greetings.

There’s something outside. It drags it’s feet against the earth, rumbling so loud that it vibrates the air and walls. You keep telling yourself it’s a bear, but the snarl it gives whenever passing your window from below tells you it’s much meaner than a bear.

The spoon clinked against the ceramic as your stirred your coffee, morning light spilling into the kitchen, dust particles dancing and spiraling in joyous movements. The peace after Colin left last night permeated the air still, lingered and clung to nicotine soaked walls. John seemed on edge for the most part, sipping on his tea and listening as you explained the relationship you and Colin once had.

Well, more or less the CliffsNotes version. You felt rather sheepish in giving a long story about your failed relationship that was supposed to be promising.

Promising.

The word rested like bile on your tongue. Colin was a manipulative, egotistical, piece of shit. He didn’t used to be like that, far from it. But it was as if over the years, he had changed and shifted as a person. And you knew, deep down, that people change, you understood that. You had hoped Colin wouldn’t change too much.

’Do you think we’ll still be together in ten years?’ You had asked him, laying beside Colin in bed. It was early, early for two college students. He turned his head, eyes twinkling with a loving affection as he smiled at you. His thumb caressed your cheek. Soft, reverent.

‘Of course, Dove. I can’t picture myself with anyone besides you. Why would you even ask that, baby?’

His words hung over your head every now and then, like a sick joke. Making empty promises should be illegal; all it did was just hurt people.

And poor Shepherd, John. That man listened like a man at Sunday mass, listening to a priest mutter scripture. It made you wonder, was he religious, if at all? You could see him being a man of God, a man of faith in the Christian sense. He seemed like it, and part of that made you worry.

Not many were kind when they were drawn in like moths to flame just for them to find out you were anything but a woman of God.

Middle school was hard. Always was for any kid. But when kids would point and laugh, scribble profanities and witch hats on your locker— you wanted nothing more than to curl in on yourself. For a while, you lost touch with it. You stopped hearing the whispers, stopped seeing the pixies, the gut feelings swallowed up by a static that filled your head. Depression, as a therapist called it. A challenge, your mother reframed it.

‘It’s alright, Dovie. You’ll be alright, won’t you?’ Her words were more for comfort for herself rather than you as she held you tight at night, clinging as if scared to let you go. Afraid what the static would cause. And over time, it let up, but it always lingered in the back of your mind, even during every award ceremony, every party— every milestone.

It felt loud last night. When Colin had you cornered against the counter tops, his words cutting deep. The breakup felt fresh, in a way. You spent years with him, made plans for the future. That meant something.

Right?

“You look poorly, Dovie. Somethin’ happen?” Maeve eyed you, brows pinched up in a worried way as you glanced at her and approached the bar. Tom Calder, a farmer down the way from you and John casted a glance at you and grunted. The man was rough around the edges, different from John though. Tom was just a blunt bastard, never a man to beat around the bush.

“Aye, look like proper shite.” Tom flinched and chuckled as Maeve threw a bar towel at the older man. You sighed and took the stool beside him.

“Thanks, Tom.” You muttered.

“Anytime, Dovie. Anytime…” He clapped a calloused hand on your shoulder, making you wince slightly from the force. “Maeve’s ri’oght though, what’s got you down?” Tom squinted, brown eyes assessing you beneath the lip of his paperboy hat. You flicked your gaze to the door, rubbing your hands together.

“Uh… Just— waiting for someone. Here for a brief chat.” Maeve’s expression shifted from worry to skeptical. Tom arched a brow slowly, narrowing his eyes.

“Aye,” Tom grunted out. “S’ppose it’s that yank who’s been sulkin’ about, that him?” Maeve shot Tom a dirty look, disapproving of his prying.

“Tom, please. Dovie doesn’t need prying from you, she’s already got the Captain sniffing about—” Tom shot Maeve a look.

“Oi, put some respect on the man. He served for us, least we can do is mind ourselves. War changes men.” Maeve faltered partially under Tom’s words, sighing and shaking her head.

