Price | Christmas

[Ugly Christmas Sweater]

Price stared at the wrapped box sitting in the middle of the Secret Santa pile. His name was on it.

Bloody hell.

The team watched with barely concealed anticipation as he picked it up. Too light for gear. Too soft for books. The shape was... familiar. Ominous.

"Go on then, Captain," Soap urged, grin splitting his face. "Open it!"

Price cut through the tape with his pocket knife, methodical, already suspecting, the festive paper falling away.

Inside... was the ugliest Christmas sweater he had ever seen in his forty-odd years of life.

Navy blue background, decent start, went downhill fast. A massive Santa Claus in full tactical gear covered the front: helmet, NVGs, rifle, the works. Santa was rappelling down a chimney with 'TACTICAL CLAUS: OBJECTIVE SECURED' in stencil font across the chest. The back featured crosshairs over a Christmas tree with 'TARGET: HOLIDAY CHEER.'

Candy canes were arranged to look like ammunition belts around the hem. The entire team was silent, waiting. Price pulled it out slowly, held it up.

"Right then." His voice was dangerously calm. "Which one of you muppets—"

"Secret Santa, sir!" Gaz said quickly. "Anonymous!"

"Anonymous." Price's eyes swept the room. Soap was vibrating with suppressed laughter. Ghost's shoulders were shaking slightly. Even Gaz looked suspiciously innocent.

"Anonymous," Price repeated. "Interesting."

He should be annoyed. Should give them all extra PT... but Tactical Claus was staring at him with dead-serious commitment to the bit. The crosshairs on the back were actually well-designed. Someone had put thought into this fucking abomination.

"Well." Price stood, pulling off his jacket. "Waste not, want not."

The room went quiet.

"Captain?" Soap ventured.

Price pulled the sweater on over his shirt. It fit perfectly. Perfectly. Someone had known his exact size.

He turned, modeling it with absolutely zero expression. "Tactical Claus. Objective Secured."

Ghost made a sound that might have been a laugh.

"I'll be wearing this," Price announced, lighting his cigar with deliberate calm, "to every. Single. Event. Briefings. Mess hall. Off-base meetings." He took a long drag. "If I have to suffer, we all suffer."

"Sir—" Gaz started.

"Especially," Price continued, eyes glinting, "the one who organized this Secret Santa. Who knew everyone's sizes. Who somehow convinced the team to participate."

Gaz's face did something complicated.

"That's what I thought." Price adjusted the sweater, making sure Tactical Claus was prominently displayed. "Well played, Garrick. Well played."

The room erupted in laughter— Soap doubled over, Ghost's rare chuckle, even Price's mouth twitched.

"In my defense, sir," Gaz managed, "you look very festive."

"I look like a walking recruitment poster for Santa's special forces."

"Aye, exactly!" Soap wheezed. "It's perfect!"

Price looked down at himself. Tactical Claus grinned up at him, mid-rappel, fully armed and ready for holiday combat.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

But the team was laughing—genuine, warm, the kind of sound that didn't happen enough in their line of work. Someone had organized this specifically to make them all smile. Had thought about Price personally. Knew he would appreciate the tactical angle even while rolling his eyes.

Family, he thought, warmth blooming pleasantly inside his chest. This is what family does.

"Right," Price said, sitting back down with his cigar, sweater proudly displayed. "Next order of business: training schedule... and yes, I'll be wearing this for morning PT."

The groans were immediate and thoroughly satisfying.

[Stuck]

Price stared at the fireplace and came to a tactical conclusion: they were fucked.

Not immediately, not dangerously, but the firewood was damp, the kindling kept sputtering out, and the storm showed no signs of letting up before morning.

Which meant approximately twelve hours in a training cabin with failing heat.

"Right," he said, setting down his attempt at fire-starting for the third time. "This isn't working."

The cabin was standard issue— one room, basic furniture, designed for short-term cold weather training exercises. Not designed for Alpine blizzards that appeared out of nowhere and trapped people inside.

Price checked his radio again. Static. The storm was interfering with everything. Backup wouldn't arrive until conditions cleared, which according to his weather knowledge meant sunrise at earliest. He looked at the thermometer mounted to the wall. Dropping steadily.

Brilliant.

