Your sharp gasp and exclamation was not the kind of greeting John had expected when getting home a few hours earlier than usual. He could have expected curiosity or suprise, maybe even worry given the unusual shcedule and the motives for his early arrival.
He lets out a small sigh, closing the door and kicking his shoes off before turning to face you. "I swear, those recrutes are absolute twats. Were running some drills, and this muppet really thought playing around with a live grenade would-"
His words and movements get cut off when you're suddenly standing infront of him, shaking your head and ignoring his efforts to explain the accident, instead cupping his cheeks and guiding his head in all directions. "No! What happened? You're bald."
You feel his hands wrap around your wrists, calloused skin gentle yet firm against yours to stop your jostling of his head. "I'm not bald, love." His correction gets followed by a scoff, head tilting to lean into your hands while he gives you a mix of an amused and tired look. "I just had to shave my beard."
He pauses a second, pressing a soft kiss to the palm of your hand, letting your fingers lightly tun over the bandage covering part of his chin. "You would've known why if you had let me finish explaining."
All he gets in return is a light hum, and a mutter of "same difference". It's silent for a moment, his hands moving to instead hold onto your hips while your fingers run over the now-smooth skin of his cheeks. "I can see so much skin… I don't like it."
He scoffs a laugh as he pulls you closer, fully wrapping his arms around your waist now. "Oi, don't be a brat." His head leans forward to lightly knock his forehead against yours, a much softer admonishing that the one the recruits had gotten earlier in the day. "It'll grow back in no time, love."
He feels the way you groan as you lean forward the rest of the way, pressing your chest to his and hiding your face agains the clean-shaven crook of his neck. "But you'll look like an overgrown baby until then, John."
It's a couple seconds, and then your chests rumble against each other in unison, both of you melting further into each other's arms and into the laugher. "Always can rely on my amazing spouse to compliment me, can't I?"
His smile softens and becomes genuine at your soft murmur of "always", and the tension of the day leaves his shoulders when your hands return to his cheeks to guide hi into a loving kiss. "Does it hurt much?" It's barely louder than a whisper, neither of you needing to make any bigger of an effort to get across the concern and care for the other.
He gives a light shake of his head before pulling you back in, gathering you against his chest once more. "Couple'a stitches. Nothing I haven't dealt with before." The reassurance is followed by a soft kiss to your forehead, the uninjured side of his jaw coming to rest against your head. "Getting called bald hurt more, love."
More soft!price
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Soft! 141 headcanons for OSH with Heart and Oliver (with ‘heart’ reader in mind)
(I tend to write heart as coming from America so they brought some stuff with them, no other specifers mentioned!)
General info and mornings!
Since your introduction, you brought the idea of a large American breakfast and the boys have run with this. Past are the days of a quick bite if they can instead spend time together and cook. Even when off duty you all still wake up early. In my mind Kyle and Johnny will take the moment to sleep in, tugging whoever they are with to their chest.
John and Simon are up early, Simon possibly even earlier with either nightmares or Johnny’s snoring. In my mind, Simon won’t keep the mask around you guys so you get sleeping Simon face! Lady Earl Grey for Captain Johnathan Price in my household and Earl Grey for simon. I like the difference in flavors myself. However! If Simon does not need to be up early and you're in his arms he will dig in his heels and stay in bed! John will leave you in bed trying not to wake you up.
As for OSH my OC Oliver will wake up when heart does, they grew up together and served together so they are bread and butter. You will sometimes shower quickly, do any skincare and prepare for the day around Kyle when you're on base (heart and Gaz share a bathroom).
If you get up early enough Kyle, you, and Johnny will do your typical run before returning. Simon and John usually drink tea together at that point and you will go in and start on breakfast. Homemade pancakes are a win in this household:
Normal for John (likes a bit of bacon with each bite)
Blueberry for Simon and Johnny (Johnny will eat and sneak the batter around you!)
