Chapter Text
The first time it happens, it hardly even matters.
They’re at some shitty bar, drinking beer that tastes like piss and vodka that tastes like bleach in equal measure. Price can barely fit his shoulders in between two of the jackasses at the bar who are clearly Coast Guard on leave. He hates the fucking Coast Guard.
With no idea where the others have run off to, he makes the most of their relatively uneventful Saturday night by drinking too much and pretending not to see the No Smoking sign on the wall behind him. If the bartender really cares about his lit cigar, she doesn’t say anything anyway. He takes another swig of beer and almost chokes on it when Gaz is suddenly plastered against his side.
“Be cool,” Gaz hisses. “I’ll owe you one.”
Price has no idea what he’s talking about and is more focused on the fact that one of Gaz’s hands is creeping around his back, clutching his waist like a lifeline. His big brown eyes– stupid fucking brown eyes, stupid fucking bar– are staring up at Price like he just set a fire in the dumpster outside and he needs Price to put it out.
“What’s going on?” Price asks, immediately snapping to attention. He has no clue how any of them could have started any real problems in this miniscule corner of the globe, but he’s also completely unsurprised. His men could start problems in a plastic bubble if they tried hard enough.
“Nothing,” Gaz says brightly, and that arm wrapped around Price’s middle tightens as Gaz shoots him a warning look. It’s the only warning he gets before Gaz presses a hot, open mouthed kiss against his lips.
In basic training, one of his CO’s had referred to Price in a briefing as ‘highly adaptable and quick on his feet.’ He thanks God that CO had been right, because he only spares half a breath before he kisses back. It’s little more than a desperate mashing of teeth against teeth, but the feeling radiating through Price’s body is hot and urgent.
When Gaz pulls back, he looks slightly dazed, eyes unfocused. Price blinks a couple times, and then the man standing just to the side of them clears his throat.
“Sorry, mate,” he says. He’s a hulking thing, almost as big as Riley, with tattoos wrapping all the way up one arm and peeking out of the collar of his shirt. “Didn’t realize.”
“All good,” Gaz tells him breathlessly. “Have a great night.”
The man gives Price a considering up and down look and tosses Gaz a wink. “You do the same.”
“Just might,” Gaz grins. As soon as the man’s out of sight, Gaz disentangles himself as quickly as possible from where he pressed himself in between Price’s legs. “Sorry about that,” he says quickly. “He was getting a little handsy on the dance floor. Tried to follow me into the bathroom and I–”
“Don’t worry about it,” Price cuts him off. His voice is a little hoarse, scraping over the back of his throat. It’s just the cigar, a faint burn in his esophagus. Nothing other than the alcohol making his head feel foggy and his heart thud irregularly in his chest. “Not a problem. Maybe a bit more of a head’s up next time, though?”
Gaz’s eyebrows shoot up at the same time Price realizes what he just said. The idea of any kind of next time feels like a raw wire shooting off sparks in his brain. Hopefully, Gaz just takes it for what it is– a drunken slip of the tongue– and leaves it alone.
“Sure,” Gaz mutters. “Thought the mustache would be scratchier than that.”
Then he’s off again, darting back into the crowd. Price swears internally and drains the rest of his beer in one swig before telling the bartender to bring him something stronger.
The next time, he can hardly be held responsible.
“No, Ma, I told you, it’s fine–”
“I can see right through you, John.” Margaret Price’s voice is a buzzy chirp in his ear through the satellite phone. They’re in the middle of nowhere, somewhere hot and sticky in the August nighttime, and he has more important things to be doing than arguing with his mother on the phone. “You sound lonely.”
“I’m not lonely,” he snaps, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I have too much work to do. Lonely is a feeling for people who are bored.”
His mother just mumbles something rude that he doesn’t quite catch. There’s a stack of folders he needs to go through before 0600 on the folding table in front of him, but he’s not going to get anything done as long as she’s trying to keep his attention. The idea of being up any later than he absolutely needs to be feels like a knife in his skull, right next to the quickly oncoming migraine. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept more than two hours.
