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leathfaic · 2 years ago

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I can take over the world because you're mine

"Dare."

“Fuckin’ again?”

Bear shrugged at Daithí's exasperated expression “No rules against picking the same answer a few times in a row.”, ignoring Vice’s “Oh you are an arsehole and should be glad I like you so much” noise. It was something between an annoyed huff and a snicker and she had it down perfectly, it did its job every time, making Bear incredibly glad to be loved by someone like Vice and feel a little called out. Leaning to the left they pressed a quick kiss to Daithí’s pouting face before snatching the bottle back and taking a hefty swig.

To be fair ‘a few times’ was relative, Bear was aware they hadn’t picked anything else all night. Had been subjected to a few of Vice’s creative ideas for it too. Taking a shot while standing on their hands. Guessing how many fags were left in Daithí’s pack (easy, none since Bear had stolen the last one hours ago.). Were pretty sure they also had to do Daithí’s laundry for a whole month. As if the sneaky fucker didn’t already put some of his into both their and Vice’s laundry basket. Acting all surprised when he was handed the clean clothes back. Not that Bear really minded, sighing and exchanging a knowing look with Vice whenever it happened. Now they just had an official excuse. But with all of them, Bear had successfully dodged having to reveal any embarrassing truths so far.

“Fine, a dare then, pick something else.” he leaned in and pressed a kiss of his own to Bear's cheek.

Proving that Bear's quick distraction hadn’t worked on him at all. Instead, there was that flicker in his eyes that he always got when he challenged Bear. That warranted another big gulp and a contemplative stare at the label. The label stared back, Tullamore Dew Honey, a bottle that had ended up in Bear's hands not at all by accident. Same with the bottle of Jameson that was currently pointing accusingly at Bear had found its way into Daithí’s.

The last deployment had been a crushing success, a mission of unusual size putting all able operators into the field and everyone else into a field base to ensure it would run as smoothly as possible.

The entirety of the Apocrita in motion was a sight to behold and a terror to confront. Their enemies never had a chance, just the way Bear liked it.

No casualties on their side either, something else Bear liked very much. The worst injuries were scratches, bruises, and minor cuts. Many had been limping but seemed fine already.

So they did the only thing that was left to do after coming home, got out of gear that had been worn at least three days too long, showered and bitched about small things. And then without previous agreement assembled in the gym, the largest common room on the base, and celebrated what they’d done.

It was an awkward affair at first, until someone, Aspen? Badger?, had the good sense to get everyone a bottle of one of their preferred poisons in hand.

Suddenly shoulders sagged, and stress melted away. It wasn’t even everyone drinking, but the initial relaxation was enough to drag everyone along, even if it was just hot cocoa in their hands. Maybe not the healthiest way to deal with post-op tension, but if you had to get an entire base coming down with it at once, certainly an efficient one. If nothing else most of them would sleep soundly tonight.

By now most of the party had dissolved, and Daithí’s drink ended up mostly in him and Bear, Vice preferring whatever American thing she was drinking. Whatever it was it kept her a disgusting level of sober in Bear's eyes. And yet it had been Vice, all big puppy eyes dragging them to an empty room giddy with excitement when she proposed the game and Daithí had just wordlessly taken the last swig of Jameson putting the bottle down between them. Both looking at Bear who’d been about to explain that spin-the-bottle sounded so fucking childish. Who had sat down instead because fuck it, those were their lovers and they were nothing if not putty in their hands anyways. So maybe it was childish, or maybe that was the all-famed German seriousness sounding off and about to push a stick up Bear's arse, who fucking knew.

A long look at Daithí, then at Vice. Both of them looked back expectantly. “Fine, fuck, Wahrheit.” they growled. It was ridiculous how the two of them made Bear crumble. How their heart did a little leap at the joined cheers.

“So that one is easy honey,” Vice was way too quick on the draw with that, probably prepared it well ahead “Mommy or Daddy issues? Which one is it for you?”

Bear just stared. And then opted to drink again. Remembering that it had been Vice’s turn to dare them from the start. So much for Daithí and distractions.