Kyle I can see with strawberries something cute (idk where to source this from lol)
During the intel mission (ie lounging in a flat in London) The boys are a lot more relaxed. You sometimes wake up around 4 for whatever reason and find Simon sprawled out on the couch. He is hard to sneak past so you usually get an early cuddle. When he is off base the man is very, very affectionate. Not openly to the point of Johnny but he likes having a hand on or near you especially after you ran out that night (OSH part 1). Calls reader lovie and dove
Johnny is a golden retriever. That man will hoist you up and carry you off if your not watching out for him. There is a kiss tax (™) with this man to release you. Calls reader bonnie and lovie
Kyle will cook with you, always. You both somehow always find yourselves in the kitchen together. He isnt as much as Johnny but he is just as protective. He usually find you throughout base (especially if Konig is around) Calls reader love
John likes how you prepare his tea. You spent many long nights in his office working to find him asleep. Will seek you out when stressed. Pressing a kiss to your palm or temple is his main method of affection. Calls reader love, dear, and sweetheart
BONUS! Sgt. Oliver ‘Moss’ Knight
Baby boi! All I can say is he is a softy. Gets along best with Kyle so far with a shared love of cooking. He’s 6’2” standing next to Johnny and can match his strength. American and reader’s childhood best friend. Calls you Darling and Sweetheart. Simon’s skull plate mask freaks him out. Brought the reader’s childhood frog (William) to them from home.
John Price is a captain and a leader in and out of the battlefield. Which means that, even when he’s home for what is supposed to be a whole two-week leave, he still spends as much time as he can in his home office, doing paperwork. Worst is, it’s not like he’s really making that much progress, most of the text is either blacked out or summarised with a blunt [REDACTED] due to being copies taken out of what is considered a secure perimeter.
So it's no wonder that when you turn in bed at 3am, an arm reaching out in the hopes to pull your husband closer to instead find his side of the bed empty and cold, you instantly sit up with a groan. You get up, barely bothering to turn a lamp on, taking one of his discarded shirts and draping it over your shoulders as you make your way to where you already know he’ll be. It’s the third time it’s happened this week, after all.
A sigh leaves you when you confirm your suspicions, seeing the light peeking out of the crack under the door at the end of the hallway. You don’t bother knocking before you push the door open. And there he is, reading glasses hanging low from his nose, one hand scratching his beard, as the other moves to the side an already-filled-in paper. “John”, you call out, the sleepy tone in your voice carrying enough of a complaint for his lips to purse together before he looks up.
“Love, why are you up?” He asks, using the soft tone he only gets when he knows he got in trouble. You just give him a raised brow, your arms crossing over your chest as you lean against the doorframe. His men would have the time of their lives watching him squirm under your sleepy yet judgy look.
“It’s three in the morning, and you’re not in bed”, you point out the obvious, an arm lazily gesturing in his general direction before tucking against your chest again. “Don’t you have better things to do? Like, perhaps, be in bed. Asleep. With your spouse.”
A sigh leaves him and the idea of saying something barely even crosses his mind before his shoulders slump in defeat. He starts to tidy up his desk, tucking all the papers back in their correspondent folder and into the first drawer on his desk. He gives you a quick look out of the corner of his eye, confirming that you’re, indeed, still leaning against the doorframe and waiting for him.
“I wasn’t going to be much longer”, he grumbles, but the coward doesn’t even look at you as he does, knowing how fast you’d be to retort. Instead he’s quick to turn the lamp on his desk off and walk towards you. By the time he’s gathered the courage to look at you, his expression has softened and a small, almost boyish smile plays on his lips. “I’m sorry, love–” he starts, his big hands finding their way on either side of your hips. “Would you forgive me if I cuddled with you until morning?”
You look at him with lightly squinted eyes, as if really contemplating his offer. But he knows you as well as you know him, and when the corner of your lips twitch the slightest bit, you both know he’s more than forgiven. “I will if the offer includes breakfast.”
A quiet laugh leaves him, one that you feel more when your hands rest on his broad chest than you hear. “Drive a hard bargain,” he muses, lightly squeezing your sides, pulling you off the doorframe and against his chest. “Where are you when an op requires a negotiation, hm?” The words come out gruff and quiet, murmured against your forehead before he presses a kiss there.
“Running the house so my husband has somewhere to come back to,” your answer comes out without missing a beat, always more quickwitted than he is. However, the way you lean against him, relax in his hold, talks louder than your smart comments do.
