I Wanna Be Yours (John Price X Reader)

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner

Being apart of task force 141 was fucking immense, you'd only been apart of the team for a year and a half but you managed to click in with them so much it seemed like you'd known them all your life. They were slightly hesitant at first glance, with your age, how much smaller in comparison to them (even though you were definitely sure you were classed as tall before you joined, it meant shit now) and how genuinely nice you acted towards everything made them a little skeptical on how the hell you managed to become a sergeant so fast and moved to a specialist task force like it was nothing.

That was, of course, until you managed to take down Gaz in a sparring session in minutes. That was a fun reaction from both him and everyone watching, keeping him pinned down for thirty seconds just to drill it in a bit further before helping him up. It wasn't even that you were stronger than him, he just thought you would be easy and you got lucky.

And the rest was history, to some extent.

You and the task force had finally come back to base from a pretty stressful mission, not a complete shit show and you got the desired results, but still, fucking stressful. What started as a quick scouting job that was supposed to take a couple days tops turned into a hostage situation that extended things to a grovelling four weeks. In the end, you got your intell and helped some hostages, pretty eventful if you do say so yourself.

Everyone was tired, way too tired to think of a better word to describe it. Exhausted was too dramatic of a word to concider this late in the evening, everyone was just tired. The second the heli dropped the team back at base, everyone shuffled back into the barracks or the showers. Normally there was a debriefing day of so everything was fresh but literally no one could be bothered, a job for tomorrow morning, fun.

The sky was dark with grey clouds, rain pissing it down overhead in a heavy mist visible only from the sliver of moonlight from behind the thick clouds and the industrial floodlights looming over where needed. The air was cold and crisp but not bitey, nice autumn air with the smell of the rain; would've been nice to linger out in it for a bit and enjoy the changing seasons but like hell did you have enough energy to do that. There would be more rainy autumn nights to look forward too in the future, where all the leaves are orange and red, fluttering around in the wind and giving this place some much needed colour (because who actually enjoys looking at slate grey and beige all the time? No one normal, that's who). It wouldn't be bad to miss one so, feeling the weight of your body on your tired legs, you continued your walk to the armoury that was practically just a fancy word for a shed.

Your tactical gear weighed your shoulders down, the surge of tiredness echoing through you as you stepped into the armoury where all the artillery and gear were stored and logged. Most got in before you did, leaving it looking a lot more messy and disorganised than you would've liked. One more job for the morning wasn't something you fancied, unfortunately for your achy legs, sleep could be postponed for another few minutes, Price would have absolutely everyone's heads otherwise and disappointing him was never fun because he was such a good guy.

You took off your gear and put it in its designated cubby on the wall and logged it, starting to pick up the bits of gear on the floor close to its cubby but not close enough to be in the cubby and things just shoved somewhere since it was better than being on the floor and getting those logged too. The idea of logging things on a clipboard stuck to the wall was Captain Price's way of avoiding making someone take inventory every month or so since everybody hated it, making anyone who took out a piece of gear cross it off and once it was returned (if it was returned) what condition it was in or if it needed cleaning which was another chore that no one wanted. Good in theory, clearly awful in practice.

You were good at it though, the whole organising and logging thing, it would be kind of therapeutic if your eyes wasn't so heavy and going involuntarily out of focus every so often. It was better to do it now than tomorrow, god help your soul if Soap was assigned to clean up in here since it was mostly his stuff that was out in the open, no one would ever find anything ever again.