Like You Mean It

by aleatory_fox

Summary:

John is "invalided" out of the military and is struggling to adjust to civilian life, stuck in a cycle of poor coping mechanisms and denial. He gets sent to Chester by his younger sister to service a client that has scared all her other employees. Little does he know that the appointment will change the trajectory of his life forever.

TLDR: The Nikprice Mafia AU that no one asked for.

"Show Creator's Style" recommended due to CSS/HTML Coding.

Notes:

A couple of notes: John is an unreliable narrator. His injuries and mental health issues are more severe than his internal dialogue lets on. More will come to light as the story progresses. This is a universe where Nik never met him, so Nik might come across a little darker than I usually write (at first), but not too much. First multi-chapter for the fandom. Scary times.

Chapter 1

“How is the new hobby going? Painting, isn't it?”

Price frowned at the table in front of him, counting the rings of coffee stains. Four. “It didn't work out.”

“Oh, that's a shame. What happened?”

Price swallowed, his fingers twitching on his knees. He could tell the truth: that the inane, witless conversations had bored him to death, or that one of the women had started flirting with him and it had made him uncomfortable, or that the paintbrush had felt unwieldy and small in his hands, that it looked wrong there, or that he had lost his temper, overwhelmed by something he couldn't put his finger on, and thrown the canvas to the floor before limping out, or… 

“It jus’ didn't hold my interest. ‘M sure I'll find somethin’.”

The therapist tapped her notepad with the end of the biro and studied him closely. She was one of the best, Mac had said. Worked with all the old boys that invalided out after a lifetime in the service. She helped them get back on their feet, navigate civilian life, and finally put to bed some of the ghosts they dragged behind them. Price had to give her a chance to help, which meant opening up some of those wounds he’d let heal badly over the years. Sally was nice enough, and he was trying not to let his own internal battles influence how he regarded her. Sometimes, she made that hard.

“How are the nightmares? Any better?”

“Yeah, they… uh, they don' happen as regularly.”

“When was the last one?”

Last night. “Coupla weeks ago, I reckon.”

She wrote that down. Price tapped his knees again and glanced at the watch on the table. She made him take his off because he had spent the first two sessions glancing at it. The compromise had been that she would set an alarm on hers. It was a brand new smartwatch, she said, it tracked her calories, her heart rate, had GPS. The kind of thing his watches had been doing for years, except his watches could call in an air strike and track enemy combatants across the field of battle. 

The old one, that is. His new one just told the time. 

Her husband had bought it for her, so Price had said it looked very posh. 

“Have you given any more thought to the dating app we talked about?”

The watch beeped. Thank fuck.

“Whelp.” He clapped his hands together before rolling to his feet with a quiet groan, a combination of actions that he knew made him appear ten years older than he actually was. “I'll see ya next week then, Sally.” 

She handed him back his watch and he slipped it over his wrist, before she placed the notes down on the table. Given that his eyesight was still sharp, he caught the words, ‘denial’, ‘withdrawn’ and ‘isolated’ amongst the scrawl. His jaw twitched and he averted his gaze. This was one assessment he didn't seem to be passing with flying colours. She gave no indication she had realised he'd seen. “Companionship, John. Even a friend that has nothing to do with the service. It will do wonders.”

“Right. I’ll… work on that.” 

It was raining when he stepped outside, grey clouds stretching across the skyline in a dark, homogenous blanket. He almost skidded on a drain, his uneven gait proving more of a liability in the wet, as he walked across the car park, swallowing the resulting grimace even though there was no one around to see. He did it more out of habit than anything else; show no weakness.

When he slumped into the seat of his old Honda Civic, he sat in the mute silence for a moment, watching the raindrops tumble down the windscreen. His leg throbbed, the tight scar tissue pulling, tendrons creaking under tension, and he looked down at his knee with a scowl. 

It had been a building falling on him that had done him in the end, trapping his leg for seven hours while his task force dug him out. Ghost had dragged him out by his bitch strap, and then carried him to casevac, with Soap doing his best not to look at the mangled state of his captain's leg as he covered the rear. A miracle that he hadn't lost it, they said. That he hadn't been crushed completely.

A miracle.

So, now, he got to rot away slowly in a small, one-bedroom flat in Liverpool, with TV dinners and Coronation Street. He walked through the world numbly, like he was observing it from afar, through frosted glass. The only brief glimpses of feeling he got was when one of the 141 messaged him. Sometimes a picture, other times a text. They were few and far between. It wasn't that they didn't care. They were busy. He knew the demands more than anyone. The world didn't stop turning because Bravo Six had left the game.

That didn't stop him checking his phone every few hours, just in case he had missed a notification. Checking his watch so he could tell himself where in their routine they would be. 

He did it now. 

1400, Tuesday. 

If they weren’t on mission, Simon would have the experienced operators running drills with the trainees. It was autumn, which meant the start of bad weather and low visibility environs. It was likely he would do a jump in a few weeks with full kit to test the development of their survival skills. 

He glanced at his phone. Nothing .

