before y'all boo me off or whatever, just hear me out......
Captain Price and how his age is catching up to him. Years of military and constant substance abuse causing his body to ache all over. And then his pretty missus (or fiancée, if he hasn't made a wife out of you yet for some unfathomable reason) begs him with her doe eyes and kissable lips to quit smoking 'cuz she wanna spend the rest of her life married to him......
And fuck, if John isn't a man of his word.
Although keeping his word to his darling seems to be a lot harder than he thought. Unable to satiate his desire to smoke (he had foolishly thrown out all the cigars, even the fancy ones as he thought he wouldn't need any backups), he feels his fingers twitch out of habit and he breathes heavily to control himself. Deciding to get his oral fixation from elsewhere, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your soft waist as he kisses up your neck. You whine at him, telling him to not distract you from whatever dish you're working on. He scoffs at you, turning off the stove and spinning you around till you face him - reeling you in for a nasty kiss that is all tongue and teeth.
You can feel your lungs burn by the time he lets you go, instead going for your bare neck again as he marks you up with sharp canines, murmuring gentle praises as if they were salve to all the loving bruises he was inflicting on you.
Bringing you into the bedroom, he strips you bare and he just cannot resist putting his mouth everywhere and marking you up until you're singing his name for all to hear. It's not long until he's making love to you, each languid thrust aimed against that special spot that made you see stars, and once you're done, he urges you to clean up after yourself and finishes it off by licking your juices off your fingers.
So the next time you get guests in your humble abode and you bring them refreshments, Price is all too happy about reminding you of that time by grabbing your wrist and leaving skittish kisses against your fingertips, making you shudder with warmth and nervousness. The guest coo at the sweet gesture, none the wiser of what it means to you as you quickly exit the lobby with the excuse of making a hearty luncheon, with a skip in your step as you anticipate the next time John might need your help again.
And as his betrothed, you are more than happy to indulge in his oral fixations whenever he craves you.
Always taking the lead on the field and off duty. Always confident, self-assured in his abilities to guide himself and others through difficult situations with ease.
He's always so worried about his team - slipping in some antihistamines in Gaz's pockets whenever his dust allergies kick in and make his sneezes ring out on base at ungodly hours, making sure Johnny doesn't end up recklessly in another communal mess 'fight'', and checking up on Simon after a rough mission drains all life out of his blue eyes, leaving him dull and mute from the trauma of surviving another war.
He never forgets to wish his teammates birthday, always tries his best to push them to take extra leaves so they can visit family and rest after an arduous mission, and even indulges in their frivolous past times, if only to make time pass by easier.
He always remembers to send Kate and her wife flowers as a 'thank you' for hosting him for dinner, never forgets to call Laswell and congratulate her on successful jobs, and makes sure to send the finest bottle of wine for letting some of his 'rebellious actions' go under the radar.
So when he finally comes down with the seasonal flu, you take it upon yourself to reciprocate the generosity he graces everyone with - not letting the man leave the warm, soft bed as you tend to every need of his throughout the day.
"Sweetheart, get back to bed. I'll be fine", John tells you but his stuffy nose makes his voice sound more nasally than usual.
You tut at him, recalling his high temperature, "I cannot laze around while you're suffering and need me, John. Now let me take care of you, and put the cold compress on."
"Yes ma'am."
You run around, from room to room - arranging things and making sure to check in on your dear fiance to make sure he's not in pain while you prepare some home remedies for him.
A herbal mixture you make him drink for his sore throat, which Price downs with a small wince; changing his cold compress with a new one so he can rest comfortably. Turning down the lights so that his eyes don't smart anymore, and he can actually take a nap around noon while you work on lunch - chicken noodle soup and warm porridge that can warm him up from inside and are easy on the stomach - recalling every little trick your Mum did whenever you got sick.
And when you finally come back in the room to find John sleeping, you take a moment to breathe calmly as you slowly admire him. His flushed cheeks, freshly-trimmed mutton chops, his freckle on his nose and how his nose scrunches up while he's deep in his sleep, and how oddly comforting it is - to have him in your home, to see him resting after months of separation and knowing that he possibly hasn't slept this peacefully in ages.
"Take a picture, darling. It'll last ya longer", calls out a raspy voice, followed by a dry chuckle.
Felling your ears warm up at being caught by the very object of your attention, you promptly deflect, "Oh, shut it, you big dork. Lunch's ready, if you'd like to have it."
