Whiskey and Ink - Captain John Price x Reader đĽđŹđď¸
Pairing: Captain John Price x Reader Word Count: 3,751
Trigger Warnings:
alcohol consumption
smoking
mild language
suggestive themes / tension
mentions of corruption & politics
brief references to violence (non-graphic, implied military background)
A/N: HELLO MY LOVELIES đ
Okayâso this is a little different from what I normally write over on Wattpad, but since Wattpad is currently refusing to let me update (rude), I decided to finally make a Tumblr.
And because my insomnia is absolutely kicking my ass tonight⌠you all get this.
My very first imagine for a new fandomâCall of Dutyâand I fear Captain John Price may have already ruined me đŤ
This one is very much slow burn, tension, and vibes⌠but donât worryâPart Two will be⌠something else đ
I hope you enjoy, and welcome to Andie After Dark âŚ
Captain John Price had been in London less than an hour.
And yet the second he stepped off base, he didnât go home.
Didnât even consider it, really.
His flat would be exactly how he left itâempty, still, a thin layer of dust settling into corners that hadnât seen movement in months. No life. No noise. Just silence and the ghosts of things he didnât have the luxury of unpacking yet.
Soap had been yammering on about some music festivalâsomething loud, something crowded, something meant to feel like being alive again.
Price hadnât even humored it.
Instead, he walked.
No destination. No plan. Just boots hitting pavement, one after the other, letting the city swallow him whole. Letting the noise of London tryâand failâto drown out the echo of everything still sitting heavy in his chest.
It didnât work.
It never really did.
So eventually, when the thoughts got too loudâtoo sharp, too closeâhe made a decision.
A hard dampener.
The first pub he saw, he stepped into.
It was warm inside.
Dim lighting, amber-toned, the kind that softened edges and made everything feel a little less real. Conversations hummed low, laughter bubbled somewhere near the dartboards, glasses clinked in a steady rhythm behind the bar.
Normal.
God, it was normal.
Price took a seat at the far end of the bar without a word, automatically positioning himself with his back to the wall, eyes on the room.
Habit.
Instinct.
Survival.
After everything heâd seenâeverything heâd doneâawareness wasnât something he could switch off. It was stitched into him now, woven deep into muscle memory and bone.
He ordered a whiskey. Neat.
Then another.
And another.
He was halfway through his third, nursing it more than drinking it, head slightly bowedâan image of someone keeping to himself.
Except he wasnât.
Not really.
He was watching.
Always watching.
The couple in the corner booth practically devouring each otherâPrice wasnât sure how they were still breathing.
Three booths down, another pair sat stiff across from each other, tension thick enough to cut through. Pretending not to argue, which somehow made it worse.
A group of older men tucked into the far corner, hunched over what looked like cardsâpoker, maybe. Quiet, deliberate. The kind of men who had stories they didnât tell.
And the rest of the pubâhalf full, half loud, alive in that careless way civilians got to be.
Outside, rain had started to fall.
Not a drizzleâno, London was putting its back into it tonight. Heavy sheets against the windows, streaking down the glass in uneven lines.
Priceâs gaze lingered there for a moment, tracking the movement of a single drop as it raced the othersâ
The bell above the door chimed.
His head snapped up.
Instinct.
Always instinct.
And thenâ
There you were.
Rain-soaked despite your best efforts. Your hair clung to your face, damp strands sticking to your cheeks and jaw as you stepped inside, muttering something under your breath as you wrestled your umbrella closed.
You shook it out near the door, shrugging off your coat with a small huff, clearly unimpressed with the weather.
Priceâs eyes tracked you before he could stop himself.
A single drop of water slid from your hair, down the curve of your neck, disappearing beneath your collar.
His grip tightened slightly around his glass.
He looked away.
He should have looked away.
You didnât head toward the dartboard crowdâthe loud, easy laughter kind of people. The kind of people who looked like they didnât carry anything heavier than a bad day.
You waved toward the bar instead.
âBobby! I need something strong!â
Your voice cut clean through the noise, familiar, easyâlike you belonged here.
Priceâs gaze flicked back despite himself.
You were already moving, eyes scanning the room quickly, assessingâquick, sharp, observant.
He made an assumption.
