Archive of Our Own ^beta

Price pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, holding his breath with a full chest, as he willed himself to focus.

It was getting on to a sixteen hour day, one of way too fuckin' many recently, and all his stores were depleted. No amount of coffee and sugar free Redbull Bull was helping him now. He had no choice but to push on anyway.

With a sigh, he dropped his hands into his lap and blinked away the fog, his eyes no less sore than they had been moments ago. His watch read 2300, which meant he still had four hours to squeeze out a few more reports before he hit the minimal threshold for sleep. Any less than four hours and he would be inefficient.

His chest felt tight and his shoulders ached from where he had been hunched over for so long, and no matter how many times he read through Gaz's summary of the interrogation training from three days ago, nothing was sinking in. He was at peak information saturation, with four deadlines looming over his head, fifty emails to answer, and a field exercise to organise.

Price picked up his pen, circled one of Gaz's comments on a specific trooper, and tapped at his keyboard. Just as his sluggish brain had negotiated the database he needed, a sharp knock at his door drew his attention. "C'min. Make it quick."

The door opened and the familiar sight of his favourite pilot loomed large against the white lights of the corridor. "Captain," Nik said as he stepped up to the desk, shutting the rest of the world out behind him. He had been grounded for a few days due to much needed repairs, and Price would be lying if he said he hadn't enjoyed having him around, even if they'd only managed to snatch thirty minutes here and there. It was just... nice.

Nik placed a plate of food on top of the reports; ham sandwich with Cheese and Onion Walkers crisps on the side. White bread n' all. Price's favourite. "Ah, cheers," Price said, pulling it towards him with a faint smile. "Y'olrigh'?"

"Da." Nik walked around Price's desk to stand behind his chair, big hands squeezing Price's biceps before stroking up to his shoulders. "I am concerned."

"About?" Price closed one of his eyes in hopes it would help the remaining one bring the text on the page before him into focus. Unfortunately, Nik chose that moment to press his thumbs into the knots packing Price's shoulders and he grunted, his fingers tightening around his pen, as the pressure unspooled pleasantly down his arms and up his neck.

"You are exhausted, and I know this is the first thing you have eaten since this morning."

"Ahh, I'll have a big breakfast tomorrow, mmph." Price hunkered over as Nik's hands worked up his neck, large fingers sloping down his clavicles as Nik's thumbs rubbed circles to his hairline. It was like sinking into heaven; Nik's palms were so warm, absolute kryptonite to Price's dwindling resolve to keep working. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, wanting nothing more than to sink back into Nik's arms and fall asleep. "Oi, ah, Nik... 've gotta finish these."

"Tomorrow," Nik said, tracing Price's hairline in sweeping strokes, leaning down to press a kiss to Price's thinning crown. It was too much. Too good. Price shrugged him off and Nik's hands fell away reluctantly.

"Naw, g'won. Go back t' bed. 'll be there in a bit."

"You have half an hour."

"Oh yeah?"

"Da. Enough time to finish your sandwich and wind down."

Price smirked, huffing. "Yeah, we'll see."

Nik patted Price's shoulder and left the office with his usual swagger. Price shook his head, grabbed a handful of crisps, and returned to the computer screen.

-

Nik set himself a timer on his phone. It was enough time for him to fill up the hot water bottle John kept in his closet for strain injuries, bundle a few more blankets onto the bed, crack the window and fill a pint glass of water for the bedside table.

When his phone buzzed in his back pocket, he readied himself for the fight. To out-stubborn John Price was a feat of strength in itself, but Nik had a track record of successes that were mounting up more rapidly with each passing year. The more he burrowed into John's life, gently nurtured their relationship, the less John was able to resist him. It was a good thing; he worked too hard and had a depressingly poor sense of self care.

Nik didn't knock before he entered John's office this time, but it didn't matter anyway. He found his captain slumped facedown on the desk, his hand slack around the pen. He was snoring softly, the noise muffled by the pile of paper that made up his make-shift pillow.

Waking a sleeping soldier was always a little dangerous. John was fairly centered when he was on base, but there was always a small risk. Nik approached slowly, his palm sliding over John's wrist as he spoke softly to rouse him as slowly as possible. "John, time for bed."