“Both actually.”

Dai inserted his hand between Bears and the bottle, stealing the drink away. Fair considering they were sharing this like they had the other whiskey before. Terribly rude considering Bear's dramatic need to drink between every spoken sentence.

“It’s stupid and dramatic and you definitely need to get me again with that bottle before I tell you that bullshit.”

“Alright chief sounds like a lot to unpack, but I’ll make sure to remember that.” Vice gave them one of her winks that had Bear roll their eyes and grin before she added in a softer tone “But only if you do wanna talk about it.” leaned over for a quick reassuring kiss.

Bear just shrugged. "Dai's guaranteed to get a fucking kick out of it and you're going laugh your arse off. It's fine."

They finally leaned forward to spin the bottle again.

Don't you fucking dare stop right here again.

The bottle, wiser than one would expect from an inanimate piece of glass skidded past bears position as it came to a stop, pointing slightly to the left of Daithí, but clearly still on him.

"Wahrheit oder Pflicht?"

Daithí smiled back wide, "Just to show you that it doesn't hurt mo chroi, I'll take Truth."

Bear wanted to groan. Wanted to hide their face in Vice's shoulder and tell her how unfair it was that Dai managed to make their stomach flip with his endearment. Only that would mean they'd be so close to Vice that that would get them too, her warmth, her smell, the persistent hint of engine oil that made Bear consider rolling around in a substance definitely not designed for it.

Fuck, the whiskey was definitely getting to them. Who the fuck thinks about rolling in fucking engine oil while having romantic thoughts. Fucking ridiculous.

"What's the story behind that one?" Bear leaned forward, pushing their own thoughts aside and pointing at the spot they knew to hold the tattoo on Dai's left bicep.

It showed a bottle with a ship on rough waves in it and a person that had either fallen or crawled halfway through the bottle's neck with only their legs and arse sticking out.

Bear loved it. Loved the fucking whimsy of it, loved tracing the lines of the waves when Dai fell asleep between them and Vice. But they'd never asked about it. Might as well now, the mood was about to drop either way soon.

"Ah, always loved Alice in Wonderland." he smiled weakly and took a swig from the bottle. "Was a nice fantasy world to flee to when home was…wasn't fun. Thought I'd have my own little potion bottle to carry around with me."

His words were full to the brim with unspoken, unhealed hurt and Bear felt the need to launch themself across the space between them.

"Hey," Vice's voice interrupted Bears thoughts "You told me it was a bottle of Jack Daniels the first week here."

Daithí’s sadness vanished, immediately replaced with a mischievous grin.

"Why did Bear get the truth and I didn't you little fuck?"

Bear leaned back, smiling and letting the gentle bickering commence.

"Because I have known them for more than three days now! And because it's funny when random people believe it and start interpreting that mo chuisle."

Vice huffed, trying not to be immediately pacified by the pet name and obviously failing.

"Used to tell civvies in Germany that the one on my thigh was a sex thing." Bear grins, granting Vice a few more seconds to seem unbothered. "Always worked, especially considering the fact I was usually gone in the morning.”

“Filthy-mouthed liars, the two of you.” Vice mumbles, still accusingly but also leaning over to kiss Dai on the arm, where the fabric hid the tattoo and then on the mouth, still trying for a pouty smile but quickly losing that battle.

And Bear is still too occupied with smiling warmly and widely, feeling the damn butterflies in their stomach do loops when looking at the two of them, to even consider threatening the bottle that Dai spins it again.

That turns out to be a mistake. It’s like the damn thing can fucking smell their moment of distraction.

“Oh darling,” Vice is definitely back to fully amused, “I don’t think you can scare it into moving more.” Well maybe not, but Bear can certainly try. Technically it would move if kicked, couldn’t point anywhere when shattered right?

Could see Dai open their mouth to assure them it was fine if they didn’t want to talk about it no doubt. Couldn’t have that though, Bear considered themself lots of things but certainly not a coward.

“Truth it is.”