“I wasn’t talking ill, Tommy. I was jus’ saying… the Captain is a decent man, Mabs came in here and said—” Tom huffed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Mabs— Maribel can hardly stop herself from talkin’ about what she had for breakfast. That’s all the woman does. Talk.” Tom turned to you, who had been half listening to the conversation. “Aye, Dovie, whatever you do, never tell Mabs ‘bout what you do. The woman will tell half the town within an hour.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Tom, I know. I actually haven’t seen much of her recently.” You paused, brows pinching. “She alright?” Tom grunted and rolled his eyes as Maeve gave you a small smile.

“She’s fine, Dovie… Mabs took a stumble in the rain outside the salon a few weeks ago.” Maeve paused then arched a brow. “Rowan didn’t mention?” You grimaced slightly. You haven’t kept up much with Rowan since she dropped off the books.

“No, she hadn’t, actually. I’ve been kinda busy with the garden lately.” Tom perked up at that.

“The garden? Fixin’ it up and bringin’ it back to its glory now, are ya?” You smiled at Tom, almost surprised he was pleased to hear of your work. The man was a farmer after all, he used to trade vegetables with your Granny. Now whether she handed off some herbs to him was between them, a little secret.

“Yeah. Actually, John’s been helping me out occasionally. He doesn’t… do much per se, but his company helps time pass by. Lets me borrow his gloves too.” You laughed quietly as Tom stared at you with his brows raised. He exchanged a subtle look with Maeve, who looked equally as surprised. Maeve blinked, snapping out of her daze.

“John’s… helpin’?” She leaned forward, crossing her arms. You blinked, caught off guard in a way by the sudden skepticism.

“Uh, yeah… I mean, like I said, he doesn’t… do much. He just watches, gives some pointers… Two days ago, he actually helped me pull a bush. Roots were a bit stubborn.”

Tom and Maeve exchanged another look, this one of disbelief. You furrowed your brows, lips pursing slightly in a pout. Did they seriously think John wouldn’t help? You thought back on it— in a way, you could figure why they felt that way. But surely over time, they should have somewhat warmed up to him…

A chime above the door rang, Maeve’s expression shifting to professional as she called out to the newcomer. You glanced over your shoulder, breath catching slightly. Your chest tightened with anxiety as Colin shut the pub’s door behind himself. Colin grumbled a curse, brushing some rain droplets off his navy blue rain coat. He lifted his gaze, finding you sitting at the bar. Colin’s expression shifted from irritation to casual.

“There you are, beautiful. I was hoping I’d actually get here before you, suppose you… beat me to it then.”

’Beautiful’, made your skin crawl. Years ago, it would’ve had you swooning and smiling all sappy like. But not now, not after the lying and manipulating. Tom glanced back, a scowl crawling across his aged features before he turned his attention back to his pint.

Maeve cleared her throat, “Ah, welcome, love. Any’fing I can start you off with?” The rag in her hands was wrung tight as you slid off your stool.

“He’s fine, Maeve. Just here for a quick chat.” You muttered, leading Colin off to a booth in the corner. Maeve’s brows pinched with hesitant concern, unsure how to read the situation as she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Tom met her gaze and subtly shook his head.

Colin sat down, legs spread wide as if claiming space that wasn’t his to claim was something worth winning an award. You sat across from him, back straight as a pin, hands in your lap. He reeked of regret. Cheap hotel soap, liquor, notes of coffee and a cigarette. The scent made your stomach churn with a tacky familiarity, heavy and uncomfortable.

“Bit rude,” He muttered, staring at you with a half lidded gaze. Disapproval. “Could’ve at least let me get a drink.” A muscle jumped in your cheek.

“You aren’t you when you drink, Colin.” Your fingers interlocked tightly as his upper lip twitched, the threat of a sneer or an insult sitting heavy on his tongue— you weren’t sure. “Did you actually call my mother? Tell her I’d come back?” You leaned forward a fraction, voice tense. Walking the fine line between anger and attempting to keep quiet. Colin leaned back, a grin finding its way across his lips.