Youâd take the open seat closer to the two men a few stools down. Theyâd already noticed you, turning slightly, interest written plainly across their faces.
But something in their gazeâsomething you didnât likeâ
You pivoted.
And just like that, you were heading his way.
You slid into the seat one over from him, leaving a single stool between you.
Deliberate.
A buffer.
You shrugged out of your outer layer, draping it over the back of the stool, rolling your shoulders slightly like you were shaking off more than just the rain.
Bobbyâthe Bobby, apparentlyâappeared in front of you without needing to be called again, already pouring your drink.
Whiskey sour.
Price clocked it instantly.
âWhatâs the occasion tonight, Y/N?â Bobby asked, sliding the glass toward you.
You leaned forward onto your elbows, fingers wrapping around the drink like youâd been waiting for it.
âIâm drowning my sorrows, Bobby.â
There was a dry edge to your smile. Practiced. Familiar.
Price found himself watching you again.
This time, he didnât look away as quickly.
âWhat for?â Bobby prompted.
âTerrible date?â
You shot him a lookâsharp, unimpressed.
âPlease. Iâd take a terrible date over this.â
You took a sip, then exhaled slowly, like you were bracing yourself.
âMy editor squashed another story.â
Bobby winced. âOuch.â
âYeah,â you muttered, swirling your drink slightly. âFive months of research. Five. Months. Chasing leads, digging through records, maybeâmaybeâbending a few minor lawsââ
Priceâs brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
ââand for what?â you continued, your voice tightening just a fraction. âBecause Bruce thinks itâll ârock the cradle too much.ââ
You scoffed, sharp and humorless.
âWhat a bastard.â
Bobby let out a low breath through his nose, already shaking his head like this was a familiar tune.
âA bastard indeed.â He leaned one forearm against the bar for a second, eyeing you in that way that said heâd seen this exact version of you beforeâfrustrated, wired, running on fumes. âYou eat todayââ he paused, squinting slightly, ââwhat am I saying, of course you didnât.â
You didnât even argue.
Just took another sip.
âIâll put something in for you,â he decided, already turning away toward the kitchen before you could protest.
Price looked away then.
Not because he wasnât interested.
But because he was.
And that was already more than heâd intended when he walked in.
His gaze returned to the room, slipping back into habitâtracking movement, noting exits, cataloguing faces without thinking about it.
But youâ
You didnât disappear into the background like everything else.
Not quite.
You leaned forward again, digging into your bag with a quiet huff of irritation.
Out came a worn notepad, the edges softened from use. Then a pack of cigarettes, flicked onto the bar beside you without much thought. Then⌠more digging.
Your movements got sharper.
Faster.
âShitâŚâ you muttered under your breath, frustration bleeding into the word.
Priceâs attention shifted back before he could stop it.
âBobby, you got a pen?â you called, glancing upâonly to find him already tied up with someone at the other end of the bar.
You let out a heavy sigh, dropping your head for a second before dragging a hand down your face.
âJesus, Y/NâŚâ you murmured to yourself, voice lower now, edged with annoyance. âWhat kind of journalist doesnât carry a pen?â
You kept digging.
âAnd BBC would have a field day with thatâstrip your credentials, take your badge, public humiliationââ
Your bag gave a soft thud against the bar as you shifted it, clearly coming up empty.
ââbrilliant. Absolutely brilliant.â
Price watched for a second longer than he should have.
Not obvious.
Not enough to draw attention.
But enough.
You were⌠sharp.
Not just in what you saidâbut how you moved. Quick. Intentional. Your eyes had that same edge he recognized in operatives, in soldiersâpeople who noticed things.
People who didnât miss much.
People who didnât belong entirely to places like this.
His fingers moved before he fully thought it through.
A quiet decision.
He slipped a hand into the inside of his coat, retrieving a penâsimple, unremarkable, the kind he always kept on him.
Prepared.
Always prepared.
He extended it toward you without a word.
You stilled mid-search.
Your head snapped up, eyes landing first on the penâthen following it up to him.
There was a flicker of surprise there.
Quick.
Gone just as fast.
You blinked once, like you were recalibrating, then reached out to take it.
Your fingers brushed his.
Brief.
But not nothing.
âOhââ you let out a small breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. âWell⌠thank you.â
Your lips curvedânot quite a full smile, but close enough to feel real.