They just held out their hand and Dai, bless his soul, handed the bottle back with no hesitation. Bear let the honey sweetness and the smoothness of the whiskey wash over their tongue, watching their lovers exchange a look, glancing back at them, then looking at each other again.

Almost sweeter than the honey in their drink, their concern about hurting Bear. In the beginning, the care had been almost irritating, something they had decided they’d never feel again. Vice could never have known that though and even if Daithí knew parts of it. If. Even he wouldn’t have been able to understand.

And so they smashed through all of Bear's walls like they were paper thin and Bear, who’d already been fighting a feeling of belonging with the whole new force they were assigned to had been overpowered and outmatched. Fucking flanked. Point blank shot by cupids arrow. The little bastard even double-tapped. Probably instinct since the last projectile stuck in Bear really hadn’t done a great job.

Outgunned like that even Bear had to admit that fighting was for once, not the way to go. Love is the sweetest surrender and all that bullshit.

Daithí sighed, somewhere between exasperation and fondness when Bear blinked back from their brief swooning session, sure that it had been painted all over their face, “What the fuck is up with all those parental issues love?”

“Short version is I ruined my father's life and forced my mum to be a mother which was the last thing in all existence that she should have been, or wanted to be really.”

Bear could feel the urge to keep drinking build up and instead passed the bottle to Vice, who took a small sip before she grimaced and handed it to Daithí immediately.

“So the part that sounds like a bad sitcom is my father, yeah?” Unbidden their father's face came to mind all red tousled hair and blue eyes, always looking sad. Yeah, no wonder that.

“He’s the Irish one,” they knew that already but it mattered so Bear just went on “grew up all proper catholic. Was really into it too. More than most people are. Always had one dream when growing up, wanted to become a priest, or bishop if he could. Hell, I don’t fucking know, might have been shooting for Pope in his little catholic daydreams.”

There was a look of confusion on Vice’s face now that was only matched by the one of foreboding on Daithís.

Without even thinking Bear took the bottle back and made the swig count before handing it to Vice.

“Had it all laid out too, proper catholic school, got into the Trinity College in Dublin, guaranteed a spot in seminary when his bachelor was done. Should have gone swimmingly.”

Und das war des Pudels Kern, es hätte alles glattgehen sollen. Nicht das Konjuktive hilfreich waren wenn Bärs ganz eigene Magie im Spiel war.

“They did some exchange programme, you know, get the weans out to see the world before they swear themselves off to their god. Freshly reunited Germany, deepest Rhineland-Palatine, all nice and conservative. Got some fine old churches to ogle too. Stayed in a lovely little town called Kusel. Not the biggest but it turns out there was a disco that the local youths frequented.”

Somehow the bottle was offered from their left again, Bear didn’t even question it, drank and kept it.

“Kinda easy to see where this is going, even theology students go for a dance sometimes. And sometimes they get drunk. And drunk people tend to forget how dedicated they are to god and might just hook up with an equally drunk girl. Not even 18 and equally as stupid as her male counterpart.”

At least Bear couldn’t fault their father, they knew the pictures her mother kept of her youth. She’d been stunning before constant anger painted permanent lines on her. Light blond hair to her thighs, bright blue eyes, her full lips always smiling back then.

“Da made it back none the wiser, went back to his studies until he suddenly gets called into the dean's office, gets asked all these very pointed questions. Turns out a very upset German woman had called and ripped him a new one. Something about one of their students impregnating her daughter.”

Bear couldn’t help the disdainful noise that slipped from their lips. The issue could have ended there with a quick doctor's visit, but of course, it didn’t.

“Both families are awfully traditional. Abortion was never an option. Instead, my father got the bollocking of the century at home, dean had informed his parenrs the second the story had been confirmed. Of course, he had to marry the girl too, she’d already brought enough shame to her family by getting pregnant by a stranger. They were both too scared and young to really say no, got married a month later, all proper catholic too.”

The amused sound from Daithí’s side made them smile, and they handed the almost empty bottle back after sipping again.