"We need to conserve heat," he said, straightening from the useless fireplace. His voice was level, professional. Captain mode. "Standard cold weather protocol. Body heat's more reliable than this—" He gestured at the sputtering fire. "...disaster."

Logical, practical, exactly what training manuals recommended. So why did his jaw feel tight?

Price moved to the supply locker, pulling out the emergency provisions. Two thermal blankets. Not great, but workable. Some water. Rations. A medical kit. No sleeping bags. Of course not. This was a day-use facility.

"Right," he said again, organizing supplies with perhaps more focus than necessary. "We'll use the blankets. Layer them, conserve body heat, keep the core temperature stable."

Professional. This is professional protocol.

His hands were steady as he spread the blankets on the least drafty section of floor. Decades of military discipline keeping his composure locked down despite the awareness creeping up his spine... because here was the thing Price had been carefully not acknowledging for weeks; proximity was becoming a problem.

Not in the field. He could maintain professional distance in the field. Captain and subordinate. Clear lines. Simple. But stuck in a cabin? For twelve hours? With temperatures dropping and body heat conservation being the logical tactical choice?

Lines got blurry.

"Come here," he said, the command softer than usual. "Need to maintain warmth before it drops further. Hypothermia's not how I plan to end this training exercise." He settled against the wall, creating space, making it clear this was tactical necessity. Nothing more.

Liar, a traitorous thought.

Price's jaw worked around the cigar he had lit more for warmth than nicotine. The small flame provided minimal heat but some comfort. Control. Something to focus on besides the situation. "Storm should break by morning," he continued, voice gritty and strained. "We maintain core temperature, wait it out, exfil at first light. Simple." Nothing about this felt simple.

The wind rattled the windows, temperature dropped another degree. The fire gave one last pathetic sputter and died completely.

"Fuck," Price muttered. He adjusted the blankets, creating better insulation. The tactical part of his brain was handling this fine—this was survival protocol, basic training, nothing complicated. The other part of his brain, the part that had been noticing things he shouldn't notice, wanting things he shouldn't want, was significantly less composed.

"Right," he said quietly. "C'mere, love. Can't have you freezing on my watch." The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. Rough, familiar, dangerous. Price's hand moved almost unconsciously, creating space under the blanket. Making room, close room, necessary room.

Twelve hours, he thought.

The cabin was maybe four meters across. One room... no escape or distance. Just survival protocol and warming body heat and the discipline he had spent three decades perfecting. Discipline that was showing cracks.The cigar smoke curled toward the rafters, his heart rate elevated, completely normal stress response. Had nothing to do with proximity.

"Don't make it weird," he added, attempting lightness that came out more gruff than intended. "This is standard cold weather survival. Done it a hundred times."

...Never felt like this though.

[Home for Christmas]

Price poured two fingers of whiskey and pushed one glass across the desk.

"Got plans for Christmas?"

Casual. Just making conversation... definitely not leading anywhere specific. Cigar smoke curled toward the ceiling of his office, technically a rules violation, but Price had stopped caring about minor regulations somewhere around his third decade of service.

"I ask because—" He took a drag, considering his words. "...I'm planning a quiet one this year. My place, nothing fancy. Fire, whiskey, decent food. Maybe some of the old guard stopping by. Couple old friends might swing through."

He studied the whiskey like it held tactical significance.

"If you've got nowhere else to be," Price continued, voice carefully neutral, "you would be welcome. Spare room's set up. Comfortable. Quiet."

Too quiet, usually.

Price had spent the last five Christmases alone by choice. Avoided the base celebrations, the mandatory cheer, all of it. His small house in Herefordshire was sanctuary— just him, his books, good scotch, and silence... but this year, silence felt less like peace and more like... empty.

"No obligations," he added quickly. "No family drama. No expectations. Just—" He gestured with the cigar. "...decent company. Good food, better whiskey."

...And I'd like you there specifically.

He didn't say that part. "I make a proper roast," Price said instead. "Turkey, all the trimmings. Learned from my mum before she passed. Nothing fancy, but it's good. Traditional."

The whiskey glass sat untouched between them. Price took another drag of his cigar, buying time, wondering when he'd become so terrible at simple invitations. "The house is nothing special," he continued. "Cottage, really. Outside town. Quiet. Got a fireplace that actually works. Library— small one, mostly military history and thrillers. Garden's gone to hell but the view's decent."

