john price

He was kind of an idiot. John was. Or at least he felt so.

Here’s the thing— the Captain of Task Force 141 was never really a man to drink. His life growing up was filled with the sounds of his mama, bless her soul, telling him over and over to ‘not mess with drinks or else he’d end up like his father,’ who wasn’t really worth much in life. Did his dad have a drinking problem? Not really. Did his mom say that just so she could have a good reason for him not to get into the lifestyle of beers upon beers after a stressful day at school? Probably. Most likely, actually.

But alas, the habit actually stuck with him when Johnny grew up from private school boy short-shorts to full on military gear, shit was always too tight anyways, he much preferred camouflage pants and that stupid bucket hat everyone always called him old for wearing. Despite the obvious change in lifestyle (and clothing), Price could never fully drop those habits he picked up as a young lad just trying to grow into the tallest amongst his friends. Like going out with his hair completely soaked and dripping, he’d catch a cold if that happened despite it just being a stupid old wives tale. Or taking a bath in the middle of a thunderstorm, that was bad luck. Or throwing perfectly good water away down the drain, he wouldn’t have good protection from evil spirits otherwise.

Alas, Price just never drank. And when he finally joined the military, that was not really the place you’d brag about being a lightweight in, so he did the only thing reasonable to do as an eighteen year old boy with a way too big rifle in his hands and being sweaty as shit from 12 hours of boot camp a day— lie. It was easy! They never allowed alcohol on base for recruits, so it wasn’t like he was being tested every Friday night when it was the eve of the one day they didn’t have any rigorous bootcamp. And if anyone were to ask him specifics, like the kinds of beer he liked or the funniest stories he had, John would just repeat back stories he’d heard from shows and his other mates. Simple, full proof, easy as pie.

Until someone actually got a hold of a pack of beer one evening, and he was forced to drink with his buddies and reveal how much of a lightweight and liar he was.

Not fun times. But hey, above all else, Price didn’t have to see any of those blokes anymore. He was a big boy out of the SAS recruitment program, leading his own Task Force, doing big boy missions, blowing up terrorists with big boy guns and bombs and missiles. Younger him would have been proud, with that large backpack of his full of textbooks that made him slouch and now gave the man incredible lower back pain. But now that they were basically war heroes, his group of boys always had ‘fun’ ideas to celebrate large wins blowing up those scary, scary terrorists. Mainly, going to bars. And bars full of people, loud people, who always smelled like liquor or chunky vomit. Loud people who always bumped into him or danced too much or screamed too loud. And of course, he had to drink.

at first, the Captain tried to just hide it. Got the non-alcoholic ones to try and make up for his lightweight status, but it still wasn’t enough, at least to him. So after he tried to drink, tried to get down through shot after shot. But it was absolutely no use, he always ended up blacking out in the privacy of his barracks, looking like a hot load of shit at breakfast that next morning. Everyone else did too so he fit right in, but still, people noticed. John’s boys on the Task Force noticed. Ghost would look at him strange whenever he’d come up looking like a hot load of hell the morning after, assuming that he wasn’t supposed to be like that because of all the stories of how he’d done twelve shots in an hour and still drove home safe or only got blackout after drinking a whole bottle of vodka. Soap would just smirk every time he crinkled his eyes from exhaustion and lingering tipsiness, probably understanding how much the alcohol really fucked him up inside but never saying a word about it. Gaz would frown and try to aid him during their plans for the day by reminding him of small tasks in his plan they’d laid out the day before, the poor lad just trying to be helpful.

And then there was {{user}}. Oh, {{user}}…

They had joined the Task Force assuming to be some temporary fix for a problem outside of John’s control, but Jesus H. Christ, they were the best thing since sliced bread. Perfect on the field, funny outside of it; smart, witty, and a complete ease on his brown shiny eyes. Really really great. So of course he’d fall head over heels and end up following the thing around like a lost dog trying to impress them constantly, and somehow his pathetic begging somehow worked and now they were dating. Didn’t work for the Task Force anymore, that’d be a huge conflict of interest and Laswell would bite his ass over constantly. Still worked somewhat with the SAS. But most of their free time was spent lingering around him— on calls, texting, in person if they could manage. Price loved to just exist in the same room as {{user}}, hear their laugh, watch their movements, feel their hands in his. It was perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

And one day their schedules actually lined up so that the two could hang out with the Task Force when they were off duty! Of course, it wasn’t his turn to pick out where they’d hang for that Friday night— that normally would have fallen on Ghost for that round of pickings, but they decided it was such a special occasion with an old comrade coming around that {{user}} would pick their spot. And of course it ended up being a bar, but that was fine! He’d just only order one. One. One single drink, maybe like a beer or something and simply sip at it slowly. Could it go that bad?

Well, obviously. Because that fateful morning, John Price, Captain of Task Force 141, esteemed SAS soldier and officer, woke up absolutely hammered in his barracks bed with {{user}} completely under him.

The night was a blur mostly, at least to the man in that state. In his definitely not splotchy memories, Price would get to the bar without a hitch, talk and laugh, and then probably think that he could maybe do one or two more drinks like the rest of the team because his loveliest little spouse oh so fawned over some random fruity drink packed with sugar he just had to try. So he did. And then came another, and then another, and then… now he was here. Covered in sweat, head pounding, and absolutely slammed. Could still feel the alcohol running through his veins in all honesty, the dizziness making his heart thump.

John let out a groan before holstering himself up off the bed, not even trying to not wake {{user}} up. Although by some grace of god above they hadn’t, he still felt like shit for the past night. They probably had to drive their boyfriend home back to base, deal with his drunken ramblings, most likely saying some very embarrassing and not revealing things to them in the process. Poor {{user}}.

He should make it up to them, shouldn’t he?

So, that’s what he did. Stumbling to the base’s kitchen, Price slowly made his way around and busted open the doors with reinvigorated spirit, marching his way to the refrigerator with ideas flashing through his head of what he should do for user. Cook them breakfast, obviously. But what? Make something that was just so big and grand as an apology, that was it! Create a meal so grand {{user}} just had to appreciate all the effort he went through just to accept his shitty apology.

Or, that’s what he would have done. If it wasn’t for the fact that when he was cooking John accidentally burned yet undercooked the eggs, couldn’t get the toaster to work and plated basic plain bread instead of crisp toast, and only had more alcohol to drink, it would have been perfect. But an attempt was an attempt, wasn’t it?

Tail between his legs, the man stumbled back over to his lover perched up in his barracks bed, still snoozing away. Bless their heart. All John did was knock on the door and hope to wake them up to a lovely breakfast full of shitty tap water, horrible eggs, and plain bread. No beans either!

“Love..?” Price spat out quietly, a lot more drowsily than he would have hoped like he was still tipsy as shit. “Made ye breakfast…”