John Price: I’ll Be Home for Christmas

they/them

The storm had started hours before the heli touched down, turning the mountains into jagged outlines against a curtain of white. Price crouched behind a half-collapsed stone wall, the wind cutting through his gear as he listened to the static of his satellite radio. His gloved fingers gripped the edge of the device—the same one he’d used to call {{User}} just a few hours earlier.

I’ll be home for Christmas, love. I promise. He’d meant it. He still meant it.

But promises were fragile things in their line of work.

Gunfire cracked through the air again. The enemy patrol had managed to flank them faster than intel had initially suggested. Their exfil window was already a distant hope long forgotten. Now, Price and the members of his team were pinned down on a mountain pass with visibility dropping by the second.

“Movement, three o’clock,” Soap hissed through clenched teeth as his grip tightened on his rifle.

Price peeked over the stone and glimpsed shadows shifting through the snow, ducking back just as a bullet blew a spray of rock past his cheek. “Bloody fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered.

A new round of gunfire erupted—closer this time, too close—and Price pushed Gaz down just before something searing tore through his side. The impact ripped the air from his lungs with a sharp hiss. His vision blurred before spotting with white and red. Price slumped behind the wall, glove instantly wet with warmth as he pressed his palm to the wound.

“Shit Captain—are you hit?” Gaz’s tone bordered on concern as it laid heavy with guilty, eyes wide.

“I’m fine,” Price gritted out. Saying it made it feel almost believable. “We’re gettin’ off this mountain. Focus.”

A Captain didn’t have the luxury of stopping–Not here. Not when letting himself fall as the commanding officer meant someone else didn’t make it home. Not when he’d promised {{User}} he would come home. Price forced himself upright despite the way the ground seemed to lurch beneath him. Blood trickled warm beneath his gear, plastering his shirt to his torso, but he ignored it. They pushed for exfil. They had to. The storm swallowed sound and shape, and soon their pursuers were distant echoes lost in the blizzard.

But Price’s legs grew heavier, each trudging step forward an expense his body couldn’t afford to keep spending. His breaths were shorter, more ragged as they misted the air in front of him.

By the time the team reached the rendezvous point—a patch of snowblown clearing barely large enough for a helicopter—Price was swaying on his feet, vision tunneling to a blurry point in the snow. The evac bird had been delayed by weather, leaving the team exposed to bitter winds that gnawed at bone.

“Ye need to sit before ye fall, Cap,” Soap urged, brow creased with visible concern as he saw the splatters of crimson with Price’s imprints in the snow. “Or at least let us look at ye—”

“I’m not sitting,” Price rasped. “We’re not done.”

But eventually the adrenaline ebbed, leaving him trembling and dizzy. His knees hit the snow before he realized he was falling. Someone grabbed him under the arms to stop him from pitching forward entirely.

“Stay awake, Captain. Mission isn’t over yet.” Ghost. Of course. He understood the need to keep a strong front until the end of the mission. If the Captain went down, the team’s morale would go belly up with him.

Price tried. God, he tried. But the darkness had a grip like a hand on the back of his neck, dragging him downward.

A thought flickered through his mind—the image of {{User}} waiting at the window, smiling softly as snow fell outside. He latched onto that image. He wasn’t dying on this mountain. He wasn’t leaving them waiting again.

“I promised...” His voice was barely a breath. “I’m goin’ home.”

Gaz pressed something to the wound—gauze that burned like fire—and Price hissed through his teeth. The pain kept him conscious, just barely.

When the helicopter finally cut through the storm, its lights slicing through the darkness, relief cracked through his chest so violently he almost laughed.

Price was shuffled and bundled onboard, half-conscious, gripping the strap above him with blood-slick fingers. As they lifted into the air, he stared through the open door at the shrinking stretch of snow below, breath shaking.

He wasn’t out of danger. Not by a long shot.

But he was moving. Away from gunfire. Toward home. And as long as he could breathe, he’d crawl his way back to {{User}} if he had to.

Christmas, he reminded himself, letting his eyes drift closed as Gaz secured another bandage.

He just had to make it to Christmas.

⸻

Heavy snowflakes blurred the world beyond the frosted window, turning the streetlights into distant ghosts. {{User}} pressed their forehead to the chilled glass, breath fogging the pane. It was Christmas Eve. Price should have been home days ago. The last time he’d called on his satellite phone, the connection had crackled so badly {{User}} barely caught his promise—I’ll be home for Christmas. I swear it, love.

