sending it? Did he need time to decompress? Days stretched into weeks faded into months. When you eventually upgraded your phone, his contact information got lost in the shuffle and you took it as a sign.
Through the years, snippets about John’s life reached you. You learned about his promotion to captain and eventual assignment to a prestigious international task force. Once or twice you ran into each other - you did both still work for the RAF, after all - but the only words you exchanged were awkward hellos and swift excuses to be elsewhere.
In your heart, he remained the very paragon of the one that got away. Even if you had never truly had him to begin with.
~~~
FEBRUARY 14, 2026 | UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, RUSSIA
“Looks like the snow’s stopped,” John observes as the paltry meal concludes. He’s right: the wind is still vicious, but it now only buoys the existing flakes. The snowdrift beside the little divot you’d made for yourself comes almost up to your shoulders. At least it blocks some of the low-sweeping gusts.
Upon your request, your companion helps you to your feet and gives you privacy while you relieve yourself a little further off. Though you are like a fawn testing out its gangly new limbs, you toddle back to the makeshift camp.
When you return, John is on his knees using the metal first aid kit to dig through the snow. He is expanding your you-sized nest into something oblong and a bit wider.
A bed. For both of you.
He looks up from his work and smiles, cheeks and hands pink from the biting cold. “How are you holding up?” he asks, a bit out of breath.
You feel much, much better than when he found you: warmer, drier, and the pill he’d given you was doing wonders for your headache and presumed fever. “It’s like night and day,” you tell him.
“Good. You dry?” he inquires. “That’s the most important thing.”
You consider and quickly veto a joke about him being the only remaining cause of your wetness. “Mostly. But, uh, I feel like I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
“I’m knackered, myself. This’ll be done in a moment.”
As he goes back to his work, you try not to think about how closely you’ll be lying beside him all night. This is the first time since he arrived that you are able to let your mind wander to anything more than survival, and there’s something frightening about that. You wonder if you’ll have time to talk before you pass out from exhaustion.
“All set,” he announces, standing up and quickly jamming his hands in his pockets to protect them from the cold.
He chews on the inside of a cheek, examines his handiwork, rocks on his heels. You are surprised that he does not usher you into another task, as he has been doing the whole time.
Finally, John turns to look at you. “Can’t bloody figure out how to say this without sounding like some trashy paperback. Our safest bet is to huddle for warmth. Skin to skin.”
A tingling that has nothing to do with the temperature darts up your spine. Falling asleep, naked, next to a man who has starred in more than one of your masturbatory fantasies is indeed the stuff of romance novels. Unfortunately, tonight’s circumstances are less than ideal: you are frigid, sore, fatigued, and look like death warmed over.
Moreover, you aren’t able to parse how he feels about all this. John has been gentlemanly, professional, and even quite nurturing throughout the ordeal. He is also working. He was sent here, as a soldier, on a search-and-rescue mission. No doubt he would have helped you regardless, but the transactional framework of this encounter sours the sweetness of your reunion. You get rescued, John gets paid. Maybe there’s even a little bonus in it for him if you fill out a customer satisfaction survey. On a scale of 1 to 10, how much did you enjoy Captain Price taking off your pants?
John has done so much to make you comfortable – the very least you can do is return the favor. So, you smile and say, “Well, since you’ve literally given me the clothes off your back, body heat might be the only thing left I can take from you.”
His relief is evident. He smiles fondly and says, “Don’t worry about me, love. Worse ways to spend a night than with a beautiful woman in my arms.”
With those words, your dead-and-buried crush bursts from its grave like a zombie revived. Disguising your smile is literally impossible, so you chuckle and duck your head. Maybe he’ll think the redness in your face is from the cold.
“We’ll need to spread the blanket out beneath us,” he explains, “to insulate us from the snow. Once we’re lying down, I’ll wrap it around us.”
You have become quite attached to your ugly silver shield, yet the thought of your arms and side being in contact with the snow all night is abominable.