With a deep sigh through his nose, Price jammed his keys into the ignition and turned. The old car choked into life, the engine ragged in the cold, and he clicked it into ‘Drive’. He was grateful for the bloody thing, really. Those first few months of riding around on the bus had nearly been enough to send him to an asylum, with screaming kids and the constant smell of piss from seemingly every person that sat down. When his GP had approved him to drive an automatic, he'd almost dropped to his knees to fellate the bastard in gratitude. 

He didn't really track his drive home. Stopping at reds, giving way, flicking down the indicator as he turned corners. The streets, houses and people of Liverpool passed by in a colourless smudge until he was pulling into his car parking space and staggering out in the rain. It happened a lot; disappearing into his own head. Like his brain was giving up without stimulus and switching into standby mode.

The lift was still out of order despite his numerous phone calls on behalf of the residents, so he turned into the stairwell and began the arduous climb to the third floor. Gone were the days when a phone call from John Price moved literal armies. Now he couldn't even get fuckin’ Bill from maintenance out with a screwdriver to fix the fuckin’ lift so Jenny, eighty years old and wheelchair-bound, could leave to do her groceries. 

By the time Price reached the top of the first flight, his leg was burning; by the second, he was breathless from pain, and by the third, his eyes were welling with tears. The pain from his leg seemed to burn through his entire body, clutching his chest in a vice, bile and nausea building in the back of his throat, and he was having to stifle the sounds punching from his chest by biting on his knuckles.

His hands shook as he extracted his front door key, and continued to do so as he tipped more than a single dose of his strongest painkillers into his palm, the kettle hissing behind him on the countertop as he slid to the floor. He didn't wait for the tea to brew, but necked the pills dry, crunching them down in between huffing deep breaths through his nose.

There had been a time after his injury that he had believed he would recover and return to the field. A small part of him still did sometimes, but all it took was a set of stairs to truly humble him, leaving him whimpering and shaking on his kitchen floor. Pathetic, weak. How far he had fallen. He turned his face into his palms and pressed the heels hard into his eyes. 

When he looked up again, the room was dark.

Price latched a hand on the edge of the countertop and pulled. His bad leg was stiff, seized with cold and aching, and his right one was numb from where he'd been sitting on it. His stumbling efforts would have made for a great Benny Hill sketch, he thought bitterly.

Once he had set the kettle reboiling and a frozen TV dinner in the microwave, Price checked his phone. One message. From his sister.

Carol

Today 4:00 PM
How did the appointment go?

Price glanced at the clock. 1900. Bollocks.

Carol

Today 7:00 PM
Good.
Three hours to write that. Nice one, John.

He sighed, smacking the top of the phone into his forehead in frustration, before typing out a response.

Carol

Today 7:03 PM
We talked about the painting thing, some old missions, and she asked me about the dating app.
did you make the profile yet?
what the fuck do you think?
stop being a miserable cunt and do it.

No one wants to date a cripple. He didn't send that one. It read far too much like self pity and that just turned his fucking stomach.

Carol

Today 7:07 PM
If I wanted someone nagging me 24-7 I’d move in with you.
Prick.
Yeah, that’d be a fine thing.
Omg 😭
Gary says you never text back about games night. Kimmy wants to see you.

Gary was Carol’s “gay bff”—her words. He’d been a godsend when her bottom feeder of a husband had finally pushed the old bill too far and got himself nicked for possession with intent to sell and GBH. Price owed the bloke a lot, because he’d picked up the slack where a big brother should have been. He was pretty sure Carol had tried to set them up once, which would have gone about as well as trying to get a Labrador to date a Persian cat. Gary would have shredded Price with his kitten claws in minutes.

Carol

Today 7:12 PM
Depends on my shifts, boss.
Ok.
Don’t give up on us.

Carol had saved him enough already. She had been the one to force him to retrain at college so he could work at her salon. Physical therapy and massage. Something to do with his hands that wasn’t killing people, she’d said. Besides, she wanted to attract more male clientele and his machismo would make them feel less emasculated about seeking support. He felt like there had been a hidden barb there, but hadn’t pressed. Price swallowed the lump in his throat and stared into his dark kitchen for a moment before he replied.

Carol

Today 7:14 PM
trying
I know
love you big bro
love you too, love to kimmy

He shoved his phone into his pocket as he poured his tea, taking it black despite the presence of milk in the fridge. That was at the other end of the kitchen and the pain killers hadn’t yet kicked in properly. His microwave meal seemed more or less cooked through, the steam searing his fingertips as he tugged off the plastic lid, so grabbed a fork and headed into the dark sanctity of his living room. 

His flat had always been sparse, with basic furniture, a handful of books and family photographs. None of the ‘homely’ touches you’d expect of a home. In all fairness, he had never spent a lot of time here—only a few days leave if he’d been at a loose end. But even then he had preferred sleeping in Carol’s spare room, doing the school run in the mornings so she could have a less hectic start to the day, and making sure the house was clean, that there was something edible on the table in the evenings. Fat chance of that now. She didn’t need another deadbeat arsehole on her couch twenty-four hours a day. She’d done her time with that bullshit. So Price had only visited a handful of times since being discharged; once to take a look at a leak under the kitchen sink, and then to check the weird noise her car had been making when the temperature dropped.