“I did. I called her before I boarded the plane. She was excited. Kinda confused, but… well, it’s your mother. She gets confused.” The mocking tone in his voice made your blood burn. How dare he speak so ill of her? She lost her fucking mother. Not to mention, she hasn’t had the best mental health for the past decade. Bless your father and his patience.

“Don’t.” The warning came through grit teeth, eyes narrowed sharp with disgust as you stared at Colin. His expression darkened. Colin was good at that, his behavior or expression shifting on a dime. It was like watching someone pull off a mask before putting it back on. “You don’t get to make comments like that, Colin. You— God, you were there when she was at her worst. She treated you like you were gold—”

“Yeah, not my fucking fault. How she views me is kind of irrelevant. Your mom’s mind is broken like a shattered vase. Are you fucking serious? Why are you even defending her, Dove? You act like she’s here or some bullshit.” Colin scoffed sharply, leaning forward as you leaned back. Push, pull.

“Because that’s my mother, asshole. Just because she’s not well doesn’t mean you have the right to just talk about her like she’s some sort of- of after thought.” You shook your head slowly. “Colin, I made my decision when I flew out here. I’m not going back to America. I’ll visit family there, but I’m not coming back for you. To live with you. Living with you was— hell. Literal hell. You never—” You sucked in a shaky breath. There was a brief flicker of hesitation, but you pushed past it in favor of keeping the courage to finally speak your mind freely rolling. “— You never gave a shit about me. Maybe you… did. Back in college…? But you… you withdrew when you started that job, when you met her. You’d come home, we would eat dinner and then you’d just… Go off and do your own thing.” You huffed a bitter laugh, watching his expression harden with each sentence that fell from your lips. “Colin, the sex wasn’t even that fucking good either.”

He stared at you, a sneer written on his face. His eyes bored deep into you, posture tight with tension and brewing anger that simmered just beneath the surface of his skin. You swallowed, subtly flicking your gaze away to the clock on the wall. That final sentence, you knew that landed hard. It hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Thick and cloying like a rotten orange peel finally being pulled back to expose the rot.

You had been unsatisfied in so many ways with Colin. Emotionally, mentally, nonsexual initimacy wise and even sexually. It was like every time he entered a room, laughter would die between you and your friends. They started pulling away, one by one, uncomfortable.

That’s how it started. Colin in some shitty mood, making it everyone else’s problem. You’d coo and coddle, hold his hand. Then it turned into walking on eggshells. Where you ended up feeling hollow and empty. Mentally growing far and distant during sex, thinking about what groceries were needed when he whispered cheap words in your ear.

It was an ugly gaping wound between you both. Had been for a year or so, now laid bare.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze and sighed. “Colin… I’m sorry—” Colin grit his teeth.

“Shut the fuck up.” He rasped out. His words, the tone was so cruel. Made you flinch ever so slightly, your fingers curling in the fabric of your sweater sleeves. An attempt to ground yourself before he winded up his tirade.

“You are such a self centered bitch. No matter what I fucking did for you, it was never enough. You constantly bitched and nagged about bills, about meal planning for dinners, about date nights, about your mom’s health— god,” He laughed, a mean bitter sound. Your lips twisted into a frown, heart pitter pattering. He was getting louder, drawing stares. Drawing attention.

“C-Colin, please be quiet, people are staring—” He snapped at you and your attempt to settle him.

“SHUT— up…” He hissed through grit teeth. Colin leaned forward, cheap hotel soap and liquor choking up your senses. That rope around your neck tightening, digging and biting. Fear bubbling up. “You never know when to fucking shut up. Never know when to stop your bitching and fucking complaining. Last night, you told me you didn’t want to leave. Missed your Gran so fucking much—” He scoffed, a bitter amusement. “Fine. Fucking rot in that house just like she did. See if I fucking care.” He rose from his seat, fixing his coat as he strode off from the table. You sat there, frozen, a flicker of relief warming the cold fear in your stomach as your eyes followed Colin.