âI appreciate it. Iâm apparently grossly ill-prepared today.â
There was a beat.
And thenâ
You didnât immediately look away.
Price held your gaze.
Steady. Quiet. Assessing in that way that wasnât unkindâbut wasnât soft either.
Up close, you could see it clearer.
The weight in him.
The kind that didnât come from bad days or long weeks, but something heavier. Something that settled deep and stayed there.
His voice, when it came, was low.
Roughened slightly from disuseâand the whiskey.
âHappens.â
One word.
Simple.
Grounded.
It sat between you for a second longer than it should have.
You shook your head, huffing out a quiet breath as you shoved your cigarettes back into your pocket.
âNot to me, normally,â you muttered, more to yourself than him at first, your pen already moving across the page in quick, sharp strokes. âBut I am incredibly annoyed today, which apparently leaves me frazzledââ
You paused, your mouth twisting as you searched for the right word.
ââwhich wouldnât even be the case if my boss wasnât aâŚâ
You trailed off.
Not because you didnât have the word.
Because you had too many.
Price didnât miss the opening.
Didnât hesitate, either.
âA coward,â he said, voice even, eyes still on you, âand a bastard.â
Your head snapped toward him again.
Fast.
Too fast to be anything but instinct.
And there it wasâthat spark.
Your eyes lit, something sharp and delighted cutting straight through the frustration.
âPrecisely!â
The word came out almost triumphant.
Like heâd passed something.
You shifted in your seat without thinking, angling your body toward him now, the barrier of that empty stool suddenly feeling more like a suggestion than a boundary.
Your journal flipped open again, pages already crowded with notes and scribbles, ink layered over ink in a way that made it clear this wasnât just a hobby.
This was how your brain worked.
Fast. Relentless. Always moving.
Price watched your hand for a momentâthe way you wrote like you were chasing your own thoughts, trying to catch them before they got away.
ââhe didnât used to be like that, you know,â you continued, already talking again like the conversation had been yours all along. Like he hadnât been a stranger thirty seconds ago. âHe used to have some damn integrity. A hunger for the truthââ
You scoffed softly, shaking your head as your pen scratched harder against the page.
ââbut now? Now heâs indulged in the absolute soul-selling, demonic practice of politics and has lost every last semblance of a spine.â
There was heat in your voice.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just⌠real.
The kind that came from caring too much about something you couldnât quite fix.
Price took a slow sip of his whiskey.
Let the burn settle.
Let the quiet stretchâjust long enough that it didnât feel empty⌠but deliberate.
Thenâ
âThat tends to happen,â he said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. âTruth doesnât make many friends.â
You scoffed, but this time it wasnât sharp.
More⌠amused.
âYeahâno kidding,â you muttered, your pen moving again as you crossed something out, then circled another line two, three times over like you were trying to trap the thought in place.
Your brow furrowed.
Thenâ
You stilled.
Something clicked.
Your head snapped up toward him again, expression shiftingâjust a fraction.
Awareness.
âOhââ you straightened slightly, a hint of a sheepish smile tugging at your mouth. âIâm sorry, Iâm being rude.â
You turned more fully toward him now, like you were finally acknowledging what had been building between you for the last several minutes.
âIâm Y/N Y/L/N.â
You stuck your hand out toward himâconfident, easy, like introductions were something you owned.
Priceâs gaze dropped briefly to your hand.
Then back up to your face.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
He set his glass down, then reached out, his hand closing around yoursâfirm, steady.
Warm.
âJohn Price.â
Your grip matched his.
Not delicate.
Not hesitant.
âWell, itâs a pleasure to meet you, John,â you said, releasing his hand, your tone lighter nowâbut still threaded with that same restless energy. âAnd thank you again for the pen.â
You glanced down at your notes, then back at him, one brow lifting slightly.
âAnd if youâd like me to shut up, please feel free to say so. I know I tend to talk a lot.â
A small shrug.
âIâve been told multiple times. Something I never quite outgrew, apparently.â
Priceâs mouth twitched again.
This time, it lingered a fraction longer.
Before he could answer, Bobby reappeared, sliding a basket down in front of youâfish and chips, hot, the smell of it cutting clean through the air.