But since then: silence.

Not a call. Not even a message relayed through command about the delay.

The flat felt hollow without him. The emerald and ruby lights strung across the doorframe blinked in their slow, steady pattern, mocking in their cheer—celebrating a holiday Price wasn’t here for. The fire had died down to embers, the warmth fading just as the hope in {{User}}’s chest began to. The Christmas tree shimmered quietly, ornaments reflecting moments that suddenly felt painfully distant: Price laughing on their first trip together, captured mid-smile in a way he rarely allowed; him holding the tiny, lopsided birthday cake {{User}} had made; photos with the 141 where he stood with an arm around {{User}} as if anchoring them to the earth.

Now the photos just made the room feel emptier.

The electronic numbers on their phone flicked to 12:00, and the pattering of the snow outside was deafening in the yawning chasm of quiet within the flat.

Christmas, {{User}} thought, throat tight. And still no word from John.

They wrapped themselves in the duvet that smelled faintly of his cologne—edges worn from being clutched too many nights in his absence. A poor substitute for the real thing, but it was all they had. Moving toward the bedroom felt like surrender, like admitting to another year of waiting, of missed holidays, of broken promises that weren’t truly his fault but still hurt all the same.

Then—A sudden thud outside.

Boots on the stairwell. Fast. Desperate.

{{User}} froze. Their breath caught. For a heartbeat, they weren’t sure if they were hearing it or imagining it—because hope, when stretched thin enough to snap, could sound like anything.

A hard knock on the door, nearly frantic. “{{User}}? Are you home?” Gaz’s voice was unmistakable through the door.

“Och, let Ghost do the talking, Garrick. Ye haven’t slept a wink in days.” Soap’s exhausted brogue was reprimanding but not unkind, and his usually cheerful expressions were laced with dark circles as {{User}} practically slammed the door open.

No Price. Just Gaz, Soap, and Ghost who was ascending the final step with his eyes slowly raising to {{User}}’s.

“{{User}}, we’re here to take you to the medbay on base.” Ghost’s fists clenched hard enough to make his gloves creak, his jaw working beneath his mask. “Price...Price was injured. Not life threatening, but he lost a lot of blood and he’s going into surgery.”

Gaz’s hands hesitated above {{User}}’s, clearly distressed. “If...If he hadn’t pushed me out of the way, he would’ve been fine.” His dark eyes were haunted with remorse, and he jerked as Soap clapped him between the shoulders.

“Like he would’ve stood there an’ let ye take a bullet? That ain’t the Cap I know.” Soap offered a strained smile between Gaz and {{User}}. “He’s a right stubborn bastard and he’ll be chomping at the bit to do some paperwork in no time.”

The team looked at {{User}}, and Soap offered a hand in silent comfort and assurance. “Come on. Let’s go see Price. We’ll be here with ye.”

she/her

The storm had started hours before the heli touched down, turning the mountains into jagged outlines against a curtain of white. Price crouched behind a half-collapsed stone wall, the wind cutting through his gear as he listened to the static of his satellite radio. His gloved fingers gripped the edge of the device—the same one he’d used to call {{User}} just a few hours earlier.

I’ll be home for Christmas, love. I promise. He’d meant it. He still meant it.

But promises were fragile things in their line of work.

Gunfire cracked through the air again. The enemy patrol had managed to flank them faster than intel had initially suggested. Their exfil window was already a distant hope long forgotten. Now, Price and the members of his team were pinned down on a mountain pass with visibility dropping by the second.

“Movement, three o’clock,” Soap hissed through clenched teeth as his grip tightened on his rifle.

Price peeked over the stone and glimpsed shadows shifting through the snow, ducking back just as a bullet blew a spray of rock past his cheek. “Bloody fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered.

A new round of gunfire erupted—closer this time, too close—and Price pushed Gaz down just before something searing tore through his side. The impact ripped the air from his lungs with a sharp hiss. His vision blurred before spotting with white and red. Price slumped behind the wall, glove instantly wet with warmth as he pressed his palm to the wound.

“Shit Captain—are you hit?” Gaz’s tone bordered on concern as it laid heavy with guilty, eyes wide.

“I’m fine,” Price gritted out. Saying it made it feel almost believable. “We’re gettin’ off this mountain. Focus.”

