#priceroach

His eyes were wide and still glazed from sleep, and he was so groggy that he couldn’t remember why he had oatmeal on his face and an empty cup of coffee drooping from his hand.

The morning filtered back to him in a rush.

*  *  *

He’d woken up at four in the morning due to the merciless pain in the base of his spine that told him it was going to rain later, and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. At five-thirty, he’d gone with Gaz and been spared the laps as thunder split the sky with a rumbling crack, and as they watched lightning stab jagged forks into the distance, Millen coerced Gaz into ‘not risking it’ and instead just heading straight to the gym.

He acted as Gaz’s spotter for about forty minutes before Gaz switched to the treadmill instead and Millen went straight to the pull-up bar, which was one of the few exercises that actually made his back and knees feel better instead of worse.

“Goddamn, mate,” Gaz said, impressed as Millen switched to using one arm instead of two. “For a skinny guy, you do have some muscle mass.”

Millen shot him a droll look. “I love that nobody has any respect for superior officers here.”

Gaz barked out a laugh as the earth shook beneath the force of the storm outside the safe confines of the building. “You have to earn respect here. Didn’t Ghost tell you that upfront?”

“He told me a lot of things. I didn’t know what to believe.”

“Oh, Ghost never lies. Like, ever. He’s bluntly honest to a fault, so whatever he tells you, you can trust as the cold, hard truth.”

“Are he and MacTavish really… you know?”

Gaz groaned softly. “They keep me awake at night. The walls are thin.”

“Bloody hell.”

“I know, right? It’s like some romance novel type shit. Golden retriever meets black cat energy.”

Millen just stared blankly. “What does that mean?”

Gaz shot him a strange look. “It’s like an internet relationship trope thing. Mate, do you never get online?”

“I used to have a MySpace.”

“Jesus Christ, man. That site doesn’t even run anymore. Don’t you have, I dunno, Tumblr? Instagram? Anything?”

Millen just shrugged. “I don’t have any reason for it. Who do I have to talk to?”

Gaz sighed, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “It’s not about knowing people, it’s about meeting people. You could make a lifelong friend, or something.”

“I don’t need friends,” Millen said, almost petulantly.

“Introvert?” Gaz guessed. Millen muttered in agreement. Gaz nodded sagely. “Hey, no judgement. I’m an ambivert myself, but I get not wanting to be buddy-buddy with people right away.”

Millen hesitated, glancing up. Gaz caught his eye.

Millen felt a flush of something unexpected and hot. It was so sudden that it was gutting, in a way, and made his knees feel weak. He snapped his gaze away so forcefully that he stumbled back a bit.

Gaz reached out and gripped his bicep to steady him. “Woah, you solid?”

“I’m fine,” Millen said hoarsely. Gaz’s fingers encircling his arm felt like a brand. The brown-eyed sergeant was too close, and his blunt beta fangs were as white as ivory, glinting off the overhead lights. The fluorescent buzz droned in Millen’s skull and made the air between he and Gaz crackle with a static the xi didn’t understand.

The richness of cocoa overlaid the oceanic warmth of coconut that pumped out from Gaz’s neck glands was so lovely, so deep and soothing and familiar, a meal all in itself, a tantalizing delicacy that Millen longed to taste. He was about five seconds away from being seduced into flicking his tongue out in the air like a skink, just so the vomeronasal organ at the roof of his mouth could soak in every molecule of that blessed scent.

Millen was quite literally salivating and his rut had just hit him like a freight train.

Gaz’s eyes widened in understanding. “Oh, shit. You’re— yeah, okay. Come back to our quarters, I have some rut suppressants. It’s probably because of the Operipholomine.”

Millen was already panting. He pulled his shirt down to hide the obscene tenting in his trousers, so entirely mortified that he felt like he might faint. Gaz clasped him on the shoulder, carefully guiding him back towards the building they'd just come from. They got a bit wet, but to Millen’s immense relief, the icy rain shocked his system just enough for him to get his growing… situation under control. He gulped down a lungful of air, unseasonably cold and humid.

