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ani-solai · 1 month ago

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Captain John Price Has a Pretty, Young Thing. Part IV.

WARNING: On-page murder, mentions of death, mentions of sexual activity, and general gang activity. Readers be advised.

Captain John Price was a man of control. So it is befuddling that his resolve crumbles a little more each day he has to see his pretty, young thing.

To give her credit, she has an excellent poker face. You would never know what happened between the two of them based on the straightforward, professional way in which she conducts herself in front of his team. It's a little infuriating to him how HR-appropriate she is, considering he can't stop thinking about the look on her face as she...

Fuck. He's fucked.

Especially because it's so easy to like her. Throughout mandatory check-ins and regular updates on each other's progress in tracking the stolen military weapons, she works to build trust. It's almost like they are friends. He tells her about growing up in Herefordshire. She tells him about her dysfunctional family. It's hard not to like her, disregarding the great sex. And he tries not to like her. Each prolonged silence that stretches between them is paired with a sideways look when no one else is around that can't quite be described as professional. It's not always kind either. They were two animals (different species, he occasionally thought) trying to either wait each other out or rip each other apart. He wasn't sure which was more appealing.

Waiting each other out takes precedence for the longest time.

Then comes the anger. One of the lackeys she has playing courier on her behalf lets it slip that she informed one of the other gangs in the area that the 141 is looking for stolen weapons. It's a betrayal of trust. It's their lives that she's playing with. All of the betrayal and worry make a heady mix when paired with the gut-wrenching need that had been brewing for weeks. At first, he thinks he might have to kill her to keep his team alive.

Her lackey is quick to assure him that she 'has a plan.' After all, someone had already come sniffing around for information; she's talking to him now.

There's more anger bubbling in Price's belly. He hates secrets, lies, and mind games. But she's not here. The lackey is. It only takes one look and a few harsh words for them to spit out an address.

Getting their gear strapped on is a blur. Even getting into the car is a blur. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as he peels out of the safe house driveway makes the thin aluminum covered in leather creak in his hands. He's pretty sure he almost ran a red light to get there.

It's a shitty warehouse in the port district. Not near the docks. That would get too much attention. But it's close enough to dump a body, if needed.

The grime makes it forgettable. God knows that people don't look at unpleasant things. A dingy warehouse wouldn't get attention from anyone except those really fascinated by abandoned properties. But the place gives off a supernatural aura that would likely make even the boldest steer away.

Inside isn't any more comfortable. It's a haphazard maze of shipping containers and cardboard boxes. One might actually think its used for its intended purpose. Especially because there's no screaming or begging. Just the muffle of a quiet conversation.

Which is... exactly what they find.

The tailored pants and usual blouses are gone, replaced by a satiny cobalt blue dress with a cowl neckline that shows off her cleavage and the dangly silver star charm hanging around her neck. He's never seen her wear makeup in the two weeks of working together. But she has a pretty color-shifting blue eyeshadow that looks purple in the right light. Between the outfit and the stilettos, the look almost screams 'night out at the college bar.'

Maybe it's an act. The guy sitting across the table from her --- as if they are having a conversation, not an interrogation --- looks even younger than her. Nervous. Fidgety. But he's not a prisoner. There are no restraints. He has an untouched glass of water in front of him and a plate of cookies, with only one missing. It's in her hand, one bite taken out of it.

Price opens his mouth to bark something at her, and she pins him with a single look. Smoldering. Dark. Vicious. Maybe there was a hint of surprise at being interrupted. It's nothing like her usual candidness. But it's just as disarming.

"Ignore them. My offer still stands," she promises the young man, tone soft and reassuring, "Tell me what your boss knows and wants to know about the stolen military weapons and you can walk out of this warehouse within the hour."

Price is almost at his breaking point. First, she lets it slip that their on the trail of the thieves to every gang in the area. Now she's offering to let this guy walk free with that information? He can't decide if she has some clever plan or if she's playing with the lives of his men.

This was what she had warned him about. This was what he should have been preparing for. But there was no way to go back to treating her like the enemy after having her writhing beneath him.

So he clenches his jaw and watches, waiting to see how this plays out.

The young man doesn't stand a chance. From the way he spills everything, he would cut his own chest open and serve her his heart if it meant living. There's a wriggling dose of hope in every stuttered word.

"I - I -" the words are thick in his mouth, torn between being fascinated and threatened by the woman in front of him. "Military weapons are bad for holding onto territory. My boss wants to make sure there's no threat to our territory -"

It's almost disheartening to see how he crumbles under her scrutiny.

She just listens patiently, one leg crossed over the other. Only the slightest twitch to her foot shows when she's caught off guard by some new tidbit he feeds her.

But she's true to her word. Once she's satisfied he's told her the truth, she offers to guide him out of that maze.

Price and the 141 follow them out, too, barely repressed anger simmering. Each of them has prepared a new monologue of rage. Several choice words come to Price's mind as he concocts his.