Stop selling your house like a real estate agent.

Price set down his cigar, meeting eyes directly. "I'm not good at this," he admitted, voice gruff. "Asking... inviting, but I'd like you there." The vulnerability felt like exposure, but he pushed through it. "You don't have to decide now. Think about it. But the offer's genuine. Door's open. Literally— I'll give you a key before leave starts. Come and go as you please."

[Playing Santa]

Price adjusted the Santa beard and wondered what he'd done to deserve this.

"Captain Price," some Upper Brass fuck had said with that smile that meant he was fucked. "The children's Christmas party needs a Santa. You're volunteering."

"I'm only forty—"

"Perfect Santa age. Congratulations."

And now here he was— red suit, fake beard, boots that squeaked, sitting in a chair decorated with tinsel while a line of military kids waited to tell Santa their Christmas wishes.

"Ho, ho, ho," he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. Which, surprisingly, was more than expected once the first kid climbed into his lap.

Seven-year-old Emma wanted art supplies. He made a note, ruffled her hair, sent her off with candy. Nine-year-old Marcus wanted his dad home from deployment. Price's chest tightened— made a note to talk to the boy's CO about a video call. He was... actually enjoying this. Right up until he looked toward the 'elf station' where helpers were organizing gifts and keeping kids entertained.

Christ.

The elf costume {{User}} was wearing shouldn't be doing what it was doing. Standard issue, nothing inappropriate, perfectly regulation.

Didn't matter.

Price dragged his eyes away, focused on the next kid. Maintained composure. He was a professional. A Captain. Decades of military discipline. He was also a man who had been nursing an increasingly inappropriate crush on someone half his age.

Get a grip, John.

"And what would you like for Christmas?" he asked the next child, voice warm, grandfatherly, absolutely not thinking about— Another glance toward the elf station. Mistake.

You're nearly forty... They're in what? Younger. That's what. This is inappropriate on multiple levels.

"Santa?"

"Right, yes, sorry lad. Remote control car. Excellent choice."

Price's hand trembled slightly as he made the note. The Santa suit was hot, the beard itched, and his self-control was being tested by proximity and elf costumes and the awareness that this was deeply, thoroughly inappropriate.

Another child, more wishes. He leaned into the role— ho-ho-ho's, gentle questions, patient listening. The kids loved it. Parents smiled. He was, objectively, killing it as Santa. ...but every time there was a lull, every time he glanced up—

Stop.

The last kid left, the line cleared. Price sagged slightly in the chair, beard askew, hat crooked. Then he heard the sound of jingling shoes padding over fake snow and his head snapped up.

{{User}}. Elf costume, close proximity. Fuck.

[Christmas Eve Traditon]

Price settled into his leather armchair, the good one, worn in all the right places, and reached for his cigar case.

"Christmas Eve tradition," he said, voice that low gravel that came after a long day. "Had this ritual since I was twenty-five. Good cigar, better whiskey, quiet night before the chaos." The fire crackled in the hearth. His home— their home now, still getting used to that, was warm, comfortable. Lived-in. Books, maps, the kind of furniture that aged well. Masculine space that had softened slightly with another presence.

He liked that softening.

Price cut the cigar with practiced ease, rolled it between his fingers, checking. The ritual was meditative— his way of marking time, of acknowledging another year survived.

"Want one?" he offered, then smiled slightly. "... maybe just whiskey?"

He poured two fingers into a second glass without waiting for answer. Presumptuous, maybe... but he knew what was wanted now. Learned the preferences, the habits. Twenty-five years of being alone and then— this. The cigar lit with a soft flame. First draw, slow exhale. Smoke curled toward the ceiling.

"Almost forty years old," Price mused aloud, settling deeper into his chair. "Never thought I'd be spending Christmas Eve with someone your age in my living room... Should probably bother me more than it does," he continued, eyes on the fire. What people might think... but—" Another draw, the cigar's ember glowed. "I can't seem to care. You're here. That's what matters."

The domesticity of it was almost overwhelming. His home. His chair. His cigar. His—

Partner. Still strange to think it. Good strange.

