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Featuring: ER Doctor!Reader and a post-MWIII John Price
Summary: You helped him when he needed it the most. It might be the biggest mistake that you've ever made.
Word count: <4.4K
Rating: None.
Warnings: Blood. Bodily injuries. Workplace harrassment. Implied murder and violence.
Author's Note: I'm not a healthcare professional. Some medical details here have been loosely researched for plot. All mistakes are mine.
John Price masterlist | Main Masterlist
You were exhausted, and you wanted to eat your feelings.
A hard day shift in the ER had you shuffling back from the Chinese restaurant down the street, toting two full plastic bags of takeout. You were looking forward to stuffing your face, taking a scalding hot soak in the bath, and then sleeping like the dead—in precisely that order.
But your plans were instantly derailed when you found a dark-haired, bearded man sitting slumped against your apartment doorway. He was almost obscured by the shadow of the upstairs unit’s stairwell stoop, providing the barest of cover from the late evening rain.
Making sure you were in his line of sight, you call out to him.
“Hey, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to move along. I live here. There’s a shelter that might take you in, two blocks down, one street over on Broadway. Night’s still early…you should get a bed for the night if you head there now.”
The man stirs, groaning a little in discomfort. He opens his pain-glazed eyes to gaze up at you.
For a few long moments, the both of you attempt to take the measure of the other. Unable to stand the burgeoning silence any longer, you take a step closer, realizing he had a hand pressed to his side, poorly concealing something dark trickling out between his fingers.
Juggling your umbrella, takeout bags and your purse, you free up one hand to get at your phone in your coat pocket.
“Hey mister. You look like you’re in bad shape. I’m going to call an ambulance for you, all right?”
The man’s gaze, now focused and alert, flicks up to you.
“No ambulance, no hospital,” he rasps out, voice rough and gravelly from disuse.
“Well, I live here,” you gesture to your apartment doorway, “and you need medical help.”
“I guess we’re at a stalemate, then.”
You instantly peg his accent as British. This man was far from home, and the list of questions you were compiling to ask him was getting longer by the second.
You sigh, trying to appeal to him with the obvious while keeping your rising temper in check.
“Listen. It looks like you’re bleeding out. You might not be long for this world if you stay this way.”
He lets out a tired grunt of resignation as he glanced down at his injury, then at his feet.
“Maybe it is my time to go...” he muses absently to himself.
Anger, bright and explosive, bursts through you at his words.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you half-roar at him. “I just finished a very trying day shift in the ER dealing with entitled, narcissistic whiny man-babies like you. And it wasn’t only with the patients. You’re not going to fucking die on my doorstep because you caught a case of the sads. Pull yourself together and Get. The. Fuck. Up.”
His shoulders shake slightly, as if he found something terribly amusing in the way you gave him the business.
“You know, you remind me of someone I used to work with. She would’ve read me the riot act like you did.”
“Well, if she’s the one who stabbed you, then good for her,” you jeer back.
This time he lets out a full-bodied laugh, but the sudden movement causes him to wince. He clutches his side, still making no attempt to move, let alone stand up. He closes his eyes briefly, lost in thought before he puts two and two together.
“You said you worked at the ER? You a doctor?”
He nods in confirmation when you take too long to respond.
“Yeahhh...you’re definitely an ER doctor. Can tell by your bedside demeanor,” he continues derisively. “How about this...maybe you could patch me up, and then I’ll be on my way?”
Opening his eyes, he peruses your Chinese takeout bags. The barest hint of a smile etches the corner of his mouth before he decides to push your buttons again.
“That smells awfully good, and I’m suddenly famished. Got any egg rolls in that order of yours? They’re my favorite, especially with those little plum sauce packets. Happy to split the bill with you. And then I’ll be out of your hair. After you patch me up, of course. I promise.”
“The audacity. The fucking audacity and assumed privilege on you,” you breathe, outrage spiking at his high-handedness.
He grins, teeth flashing bright in the dim darkness.
Eased down onto the dining room table, John cranes his neck to watch you draw the front window curtains shut, then disappear out of sight down a side hallway. Listening to the sounds of drawers and closet doors opening and closing, he sighs.
Finally, a few moments of respite.
Running a finger along the edge of your phone, he turns it off and tucks it into his inner jacket pocket. He’d lifted it off you when you helped him inside...it was the only way he could be sure that you wouldn’t...couldn’t call the authorities. But not before scanning your recent texts and work emails popping up on your lock screen.
And now he had an idea why you’d had a terrible, no good day today.
