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lethalchiralium · 2 years ago

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MOTHIE. IM ON THE EDGE OF MY SEAT. IM RIPPING OUT THE CUSHION

iv. the night was young (and so were we)

Pairing: Mob Boss!Price x F!Reader Word Count: 4.6k Warnings: alcohol, drunken karaoke, medical inaccuracies, wound descriptions Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. A/N: i'm so sorry for this being late, things have been kind of exhausting, but good news is i hit some inspiration and have half of the next chapter already written so it should be out much quicker! thank you guys for being patient with me! prev | next

Unable to sleep, you’re up and ready first thing in the morning. You take better care to clean and rewrap your hand, making a small mental note to restock the bandages in your first-aid kit as soon as you can.

You make it to the club an hour early and less than excited to start clean-up from the previous night’s events. You don’t bother walking to the front, heading straight for the back door as you sort through your mental checklist of chores.

You’ll start with the kitchen; it’s the least you can do if you plan on asking Rudy to look at your hand. You hadn’t been paying attention to which racks you’d knocked over during your struggle, but you don’t think it's more than you can handle cleaning.

Warm air hits your face as you swing the door open, walking into the kitchen, ready to work.

A sharp whistle echoes through the kitchen, and you startle, not expecting anyone to be here this early. Your eyes dart up, ready to look for the source of the whistle, but you catch the shine from one of the countertops and realize:

The kitchen is spotless, not a single thing out of place as every surface sparkles and shines.

Valeria leans against one of those shining counters, polishing a set of knives as Rudy and Alejandro loudly sort through the ingredient racks behind her.

They don’t seem to have noticed you as you quietly step further into the kitchen.

You get two steps closer to her when Valeria speaks, “Heard you put on quite the show.” She doesn’t look up from the set of knives, setting the newly polished one aside and plucking another from the unclean pile.

“Wouldn’t call it a show,” you mutter, joining her at the counter.

“No?” She shoots you a quick glance, brow raised, and mouth pulled into a slight smirk. “That’s not what Laswell says.”

“It wasn’t much,” you shrug. “All it took was some creative storytelling and a few tears.”

Valeria scoffs, muttering a quiet, “Of course.” She finishes polishing and sets the knife aside, folding and laying the cloth on top. She turns to face you, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning with her hip against the counter. Her eyes drop down over your clothes, lingering on your bandaged hand for a moment before traveling back up to your face.

“Laswell said she got there late—that they already had you in interrogation when she arrived.” Valeria tilts her head, eyes never leaving yours.

“For a few minutes,” you nod. Valeria hums, nodding along in seeming sympathy, but her eyes convey anything but. A small chill prickles its way up your spine under her intense gaze.

“Sounds like a quick conversation,” Valeria says offhandedly, but you hear the underlying question.

What did they tell you?

What did you tell them?

You take the suspicion in stride, a small huff of laughter escaping your lips. Valeria's brows raise, almost offended at your nerve to laugh at her.

“If you count being talked at with some patronizing spiel about how I need their protection, a conversation, then sure.”

“Their protection,” Valeria scoffs quietly. “From what?”

“My big, bad boss and his apparent gang of ne’er-do-wells,” you huff with a roll of your eyes and add, a bit indignantly, “Like I even need their help. I can protect myself just fine.”

“I can see that.” Valeria glances down at your hand again. She meets your eyes, staring you down for a few seconds longer. You match her gaze with a small smile and tension lining your shoulders.

I’m not a threat. You don’t need to worry.

Valeria looks away first, returning to her knives with a dismissive wave. You feel like you should say more, add something to try and convince her you don’t intend to harm the club.

You take a moment, trying to find the right words, “I—”

“Look who’s here!” Alejandro and Rudy finally spot you, leaving the ingredient racks behind to join you and Valeria at the counter. Alejandro passes her with a quick touch to her back and a small kiss to the top of her head that she clicks her tongue at, walking up to clap you on the back. Rudy hangs back, waiting on the opposite side of Valeria and watching you with a polite smile.

“We were wondering when you’d show up,” Alejandro laughs.

“I thought I’d come in early, y’know? Get a head start on cleaning up the kitchen after what happened,” you smile back at him.

“Don’t worry about that; we’ve got it covered!” Alejandro nods to Rudy, sending him a wink that you almost miss.

“I appreciate it,” you say, and Alejandro gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I should probably start on the bar then—”

“Bar’s already done,” Rudy cuts in. “Couple of the boys took care of it already.”

“Oh.”

You hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, you figured the others might’ve helped a little or found someone to lift the things too heavy for you, but you didn’t think they’d clean the entire place themselves.