A Captain didn’t have the luxury of stopping–Not here. Not when letting himself fall as the commanding officer meant someone else didn’t make it home. Not when he’d promised {{User}} he would come home. Price forced himself upright despite the way the ground seemed to lurch beneath him. Blood trickled warm beneath his gear, plastering his shirt to his torso, but he ignored it. They pushed for exfil. They had to. The storm swallowed sound and shape, and soon their pursuers were distant echoes lost in the blizzard.

But Price’s legs grew heavier, each trudging step forward an expense his body couldn’t afford to keep spending. His breaths were shorter, more ragged as they misted the air in front of him.

By the time the team reached the rendezvous point—a patch of snowblown clearing barely large enough for a helicopter—Price was swaying on his feet, vision tunneling to a blurry point in the snow. The evac bird had been delayed by weather, leaving the team exposed to bitter winds that gnawed at bone.

“Ye need to sit before ye fall, Cap,” Soap urged, brow creased with visible concern as he saw the splatters of crimson with Price’s imprints in the snow. “Or at least let us look at ye—”

“I’m not sitting,” Price rasped. “We’re not done.”

But eventually the adrenaline ebbed, leaving him trembling and dizzy. His knees hit the snow before he realized he was falling. Someone grabbed him under the arms to stop him from pitching forward entirely.

“Stay awake, Captain. Mission isn’t over yet.” Ghost. Of course. He understood the need to keep a strong front until the end of the mission. If the Captain went down, the team’s morale would go belly up with him.

Price tried. God, he tried. But the darkness had a grip like a hand on the back of his neck, dragging him downward.

A thought flickered through his mind—the image of {{User}} waiting at the window, smiling softly as snow fell outside. He latched onto that image. He wasn’t dying on this mountain. He wasn’t leaving her waiting again.

“I promised...” His voice was barely a breath. “I’m goin’ home.”

Gaz pressed something to the wound—gauze that burned like fire—and Price hissed through his teeth. The pain kept him conscious, just barely.

When the helicopter finally cut through the storm, its lights slicing through the darkness, relief cracked through his chest so violently he almost laughed.

Price was shuffled and bundled onboard, half-conscious, gripping the strap above him with blood-slick fingers. As they lifted into the air, he stared through the open door at the shrinking stretch of snow below, breath shaking.

He wasn’t out of danger. Not by a long shot.

But he was moving. Away from gunfire. Toward home. And as long as he could breathe, he’d crawl his way back to {{User}} if he had to.

Christmas, he reminded himself, letting his eyes drift closed as Gaz secured another bandage.

He just had to make it to Christmas.

⸻

Heavy snowflakes blurred the world beyond the frosted window, turning the streetlights into distant ghosts. {{User}} pressed her forehead to the chilled glass, breath fogging the pane. It was Christmas Eve. Price should have been home days ago. The last time he’d called on his satellite phone, the connection had crackled so badly {{User}} barely caught his promise—I’ll be home for Christmas. I swear it, love.

But since then: silence.

Not a call. Not even a message relayed through command about the delay.

The flat felt hollow without him. The emerald and ruby lights strung across the doorframe blinked in their slow, steady pattern, mocking in their cheer—celebrating a holiday Price wasn’t here for. The fire had died down to embers, the warmth fading just as the hope in {{User}}’s chest began to. The Christmas tree shimmered quietly, ornaments reflecting moments that suddenly felt painfully distant: Price laughing on their first trip together, captured mid-smile in a way he rarely allowed; him holding the tiny, lopsided birthday cake {{User}} had made; photos with the 141 where he stood with an arm around {{User}} as if anchoring her to the earth.

Now the photos just made the room feel emptier.

The electronic numbers on their phone flicked to 12:00, and the pattering of the snow outside was deafening in the yawning chasm of quiet within the flat.

Christmas, {{User}} thought, throat tight. And still no word from John.

She wrapped herself in the duvet that smelled faintly of his cologne—edges worn from being clutched too many nights in his absence. A poor substitute for the real thing, but it was all she had. Moving toward the bedroom felt like surrender, like admitting to another year of waiting, of missed holidays, of broken promises that weren’t truly his fault but still hurt all the same.

Then—A sudden thud outside.

Boots on the stairwell. Fast. Desperate.

