The Doom Patrol kiss but it’s Nikprice, ugh that would be perfect. The scene and scenario is just chefs kiss rah, them on the air strip hiding between two trucks all hot and bothered.
I remember a Fic I read on here where young Price and Nik meet for the first time. They buy Johns Hat together, work on a car I think and a mission. It ends with them kind of 'breaking up' before anything even really started. But I can't find it! It was so good!
Captain Jonathan Price who is so touchstarved, but is too aware of how risky it is to get attached to anyone that he settles for pats on the shoulder, handshakes and small affirmative actions to scratch that itch despite longing for more
X
Nikolai, who doesn't understand the concept and will literally throw himself at Price at every opportunity by draping himself over him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and waist just to physically keep him as close as possible without knowing what effect it has on Price.
It's mainly just because he's a touchy fella, but lord does it spur feelings in Price. Feelings he doesn't actually know how to deal with healthily
Summary: We get a glimpse into the start of John's unexpected journey into art restoration when he meets Macmillan. An old friend gives John a call.
Rating: None (yet).
Author’s note: Some sections jump back and forth in time, but hoping it makes sense for flow. I’ve completely made up what I think Macmillan looks like. I’m incrementally trying to improve how I use Scottish dialogue, so all mistakes are 100% mine. *sweats nervously*
Part 1 << Part 2 >> Part 3 coming soon
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London, Fitzrovia neighborhood
“Morning John! Lovely day out, innit?”
“‘G’morning Mr. Price, your usual order this morning?”
“How is Mr. Macmillan doing these days? Is he enjoying his retirement?”
If there was one thing John hadn’t expected when he first started apprenticing with Mac years ago, it was being readily welcomed and accepted by the locals. From the baristas at the coffee shop across the street to the other artist studios and businesses where he worked, it was rare that John could walk without being stopped at least a few times for a quick chat.
Walking through the building lobby, John waves at the security guard, calling out a brief hello. He stops briefly at the door to the stairwell, debating whether he should keep going and take the lift.
Knee feels good today, why not?
He takes the stairs up to the third floor.
Once in the studio, he switches on the lights, immediately jumping into his mental checklist to prepare for the day:
Hang up his coat and confirm his keys were in the inside left pocket.
Put the phone on the charging stand by his desk and make sure the ringtone was on.
Turn on his computer and review any incoming emails while nibbling on a scone and sipping from a freshly made cuppa.
Evaluate and prioritize which works would get his attention this morning.
Figure out what client progress status reports and emails he would need to take care of in the afternoon.
Finished with his preparation checks, he slaps his thigh twice.
“Right. Time to crack on.”
+++++++++++++
The end of John’s career came not from an explosion or intense firefight. Instead, it was a freak knee injury sustained on a routine, low-stakes mission. But the damage was severe enough that the doctors told him that no surgery or physiotherapy sessions would ever restore it to its original state.
The bad news is…you are no longer medically fit to go back into the field. But the good news is, you still have most of your mobility, fine enough for normal day-to-day activities, but not much more…
John had given little thought to what life would look like after retirement…he had been so focused on the now, he’d never considered about the later. It was an abstract concept that seemed so far off. He’d always self-rationalized that if he was still somehow alive after putting his full 22 years in, he’d worry about it then.
Except then came a lot sooner than expected.
There were a lot of things he didn’t miss, being out. The bureaucracy, for one. And then there was the performative bullshit he had to put up with from the higher-ups…it was always about the optics and the politics of things that they fussed over that he didn’t give two shits about.
But he did miss his old team. Even though he’d found himself part of a tight-knit community here–and the people here were so warm and lovely–it was different.
Not worse or better. Just…different.
It was the team camaraderie. And how they had each other’s backs, through all the highs and lows and in between that he missed. The distance–with himself and the boys in Herefordshire (or wherever they were at the moment) and how long their deployments typically were made it harder to stay in touch. But to their credit, they called and visited him when they could. Even if it wasn’t all of them at once, at least one of them would.