"With you?" John asks rhetorically, with a small fond smile on his face.
non-sexual dominance with cpt. john price, who is willing to be dominant on and off field if it means his soldiers (esp you) are able to stay sane and human throughout missions
You had been told so your entire life - by your parents for believing you will be the master of your own fate, writing your life the way you want it to be; by your peers for wishing something different because they couldn’t comprehend why you wanted to run away from such a lavish, fulfilling life; and by your ‘beloved’ for even thinking that you’d be anything more than a fever dream rendition of ‘50s Stepford wife that he would occasionally bring out to galas and parties in tight dresses that showed off your bosom a bit too much, hoping to curry favors with like-minded bastards who leered at you with heady eyes and hands itching to cop a feel of you.
You feel the shame that comes with making the wrong choice - you can feel your ears burn and your eyes sting with tears, can feel your tongue turn to lead and your mouth dry up as if it’s filled with cotton. You inhale deeply, and you feel your throat bob painfully as you greedily gulp in any amount of air you can get in the clammy warehouse.
It’s either this or getting locked in a cage forever.
You didn’t even think of making a getaway the moment those men decided to bind your hands tightly and covered your head with a sack, cutting off your connection from the outside world entirely as they abducted you, hoping to get high praise from their boss for such a pretty catch. You feel your spine creep up with goosebumps as their disgusting hands touch you and manhandle you, forcing you to lie down in what you assume to be the trunk of the car. The sack over your head does a good job at hindering your sight, making it impossible to note the car or its license plate.
You stay stuck, occasionally moving and bumping around in the claustrophobic space and you can only pray to God that you make it out of this ordeal alive.
For what feels like hours, you let your body sway with the movement of the vehicle and feel the extra tyres dig into your ribs at every bump or pothole, helpless to do anything at all. Eventually, the car comes to a stop and you are grateful that the constant moving and the smell of petrol didn’t make you spill your guts out in the back of the car, the sack over your head promising nothing but a pitiful death by choking on your own vomit.
The trunk is opened and you are pulled upright, and all you are thankful for is that you are out of that closed box of a space and you can finally breathe. You feel disgust at the sweat that coats you, but sigh out in relief as the soft breeze caresses your skin as it cools your body. You do not resist as you are forced to walk, hearing nothing but a few uncomprehensive murmur behind you as your ears buzz and your mind screams at you to RUN RUN RUN RUN RU-
You shove that line of thought somewhere back in your mind, somewhere unreachable because you know, you fucking know that if you even slightly move in a way that seems threatening, these guys will not hesitate to empty their guns into your body.
They just need an excuse for it anyway.
You have decided to not give them that.
You feel the creaky metal doors slam shut behind you, the noise reverberating in your ears; your lack of sight heightening your other senses, making you undergo a sensory nightmare of sorts as you try your best to survive in the unknown territory.
You come to a stop, and feel someone guide you with their hand over the small of your back - the touch nauseating you, flashes of unpleasant memories making you shiver in fear and rage, and it is almost enough for you to strangle the guy; if not for your bound hands and the threat of death imminent in the air.
One of the goons takes it upon himself to grab your arm, hard enough to dig it into your skin - a promise full of bruises and malice. Then he guides you roughly a few steps forward, before pushing you down on a chair. He unties your hand, and you barely get a second of soothing your reddened wrists before he’s tying you to the arms of the wooden chair with ropes that dig into you. He does the same with your legs, and it’s not long until your body is bound to the chair you’re sitting on. The ropes are thick, and you resignedly accept your defeat when it’s due - knowing that you clearly don’t have the strength to break out of your binds. You can only hope that these people at least have the decency to hear you out before they discard your body down the river.
You feel the gun press against your temple, the gunny sack over your head doing nothing to cushion the pressure on your head. You can only hope that the safety is on, or the guy with the gun is not too trigger happy. You don’t want to paint your brains out on the grimy floor anyway.
It’s just a precautionary measure, you console yourself.
You won’t get shot. Not yet.
You are disoriented by your surroundings when your sack is pulled over your head, exposing you to the people around you. The few white lights dangling over you blind you, and the ropes are already chafing against your sweaty skin, and the white bodycon dress sticks to you, already dirtied by the grime and the dust you have encountered along the way.
I must be a sight for sore eyes, you think sarcastically, blinking away the pain to take in the men standing before you.