âThatâs an understatement, Y/N,â Bobby said dryly. âYou could outtalk a damn auctioneer.â
You didnât even miss a beat.
Just grinned, already reaching for the vinegar and salt.
âDamn right I could, Bobby.â
You shook the vinegar over the chips with enthusiasm, like you hadnât eaten in hoursâwhich, judging by Bobbyâs earlier comment⌠you probably hadnât.
Bobbyâs eyes flicked between you and Price.
Quick.
Assessing.
There was a look thereâsubtle, knowing.
He knocked his knuckles once against the bar.
Then turned away.
âThanks, Bobby!â you called after him, entirely unbothered.
You grabbed a chip, blew on it quickly, then popped it into your mouthâsighing softly like it mightâve been the best thing youâd tasted all day.
Thenâ
You turned back to Price.
Like the conversation had never paused.
âSo,â you said, swallowing, tilting your head just slightly. âDo you?â
Price arched a brow.
âWant me to shut up?â you clarified, gesturing vaguely with your chip before pointing it at him like it was part of your argument.
There was a beat.
Price leaned back just slightly on his stool, one arm resting loosely against the bar, his gaze settling on you in that same steady, unreadable way.
He didnât answer immediately.
Didnât rush to fill the space.
He just⌠looked at you.
Taking you in.
The way you spoke without hesitation.
The way your mind moved faster than most people could keep up with.
The way you didnât seem particularly concerned with how you were perceived.
âNo.â
Simple.
Certain.
Your brows lifted slightly.
âDonât mind it,â he added after a moment, his voice low, even. âGives me something to listen to.â
You hummed, pleased with that answerâfar more than you probably shouldâve been.
There was a flicker of something in your expression. Satisfaction. Amusement. Maybe even a little curiosity.
Then you shifted the basket of fish and chips toward the empty space between you.
An offering.
Casual.
But not meaningless.
âChip?â you asked, nudging it slightly closer to him. âI donât know what Gregory does back there in the kitchen, but his chips are top notch.â
Price glanced down at the basket.
Then back at you.
A beat.
He reached in and took one.
You smiled like youâd just won something.
âSo, JohnâŚâ you continued, propping your elbow against the bar, your chin resting lightly against your knuckles as you looked at himâreally looked at him this time. âI think youâve gathered Iâm a journalist.â
A small tilt of your head.
âWhat do you do?â
There it was.
Direct.
Curious.
Unapologetic.
Price didnât answer immediately.
He chewed slowly, buying himself a secondâtwo.
Weighing.
Measuring.
Then, calm as anythingâ
âIâm in security.â
Your brows arched almost instantly.
A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, and Price tracked it without meaning to.
The shift.
The interest.
âSecurityâŚâ you repeated, dragging the word out slightly, like you were testing it. âThat seems kind of vague.â
His gaze held yours.
Steady.
Unmoved.
âWhat was the story your editor killed?â he asked instead.
Deflection.
Clean.
Effortless.
Your smirk deepened.
Ohâyou clocked that.
Absolutely.
You couldâve pushed.
You shouldâve pushed.
That was your job, wasnât it?
Pull threads. Ask questions. Donât let people redirect you.
And yetâ
For some reasonâ
You let it slide.
Instead, you shifted.
You stood just slightly, sliding off your stoolâonly to settle onto the one directly beside him.
Closer.
Close enough that the space between you disappeared entirely, replaced by the shared warmth of proximity and the faint brush of your sleeve against his coat.
You dragged the basket with you, placing it between you both like it had always belonged there.
Price didnât move.
Didnât lean away.
Didnât comment.
But something in him sharpened.
You launched back in without hesitation.
âCorruption piece,â you said, already flipping your journal toward you again, pen moving as you spoke. âLocal government contractsâmisallocated funds, shell companies, a few very creative accounting practices.â
Your voice picked up speed, energy threading back through it like youâd found your rhythm again.
âI had sourcesâgood ones. Documents too, not just hearsay. Enough to make it stick if it had gone to print.â
You huffed, shaking your head.
âBut apparently weâre not in the business of making powerful people uncomfortable anymore.â
Price listened.
Really listened.
Not just nodding alongâtracking what you were saying, how you were saying it.
The details you emphasized.
The ones you skipped.
âRisky,â he said after a moment.
You snorted softly.