Price slumped into the permanent dip of the right hand sofa cushion and took a moment to bask in the relief, tea and dinner hovering over his lap. Some days, he wanted to stay on the damn sofa and rot into it, but the stubborn streak that had managed to survive the last few months wouldn’t let him. He had to be doing something— anything —even if that was hobbling about the supermarket for Jenny while the lift was out of action. A last, defiant stand against the listless void left behind when they had taken the service from him. 

He dug the clicker from where it had fallen down the side of the cushion and turned over just in time for the opening credits of Coronation Street, blowing over the heap of white rice and tasteless curry in front of his mouth. His mind faded out into white noise as he ate mechanically and knocked back his tea to wash the taste away. The episode hadn’t even finished before he was pulling the fleece blanket from the other cushion over his lap, eyes dropping closed. He checked his phone once more before he placed it on the lamp table for the final time. 

The storm outside picked up a notch and Price felt it tremour through the old building, and he watched the rain lash against the balcony windows as fitful sleep dragged him under.

---

“This is Bravo Six in the blind; Watcher—ahh, Watcher, do you c-copy?”

Static.

”Kate… Kate, please… fuh-ck, Watcher, this S-six in—“ 

The rubble above his head moved. He held his breath. There was nowhere for him to move. Nowhere for him to run. It had taken an eternity to wrestle his arm free enough to get to his radio. If the rubble shifted now, it would crush him.

The pain was blinding. Like white hot pokers stabbing through every muscle. If he hadn’t been able to move his arm, he would have assumed his spine or neck were broken.  Maybe both.  He could feel his right leg, but not his left. Couldn’t even see it.

”Watcher, do you copy?”

Static.

”Kate, please… don’t let me die down here, don’t… please…”

His pleas were soaked up by the oppressive silence. The muffled, muted space that seemed to swallow his voice.

Suffocating nothingness. 

Static. 

He couldn’t move. Not an inch. His trap was closing in. Crushing him. Several tons of concrete and steel pressing down on his ribs, his legs. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t breathe.

---

Waking up felt like he was having to claw out from beneath that rubble himself, chest heaving, the neck of his t-shirt stained dark as he fought his way back to the surface. Early morning light was leaking through the balcony door, the spots of rain still clinging to the glass making the living room glitter like a disco ball hung from the ceiling. He lifted a shaking hand from beneath the fleece and smoothed his damp hair back over his head, mentally counting through the grounding exercises Sally had taught him. 

Feel, see, hear, touch. 

Like he’d been run over by a Challenger—his ceiling—phone alarm—blanket. 

Price threw out a hand and managed to swipe his damn phone off the table. Cussing and snarling, he slumped onto the floor, fishing it out from beneath the lamp stand. He didn’t have enough energy to climb his way back onto the sofa, so he sat there once he’d switched the alarm off, staring into space. The world slowly filtered back in, his senses spreading out through the room, latching onto anything that connected him to the reality outside his head. Unfortunately, that also brought with it the constant dull throb of pain in his left side. 

That last mission had been the final crack in a dam he hadn’t even been aware of. Over twenty years of difficult operations in the most inhospitable environs and his mind had soldiered through, unbroken, robust. Colleagues and friends had fallen before him, so he knew what post-traumatic stress disorder looked like, but it was something that happened to other people. Not him. Not in a million fuckin’ years.

But leave him trapped under some rubble for a few hours and suddenly every difficult experience, every interrogation, every period spent trapped behind enemy lines at their mercy, every close call, every fallen soldier, they all came flooding back like vengeful demons that had been caged in the pits of hell to tear off their pound of flesh. 

The nightmares weren’t always the same. Sometimes, his subconscious decided to dredge up an experience from over a decade ago to torture him with. A few nights ago, it had been the interrogation that had left him with burn scars over his lower back. A month spent in an Al Qatala detention facility before Mac had extracted him.  He hadn’t broken—given them bloody nothing— and had passed the psych eval after that one with flying colours. Even the psychologist had been a little suspicious—impressed, but suspicious. Turned out all he’d done was squash it all so far down that it was invisible to a prying eye, and then managed to trick himself that he was just made of stronger stuff than average. 

He was good at that though: keeping secrets. Pretending, manipulation, getting what he wanted out of people. Out of himself. It was no surprise that he’d got so good at it over the years that he had managed to dupe even himself into believing what he needed to get the job done. Stupid wanker.

Price scowled as he rolled to his feet, wobbling unsteadily at first as he regained his balance, before limping into his bedroom. He had a quick shower to wash the sweat off and threw on his gym kit. Just because his lower half was useless, that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep the rest of him in shape. The physio had told him to keep it light, that everything in his body was connected and his nervous system needed time to adjust, and he had nodded along.

Truth was, he liked the burn of it. It felt like punishment. A punishment that he could control. It was both proof that he was still, physically, worth something and a way to chastise the parts of himself that weren’t as strong as they used to be. John left the house just as his morning alarm went off.

He ignored the sideways glances from the reception staff as he limped through the automatic barriers, his car parked in the second row back because he couldn’t quite bring himself to use the damn blue badge the council had given him when Carol had completed the forms on his behalf. 

