little angsty soapprice vignette that was gonna be smutty "hate" sex but actually it's just angsty. no smut at all. woohoo.
“No, YOU listen to me, Jonathan Price. I am sick an’ tired of playin’ this fuckin’ game with you. Either you tell me what the fuck is goin’ on or I'll—”
“You’ll what, Soap? Quit? Leave? Walk away from me?” Price’s voice cuts in like a blade, almost too calm. He steps in just close enough that Soap can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the weight of exhaustion behind them. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Go on, MacTavish. Door’s wide open.”
The room turns sickeningly quiet. Soap stares at him, chest still heaving from the argument that’s been building for weeks. All those almosts between them—almost touching, almost saying it, almost giving in—dangling there, like Price’s words are the final snap of the thread.
“That’s it then?” Soap asks, but his voice has dropped, quieter now. “All this shite we’ve been dancin’ around for months… you’re just gonna toss it? Pretend none of it mattered?”
Price’s jaw works, but he says nothing. Just meets Soap's icy blues with his own oceans, like if he holds eye contact long enough it’ll stop Soap from calling his bluff.
“You push me away every bloody time I get close,” Soap goes on, his throat tight, voice thick. “You tell me to trust you, then you lock every door in my face. And you think I’m the one who’s gonna walk? Aye, well, maybe I should.”
He shoulders past Price. Price lets him move past him towards the closed office door.
And maybe that’s what hurts most.
Soap makes it all the way to the door before he hesitates, hand on the handle. His throat feels tight. He wants Price to call out, to say something, to admit to anything. But Soap knows the Captain won't say a thing.
He turns the handle but is stopped. Price’s calloused hand closes hard around his wrist.
It’s rough. Firm. It’s possession in the shape of a grip, and it's a reminder: you’re mine whether you walk out or not.
Soap turns slow, fury burning in his eyes, and Price meets it with something just as fierce. They’re locked there, inches apart, neither willing to yield.
“Johnny, I—” Price starts, voice caught between command and confession and Soap cuts him off with a kiss.
It’s teeth and heat and challenge, a threat disguised as affection, his fingers curling in Price’s collar like he might drag him closer or shove him away at any second.
Price stills completely, stunned until his brain catches up and he closes his eyes and leans in. He yanks Soap's wrist, pulling the smaller man into his chest.
And it breaks with the same ferocity.
When Soap finally pulls back, his breathing’s sharp, jaw set like steel.
“Figure yourself out, Captain,” he says, and then he wrenches his wrist free and walks out, leaving Price with the taste of him lingering gunpowder.