Gaz hurried him along to their shared quarters. Soap was still missing, apparently having spent the night with his lieutenant, for which Millen was thankful. He already wanted to fling himself from the nearest cliff to escape the terrible humiliation painting his cheeks cherry-red.

Gaz rifled through a few drawers before procuring a small bottle. He quickly tapped out a bright blue pill and pressed it into Millen’s hand, grabbing the staff sergeant’s Halo thermos from the nearby nightstand. “Here, mate,” Gaz said, his tone empathetic. “No need to be embarrassed, a’ight? Just biology.”

Millen’s hand shook with the devastatingly intense need coursing through him, but he managed to swallow the pill and stop to heave for breath again, his pupils blown wide. His fangs ached with the urge to bite, to claim, he needed to taste the perfumed blood and salty spend of an omega, wanted to pin a squirming body beneath him and ram his knot into a hole that would grip his length just right—

“I’m sorry,” Millen gasped out. “Fuck, this is… I hardly ever have ruts, and when I do, they aren’t— they aren’t like this. They’re dry, I just ignore it—“

“Well, that’s part of the problem,” Gaz exclaimed, shaking his head. “You’ve been screwing up your body's natural cycles by denying yourself release. Look, I’ll pop off to the hall for, say, ten minutes? Give you time to sort yourself—“ He shot a pointed look downwards, and Millen nearly moaned out loud. “—and then the suppressants should kick in, cut the rut off. Nip it in the bud, I always say. Sound good?”

“Better make it twenty minutes,” Millen replied hoarsely.

Gaz chuckled. “Can do. Just make sure you clean up any messes. Tissues are on the bookshelf.” He patted Millen companionably on the back and strode off towards the door. “I’ll lock the door behind me, just in case. Just keep the noise down. Remember, the walls are thin. If we can hear Soap and Ghost gettin’ it on, they can hear you crankin’ out a quick one. Ta!”

He inclined a wicked grin back towards the pathetically worked-up xi standing in the middle of the room, and then there was the snick of the lock and the door shut.

*  *  *

He’d wanked as quickly as he could, his finish so explosive that he’d had to bite down on the meaty part of his palm to stifle his ragged cry of pleasure, his mind’s eye rolling wretched clips of half-imagined fantasies, things that Millen didn’t dare to let fully form, not after only a day and a half with his new team. The lingering traces of Gaz’s cocoa-coconut scent brought back a nearly-forgotten memory of Millen’s mãe and tias taking him to Mercado Municipal, the expansive open-air market at São Tomé, the neighboring island to his mother’s home of Príncipe. There had been so many bright colors and loud noises, the chatter of conversation, the loud, rhythmic ússua and dêxa dance music, and the thick heat and life of the crowds. Grey parrots had squawked loudly in vendor’s cages and the smell of roasting meat and grilled breadfruit blew in on the salty breeze, the taste starchy, brushed with garlicky oil that brought out the sweet nut undertones.

At the time, Millen had been barely more than a toddler, overwhelmed by the vibrant island life, the oxygen itself seeming saturated with centuries of rich culture, a blend of African, Portuguese, and European, all coming together to form the thrumming pulse below the ground. The island’s very heart pumped to the beat of the socopé percussion.

He’d not been back since. He almost regretted that.

After he had sated himself, Millen had quickly cleaned up and zipped up, already feeling the fiery burn in his blood abating thanks to the suppressant pills Gaz had given him.

He’d given himself another five minutes for the flush to his face to cool, and then had carefully smoothed down his overgrown curls and spritzed himself from a bottle of cologne he found sitting on Gaz’s desk, to try and cover up any leftover pheromones that might have permeated his clothes.

Inhale. Exhale.

He reassured himself that he was presentable and ready to reface the world. He was confident that Gaz would never make any mention of the past half hour to anyone, and the entire thing could be forgotten within a week. Like the beta had said, it was just biology.