John's face crumpled in a frown before his eyes opened. He sat back, a page sticking briefly to his cheek before he batted it away. "Bollocks, bit of food in my belly and that was it," he grumbled. "Naw, can't, I've gotta--"

Nik took John by the jaw and turned his face up. "Nyet. You are finished now." John was barely awake, his eyes lidded as he looked up at Nik fuzzily, his hair ruffled, his beard flattened on one side, his round cheeks pinched between Nik's fingers, the tiredness filling his usually bright irises; he looked heartbreakingly sweet, which was probably an assessment that would rankle him should Nik voice it.

Rather than give John time to argue, Nik dipped forward and slid an arm beneath his legs, wrapping the other around his back, pausing for a moment to breathe him in.

"Nik... What're ya--ha, what're yer doin'?" Price chuckled tiredly, flailing only a little as Nik lifted him out of his chair. "Put me down, yer giant bastard." Perhaps John's protest would have had a greater impact if it hadn't been murmured into the side of Nik's neck, one of John's hands bunched in his shirt.

"You have lost weight."

"S'been a long year," John replied, lifting his face free only enough to put up token resistance. "If someone sees me bein' carried like some virgin bride, 'm never gonna get me reputation back."

"It is nearly midnight. There is no one awake but overworked, underpaid captains and their long-suffering lovers." Nik hooked the door open with his foot and carried John into the corridor. It wasn't far. Just two doors down. But one could not put a Price down once captured, lest it scurry back to its labours.

"Still gives me the... shivers y'know, the... lovers thing..." John was falling already, his body lax in Nik's arms, each breath a struggling, tired sigh as he clung to consciousness. Nik dipped his elbow and backed into the bedroom, depositing his armful of captain gently into the centre of the bed.

John was more a hindrance than a help getting his clothes off, and Nik batted his hands away from the laces of his boots, smiling when John flopped onto his back. The trousers and t-shirt were easier, and soon Nik was tucking John beneath the blankets and sliding in beside him.

The one advantage of such a narrow bed was that they had to essentially sleep on top of each other to fit. It was such a habit that even when they were in one of Nik's condos, with a sprawling king to enjoy, they ended up huddled on one side, their bodies curled together. John rested on Nik's chest, one arm draped over his belly, and Nik wrapped his back, thumb stroking slowly over warm skin.

"Yer too good t' me," John murmured, turning his face into the soft hair on Nik's chest with a contented hum, his hand kneading against Nik's belly.

"I must make up for how bad you are to yourself."

"S'jus' the job, Nik." John squirmed a little, rubbing himself against the length of Nik's body, snuggling down into the warmth and comfort subconsciously as sleep pulled him under.

Nik turned his face into John's fluffy hair, and closed his own eyes as John's breathing evened out and his body relaxed. Perhaps, Nik thought groggily as his dreams lured him in, if John Price was married to him rather than his job, he would be happier and healthier. Nik decided then, as John nuzzled against him in his dreams, that he would turn 'lover' into 'husband' by the end of the year.

They were conducting an op in the Middle East somewhere. It was a dry heat out in the desert so Price didn't notice it as much. He was used to the clammy, uncomfortable heat we get in the UK. To him, that's heat, the kind that makes you soak through your shirt at the back, under your arms, under your damn tits.

The dry desert crept up on him and while he absolutely recognised the importance of maintaining himself properly so that he didn't jeopardise their mission, he had been single-mindedly focused on everyone and everything else besides. He didn't realise he was dehydrated until he started getting dizzy while looking over a map with Mac and Nik.

Mac took one look at him and grunted. "When's the last time ye took a pish?"

Price couldn't fuckin' remember, could he? He looked at his captain stupidly, dry mouth sticky and cloying.

"Fer fuck sake, g'wan back tae the tent, ye dafty. If ah see ye out here before ye've sunk a litre, ah'll skelp ye. Nik, get him outta my sight."

So, Nik walked Price back to the tent they were storing a few crates worth of explosives in and sat him down with a Camelbak full of cold water. Once Price started drinking, he couldn't stop, it was possibly the best thing he had ever tasted in his bloody life. It didn't matter that half of it sloshed down his stubbled chin onto his shirt.

"Ah, ah, take it easy, lieutenant," Nik said, placing one of his big hands over Price's wrist. "You will make yourself sick." He smiled big, unabashed, and Price looked at himself in those mirrored aviators with a faint scowl. It was unreasonable how good-lookin' Nik was in a backwards khaki patrol cap and sunglasses. Shouldn't Russians burn in the heat? They were fifty percent snow, weren't they?