This early in the morning, the gym was more or less empty. There were a few night shifters getting their end of day workout in at the squat racks, so Price dumped his gym bag by a bench in front of the dumbbells. The powerlifter to the right glanced at him as he grabbed 26kg for a warm up set, and from that point on he let his mind go blank. All that existed as he worked his way through his ‘push day’ was the burn in his shoulders, his chest, down his spine. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was in the gym in Credenhill, with Ghost grunting on his right and Soap pausing to take yet another selfie on his left…

His phone trilled. 

He dropped the dumbbells to the floor at his feet and snatched it from his bag. He hated himself for feeling disappointed when he saw his sister’s name. 

“Wotcha, love, everyfin’ ok?” He slumped back on the bench, spare arm dangling between his legs as the burn of the lift faded.

I know it’s ya day off, but I need a favour…

”Right…”

We’ve got a regular in Chester who needs a home visit.

”Oh yeah, Cheshire set, is he?”

Nah, he’s… a foreign national. Scary bloke, actually. And that’s the problem, all the girls are refusin’ t’ go.

”Did he touch one’uv‘em?”

No, no. Nothin’ like that. He’s just… scary. Lives in one of those big detached houses, and he has loads of… well, they called ‘em henchmen. Said it’s like walkin’ int’ mafia film, John.

”If he’s so bloody terrifyin’, why not jog ‘im on?”

It’s… not tha’ simple, la.

Price’s hackles went up instantly. 'Not that simple'  could mean a hundred different things, but all the dots were joining up in a way that made Price want to load his M1911 before he drove over. “Why?”

Look, I… if ya can’t do, ‘ll go meself, but…

”Don’t you bloody dare,” Price growled. “I’ll go. Send me the time, the address, what his usual is.” 

He heard her breathe a sigh of relief. 

Cheers, John. I… I owe y’bevvy, yeah? 

“Stop tryin’ to set me up with Gary, and we’ll call it even.”

Oi, I was jus’—okay, fine. Gary is off the Price menu.

”Carol, I swear t’…” He glanced over his shoulder as the grunting behind him had gone conspicuously silent and the brief moment of eye contact was enough to make him drop his voice. “Right. Forward me the intel, and—“

She chuckled.

”Wot?”

I will forward ya the intel, big brother. Love ya, see ya later. 

Price stared at the phone in his hand long after it had gone black. The heat under his skin was adrenalin. He’d recognise the bubbling rush of it anywhere; the heavy drum of his heart, the tightness in his chest. Excitement.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, get a grip,” Price mumbled as he chucked his phone into his bag and returned the weights. It was probably some sweaty billionaire who fancied himself the bloody Godfather. Normal people—people who hadn’t spent their entire adult lives fighting real mobsters, crooks and war criminals—saw a grim face and a sharp suit and were easily intimidated. Price would scope the place out and gather some more information on whatever the fuck this arsehole had on Carol, and then he would fix the problem. He was good at that. Fixing other people’s problems. It let him ignore his own for a bit longer.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Price meets Nikolai.

Carol had sent through the client’s details about ten minutes after the call had ended. It was a late afternoon appointment - 4pm, sharp - and the address would take him to Sandy Lane, Chester. Price finished up in the gym quickly, energised by the excitable buzz beneath his skin. It should make him feel disconcerted at how excited he was by the prospect of a bit of peril, even if it would turn out to be some old bloke with a smoker’s wheeze and a waistline too wide to give Price much hassle if it came to it. Yet more proof that he was completely fucked in the head and Sally had her work cut out for her unpicking said clusterfuck. But he only felt… purposeful. For the first time in months, he was needed. He was useful .

On his way home, Price stopped off for a pint of milk and a copy of the Echo at the offie and, after standing in the corridor to pant through the pain until his head stopped spinning, knocked on Jenny’s door.

“Mrs Granger, it's John,” he said loudly, his voice rebounding down the corridor. If she tried to struggle out of her chair to the spyhole, she could fall and she'd already had one hip replacement.

“Oh, loveleh!”

The latch fell away and she opened the door, the old wheels of her chair creaking. The smell of chamomile and detergent flooded over his face in the rush of heat that spilled out, and he blinked into it, offering her a crooked smile in greeting. Jenny had a health visitor a few times a week, but she prided herself on being self-sufficient and orderly. There was a daughter somewhere; she didn't visit much. “C’min, c’min,” she hurried him across the threshold.

“Can't stay long, ma’am. ‘ve got… some bits to do.” 

She thought he didn't see the way she looked at him with pity as he opened her fridge door and placed the milk inside it, leaving the Echo on the small little table on which she was sorting through her bills. She played with the fold of her apron in her lap as she studied him through her cataracts. “How'd the meetin' go down the ozzy, la?”

“It were sound. She finks I'm gettin’ on, y'know.” Price tugged at the sleeve of his coat, knowing full well that if he looked at Jenny she would see right bloody through him. She was shrewd like that. His poker face didn't seem to work on her, even if it worked on the rest of the world well enough.

“Oh, good,” she leaned back in her chair, hand dropping to one of the wheels, “ey, have ya bagged yerself a fella yet?”

“Eee, yer worse than me sis, like.”

“Don’ ‘eee’ me. A fit lad like yerself should’ve got a fella by now. Yer proper remind me of Freddie Mercury. Loveleh lad, sad what ‘appened.”