“I’m just saying,” she continues, “that I think you’d be less grumpy if you had someone in your life to make you happy.”
“I’m happy with my life just the way it is, Mum.”
Of course, Garrick takes that moment to push his way through the canvas flap covering his tent. He’s covered in what looks like foliage and mud, with a wrinkle between his eyes that means he has a problem that Price needs to solve. It’s always the same fucking story. He holds up a hand before Gaz can start talking, pointing at the phone. Gaz nods, settling on a crate by the entrance to wait out the rest of Price’s phone call.
There is no possible way tonight gets easier for him.
“There are plenty of girls around here who would love for you to take them out– Peter, put that down! I don’t care if it’s dead! Mary Stafford’s daughter is back from her work vacation thing until October, oh what’s it called?”
Price squints at the wall of the tent. “Doctors Without Borders?”
“Yes! Yes, that’s the ticket. She’s cute! Looks just like her ma did at that age.”
“I’m not going to date Angelina Stafford,” Price groans.
Gaz chokes back a laugh from his position in the corner, and Price levels him with a look. It’s been two months since Gaz planted one on him in the bar, and neither of them has said a word about it. Now, Price sees the perfect opportunity for revenge.
“Besides,” he says, eyes lighting up, “I’m already seeing someone.”
Gaz’s head jerks towards him in surprise, eyes widening in a silent question.
“You are?” his mother screeches. “Jonathan Price, why haven’t you told me about this mystery girl yet?”
“You know why, Ma,” he explains carefully, picking his lies with the utmost caution. “Most of my life is confidential. Anyway, I’ve been too busy to call you. It’s… new.”
“How new?” she asks. “What’s her name?”
“ His name is Kyle.” Gaz’s first name feels clunky in his mouth from disuse, but it’s worth it for the way that Gaz’s eyes go from wide to comically round, like a cartoon.
To her credit, his mother doesn’t even hesitate, accepting this new information about her son with all the grace he’s come to expect from the powerhouse of a woman who raised him and five other children. “When do I get to meet this Kyle?”
“Funny you should ask,” Price smiles, already standing. “He actually just walked in.”
He shoves the phone into Gaz’s hands and swipes up his stack of files before either of them can ask him about anything else. Gaz stares at the phone like it’s a loaded gun before slowly lifting it to his ear.
Price is already out of the tent by the time he hears Gaz say, “It’s uh, great to meet you, too. Ma’am. Margaret. Mrs. Price.”
He gets his work done in less than two hours in the back of a truck, underneath a clear sky full of stars. When Gaz finally drops the phone back in his lap, he has a wry smile on his face. Price accepts it gratefully, setting it on top of his completed paperwork.
“Your mother’s quite the charmer, darling.”
“You’re a lifesaver, dear.” Price tells him, and he means it. “She would have kept me for another three hours if I’d let her.”
Gaz shrugs. “It’s only fair.”
Price does his best to not react. He knows they’re both thinking of the same thing: the heady press of a drunk kiss under the neon light of a cheap bar. Just a moment, nothing real or meaningful, but one he’s replayed over and over and over again in his mind.
“Good,” he mutters. “We’re even.”
“Even,” Gaz agrees. Then he smiles, wide and taunting. “What are you gonna tell her when we break up?”
Price considers this. His mother would believe a great deal of things. She has no reason to believe that he would ever lie to her, and if she likes Gaz, he has no reason to ever tell her that they broke up. It would just set her back on her unending quest to make an honest man of him with some girl he knew as a child.
“I’ll tell her it was you,” he decides. “That I was old and grumpy and married to my work, so you left me for some pretty young thing just out of basic training. I’ll tell her that it broke my damn heart to watch you go.”
Gaz has a strange look on his face, like he’s distinctly not saying something. Price suddenly feels bad. He shouldn’t have made Gaz go along with this, even if it had seemed funny at the moment. He wants to apologize, but then the moment passes. Gaz goes from looking at him with that strange, sad expression to shaking his head like he’s just heard the world’s funniest joke.
