cult leader john price who left the violence of war behind him and now gently coaxes his followers into pacifism. weapons are strictly prohibited. there are no guns, and the only knives are hand-made and used for cooking and hunting.

cult leader john price who lives deep in the woods like a faery king. he makes his home where the mist curls like the fingers of phantoms around the poplars and willows. where the ground is heavy-laden with the burden of the beastly things and the owls and wildcats shriek in the night. where the moorland rises up to meet the mossy forest floor, the fog so thick out across the spongy expanse that journeying out there alone is strictly forbidden for fear of being swallowed up by the mires. only price knows where it is safe to tread.

cult leader john price who initiates the new members himself, gently lowering them into the river, not baptizing, but allowing the cold, clear water to rush over their faces so that they might know the songs that trickle in from the spring-fed mountaintops in the distance. he washes them himself with lye soap made there in the commune as they tremble, overwrought from the tender care, then dresses them in clean robes spun from the soft wool of the sheep price allows to range freely under the protection of the big dogs he keeps to guard the flock.

cult leader john price who is learned in natural medicine and healing, so when someone injured or ill stumbles upon the commune seeking aid, he gently guides them to a sickbed and cares for them himself, cleaning blood and fever from their skin and shushing them softly as the pain licks like a hungry flame through their blood. he brews tea from willow bark and skullcap to soothe them, and makes poultices of yarrow and marigold to apply to the skin, with neem and poppy to ease inflammation.

Hear me out.

Price uses corporal punishment on his boys when they fuck up. Not when they fail a mission, but when they do something that puts them in danger, or when they misbehave badly and get the brass miffed with them.

He doesn’t do it to be cruel, but he expects his boys to behave, to show the world that they aren’t bad men just because they do bad things for the greater good. They aren’t monsters, so they can’t get angry, at least not in public, and they aren’t children, which means that they need to act their age and be responsible. It’s all well and good to act out, to tussle and yell and curse when they’re on leave together at Price’s nice little home in the woods, but not when they have jobs to do and need to be professional.

So while Price is usually the epitome of a doting ‘father’ and commanding officer, sometimes he’s forced to take a firmer hand with the boys so that they remember their places.

So when they’ve pushed him too far, been too mouthy or careless, or endangered themselves needlessly on the field and disobeyed orders, he herds whichever one of them was unlucky enough to get caught into his office. He locks the door behind him and slides off his belt. They won’t get away, and it’s no use to run— Soap tried once, and got stuck halfway through the little window to the right of Price’s desk. The replacement panes weren’t cheap and Price made damn well sure it came out of Soap’s next paycheck.

Each of the boys takes it differently.

Ghost is used to pain. He’s not numb to it, because nobody ever really can be, but he knows how to take it, to feel it, and let it wash over him like an icy-hot stream. His father beat him plenty enough for him to get acquainted with a belt. He doesn’t jerk, doesn’t flinch or complain, just bends over the desk and braces himself on his forearms. The lashes from the belt are searing, but he only lets out the occasional grunt. Afterwards, he doesn’t cry, but Price holds him firmly anyway, knowing that the contact grounds the lieutenant and replaces the cortisol with oxytocin. Sometimes, Ghost will mumble an apology. Other times, he’ll just curl up on the couch in the corner and let Price pet his hair until he falls asleep with a sore, stinging bottom and a sniffly nose.

Soap is another story altogether. He kicks, he fights, he bites and scratches, like a cat being condemned to a bath. He cusses Price out the entire time he’s being wrangled over the captain’s lap, legs and arms flailing, until the first harsh crack of leather across his bottom makes him shut up and tense. Now, Soap MacTavish was whooped many a time as a child for his cheeky shenanigans, so he can take it easy enough, but it’s something about the humiliation of being a grown man draped over his superior officer’s lap, being spanked as if he were still that mischievous, misbehaving boy from all those years ago, that makes his blood burn hot like fire. As soon as Price lets him up, Soap is scrabbling away, eyes red with tears of anger and embarrassment. He’ll go hide in Ghost’s room, hiccuping back furious sobs, until the bruises on his ego fade and he can slink back to Price for aftercare in the form of being pampered in the shower and then being tucked into bed with a kiss to the forehead.

For Gaz, the distress of knowing that he upset Price, the man who took him under his wings and shaped him into the operative he is today, the man who he owes his career and his life to, is almost worse than the punishment itself. He’ll take his licks like a big boy, bent over the desk instead of needing to be held down in Price’s lap the way Soap was. He’ll cry, though, just a little. Enough to wet his cheeks and make his lower lip wobble as he struggles to maintain a soldier’s discipline. When he’s had enough, Price will cup his pretty boy’s face, thumbing away his tears, and tell him that he’s still a good lad, that Price is still proud of him and loves him, and that the punishment wasn’t carried out in anger.

Really, the boys all get away like bandits. They’ll be babied and cuddled beyond what’s reasonable that night, tucked against the broad, warm chest of their captain, bodies curling around one another, the extra-large king-sized bed that just barely holds the entire team a tangle of limbs and muscle and snoring men.

Ghost having those gloves with the thick finger pads on them for ops. Skeleton-print, of course.

gaz took little coaxing. he was the first to follow price from the special forces to the forest. shedding all of the tension and expectations of his work. he enlisted to make a difference in the world, but found that even good guys have to do terrible things in the name of peace. his hands and heart hurt from holding a gun. now he’s price’s best game tracker and helps his leader to bring in plenty of fresh meat for the commune’s daily meals. the thrill of the chase reminds of him knife’s edge of adrenaline and terror he used to teeter upon during every mission. he loves to get to stretch his legs as he runs after a swift roe buck or wily hare.

soap came angry and hurting after the bullet to the head that nearly killed him in the tunnels. filled with frustration over a medical discharge, he had to relearn how to walk, how to talk, how to hold a damn fork. the physical therapy office and the cold clinical feel of the doctors didn’t help him half so much as feeling soft grass beneath his bare feet and the cool breeze on his face as he limped along with the cane that price carved for him. there’s hot springs, too, further up in the hills where the foot of the mountain reaches down to the trees below, and the warm, mineral-rich water eases all the aches and pains in his battered body. he can’t take an active role in the commune, like gaz can, so he becomes a storyteller for the children— they howl with laughter at his tales of reynard the fox and father brown and goldilocks. where he used to make drawings come to life in his sketchbook, which is now hard to do because of how much effort it takes to get his hands to stop shaking, he now paints pictures with his words.

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Edit:

And Price is canonically from Liverpool because of th’ specific accent. M’ theory?

Price is Roach’s uncle. They’ve got different last names because Price’s sister took th’ name of her husband, [name] Sanderson. So when Roach enlisted, he was taken under Price’s wing because they were related.