The stars had already been in the sky when they had gone into the warehouse. But they light up the sky now. The streetlights lining the area have gone out. After the bright light in the warehouse, it takes several seconds for their eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The young man doesn't even notice the odd darkness. He's too busy staring up at the sky, his breathing unsteady as if he couldn't believe he was experiencing the privilege of freedom. He stops. Not even her comforting hand on his back can guide him forward more than a few steps.

Price hadn't even realized she had a weapon on her. Not until she had drawn it from the thigh holster barely covered by the length of her dress. A knife, just like she had said she preferred.

There was no time to act. Her fingers were fisted in the young man's hair, jerking his head back as she plunged the blade into his throat. She's horribly precise. The sound he makes is bubbly and short; he's dead before he even slumps backward against her. No time to feel fear or doubt or really anything at all.

Remorse. Pity. Resignation. Whatever act she was playing is done because the look in her eyes is back to being too honest.

"You promised -" Soap growls.

"I promised he could walk out of the building. Not that he would live."

For someone who had been uncomfortably honest up until that point, the distinction in wording that borders on a lie is horrific.

"I wanted to see who reacted to the knowledge of your presence," she continues, lowering the body to the cracking pavement, "And, contrary to what he believed, his boss is involved with your stolen weapons."

There's a certain kind of relief in knowing she'd had a plan the entire time. Even if it pairs with horror at the blood dripping down her collarbone and the body at her feet.

"That was a dangerous game to play," Price gets out between clenched teeth.

"I hedged my bets," she agrees, "And I made sure to tie up my loose ends from said bet. Sometimes you have to do the hard things to pave the way for progress. We know more now than we did. We have a path forward."

Some of his anger diffuses at the threads of exhaustion and regret in her words. Especially because she's right. It was an effective strategy. Even if he hated his team being used as bait.

"We need to talk," he rumbles out, "Alone. My team will go back to the safehouse."

The rest of the 141 look at him like he's insane. He barks the orders again, tossing Ghost the keys. He trusts Ghost to listen.

Ghost does. He loads them up. He eyes Price, as if to make sure that he still had all his weapons and his sanity before he's peeling away from the curb. Then it's just the two of them, the silence deafening.

Guilt starts to creep in with the resignation. She hates the idea of him staying. She hates the very notion of vulnerability that comes with the spiraling self-loathing after incidents like these. She hates the idea of having to explain the worst of herself. Moreover, she's tired.

"You can't fix me."

It was the same thing she had said the night he had walked her home from the restaurant. But it means something entirely different now that he'd seen what she was like at her worst.

"I suppose not," he agreed.

"I try to be kind when I have to do that."

"That was kind?"

"He believed he was free. It was quick enough that he didn't even know it was coming. Isn't that a sort of kindness?"

He knows he will never admit it to her, but he wonders if it might be. He's seen too many soldiers die slow, agonizing deaths, screaming for their parents or partners until the bitter end. Was ignorance bliss? Was peace?

She doesn't wait for an answer. Her phone is in her hand, the screen dim in the night as she taps out a message. When she looks up again, her voice is soft.

"It's okay if you decide to lose my number."

It's her turn to offer him an out, he supposes. But he's decided that he would have done the same in her shoes; he has done worse, even.

"That won't be necessary. I can be a damn good distraction," there's an offer in the subtext. She isn't interested in parsing out unspoken meaning, back to the unnerving bluntness.

"Is that what you want, John? A distraction?"

Maybe, to a lesser extent, there's a third question hidden among the others: will that be enough?

The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. It's almost bitter.

"You're more likely to let me in if I'm a distraction, right?"

"Yes," she admits, "But are you going to be content with being a distraction?"

He gives her another bittersweet smile. He wasn't content with being a distraction. Because she had been right. He wanted to fix her. He wanted her to allow him to attempt to fix her. He wanted more from her than just a bed partner for the duration of this mission. But he couldn't demand anything from her. Not yet. It would only lead to resistance. She needed time.

"I'm good at pretending."

That isn't a good enough answer for him because she frowns, "And when you get tired of pretending?"

"Then that's my problem. You don't need to worry about it."

It's a deflection. They both know it. She lets it slide, in favor of looking down at herself. Blood flecks the blue satin of her dress. It flakes off her hands where it's dried.

Her voice goes very quiet, "Okay."

Price nods. There's not much else to say on the subject. They are both adults, after all. They can make their own decisions (and deal with the consequences accordingly).

"We should get this cleaned up," he rumbles.

"I have people on their way."

"Then we should go," he counters, "The longer we're here, the more chance we're caught. You should get cleaned up."

She's nodding in agreement as she pulls a set of keys from between --- oh for fucks sake --- her breasts. They are, mercifully, clean of blood. But she doesn't hand them over when he holds out an expectant hand. She just clicks the 'unlock' button, and a little blue four-door car lights up.

Captain John Price scowls as she gets into the driver's seat, leaving the passenger side unlocked for him. But he goes willingly. Only for his pretty, young thing.

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