He hums lightly, adjusting his grip so his arms can round your waist, guiding you down the hallway to your shared bedroom. “True that. Do a hell of a job, too.” He presses one more kiss to the crown of your head and reluctantly lets go, only long enough to let you crawl back into bed and get comfortable.
In just a few seconds he’s right beside you, his warmth seeping into your skin as he pulls you close and onto his chest. You let out a quiet hum, your eyes closing as soon as his steady heartbeat resonates in your ear. “Night, darling.” It comes out quiet, given how you’re already drifting off. Still, he hears it perfectly.
“Good night, my love”, he murmurs in return. He presses one more kiss to the top of your head, and once he’s sure you’re asleep, he lets his own eyes finally fall shut. It barely takes him a minute to forget all about the paperwork, his arms tightening a little more around you before he’s out.
Sure, John Price is a captain and a leader in and out of the battlefield. But when he’s home, when he’s with you… Well, maybe then he doesn’t mind being leaded for a while.
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I missed you sex with soft!price, that's it, that's the tweet. A/N: Clearly 18+ MDNI, pretty mild descriptions, fully gender neutral. Lowkey a single string of consciousness so apologies if it gets sloppy, not beta read,
I’m not sure i should be called sex, even, it’s straight up love making.
It’s about the way you know you’ll be in missionary the whole time because he’s been away for 10 weeks — or maybe it was 12 or 13, whatever, way too many— and all he could think of the whole time was to have you all safe and sound between his arms. The best way to make sure of that is to have you caged underneath his broad body, to see every bit of you, of your pleasure.
It’s constant eye contact, because when he looks at the specks in your eyes, the different shades of colour in them, he swears it’s more magical than any starry night he’s ever seen. His gaze never falters because he’d much rather be in your arms and looking into what he’s sure is the door to your soul, than seeing the wonders the milky way hides from the naked eye.
What I’m saying is that the important thing is to kiss each other, to prove that nothing has changed. You’re in love with each other, just as much as you were before the god forsaken deployment, if not more. So you care much more about the feel of his lips against yours than you do the burn that sets in your lungs for holding your breath for so long.
It’s love making because what is supposed to be foreplay can drag for hours before either of you even think about moving onto the next thing. Full hours in which you take turns worshipping the other, covering them in kisses and soft touches, in praises and compliments.
There's slow moments, ones you both take to make sure the other is really there. Moments in which you follow the lines from his scars —your lips trailing kisses from one to the other—, you’ve already got all of them memorised, which means you instantly recognise the new ones.
It's between kisses and soft touches that he reassures you that it’s fine —"Safe with you, love. 'S all healed now," before he tells you the non-confidential version of what happened—. His eyes flutter shut for a moment when you start to draw a map with your lips, every kiss a little step of his journey to this point, a stop to pay reverence to the marred parts of him as if they were landmarks of nature.
Neither of you know how long it is before the tables turn, because you deserve as much —who is he trying to fool, you’re much more deserving that he could ever be of— worshipping. and instead of big and jaded bullet or stab wound scars, his lips trail the constellations that get drawn on your skin by your freckles and stretch marks.
His lips pay as much attention to that scar you got when you were 7 and fell with your bike, that’s faded but never really gone away, as you did the ones that he got when a building collapsed on him after a grenade went off. Even if he knows every story by heart, having memorised when you’ll giggle and when you’ll pause, when you’ll tell it fondly and when it will be in embarrassment; he’ll still ask about every single little mark on your skin.
He'll stop in each one of them and lave your skin and your soul with attention and care because they show who you are and what you’ve lived, because he craves to know every page in the book of your life, the one he has had the privilege of writing alongside you for years now.
He does it so he can fill in the blanks on the parts you’ve had to write separately due to the distance. And more importantly, because he has the joy of knowing he gets to write along with you for years to come.
It's the kind of reunion where neither of you care if you finish, because what matters is the physical closeness. What’s important is feeling that the other is there, safe and sound. Hell, half of the time, when john gets back from a deployment like this, he ends up going soft still inside you. Both of you are too busy kissing and whispering love confessions to each other to notice or care. Why would you when —now that he’s here, that he's made it back— you’ll have more than enough time to reach orgasms.
I’m talking about his left hand constantly holding yours, fingers interwoven because he needs the cold of your wedding band against his flushed skin as much as you need his against yours. He needs to be grounded and to be sure that you’re there and you’re not just a dream he’s having.