“Well—” you turn to Rudy, setting your hands gently atop the counter, ”—I hope you won’t mind if I ask you for a favor, then?” His brows knit together in confusion as you raise your bandaged hand, wiggling your fingers at him in a little wave. “Price said to have you take a look at this?”

His eyes widen in surprise as he nods, “Yeah, come on.” He steps back from the counter as Alejandro disappears into the back and returns with a small bag for Rudy and a metal folding chair for you. You thank him, sitting down as Rudy goes through the bag. He pulls out a small black roll that unravels into a kit of various scalpels, tweezers, needles, and scissors.

“What happened?” Rudy asks, stepping away to wash his hands before putting on a pair of disposable gloves.

“The cops do that to you?” Alejandro questions, stern gaze set on your hand.

“No, I got scraped up when I crawled through the broken glass behind the bar. Then…” You glance over your shoulder to where Valeria polishes the knives, your gaze settling on the silver of the blades.

“You alright, avecita?” Alejandro asks softly.

“Someone grabbed me from behind,” you sigh. “I didn’t see who it was, but they slammed me into the counter, so I grabbed the closest weapon I could find. Didn’t mean to grab it by the blade, but it worked well enough.” You turn back to Rudy, who’s staring at you with something akin to pity.

“You did good,” Rudy mumbles, holding a gloved hand out to you. You set your hand in his, palm up, and he begins unwrapping the bandages. It stings slightly as the gauze pulls at the blood that’s started to scab along the edges, but you keep your hand still for him. Rudy hums as he sees the wound in its entirety; it’s nothing too severe—a good slice across the palm and a few minor cuts around it—but your skin is red and starting to swell.

“Good news is it doesn’t look like any glass is stuck in your skin,” Rudy explains, slightly turning your hand.

“And the bad news?”

“Cleaning it will probably hurt. A lot.”

Your left shoulder pangs in a soft ache.

“Can’t hurt worse than being body slammed onto a counter,” you joke. You get a small laugh from Rudy and even a little huff from Valeria behind you. Rudy momentarily lets go of your hand to get whatever he needs to clean your cuts, so you turn to Alejandro.

“Why would you think the cops did this?” you ask.

“The Chief’s got a hard-on for Price, and he tends to look the other way if his boys get a little too rough,” Alejandro explains, the malice in his voice as apparent as the frown that pulls at his mouth.

You feel Rudy grip your hand again and keep your eyes trained on Alejandro.

“The Chief?” you ask, thinking back to your walk through the station. Your mind immediately travels to the officer in the different uniform—the one who’d yelled at Soap. “The bald guy?”

“Shephard,” Alejandro spits.

Rudy wipes something soft and wet across your palm, and the following sting instantly shoots up your arm. You sink your teeth into your cheek, waiting for the pain to dull to a manageable point.

“What’s he got against Price?” You grind the question out as Rudy continues, fighting the urge to pull your hand away.

“Nothing reasonable,” Valeria scoffs.

“They worked together before the club opened,” Alejandro explains. “Something went down between them, and Shepherd’s had it out for him ever since.”

“Something went—ow, fuck—something went down? Like what?”

“Don’t know,” Alejandro shrugs, “but whatever it was, it was bad.”

You try to think back to your father’s old visitors—his war buddies, business partners, and informants. You don’t remember the name Shepherd, not even as a codename. And none of his seemingly endless stories about Price and the 141 ever mentioned him.

“Alright,” Rudy says, releasing your hand again, “The biggest cut will probably need a few stitches, but everything else should be fine. I’ll rewrap your hand, and you’ll have to keep the area dry for at least 48 hours. After that, water should be fine, just don’t soak it, and we’ll look at how you’re doing in a week or so.”

You nod, hand now numb from the pain of the disinfectant, “Whatever you say, Doc.” Rudy raises a brow at you, and you respond with a teasing smile.

Alejandro leaves Rudy to his work, continuing whatever they had been doing with the ingredient racks while Valeria works silently behind you.

You let your mind wander back to Shepherd, wondering where you could have met him. He didn’t seem familiar to you. You doubt your father would have known him, but you can’t imagine him not wanting to keep tabs on someone who wanted to take down the 141 as much as he did.

Or maybe it wasn’t your father who knew him. It could’ve been—

A shiver travels up your spine.

If he knew Shepherd, you definitely didn’t want to get involved.