*  *  *

Which is how Millen then found himself asleep at the breakfast table, listening to Soap snickering at his expense.

Because, apparently, his body wasn’t too happy about being pumped full of artificial chemicals yet again, and had decided that the best way to naturally reset his internal workings was to have Millen conk out into a near-comatose sleep. The team hadn’t even noticed, since the xi had already secured a reputation as being “the quiet bloke.”

“Y’ were dead to the world f’ a bit there,” Ghost remarked dryly, his mask forgone in favor of a plain black balaclava, which he had pushed up so he could sip from a mug of tea. His exposed skin was as pale as one of those salamanders that had evolved over a millennia to live in cave systems. He probably saw about as much sun as one. A puffy pink scar scored deep into his flesh, splitting his lip and disappearing up under the balaclava’s tight-weave compression fabric. He was missing a few teeth— most noticeably, one of his alphan incisors, leaving a wide, gummy gap. Perhaps that had contributed to his san dynamic.

Soap tossed Millen a napkin. “Ye ha’ a wee sumthin…” He gestured to his own face, struggling to hold back another bout of laughter. “Right there.”

Millen quickly wiped the oatmeal from his face and silently prayed to whatever god whose domain it was to prevent soldiers from being given a callsign based upon falling asleep in a bowl of porridge.

He glanced around the table, still a bit bleary. “Where’s the captain and Roach?”

Soap paused in his chugging of a carton of chocolate milk to answer. “Captain’s taking care of Roach’s heat.”

Millen’s mouth opened into a small, perfect ‘o.’ He had been under the impression that Roach would be set up in one of the isolation rooms, where he’d be locked safely away from any alphas, able to ride out his heat in privatized comfort. “Oh… th— the captain is—?”

“Yeah, he handles Roach,” Gaz chimed in.

“But I thought that he and you were…”

“We are.” Gaz crunched down on a piece of slightly overdone toast. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t help out our omega. We aren’t strictly monogamous.”

Millen hesitated. “Which… means?”

“It means that Price can have fun with Roach, and if I see a pretty bird at a pub, I can go back to her hotel and spend the night.”

“But doesn’t that mess up your relationship?”

Gaz shook his head. “Nah, not at all. It keeps things lively, and I know who I belong to, when it really comes down to it. I’ll always come back to Price, and he always has a spot on his bed cleared for me.”

“Huh…” Millen thought on this for a moment. “That’s… nice. I didn’t know people could do that.”

“You’ve got a lot to learn about being part of a pack,” Gaz chuckled. “But, yeah, it’s a good thing we have going. Price is good to me.”

Millen prodded his spoon at his bowl of now-cold oatmeal. He glanced over at Soap and Ghost. The two of them smelled like each other.

“So, so the two of you have the same kind of… arrangement?”

Ghost rumbled warningly. Millen immediately regretted asking, realizing that the question had been too toward and it was none of his business.

Soap, however, seemed happy to answer. “Nae, me’n the L.t. a’ off the market. The spooky bastard would kill anybody that dare tae even glisk a’ me.”

“That’s because y’ mine,” Ghost said sharply, possessive anger burning in his bloodshot hazel eyes. “You ever get any ideas otherwise, and I’ll make damn sure y’ remembering your place, MacTavish.”

“Yeah, yeah, underneath ye,” Soap said, rolling his eyes. His Scottish brogue was even rougher in the morning. “Calm ye tits, Simon. Ah’d ne’re even think o’ lettin’ anybody but ye poke me fud. Ah swear, ye gantin f’ me.”

“English, Johnny,” Ghost grunted.

“Ach, awa’ an’ boil ye heid.” Soap waved a hand in Ghost’s general direction. “Crabbit randie.”

Millen looked to Gaz for a translation, but the beta just shrugged. “We can’t understand him half the time, mate. You’re as lost as I am.”