"'m fine," Price sniffed, always a little defensive around Nikolai, and now feeling extra sensitive after getting bollocked in front of him.

He hated that Nik made him feel his age. Twenty-three was young for a lieutenant but it was never usually a problem. People saw his scores, his records, his medals even now, and they forgot his age. But Nik had a way of reminding Price that, while he was looking up swearwords in the French dictionary at school to try and impress Tracy from class 9B2, Nik was already flying Sukhois and learning fifty ways to kill a man.

Nik nodded and they sat in silence for a while. Price's eyes wandered to the tent flap, and he was returning to the map in his mind when Nik's fingers, cool from where they had been holding the water bottle, touched his ears. They felt like shards of ice. "Ah, wossat fer, ya muppet?" He grumbled.

Nik's grin grew a little wider. "Your ears have burned, and the back of your neck."

"Fuck sake, I put factor fifty on this mornin'..." Price traced his fingers from his ear down his neck. The burning stopped at the line of his shemagh, which had offered some protection, even soaked in sweat.

"Da, but you are... hmm, svyetlokozshee, uh.." Nik's eyes flicked back and forth as if reading from an internal dictionary, "ah, fair-skinned."

It was damn impressive how he did that. His file had said eight languages. English was number eight. Mac had said something about mensa international having a file on Nik too. Too intelligent to be slumming it in the desert with the SAS, and yet here he was.

The way Nik said fair-skinned sounded far too fond and Price's skin would be blushing if it wasn't already red. He decided not to examine the reaction too closely. Price touched his ears gingerly, and scrunched his nose. "Great."

"You must look after yourself, lieutenant. You are the most valuable asset here." Nik dropped his pack from his shoulder and began rummaging through. He pulled out a roll of khaki and shoved it into Price's hands. When Price unrolled it, he puffed a laugh.

"A boonie hat, you jossin' me?"

Nik looked at him blankly.

"Oh, uh... Takin' the piss, as in, I'm gonna look like a twat if I wear this."

Nik rolled his shoulders in an 'eh' shrug that made Price want to shove the hat in his mouth. "You will look like a twat if you faint in the heat and the captain has to carry you out under fire."

Price licked the salt from his lips, fixing Nik with a long stare, hating the fact that he was right more than he hated the boonie hat. "Fair," he said, finally. He unrolled it, flattened out the brim, and shoved it on his head, picking up the water bottle for another long drink.

Nik watched him, eyes invisible behind his aviators, but Price was sure he was... admiring. Just felt it. Nik always looked at him in ways like that. Fuck knows why. "Wot?" Price asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist.

"Hm, just... an echo of tomorrow."

"You are bloody odd, Nik."

"Da," Nik conceded, slapping his knees before he rolled to his feet. "I will tell the captain you are almost ready. Two hundred and fifty more millilitres to go, such a good boy."

A shiver of something not entirely unpleasant ran down Price's spine, and he growled. "Just for that I'm gonna tip it on the floor."

"No, you will not." Nik didn't even look back as he walked out of the tent.

Price scowled, flashed his middle finger at Nik's back, and drank the last quarter of a litre as petulantly as he could muster. "Fuckin' wanker..."

As Price watched Nik skin and field dress the rabbits he'd shot only a few hours ago, he pondered on the sheer bloody absurdity of their current arrangement.

Nik could holiday anywhere in the world. Quite literally anywhere. He had bolt holes and apartments and arrangements on every Continent; hell, in most countries. But every year, as the temperatures began to rise in ol' Blighty, he chose to spend a week dossin’ around with Price in the great British back and beyond; no showers, a hole to shit in, some firearms, two rucksacks, with only a battered old paperback and a grumpy Englishman for company. Sounded like a sanction for poor behaviour rather than a reward for making it through another year, but here he was. Again.

Sure, he moaned about the mugginess. How the moisture in the air made clothes stick to his skin, how even the most valiant antiperspirant lost the battle on a particularly close afternoon in July. But that just meant that Nik had to take his shirt off and... well, Price weren't complainin'. Even better when they clambered into the hammock and Price fell asleep face down in that glorious chest, Nik’s scent gathered in the salt and pepper curls of his body hair for Price to breathe in as he slept. He’d never felt a peace like it.