“Can’t be a catholic priest if you’re married. Or divorced for that matter. Not that it mattered, the family would have torn him to pieces if he’d considered divorce. So my father got stuck with a lifetime of regrets and ‘what-ifs’ over a few too many. My mum got told she was the victim so often she just took to it, probably wasn’t that hard with all the trauma of the situation. Only she genuinely liked my father for what it's worth, so as soon as she had someone else to blame she did. ‘Biggest mistake of their lives’” Bear raised their hand mockingly like they were in school “That would be me. Made sure I knew it too. Father dearest buried himself in his work, trying not to be where he clearly didn’t want to be. Mum took matters more into her hands though, words didn’t quite do it for her I guess.”

Silence hung in the room, heavy and consuming. They could see their lovers trying for words. Words Bear really didn’t want to hear.

“It didn’t get better when I didn’t turn out like the little princess my mother had wanted as a consolation prize either. Was mostly shit honestly. At some point, my granddad spotted the bruises, probably at my gran's wake, got my father bollocking of the next century he had the unfortunate luck to be in. They got so loud I could hear them from my room on the 3rd floor even though they were in the kitchen. Undeserved too the poor man. But he must’ve relayed at least parts of it. They were constantly talking when we got back home. Never got another bruise from home again. Still wasn’t great, I mean fuck I thought I’d found heaven when I joined the army and felt they were fucking welcoming.”

Sighing Bear continued, closing their eyes because it wasn’t getting better at this point, not at all.

“Seems all the talking did something for them, ignited a spark that they’d ignored for 15 years or something. Got really really close again. And bam mums pregnant again. But this time they’d actually tried. That’s where the twins entered the picture. Love the shitheads but fuck, that stung more than any backhand ever could. Seeing them be a loving family all together, how they felt silent when I entered the room, disturbing the beautiful picture.”

There's a hand on their back and Bear knows it’s Vice because it’s coming from their right and because there is the faintest note of motor oil in the air.

“Watched them like a fucking hawk until I left, and every time I made it home after. But they were good with them. No hidden bruises. No nothing, just a happy little family and the weird mistake they’d made disturbing their peace. So I stopped going back and since then they’re just that. Saw them a few times for other family stuff. Grandad usually didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer or ‘I’m stationed in a fucking desert right now’ for that matter. Kept my distance though, better that way. Maybe the twins will reach out at some point, or not. Might be dead when they get to that point.”

Twin protesting noises tugging at Bears heart in perfect synchrony.

“I’m fucking kidding, you know they don’t make bullets that kill me yet.”

When they opened their eyes again Daithí sat next to them close as he could be without touching, just silently offering. There were no tears, no nothing really, the hurt was old, like a scar that caused weird phantom pains. It had long since been buried under more recent pains whose aches were much more prominent.

Bear was glad for the silence, didn’t know if they could take any soft words in that moment and keep their delicate equilibrium intact. It would shatter in a moment of seconds. People never just listened to something like this and sat tight.

Instead what they heard was the door being opened, and Bear found themself rising to their feet in a smooth motion that was fucking impressive for how drunk they knew they were. The instinct to confront whatever disturbed them momentarily overrode the intoxication.

The reaction was barely warranted as Bear found themself confronted not with a thread but with a group of rather tipsy rookies.

“Leffftenant!” the frontman of the group mumbled, rising panic clear in his voice even as the word came out slurred. And the fucking fact that despite all their training he missed the two other soldiers in the room. That would earn him a note in Bear's book of who needed to get whipped more into shape. Probably in the morning though, when writing was something they could do without thinking too hard.

“Privates.” seniority in any army did wonders for the ability to not let your liquor show when addressing people by ranks, that and Bear's talent to roll r’s like they meant it.

“We’re so sorry, we’re just uhm…gonna be going?” he clearly wanted to run, but at least remembered himself well enough to wait for dismissal.

One that Bear was about to gladly grant him when next to them Dai rose, equally steady. “Actually, Privates, we’re happy to leave the room to you, we were just about to head for a smoke anyways, weren’t we?”