âYeah, well. So is crossing the street in London.â
You reached for another chip, dipping it absentmindedly before pointing it at him slightly.
âDifference is, one of those things actually matters.â
His gaze flicked briefly to the chip.
Then back to your face.
âYou donât strike me as someone who backs down easily,â he said.
You paused mid-motion.
Just for a second.
Then you smiled.
Slower this time.
Less sharp.
More⌠honest.
"I don't," you admitted. "Which is probably why I'm currently drinking my dinner instead of celebrating a front-page story. My plan was to come here, regroup, find another way in to MAKE my boss print the story. But it seems I've found something else to interest me."
John took another fry. "Oh yeah? What's that, love?"
"You." You said it without missing a beat.
John froze for just a moment, then his eyes met yours again. You were smirking⌠you were really smirking.
"You smoke, John?" you asked.
His eyebrow arched. "Yeah."
"Great. Come have a smoke with me."
You downed your drink in one go, called over your shoulder to Bobby that you'd be back, and sauntered outânot even looking back to see if John was following you.
He was.
He downed his own drink and followed you.
You were leaning against the wall near the garden of the pub, sheltered from the rain by an awning. You held a cigarette between your lips, and your lighter wasn't cooperating. John watched for a moment as the lighter refused to catch, and then he stepped forward, pulling his own from his pocket. He moved up beside youâfar too closeâand struck his lighter. The flame flickered to life, and he cupped his hand around it against the wind, holding it steady to light your cigarette.
A far too tempting smile appeared on your lips as you inhaled, then exhaled a puff of smoke and met his eyes. You extended your pack of cigarettes to him, lid popped.
John's gaze dropped to the offered pack, then back to your face. He plucked a cigarette from it with thick fingers, and you noticed the calluses, the scars across his knuckles. Working hands. Dangerous hands.
"Ta," he murmured, voice low and rough as gravel.
You held up your lighterâfinally cooperating now, of courseâbut John was already leaning in. He dipped his head toward your cigarette, the tip of his nearly touching yours as he drew the flame from your ember. The orange glow illuminated the sharp planes of his face, the scruff along his jaw, the intensity in those blue eyes as they held yours through the thin veil of smoke between you.
He pulled back slowly. Too slowly. Close enough that you could smell himâwhiskey and something woodsy, clean but unmistakably masculine.
"Efficient," you said, your voice coming out lower than you'd intended.
"Waste not." The corner of his mouth twitched. He took a drag, exhaled to the sideâa gentleman's gesture that somehow felt more intimate than if he'd blown the smoke right in your face.
"Smart." You grinned. "So, JohnâŚ" Your tone lighter now, conversational. "Got plans tonight? Or were you planning to drink your night away in that pub same as me?"
"That was the plan," he admitted, his voice steady as he took another drag.
His eyes moved too, now. Tracking you in the same way. Measured. Deliberate.
"Well," you said, like it was nothing, like you weren't absolutely aware of the shift in the air between you, "this place gets busy in about half an hour."
Casual. Too casual.
"Oh?"
His brow lifted slightly.
You leaned back against the wall again, taking another slow drag before exhaling, your eyes still locked on his.
"There's a late crowd," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the pub behind you. "Gets louder. More people. Less⌠space."
A small pause.
Your gaze dippedâjust brieflyâto his mouth.
Then back up.
"If you're not in the mood for the crowd⌠I know a quieter place. If you're interested."
John took his time with that. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled slowly, let the silence stretch between you like a test.
"Quieter," he repeated. Not quite a question.
"Mmm." You tapped ash from your cigarette, watching it scatter in the wind. "Better acoustics."
"For what?"
"Conversation." You met his eyes. "What else?"
The corner of his mouth pulledâbarely. "What else," he echoed.
He was still watching you with that unreadable expression, the kind that made you wonder if he was three steps ahead or just patient enough to let you keep talking.
"So?" you prompted.
"Depends." He took another drag. "How far?"
"Ten-minute walk. Maybe less."
"In the rain."
"It's just water, John."
"That a yes or no?"
You smiled. "That's a 'settle your tab and find out.'"
Something shifted in his expressionâdecision made, maybe, or at least the beginning of one. He dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and gestured toward the door.
"After you."