By the glow of the flare, you kneel in the bed he’s dug out and reluctantly remove the blanket from your shoulders. The sting of the wind hits you immediately, but you focus on lining the area with the mylar, sticking the edges into the snow to keep it grounded. You must look absurd, crawling around in underthings, gloves, and a beanie.
The crackle of the walkie startles you. John’s confident voice confirms contact, and then he says: “We’re bunking down for the night. She needs to get some sleep in her, so no interruptions unless it’s urgent.”
“Solid copy, Cap,” comes the voice from earlier. Then, after a beat, a cheeky: “Stay warm, you two.”
You finish arranging the blanket as you listen to John undress behind you. The whir of zippers being pulled, the shuffle of a rucked up sweater, the plop of clothes in the snow – each noise brings you closer to the moment you long for and dread in equal measure.
When John steps into your space and gets to his knees, you can avoid looking at him no longer.
Aside from his underwear and boots, he is bare. A dusting of fine, dark hair covers his arms, legs, and torso, doing little to conceal the gooseflesh that has appeared along his skin. You want to run your fingers through the curls on his chest. He is predictably muscular all over, especially his biceps and thighs, but with a healthy layer of bulk that you cannot wait to cushion yourself against. The lines worn into his rugged face make him look indomitable, evidence of all the tribulations and missions and decisions that have forced him to bend, but never break.
“Lie down,” he tells you gently, tugging up one edge of the blanket. “I’ll be right there.”
You curl in on yourself, rubbing your hands over your arms. You think your asscheek might be hanging out of your panties because they’ve ridden up a bit, but pulling them back down might draw more attention to yourself.
Suddenly, John’s arm reaches over your body, plucks up the blanket, and draws you into him.
His body heat against you is overwhelming. His fuzzy chest lies flush with your back, pecs catching for a moment on the band of your bra. The padding on his stomach fits snugly against the curve of your spine, like Matryoshka dolls in the Russian wilderness. A little grunt leaves him as he swaddles the both of you in the blanket, leaning away for just a moment to tie some kind of knot. When he returns, you feel the bridge of his nose and the scratch of his whiskers against your neck.
You are in a mylar burrito with John Price. It would be funny if it wasn’t so stupidly, devastatingly, unfairly hot.
He manages to snake his arm under the blanket and gingerly slide it past your waist to rest on your stomach. It falls with your inhales and rises with your exhales.
Safe.
Warm.
Alive.
A shaky breath drags a pathetic noise out of you. John responds immediately, tightening his hold. “I’ve got you, love,” he says, his voice closer to you than it has ever been before. “You’re alright.”
You swallow a sob and it goes down like a pinecone. “S-sorry.”
He huffs a laugh. “Sweetheart, you’ve just had the worst day of your life. Cry all you want.”
You don’t want to cry. You want to bask in the perfection of this strong, skillful, compassionate man and then sleep like you’re in a coma.
The snugness of the blanket doesn’t give you much room, but you wriggle out of one of the gloves and thread your fingers with his. You give him plenty of time to pull away, and when he doesn’t, you give his hand a little squeeze.
He sighs placidly, like he has finally released a breath he was holding.
Keeping your eyelids open becomes taxing. The tempo of John’s breathing brings you closer and closer to drifting off. When you wake, it will be to the din of helicopter blades heralding your salvation.
“California?”
The way he says your nickname has you wide awake. “Yes?”
He doesn’t respond right away, so you stroke his wrist with your thumb in case he needs some reassurance.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For never calling.”
Your gut twists at those words, but you cannot let him know. Forcing a chuckle, you say, “Oh, John, that was ten years ago. I’m not upset. Nothing to apologize for.”
“I see,” he says, and you fear you may have overdone it with your disaffected response.
“Or, well. What I mean is,” you backtrack, “I’ve always understood what your job entails. I didn’t take it personally.” Then you add, attempting to keep your tone lighthearted, “I consider myself lucky I got to know you at all. A date just would’ve been… a cherry on top.”