You have heard of them. Of course, you have. You do not stay a part of your family without knowing about the infamous 141. The elite of the elite in the dark, dirty business your family partakes in. People rarely see them, some even wish on shooting stars to get a meeting of a lifetime with the members of 141 - some of the finest, richest men in England’s mafia. Almost all of the sea routes belong to them, allowing them to easily smuggle in arms, drugs and more into the Queen’s dear country. Allies of 141 benefit from their profits, and are even offered protection. Relation to 141 meant only one thing for people - pure, absolute power over everything.
Your father had once hoped to be a part of this organization. He had endlessly tried to impress them, wishing nothing more than a lick of the power they held in their scarred, steady hands - all of the lies, deceit and illusions failing him, as he ultimately couldn’t carve a place for himself in the group. This failure of his made him jaded, angry at the world and the rest of your family for this unfair transgression committed against him. Finally, he planned to use you as a pawn to expand his power, forging an alliance in marriage with an ally that has always served as a thorn in the side to the chagrin of 141.
Enemy of my enemy…
You partly blame them for your sorry state, half-heartedly wishing that they would’ve entertained your mercurial father for just a little longer so you could elope with your friends and leave the country, never to return. However, the thought of that madman having the power to influence all of England always left a bad taste in your mouth.
The men in front of you are the most powerful men in all of England. Possibly one of the most powerful men in the continent of Europe even. The four men are dressed to the nines, a stark contrast to the filthy warehouse you’re stuck in, and you cannot help but look up at them with aching eyes, staring at them in awe and reverence.
The man with the skull mask draws your attention first, leaning against a table you missed to take note of earlier. He’s dressed in all black - a black coat over a white shirt that hugs his wide shoulders tightly, and you cannot miss the brown holster against his hip, his hands in the pockets of his black pants. You cannot deny that you’re intrigued about him and all that he hides behind that mask of his. His eyes, looking like two brown dots from where you sit, size you up - highly alert and ready to swiftly get rid of you, if it comes down to it.
Your eyes shift a little to the right and you find yourself staring at a majestic man. He’s dressed in a three-piece, along with a well-groomed beard, and his dark hair is combed back, not a strand out of place. He’s old enough to be your daddy, but by God, he looks like someone who could ruin you. The men behind you bow down in reverence and you can only assume that he’s the ringleader of this circus show - a dangerous circus show where you’re most likely to lose your life.
The man standing to his right seems to look closer to your age - dark, tall, slim with a pretty face and full lips. His curly hair seems to have a mind of its own, letting a coil or two loose on his face, which he quickly tucks behind his ears swiftly. What draws you in the most are his eyes - dark and mischievous, carrying a brightness in them that you can only recall in childhood photos and you almost feel envious as your own has dulled down over the years.
And the man beside you speaks, “You alright?” and your concentration shifts to him. Your eyes widen a bit, surprised to not notice him before - with his accent and mohawk and kind eyes that crinkle a bit when he looks at you, his visage directly blessed by a Hellenistic deity whose name you have long forgotten.
You drop your gaze to look at your lap, embarrassment creeping up on you like invasive ivies - you probably look out of place, with your white dress and the way you gaped at them probably gave them something to laugh about after they’re done getting rid of your body today. You do not reply just yet, your hammering heart making it hard to focus on them and the barrage of questions.
You have been ill-prepared.
You ran away on a whim, with nothing but the bare necessities packed up. You had not expected to make it this far, straight in the heart of your mortal enemies’ lair. You had focused so much on leaving without a trace, that you had forgotten to cook up a half-baked story that could satiate the natural curiosity of the 141.
They have been something out of a fairytale for you, a fable used to scare people into subservience. And yet, these godly men stand before you, grace your unworthy eyes to admire their visage until you’re ultimately slaughtered like a lamb for wandering too deep into their territory.
You wait and in turn make the men around you wait for an answer - something, anything really; and with each second passing by, you cannot help but give into the panic that’s taking control of your frail body. Your lungs burn, and no matter how deeply you breathe, you just cannot seem to soothe the ache within you.
Maybe I’m having a heart attack, you think earnestly. If I die right this instant, I will not have to deal with my family. Or my betrothed. Or with 141.
However, fate has often been cruel to you.
The man with the mohawk notices your shortened breath, instantly alarmed at your worsening state.
“Oi, Ghost. Pass me the bottle”, he asks, and through bleary eyes you notice him catch a flying plastic bottle in his hands. With gentle fingers, he grabs your chin and tilts your head up until your eyes meet his. His fingers rub gentle circles into your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. He gently urges you, “Open ya mouth for me, hen. Drink up”.