Though it would pain him to admit it out loud if pressed, he appreciated the fact that they did.
+++++++++++++
John stands up from his stool, letting out a soft groan as he stretches, rotating his wrists and massaging the side of his neck with a hand. He’d spent the morning lightly touching up a small portrait painting, patiently filling and blending in the missing gaps of paint on the canvas.
“Time for lunch,” he murmurs, walking over to the kitchen nook of the studio. Standing in front of the sink, he turns on the faucet.
Pausing for a moment, he looks at his hands, speckled with dried paint and slightly callused from daily handling and repairing of oversized canvases and old wooden frames
Soaping up his hands thoroughly, he takes his time to spread the sudsy lather all over before finally rinsing. Inspecting his palms, he briefly muses about the other, old calluses he used to have, formed from constantly using his rifles and handguns. But at least the paints he employed nowadays were much easier to wash off than dirt and dried blood.
He sighs loudly.
Enough of that, those times are behind you now. And you know it’s for the better.
Shaking his head slightly, he turns off the faucet and dries his hands with a tea towel.
+++++++++++++
For a little while after retirement, John did what most others in his position did. He got into private military and security consulting. The money was good, and he earned himself a nice nest egg, affording him a modestly sized flat in Fitzrovia, an artsy neighborhood central to most things he needed.
But compared to being in the field, consulting was mind-numbingly boring.
There was something about being boots on the ground–immersing your senses when you were physically there that no drone camera or CCTV footage could capture better. Using his intuition and earned experience gave John an edge that military intelligence, analytics, and AI could never be a superior substitute for.
It was something that you had to learn yourself, and not be taught to do by others.
The door’s always open if you want to consult for us again, John.
So, he turned his energy towards hobbies while trying to figure out his next move.
Drawing was a thing that he’d done, even from a young age. Something an art teacher saw in him to occupy to keep his hands and mind busy at school, but it actually became useful on the job. It helped him recall things, like a visual landmark or a face. Details that mere words would have trouble describing in the post-op debrief.
He always thought his ability to draw was mostly functional. Not artistic. Just draw what you see. Simple, right?
But maybe it was time to try something more mentally difficult to keep him occupied.
So when he passed by the local community center and saw the bright, colorful poster advertising a drop-in painting class for that evening, he decided…Why not?
+++++++++++++
The class was surprisingly full. Bustling with people of all ages and all walks of life. John didn’t miss all the speculative stares thrown his way as he found an empty spot in the back corner of the room to sit down.
“Good evenin’, everywan!”
An older man in his early 60s bustled into the classroom. John had to admire how easily the instructor could command the space the moment he arrived–the sounds of chatter and murmurs from the other students came to a quiet halt at his appearance.
The class rumbles an enthusiastic greeting in response.
The instructor was short and wiry, with green-blue eyes bracketed by deep crow’s feet. Thick combed-back hair…almost snow-white with the faintest vestiges of black at the temples. Sporting a large, bushy mustache, the ends of which were slightly tipped upwards.
Dressed in a neat brown tweed suit and vest with derby shoes a shade darker, he looked as if he had just got out of his banker’s job to come straight to the class.
Eyes sweeping the room, he does a slight double take as he sets his sights on John.
“Oh, and we ha’ a new face today! Please, introduce yerself to tha class and tell us wha ye do?”
John briefly raises a hand before introducing himself to the Scotsman and the rest of the class.
“Hello. John Price. I’m…ah…retired. Ex…Army,” he replies with a little self-conscious expression.
Mac’s bushy white eyebrows quirk in curiosity once more before he responds with a small smile and a clap of hands.
“Welcome, and thank ye fer yer service, John. Call me Mac. Everyone does here, an it’s tha most polite name they deign ta give me,” he laughs. “All right, let’s get ye set up.”
And because it was ingrained in him, John couldn’t help but observe Mac as he helped him get set up with supplies and explain the theme of the evening’s session—still life painting.