Price glanced at himself in the reflection of the mirror in the hallway with a raised eyebrow. He didn't see the resemblance. “Well… when I do, yer comin’ t’ weddin’ as me bridesmaid, yeah?”

She flushed a light pink and batted his arm, gathering a handkerchief to her mouth to cover her chuckle. “Eee, ya rascal! Well, get a move on, I ain't gettin’ any younger, am I? Ey, c’mere, silly sod.”

Jenny opened her arms up to him and Price felt that familiar knot form in his chest as he stooped down to accept the embrace. Her frail arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, and he encircled her hunched back gently, holding her close as she placed a soft kiss on his cheek. “It'll be fine in the end, lad. ‘Ave faith.”

“Yeah… ‘course.” Price straightened up, adjusting his t-shirt. “Right, ‘ll get out ya hair. Gimme a bell if ya need ‘nythin’.”

“Mind ‘ow ye go, la.” 

When he'd first started renting the flat, Jenny had still had her husband, Peter. They had spotted him for the lost, inexperienced young man he'd been at the time, without parents to guide him through the first shaking steps of adulthood. Just out of Sandhurst, confused by bills and how the fuck did you even set up a landline anyway? And they'd been there for him. Even if he didn't necessarily stay at the flat much, he always made time to check on Jenny. It was the least he could do now Peter was gone and her mobility was getting worse.

He left her to do the crossword in the Echo and returned to his flat. A quick shower later and he was sitting at the centre island separating the living room from the kitchen, a steaming mug of black coffee sat next to his open laptop, the cursor blinking in the Google search bar. He had a good few hours before he had to be anywhere. Plenty of time for some recon, even if he didn't really have much to go on.

Carol had sent him basic details. The client’s name was “Nik”, he needed a deep tissue levator scapulae neck massage and he lived in a house with its own damn name as well as a postcode. It wasn't a lot to go on, because Price could at least get to know the area in case the visit went to shit and he needed to get out of there quickly. He needed to work out what this arsehole had on Carol that meant she couldn't kick him off the books. Once he knew that, he could fix it.

Price left the laptop to do some laundry and hoover the front room, the pain in his leg somewhat manageable with his mind elsewhere. The hours crawled by, and he returned to the laptop to study the map a number of times, the scant bit of information he had, a poor imitation of the manila folders and iPad screens he was usually presented with when embarking on an op.

After he'd packed his work bag and changed into his white polo shirt and smart slacks, he knocked back some painkillers preemptively, the non-drowsy and less effective kind. It was a thirty-minute drive to Chester and they had time to kick in. 

There was a familiar itching beneath his skin as he left Birkenhead and pulled onto the M53. The same feeling he got as he stepped into the back of a Hercules or performed the last checks on the team before they set off. It felt familiar, comfortable, and Price couldn't help but enjoy the buzz of it. He was alive for the first time since stepping foot back in Liverpool with his discharge papers clutched in his hand and an endless void of uncertainty stretching out before him. Facing down bad men was what he was made for.

He only half listened to the Rugby updates on the radio. It was a bad season for the Sharks, with a fixture against the Leicester Tigers ending in an absolute hammering the weekend before. The dreary tone of the commentator faded into background noise as Price mentally recapped the floor plan he'd memorised from Zoopla - four potential exits at the back, river and private mooring at the bottom of the garden with a potential escape route - while trying to temper his expectations.

In the end, Price was ten minutes early, the traffic a little lighter than Google had predicted. He pulled into the gravel driveway and nestled his Honda Civic behind a silver Jaguar parked next to the empty flower bed. It had been cleared for autumn, the ferns and shrubs hunkered down and pruned for the coming winter. The smell of rain still sat heavy on the air as he stepped out and grabbed his bag from the boot, and the gravel grated wetly under the boots of the woman that approached from the open front door. 

”You’re not a woman,” she said. American accent, East coast. She was young. Slightly older than Soap, if Price had to guess, with neat braids tied in a single tail behind her head and intense brown eyes that narrowed on Price like he was an unwanted contaminant. The way she was dressed said private security, but the way she carried herself said US military. 

“Well spotted,” he replied. “Boss sent me instead. That gonna be a problem?” 

She glanced him up and down, a well-sculpted eyebrow arching. His waspish tone might have pissed off some, but she looked mildly amused. “Name?”

”John. You?”

Her smile was tight as she flicked her head, indicating he should follow. They crossed the driveway and Price managed the few steps to the front door without gripping the rail. The painkillers were working, but he could still feel the grinding niggle in his hip, the way his muscles pulled tight when he extended his leg behind him.

The entrance vestibule opened into a wide reception hall with an oak-turned staircase leading up to the first floor and more steps leading down to the basement, if the floor plans on Zoopla were to be believed. Price glanced into the cloakroom, half expecting to find another suited goon leering at him through the crack in the door, but saw nothing. Instead, a blinking security camera covered the entrance, and Price kept his chin tilted down. 

”Boss is just finishing up a phone call,” his escort explained as they walked by the kitchen and conservatory. This time, there were more suited figures standing around, leaning against the central kitchen island, sprawled in the bright warmth of the conservatory, playing cards, cigarette smoke curling out of the open windows. 