He scans the layout of your apartment. Delineating the kitchen from the dining/living room was a breakfast counter bar. Off to the side of the living/dining area was the hallway where you’d disappeared to, likely where the bathroom and bedroom were situated. Overall, your place was functional. Minimal. Transient. The type of place that offered little more than shelter and a space to store your meager belongings. A place in a big city where people could truthfully claim: “Yeah, I lived here for a few years. For school, then for work. But then I had to move away because who can actually afford to live somewhere nice here?”
At your incoming footfalls, he turns his head to see you appear in the hallway entryway, holding several bags of medical supplies and a flashlight.
Wordlessly, you pull a chair from the table, organizing the items on the seat. He tracks your movements to the kitchen, turning on the faucet to wash and scrub your hands. You moved with intention and precision, clearly ingrained from your years on the job. You exuded competence, maturity, and you suffered no fools with the way you spoke to him.
But around those sharp, defiant edges, he saw flashes of exhaustion and weariness. The world wasn’t a kind place, of that he’d seen firsthand, but he had to admire how you carried yourself despite it all.
Pulling another chair from the table, you sit down. You snap on a pair of nitrile gloves to begin your examination.
“Okay. Let’s get your jacket and sweater off and get a better look at you.”
Carefully rolling him sideways towards you and then the other way, you eased the garments off him. You suck in a breath, senses ramping up on high alert.
Healed scars, old and recent, littered his hairy, muscled torso, with a variety of small tattoos of dates, names, and cryptic symbols trailing up his sides. Mottled bruises dotted across his thick forearms, ending with fresh scrapes on his knuckles and fingers. And on his right side were the two stab wounds that had him ending up slumped against your doorstep.
This man was accustomed to violence. Both in the giving and receiving of it.
Unease and anxiety churns in your gut. Taking a few deliberate breaths, you focus on calming yourself, tamping your emotions down.
He’s not in a position to hurt you. He’ll only make his injuries worse if he does, and he knows it.
Momentarily troubled by the direction of your thoughts, your gaze darts upwards to his face.
He had dark brown, almost black hair, cropped short at the top and sides, with chunks of gray and white streaking his temples and thick beard. He wasn’t a young man — his forehead was lined with wrinkles and crows feet etched around his piercing cerulean eyes. Likely in his early to mid-forties, only a handful of years older than you. He was...handsome, in a rough-hewn sort of way.
“Like what you see?” he murmurs with smug condescension.
“Fuck off,” you mutter almost reflexively.
Snapping back into examination mode, you grab the flashlight and flick it on. You slap it into his left hand, yanking his forearm up and over like an adjustable stand to get a good view of his right side. You derive a small, sadistic thrill as he grunts, not expecting you to handle him like that.
“Hold this up for me so I can work hands-free. Yes. Okay, perfect. Right there. Now don’t move.”
He hisses, his grip on the flashlight wobbling for a moment while you palpate around his wounds.
“Maybe I should’ve offered to pay for all of your takeout if it meant you’d go easier on me.”
Despite yourself, you bark out a laugh.
You asked him questions about his medical history, which he appeared to answer truthfully, but as you probed him about how he got into his current state, he kept shaking his head, refusing to elaborate.
Wrapping up your examination, you take the flashlight from him, shining one last close-up inspection at his wounds before flicking the light off.
“So what’s the prognosis, doctor?”
You push your chair back, looking him square in the eye.
“It’s a miracle that whatever stabbed you didn’t go too deep and that it didn’t nick any organs or arteries. Fortunately, your jacket and sweater took the brunt of the damage. I can get these wounds cleaned up and stitched closed. I’ll give you some over-the-counter pain medications and some bandages and dressings for when you need to change them, but I strongly recommend you go to a hospital for a follow-up, just to be safe. Infection risks with wounds like these can—“
“I told you already. No. Hospitals,” he grits out.
You roll your eyes. “All right, Jason Bourne. Simmer down.”
“‘M not a spy,” he rasps, sounding irrationally annoyed that you’d pegged him as that, of all things.
You shrug, unbothered.
“Well, unless you want to give me your real name, I get to call you whatever I please. Now, let’s get you cleaned and stitched up. And then you can have some egg rolls.”
He ate more than just the egg rolls. He ate over half of the house special fried rice, sweet and sour pork, spicy wontons, and chicken chop suey. Despite your protests, he insisted on eating while sitting up on the couch, promising not to aggravate or undo your handiwork.
He leans gingerly against the couch’s padded back, patting his stomach, satiated at last. While his jacket and sweater were in the washer, the oversized sleep shirt you lent him kept him decent and covered. But just barely.