You both need to know your spouse is really there and will still be, that the love of your life is safely home with you and that when you wake up in the morning, they’ll still be in your arms.
I’m talking about John Price finally knowing he’s made it home, and taking his time to enjoy it.
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it’s been raining all day, which means here’s 2150 words of soft!price
It had honestly been a shit day. John had, much to his chagrin, arrived late to base in the morning. What bothered him most is that it wasn’t due to oversleeping. Not because he had stayed in bed, tangled in your arms for longer than he should have, nor because he had decided to indulge in your presence for just a little more…
Instead of that, he had gotten up before his alarm went off at 5am, barely giving into your sleep-induced clinginess for longer than a minute before pushing himself out of bed and into the shower. He had been as fast and productive as any other morning, making himself breakfast and leaving some ready for when you got up, reading the news on his phone while eating, before heading back upstairs to kiss you goodbye.
He had been out of the door at 5:30 sharp like every single morning. He had gotten into his car and started the drive to base, albeit a little slower than usual due to the downpour outside. And that’s when it had happened, a pilot lit up on his dash, something about the motor. He thought he’d have enough time to get to base, tell one of the mechanics there and get a quick fix. He was 10 minutes away from base at most, anyway.
But of course, he thought wrong. Because just a couple minutes later his car began to loose speed, a clanky noise coming from under the hood as he had to stop by the side of the road.
With a sigh he got out, getting the old umbrella he kept on the door and internally thankful that he had convinced you to get torches to keep in the glovebox for this kind of situations. He popped the hood and took a look, a groan leaving him when he realised a piece had loosened and wasn’t making the proper contact to make the whole mechanism work.
It took him at least twenty minutes to adjust the piece back into place, having to use whatever he had in the trunk as a makeshift wrench while holding the tattered umbrella in the crook of his neck, the loose piece with his other hand, all while keeping the torch as stable as possible with his mouth.
By the end of it his hands were covered in grease and part of his fatigues soaking wet, causing another disgruntled sound as he unceremoniously wiped his hands on his slacks. He climbed back into the car, letting the wet umbrella fall at the foot of the passenger seat while the torch and whatever else he had used as tools clanked into the glovebox before pulling back into the road.
He had gotten a couple teasing comments and looks from Gaz and Soap, a raised eyebrow from Ghost at seeing their punctual Captain get in so late. Still, with a short explanation, an understanding pat on the back from one of his Sergeants and a generalised understanding of the situation, they all easily slid back into their usual routine.
And for a bit he had forgotten about the bitter start to the morning, managing to get himself another cup of coffee and get a dry change of clothes before he went into his office, settling in to work on a few documents until his meeting scheduled in about an hour.
The moment was short lived, however, because less than ten minutes later Laswell had barged in, already scolding him for not being in the meeting while everyone else was waiting, taking him along to the conference room.
That’s when he discovered that his whole schedule for the day was wrong, a misprint that had left him with the timetable of a different CO. The rest of his morning had been rushing from one task to another, arriving at meetings either too soon or too late, starting to give orders to recruits only to realise that Gaz was already on it, getting amused looks by Ghost who had taken over the drills he should have been doing instead.
By lunch time, he was more than ready for the day to be over, the only thing that could make it bearable was the thought of the container waiting on his desk. His portion of the food you had prepped during the weekend, just waiting for him to heat it up and eat it.
Except it wasn’t there, even after he blinked and rubbed his eyes, as if it’d make it magically appear from thin air. It came to him like a flashback then, how he had set the bag you had packed last night on the counter before going upstairs to say goodbye… and then he had grabbed his keys and gone out, lunch forgotten in the kitchen.
An almost pained groan left him, and maybe he closed the door to his office with a little more force than needed before resignedly walking to the mess hall. His expression completely sour as he ate whatever the pale mush on his plate was meant to be, none of the guys in the 141 daring to say anything to him.
It didn’t get any better when he got back to his office, either. A massive pile of papers waiting for him, the only task left to do until the could leave at 6pm. All sorts of forms, reports and other official documents waiting for him to fill out or approve of.