Suddenly parched and unable to handle the multiple eyes on you, you silently comply as you tilt your head back and open your mouth. He gently presses the bottle to your lips, allowing you to take slow, sure sips from it. Some of it trickles down, wetting the neck of your dress but you can hardly care as you gently lean back as his fingers slowly play with your hair, sending pleasant tingles down your spine - almost enough to make you whimper in relief.
After a while, when he deems it enough, he retracts the bottle from you and caps it, putting it down near the foot of the chair. You compose yourself, silently berating yourself for letting these men see you at such a low point - so weak and vulnerable.
But no more of that.
The small reprieve offered by the man standing nearby gave you enough time to compose yourself - enough time to cook up a story that will save you from showing all your cards on the table. You can only hope that by the time you’re finished with this ordeal and have gathered enough resources, you can finally make your getaway far away from here.
God knows you’d kill for a vacation right about now.
Your eyes meet his again, and he smiles down on you kindly, deciding this is a good time as any to finally introduce himself to you.
“I’m Soap. Lassie, dae ye hev any idea aboot where ye’re?”
Weird name, but you nod your head nonetheless. You don’t know where exactly you have landed up, but you do know that you’re in their territory, with no allies to support you or protect you.
The very thought of it terrifies you.
“So, ye dae ken who 141 is?”, he asks again, and you nod your head in confirmation as you finally recognize his accent as somewhere from up north in Scotland.
“Why are you here then?” a deep voice with a Manchester accent asks you, and your eyes flutter across the room until they land on the masked man again. The distance along with his mask makes it near impossible to gauge what he’s thinking, how he’s looking at you - but you can wager a solid guess.
He’s probably looking at you with distrust, like you’re a skittering deer caught in headlights - about to run off to god knows where if given the chance. He’s thinking about how shady you are, how you need to be vetted before they even entertain you and your potential sob story or how he itches to shoot you in the head with the gun he has kept in his holster.
Frankly enough, you don’t give two fucks about his thoughts.
“You’re 141, and I have valuable information. Information that can help you gain access to parts of England you constantly fight over with other gangs”, you speak up, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear you. You are surprised that your voice doesn’t crack, your eyes don’t shy away from the heated look the skeleton-wearing man throws your way.
The leader straightens up, asking you what you have been dying to hear ever since you stepped foot in London.
Finally.
“And what do you want from us for that?”
“Protection.”
It isn’t long till you are untied from the chair by Soap, finally rubbing your raw hands - cringing at how your wrists ache and your feet are no better, but you leave them be. You thank him for untying you, finally ‘free’ to walk on your own as you are escorted by him and by his masked companion to a black Mercedes-Benz 200. Soap is kind enough to open the door for you, letting you sit at the back of the car. He closes the door and goes around the vehicle, finally taking his seat as the driver. You look out the window, wondering where the other man would sit - beside Soap or beside you.
Your query is answered when you hear the car door opposite to you slam shut, watching him warily as the hulk of a man climbs inside and adjusts himself, sitting carefully to not bump his head onto the roof of the Benz. The car hums to life as Soap finally inserts the key into the ignition, dabbling with the manual shaft and finally driving - enroute to a new, unknown destination.
The skull-face (a nickname your brain supplied you with) looks at you pointedly, and you finally look back at him after what felt like a millennia of him burning holes into your skull.
“What?” you snide, clearly with no energy or tact to be bashful around the man who is totally capable of breaking your bones with his bare hand.
He nods, and it draws your attention to the little blindfold he’s held in his hands.
You groan out, not ready to return to the shadows just yet.
“Not again”, you almost whine out, turning around so your back faces him and you wait for his deft hands to cover your world with darkness again.
“Gotta have to, love”, you hear Soap say as his steady hands steer the wheel around and work the manual shift to change gears, “Protocol says so. It’s just for newcomers, ain’t it, Ghost?”.
The man behind you grumbles but refuses to grace his partner with a response.
So he’s called Ghost.
You grumble slightly before crossing your arms like a petulant child, but not before making a sarcastic quip.
“If you’re going to get kinky with that blindfold on me, at least take me out to dinner first”.
You let out a sigh as you feel the dark piece of cloth tighten around your eyes, and you can hear Soap guffaw out loud.