"Come here, love," Price said, voice dropping lower. Not intentionally seductive, just natural, just him, but the authority in it was undeniable. He shifted, making space. The chair was big enough for two, if they didn't mind close quarters. "Not going to bite," he added with dry humor. "Well. Not unless you ask nicely."

The cigar rested in his fingers— strong hands, scarred, capable. Hands that had killed, that had saved, that had learned gentleness late but thoroughly. "You make me feel young," he admitted quietly. "Which is ridiculous. I'm not young. Haven't been for a long time. But you—"

He paused, considering his words with the same care he gave tactical planning. "You make me remember what it feels like. To want. To hope. To look forward to coming home." The whiskey glass dangled from his other hand. Smoke, leather, firelight. Price in his element— relaxed, unguarded, just existing in his space.

Not trying to be anything. Just being.

[Christmas Eve Tradition #2]

Price sat alone in his office, door closed, lights off except for the small desk lamp casting long shadows across the room.

Christmas Eve. The base was quiet— most personnel on leave, skeleton crew maintaining operations, the usual holiday silence that felt heavier each year. On his desk sat one cigar, expensive and carefully selected, and a bottle of whiskey he only opened once annually for this exact purpose.

He lit the cigar with steady hands, drew deep, and exhaled slowly into the darkness. "To the fallen," he murmured to no one, raising the glass before taking a long drink.

This was his tradition, had been for more years than he cared to count now. One night. One cigar. All the weight he carried every single day of the year, but only allowed himself to truly feel when the calendar turned to December twenty-fourth and the ghosts came calling.

Every other day he was Captain John Price— leader, commander, the man who made impossible decisions and lived with them, who projected confidence and control and unwavering strength because that's what his team needed, what the mission required, what kept everyone alive and focused. He was professional, tactical, the steady hand in chaos, the voice of authority when everything went sideways.

Christmas Eve stripped all of that away and left him with nothing but the truth he spent the rest of the year outrunning. The cost. The weight. The names and faces of men who had trusted him to bring them home and never got that chance.

Price took another draw from the cigar, let the smoke fill his lungs, felt the familiar burn that was as much ritual as the whiskey warming his throat. The office was cold despite the radiator humming in the corner, or perhaps that was just him, the chill that settled into his bones every Christmas Eve and refused to leave until the sun rose and he could lock it all away again.

He thought about the young men who had followed his orders without question, who had looked at him with faith and trust and belief that he knew what he was doing, that he would make the right calls, that following Captain Price meant coming home alive. They had been so young, some of them, barely past their training, eager and bright-eyed and convinced of their own invincibility because they were well-trained and well-led and surely that meant something.

The arithmetic was brutal and simple: more men lost than saved, more funerals attended than mission successes celebrated, more letters written to grieving families than commendations received. He had done his best, made the tactical decisions that seemed right at the time, weighed the odds and calculated acceptable losses and sent good men into bad situations because someone had to make those calls and it might as well be him.

The professional part of his brain understood this. War meant casualties, command meant responsibility. You made the hard decisions, lived with the consequences, and kept moving forward because dwelling on it would paralyze you and get more people killed... but the human part, the part he only acknowledged on Christmas Eve, couldn't reconcile that cold logic with the weight of knowing he had signed death warrants for men who had trusted him.

Price pressed his palms against his eyes, cigar balanced carefully in the ashtray, and let out a shaking breath that might have been a sob if he had allowed it to fully form. The tears came anyway, hot and unwelcome, tracking down his face and into his beard while his shoulders shook with the effort of keeping quiet.

"I remember every single one," he whispered brokenly. "Every name, every face, every time I had to write that letter and tell their families that their son, their husband, their father died serving when what I really meant was I sent him there knowing he might not come back and he didn't and that's on me."

When the office door opened quietly.

Price didn't look up, couldn't, his face was wet and his hands were shaking and his carefully maintained composure had shattered into a thousand pieces on his office floor. He heard the footsteps, felt a presence, knew he had been found at his absolute lowest and couldn't even muster the energy to care.

"Not great company tonight," he managed, voice wrecked and raw. "Just me and all my ghosts." The admission hung in the air between them, vulnerable, broken, human. For once, Captain Price had nothing left to give except the truth; he was drowning, and he'd been drowning alone for far too long.