It was like the clock barely even crawled forward, the mountain of files, folders and papers barely going down as he got through them, one after the other. Just to add insult to injury, by the time he looked up again it was 6:17pm. He could’ve left 17 minutes ago and het, he was still here.
So he didn’t care if the report was left half way done, he immediately pushed himself right up from his chair, quickly taking his keys, a coat and the stupid tattered umbrella before leaving his office.
The space between the moment he locked the door until now, when he unlocks the one to your shared house goes by in a blur. And he knows he should probably be at least a little bit concerned about the fact that he doesn’t remember anything about the drive back, and how dangerous that could’ve been.
But he can’t even bring himself to think about it twice, because by the time he has closed the door and is taking his shoes off, he can already smell the amazing aroma of whatever you have decided to cook for dinner. The frown that had settled itself on his brow early this morning relaxing the littlest bit at the familiar welcoming warmth in you shared sanctuary.
“In the kitchen, love!” You voice cuts through the stormy cloud that seems to have settled over him, his eyes snapping in the direction of your voice, barely needing a second before he’s walking to you.
“You got here right on time,” you say with a smile, right as you fill both of your plates. He stops by the kitchen’s entrance, watching the ease with which you set down the plates and take the apron you had been wearing off, finally turning to look at him.
You don’t say anything for a few seconds, and neither does he. Because you don’t need him to tell you for you to know. You spot it immediately, the small crinkle between his brows, the tension on his jaw that seems to go all the way down to his shoulders.
“Come on,” you say softly then, nodding towards the table as you fill both of your glasses with water. “Made your favourite.”
And even if there’s still tension in his shoulders, there’s a small little sigh of relief that leaves him as he moves to sit, moving his plate to the chair beside yours instead of across from you like usual.
Most of the dinner goes by quietly, just the occasional clanking of utensils, the light rubbing of your shoulders and arms against each other’s and the muffled rumbling of the rain and thunder outside filling the silence. “Forgot my lunch here,” he mumbles eventually, something small, just under his breath. More like a grievance than anything.
“I saw,” you say a moment later, wiping your lips with a napkin after your last bite. “It’s in the fridge, you can take it with you tomorrow.” He just gives a light nod to that and finishes eating while you get up to put everything in the dishwasher.
A small, soft smile pulls at your lips when you feel him crowd behind you, putting his dish and cutlery in the dishwasher. Although you know it’s just an excuse for what he does next, his arms wrapping around your waist as his face buries in your hair. You can’t see him like this, but you’re convinced his eyes are closed when he takes a deep breath in.
“Shower?” you offer softly, one hand resting on his forearm while you finish loading the dishwasher with the other. You feel the light shake of his head against yours, and how his arms seem to tighten a bit more around you as an extra measure.
“In the morning,” he mumbles, voice quiet and gruff, something you feel more through his chest and against you back than you hear. You just give a light hum in acknowledgment, starting the cycle and wiping the counter before slowly turning into his arms.
His expression seems softer now, jaw less tight, eyebrows not as pinched together. But you already know the only thing that is really going to fix this. So you gently cup his cheek, lightly running your fingers through his beard before making an offer you know he’d never refuse. “Bed?”
You only get a light grunt of affirmation in return, and you can’t help the mix of a yelp and a chuckle that leaves you when you’re suddenly lifted. He carries you upstairs with ease, something he had assured you was part of his husbandly duties many times before, «how can i be good to my spouse if i can’t carry them when they need me too.» You guess it also counts when it’s him that needs it.
He gently sets you down by the foot of the bed once you’re upstairs, and you move to adjust the pillows and duvet while he takes off his fatigues.
You guide him with a hand on his back to the en-suite, standing close to him as the both of you wash your teeth and do a simplified version of your night routine.
He groans something about still feeling grease on his hands that you don’t really understand, but you don’t bother asking, knowing he’d tell you eventually. Instead you head to bed while he washes his hands, laying down smack center and waiting for him.
And for a moment he’s about to groan again when he sees you use up so much space, something along the lines of “too tired for that” about to leave him. But they never make it out, because you open your arms in invitation and despite of how tired he is, he knows exactly what you mean.
A happy little sigh leaves him as he crawls into bed and over you, his body slotting easily in the space between your legs, his arms finding their way on either side of your torso as he tucks his face right into the crook of your neck.