“Fuck yeah!” Vice opted for taking Dai's hand, all three of them filling the door frame now.

Bear watched in amusement how the man's eyes grew wider first at Daithí’s and then Vice’s appearance in his line of sight. Oh, he knew he’d fucked up.

“Lieutenant, Sargeant,” he mumbled sounding downright defeated.

“Oh don’t let us spoil your evening,” Vice laughed “I’m sure Lieutenant Quinn will remind you of this soon enough so you might as well enjoy yourself while you can.”

She stepped forward and the rookies parted like the red sea. Small mumbled “Yes Ma’ams” and “Sorry Ma’ams” escaped from all sides.

Tempted to chuckle, Bear schooled their expression before following. Knowing that Dai would be right behind them.

They made their way down the corridor, only falling into step with each other when they were out of sight, almost outside, and securely out of earshot before Daithí sighed “Smoke is actually a grand idea, I’ve been craving one.”

“You’re out, sorry.” Bear reminded him and he groaned.

“That’s why you have me.” Vice smiled wide, “Tell me how much you love me again?”

“Endlessly, more every time you smile at me.”

“Aw darling, you know how to make a woman weep.” a pack appeared from somewhere, so quickly that Bear knew they wouldn’t make it out, not when sober but especially not drunk like this, and Daithí kissed Vice before ripping the pack open.

“And you?” Bear raised an eyebrow at the sudden attention, Vice expectantly smiling and walking the last few steps to the outside backwards so she could keep looking at Bear.

“I was planning to steal from Dai again, to be honest, but if you have something for me Ophe I might go on my knees on the spot.”

Daithí’s fake protest in the background had Bear smile despite themself, but when Vice produced a familiar yellow packaging from the-gods-know-where they are close to making good on their promise. Of all the things Vice could have on her, it was a pack of Cohiba Club.

“Fucking hell.” There isn’t much else that wants to get out in the moment so Bear makes sure to put all their adoration into it.

Waits until they stop walking before carefully slicing the pack open with a knife, a stupid habit, not needed and technically wasteful. Sentimental to the tenth degree.

Offers both Dai and Vice one of the tightly rolled cigarillos before pulling out two at once. Nods to the fence, just out of the floodlights, a hiding place that Vice had originally claimed. Still, a good bet when looking for her.

Unlike usual, Bear doesn’t lean against the fence but instead asks Vice for light. There is comfort in the three lighter clicks and Bear takes a deep drag before putting the first cigarillo in the fence, it will burn off slowly, like incense.

Not quite how Vice did it, but perfect for Bear's own purposes. Doesn’t miss the looks from the other two. This time they just shake their head, even if they wanted to, this one is not on the menu.

Instead, they let Vice light the rest, lighter clicking three times each, before they puff out more of the same spicy-sweet smoke.

When they notice the other two attempting to position themselves to either side they just gently herd them to their front, bury their nose in Daithí's hair and hold Vice close to their chest.

Lack of sleep from the mission and the alcohol of the last few hours slowly creep up Bear's spine, they feel heavy and done. Switch positions at some point, resting their head on Vice and holding Dai close. Smile at the way the two of them hold hands, complicated by the cigarillos demanding attention every now and then.

“You know mo chroi, I think there are people who’d love to study the stupidly complicated level of religious trauma you caught, might make some actual money out there.”

Something warm filled Bear's chest and before they could help it they were actually, full-on laughing. This upset the delicate balance of the already complicated three-way hug.

A few seconds later they just gave up, all three of them laughing, about the fucking comment, the general situation and just because.

Bear felt light and slightly stupid. Something deep inside them gave way, the last of the tension they’d been holding on to melting away. They might have their regrets, but tonight wasn’t one, not with Vice and Daithí still so close they all kept touching constantly. Still here and knowing Bear a little better, whatever that might mean down the line.

They finished their smokes and silently found themselves in agreement that it was really time to head to bed. Preferably the closest one.

Bear let the other one take off and turned back for a moment, saluting both the sunrise and the remains of the cigarillo in the fence.