The low rumble of conversation carried through the open doors and Price was reminded of walking by the rec room on his way to stores back in Hereford. Price soaked in what he could through a few stolen glances; the bulges in jackets, the hood one of them wore over their head, the blinking lights of more surveillance disguised by the quaint nineteenth century decor. He could see why a civvie would have been intimidated; it was like walking into a bloody Bond villain’s lair.

His escort stopped by the open door of the sitting room, knuckles rapping three times against the heavy oak wood. A brief pause followed, and then, “prikhodite.”

Russian. A coil of tension wound its way down his spine as he prepared to come face to face with a pakhan as the old rustic hinges creaked. “Your physio’s here, Nik. He’s a little less sweet-looking than usual. Goes by John.” 

The room was as bright and airy as the rest of the house, with the Victorian bay windows looking out over the gardens and river. Price might have given the decor a quick once over, and certainly scoped out the corners for more suits carrying concealed firearms, but his brain did a little record scratch as his eyes settled on the seated figure by the feature fireplace. 

‘Nik’ filled the dark green armchair he was sitting in, his long legs crossed over at the knee, sockless feet tucked in an expensive pair of loafers Price reckoned would see off at least a few months worth of his pension. The pale salmon suit, with its flattering cut sprawled over broad shoulders, tapering to a narrower waist, would take up the rest of the year’s installments. The fabric didn’t stretch in the wrong places like a cheap ensemble off the hanger at Marks, but complemented the muscular frame of its wearer in a way that drew the eye to the furred chest peeking out of the open collar of his dress shirt. Tailored . There were no telltale bulges to suggest an underarm holster, and his posture was too relaxed for someone who had a firearm tucked in the back of their belt. 

Nik was comfortable in his domain. Assured of his absolute safety. His presence sprawled through the entire room, hanging heavy and dominant, despite the apparent whimsy of his chosen suit. This wasn’t a man who needed to rely on image and bravado to maintain authority. He had secured it through other means. The first alarm bells began to trill in the back of Price’s mind and he shifted so that the exit was in his peripheral vision. 

Price watched Nik place his phone down on the side table and pick up a cigar from the side of a crystal ashtray. As Nik took a long draw, he studied Price with dark, intense eyes framed by neatly slicked back hair and a roguish stubble spotted with a little silver. Nik followed the contours of Price’s body and Price squared his shoulders, unwilling to show even a shred of weakness in his bearing. It didn’t stop the quiver that ran down his spine; the natural survival instinct of a trained soldier that set all of his senses tingling. He knew then, as Nik blinked slowly, shifting his shoulders between the wings of the armchair, head tilted to the side in an appraising slant, that he was in the presence of something a whole lot more dangerous than the poser he'd been expecting.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Nik said, his low timber vibrating at Price’s core. The cigar smoke curled from the corners of his mouth before he blew it away properly. “I think you lack taste, Syd.” 

Price swallowed and tried to ignore the heat creeping up his back. He’d expected some overweight millionaire with a funny accent, not… that , and now he felt off kilter. He dug deep to find the CO that had been on standby since his discharge and shoved him to the front, whiskers twitching as he cleared his throat. “We’re on your clock. Where d‘ya want me t’ set up?” 

The corners of Nik’s lips perked up and he jutted his chin in Syd’s direction. She bowed her head and departed, casting one final glance in Price’s direction before ducking out the door. Nik rolled to his feet, surprisingly fluid for such a large man—and bloody hell, he was large. Price was six-two, nearly 100 k’s soaking wet, but Nik had about two or three inches on him and a good few extra pounds. As he drew close, Price stood his ground, chin tilting up to meet Nik’s gaze. Brown, Nik’s eyes were brown. Not black like a shark’s. There was an amusement in the lines at the corners that tugged a little at Price’s pride. “Upstairs,” Nik said, finally. “Come.” 

Price caught a whiff of his cologne as he walked by. Musky; sandalwood, maybe. Carol would be able to tell. It was good, whatever it was. Expensive and refined. Like the rest of him. Price followed Nik out of the sitting room, a new stiffness in his leg dogging his gait. When they reached the foot of that oak turned staircase, Price tried to hide his grimace. Nik was clearly paying more attention than he was letting on, because he paused on the third, his ringed fingers resting on the bannister. “Do you require assistance?”

”No,” Price responded quickly, probably too quickly, and Nik’s eyebrow perked up. “Lead on.” 

Price half expected to have to argue his case, but Nik didn't push. Instead, he continued up the stairs onto the brightly illuminated landing. Price clenched his teeth and followed, steadying his breathing through his nose as he reached the top, before hobbling after his client to one of the vast rooms at the back of the house. It was a bedroom, according to his mental map of the floorplans, with a large en suite attached to the side.

There was a large four-poster bed, with expensive-looking sheets, and a large chest at the foot of it. But other than that, the only other piece of furniture was the sturdy massage table, sat on a thick rug by the ornate fireplace and already draped with crisp, clean towels. It was a professional set-up, not the cheap, rickety kind that some wellness influencers liked to buy for their instagram shots. Price watched Nik disappear into the en suite before dumping his bag, taking a moment to massage some of the pain out of his thigh before he pulled out his kit.