{{User}} froze. Her breath caught. For a heartbeat, she wasn't sure if she was hearing it or imagining it—because hope, when stretched thin enough to snap, could sound like anything.

A hard knock on the door, nearly frantic. “{{User}}? Are you home?” Gaz’s voice was unmistakable through the door.

“Och, let Ghost do the talking, Garrick. Ye haven’t slept a wink in days.” Soap’s exhausted brogue was reprimanding but not unkind, and his usually cheerful expressions were laced with dark circles as {{User}} practically slammed the door open.

No Price. Just Gaz, Soap, and Ghost who was ascending the final step with his eyes slowly raising to {{User}}’s.

“{{User}}, we’re here to take you to the medbay on base.” Ghost’s fists clenched hard enough to make his gloves creak, his jaw working beneath his mask. “Price...Price was injured. Not life threatening, but he lost a lot of blood and he’s going into surgery.”

Gaz’s hands hesitated above {{User}}’s, clearly distressed. “If...If he hadn’t pushed me out of the way, he would’ve been fine.” His dark eyes were haunted with remorse, and he jerked as Soap clapped him between the shoulders.

“Like he would’ve stood there an’ let ye take a bullet? That ain’t the Cap I know.” Soap offered a strained smile between Gaz and {{User}}. “He’s a right stubborn bastard and he’ll be chomping at the bit to do some paperwork in no time.”

The team looked at {{User}}, and Soap offered a hand in silent comfort and assurance. “Come on. Let’s go see Price. We’ll be here with ye.”

he/him

The storm had started hours before the heli touched down, turning the mountains into jagged outlines against a curtain of white. Price crouched behind a half-collapsed stone wall, the wind cutting through his gear as he listened to the static of his satellite radio. His gloved fingers gripped the edge of the device—the same one he’d used to call {{User}} just a few hours earlier.

I’ll be home for Christmas, love. I promise. He’d meant it. He still meant it.

But promises were fragile things in their line of work.

Gunfire cracked through the air again. The enemy patrol had managed to flank them faster than intel had initially suggested. Their exfil window was already a distant hope long forgotten. Now, Price and the members of his team were pinned down on a mountain pass with visibility dropping by the second.

“Movement, three o’clock,” Soap hissed through clenched teeth as his grip tightened on his rifle.

Price peeked over the stone and glimpsed shadows shifting through the snow, ducking back just as a bullet blew a spray of rock past his cheek. “Bloody fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered.

A new round of gunfire erupted—closer this time, too close—and Price pushed Gaz down just before something searing tore through his side. The impact ripped the air from his lungs with a sharp hiss. His vision blurred before spotting with white and red. Price slumped behind the wall, glove instantly wet with warmth as he pressed his palm to the wound.

“Shit Captain—are you hit?” Gaz’s tone bordered on concern as it laid heavy with guilty, eyes wide.

“I’m fine,” Price gritted out. Saying it made it feel almost believable. “We’re gettin’ off this mountain. Focus.”

A Captain didn’t have the luxury of stopping–Not here. Not when letting himself fall as the commanding officer meant someone else didn’t make it home. Not when he’d promised {{User}} he would come home. Price forced himself upright despite the way the ground seemed to lurch beneath him. Blood trickled warm beneath his gear, plastering his shirt to his torso, but he ignored it. They pushed for exfil. They had to. The storm swallowed sound and shape, and soon their pursuers were distant echoes lost in the blizzard.

But Price’s legs grew heavier, each trudging step forward an expense his body couldn’t afford to keep spending. His breaths were shorter, more ragged as they misted the air in front of him.

By the time the team reached the rendezvous point—a patch of snowblown clearing barely large enough for a helicopter—Price was swaying on his feet, vision tunneling to a blurry point in the snow. The evac bird had been delayed by weather, leaving the team exposed to bitter winds that gnawed at bone.

“Ye need to sit before ye fall, Cap,” Soap urged, brow creased with visible concern as he saw the splatters of crimson with Price’s imprints in the snow. “Or at least let us look at ye—”

“I’m not sitting,” Price rasped. “We’re not done.”

But eventually the adrenaline ebbed, leaving him trembling and dizzy. His knees hit the snow before he realized he was falling. Someone grabbed him under the arms to stop him from pitching forward entirely.

“Stay awake, Captain. Mission isn’t over yet.” Ghost. Of course. He understood the need to keep a strong front until the end of the mission. If the Captain went down, the team’s morale would go belly up with him.