“Still kicking, Sir.” a single tear finally found its way out of their eye with that and a wink they turned around before they could be tempted to monologue a fucking burned-down cigarillo. Wiped the tear away and fell into a light jog to catch up with their two lovers.

#murtagh bear quinn #ophelia vice davidson #daithi enigma walsh #codblr taskforce #codblr #codblrsona #apocrita taskforce #not my usual content #feel free to ignore it #tw parental abuse

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bravo666 · 4 months ago

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mdni • price x f!reader

captain price has a ritual and his men know better than to disturb. every time 141 gets back from an op and rumbles back to hereford, they unload, debrief, file the necessary reports and then some, all that dreary bureaucracy that needs to be done within the first couple hours of touching back onto english soil. and then, at the first opportunity, he fucks off. captain’s privilege, he says.

the others do too—on the town or to the bunks or to their own flats or wherever—but price never joins them. he has his own destination in mind and it’s a solo journey, so quit nosing about trying to find out, sergeant. he’s only ever gone for a few hours, six at the most, before he rolls on back to base, squares his shoulders, and throws himself back into work. at least he always seems a bit lighter when he comes back.

said destination is a pub not one, not two, but three villages over. the further from base, the less likely it is for him to run into one of his men, and he’d just hate it if that happened, would feel like a dog dragging mud in through the garden door, crossing his wires. he might not like it about himself, but john price is a greedy and selfish man, and the pretty little thing that’s been tending bar for the past few years is a morsel that he wants to keep all to himself, cradled in his jaw and savored.

the dingy pub is nondescript and uncreative, a local establishment that’s been around since anyone can remember and hadn’t changed a whit. price found the place back when he was first made captain and started looking for further out watering holes, looking for some peace and quiet away from the places where the recruits drank. he almost wrote the place off his lists of spots before he saw the flustered young bartender duck in for her shift.

since then, he’s been a regular—for a given value of ‘regular’, as much as a military man can be—ever since. started swapping conversation after the third or fourth visit. polite conversation turned friendly, then raucous with laughter, then warm and teasing.

that’s as far as he let’s it go, naturally. with a job like his, he’s married to his work; there’s no room, no time in his life for a sweet little wife, no matter what he dreams at night with his cock fisted in his grip or whose face he happens to see play the role. he tried the whole wife thing once, chased after it, even, and all price has to show for it is an alimony payment set to automatically go out every month.

(his ex-wife couldn’t handle him in the end. she was the type of woman who needed him at every hour to keep her love alive and couldn’t stomach the weeks alone while he was deployed, and even when price was home, she didn’t have an appetite to match his when he slipped himself off his leash. they both jumped into it without looking ahead. such is life.)

so he ignored the hungry need for a woman beside him, and even if he ever did go down that route again, it couldn’t be her. she’s young and bright and untouched by blood. playful flirting and occasional brushes of fingers hovered somewhere plausibly deniable as a service worker buttering up a favorite patron, or—and price only lets this thought loose for a moment before snatching it and shoving it down with a growl—a friend. he’s gone half the year anyway, or something like it. every time he comes, he carries the irrational, ugly fear that in she’s moved on, moved out, got a new job, left the country, got married—

when he shoulders through the door now, sawdust sticking to his boots, his girl’s—because that’s what she is, even if it’s only the sight of her that he lets himself claim and hoard—wiping down glasses behind the sill, the pub just about empty as all the old timers went home. his first thought is that she’s still there, thank god. his second’s that she’s changed up her hair. it looks good. price pointedly ignores the way the sight of her with her new hair and those pretty lips makes him chub up a little.

his girl’s eyes crinkle a little when she looks up toward the door. “john,” she says warmly, and before he’s even seated at his usual spot on the bar, she’s filling him up his favorite pint. “how are you doing, handsome? just got back from saving the world?”

a snarling, hungry, traitorous part of his brain tells him that his wife is being so good, keeping him fed and watered, and the only thing next on her wifely duties is to keep his balls drained. he tells it to go stuff itself.