“I was hungrier than I thought. But I’m not complaining. Best meal I’ve had in a long while, I’ll have to admit.”
You squint at him, confused.
“You’re welcome, I guess? For helping yourself to my food?”
“Well, you ordered a lot. For just one person.”
“I was planning to eat it over the next few days, so I wouldn’t need to cook, but I didn’t plan on having unexpected company over,” you gesture at him.
You take a swig of your Coke. Exhaustion was creeping up on you, but you needed the added caffeine to keep you awake and your wits about you for a little while longer.
“How long has it been since you last had a proper meal?” you ask him gently.
He shoots you a brief side glance, deliberating before he answers.
“Couple days. My current line of work has me working unpredictable hours. But I suppose I’ll need to take some time off to heal up, get my strength up again,” he sighs. He huffs out a self-conscious laugh. “No wonder I felt like I had to sit down and rest. Wasn’t from my injuries. Been running on fumes all this time. Well, that’s fuckin’ embarrassing.”
“Hey, it happens. But is there someone who can come pick you—“
He shakes his head vehemently. “No. No more questions,” he answers tersely.
“Like why there’s way more blood on your clothes than what seems normal for just stab wounds?”
He grunts, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah. Questions exactly like that.” But then he sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I know you are just doing your job, and my social skills have been rusty of late.”
“Okay. I won’t ask again.”
“Like I’d believe that,” he mutters under his breath. He opens his eyes, his gaze softer, more conciliatory now. “But, before I forget what’s remaining of my manners, thank you.”
You slow blink. Feigning deafness, you cup your hand to your ear.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that. Might’ve been a figment of my imagination. Could you repeat that once more for me?”
“I said, Thank. You. For all that you’ve done for me,” he enunciates slowly and evenly, amused.
“I’m just doing my job,” you reply sardonically, throwing his words back at him. “It’s what I do. That’s all.”
Carefully leaning forward to the TV tray you’d set up for him, he takes a few moments to tuck the cutlery and napkins onto the plate. Figuratively and literally tidying things up before he spoke again.
“So it sounds like you had a hell of a day today, capped off with finding me bleeding on your doorstep. Dealing with what was it—entitled, narcissistic whiny man-babies like me. And it wasn’t just with the patients?”
“Oh. So you’re working on your social skills now?” you drawl.
“Yeah. You could say that. Humor me.”
You let out a small harrumph.
“What’s there to talk about? It’s a tale as old as time. My job has me overworked and underpaid. Dealing with a nonstop stream of patients, most of them who should’ve gotten preventative care well before they showed up at the ER but didn’t because they couldn’t afford to. The bureaucracy and red tape and administrators who are all about their KPIs and metrics that benefit them and not so much about patient outcomes. Dude bro colleagues who decide to make my life difficult because I’m better at what I do than they are. I can deal with one or some of those things at a time, but all of those things in one day? Ughhh...”
“Oh? Colleagues making your life difficult? How?” he asks, tone oddly curious.
“Look at you go on with your questions,” you jibe back. “Put yourself in my shoes. I’m in a still largely male-dominated field. You fill in the blanks with what someone like myself would run across every day, even in this day and age.”
“Surely you can file a complaint or a report to their supervisor?”
You laugh, both at his apparent naivety and the simple absurdity of his suggestion. “Oh, trust me, I’ve dutifully followed all the proper steps. I’ve been by the book. I’ve documented everything. It’s all on the hospital and what they choose to do at this point. Which has been nothing.“
“Sounds like they’re more concerned about siding with whoever will cost them less legal exposure and reputational damage,” he replies sarcastically. At least your explanation corroborated the texts and emails he saw on your phone.
He grunts, thinking about it some more.
“If you ask me, it sounds like the system’s broken. It failed you. Not the other way around. I saw that a lot in my former line of work. A lot of good people I knew...” he says, trailing off before stopping himself, unwilling to divulge more personal details. “But…sometimes you’ve got to shake up the system.”
You shrug.
“It’s always easier said than done. I’ve done all I can. But I’m going to keep showing up. Every day to help others. It’s the only thing I know how to do and nobody gets to decide how I’m going to feel about it except me. It will pass. It always does. But I’ll still be here.”
He stares at you for a few seconds, appearing to come to some kind of internal decision in his mind before finally nodding at you with approval.
“Good. Don’t let those fuckers win.”
“Thank you for everything. And things will get better, you’ll see soon enough.”
Those were the last words he spoke to you before he left.
True to his word, he left you cash, generously covering your entire takeout order plus the cost of the medical supplies and medication you gave him several times over, despite your protests of taking any money from him.