“You do that,” he tells Price gently. “I hope she can recover.”
When Gaz walks back to his own tent, Price stays out looking up at the stars. He knows that it’s nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. Still, he can’t stop replaying that look on Gaz’s face. Guilt and frustration rear their ugly heads until he swallows them back down again.
He just needs to get some sleep.
The third time–
Well. The third time is both of their faults.
“It’s just recon,” he tells the group of them sharply. “We do not have execute authority. We are not to be seen. If a single one of you steps out of line, I will know. If one of you so much as displaces a hair on Mikkosovich’s head, I will know. If you–”
“Think we get it, Captain,” Soap drawls, lazily twirling a switchblade. “No touching allowed.”
“Like the world’s ugliest zoo,” Gaz adds, wrinkling his nose.
Ghost, predictably, says nothing. Price rolls his eyes.
“Alright, you fuckin’ twats. Ghost, Soap, you’re our eyes. Anyone in and out of that building, I wanna know their first and last names and the color of their underwear. Laswell’s our ears; she’ll have a running commentary so we don’t say anything fucking stupid. Alejandro and Rudy, find this bastard’s office, get as much as you can on your flash drive. I don’t care if it’s what he ate for breakfast yesterday. We need all the intel we can get. Gaz, you’re with me inside. The goal,” he says seriously, making eye contact with each of them in turn, “is to learn as much as possible without blowing our cover. Copy?”
The chorus of ‘copy’ that echoes him is sure and calm. He almost believes that they’ll be able to do it without fucking anything up. Almost.
He and Gaz dress silently in the back of the rented car. Pyotr Mikkosovich is holding an auction at his private estate. It’s nothing illegal on the front end of things, but for an arms dealer who dabbles in human trafficking when he gets bored, Price is certain there’s more going on under the surface tonight. He tries to ignore it. They aren’t there to save anyone tonight, just to learn more. By the time the car pulls up the driveway of Mikkosovich’s estate, they’re dressed neatly in matching suits.
His in-ear mic buzzes with the voices of his colleagues. Alejandro and Rodolfo are already inside. Ghost and Soap are on separate rooftops, and he knows they’re probably shooting the shit with each other on a private channel. Laswell’s voice comes through crisp and clear.
“Alright, Mr. and Mr. Hatley. Ready for your fashionably late entrance?”
“Always ready, Kate,” Price smirks. “Always fashionable.”
“Speak for yourself,” Gaz grumbles. “I feel like this thing’s squeezing my insides.”
Price leans over, loosening Gaz’s bowtie for him quickly as the car is parked. Gaz smiles gratefully, and accepts the hand that Price offers him as they exit the vehicle. The guard at the door hardly gives them a second glance as they pass through the entryway. Their faces and fake names are no doubt already in the tablet he’s checking every time someone new arrives. They’re in.
Easy.
As they make their way through the ballroom where the auction is being held, Price keeps his hand firmly on Gaz’s lower back. Laswell had been the one to come up with their cover story: new money, newly married, looking for connections and priceless art for their Southern California mansion.
He recognizes a handful of familiar faces, but none of them give him more than a cursory glance. Once they’ve acquired drinks from the roaming catering staff and are making a second round of the room, pausing to ooh and ahh appropriately at all of the art on display, Price starts to relax.
“Found the office,” Alejandro says in his ear. “Ten minutes and counting.”
“Copy,” Laswell replies.
“Second floor is still clear,” Soap adds. “You’re good to start the download.”
That means that all that’s left is for Price and Gaz to entertain the rich and famous in order to absorb as much information as they possibly can. When he tunes back into the room around him, Gaz is already chatting animatedly with a woman in a long blue dress.
“--I was telling him just last week that I wanted a statue for the dining room. Wasn’t I, sweetie?”
“Something the same height as the windows,” Price tells her smoothly. “He’s all about symmetry.”