John cogitates on your words before explaining, “The whole damned time I was in Verdansk, I was looking forward to seeing you when I got back. Wouldn’t shut up about it, actually, to the point the men in my unit started teasing me about my American bird.” His exhale tickles your neck. “Not saying it would’ve gone anywhere. I just wish I had called.”
Should you ask the obvious question? It seems like he wants to talk about it.
“Um. Why didn’t you?”
“I was stressed.” His words come through a clenched jaw, trenchant, sarcastic - but not directed at you. “Lost a close friend that deployment. Fucked me up proper, so I thought I’d take some time to myself to process it. But the weeks went by and I just… I dunno. I just didn’t. And once I finally felt like I was ready, too much time had passed. Figured another bloke with more balls had asked you out by then.”
It hurts to know that all these years, it was incorrect assumptions that kept you apart. You would have understood, if he reached out and explained why he needed time to himself. You wonder if telling him this would just hurt worse.
Instead, you say, “Please don’t beat yourself up, John. The phone works both ways. I could have called or texted too, and I got in my own head about it.”
“Second thoughts?” he guesses.
You bark a laugh. Since he is being so honest with you, it feels only fair to lay it all on the table. “On the contrary. I figured all the excitement of a mission reminded you how little a frumpy linguist had to offer.”
John’s arm tightens as he emits a displeased hum. “You’re dead wrong. On all counts.”
“Seems like we both were,” you observe sadly.
Now that you are no longer a victim of the wind, squirreled away as you are in the makeshift bed, its whistling sounds melodic. It feels like white noise, like the whirring of a ceiling fan.
“Sometimes, when things are going poorly,” he tells you in nearly a whisper, “I think about my decision not to call. And I wonder… I wonder if I could have had a whole different life, yeah? If I made the wrong choice, then. And everything that’s happened to me since has been a kind of punishment.”
A physical ache burns in your chest at those words. After all the sacrifices he’s made, the pain he’s borne, the lives he’s saved - he deserves happiness, or at the very least peace.
All night, John has been taking care of you. You want to take care of him.
You squirm against the blanket to loosen the swaddle and John draws his arm back. It is an ungainly process, but you manage to roll over so that you’re chest-to-chest. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck and loop one arm around him, the other pinned between you with your hand against his heart. That’s about as much of an embrace as you can manage.
Once he catches on to what you’re doing, he wraps an arm around you as well and hugs you fiercely. He rests his chin atop the beanie still adorning your head.
It is impossible not to swoon at his manly smell. The sweat, the musk, and some crisp, generic deodorant. You are gripped with regret as you think of how you might have experienced all this in such a different, more pleasant context. On the sofa of your old apartment, or the backseat of his car.
But you must practice what you preach and not dwell on the past. With as much confidence as you can muster, you say into his collar bone, “I’m free Friday.”
He shifts a bit, loosens his hold. “Sorry?”
“For the date you owe me.”
A wonderstruck breath that is close to a laugh ghosts against your hair. “Friday, is it? I’ll need to check my schedule, but I’m fairly certain I won’t be called away on any urgent missions.”
“And even if you are,” you reply, heartened that he’s accepted your invitation, “I’ll be here waiting when you get back. Even if you need some time to yourself right after.”
John pulls away from the embrace as his hand finds your cheek. The flare does not offer much light, but this close, he can hide no part of himself from you. His eyes scan your face with an intensity that takes your breath away, like he’s committing every pore and eyelash and strand of hair to memory.
As though he’s finally discovered what he was looking for, he closes the scant distance between you and places his lips softly over yours. You’re sure you must be extremely unpleasant to kiss in this state, lips half-frozen and blue, but John treats you with all the tenderness of a groom on his wedding night. Indulgently, you bring your fingers to his beard and stroke through the prickly whiskers as you return his kiss.