True to his word, Rudy takes your stitches out a week later, pleased with how well you’ve healed. He wraps your hand again, this time with a cold, medicinal cream slathered over your palm. You ask him for extra bandages, telling him it’s for your own first-aid kit, and he’s kind enough to give you an unopened box with enough rolls of gauze to keep you stocked for months.

The dynamic shifts after that first week.

Kyle remains friendly as ever and always happy to speak with you. Soap and Alex are a little friendlier, inviting you to join their conversations before your shift and letting you play music over the speakers while you work.

On the rare occasions they’re there at the same time as you, Roach and König will join you for lunch, sitting on the edge of the stage with you and sharing snacks. You learn that Roach and König are roommates, living in a large flat with a third bedroom that’s meant for König’s boyfriend, who travels for several months out of the year.

You’re invited to visit during open hours more often, Alex saving you a seat at the bar next to Nik, where you have the perfect view of Farah as she croons into the microphone. Valeria even manages to convince you to join a few poker games; she never lets you win, of course, but she also goes out of her way to make sure you beat everyone else at the table.

Even Ghost doesn’t seem to watch you as much. He still doesn’t speak to you but seems more tolerant of your presence. You’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so you take what you can get.

You see Price around the club more after that first week as well. It’s usually in passing, you working your way around the club and him mostly coming and going from his office, but he always goes out of his way to stop and say hi. You try not to overthink it, but it’s hard not to notice his hand lingering a few seconds too long on your shoulder and how those brilliant blue eyes follow you around the room when he doesn’t think you’re looking.

Do not get involved with your boss, you scold yourself.

Unfortunately, you’ve never been good at taking your advice.

Two months after what has been dubbed The Hassan Incident, Kyle, Soap, and Alex catch you at the end of the day, calling you over to the bar just as you’re about to leave.

“We’re going out tonight,” Kyle grins as you walk up the steps.

“And you’re coming with us!” Soap laughs, throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side.

“Going out where?” you ask, pulling yourself from under Soap’s arm.

“A couple other clubs,” Alex explains, “Boss says it’s good to get out and survey the competition.”

“And he knows we could all use the night off,” Kyle adds, grin sliding into something more teasing. The other two laugh—a joke you aren't in on.

“I appreciate the invite, but clubs aren’t my thing,” you say, offering an apologetic smile.

“Whaddaya mean? You’re here almost every other night!” Soap asks, nudging you in the side with his elbow.

“That’s not the same—”

“Don’t be a downer, come with us!”

“Everyone’s gonna be there!”

“You’ll have a great time, we promise!”

You groan, throwing your hands up in defeat. “Fine! Fine.” The guys cheer, Soap and Alex high-fiving over the bar. You roll your eyes, no actual malice behind it, giving the three a pointed look, “But you three are paying for my drinks.”

And in unison, they say, “Done.”

Surveying the competition turns out to be code for going on a club crawl and getting obscenely drunk.

You lose track after the third or fourth club, trying to manage your alcohol intake and matching every drink you’re given with a glass of water. It works for the most part, leaving you just drunk enough to let loose and have a little fun.

While the rest of your little gang spends their time at the bars, Soap and Kyle wear you out, making it their mission to get you to dance at every club your group visits. You spend the few moments of reprieve with Alex, Farah, and Valeria. You dance with Farah and Valeria a few times, Alex politely declining as he lifts one of his pant legs to show part of an impressive silver prosthetic.

“Wasn’t much of a dancer before, but now it’s like I have two left feet,” he laughs. Instead, he keeps an eye on Farah and your drinks, praising your moves when the three of your return to the table.

By the night's end, Soap and Kyle have succeeded in their mission, and you’re exhausted enough to miss the lumpy mattress of your motel room. You think the others are starting to come down too, but someone suggests karaoke, and all hell breaks loose.

You follow everyone out of the club—was it number seven or eight?—sandwiched between Roach and Alejandro as the group walks toward their next destination.

“Doin’ awrite, Goose?” Soap calls back to you, leaning heavily onto Ghost, who looks unbelievably annoyed but refuses to move his arm from around Soap’s waist.

“Are you?” you laugh, taking in the way the Scot stumbles and struggles to keep pace with Ghost.

“Aye,” Soap slurs, leaning into Ghost’s side. “Ah'm jus’ great.” The others snicker, equally as uncoordinated and intoxicated.

The walk isn’t long, crossing a few streets before things start to look familiar to you. You recognize a street sign, then a shop, and finally, realize where you’re headed when you turn the corner and see the club sitting across the street.

“You guys have karaoke?” you ask no one in particular.

“Sort of,” Kyle says, smiling wide as he slows his stride to loop his arm through yours. “You’ll see, come on.”