Gaz smiles at him warmly, and Price ignores the irritating feeling of want scratching in the back of his mind. It won’t do him any good tonight. They make pleasant conversation with a few other people, each of them dutifully playing the part of newly wedded bliss. He even pulls Gaz into a sweet kiss in front of a Monet, mind lingering for probably too long on the way Gaz’s hands are warm and gentle on the sides of his face.
They don’t learn much. Mikkosovich isn’t actually present at his own gathering, and most of the people don’t know anything that the 141 hasn’t already learned through other methods. They’re going to be relying mostly on the information from the man’s computer, which hopefully has something more interesting than art on it.
“Download complete,” Rudy chirps. “Ready to head out.”
“Wait,” Ghost tells him. “Someone just started up the stairs.”
“Two someones,” Soap confirms. “They’re coming your way, Bravo. Keep quiet.”
“Copy,” Alejandro hisses.
“Price, Gaz, any chance you can get between them?” Laswell asks.
The stairway is just to their left, leading to the second story. He can distantly see two bodies at the top of them. Price pulls Gaz close, burying his head in the junction between his neck and shoulder before murmuring, “Not without being seen.”
Gaz wraps his arms around him, laughing like someone who’s husband is whispering sweet nothings into his ear at a party. Price runs his hands along Gaz’s back, trying to think quickly.
“We could get up there anyway,” Gaz whispers into his hair. “Cause a distraction, give Bravo time to slip out the window.”
“Works for me,” Laswell says. “Don’t blow this.”
Gaz pulls away, giggling as he leads Price up the stairs. The two bodies above them stop, glancing back curiously to see who’s coming this way. Price presses Gaz into the wall, kissing him deeply. For a moment, all he can think is that Gaz tastes like spearmint from his incessant gum chewing, that his mouth is softer than Price had noticed in that bar all those months ago. Gaz pushes him off gently and stumbles up a few more stairs, and Price’s brain snaps back to professionalism.
He lets Gaz crowd against him, slip a hand under his jacket. “Darling, we shouldn’t,” Gaz mumbles, and Price can feel the curve of Gaz’s smile against his own mouth.
“You look too good in this damn suit,” Price tells him, loud enough for their little audience to hear. “Can’t keep my bloody hands to myself.”
He starts playing with the buckle of Gaz’s belt. It’s not that he’s really trying to strip Gaz’s clothes off ten feet away from men carrying guns, but they’ve gotta ramp this up a notch if they want to get any real attention. To his credit, Gaz just leans into his touch, moaning a little too loudly against Price’s jaw. The sound makes the hairs on the back of Price’s neck stand up. It’s too noisy to be real, but it just makes his mind run wild with ideas about what Gaz might actually sound like. Price wonders if he could get a real moan out of him, like this.
Probably not. Regardless of his position, Price is being far less professional about this entire thing than Gaz is being.
Gaz runs his hands through Price’s hair before tightening his grip and dragging his mouth back down. Price nips at his neck, warning him to keep moving, but Gaz’s breath hitches instead. His eyes flutter closed, and Price swallows a noise of his own.
That wasn’t fake.
He scrapes his teeth along Gaz’s jugular, not quite biting, and Gaz fucking whines.
“Shit–” Gaz hisses. “That’s–”
“I got you,” Price murmurs. “I got you, love.”
Someone clears their throat, and Price jumps away from Gaz like he’s been burned. The men standing at the top of the stairs are obviously security. He can see the outline of the pistols at their hips. One of them is pointedly looking at the ceiling. The other smiles nervously.
“Apologies,” he says, his voice thickly accented with Russian. “You are not allowed on the second story.”
“Of course,” Price says, smoothing his hair back. “I’m so sorry.”
Beside him, Gaz is fixing his belt, tucking his shirt back in where it had started to rise. He shoots the guards a filthy smile. “Our bad, boys. This one’s insatiable.”
“We’re clear,” Rudy informs them. “Rendezvous imminent, flash drive secure.”
“We’ll see you in five,” Laswell says. “Great job everyone. Get out of there, Charlie.”
Price smiles, tugging Gaz against his side. “Should get ourselves home, anyway. I won’t be able to focus on any auction while he’s around.”