When John pulls back, he knocks his forehead against yours and says, “I’m sorry. I know it’s not… now is not the right time…”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” you hush. “I’ve been waiting ten years for that kiss.”
He laughs, genuine and mirthful, and presses his lips to your brow. “All I mean to say is that I wish I could have done this on your doorstep after taking you to dinner.”
“We’ll do that Friday,” you assure him. “For now, I want you to kiss me like we might not make it through this blizzard.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, his fingers flexing against your face as though fighting the urge to grip you tighter. “That, I can do.”
Before you know it, John has flipped you onto your back and crawled over you, bracing his forearms on either side of your shoulders. His body, impossibly heavy and hot, pins yours against the mylar. He wastes no time working open your mouth with his as you card your fingers through his short hair. God, he feels perfect on top of you like this, comforting and solid like a weighted blanket.
Also heavy and hot and solid is the unmistakable bulge of his hard-on, cushioned against the flesh of your thigh. The sensation sends a thrill through you as you sink your fingertips into his shoulder blade and moan into the kiss.
Unfortunately, your body cannot quite keep up with your libido. Even as you feel yourself getting wetter, you struggle to catch your breath and keep yourself from growing dizzy. You eventually give a gentle push to his shoulders and he backs off instantly.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No, no,” you rush. “I just – feel a little woozy. Quick break, that’s all.”
To your displeasure, John rolls off of you and back to your side. You can still feel his erection pressing above your knee.
“Sorry, California. Got so excited I forgot you’re still borderline hypothermic.”
You loop your arms around his neck and try to haul him back atop you. “Wait, please don’t stop. I just needed to catch my breath.”
He smiles at you sweetly and plants a lingering kiss at your hairline. “How about this? Let’s get some rest before evac in the morning. Once medical clears us, I’ll book a room at the nearest hotel and do – and I cannot stress this enough – literally anything you want.”
Your pearl throbs at his words. “That does sound pretty good,” you admit, still disappointed that you lust will go unslaked tonight.
“Good.” With a bit of maneuvering, John has you back in your original little-spoon position and is redoing the swaddle.
Sleep finds you quickly. Before you drift off, you realize with a smile that John made good on his promise to see you on Valentine’s Day after all. And he is only ten years late.
~~~
FEBRUARY 14, 2026 | CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VA, USA
Kate is practically asleep on her feet when a message comes through from Gaz. Thank God it's good news – one more person to cross off the MIA list. The attack on the forward operating base in Russia happened 10 hours ago, and she has been running on fumes for nearly all of it.
Kate’s brain screeches to a halt as she reads the name of the survivor. Then the name of the operator who found her. Then again.
After years of listening to Price mope about his precious California every time he got drunk, like she is an unattainable goddess and not a colleague who works two (2) hours away, Kate figures these idiots have a lot of catching up to do. Perhaps the life-or-death circumstances will be a lesson to her friend to get out of his own damn way when it comes to matters of the heart.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, John,” she chuckles to her empty office as she takes another gulp of lukewarm coffee.
~~~
FEBRUARY 15, 2026 | UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, RUSSIA
A punch of static startles you awake.
“Captain. How copy?”
John bolts up, taking you with him due to the blanket situation. He mumbles his apologies as he frees himself from the thermal straightjacket and swipes the walkie from his nearby backpack.
“We’re both stable. ETA?” he replies, voice rough with sleep.
You push yourself into sitting position and look around. Sunlight at last illuminates the landscape that was once obscured by darkness and a miasma of snowflakes. There is not much to see beyond the white tundra and the faint outline of what might be buildings or trees on the horizon. You squint as your eyes adjust, pulling your half of the blanket tighter around you.
“Leaving now and should arrive in an hour,” comes the reply. “Still a little dicey with the gusts, but Nik wants to get you out of there ASAP.”
A loud shuffling noise, and then a new voice with a Russian accent speaks. “What I said was, I think you’ll cut my balls off if I wait much longer.”
