#peepaw price | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

darklordofthesimp · 1 year

Text

Reconcile (John Price x Reader)

Anything Verse

Summary: When a Task Force 141 sniper is rushed into your surgery at the end of your shift, you know you're in for a rough night.

A/N: OOOH a Price fic?? In the Anything Verse?? Wish me luck. I'm so sorry if he's OOC I know nothing.

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Description of Injury, Allusion to PTSD, Swearing.

The day you met Captain John Price was not a good day. It had been one of the worst shifts of your career, actually.

"Get them straight into surgery!"

You were no stranger to the horrors of war. Every twisted wound, every deformed face, every tragic passing of a young soldier reminded you of why you enlisted.

"Vitals are dropping!"

You remembered the trolley squeaking as you rushed a twisted, limp body to surgery. The shouts of your nurses all worked in tandem to inform you of the signs that this soldier was dying before you.

"Birdy!"

You recognised the callsign, horror prodding at your lungs. Forcing down your realization, you focused on the man screaming behind you. He was larger than life, bounding down the hallway after your team. He bellowed the callsign again, his voice desperate as it climbed over the chattering of your medics, begging for a response.

The body on the bed said nothing.

"They're critical!"

The body on the bed barely breathed.

As you disappeared into the surgical ward, your heart held captive by anxiety, you risked a glance over your shoulder.

The man's eyes were bloodshot, wild in a way that only love could cause. There was a soldier who held a firm hand to his chest, reminding him that 'Birdy' was going somewhere he couldn't follow.

His gaze followed the trolley until the doors closed on him.

John Price had been watching on with the eyes of a man that was already mourning.

____

Twelve hours.

Twelve hours spent trying to save a life because of miscommunication

The team had been swapped out on the sixth hour of surgery, your secondary group scrubbing in at around 0100 hours. You didn't take the break.

Your hands shook as you pushed the doors open, emerging from the surgical ward like you'd just crawled off the battlefield. Your knees were weak, barely holding your body up as you trekked down the hall.

Images of the crumpled sniper flashed across your vision like a stop motion film, reminding you that although you'd saved their life- this wasn't the end of their struggle. Your heart bled for them, bled for the person that they would have to become to survive this.

"How are they?" The words attacked you from the side, throwing you off balance as you flinched away. Trying to catch yourself, your arms flailed and a gasp ripped from your throat. You were dizzy, exhausted and low on all forms of fuel, you were definitely going to hit the deck like a sack of shit.

"Jesus-" A pair of rough hands shot out to grip your shoulders, pulling you upright and steadying you on your feet. You raked in a breath, tilting your head up to glare at the culprit.

It was the man from earlier.

"You fuckin' serious?" You tried to straighten up as you growled the words but there was no venom behind them. You didn't have the energy for that, and as you looked into the haunted eyes before you, you knew that he didn't have it either.

"Sorry." It was muttered as an afterthought, bloodshot eyes barely focused on your features, as though he was looking at you but not actually seeing. "Is Birdy okay?"

You sighed deeply, scrubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palms. If you rubbed hard enough maybe you could chase away the crippling exhaustion.

"Yeah," you rasped. "Someone really did a number on 'em though."

The man's face grew stormy at the words, his jaw clenching. You knew then that there had been no justice for the sniper, that their assaulter had escaped the clutches of the infamous 141.

"I want the report." The man stated simply, his tone carrying the familiar weight of authority.

You raised an eyebrow.

"Are you Birdy's chain-of-command?" You queried, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Captain John Price," he nodded.

John Price.

He was something of a legend within the unit, the forefront of Task Force 141- the leader. You would have been in awe had he not looked like a pathetic shell of the man he should have been.

Your eyes trailed his figure, stopping at his hands with a startled gasp.

"Whose blood is that?" You stepped forward, suddenly on alert. You dragged your gaze over his shocked features, analyzing for injury and wounding.

"Bit of mine," he rasped, eyes wide as he took in the state of his skin, "...mostly Birdy's."

You could have left him there. Your shift had been over 15 hours ago and you were planning on going home and stuffing your gob with whatever you could get your hands on.

The Captain wasn't your responsibility.

But the broken man before you was.

"Come with me," you murmured softly, taking a step towards the door. Price didn't move, that thousand yard stare drifting over the entrance to the surgical ward. His body might have been here but his mind was far away.

You'd seen it millions of times, yet every instance still rips on your heart.

Gently, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist. Cerulean eyes snapped to meet yours, wide and hard. He gripped your offending limb with his free hand and your heart hammered in your chest. The Captain was fresh from war, blood smeared across his jaw and dried under his nails, he was unpredictable.

Your hand trembled in his but you didn't loosen your grip.

John Price was a large man, broad shoulders and a presence that demanded your attention. He was a combatant, he'd been through hell and back and willingly made the journey thousands of times.

When you dealt with soldiers like this, there was always a security detail to protect you in case they snapped. It was common, it was understood- survival instincts and adrenaline doesn't just disappear overnight.

But you were alone.

And Price's grip tightened.

"John," you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady but failing. The words wobbled and your body tremored but your gaze remained consistent. Your eyes appealed and pleaded, fixated on the bright blue of his own. "John, let me help you."

His eyes flickered down to see where he held your hand.

Then he released a breath.

"I'm so sorry," Price murmured, broken and small.

You offered a genuine smile, breath settling as relief flooded your chest. "You're okay, John. Come with me."