The guards nod, more embarrassed than suspicious, and nobody gives them any trouble as Price all but drags Gaz back to the car. If he takes a couple minutes once they’re secure to shut his eyes and think of walking naked in the Arctic Circle, that’s his business.
Number four happens because he’s a fucking idiot.
“John!”
His mother barrels into him at top speed, which isn’t much for her, but he hadn’t been expecting it. Still, he manages to catch her in time, keeping them both upright.
“Mum,” he says, trying to sound more happy than afraid. “Why are you here?”
She swats at his chest anyway. “Don’t be daft. It’s nearly Christmas.”
He’s down the street from his apartment, trying to buy a coffee despite the throng of people milling about. Everyone is either shopping or trying to avoid the shopping, and if his coffee maker weren’t broken, Price would already be hiding in his place to get away from the crowds.
“I told you,” he sighs, “I can’t make it out to yours this year. I’ve got to be ready in case–”
“In case they need you at work. Yes, I know,” she grumbles. “But I needed to pop this way anyhow and I figured I’d come and visit for the day! That way you aren’t all alone for the holiday.”
Dimly, Price thinks about the fact that Gaz is currently holed up in his apartment with a bullet wound to the thigh. He’s been there for about a week now. Every time they tried to keep him in a hospital room, he broke out. It hadn’t been until Price had nearly locked Gaz into his own apartment that the man had finally settled and accepted that he isn’t going anywhere until his leg is fully healed.
“I’m not alone,” he remarks, remembering the lie he had told his mother last summer. This is really going to be a complete disaster. “Ma, really, it’s fine. You should go home, my place is a mess right now.”
“I drove four hours to see you, boy. You should be grateful,” she tells him. “Plus, I want to meet this Kyle of yours before I leave.”
Price winces. At least Gaz isn’t halfway across the country with his own family. Price had offered to drive him to the airport if he wanted to buy himself a ticket home for Christmas and New Year’s, but Gaz had just shrugged. So he stayed. Maybe Gaz can see the future, Price wonders. Or he’s just the luckiest bastard Price has ever met.
“Thought you were just out shopping,” he says, pointing out her lie, but she waves him off.
“I’ve always been a good multitasker.”
He scrubs a hand over his face and rolls his shoulder back. The barista calls out his name, and when he goes to collect his coffee, he pulls out his phone.
Price (11:13): Incoming. :/
Garrick (11:13): Uh oh, what’s that face about?
Price (11:14): Mum decided to surprise me with a holiday visit
Gaz (11:14): Thought she lived way out in the middle of nowhere?
Gaz (11:14): She still think you and I are bunkmates?
Price (11:15): Yes, she does. And yes, she does. Throw the couch blankets in the hall closet and prepare for impact.
Gaz (11:15): Copy that, Captain.
“Get your head out of your phone and walk me down the street,” his mother demands. “God forbid you get hit by a car because you’re too busy working yourself to death to look up once in a while.”
Price slips his phone back into his pocket and takes his mother’s arm with a tight smile. He really does love her. She’s just… she’s just far too similar to the voice in his own brain for comfort.
“Wasn’t working,” he assures her. “I was giving Gaz a head’s up, so he doesn’t die of shock when you storm in the place.”
“Gaz?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Garrick,” he replies. “Kyle Garrick. Goes by Gaz.”
She claps her hands delightedly, and he finally notices the overstuffed bag at her side. No doubt it’s full of treats and presents that she just happened to bring along on her shopping road trip. He lets her ask questions about the city and about his apartment, skirting neatly around the topic of Gaz whenever she asks after him directly. When they’re finally in the elevator up to his floor, he pats her hand and looks her in the eyes.
“Ma, you know I can only tell you so much,” he says. “Gaz is injured, and you can’t ask him about it. He got injured about two weeks ago. His left leg’s still hurting pretty bad, and I don’t know how much energy he’s got for socializing. I love you, but–”
“But he’s your boy,” she finishes gently. Price doesn’t think about the way his cheeks start to warm. He just doesn’t. “Don’t worry, love, I won’t take up too much of your time. I just wanted to see you.”