His eyes have already fluttered shut by the time you reach over to turn off the light, adjusting the duvet over the two of you before you wrap your arms around him. If he had been calm once he had laid on you, he pretty much melts into a puddle of mush when one of you hands buries into his hair, nails lightly running against his scalp.
“Feeling better?” you ask, barely louder than a whisper. He just gives a light hum in confirmation, a rumble that you feel against your chest. “Good,” you murmur approvingly, tilting your head down a bit to kiss the top of his. “Sweet dreams, love.”
He lets out another little hum, his arms tightening a bit around you, his nose pressing a little closer to your skin so he can fully submerge himself into the familiar scent of you. And in the quieter voice you’ve probably ever heard from him, he just mumbles: “Night, love you.”
You whisper it in return before closing your eyes as well. And soon enough, the both of you drift off to sleep just like that, with your fingers in his hair and his body draped over yours. The storm outside like a muted lullaby as all the tension of the day seems to leave him with every drop of rain that falls against the window.
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i know everyone is waiting at the edge of their seat for more creature content BUT i can't forget about my lovely soft!price
You had both known he'd have to leave this Friday for a couple weeks now. A big operation somewhere lost in the outskirts of the Siberian tundra, off grid and most probably risking his life due to both, enemies and the freezing temperatures, for six whole weeks.
It hadn't really affected either of you, enough years with each other to have grown used to this rhythm, to this way of life. Sure, you'd worry about each other while being apart —you'd dread getting a call from an unknown number just to be told he had gone MIA or, worse, a confirmed kill; while he'd get frequent nightmares about getting back to a broken-in home, to the possibility of enemies made throughout the years catching up to him, to you, when he wasn't there to stop them—, but it was a weight you had come to comfortably carry, together.
So it hadn't interrupted your flow, the way you'd move around the other and through the house, how you'd carry on with your domesticity. At least not until he was standing at the door, Friday morning, barely past 4am.
"Right," you're the one to break the silence, arms wrapped around you, holding the fabric of your robe tight. "Just like we practised, okay? We count to five, quick «i love you» and then you leave, no looking back."
It gets you a nod of agreement, a routine as practice as any other, part of the life you'd both built together. He adjusted then, letting his bag slide off his shoulder an to the floor, your cue to move closer and melt into his arms. Eyes closed tight and arms wrapped tighter around him, you both count up to five at the same time, barely over a whisper. Even the soft «i love you» comes out synchronised, like your hearts beat at once, like they thump just for one another.
When it's almost done, when he pulls back and bends a bit at the waist to pull the duffel back over his shoulder, at the same time as you take a small step back and busy yourself looking at the loose thread on the robe's belt instead of him, that's when he makes the mistake.
He should had turned then, head still low while checking he had everything needed in his pockets, instead his eyes flick up for a moment to yours, and he knows. By the way one of your cheeks is lightly sucked in, soft flesh being worried between merciless teeth, by how your fingers twirl time and time again the little thread, by the way you blink more often that you'd normally do; he knows that the moment he's gone and the door locks behind him, you'll finally let everything that has been building up for weeks come out.
And frankly, what kind of husband would he be to let you have to go through that on your own.
So he lets the bag thud back onto the floor, plan be damned if it means he can hold you for a little longer, if it means he can whisper promises and reassurances against your ears, if he can be there until every tear has fallen and past.
Maybe the helicopter will have to take off a little off-schedule, but John thinks the taskforce can afford losing a few minutes if he has to loose six full weeks of being with the love of his life.
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I've reworked my old soft!price pieces and it's made me think of something…
I've talked about this before, how John Price is a pain in the ass to deal with when he's on medical leave, or any sort of leave, for that matter. The man is a workaholic, through and through. And on top of that, he's stubborn as a mule.
Which is the worst combination when you're in a situation like this. He's bed-ridden, out of service for weeks. His return to base denied until his ribs settle back where they belong and his skin seals back together where the knife had slashed his shoulder. And what is he doing in the meantime? Acting like a twat that refuses to take his medication, no matter how much pain he is in.
You don't even understand why. He doesn't complain about a cough syrup when he catches a cold, or the over the counter stuff you give him when he has a light fever. He even downs the disgusting concoction they give you to keep hydrated when your stomach is messed up without complaint. But for the life of him, he won't take anything that is meant to relief pain.