The older man exuded a gruff but calm, grandfatherly energy with everyone. He seemed in his element…always ready with a quip to keep the mood positive and encouraging as he did his circuits around the room. Gently curious in eliciting thoughts from students as to their approach as they painted. And whenever asked, he gave constructive feedback in a friendly, supportive way.
John could understand why this class was so popular–he could tell many of the students were regulars and that they enjoyed being there.
+++++++++++++
“Ye’ve got a good eye fer detail. Yer a natural at this, John.”
John points at the still-life subject—a bowl of fake fruit on a gingham-checked tablecloth he’d been modeling his painting off of all evening.
“Everything you see has a shape. You start with one and build and layer from that. Still trying to get the hang of the dry time of the paint and the choice of brush and mixing the colors though.”
He throws a sidelong glance at the shorter man.
“Buttering me up to come back next week, are you now?” he chuckles, taking a step away from his easel, viewing his work with a critical eye.
Mac snorts, crossing his arms as he peers closer at John’s brushstrokes.
“Yer more advanced than everywan else ‘ere. Can tell ye mastered composition and shadin already. Wha ye even doin ‘ere besides showin everywan else up?”
John huffs out a laugh, surprisingly chuffed at the compliment.
“I just wanted to learn how to paint.”
The Scotsman levels a dubious look at John, but then he narrows his eyes, assessing the younger man more closely.
“Yer not just retired ex-Army, are ye? Can tell. Ye need a challenge. Ta stimulate tha hands an tha brain of yers. Class like this is going ta bore ye quick. Come ta ma advanced class. Thursdays, 7 p.m. at my studio. Smaller group, an everywan’s quite good. Have ta be, cause I doona go easy on ‘em,” he winks.
Piqued, John rocks back and forth on his toes. Unable to resist the sudden gauntlet thrown down by the other man, he gives him a fierce grin.
“You’re on. I’ll see you Thursday.”
+++++++++++++
Done with eating lunch, John tidies up the kitchen, wiping down the counter and putting the kettle on again for another cup of tea.
His phone rings.
Striding over to his desk, he beams a smile at the contact name flashing on the screen before answering.
“Farah! To what do I owe this pleasure? No, you’re not interrupting anything at all. Just finished lunch, you caught me at the right time. What can I do for you?”
John walks over to one of the studio windows overlooking the busy main street below, listening to her sketch out the reason for her call.
“Your boss? He’s the bloke you and Alex work for at Chimera, right? Nik? Always heard good things about him. Steady, reliable fixer. Rare to have, when I was active, anyways. If you and Alex work for him, then he must be all right.”
He laughs at Farah’s wry tone, his gaze now looking upwards towards the sky. As if on cue, the sun peeked out briefly between several gray clouds, temporarily warming his face and illuminating the studio interior with a soft glow before disappearing seconds later behind another passing cloud.
“So he wants to meet me to assess some paintings he’s got? Sure, I can do that. What time? Tomorrow afternoon works for me…but might that be too short notice for him? No? Well, how about 2pm then? Right.
“Yeah, it’d be good to see you and Alex, it’s been a while. All right, see you all then. Ta.”
Summary: Nik comes into possession of a bunch of paintings. Alex and Farah recommend a restoration expert they happen to know.
Rating: None (yet).
Author’s note: I’ve finally decided to sit down and expand on this little drabble last year as a multi-part story. Enjoy!
In this AU, Nik and John haven’t actually met, but have heard of each other only through Farah and Alex, who are now married and work for Nik. John’s in his early 40s, retired. Nik early 50s.
Part 2
Call of Duty Masterlist | Main Masterlist
+++++++++++++++
London, Shad Thames neighborhood
With two fingers, Nik rubs his forehead in small circles, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache forming.
Propped up against the far wall in his office were a dozen paintings of various sizes. He flicks a dismissive glance at the works of art.
“Explain to me, Alex, why are we short two crates of our arms shipment from Lyons…yet we have two crates containing these instead?”
