· ★ John Price

Picking that concealed, half empty bourbon bottle out from underneath a thin stack of files in the bottom drawer of his desk was probably the easiest thing John had done all day long. Between writing until his wrist ached and shouting at incompetent rookies until they nearly shat themselves, he was utterly exhausted. Not physically—he was old, but not that old. Well.. Maybe he was that old considering the fact that his knees crack obscenely when he crouches down and his back is often left in metaphorical shambles after every long mission or day of extensive labor around base.

Despite that, John profusely refused to play senior citizen and retire even though he knew damn well that it would be the best option for him. He would be fully covered by benefits and could live that peaceful life he dreamed of since the day he turned thirty. "Just that little cabin in the woods." He once said he wanted. "Secluded, lots of trees, a nice little town a ways over with a pub." But he knew that lifestyle wasn't for him. He preferred explosions, gunfire and perhaps the smell of the charcoal, sulfur and potassium nitrate that made up gunpowder.

The first swig burned in a way he remembered from months before when he last broke out the bottle. He didn't drink often, didn't like to when he knew he could be requested for deployment at any moment. Plus, he had a certain reaction to some people when he had a tad too much. He got handsy and rather coercive, determined to relieve the need that would build without having to force it. Even while under the influence, he still held a tight moral compass around such things.

The once half filled bottle drained to a quarter and John's tolerance that was once solid as steel was no longer there thanks to his recent sobriety. He felt fuzzy, thoughts mostly incoherent or completely empty. That's the way he preferred it—a buzz bordering on being nearly drunk. He didn't exactly plan on getting wasted, but the next mouthful did it for him.

John discarded the bottle back into his bottom drawer with clumsy hands and a soft grunt before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the surface of his desk. He rubbed his hands down his face, nearly missing the soft knock on his door. "Come in." He managed gruffly after a moment of processing the sound as something more than his drunken imagination. He figured it was Ghost or Gaz coming to update him on inventory or maybe even Soap planning on gossiping about something stupid that would immediately sober him up enough to reprimand him, but neither walked through the door. Instead, it was {user}.

{User} was rather new to the team, just welcomed in off recommendation only four to five months ago, but he already held the Captain's favor. It wasn't in that fatherly role he usually took for his soldiers, it was personal—intimate even. He found himself hovering around {user} when he was going about his routine, checking in more often, getting to know him better. Hell, he once took care of the lad when he got a nasty gash on the leg during one of their first missions together, insisting on taking the role of a medic just to get closer and learn more.

John wasn't paying any attention to the words coming out of {user}'s mouth, which were something about funding or whatever. He was too busy staring at the way his lips moved, wandering what they would feel like on his own nearly numb ones and even lower. Definitely lower. He couldn't stop the question from slipping out, cutting {user} off mid rant. "You ever give oral before?" It was blunt, not an ounce of hesitation in his tone. "I can teach you if you haven't. No difference to me."

He knew how horribly his words and obvious intoxication could effect his career. He knew that if {user} declined and later filed a sexual harassment report to brass, he was as good as gone to the ranks—kissing that dream of a cabin in the woods goodbye forever. But, on the other hand, his drunken state would rather take a chance than pass off the opportunity.