After the fourth year of this odd arrangement, they’d thrown pretense to the wind. They didn't want to sleep in separate tents, separate sleeping bags, or separate hammocks. Out here, with only the birdsong, the earthy smell of the woodland and parched soil, the tranquility with not another soul for miles and miles, they wanted to be close.

There was a certain vulnerability to it.

No one watching, no one listening in, no one to act up to or behave in front of. Just them. The chance to be close without strings, or a time limit, or fuckin'... howevers. Price watched Nik’s bravado ease, and a certain softness, an uncertainty, bleed through, as if he wasn’t sure the Nikolai that was left when the mask slipped away was worth as much attention. Price just wanted to be close to him. Didn’t matter what they were doing at the time. They hadn’t named it yet, but Price reckoned it wouldn’t be long before they had to; every year, it was getting harder and harder to pull apart again. The desire to step their intimacy up a notch a constant tug behind their rib cage.

Helped that, after a few days out, they were basically nose blind. Price smirked.

Nik happened to glance up from where he was emptying the cavity of the second rabbit, his hands and forearms a mess of gristle and red. "You have feedback?" he asked, wryly.

"Naw, jus' thinkin' about how much we must hum," Price said, shifting Nik's rifle over his lap. "Didn't take you too long t' rustle up some scran fer us this time."

Nik huffed as he turned back to his work, using his hunting knife to cut away the paws and head. "It would be easier with traps, John. Your laws belong in the medieval period."

Price rolled his eyes. The first year, he had caught Nik setting up traps and snares, and then had to explain Britain's complex poaching laws, including the fact they weren't allowed to hunt with a bow and arrow, had to ask for the landowner's written permission, and said landowner happened to be a member of NASC with a huge deer population roaming the property. It was illegal to snare certain animals, but not others. They couldn't risk it. Nik, whose face had gone through several stages of grief, had muttered something about "class warfare" before stomping off to get his rifle from the tent.

"S'good for you to practice shootin'. Last couple of ops I swear you must've been pullin' the trigger with your eyes closed. Thought spray and pray was a yank fing." Price knew he was poking a particularly disgruntled badger, and offered a crooked grin when Nik threw him a squinty-eyed glare.

“It is called laying down cover fire,” Nik murmured, almost petulant as he tore off the last fluffy paw like it had done something to him personally. “Perhaps if you did not leap dick first into situations with minimal information…”

“Olrigh’, point taken.”

Their previous op had got a bit hairy at points, and Nik had let Price know all his thoughts in a heated argument once they had arrived home. Price sensed Nik hadn’t quite worked through all of his frustration. He’d even taken a small pop at Laswell, which had to have been a first. A few more days in the fresh air with the sun on his skin would flush it out of his system.

“All done. Take this, I will dispose of the rest.” Nik tipped the cuts of rabbit meat into the Tesco bag they’d brought their beers in and passed it up to Price, while he gathered the rest of the viscera between his large hands and carried it away into the trees. Price left his post on the fallen tree and headed the few meters back to their makeshift camp. His Landie was parked up about two miles southward and they had trekked the rest of the way into the woodlands to find a peaceful spot where the river was moving and they had a chance of catching some trout if the hunting had been less favourable.

The campsite was just as they’d left it when Price returned; two hammocks slung up between three trees, one unused but for a bit of afternoon napping. There was a rather large fire in the middle of the small clearing, with two camp chairs either side and a small work area made of a large, flat stone and two half cut logs turned on their end, an axe, and several knives stuck into the flesh of the wood. Price washed the rabbit off in the river and transferred it to a bowl, before grabbing the second bag of vegetables and setting to work.

By the time Nik had traipsed back, washed off his hands and arms, and sat down at Price’s side, the shallots and parsnips were chopped and Price was finishing off the potatoes. Nik bumped their shoulders together and Price flashed a smile, their easy equilibrium restored. They worked together seamlessly to prepare their meal, Nik piling the fire higher before adding a cast iron pan. He carved off a wedge of unsalted butter using his hunting knife and tipped the rabbit in once it began to sizzle, adding roughly chopped garlic cloves he crushed a little more against his palm using the flat of the blade, followed by the shallots. He stirred it all with a hefty wooden spoon as the meat began to brown, scenting the air and making their stomachs gurgle in anticipation.