Standing next to Nik, the American flips through the crumpled shipping manifest, his mouth forming a small moue as he reads the last page before responding.
“Maxim’s run into a delay. He assures us we will get the remainder of the shipment next week, and….” he flashes the handwritten scribbles on the manifest as proof, “...as a thank you for our patience and steadfast business, he’s given us these paintings to make up for it. They are ours to do with how we wish.”
“Tsk. What are we now? A charity?”
“Should I…call him back about this?”
The Russian sighs heavily, waving Alex off. “No. No need to call him back. I have known Maxim since we were young. Very unlike him to miss a shipment, but if he says he will get the rest to us next week, then he will do so.”
Farah raises her hand, anticipating Nik’s next question.
“I’ve already scanned the paintings and searched online. Nothing has come up to say that they were stolen. However, they all appear to be old, likely from the 18th to the 19th century,” she offers, tone calm and mellifluous. “Likely English, but a few might be French in origin too. These probably came from estate sales.”
“Mmm…but they might be worth something if they’re cleaned up, repaired and appraised. Some of these could be worth a lot of money,” Alex drawls, running an index finger along the frame of the largest of the paintings. “Ew,” he grimaces, mustache and lip curled upwards in distaste as he holds up his finger, blackened from the dust and grime he picked up off the gilded edge.
“You and your Antiques Roadshow obsession,” Farah admonishes him, walking over to pick up a box of tissues off Nik’s desk. She tosses the box to Alex, who effortlessly catches it one-handed.
“Call me quaint, but I love watching those types of shows. Hearing about how an antique got passed down in the family, the backstories behind each one of them. And occasionally, being told that the weird doodad from your great-uncle Jim is actually a rare collectible worth several hundred thousand dollars? It’s the icing on the cake.”
He wipes his fingers clean with a tissue, then chucks the box back to her with a wink.
Nik gives them an amused side-eye at their playful banter. He would never admit it out loud, but a part of him was a little envious of what they had. The easy physical intimacy they had with each other. The way they could have complete, meaningful conversations with just a handful of looks and raised eyebrows. The way they were each other’s best friend and biggest champion.
Perhaps he might be fortunate enough to find something like that with someone, someday...
With hands clasped behind his back, he takes a moment to assess each painting, one after the other. There was nothing that suggested the paintings shared a common theme…they each varied in style, color and technique.
Only at the last painting of a forested landscape does he lift his eyes to see Alex and Farah, now seated in front of his desk.
“I think Alex is right. It is always about the story, is it not?” he muses aloud. “How did the current owner come into possession of it? From whom did the owner get the object? When was it made? Who made it? All of that builds…” he twirls his fingers, “evidence of the…mmm…what is that word?”
“Provenance?” Alex supplies helpfully.
Nik snaps his fingers, nodding. “Ah, yes. Provenance. Thank you. Establishing provenance would increase the perceived worth of the object. Or, in our case, these paintings. And it would position us to open up to new…circles of customers. If we can show we have common…interests and tastes, and if there are true, interesting stories behind each of these works, it would help build our cachet and reputation.”
Farah connects the dots. “Such as art collectors, who typically have more money than they know what to do with,” she remarks, impressed.
And if there was anyone who could take a perceived setback and turn it into an opportunity to make a profit, it was Nik.
The Russian hums in agreement, ambling back to seat himself in the plush armchair behind his desk.
“Perhaps it is time that Chimera Enterprises diversify its services and offerings, yes?”
Leaning back in his seat, he steeples his fingers and gazes expectantly at the couple.
“So. Who can help us restore these paintings and establish their provenance?”
Farah glances at Alex, raising an eyebrow. Alex nods solemnly back at her before he replies to Nik.
“We know someone who specializes in art restoration. And we think he’d be the perfect man for the job."
+++++++++++++++
“Well then. Tell me more about your restorer friend.”
Farah launches into her summary.
“His name is John Price. Ex-SAS. I met him when I was still in Urzikstan. He was the one who first introduced me to Alex, actually.”