He tied his apron around his waist and glanced out the window into the sprawling back garden. There was a large black dog roaming around on the grass, and another suited henchman sat on a deckchair by the river, but otherwise nothing. There was nothing in the room either; no blinking lights to give away cameras, and no obvious weapons stashed beneath the damn duvet. There were no coats of arms, no stray folders or telltale insignias. It was as if the room had been kept deliberately clean.

Price was just about to check beneath the mantle of the fireplace when the door of the en suite clicked open and Nik returned. 

Price counted himself as a professional; he had as a soldier, and now as a member of his sister's company. He had touched all sorts of bodies, young and fit, old and doughy, and he'd managed to separate his mind from his actions without much hassle. But he’d be a damn liar if he said the sight of Nik didn't give him pause. That suit had complemented his physique well, but it had hidden a fair amount too. 

Nik was built like an operator. Thicker than Simon, with dense black body hair across his chest and stomach, disappearing below the towel at his waist. There was serious definition under that plush; a taste for good food and expensive wine, no doubt, but also for hard graft in the gym. And as he drew closer, bare feet silent on the wood panelled floor, Price could pick out the scars on his torso; slashes, patched up bullet holes. Nik raised an eyebrow and looked down at his own torso.

Price cleared his throat, gesturing at the scars. “S’quite a collection. You play a rough sport?”

“Of a kind,” Nik replied, the corner of his lips twitching up. Price wasn't about to give away that he knew exactly what a fuckin’ gunshot looked like on a man, or how a stab wound healed when it had been inflicted by a serrated knife. Nik glanced at the massage table. “Are you ready?”

“‘Course, park yerself comfortably, ‘n I'll make a start.” Price turned away for a moment as Nik walked over, and when he looked back up, his hand in the front pouch of his apron, Nik gripped his elbow. It took all of Price's self control not to punch him in the throat out of pure muscle memory. “Problem?” he asked, voice tight.

“Forgive me, I am a… paranoid man,” Nik said, his grip firm, but not bruising. He was studying Price closely; for a bloody reaction, Price realised. “I would like to check for weapons.”

“Bit late, innit? Already got yer kit off.” Price kept level eye contact, watching for the slightest twitch of intent. It was truly alarming how calm Nik's gaze was, almost soft in the late afternoon light, but there was a shadow there. A glimmer of threat.

“I do not need to be wearing clothes to defend myself,” Nik said, “but I would prefer to be certain I will not have to.”

“Fine, you're the boss.” Price raised an eyebrow, twitching his forearm pointedly, and Nik loosened his grip enough for Price to pull the bottle of lotion out into the open. He stretched his arms either side, trying to ignore the way his own breath hitched as Nik's big palms swept over his chest and shoulders, down his sides. It was a familiar dance, this. Being searched by enemy combatants to lure them into a false sense of security. Usually, Price held all the cards, or had a Plan C and D lined up. Not this time. 

When Nik stepped in close to check his back and belt, Price got a mouthful of his damn scent, and it made him a little bloody giddy. He kept his breathing shallow and steady, trying not to take too much in, but he could feel a flutter at the back of his eyes. A knot in his throat as Nik's thick chest pressed to his. He swallowed it down and thought of his late neighbour Peter watering his balcony pots in the nuddy while Nik's hands brushed over his arse and down his thighs. His touch was assured, unapologetic, and when he pressed a little harder around a sensitive nerve ending, Price had to cover his wince. “Oi, dinner first.”

“Perhaps,” Nik said, his fingers sweeping around Price's ankles before he slowly uncurled to his full height again. “I apologise. The change was a surprise. You can never be too careful.”

“You're a scary bloke. Fink the girls were a little spooked by the set-up downstairs, so they sent the expendable.”

Nik only hummed noncommittally as he approached the table. Price expected him to clamber, graceless as anyone else, but he only lifted his knee and slid into place with practiced ease, big arms lining up at the edges of the padding. Price approached the side and Nik watched him over the mound of his damn impressive bicep. Still watchful. That was fine. If Price's hunches were true, Nik had plenty of reason to be.

Price said nothing more as he tipped the oil into his hands, working it over his palms and fingers to warm it before he placed both on Nik's back. His skin was warm. Price smirked. What had he been expecting? The clammy, slippery skin of an eel? Thick muscles flexed into his fingers, and Nik’s eyes flickered. “There is a problem?”

“Nah, I was expectin’ some ink is all. Maybe a naked bird… snarlin’ wolf.” Price felt the subtle tension around the shoulders and upper back and started with light strokes, gradually pressing deeper as Nik eased into his touch. He worked his way down the spine, sweeping his thumbs outwards, following the contour of the dark hair dusting the back of Nik's ribs. He paused over scars; more divots and holes. Nik’s life had been as brutal as Price's.

“I have never had occasion to get any.”

He'd never been caught. Price filed it to the back of his mind. He was either good, or bloody lucky. The Russians were cut-throat, and their prison system always left its mark. Nik's breathing stayed shallow at first, the stiffness in his back clearly the result of discomfort. “Let me know if anyfin’ feels off.”

“Mm,” was the only response. Price glanced down at Nik’s face as his thumbs circled over the back of hips. Eyes closed. That was quick. With each pass, Nik's back surrendered a little more. Price moved to his latissimus dorsi, using long, flowing motions to stretch and release the tightness along the side of his torso. “Your hands are rougher than I would expect.” Nik's voice was deeper, stickier at the back of his throat with relaxation.