They added the parsnips, fresh parsley, and the wild thyme Price had found on one of their strolls, porcini mushrooms, and a mixed array that Nik had foraged. Nik left the fire briefly to collect his second big contribution from his Bergen; a bloody expensive sherry that he tipped in over the meat before covering it with the lid. “Reckon you just poured ‘alf my salary inta that stew,” Price murmured.

“Not quite half,” Nik said softly and Price elbowed him with a chuckle. Bloody git. Nik leaned back on his palms and kicked his feet out, head falling back as his eyes closed. Price watched him as he finished the last potato, guiding the blade with the heel of his palm. It was nice, seein’ Nik like this. His broad shoulders relaxed, bare chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths; it was like the year’s toils were leaking out of him with each passing hour, soaked up by the dark soil and the verdant leaves of the canopy overhead. Later, Price would curl into the hammock, feel the soft give of Nik’s belly beneath him, the thick curves of his chest under his head, and it would be a small slice of heaven on earth.

“Beer?” Nik asked.

“Yeah, g’won then.”

As the stew simmered away, they cracked open two of the bottles of Peroni they had kept cool by stashing them beneath the waterline, secured by large rocks close to the shore. The sun was beginning to set and the stars were peeking through as the startling ombre of red and orange faded towards the horizon. After about fifty minutes, Price added the potatoes to simmer for the mash and joined Nik on the wool blanket he cast over the floor by the river bank. They watched the sky, their heads side by side and legs kicked out in opposite directions with their propped on their bellies, and let their minds drift. When Nik’s big hand settled by his shoulder, Price reached up and hooked his fingers around it without even thinking. He closed his eyes as Nik stroked his fingertips ponderously over each digit, feeling his calluses, the bumps of his weathered knuckles, like he was mapping it to memory. Eventually, his thumb circled against Price’s palm in a wide arc as his forefinger followed a scar across the back, and Price tilted his face into the side of Nik’s head, pressing his nose into the rough stubble on his cheek.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Price drew in a deep breath and felt his entire body glow in response to Nik’s warm scent; it curled behind his eyes, rolled down his chest to join with the ebb of pleasure that came from the simple touch of their hands. Price floated in blissful contentment, grounded only in the man that knew him better than any other on the planet and the tranquility of the woodland; the gargle of the river, the crackle and snap of the fire, the rustle of shifting trees and scarpering wildlife. His mind emptied, thoughts flitting in and out like the butterflies they had watched over the lavender field that afternoon, errant and fleeting. This was where he was truly himself, where he could simply be without a single worry or pressure. Nik was the same. Shirtless, his gold chain stark against the dark hair on his chest, a little musky, his hair ruffled and gel free, boots unlaced, carhartts belted low on his hips; only the man, not the fixer, the arms dealer, the pilot. Just Nikolai, raw, vulnerable and open. Price basked in him.

When Nik spoke, his voice a low rumble, Price hummed acknowledgment without really hearing what he said, palm flattening on the warm path of blanket he left behind with a deep sigh.

Price must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew Nik was waking him with a light squeeze of his wrist. He sat up, blinking groggily at the ration tin heaped with stew and mashed potato that Nik pushed into his palms. “Smells bloody gorgeous,” Price said, his voice thick in his throat before he cleared it.

Nik grinned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, and Price couldn’t help but smile back. They sat cross-legged on the blanket as they ate, the fire warm at their backs even though it had simmered down to smouldering embers. The meat fell off the bone, melting on the tongue, and the sherry was a damn sight better than the cheap white wine Price had brought up with them last year. That had been a culinary bloody travesty. Nik had said as much at the time.

“Next year, I think we should try a red,” Nik said as he polished off his second helping.

“Red? Proper posh…”

“One way or another, I will turn you into a cultured man.”

Price scoffed. “Oi, wot you tryin’ t’ say? ‘m bloody cultured.”

“Knowing how to swear in fifteen languages does not count, John. And neither does having a curry every Friday night,” Nik said, placing his ration tin aside. “You are still charming. For an Englishman.”

“For a—I’ll give you fockin’ charmin’. C’mere!”

Nik’s low chuckle and gleeful yelps carried far in the otherwise still summer evening as they scuffled, the echoes still fading even when the source was occupied by the chapped lips and greedy hands that drew him close, demanding, hungry. In a few days they would have to return to the crushing weight of reality and responsibility, but, for now, they could forget the rest of the world and bask in the unnamed bliss of what existed between them in the wilds of the British countryside.