The gang enters the club, pushing tables together in front of the stage while Price, Nik, and Alex start grabbing bottles from behind the bar. You help where you can, moving chairs until they’re arranged around the rows of tables all facing the stage and holding a cable for Roach while he sets up a single mic on stage.

“Gaz yer f’rst!” Soap yells, handing Kyle a full shot glass and shoving him towards the stage. Kyle downs it easily, hopping onto the stage, and everyone finds a seat. You reach for yours, but the chair pulls out before you can get it. Price stands behind it with a small smile, gesturing for you to sit down.

You’ll blame the sudden flush of your cheeks on the alcohol.

“Thanks,” you nod, sitting down. Price walks off but returns a moment late, and Kyle checks the mic with two glasses in hand, setting the one full of ice and clear liquid in front of you. “Oh, I’m not—”

“It’s water,” Price laughs, and you sigh in relief. You take a generous sip, savoring the cold as it travels down your throat.

You turn to thank him, but you’re interrupted by the sudden blast of music and a chorus of cheers and shouts from the rest of the club.

Kyle stands center stage, phone in hand so he can read the lyrics to his song, and takes the next three minutes to deliver an unforgettable—and slurred—performance of The Pina Colada song that has you loudly cheering. He receives a standing ovation when he’s done, bowing and jumping down from the stage. He takes the seat next to you, thanking you for your praises as Soap clambers up on stage, Ghost hovering nearby and ready to help at a moment’s notice.

His rendition of I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) is dedicated to Ghost and has the rest of you dying in your seats from laughter and singing clumsily along.

After Soap, an excited Alejandro and less enthusiastic Rudy sing a duet of Me Gustas Tu that is equally sweet and enjoyable.

Soap goes again, pulling Ghost on stage to sing Tequila with him. It’s mostly Soap dancing and holding the mic up to a silent Ghost. It’s funny enough, but during the final chorus, Ghost sighs and reluctantly grumbles a quiet tequila into the mic. Everyone goes wild, but none more so than Soap, who rewards Ghost with a kiss on his masked cheek before taking off back toward the bar. Ghost follows him, eyes trained on the ground to keep anyone from seeing the sudden blossoming of red across his face.

Nik takes Soap’s place with a surprisingly lovely voice that has your full attention until a set of hands slam down onto your shoulders. You jump, nearly knocking your glass over, but Price and Kyle jump into action and catch the glass before it can tip.

“Y’ready t’ sing, Duck?” Soap asks, leaning forward and crushing his cheek against yours.

“I’m not singing,” you laugh, gently trying to guide Soap away from you.

“Sure y’ are!” Soap laughs, louder than necessary. “Came here t’ sing, s’now yer gonna sing! Picked yer song an’ ev’rythin’!” Soap gives you a slightly rough pat on the cheek, walking away before you can argue.

“No,” you say, looking between Price and Kyle for help, “I am not singing.”

“Sounds like you are,” Kyle chuckles.

“You’re the boss,” you whine, nudging Price in the arm. “Tell him I’m not going up there.”

Price leans back in his chair, staring down at you with a smirk that looks too damn good on him. “Consider it your audition.” Kyle chokes down a laugh behind you as your mouth drops open and Nik’s song comes to an end.

“Awrite, get up ‘ere, hen!” Soap shouts into the mic, pointing directly at you. The others cheer and clap, all eyes trained on you.

“I hate both of you,” you mutter to Price and Kyle. You pluck Price’s glass from his hands, downing the rest of the drink and allowing the whiskey to burn down your throat and spread liquid courage through your veins before making your way up to the stage. Soap hands you his phone, a song already paused on the screen, and disappears off the stage.

The sooner this is over, the sooner you can go home.

You hit play, surprised when the first few notes echo across the club.

You know this song.

You’ve played it for him and Alex a few times before, mentioning that it was one of your favorites, but you hadn’t expected either of them to remember that.

You know the words, and you’re already up here, alcohol and adrenaline humming through your bones.

Might as well.

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing out any images of crowds of black suits and too-tight dresses and crescent-shaped scars sitting high on the cheekbone.

You’re safe here.

Go for it.

You sing the first few notes, beginning softly and letting your courage build up. And once it does, you give the performance of a lifetime. You’re a little too drunk to dance, so you stick to the mic belting out each note with everything you’ve got, not even needing to look at the lyrics. It’s somehow the longest and shortest three minutes of your life, and you absolutely kill it, fueled by your nerves and the uproar of applause as you hit the final chorus.