You watched as John stepped into the pub, grumbling under his breath a curse as he removed his beanie and ruffled his hair. Maeve called out to Price, a second too late. Tom glanced over, eyes widening slightly. Colin shoulder checked John as he moved past him, walking out the door. John furrowed his brows, sneering as he shot a heated look over his shoulder at Colin.

“Aye, ya fuckin’ prick.” He hissed out, rolling his shoulders. Colin paused, standing on on the threshold as he shot a dirty look back. It was comical. Colin, this twig of a young man standing a mere foot away from John and still dwarfed in comparison to him.

“Oh, fuck off, grandpa. Gonna call your fuckin’ military buddies on me, asshole?”

Tom immediately got off his stool, patrons muttering as they openly stared at the situation. Your heart dropped. You saw it John’s eyes, that split second decision— gears turning in his head. Jumping up from your seat, you began making your way over.

“Dovie, don’t get involved!” Maeve called out to you, nervous, as she rounded the bar to intercept you. Tom adjusted his cap as Colin argued with John, the two men getting into a heated verbal sparring match.

“Oi, you’ve got anotha thing comin’ if you think you can jus’ talk to me like that, son-”

“I’m not your fucking son, asshole! Get a grip, dickhead!”

“Get a grip!?”

Tom squawked out a curse, grabbing John’s arm just as he reeled back to strike Colin. “Captain, hold on! Fucks sake! He’s jus’ a fool, don’t go wastin’ your energy on ‘im now!”

You gasped, Maeve swiftly stepping in your path to keep you away from the altercation. “Dovie, don’t, love. Let them handle it. Tom’s got it under—”

John shook Tom off, growling. “Fuck off, Tom! This bastard’s been a bloody gnat—” Colin reeled back while John was distracted, punching him in the nose. Yours eyes widened, hands clasping over your mouth in dumbfounded shock. John stumbled back with a grunt, shaking his head as he blinked a few times. Tom winced, steadying John.

“Bloody hell, John— Shake it off, mate. Shake it off-” John huffed, blood trickling from his nose. His eyes zeroed in on Colin, who stood there frozen like an idiot, eyes wide and mouth gaping. John sneered, growling as he yanked away from Tom. He grabbed the collar of Colin’s shirt, hauling him up.

“Fuckin’ wanker— tha’s what you are.” John’s voice had gone gravel, gruff with a snarling undertone. “Nothin’ but trouble since ya came ‘ere. I’ve got half a fuckin’ mind of jus’ beatin’ you ‘till yer nothin’ but a bloody pulp.” Colin swallowed, hands shaky as he gripped John’s wrist tight, face pale in horror.

You watched from the sidelines, brows pinched in a mix of emotions. Guilt nagged at you. Blame being self appointed. It was your fault, wasn’t it? If you hadn’t laid out the ugly truth to Colin, he wouldn’t have gone and shoulder checked John, he wouldn’t have struck him, had his nose bleeding.

And you couldn’t help but feel overwhelming guilt. Because in some fucked up way, you felt like John Price’s blood was on your hands.

John’s grip tightened on Colin’s collar, a flicker of something wild and untamed in those usually composed blue eyes. Tom stiffened beside John, laying a hesitant hand on his shoulder, tentative. Worried in the way a man knew when another man was on the precipice of snapping. The tension easing in John’s shoulders made them sag a fraction. He released Colin, flexing his hand at his side as he stepped back. Tom muttered something to him, something that made him give a firm shake of his head as Colin sucked in a breath. Maeve watched over her shoulder, her arms hovering in the air around you, keeping you partially shielded from the tense air.

Tom carefully turned John away from Colin, urging the typically oh so composed Captain to go sit at the bar and cool off. Tom sucked his teeth, glancing at Colin who was still wearing a horrified expression. “… Lad, if I were you, I’d leave while I had the chance.”

And Colin did. He casted a glance to you before he quickly turned and left, slamming the door behind him. It rattled, the hinges quivering from the rough treatment, the sound echoing in the quiet pub.

