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It smells like shit in the basement, to be frank. The entire room reeks of mildew and waste, the unmistakable scent of torture clinging to the shadows of the concrete tomb. From what Price can make out in the poor lighting, the basement seems residential and unfinished. Part of the floor is concrete, as if the homeowners tried to expand the basement and gave up before the floor could even be poured. The lighting comes from a stereotypical hanging lightbulb that makes John roll his eyes.
The entire situation is embarrassing, really. Getting captured as a soldier is one thing, but getting captured as the captain? Both a pain in the ass during and after, and it takes entirely too much time to fill out the paperwork. It’s why John fucking hates when hostiles use paralytics rather than physical weapons. A gun can be disarmed, rendered useless with the click of a button or the loss of a firing pin. Guns rely on aim and stopping power and a million little pieces to work just right. They can be sabotaged; God knows John’s done it countless times. But drugs are different. They’re too sneaky--not a fair fight, in his mind.
He’d much rather lose a fight and be shot and captured than have a tiny paralytic dart get him in the neck from 400 feet away. It’s a coward’s method of subdual and it’s what landed him here, chained to the ceiling of the shitty basement and half beat to hell.
The entire operation is amateur hour. Their methods of torture are subpar at best, their organization sloppy and planning apparently nonexistent. They took John from base, which he gives them credit for- it’s hard to smuggle a 6’2” unconscious captain from the middle of a military base. But that’s the only thing they pulled off.
Even the beating he’s recovering from was shit. Ineffective punches and more threats than injuries. Threatening to cut out his tongue (which is counterproductive, given they want answers to their unimportant questions), or scooping his eyes out and cutting his fingers off.
And stashing him in a residential area? It’s too easy. Price gives the 141 harder training missions on their off days for enrichment, so he’s utterly unsurprised when he hears two tell-tale thumps before you walk in the door, closely followed by Gaz.
You sweep the room just like he taught you before offering him a lopsided grin as you come to a stop in front of him. “How’s it hanging, Cap?”
He would chastise you for the shitty joke, but he can see the concern in your eyes, the dulling in color that tells him you haven’t slept since he was captured. The unspoken question of whether he’s okay is swimming in those pretty eyes.
“Want to get me down, love, or make idle chatter?” His split brow rises in an unimpressed manner. A silent confirmation that he’s alright, that there’s nothing more than surface wounds. “This isn’t exactly comfortable.”
He’s blessed with that soft laugh of yours while Gaz sets about getting Price down, silent and focused on his task. “Did Soap burn base down while I was gone?”
“Nah,” You shake your head, gentle gloved fingers assessing his injuries even though he gives you a look telling you to knock it off--he has to wait for Gaz to unchain him before he can bat your hands away. “Brat tried, but I had it handled.”
“That’s why you’re my favorite,” Price murmurs, supposed to sound like banter but coming out just a little too soft. “Keeping things running while this old man gets kidnapped.”
You let out a scoff, taking the brunt of his weight when the chains release until you’re sure he can stand on his own two legs without crumpling. “I’d hardly call this a kidnapping.”
“Oh?”
Now John can bat away those fluttering hands of yours, always so eager to help and to patch and to care. He grabs them instead of swatting them away entirely, giving a gentle squeeze. “What would you call it then, love? An adventure?”
“A vacation.” There’s that beautiful smile again. He wasn’t gone very long, but he missed seeing your eyes sparkle with that smirk, always endlessly entertained by your own jokes.
“You broken, Cap?” Gaz speaks up, clearly more focused on the mission than you. When he gets a shake of dismissal from Price, he retreats to look through the intel the dumb bastards left plastered to every wall.
An easy operation to topple, this one, and with time to make it home to the missus.
One of his hands finds its way to your hip, dragging you in to press a warm kiss to your cheek and lovingly squeeze at the soft skin he knows is hidden away under all your tactical gear.
“What’s for dinner then, darling? I’m famished.” John murmurs against your cheek. The muscles in your face pull into a smile that he subconsciously reflects. How he loves making you smile.
Happy wife, happy life, or so the saying goes.