The song ends drowned out by the drunken cheers of your co-workers and, dare you say, friends. You give a short bow, walking to the edge of the stage to return to your seat.

A gentle, warm hand wraps around yours. You look to the sudden grasp and find Price standing in front of the stage, your hand in his as he helps you down the dip of the stage.

“Quite the performance,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. He doesn’t pull away, keeping your hand loosely in his.

“The extra drink helped,” you joke, wrapping your hand around his and giving it a soft squeeze.

You pull away, and he lets you go, stepping back to allow you past him so you can return to your table. Kyle, Soap, and Ghost are waiting for you, the former two clapping you on the back and offering you congratulatory drinks. Ghost tips his head in a slight nod that feels far more personal than anything you’ve ever gotten from him.

You accept the drinks, throwing all caution to the wind as König takes the stage.

The rest of the night passes with far more fun than you’ve had in years. You cut yourself off and sober up enough to drive yourself back to the motel after making sure everyone else was taken care of—a gesture Price and Ghost seemed very thankful for.

You collapse onto your bed, only bothering to remove your shoes, and are out the moment your land on the hard mattress.

You manage to get to the club early the next morning, splurging on a cheap coffee from the gas station and a pair of novelty sunglasses to keep the blaring sun out of your eyes. The cashier says nothing but gives you a sympathetic smile and tells you to keep your change. You thank her, sliding the too-pink strawberry-shaped shades over your eyes as you return to your car. You drive slowly, being extra cautious with the visor down to keep as much sun out of your eyes as possible.

After parking, you take a few minutes to collect yourself, sipping from your burnt coffee. It takes some effort, and a small pep talk to yourself, to get you out of the car.

“Fuck this,” you hiss as the bright rays of light immediately beat down on your face. You lock your car, heading straight for the back door and into the thankfully dim kitchen. It’s a slow trek to the main room, your mind throbbing with thoughts about which corner you could hide in to take a quick nap.

You don’t think anyone would mind.

Really, you’d be surprised if they showed up for the day; most of them had been in a state far worse than you when you’d left.

You’re halfway across the room when a door clicks open behind you, and you hear, “Canary, come here!”

You groan, holding your head as you slowly turn around. The best you can muster is a frown at whoever’s just shouted and is now laughing very loudly at you as you slog over to the office doors. You slide your sunglasses up, looking at Kyle’s beaming face with pure exhaustion written on your own.

“Rough night?”

“Fuck off.”

Kyle lets out a laugh that has you gripping your head, pushing past him into the office. Any other time you’d welcome the rich smell of Price’s office, but your hangover has fucked over your senses, and it takes everything in you to not vomit on the carpet.

A low whistle echoes through the office and burrows straight through your ears.

“And I thought Soap looked rough,” Price chuckles from behind his desk. You send him your fiercest glare, taking a long sip from your with your middle finger strategically placed along the cup. “Is that how you treat the man who signs your paychecks?”

“You don’t even know how much you’re paying me,” you huff, flopping gracelessly into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“How much is that again?” Kyle laughs, taking the seat next to you.

“Not enough,” you mutter into your coffee cup.

“Good thing we’re here to discuss your pay then, isn’t it?” Price asks. Your gaze shoots up to him, brows raising as a spike of anxiety jolts through you.

“Please don’t fire me while I’m hungover. I might throw up on your desk.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, but you’re too worried to feel embarrassed.

“Least she’s honest, yeah?” Price laughs to Kyle. He leans back in his chair, a broad smile on his face. “Alex and Farah are going on vacation.”

“O…kay?” Your brows knit together, confused as you look between Price and Kyle, who’s doing a poor job at hiding a suspiciously devious grin.

“In the meantime, the club will need a singer.”

You flounder, unable to form words as you’re already off-kilter brain tries to understand what’s happening.

Gaz nudges your arm, “You did say you wanted to sing here.”

“Our new Songbird,” Price adds softly.

“Uh, yeah. Yes! That—that would be…amazing.” You barely get the words out, trying to contain your excitement, fluster, and every other burst of emotion you’re feeling. “When do I start?”

“You’ll rehearse with Farah in the weeks leading up to her leaving and take over after she’s gone,” Price explains, turning to Kyle. “Have Valeria get her fitted. Today, preferably.”

Kyle nods, pulling out his phone and standing from his chair. He holds a hand out to you, not looking up from the screen.

“Better go before Valeria gets too busy,” Price smirks. You take the hint and grab Kyle’s hand as he helps you up. He walks ahead of you, holding the door open for you.

“And Gaz!” Price calls as you pass through his office doors. “Get her a phone!”

“Will do!”

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