“still working on it, sweetheart,” price says with a sip. maybe it was worth it, when she asked a while ago why he showed up so irregularly, to tell her that he was SAS, if only for the way she called it after. saving the world. that’d be nice.

this time, though, he notices something else that’s new besides the hairstyle, and it makes his beer taste like dust in his mouth. a glint in the light, on his girl’s left hand.

not really his girl anymore, is she?

price swallows down his mouthful and tries to quell the sudden heat that rises in his veins, a raging anger that feels, inexplicably, like he’s been stolen from. his molars clench together for dear life as he rearranges, tames, quiets himself. it was fine. it was fine! she’s just his bartender, is all. his friend. modern country and whatever, she could go meet whoever, get engaged to whoever, fuck whoever, and if she was happy, then—then price would have to be happy for her.

(she better be happy, he thinks. if whatever little boy she’s found isn’t making her feel like a bloody princess every god damn day then he doesn’t deserve the fingers he touches her with or the cock between his legs—)

this was good, even. with a ring on her finger, price’d always have a reminder that pretty girls didn’t owe him anything, don’t belong to him like a dog with a bone. kill the fantasy, keep his head on the missions. a better soldier. it’s that tightening thought that lets him calm himself enough to say “congratulations are in order, i assume?”

his gi—the—she furrows her brow in confusion, but she follows price’s gaze—how could she not, with him practically burning a hole in her finger with his stare—and laughs. “oh, that,” she says, easy as ever. “no, nothing’s happened.” she wiggles the ring off her finger and sliding it across the counter to price for his inspection.

under his touch, the tell is obvious: it’s plastic, cheap, almost gummy plastic. the faux diamond is cheap acrylic, only close to sparkling because she’s gone through and polished it up. it takes him a moment before he puts it together, but before he does, he briefly becomes so angry that he thinks he might actually kill a civilian for treating her this way.

“bought that online for five quid,” she keeps going. “just to stop some of the patrons from asking questions, or flirting, or, you know, trying to introduce me to their nephews and that kind of thing.”

a decoy ring. a dummy, a shield, something with no actual suitor attached to the other end. price is so relieved that he can feel every muscle in his aching body untense, and it pisses him off because he knows he shouldn’t care this much about his friend’s love life. “smart,” he says, his voice a bit thick before he clears it. “smart. though, you know, sweetheart, you could always try telling them you’re not interested.”

“please, john, you think i haven’t tried?” she shrugs. “no, most of them don’t listen without seeing a little proof that that seat is taken. always thought they could convince me otherwise. the ring shuts up most of them, and the few that still don’t get the hint, i end up having to tell them stories about ‘my husband’ before they piss off.”

the word husband coming from her mouth makes something rumble in price’s chest that’s becoming dangerously difficult to ignore. he tries a chuckle, tries to focus on the feeling of his beard bristling his own cheeks and not the way they would feel against hers, and tries to lighten the mood. “so, what, you just make up stories about this husband of yours? grand tales of romance?”

but she looks away, and—is his girl flustered? she picks up a rag in her hands and starts wiping idly at the counter, like she’s trying to avoid his eyes. “oh, you know,” she says. “i keep it simple. just enough to, er, get them to stop, and consistent, so they can’t pick holes. he’s—he’s in the military. leads a team.”

then, quietly, “he’s out there saving the world.”

the dog slips his leash.

when price finally leaves to make the long drive back to base, his shirt rumpled and his chin wet with slick, he keeps the plastic ring in his back pocket, not bothering to give it back. why would he? she doesn’t need it anymore, because he’s going to buy his girl the real diamonds that she deserves.

#captain john price #price x reader #price x f!reader #call of duty #hiiii codblr this idea had me in a chokehold and wouldn’t set me free until i made a fucking sideblog for it #obsessed with wife guy price obviously but also a price that is 1. not a good man #2. knows hes not a good man #3. angrily and desperately tries to be a good man through clenched teeth #this was meant to be like three paragraphs but well. she grew #john price x reader #cod mw2 #og post

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