“That’s a good one, lassie!”, he laughs, and you feel the car turn slightly as he drives on the road, feeling a few bumps along the way.
Ghost scoffs a little at your little snide - it’s lighthearted and breathy, and it seems like you may have just won the lottery by winning his approval.
It’s small but it’s a start.
“And if you’re worried about dinner”, Ghost speaks, and you jump slightly at the sudden sound he makes.
“If you survive the night, you might be able to get some after all”.
After what seems like a drive of thirty minutes, the car finally comes to a stop and you’re glad for that.
The silence had been comfortable, it gave you time to think and process all that has happened so far. But you’re also eager to get the blindfold off your face and finally see where these men have ‘escorted’ you to.
Feeling your anxiety, Ghost graciously takes off the piece of cloth over your eyes, and you blink dumbly, trying to get your bearings about you. He gets out of the car, before walking around it and opening your door for you.
What a gentleman.
You climb out of the vehicle, finally looking at what was in front of you.
Despite being a mafia heiress and witnessing luxury of all levels, you look at the mansion in front of you with a reverence unmatched - unable to believe that this is where one of 141 possibly lives here, or operates from.
The grandeur of this place is indescribable. The mansion is Victorian, and is surrounded by acres of grassland, laid with concrete routes that you’re currently walking on. There is a fountain across the main door of the mansion, and in the center of the water pool stands Aphrodite, her marble figure adding a touch of classicism to it. She looks serene, despite her residence being among the tumultuous water of a fountain. There are roses growing around the marble piece, surrounding the deity with color - almost as if these flowers have been planted as an offering to her.
It is a lovely sight. You wish you could look at her forever.
And yet you move onwards, leaving behind the goddess of love behind you, sneaking a final glance at her as the wooden door closes behind you.
There’s an ache that settles in the middle of your chest as you follow the two men inside, mourning your past and yet awaiting the future ahead of you.
The study room is majestic.
Walls are covered with shelves filled with thick books. You can recognize some of the classics kept there, mainly Russian literature that talked of death and human suffering. There is a red loveseat to your left, with a small coffee table with a glass top. And to your right, you can find a small cabinet, locked and untouched, as it collects dust in the large room.
You see the leader of 141, Jonathan M. Price, sitting in his leather chair, reading a file laid out on the oak table. He looks like he belongs here - regal and untouchable. And you almost feel out of place in your dirtied dress, and you’re certain that the sack over your head has messed up your hair now.
The fact that he looks attractive as fuck, sitting and reading with his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing his strong arms, does not help you. At all.
You wait until he finally looks up and notices you standing between his men. He gives them a look, and they both leave you. You feel Soap gently pat your shoulder as he closes the door behind him, following his companion out.
“So, why should I not throw you out for the police to find you?”
That’s the first thing he says to you, his eyes scrutinizing you as he gets up from his seat, walking until he’s at most half a dozen steps away from you. One of his hands picked up the glass of scotch on the table, sipping it with narrowed eyes.
You gulp a little at the unspoken threat - at the hidden promise of delivering your body in pieces at the threshold of your childhood home, at the implication that if the next words that come out of your mouth doesn’t satisfy him, you won’t walk out of this room alive.
“I know how to help you. I promise. The information I have is valuable”, you speak, feeling your chest swell with pride when you don’t stutter your words, when you don’t cower in fear in front of the dangerous mafia leader, when you don’t get on your knees and beg him to spare you.
“And the price is what, protection? Do you think I’m daft?” he raises his voice, and now you cannot help but flinch a little.
“Take a gamble, sir. It won’t hurt to try someone new for change”, you bargain with him, hoping that he’ll take the bait. You’d both win if he did.
There’s silence in the air, and you take this as permission to present your case before your metaphorical judge, hoping to persuade him from not condemning you to death and striking his gavel down.
“Just once. Give me a chance this one time. I won’t let you down, sir”, you almost beg, and you see his eyes waver - just a little bit, and that is enough for you to keep going.
“I’ll tell you something that’ll help you out, and if I’m right, you give me a fair chance. Keep me here, safe and protected. And if I fool you….”, you feel your stomach drop as you finish:
“You are allowed to do whatever you wish with me”.
You wait now.
He doesn’t speak for a few moments, and your agitation doesn’t help your restlessness. Your leg bounces in its place as you look at Mr. Price, unsure of what is going on inside that dangerous, beautiful brain of his. And when you finally open your mouth to say something, anything really - he beats you to it.
“What’s your name, girl?”