Checking the dining room table area one last time to make sure you’d cleaned up everything from when you treated him, you crouch down to pick up your phone lying underneath a chair.
“Huh. Could’ve sworn it was in my coat pocket this whole time.”
5 days later
So much for sleeping in on your day off.
Sighing, you roll over, grabbing your phone off the bedside table, wondering what was going on as your phone started to blow up with non stop dinging sounds.
You scan the message previews:
Paul >> Wake up! Hot tea incoming!
Jen >> Did you see the hospital wide email just now?
May >> Holy fuuuuck. Harris and Tomaso?
Robin >> Fired. Fucking finally!
The two doctors who'd been making your life difficult were...gone? Just like that? You continue reading the rest of the messages.
Steve >> Now others are stepping forward about them
Rob >> Heard heads are rolling in hr and admin rn
Unknown number >> Sometimes you have to shake up the system, you know?
You pause at the last text. Sent less than an hour ago.
Despite what your gut was telling you, you click on the unknown number entry to read the rest of the messages.
>> Thank you for your help
>> Grateful for what you did
>> But really, you’re too trusting
>> You should be more careful about who you let into your apartment and your life
>> Hope things have gotten better at the hospital now
>> Sometimes you have to shake up the system, you know?
No. Was that from him? He didn’t, did he? Just what did he do?
With unsteady hands, you immediately delete the texts and block the number.
You mute your notifications for the next few hours and toss the phone back onto your bedside table. You pull the covers over your head, hoping the initial, crazy set of conclusions your mind leapt to was just that.
And then... someone started pounding on your front door, followed by the doorbell buzzing. At first, you tried to ignore it, but whoever it was wasn’t giving up anytime soon.
Exasperated, you roll out of bed, unbothered and unconcerned with the state of your hair and sleeping attire. Storming through your apartment, you yank the front window curtains aside, unlocking the screen window and opening it to give your unwanted visitor a piece of your mind.
“Listen, it’s my day off. And the sign on the door clearly says No salespeople or soliciting allowed, so go fu—”
You jump back with a small yelp, heart pounding, as the large man looming in the front doorway turns to face you through the window. The man wore dark, nondescript tactical gear, topped off with a faded skull mask. Was he intimidating? Yes. Scary as fuck? Absolutely.
But you double down, deciding to commit to the bit because you couldn’t help yourself.
“It’s...um...it’s about 3 months too early for Halloween. Come back then,” you bleat out, with a lot less heat and bravado than you intended.
But the man doesn’t go away. Instead, he digs into a side pocket in his pants, producing his phone. He swipes a few times on the screen before he shows you a military ID photo of the dark-haired man you’d treated several nights ago. A younger, cleaner-shaven, mutton-chop bearded version in uniform.
“I’d like to speak with you about him.” He gestures at your front door. “May I come in?”
The skull-masked man introduced himself as Captain Simon Riley, from the SAS. He was also British, but spoke with a thicker, rougher accent.
Sitting across from you on the now sagging living room couch, he fills in the missing blanks about the man you’d treated the other night.
“His name is John Price. Former SAS captain. He’s wanted by international authorities—basically all of ‘em at this point. And I’ve been put in charge of bringin’ him in.”
Your curiosity wins out over your cautiousness.
“What’s he wanted for, exactly?”
Flat brown eyes lock onto yours as he lists the litany of crimes John had committed, beginning with the pre-meditated murder of an American four-star general.
“Let’s just say…life in prison for what he’s done and done since would be a kindness for him at this point.”
You swallow, a mix of fear and dread settling in the pit of your stomach, for once at a complete loss for words. You nervously lick your suddenly dry lips.
“Why—why did he kill that general?”
Simon hesitates before answering. “He thought he was doing the right thing,” he finally replies.
You search his eyes, catching the slight shift in his demeanor and body language.
This feels oddly personal. He must know John.
Simon launches into what brought him to your doorstep. CCTV cameras had tracked John to your neighborhood the night you found him. Then, there was the body of a man found few blocks away, a known contract killer, in possession of a stiletto that you realized was probably what caused John’s injuries. And likely the source of the extra blood on his jacket and sweater.
“We knew Price was somewhere around here, but there was a gap of a few hours where we couldn't confirm exactly where he was. But then, it was what happened after that night that narrowed things down for us.”
He rattles off the timeline of events.
“Two days ago, there were reported incidents at the hospital you work at of some staff members being threatened in the underground parking lot. Then yesterday, two male doctors were physically assaulted in their own homes. All by the same man.”