You told yourself to say his name often, reminding him of who he was and where he was. It was your job to ground him, to patch him up- body and mind. His grip on your hand loosened but he didn't let go completely, his shaky inhale telling you that he was overwhelmed.

He wasn't used to being rattled.

Captain Price wasnt supposed to ever get rattled.

John followed you into your office, letting go of your hand to close the door behind him instinctively. Your heart skipped a beat at the sudden isolation, you weren't meant to be alone with a volatile patient. When he turned to face you, he raised a brow at your hesitance.

"Would you prefer I kept the door open, Doc?"

You swallowed thickly, controlling your breathing as best as you could.

"It's not a problem," you lied.

There was a soft snort, the first sign of humor you'd seen in him. John opened the door back up, resting it gently against the stopper as he offered you a meaningful glance.

"For my ease of mind," he joked dryly.

Your lips twitched upward and you ducked your head.

"Thanks," you whispered quickly before clearing your throat. "And they call me Saint. Not Doc."

"Saint," John trialed the word on his tongue. "Fitting."

You rolled your eyes light-heartedly before gesturing to the tap and basin at the back. "Clean up a little while I prep."

The Captain offered you a nod, sobering as he moved to the sink to scrub the blood off his hands. You prepared your equipment, pretending not to notice the way his body shook as scraped the blood off his skin.

He was there for longer than he needed to be but you didn't push. You wouldn't rush him, there was nothing more important than letting him watch the crimson stained water disappear down that drain. The way he stared at his hands, those unsoiled palms raised upright, it had you thinking that he could still see his sniper's blood tattooed across his fingers.

When John finally sat down, his face was drawn and solemn. You took in a sharp breath, taking the anti-bacterial wipe and approaching the Captain slowly until you were inches away.

His gaze lifted to watch you through his lashes, the scent of gunpowder, sweat and blood rolling off of him in waves. You were used to it, it was a smell that you'd gotten used to over the years.

"I'm going to wipe the blood from your face and sanitize your wounds," you stated clearly, breath trembling as his attention fell to your lips.

John said nothing for a long moment, leaving you inches from him, praying to God that he wasn't going to snap.

"Yeah," he finally rasped.

You set to work, ignoring the way his eyes followed you emptily. You wished there was emotion behind it, you wished you could say that he was leering, but the Captain was watching you work as one would watch a plain car go by: no thoughts, simply caught by the movement.

Thousands of conversation starters fought for use, they begged to be spoken out into the small space between you. All of them fell short, nothing could drown the silence of his grief.

"Will Birdy recover?"

You were startled by the question, fingers brushing against the heat of his skin as you flinched. His eyes were glued to yours. They waited hungrily for a response, watching carefully for any indiscretions that could give away a lie.

"Yes." You replied simply, moving to continue your work.

"Saint." The Captain's fingers reached upward to grip your wrist gently, lowering your hand from his face. You took in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing. "That's not what I was asking."

The look John gave you was intent and revealing, stripping the veil from your answer. You were bare for him to see, inches away with no room to hide from his gaze. His hand was hot against your skin, burning every square inch that he held.

You knew what Price was truly asking. You knew that you'd hadn't answered the question he was offering, hidden behind smoke and mirrors.

Will Birdy forgive me?

You sucked in a breath, bringing a hand to softly rest against his shoulder.

"Yes," you said again.

Only, this time, you lied.

#john price x reader #john price #peepaw price #price mw2 #john price mw2 #john price cod #cod x reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2

1K notes · View notes

cod-dump · 6 months

Note

Of course we joke about johnny and his dog issues, but the real bitch that didn’t want ghost getting Riley was price. It took Simon nearly half a year of what he refuses to acknowledge as begging to convince his dad/captain to let him have a dog. “It’s good for morale!” “I’ll train him myself!” On and on until eventually price gave in

Price pretended not to like Riley for all of two weeks but after that he was literally making the then puppy his own special plate of bacon in the morning

“You never had a dog before, Simon.”

He knew Ghost wanted a dog. He’s talked about it before with a child-like eagerness. Price always dismissed the idea seeing that Ghost was never at his own flat, meaning that dog would probably be on base or at Price’s house. Which means Price himself would have a dog. He doesn’t want a dog.

But Ghost has talked about it, consistently, for months. He wanted a dog, badly, and Price was starting to feel bad about keeping him from getting one. So… he gave in.

“-and then I saw an ad about puppies for sell and-“

“Simon.”

Ghost immediately stopped talking, probably thinking Price was fed up with him talking about dogs and wanting one all the time.

“Son… you can get a dog.”

Ghost stared at Price, unblinking and unresponsive. Price opened his mouth but Ghost lunged across the table before he could say anything and knocked him out of his chair with a hug. Price groaned as Ghost thanked him profusely, hugging him tightly as he did. Price patted his back, god that hurt his back.

“You have to train it-“

“Of course!”

Price was heaved off the floor with ease, Ghost setting his chair back up before he ran out of the room shouting.

“I’M GETTING A DOG!”

“NO YOU’RE NOT-“

Price snorted as he heard Ghost and Soap bicker, sitting back in his chair. Hopefully he doesn’t regret this.

#he won’t #but he will wake up with a dog in his face #beause who doesn’t love peepaw price?#call of duty #modern warfare #john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #cod riley #ask #thanks for the ask <3 #drabble #soapghost #ghostsoap

477 notes · View notes