The cottage felt damp. Damp in the way that the air from the pub followed you home. It wasn’t right. Colin striking John. You’ve seen Colin snap before, but not like that. It was jarring, further proved that need to push him away. Force a distance as big as a fucking ocean.

Colin was insane to think you’d want to go back to America with him.

Slowly, you went through the motions in the kitchen. Guilt ate you up. You couldn’t help it. Call it self sacrificing, call it being a martyr— you just couldn’t help but blame yourself. Years of blame, fights, and cruel words felt thick and heavy on you. Like a wool coat, suffocating and constricting.

That noose still felt so tight.

Baking helped ease the mind, busied your hands. Cracking open your Gran’s cook book, you blew dust from it’s pages and set it aside to gather ingredients.

‘Stir clockwise to draw in what you want.’ Your Gran stirred a pot, slow and steady. You were standing on a chair beside her, feet flexing while on your tippy toes. Little hands curled against the back of the chair.

‘Why’s that, Granny? What we drawing in?’ You pouted soft, peering up at her. Curious what your sweet Gran meant. She smiled, wrinkles creasing by her eyes as she peered down at you from the corner of her eye, smiling warmly. Fond.

‘Drawin’ in’ good health, fortune, and luck.’ She tapped your nose with the pad of her pointer finger, a giggle bubbling up from you. ‘Oh, sweet love, so much to learn… Not to worry, I’ll teach ya.’

The banana bread rested on the stove top. Steam curled from it, like soft whispers of sweet promises and even gentler hands formed it, shaped it. You smiled to your self, draping a rag over it. You gathered your rain boots, putting them on along with your rain coat. Leaving out the back door, the banana bread tucked close in your arms.

It was a walk, slow given how muddy it was. Didn’t want to slip in the wet earth and possibly wreck the delicate cargo of a peace offering. You glanced over as you crossed the property line, catching sight of John’s sheep huddled together under an over hang. They seemed comfortable, lucky bastards. Your saving grace from the cold, wet rain was the warmth of the loaf. As you walked up the steps of John’s porch, you felt a little silly.

Banana bread? Really? You weren’t even sure he’d like it. Hell, he could be allergic to bananas.

That last thought made you grimace, knuckles rasping against his door. You figured he was home. He only had a pint as Maeve cleaned up his bloodied nose as she and Tom fussed over him after Colin left. Well, Maeve fussed. Tom was cracking jokes and giving John a well done, clapping a hand over his shoulder. He was angry, you knew that. The way his expression seemed so stormy, the deep crease between his brows and how he wouldn’t meet a soul’s eyes in that pub. Perhaps, he was embarrassed.

John opened the door, ice wrapped in a cloth pressed against his nose. He squinted, glancing down at you before his expression softened. “Dove? Why’re you here?” You squirmed, awkward and unsure under his questioning gaze. You felt stupid, silly. Here you were, on his door step. Baked banana bread in hand. You cleared your throat, glancing up at him.

“Came to check on you… I’m—” You sucked in a breath, words tumbling out like an overflowing fountain. “John, I’m really sorry Colin did that. I didn’t know he would and I would’ve at the very least warned you. It’s honestly my fault— I pushed him and he’s.. really not good at managing his anger. I shouldn’t—” John’s brows furrowed, eyes widening in disbelief. He held up a hand, halting you from digging yourself an even bigger hole. You halted, blinking in confusion. He stared down at you, opening his mouth. Before he could speak, you uncovered the banana bread and presented it to him.

“B-Banana bread.”

His eyes fell to the baked good, nostrils flaring. He winced as he sniffed, but his expression turned from shocked disbelief to rueful understanding. A smile found its way across his face as he met your gaze.