“I know, Mum.” He leans down to press a kiss to her cheek. “I’m glad to see you, too.”
His plan should work flawlessly, except for the fact that when he opens up the door to the apartment, Gaz is in the kitchen. Cooking. Price doesn’t remember ever having seen Gaz cook anything more extensive than an MRE.
“You’re back!” Gaz hobbles around the island on one crutch and presses a kiss to Price’s mouth. It’s chaste, but he still feels that bubble of emotion in his chest threatening to pop.
Gaz leans in to give his mother a hug that she eagerly accepts. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Price.”
“Please,” she says, flushing brightly, “call me Margaret.”
“You should be sitting,” Price tells him gruffly. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“Making lunch,” Gaz answers, like it’s something that happens every day. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“Gaz,” Price growls, ignoring his mother’s presence. He follows Gaz back into the kitchen, swiping a ladle out of his hands and pointing to the living room. “Go sit on the bloody couch before you bust your stitches open. And where’s your other crutch?”
“I don’t need it,” Gaz grumbles, trying and failing to snatch the ladle back, “and I’m fine. Barely a twinge. Can you calm down and let me feed your mother lunch?”
“She doesn’t need lunch!” Price shouts, throwing his hands up. He sets the ladle down on the counter and wraps his hands around Gaz’s shoulders, turning him gently. “You need to be resting! Did you even take your pain meds before you decided to turn into a professional chef?”
“I am fine,” Gaz repeats. “You don’t have to be such a worrywart.”
“You’re not fine,” Price says, “you’re injured. You aren’t going to get less injured through sheer force of will, no matter how stubborn you are.”
Gaz rolls his eyes, but when Price shoves at him to start moving toward the couch, he goes. It isn’t until Price is sure that Gaz is settled back on the couch with his injured leg propped up, medicine taken, that he remembers their audience.
His face is burning with embarrassment as he faces his mother, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Ah, sorry, Ma.”
She’s standing in the doorway still, already having set down her bag. Her arms are crossed over her chest, one hand over her mouth, and she’s shaking with barely suppressed laughter. When she finally manages to compose herself, tears are rolling down her cheeks.
“You two,” she breathes, “make my old heart very happy indeed.”
“Why’s that?” Gaz asks, smiling back widely. “Because someone else finally gets to see how crazy he is? If he was anything like this as a child, I’m glad he’s off your hands now.”
This sends a fresh wave of laughter rolling through his mom, and Price can feel his stomach rising into his throat. This is a terrible idea. Everything about this is specifically designed to be the worst kind of torture imaginable. That’s the only explanation for the way his hands tremble as he watches his mother settle on the other side of Gaz on the couch, lunch completely abandoned, and pull out her phone.
“Speaking of John’s childhood,” she says delightedly, “I think I have some photos here…”
Price swears loudly enough that even Gaz looks shocked. When his mother gapes at him, he points over his shoulder. “The soup,” he says dumbly. “Think I smell something burning. I’ll just–”
He hides in the kitchen for nearly an hour, listening to their quiet conversation and the way he can feel himself sinking deeper and deeper inside his own chest as the time passes. Eventually, his mother leaves, and Gaz teases him for the gap that used to separate his two front teeth before he got braces. He helps Gaz hobble to bed and retrieves the pillow and blanket from the hall closet, making up his temporary bed back up on the couch.
Price doesn’t sleep. He just stares up at the ceiling and watches the shadows change as the light moves from evening to midnight to morning. Everything feels like it’s in freefall, like he’s swinging his arms around madly as the pieces of his carefully organized life scatter all around him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to work his ass off until he didn’t have to anymore, meet a nice woman at some work event, marry her, and retire to Manchester or somewhere like it.
He was not supposed to fall in love with big brown eyes and an earnest smile. He definitely wasn’t supposed to introduce those big brown eyes to his mother.
He is so totally fucked.