“Aw, ye all numpties,” Soap grumbled. “Fookin’ Brits.”

Ghost gave the sergeant a cuff over the head. “Language. Won’t abide that kind of talk at the table.”

Soap looked up at him incredulously. “Ha’ off it, Si, ye mouth is jus’ as clatty as mine.”

“Negative. Behave yourself.”

Soap poked out his tongue, which earned him another thwack. It all seemed to be in good nature, since Soap’s pheromones never soured in fear, and while Ghost had no scent at all, there was a smirk upon his lips. The love ( mixed with just the right amount of annoyance ) between them was undeniable.

Millen couldn’t imagine being so comfortable with the large lieutenant, who could easily crush any one of them in one fist. A lump caught in the xi’s throat, and he recognized it as a dreadful longing. What would it be like to be so connected to another? A packmark was foreign enough to him, but a mating bond was another thing entirely. The thought of a person being adjunct to his own character was terrifying, to know that they would be able to sense the emotions which he so carefully schooled into rigid conformity. All his sickest desires and most outlandish fears would be laid bare. Any potential mate would run at the first vague sense of his internal turmoils, he was certain of it.

It was better this way. To be apart. When Millen was alone, he was protected from everything but his own head. Admittedly, that was a formidable enemy all in itself, but he had learned to live with the constant clamor inside his skull, the deprecations that prodded at the sorest spots of his self-image.

But at least only he was privy to his own struggles. Never would he allow someone to get a sense of who was, when all the fundamentals of societal expectation had been stripped away and all that remained was the scar tissue at his very core. Something important inside of him had died, and the phoenix of his new atman had rose from the carcass of what once was, a mangled tatter of feathers that lacked its former glory, a mockery of the grinning young man in his boot camp graduation photo.