On top of that, he acts like a K9 member every time you try to sneak him one; he'll only take the antibiotics to prevent infection and the multivitamin you insist on giving him to make up for the time he's spending cooped up in bed instead of outside. You've tried changing types of painkillers and dosages, different shapes and colours. It doesn't matter, he figures out which one it is and sets it to the side, refusing to take it. Every single time.
John's so smug about it, too. Acting like you can't see how he flinches when he sits up as you bring him food. Or how restless and uncomfortable he's at night, unable to sleep with the constant ache on his side and shoulder. He even denies how hard he clenches his jaw whenever he does the breathing exercises to help his ribs bond together properly, or how hard he grips the sheets when you clean and change the bandages on his shoulder.
It's not been even a full week and you've already made your mind. If he wants to act like a dumb golden retriever that sniffs out the pill and only eats the chicken, you'll treat him like one. So, that's how your stupid adventure begins.
You crush and add the pills in everything you can think of; inside the soup, stirring it in the pot until it dissolves and blends into the flavours. Mixed in smoothies and cups of tea you insist on bringing him every few hours, defending the benefits the vitamins and herbal remedies provide. You even go so far as adding sauce to any and every food that could be accompanied by one, always making sure to mix in a couple more painkillers. It actually works this time, for almost two weeks now.
And maybe, just maybe, you should be feeling a bit guilty for constantly slipping drugs into your husband's food. However, you quickly push it to the side, you're doing it for his own good, after all. He sleeps much better at nights and, over-all, doesn't seem to look like he wants to crawl out of his skin constantly. So you consider it a win and, frankly, you're mostly impressed with the fact he hasn't been able to point it out yet.
You think it's mostly because he has been slightly loopy this whole time, first due to the pain and sleep deprivation it caused, and now due to the drug-induced calm state he's in. Of course, it was just wishful thinking.
"Doing good, darling?" You ask him when you walk into your shared bedroom to check on him, helping fluff out the pillows so he's propped up in a position that supports all his sore spots. "Need anything?"
John hums lightly, finger settling between the pages of his book as to not lose his mark when he looks up at you. "I could do with one of those spiked smoothies and some company."
You feel the way your eyebrows raise and your heart drops when he says it like it's nothing, taking a little longer as you adjust the sheets back over his lap, trying to think what to do or say now. "What are you-"
He doesn't let you finish your supposedly innocent question, an amused huff leaving him instead. "Don't try lying to me, I've known this whole time."
Your brain buffers for a moment, your mouth opening without words coming out for a few seconds. And then your brows scrunch into a furrow and a light scoff leaves you. "And you didn't say anything?" You ask, somehow seeming to be the more offended out of the two of you.
"You know your spouse is sneaking drugs into your food and you say nothing?" You scoff again, not sure where the frustration is coming from but definitely feeling like you deserve an answer.
He looks at you for a second, really thinking his answer through before giving a one-shouldered shrug. "Well, the meds did help with the pain, love".
You look at him incredulous for a moment, your hands aimlessly flailing around as you try to make any sense out of the situation. "Yeah, yeah of course they help, John. That's what they're made for, darling."
All you get back is a light hum along with a nod, and you can't believe how frustrating and attractive the subtle smugness in his expression is. And then it clicks, a frustrated scoff leaving you when all the pieces fall into place. "You're unbelievable, you know that? Me sneaking the painkillers in your food makes you just as injured as if you were willingly taking them!"
A light laugh leaves him, his healthy hand shooting up to hold his battered side for support. "I know, but i had to give it a try. Base's doc refused, though."
Yet another scoff leaves you, and you take a deep breath to avoid grabbing him and shaking him around to see if some sense would knock into place. "Of course the doctor refused, I…" you let a sigh, closing your eyes for a few seconds to restore your patience. "John, i love you, more than anything in this world. But you drive me up the wall sometimes."
You hate it when that stupidly soft smile finds its way onto his face, and how well it works to quell your frustrations as his hand reaches out to hold yours, "I'll make it up to you."