“‘ve always worked wiv me hands. Last job weren't as gentle on the skin.” Price refocused his efforts on Nik's upper back and trapezius, pressing his thumbs in a firm, steady pressure until each knot released. Most men carried their tension up high, and Nik let out a long breath as his back melted into pliant comfort. Price paused only to top up with more oil.

“What did you do?”

“Private security.” It was always best to stick to half-truths. 

“And why did you leave?”

“Injury. Bit off more ‘n I could chew.” Price moved to Nik's shoulders, sweeping his fingers out across their broad plateau. Fuckin’ ‘ell, the bloke had some delts on him. This wasn't a body built for vanity, even if the posh suit, the gold chain, the rings, indicated otherwise. This was a body built for explosive power and utility. “You often interrogate the help?”

“Only when they are interesting.” 

“‘m flattered. Carol says ‘m a borin’ old bastard.” 

“That is the prerogative of all younger sisters.”

Price didn't catch himself in time. He hesitated, his hands tightening a little on Nik's shoulders. His eyes flickered up to the en suite and then to the door. “Your people work fast.”

“Da.”

How fast? Had Nik already caught him in a lie? Price kept his heart rate down with measured breaths and continued his work. Nik was still relaxed, his posture easing further into the table. Price resisted the urge to probe more and focused on working the heel of his hand into the back of Nik's shoulder. There was no need to panic. ‘Sid’ could have called Carol and enquired, then texted her boss. Basic stuff. 

Nik’s big hands flexed contentedly against the towel either side of his head, like a big cat. His long lashes fluttered against his cheek and his hips lifted a little, the towel sliding a little lower down his arse. Any other time, any other place, Nik would be everything Price looked for in a shag, maybe even something a little more. Right down to being about as dangerous as overcooking a frag grenade. He'd laugh at himself if he didn't find it so pathetically predictable. 

The rest of the massage continued in silence. Price found his mind drifting as it sometimes did when his hands were busy, quieting but for the background buzz of automated instruction. His fingers followed the curves and channels of Nik's back, thumbs dipping into the groove of his spine and slotting round the sides of his waist. By the time he was finished, his watch beeping against his wrist, Nik’s breathing had evened out almost to a light doze. 

“All done,” Price murmured, shuffling back. He dropped his eyes as Nik sat up, allowing for any accidental slippage of the towel. Nik was a little more sluggish as he uncurled, rolling his shoulders and flexing his back, and Price bent down to gather his kit back into his bag and wipe his hands off. When he straightened back up, bag on his shoulder, Nik was upright on the table, studying him closely. “Not too much’uv a let down, I hope.”

“It was perfect,” Nik said without hesitation. “I find that others are too soft with me.”

“Nuffin’ soft about me,” Price said. It was half warning, his eyes hardening a little as he met Nik's gaze, but he found only a curious look in return. There was a soft knock at the door and the young woman that had escorted Price to the drawing room downstairs reappeared.

“All good, boss?”

“Da,” Nik said, before looking back at Price. “Please pass my regards to your sister, John.” 

The way his name sat in Nik's mouth like that sent a shiver down Price's spine. He offered a stiff nod and then followed Syd back through the house, still trying to catch any remaining glimpses of intel before the front door shut behind him. 

When Price slumped back into his Civic, he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. His leg and back were killing him, the pain burning through his core, gripping all the way up to the base of his skull, sharp and acute. Painkillers were back at the flat. He'd have to tough it out after a bit of breathing. 

Biting off more than they could chew seemed to be a Price trait, because his sister had managed to get herself ensnared in something more dangerous than Price had anticipated. Nik was no thick-waisted businessman cosplaying as the godfather; he was the real deal.

He shoved his car into reverse.

Time to get Laswell on the blower. 

---

Nik gathered his phone from the en suite, leaving his towel draped across the radiator as he returned to the bedroom, naked and more than half hard. He opened the text from Syd - “John, older brother, invalided out from the Army” - and dialled her up.

“I want to know more.”

Syd chuckled. Yeah… thought you might. Can't resist a pair of pretty blue eyes, can ya, boss?

“The way he carries himself, the way he was auditing the house, his questions… he is not some simple squaddie. There is more. Find everything you can.”

Aye aye, sir. So, guess we’ll be asking for him again?

“Have a good evening, Syd.” 

Nik hung up and threw his phone onto the foot of the bed. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms above his head. No pain, only a soft, warm arousal tightening in his belly. He slid beneath the sheets and ran his palm down the length of his cock to the wet tip, teasing his foreskin back with his thumb, groaning softly. He had been well behaved, which was a feat in itself when faced with such a ruggedly handsome boy, and deserved a treat. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to imagine those blue eyes for long before he got to enjoy the real thing.

Notes:

More tags are likely once the smut takes shape. As usual, if I'm missing any, please let me know via comment or message on Tumblr.

Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are very welcome; they give me hope and motivation to write more, for I am but a simple hobby author. For more short stories, fanart, headcanons and the very occasional meta post, I can be found @on-a-lucky-tide.