John chuckles. “Euphemizing for me, now, Gaz? Sparing my delicate sensibilities?”
“Wasn’t sure you wanted to hear about balls when you’re freezing yours off, sir,” the man named Gaz responds diplomatically. “Anyway, nicked a few cigars from your stash so you can enjoy a proper smoke on your way back.”
“Good lad.”
“See ya soon.” A beep, and the walkie shuts off.
A smoky wisp leaves John’s mouth as he exhales. His blue eyes flick to you, and he is even more stunning in proper daylight.
“We haven’t got much to pack up,” John reasons, “and I’m not particularly keen to get back into cold, damp clothes. Shall we enjoy the warmth for a little longer?”
“I’d love that,” you say. Despite getting at least several hours of sleep, you are still enervated. Your ulterior motive is, of course, spending as much of the morning as possible in John’s arms. He wastes no time in tucking you against his body and burying his face in your hair. Your heart flutters as you adjust your hips and legs to fit the mold he’s made for you.
The morning wood pressing against your ass triggers memories of last night. A torrent of desire floods you, and suddenly waiting for a hotel room seems gratuitous. The endless possibilities of should arrive in an hour stretch before you like a vast ocean…
You gently wriggle under the pretense of finding a comfortable position. A ragged sigh billows behind you, but John remains still.
You know he wants you – he admitted (and demonstrated) as much last night. So you double down, gripping his hand and bringing it from your stomach to your breast.
“I am trying to be a gentleman, California,” John growls. His hand does not so much as twitch from where you placed it.
You look over your shoulder and catch his flinty gaze. “And I’m trying to get fucked like an animal.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, and suddenly he rucks your bra over your tits and has you flat on your back. Right where you left off last night.
Your nipples stiffen instantly in the cold air, but they are exposed for mere seconds before John has his palm over one and his mouth over the other. You arch your back into the pleasure of his touch, your lips parted in an aborted shout as you look heavenwards. Your hungry cunt spasms as you feel his cock begin to rut against your thigh.
“This what you wanted, love?” he rasps against your breast, immediately returning to his ministrations. His tongue is impossibly warm and limber, making skillful circles around your bud with just enough pressure to render you desperate for more.
“God, yes,” you whimper.
John uses his knee to part your legs and wedges his thigh against your core. With something to grind against, you become a writhing mess. His thigh is broad and muscular, sending sparks of ecstasy up your spine.
“Wanted this…” you pant, “for so long, John.”
The hand that isn’t fondling you slides down your body, over your hip, and works its way past the elastic of your panties. He takes a breather from sucking your tits to rest his head on them like a pillow, his puffs of breath delightfully ticklish.
“I’ve got a list of regrets a mile long. But I swear, I’m not going to let you be one of them.”
He locates your swollen clit with an efficiency that borders on unfair, swiping the pad of his finger back and forth as you grow wetter and wetter. You have just enough wits about you to reach down to try to touch him in return, but he effortlessly evades you and gives a small chuckle.
“You’re still recovering, love. Let me do the work, a’right?”
“But I… I want to touch…”
And then John slips two well-lubricated fingers into your cunt and the ability to form sentences abandons you entirely.
His mouth moves from your chest to your neck as he plies you with open-mouthed kisses. Although his fingers stretch you considerably, he is gentle enough coaxing you open that the pressure is not unpleasant. When he grazes that sacred patch of nerves inside you, your body jerks and you dig your nails into his bicep.
“Okay?” he confirms, sounding extremely distracted.
You are so okay, supremely and ridiculously okay, but all you manage to do is nod your head against his.
John will certainly make you come if he keeps at it like this, his steady, consistent rhythm winding the coil of pleasure inside you tighter and tighter. But after humping each other’s legs for the better part of five minutes, your need for his dick reaches its crescendo.
“Fuck me, John,” you pant, tilting your head so your lips are against his temple. “Don’t make me beg.”