Millen silently excused himself while Soap and Ghost were busy bantering, and Gaz was occupied with his food. He ignored a few of the more friendly fellows who waved at him or offered greetings.

~~~

Price glared at the small glass case on his desk. It held a Newton’s cradle made to look like billiard balls, although Price wasn’t a physics scholar nor a pool fan. It was something his father gave him for Christmas last year without putting much thought into it. However, that rabbithole went unexplored at the moment as his attention rested on his own reflection.

Price looked more and more like his dad every day. Pushing forty wasn’t old by any means. That sentiment didn’t stick now after the last remnants of his youth slipped through his fingers when he wasn’t watching, his full, brown beard sprouting gray patches on his chin.

There were larger problems at stake. Lamenting the passage of time did no one any good. He should feel lucky to have had all these years, considering the many perilous escapades he roped himself into, but it was hard when it earned him bad memories nearly as deep as his stress lines. Price sighed, running a hand through his hair. Christ, was it starting to thin?

Someone cleared their throat standing at his desk and startled him.

Roach stood there like an apprehensive stray, gaiter down around his neck, all his other gear in the armory. A little over a decade younger than Price. Not quite pushing thirty, probably unaware of how fast the birthdays ran by. He had a full head of rich chestnut hair (his crew cut grew out a smidge too far), big brown eyes without a dark circle in sight, high cheekbones his flesh hadn’t begun to sag from yet. Not a boyish face per se, considering the sharp, scruffy jawline it sported and the myriad of scars obtained on missions. Youthful but not young.

Quite the lady-killer, in Price’s opinion; perhaps a bit of a captain-killer as well. Sure, call it unethical to have little crushes on sergeants, but don’t fault a man for preferring trained dogs that come when called and still have the energy for tricks.

Price shook himself out of it before he thought too hard about scratching Roach behind the ears as the man sat in his lap. “Jesus Christ. Would it kill you to knock?”

“I did. You didn’t respond but the door was cracked.”

“Still. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Roach grinned. His teeth were crooked and one of his front incisors had been knocked out on their last mission. “I know, you’re getting up there, huh? When do you have to go for your first colonoscopy?”

Price groaned, dropping his head into his hands to rub his tired eyes. “Not for at least five years.”

Might as well be a minute in the grand scheme of things.

“Everything okay?” Roach asked.

“Aye, lad. Peachy. What can I do for you?”

“Got a leave request for the holidays. I want to spend ‘em with my parents.”

He reached over the desk for the papers then leaned back in his chair, boots on the desk. “What, no girlfriend to spend them with?”

The man laughed, rubbing his upper arm awkwardly.

Price raised an eyebrow. “Or, uh, no… boyfriend? To spend them with? Which would be no problem, if you did.”

His face flushed. Price liked the sight.

“I’m not seeing anyone, at the moment. Being in the S.A.S. makes dating tough. My mum's gonna make dinner.”

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re not heading over early to help?” Price scolded.

“I’ve only requested Christmas and the day after off… I’ll help clean up!”

“Damn right you will,” Price said, sliding the papers back across the desk. “Add Christmas Eve so you can be a good boy and help your old lady. Then I’ll approve.”

Roach nodded. Price expected him to leave but, to the Captain’s surprise, he flopped down in a chair.

“Don’t you have duties to attend to, Sergeant?”

“Lunchtime. I’ll bring you chow if you pretend I’m not lollygagging.”

Price was hungry, and his sciatica had been acting up again—it shot pain down his right leg for a few minutes whenever he stood up or sat down. “Deal,” he agreed without much deliberation. Plus, it meant the eye candy stuck around a little longer.

Roach put his arms behind his head and leaned back. He carried his strength in more of a swimmer’s build rather than bulking as much as Ghost or Soap. Definitely strong, though. Well defined muscles flexed below his shirt as he stretched. Price sighed again—he’d lost much of his own definition over the years despite being just as strong. And the aches only ever got worse.

“Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, Sanderson. Having a mid-life crisis, is all.”

He flashed that gap-toothed grin. “Hey, you’re not that old!”

“I’m no spring chicken.”

“Okay, well. When you talk like that I can only assume you were born in the fifties.”

Price rolled his eyes. “Way to hit a man while he’s down.”

Roach laughed.

Price didn’t. He thinned his lips, opened his mouth to start speaking once or twice, pressed his fingertips together. Finally, he asked, “Do I act old?”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad! It’s fine, really.”

“Hasn’t felt fine lately. I’m greying. Gonna be balding soon, I bet. Got crows feet, smile lines, droopy skin… I’m not the heartthrob I used to be. Enjoy it while it lasts, lad.”

Roach leaned forward. “Hey, don’t be like that! Think of it this way: you’re a DILF now. Once the D turns into more of a G, you’ll just be in your silver fox era.”

