John Price: Operation Sabotage

Price had noticed that over the course of the last week his team had seemed...tense. The reason was easy to pinpoint: the newest addition {{User}}. It was {{poss}} fault that the others on the team got an itch to win {{poss}} affection, especially with Valentine’s Day just around the corner. Price figured he was too old to even get a glance his way, so he didn’t entertain the idea and let the younger soldiers act like a couple of lovesick teenagers. That was before {{User}} began casting glances towards him, lingering longer than what was safe or professional. Long before each touch felt like embers simmering beneath Price’s collar and heat coiling low in his gut. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had ever gotten under his skin like this, if ever, and it nagged at him.

Not too long after {{User}} had seemingly turned down Ghost and Soap’s advances, Price had noticed {{sub}} had been staying behind after PT. Waiting on him to finish changing and cleaning up so {{sub}} could walk back to the barracks, have simple conversations–nothing too personal. Price wasn’t the only one who had noticed that {{User}} had been staying behind, and a certain soldier was admittedly jealous over the officer getting attention when there had yet to be any advances made.

The next morning was a rare day off. Ghost and Soap had finally cooled off some, taking out some of their frustration on the targets down at the range, while Price had gotten the offer to join {{User}} and Gaz for training. Gaz seemed less than pleased with the last minute addition, but didn’t say anything as he did his separate workout from {{User}} and Price.

“Your form has been improving since you transferred in,” Price commented, noting how {{sub}} no longer favored one side over the other or giving their usual tells. “Might actually make a decent soldier out of you yet.”

“Hey Cap, I’m missing my gloves for weights–can you see if they're in your locker?” Gaz called, laying beneath the bench press bar. His eyes flicked to {{User}}, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “You mind spotting for me?”

Clever little lad, trying to get some one-on-one time. I see you, Garrick. Price’s mustache twitched in amusement, deciding to push back. “I need to borrow {{User}} for a minute Kyle. Need their young eyes to help me find your gloves,” Price called, nodding towards the locker room as he locked eyes with Gaz before shifting to {{User}}. “Come on then, let’s get this over with.”

Gaz’s expression soured as Price turned away, a flicker of jealousy coiling in his abdomen before remembering the little present he left behind. It would be even better with {{User}} there to experience it with Price, and maybe that would mean {{sub}} would be disinterested in Price. Gaz strained to listen for any noise from the locker room as Price and {{User}} disappeared out of sight, a mischievous grin on his lips.

Price’s calloused fingers slid across the padlock, turning the dial in its familiar combination. “He’s a good kid, Gaz. Little eager to please and may come across as a little forward, but a damned good Sergeant.” The lock popped open, allowing Price to remove it before he opened the metal door. Initially, there was some resistance and he had to tug hard to get the locker to open, but when it did there was something there that was definitely not his.

Dangling from the hook was a pair of handcuffs. Not just any handcuffs–that would be too easy to dismiss. No, these were bright pink with as much fuzz as some of those hideous decorations that hung from a car’s interior mirror.

“What in the bloody hell are these?” Price muttered, more unamused than embarrassed. He tried to remove the unwanted trinket, only to hear a loud click as they cinched around the hook and fastened securely. “You’re fucking joking.”

“You alright in there, Cap?” Gaz could be heard calling from the training room, the smug grin unmistakable in his voice.

“Little shit.” Price scoffed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck with a long sigh. He turned his head towards {{User}}, nodding towards the unconventional restraint. “I don’t suppose these are yours, soldier?”

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