You gasp as John’s fingers unplug themselves from your channel, but he is quickly tugging down his briefs and you finally, finally feel his smooth glans against your curls.
“Give you whatever you want, California,” he promises, kissing you passionately on the lips. “You never, ever have to beg me for anything.”
John leans back enough that he can fist his manhood and nudge open your legs. You peek down your body to watch his fat, uncut cock disappear and reappear in his hand. A few more pumps and he is lining himself up at your entrance, pausing to meet your eyes. You nod to him, even more turned on by his need to see you affirm your consent.
Although your arousal and his fingering have prepared your cunt well for this intrusion, your jaw still drops from the sensation. Very slowly, he sinks himself inside you and lowers his body back over yours.
The expression on his face is one of blissful agony.
When he at last bottoms out, you suck in an enormous breath and do your best to relax your muscles. John is quivering as he forces himself to remain still until you’re adjusted.
“Please,” you whisper, and he snaps his hips back almost instantly.
It takes just a few thrusts for you both to find your pace. John is absolutely wrecked above you, face distorted in concentration, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest.
“I am, already,” he exhales shakily, “addicted to being inside you.”
“Need your cock every night,” you reply, gripping his shoulders to keep yourself from slipping off the blanket.
You mean it: it has been months since you’ve had sex, and years since it has been anywhere near this good. John Price was already the man of your dreams. His perfect cock feels like a divine reward for some noble deed in a past life.
“It’s yours,” he promises, “I’m yours.” His pace increases, and when you start letting out breathy moans in time with his gyrations, he admits under his breath, “You are temptation itself.”
You squeeze your eyes shut as John’s hand finds your clit and gracelessly toys with it, incapable of finesse when he is so close to his own end. Impossibly, your imminent release makes you feel overheated in spite of the chill that clings to your skin. John’s grunts as he pistons in and out of you are the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.
An orgasm starts low and rumbling in your core like an earthquake, and then sprays through the rest of your body like a geyser. You must be leaving marks on John’s back and arms the way you cling to him, but he is the only thing anchoring you to this plane. Your walls contract and flutter, milking him for come as his metronomic tempo falters. Just as you come down from your height, John ascends to his.
He spills inside you while maintaining eye contact, his hips seeming to twitch of their own accord. You reach up and stroke your hand over his cheek, a part of you still in denial that this moment dwells in the realm of reality and not fantasy. With a breath that causes his whole chest to shudder, John rolls off you onto his back and tugs you over his chest.
The coldness hits you at once as you press yourself snugly against his comfortable body. With his free arm, he wraps the blanket back around you and sighs like a man who’s just eaten a feast. His stellar sexual performance makes you wonder if you were too much of a pillow princess for him to feel like you were properly reciprocating. You press a shy kiss to his pec.
“What’s on your mind, love?” he inquires.
“Just, um, hoping you don’t realize in your post-nut clarity that I’m still the same nobody cryptographer, only older and flabbier.”
A big belly-laugh causes you to bounce where you lay draped over him, and you feel a bit of his come dribble down your leg. “Sweetheart,” he coos, kissing the crown of your head. “You are the standard to which I’ve held most of the women I’ve dated. If you think I’m going to be scared away by a few laugh lines or a fatter arse, think again.”
Your face turns bright red at his praise as you absently play with his chest hair.
“Besides,” he goes on, “I was hoping for linguistics dirty talk.”
You push yourself up to look at him, grinning broadly. “Oh? Should I tell you about diphthongs and fricatives?”
“Careful. You’re turning me on again.” If he’s joking, you’re quite fooled by the feral look in his eye.
“Well. I don’t know how long it takes you to, uh, reload your gun, but I wouldn’t say no to a second round. I’ve heard skin to skin contact is important under these circumstances.”
John checks an imaginary watch on his wrist, then looks to the sky as though checking for the helicopter. “I think we’ve got time for that,” he comments, and pins you back into the snow with another breath-stealing kiss.