"You better do", you remark in return, but your tone has already lost all its snark. With a soft sigh you move a little closer to the edge of the bed, giving his hand a soft squeeze as you gently brush his hair off his forehead with your free one. "What do you want in the smoothie?"
He hums in appreciation at the tender gesture, his eyes closing for a moment as he leans into your touch. "Forget the smoothie, just bring the meds and a glass of water and get in bed with me."
It pulls a smile from you and you lean in to kiss his forehead before leaning back, your eyes finding his once more. "That, i can do."
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Okay, despite this account having been dead for so long, soft!Price hasn’t left my mind.
A/N: If you've seen this post before, just know it's me. I'm just updating with a revised version to remove typos :)
Main reason why is that I KNOW this man’s main love language is acts of service. However, I don’t think he realises. What I mean by that is, he gets in his head feeling guilty because he believes he is not vocal enough about how much he loves you. He’s not one for grand gestures and big declarations.
Don’t get me wrong, John Price can and will make the biggest and best gestures when the occasion requires it, there’s a reason why he picked out your ring by the third date and spent all his free time planning both the proposal and wedding since then.
However, he tends to be quiet and subdued, murmuring “I love you’s” before bed or while the two of you are cooking dinner together. Only when it’s way too late in the night and he should be asleep, he begins to whisper all the things he doesn’t say during the day, his arms wrapped tight around you and a hand gently caressing your soft cheek.
That’s also when the guilt sets in. He’s better than this, he should be man enough to tell you those things when you’re awake, to show you that his whole heart is yours and nobody else's, not even his. Not since he met you.
Thing is, you know and you notice. Because even if he doesn't say it, doesn’t make a show out of it, he lets you know how much he loves you in his own way. Because even when he’s deployed, he manages to prove it to you.
You know because he’s set up a regular shipment of flowers, every two weeks there’s a new arrangement on your door. Along with a little card with an explanation on each flower –of course, always whichever kinds are in season– and the best conditions to keep the bouquet in until the next one arrives. A small J.P and a heart scribbled at the bottom. After all, you deserve to get pampered and he won’t let his pesky deployments get in the way of you getting your pretty flowers.
You know when you get out of the shower, heading to the dresser to get a clean set of pyjamas, just to see he’s left his favourite tee behind for you to wear, given how often you say it’s the cosiest one. When you pull it over your head that you notice that not only that, he has also sprayed extra cologne on it so it keeps his smell until he’s back.
You know because despite how much you tell him to wake you up if you’re asleep by the time he comes home, he still prioritises your sleep over the joy of a proper greeting. That’s why a small amused huff leaves him, followed by a grumbled “so stubborn” when he walks into the house, clock showing it's long past 2am and the only light in the house is the lamp by the couch.
You’re completely knocked out, having had a long day at work. Your head’s tilted back against the armrest, thick blanket thrown over your legs and the book you had been reading closed with a finger wedged between the pages in fear of losing your mark.
He’s gentle as he takes the book from you, slowly setting it down on the coffee table so the hard cover doesn’t make a sound at the contact. He’s even more gentle when he picks you up, holding you close to his chest as he carries you up the stairs and to bed, internally thankful that he had spent a little extra time at base to come home showered, now able to get directly in bed with you. A small smile pulling at his lips when he sets you down and notices you're still wearing his shirt.
And when morning comes and you wake up to the smell of breakfast, you know he’s home. So you get up, barely even getting your slippers on before you rush down the stairs, pressing your front flush to his back. Your face buries between his shoulder blades and your arms wrap around his waist while he flips a pancake.
“Morning, love” you murmur against his back, and despite the way the words come out muffled, he smiles and responds with a good morning of his own. “You didn’t have to, you just got home.”
“Nonsense, love. Already had to cook enough the whole month.” He adjusts, moving the both of you so he can wrap an arm around your shoulders and keep you close to his chest while he expertly handles the pancakes with his other hand.
And if you had any doubt by then, when you’re both done with breakfast and you go to prepare the couch so you both can catch up on the show you had been watching together before his deployment –all while he’s doing the dishes because like hell was he going to let you do them–, there’s no doubts left.
Because there it is, the book you had been reading last night. A bookmark sitting snugly inside it, marking the exact page you had been on when you drifted off. On the bottom, scribbled in pen, a little J.P and a heart.
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