“What’s a DILF?”

Roach grimaced. “I was hoping you knew what that meant already.”

Price totally did. GILF, too. But he wanted to see Roach squirm, so he tilted his head in a curious ruse.

“You know what a MILF is, right?”

He nodded.

“So you can guess what the D stands for, right?”

“Are you calling me a ‘dad you’d like to fuck?’”

He took sick joy in the way Roach covered his eyes, immediately pink from his clavicle to the tips of his ears.

Roach said, “It’s—It’s a figure of speech, Sir.”

“I get it, I get it, I’m messing around.”

Price half expected the Sergeant to leave for lunch now that he was mortified. He didn’t. Price’s stomach growled; maybe he could speed this along.

“What makes me a ‘dad you’d like to fuck?’”

“Quit saying that!”

He just laughed.

Surprisingly, Roach kept talking, sweet-talking, even. “Uh, I guess it’s the salt and pepper that does it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And the way you carry yourself. You’re strong and confident ‘cause you’re experienced. Well-seasoned. It implies you've been around the block once or twice, if you catch my drift.” Roach’s face only got pinker.

“So you like a man more experienced than you?”

“Captain!”

Price had to backpedal. “Just joking! Nothing wrong if you do. Or don’t.” He chuckled and sighed. “Don’t mind me, I’m a dirty old bastard. Go get lunch, and change that leave request.”

“R-right.”

Roach was out the door before Price could change his mind. Maybe he sped things up too fast.

‘Been around the block once or twice.’

‘Experienced.’

Sounded like Roach wanted to be collared, leashed, and taken for a walk.

…

About ten minutes later the Sergeant returned carrying two meals, again scaring the piss out of Price when he tossed the metal tray onto the desk and a jacket potato threatened to jump out of its designated cubby.

“Christ alive! You didn’t knock this time, either—!”

“Yes, I did! Sir!”

“No, you didn’t! At least I know you’re not a bloody vampire.”

“But I do bite.”

“Great,” Price said sarcastically. “I’ll send in an purchase request for a muzzle, then. Go on, sit.”

He enjoyed the scarlet red Roach immediately turned.

“What had you distracted this time, Captain?”

Being too old to die young anymore. Dying old and ugly and alone.

“Nothing,” Price answered. “Not a thing.”

“Still feeling old?”

“Yup. And It’s getting worse by the second. You’ll be in my shoes, one day. If you’re lucky. You’ll prune up, lose that pretty face, hunch over like a question mark. All your hair will fall out. I bet yours will start from the crown of your head rather than recede; you’ll look like a monk.”

“Don’t be so negative. It’s natural. It’s maturity. Like wine!”

Price smirked. “I don’t believe it. Don’t flatter me, kid, that’s how you become a kiss-ass. I already peaked around your age. It’s all downhill from here; been going downhill for a while.”

Roach clicked his tongue. “It’s not kissing ass if you’re the one turning away from my compliments and pulling your pants down. I can’t help if you won’t listen.”

“I’m not an auditory learner.”

“Ha-ha. You’re a physical one, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“Said it yourself. Dirty old bastard.”

He laughed. His mouth moved before his brain could filter it. “Well, if you teach me why I’m a DILF, I’ll share what I’ve learned on my adventures.”

Roach’s mouth gaped and his eyes went wide. Price nearly saw the discharge notice flying at him—then the Sergeant crossed his legs to hide a boner. Price would be lying if he claimed that didn’t make him hard as a rock.

He paused. Cocked an eyebrow. “Are we pretending I didn’t see that, Sanderson?”

Roach wouldn’t look his way.

“You’re not in trouble. Lock the door, I’ll show you a thing or two. Or leave and there’s no harm done, aye?”

Roach’s brows furrowed. He looked at his Captain, then the door, then his lunch, then repeated the circuit. “Can we eat first? I’m starving.”

He smiled. “Brilliant idea.”

…

And so they ended up locked in Price’s dark office together, the Captain in his chair as Roach straddled his lap.

“You’re so sexy,” Roach said, feeling Price’s trapezius muscles, digging in to release tension. His fingers slipped under the man’s shirt collar. “I can’t believe you don’t see it.”

Price moaned. He couldn’t help it, gripping Roach by the hips as the Sergeant trailed kisses up his stubbly neck. Next thing he knew his shirt was untucked and Roach took warm handfuls of his hairy tummy.

“Not as… toned as it used to be,” Price said sheepishly, eyes closed for reasons he couldn’t explain. It felt more comfortable that way.

“I love it. It’s perfect. And I can still feel the muscles underneath—you’re just as strong.”

“Yeah, yeah. Butter me up. It won’t get you anywhere special.”

Roach pulled away. Price leaned forward to chase kisses now withheld, peaking one eye open when an arm across his chest pinned him in place.

“Something wrong, Sanderson?”

The man stared down his nose at Price. “How long’s it been since anyone’s given you any appreciation?” He asked.

“Huh? Oh…” Price tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Can’t remember, so I reckon it’s been a while. Once you’re in my position you’re in charge of dishing it out to keep moral high.”

Roach hummed. “I mean in your love life.”

“The well’s run dry since I've been a Captain. Always been more of a giver, though.”