Your eyes widen with shock and dismay as he played footage from several security videos off his phone, each escalating in intimidation and then to violence.
You knew all the victims.
John didn’t need to lay a hand on the hospital administrator and HR rep you’d been dealing with, but it was clear with his size and presence that whatever he’d said had its effect. Cornered and cowering in fear against their cars, nodding rapidly in acquiescence to whatever he’d said.
Then the brutality and the violence that he inflicted so casually and dispassionately on each of the doctors, leaving them mangled, bleeding messes.
A part of you had revenge fantasies about exacting justice on the people who’d done you wrong, who dismissed and diminished your claims of how you were being treated, but they were just that. Fantasies. But this man actually made it happen, meting out his brand of justice in a universal language that anyone could understand.
“We ran background checks on each victim and found that one thing they had in common was you. And that you lived here, in the same neighborhood that Price had been seen in.”
You gesture listlessly at Simon’s phone. “But why would he...it was only for a few hours that he was here...I barely said anything to him...”
He leans forward, taking advantage of your bewildered state.
“Tell me everythin' he said and did when he was here. Any detail you can remember will be helpful in locating his whereabouts.”
Haltingly, you recount everything you could remember of the few hours John had spent here in the apartment. Including the text messages he’d sent this morning before you blocked his number.
Simon stares at you for an indeterminate time, thinking and mulling over all the information you shared with him. Flicking open a front pocket on his tactical vest, he pulls out a notepad and a pen. Tearing the top page from the notepad, he scribbles something on it before he hands it across to you.
You lean forward in your chair, reflexively taking the scrap of paper from him.
He dips his chin at you. “Call me at that number when he comes 'round or contacts you again, yeah?“
The couch groans, almost in relief as Simon stands, heading straight for the front door.
Snapped out of your daze, you also stand up, scurrying to follow him as he rests his hand on the doorknob.
“What makes you think he will?”
He opens the door and looks back at you, dark eyes glittering.
“You showed him kindness. And he likes to fix things. Broken things. But he fixes them his way. You’ve already seen what he’s done for you. How he’s done it, to those people. You don’t want him back here. You don’t want him takin' an interest in you, the way he is now. Trust me. I can speak from firsthand experience.”
He nods at the paper in your hand once more.
“Call me,” he repeats, before closing the front door behind him.
[Standing by the place where 141 bid their last goodbyes to their sergeant, another member of the squad stood in their place. Sergeant [L/N] looked out in the open water.]
[Y/N]: Hey, Sergeant MacTavish…It’s been a while.
[They sat down on the ground, still looking ahead while seeming solemn of coming to the resting place of the late member.]
[Y/N]: Everything went downhill since you passed away. Price killed Shepherd and is on the run, Laswell couldn’t tell us where our old captain is. Kyle…Prefers to have some privacy now. Ghost…Simon, he’s doing his part. I’m…lost. Everything is not the same without you.
[The eerie silence is the only thing accompanying them.]
[Y/N]: You know, I still remember when we first met. You were absolutely chaotic. A good kind of chaos in our lives. My first days were a mess but you were an amazing figure I looked up to. Taught me what I know now. *Looks down at Soap’s dog tags* Honestly, I wish you were still here. Breathing, laughing, even your cursing was comforting.
[They sat longer than they should’ve. Felt like hours.]
[Y/N]: I should be packing for deployment. I’m temporarily transferred to another squad and heading to Korea with them. *Sighs* You would’ve loved the place. Good food, alcohol, even loving the atmosphere in general.
[They pull out a bottle of Soju from their coat. Crack open the cap and pours some on the ground to pay respect.]
[Y/N]: It’s not your usual, but you still would’ve loved to try anything.
[They stood back up and dusted themselves off.]
[Y/N]: Johnny, if you’re hearing me from above or anywhere, watch over for us. For me…I miss you, honey…
[(A/N)]: Ever since the trailer for COD MW사 came out, I’m already feeling sad that it’s a reminder. Soap is gone.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Controversial observation but as someone who's fan of both tf141 and Phillip Graves, I gotta know why some 141 fans (especially the Twitter ghoap stans) are so obsessed with talking about Graves to the point they talk shit about the fans too, compared to Graves stans who only talk about him or their ocs most of the time.
And idc the rant about betrayal, by that logic Graves' fans could've done the same but they don't. They don't even care 😭
While the other side goes as far as calling both Graves and his fans racist based on what? His southern roots? Mischaracterisation AND stereotypical hatred. This just stupid.
You can hate a character but don't go for the fans of said character and their spaces? What is this behaviour? It's even more rampant with the new trailer nowadays.