Your brain struggles with the sudden interest in what you’re called, and you wait a beat too long to answer him with an alias(“Marie”, you call yourself and all Price does is look at you like he doesn’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth). That makes you look suspicious. Fuck.
But you have been suspicious all up to now, you might as well keep up for now.
Moreover, they’d get off your back when you prove yourself right.
Or you’d buy yourself just enough time to run away again.
You’ve been getting better at that now.
After you tell him all that you can, making sure to keep the more sensitive information under wraps for now - for everyone’s sake really, you look at him as Price nods, gently rubbing his forehead and now he looks almost forlorn, the stress of running an illegal empire taking a toll on his body and soul. He looks older now, frailer somehow - and in this moment, you almost feel sorry for him.
“Fine, I’ll entertain you for now”, he breathes out, and you almost find yourself crying from joy.
You almost contemplate getting on your knees and bowing down to him to show your gratitude, but you do no such thing. Instead, you offer him a small smile and you don’t fail to notice how he drinks it all up like heady ambrosia.
But his next words force you to stay on your guard:
“But if you do anything suspicious, make sure I don’t notice. ‘Cuz I’m not as forgiving as I look”.
Price quickly dismisses you, now tired and in no mood to entertain his new guest, as he calls upon one of the men from the warehouse to show you ‘your room’.
Kyle(That’s the name of the young, pretty man) silently escorts you to a room on the third floor of the house, and despite following your escort with sharp eyes as you take a note of everything that interests you or stands out, you still find it hard to memorize the layout of this place.
He stands before a teak wood bifold door, and he opens the door for you to walk inside. Before he leaves you to your devices, he kindly informs you, “Dinner will be at 8. It won’t be hard to find the dining hall”.
And then he’s gone.
He has been apprehensive about your provisional arrangements; you had seen the look he sent to his leader when Price asked him to show you the room you’d be staying in.
You know he doesn’t like it any more than you do, but you’re touched at the hospitality he’s extending towards you - a temporary white flag for the unstable truce you have established between yourself and 141.
You take in the room with a white bed and white sheets, with sparse decoration and a cleanliness you can never find in someone’s room.
So this is a guest room.
You find your bag to be there, and you wonder if Price or Kyle asked someone to leave your belongings here. The bag looks untouched for the most part, and the tightness in your chest lightens a bit at that.
You think about taking a bath and changing into the spare clothes you packed in the duffel bag in a hurry. You think about going out and exploring the place, thinking of all the secrets you can soak up into your being.
But you’re so tired.
The clock hanging on the wall tells you it’s a little past 6, and you have some time before dinner will be served. You think of your bruised body, and your sore wrists and the headache that’s blooming across your temples, about how hard it is to keep your eyes open and look around you.
You look at the soft bed, and think how it won’t be too bad to rest for just a little.
In the bed, under the soft covers, you think of everyone you left behind. Your power-hungry father, who is probably going off the walls, swearing to kill you with his own hands when he sees you next. Your ignorant little brother, who’s been sent to America to study business at Harvard. Your betrothed who has quite possibly become the butt of the joke overnight.
You are scared of how he’s feeling, about what he must be planning for you, should you ever make the mistake of returning back to him.
(You’d rather the 141 kill you and dump your body under the bridge, brutalized and scarred beyond recognition.)
And your poor mother, who will now deal with the repercussions of your actions.
For her, you cry.
fin.
NOTE -
*Reader doesn't use her real name, she uses an alias but it will be temporary and rare. (probably)
Also it was tougher for me to describe the places and furniture more than writing the overall plot, etc.
And I'm posting this late at night, so any errors are the responsibility of future Cel.
Reader's callsign is Artemis and Gaz calls reader 'Artie' affectionately.
No pronouns used so far. (unless my sleepy self missed any, for that I apologize. But I usually write for female or femme presenting readers.)
Reader is written as POC, although I haven't mentioned any racial features except maybe one mention of their skin color.
Gaz and Artemis are like more than best friends but not a couple per se? If my brain can keep up, I might work out a mini-series out of this, who knows.
Also, I HC that Gaz is a mama's boy and has a younger sister named Bianca, who he's like very close to. This headcanon is so dear to my heart (T_T)
I wish I could be more prosy, more poetic with this piece cuz that's what Gaz deserves. But it's already late at night and I need to sleep before I go out with my friends so this'll do (until I get fed up and re-write this a year from now lmaooo).