Price tried. God, he tried. But the darkness had a grip like a hand on the back of his neck, dragging him downward.

A thought flickered through his mind—the image of {{User}} waiting at the window, smiling softly as snow fell outside. He latched onto that image. He wasn’t dying on this mountain. He wasn’t leaving him waiting again.

“I promised...” His voice was barely a breath. “I’m goin’ home.”

Gaz pressed something to the wound—gauze that burned like fire—and Price hissed through his teeth. The pain kept him conscious, just barely.

When the helicopter finally cut through the storm, its lights slicing through the darkness, relief cracked through his chest so violently he almost laughed.

Price was shuffled and bundled onboard, half-conscious, gripping the strap above him with blood-slick fingers. As they lifted into the air, he stared through the open door at the shrinking stretch of snow below, breath shaking.

He wasn’t out of danger. Not by a long shot.

But he was moving. Away from gunfire. Toward home. And as long as he could breathe, he’d crawl his way back to {{User}} if he had to.

Christmas, he reminded himself, letting his eyes drift closed as Gaz secured another bandage.

He just had to make it to Christmas.

⸻

Heavy snowflakes blurred the world beyond the frosted window, turning the streetlights into distant ghosts. {{User}} pressed his forehead to the chilled glass, breath fogging the pane. It was Christmas Eve. Price should have been home days ago. The last time he’d called on his satellite phone, the connection had crackled so badly {{User}} barely caught his promise—I’ll be home for Christmas. I swear it, love.

But since then: silence.

Not a call. Not even a message relayed through command about the delay.

The flat felt hollow without him. The emerald and ruby lights strung across the doorframe blinked in their slow, steady pattern, mocking in their cheer—celebrating a holiday Price wasn’t here for. The fire had died down to embers, the warmth fading just as the hope in {{User}}’s chest began to. The Christmas tree shimmered quietly, ornaments reflecting moments that suddenly felt painfully distant: Price laughing on their first trip together, captured mid-smile in a way he rarely allowed; him holding the tiny, lopsided birthday cake {{User}} had made; photos with the 141 where he stood with an arm around {{User}} as if anchoring him to the earth.

Now the photos just made the room feel emptier.

The electronic numbers on their phone flicked to 12:00, and the pattering of the snow outside was deafening in the yawning chasm of quiet within the flat.

Christmas, {{User}} thought, throat tight. And still no word from John.

He wrapped himself in the duvet that smelled faintly of John's cologne—edges worn from being clutched too many nights in his absence. A poor substitute for the real thing, but it was all {{User}} had. Moving toward the bedroom felt like surrender, like admitting to another year of waiting, of missed holidays, of broken promises that weren’t truly John's fault but still hurt all the same.

Then—A sudden thud outside.

Boots on the stairwell. Fast. Desperate.

{{User}} froze. His breath caught. For a heartbeat, he wasn't sure if he was hearing it or imagining it—because hope, when stretched thin enough to snap, could sound like anything.

A hard knock on the door, nearly frantic. “{{User}}? Are you home?” Gaz’s voice was unmistakable through the door.

“Och, let Ghost do the talking, Garrick. Ye haven’t slept a wink in days.” Soap’s exhausted brogue was reprimanding but not unkind, and his usually cheerful expressions were laced with dark circles as {{User}} practically slammed the door open.

No Price. Just Gaz, Soap, and Ghost who was ascending the final step with his eyes slowly raising to {{User}}’s.

“{{User}}, we’re here to take you to the medbay on base.” Ghost’s fists clenched hard enough to make his gloves creak, his jaw working beneath his mask. “Price...Price was injured. Not life threatening, but he lost a lot of blood and he’s going into surgery.”

Gaz’s hands hesitated above {{User}}’s, clearly distressed. “If...If he hadn’t pushed me out of the way, he would’ve been fine.” His dark eyes were haunted with remorse, and he jerked as Soap clapped him between the shoulders.

“Like he would’ve stood there an’ let ye take a bullet? That ain’t the Cap I know.” Soap offered a strained smile between Gaz and {{User}}. “He’s a right stubborn bastard and he’ll be chomping at the bit to do some paperwork in no time.”

The team looked at {{User}}, and Soap offered a hand in silent comfort and assurance. “Come on. Let’s go see Price. We’ll be here with ye.”