“I was smitten the moment I first saw her,” Alex chimes in. “I tried to be all low key and nonchalant about it, though.”
“You were 100% chalant, my love, surprisingly so for a CIA operative,” Farah laughs, patting his back.
Nik’s lips twitch, but then he makes the connection.
“John Price. As in, Captain John Price? The one who ran Taskforce 141?”
“Yes.”
Farah picks up her iPad off the desk, tapping the screen a few times as she continues. “He retired a few years ago. Took over an art restoration business. The previous owner retired and sold it to him.”
“Hmm…an interesting career change. I have heard very many good things he and his team have accomplished—a shame our paths never crossed while we were both active.”
“Here, this is his website. He’s in Fitzrovia, not too far from here, as a matter of fact.”
She slides the iPad over for Nik to pick up.
“Macmillan Fine Art Restoration,” he reads out loud.
He scans the homepage and peers at a few before and after photos of restored paintings.
“Impressive work,” he murmurs. He taps on the About section. The page loads up to a picture of two men, captured mid-laughter in reaction to something they found amusing. It was clear that the relationship between the two was close and cordial. He scrolls down to skim the short blurb about the business, then back up to scrutinize the picture again.
The man on the left was shorter and appeared to be in his mid-60s, with a shock of white hair and a thick, neatly groomed mustache. Macmillan, the original owner and namesake of the business. Then, there was the taller, younger man on the right, with an arm slung around the other man.
John Price, the current proprietor. He looked like he was in his early to mid-40s. The very definition of tall, dark, and gruffly handsome. Bearded and broad-shouldered, and still in good physical shape.
But it was the younger man’s eyes and laugh lines that drew Nik’s gaze in like a lodestone, evoking happier memories of Nik’s youth. Of a hot summer’s day, beachside at some resort town bordering the Black Sea. Tuapse, or maybe it was Sochi? Lazing by the water, relaxing as he watched the waves come in. A deep ocean blue, mixed with a hint of seafoam grey. A time in Nik’s life when it was much less…complicated.
This man still burns bright with life, he thinks, observing a slight smattering of freckles across the bridge of the Englishman’s nose.
Farah raps her knuckles on the desk to regain Nik’s attention.
He looks up momentarily, not realizing he had been so laser-focused on the picture that he had tuned out what she was saying.
“I am sorry, Farah, could you repeat that for me?”
She smirks.
“John is also quite the painter, too. If you scroll down to the bottom of the page, you’ll see a few of his works. The last one is what he painted for us as our wedding present several years back.”
Intrigued, he flicks down the page and pauses again.
It was a landscape painting of a beautiful, sparse sunrise over a mountainous landscape in the background, dotted with the occasional native wildflower and other flora in the foreground.
He’d flown through the area enough times to know it was from the remote northern Urzikstan region. One of the most beautiful and breathtaking places he’d ever been to.
Alex covers his grin with a hand as he and Farah watch Nik turn the iPad this way and that, pinching the screen to zoom in and out to view the work.
At first, it appeared to be a simple, well-executed landscape painting. But the more he studied it, the more he realized there was so much more, inviting closer scrutiny and exploration.
He takes his time gazing at the warming colors of the brightening sky, contrasting against the icy, sharp edges of a mountain range. Followed by increasingly delicate brushstrokes, the mountains then give way to a luminous morning mist before at last transitioning into a burst of bright floral colors and verdant grass.
Depth and complexity conveyed with the nimblest of touches and subtle layers of paint.
Finally realizing he’d been so quiet all this time, Nik tears his gaze away from the painting to the couple sitting across from him. He was a man who never took the time to enjoy the arts, but perhaps all it took was finding the right artist, and the right work to reconsider his outlook.
He clears his throat.
“What a beautiful, thoughtful gift. I can see he took much care and patience in painting this for you both. I think…I would like to meet Mr. Price in person. Please reach out and book an appointment with him. At his earliest convenience. It does not matter when. I will make the time.”