I was going to leave this untitled but AO3 needs a title in order for me to publish this so I guess...this oneshot is called 'in between' ig? bon appetite y'all
word count - 1.9k
AO3 Version
You can see he’s thinking again.
The bar is filled with only a few patrons. Price is quietly nursing his whiskey on the one end of the bar table as he quietly talks into the phone(probably talking to Laswell) and observes his subordinates - namely Soap and Ghost engage in a captivating game of billiards. As far as you can observe, Soap is too impatient and Ghost is taking advantage of his restlessness and leading the score. Gaz sits beside you, one of his warm, deft hands nursing his own glass of bourbon and yet, his eyes show that he’s a thousand miles away from you, somewhere you cannot reach him.
You want to be where he is.
Your thigh touches his, gentle and unassuming and you let him warm you up. The team needed a pick-me-up after the brutal mission and what better way to loosen up than to drink the night away?
But you can tell that even drinking heavy or watching Soap bicker with the usually dry Lieutenant about pool will not be enough for your Sergeant to forget all that had transpired this past week. You don’t blame him for it.
The mission is all you can think about.
It was pretty smooth-sailing - you got trustworthy intel, thanks to Laswell and so you planned an ambush to get a weapon cache, and trace an infamous cartel leader deep in Russia, hiding with his lackeys in bumfuck nowhere. And then things went south halfway through extraction, forcing you to barely get hold of the cache before you made a run for it - which led to you taking a bullet to the thigh while you covered Kyle and Price from roaming hostiles who spotted all of you because of a small error on your Gaz’s part.
Luckily the bullet had just grazed you, and Ghost helped you patch up with the first aid kit they kept in the helicopter. Throughout it all, Garrick had his eyes downcast as he barely spoke while you rode away back to base. After landing, Price took a meeting and dismissed you just as fast, ordering you to go get your leg checked at the infirmary. Gaz followed you to the doctors - barely speaking despite your attempts at lighting up his sour mood. The moment you sit down on the cold bed and allow the nurse to take a look at your injury, you see the quiet man abandon you in the medical bay - but not before your eyes meet his, full of sorrow and remorse and a hint of something indecipherable.
You know what guilt does to a man.
The silence is killing you now.
Sure, Soap is possibly the most outgoing out of your lot, and sometimes you’re even surprised at how your Lieutenant can make you choke on your own breath by making you laugh at his terrible jokes; and yes, Price and his odd way of comforting you works too. But all you want this instant is for your best friend to look at you like he always does (eyes brimming with mirth and warmth - so much so that you can get drunk off of it alone), you want to hear what he has to say about the faux rivalry between Soap and Ghost, you want him to ask Price to join you as he orders you another fruity mocktail because you’re the DD of the night (there’s a rotation set for it and it’s your turn now), you want him to drag your chair close and feel his body press to your side closer still as he talks about how his mother is, or what his sister is up to - you miss them, you really do.
(He was nice enough to take you to them off-duty once and his mother apparently approved of you for her son, which you consider to be honor of the highest degree, especially from your best friend’s only guardian no less. His sister had been accepting too, roping you in to stay for the night and you all ended up having a self-care night - watching movies in nothing but soft robes, face masks and eating hot cheetos while Bianca did your nails and Gaz laid with his head in your lap, your free hand softly massaging his curls. And you all looked the epitome of domesticity )
“Penny for your thoughts?” you nudge him with your elbow that was previously resting on the table, and you break whatever reverie he might’ve been immersed in for the majority of the night. You’re tired and you want your Kyle back.
You almost laugh at yourself, as you remember an old memory back from when you were new to the team and were not used to the British currency at all. You want to recall that memory to Gaz and watch him laugh, see his eyes crease into little moons that take away your breath every single time(you can never get used to the sight, never get used to him), hear the soft chuckle as he points out how silly it was for you to not know how pounds work. You’d rack your brain, settling for a half-hearted jab at him about him being British as you both laugh the night away, maybe joining your teammates for a round or two at the pool table.
But you know now is not the time for that.
You watch him intently, watch his brows furrow up as he closes in on himself, giving you barely a chance to penetrate his walls without setting off his defenses. You playfully shove at his shoulder, drawing his attention to you instead of whatever train of thought is running incessantly in his head.
“It’s all cool, man”, you say and you cringe at yourself internally. You have never been good at comforting others - you rough-house, you use sharp words and sharper knives, given your field of work. You have never been blessed with someone treating you with a kindness you know you’re wholly unworthy of. So you have no idea how to deal with someone like him.
He looks at you before his gaze flutters around your vicinity, dark pupils looking black under the dim yellow lights and his skin golden under the overhead bulbs (his skin against yours casts a nice contrast, despite the differences and the scars and burns - despite everything). You gently clasp his hand in yours, squeezing it in your palm as you look at him, unblinking and intense. He cannot take his eyes off of you even if he wanted to.
You whisper to him, leaning closely so he can hear you over the jeering of his teammates, the buzzing of patrons and the background droning of the TV as it plays a recording of a football match from last season.
“It’s not your fault”.
He swallows a lump in his throat, and you watch as his eyes turn just a tad bit glassy. He’s close but he won’t cry. He never cries, not in public at least.
He nods, and speaks, his voice throaty and scratchy and still him:
“I know, Artie. I know.”
He squeezes your hand back, the warmth emanating from his deft fingers grounding you as he continues speaking, “I know it’s not my fault. You’ve told me that. Heck, Price has told me the same, and yet…”
He drawls, and you almost lose focus because of how nice he sounds, because it has been a long day and you’re grateful that you can finally talk to your closest companion again, and so you nod in support, allowing him to talk, to cool off. Whatever he needs, you’d give him all in a heartbeat.
“I know you’re not mad, and you don’t think it’s my fault. And yet, you almost died cuz I was too dumb to check my ‘9 and Lord knows how sorry I am for that”, his voice is thick with remorse and unshed tears as he looks at you earnestly for forgiveness, for redemption.
But he doesn’t need those.
You shake your head, drawing circles on his wrist with your thumb as you quietly mumble at him, “ ‘s not your fault, Kyle. Moreover, that’s what friends are for. Saving each others’ asses is part of the job, and I’m too attached to yours to stop saving you now”.
Your other hand cups his cheek gently, wiping away at his eyes and you watch enamored as he blinks away a few small, stray tears and your thumb gently swipes them away without a question.
“So you like my ass, huh? That it, Artemis?” he jokes, and you can just softly laugh as you ruffle his head, his soft curls askew due to you playing with his hair gently.
You hum contently, turning your attention to your already empty glass, before looking back at your teammate expectantly.
“Also, who would buy me fruity, expensive drinks when I can’t have a lick of alcohol?” you jest, slowly pulling away from him as you sit and face the bar instead of him, failing to notice how he almost chases after your touch.
“Is that all I am to you, Artie? A means to an end? Someone who can get you freebies?” he laughs breathily, asking the bartender for a refill for you as he recovers from the withdrawals he feels at the lack of your gentle, familiar touch.
“Well it’s either pampering me, or dealing with Ghost behind the steering wheel” you both wince slightly at that, remembering the few times you have both survived Ghost and his impeccable driving skills.
You know that he’s far from over it, the mission is still something he’ll possibly worry about for as long as he can think - but you can see him ease up a little due to your antics. He’ll be alright, you assure yourself as you clink your glass with his, smiling at him as you slowly talk more and he shares all the stuff Bianca has been up to. He shows you the produce his Ma has just harvested from her home garden, and you marvel at how big her home-grown pumpkin is.
As you laugh and whisper to each other, your eyes travel to the end of the table and you lock eyes with your beloved Captain (now free from his long phone call), as he raises his glass to you and drinks - a small gesture of gratitude for getting his favorite Sergeant out of his head for the night.
You feel your ears warm up in embarrassment as you try to avoid the keen gaze of your Captain and focus on your friend right now. You think about how much he has observed - the soft, hushed words, the casual touches, the lingering looks of yours that carried love and yearning and something more for Kyle and no one else. You wonder if he’d reprimand you, give you a reminder about being a soldier and how fraternization with your comrades will not end well for you. But he says nothing - he doesn’t get up and chide you, he turns away from you both and instead focuses on Soap and Ghost as they bicker over who won the last round. You’re almost thankful to him for that, as your attention turns back to Kyle (your dearest Kyle, the only thing who keeps you going on days when your job gets too much for your brain to handle) and as he animatedly gushes about his family and talks about how you both need to go back home and try out his Ma’s famous pumpkin pie she’s making this weekend, you can only think about one thing only.
You would die for this man, easily.
You wonder if this is how Icarus felt when he was too close to the Sun. Not fear, but endless warmth and safety engulfing him just moments before he fell.