“… Oh, Dove… What am I going to do with you?” He chuckled low, a rumble deep from his chest. You smiled, a small little smile. He sighed, shaking his head slowly. “S’not your fault… You know I’ve got a bit of a temper myself.” He extend his hand and you placed the loaf pan on his calloused palm. “I… appreciate your gift though, love.” His expression turned a half a fraction serious, stern in a way. “But what Colin did is none of your doing. He’s grown, he knows better than to act out if he doesn’t get his way.” He leaned in slightly, gaze intense as the crease between his brows deepened.

“Understand, love?”

You held his gaze, breath stolen for a mere moment. He wasn’t angry at you, no. You could tell, he made that clear. He was disappointed you were taking up blame for something that you played no hand in. You nodded, slow.

“… Yes. Yes, I understand, John.”

John squinted a little before he gave a grunt, satisfied. He straightened up, watching as you gave a subtle step back.

“I should— go home.” You cleared your throat, stuffing your hands in your coat. “… Thank you.. for being nice, John.” You nodded to him before turning and taking your leave, wet rain boots squeaking on porch steps before squelching through mud.

John’s eyes followed her form as she moved across the yard and down the lane before disappearing from his view all together. He slowly stepped back into the safe confines of his home, nudged the door shut and turned on his heel. His feet padded silently against the floor, making his way through the house and until finding the kitchen.

The banana bread was laid on the counter of his kitchen island, neat and straight. His eyes fixed on it like a target in a field. John tossed the ice pack into the sink, the cubes clinking against the metal basin walls, echoing in the eerie silence of his home. His nose had long since healed, perhaps an hour ago. But there had always been an imperative need to appear normal.

The house was so still. The only sound was the subtle creaking, foundation settling. Walls breathing as if relieved.

John closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he breathed in the scent. Steam curled from the loaf, wafting up and intoxicating the air, infecting it. Banana, cinnamon, brown sugar. Subtle notes of rain and her home—

her.

It clung to the back of his throat, like syrupy molasses. Sticky and tacky. He swallowed, jaw clenching. “What am I going to do…” He cracked open his eyes, pupils swallowing up almost all that warm blue. A slow smile stretched across his lips.

Price scents it like a shark catching blood 20 yards away. He lazily lifts his gaze from his book, blue-grey eyes tracking you in the kitchen. Sniffling, an occasional cough, the tension in your body that belies the achiness that comes with a budding fever. Sick. His sweet Dove, sick. Makes something nasty churn in his gut. The man rarely got sick nowadays, how he wasn't sure but he never questioned it. Questioning meant jinxing and he wasn't one for jinxing.

Price moved. "John?" You croaked out, stepping into the living room to find it empty. Mug on the end table still curling with steam, a cigar in his crystal ashtray left unattended. You blinked, befuddled by the sudden disappearance of your husband. You walked over to his mug, reaching to pick it up--

"Ah." A sharp click of a tongue halted you mid-reach. You slowly swept your gaze to the landing of the stairs where Price stood, hands on his hips. "You're sick. You need water, not coffee. A bath and bed too." He moved, walking down the last three steps and crossing the room to take your hand. A frown tugged at your lips.

"Oh- but, John, I'm fine. Really-" Price only sighed, letting you rattle off excuses and protests all the way upstairs and into the bathroom where a warm bath was running and vitamins sat on the counter. He laid his hands on your shoulders, kissing your forehead- partially for affection, partially to check your temperature.

"Bath, vitamins, bed. You're staying in bed until your appointment. Made a house call for you." Price gave your hip a gentle squeeze before giving it a pat and walked out of the bathroom. You smiled to yourself, savoring the reminder of why you chose John Price as your husband.

Ghost notices when he gets home from deployment. He drops his bag in the foyer, shucking off his jacket. No word, not a breath of you shuffling from the other side of the house to chastise him for leaving his bag in the foyer when the closet is only a foot away. Something ripples inside of his chest; panic. Socked feet pad through the house, checking each room like he's doing a sweep of a building for survivors. Each step making panic swell, swell, swell until--

You, curled up in bed, mouth open and breathing slow, crackling breaths. A humidifier running on the dresser, a half used box of tissues on the nightstand, a bin beside your side of the bed. That tension releases in him, easing into a dull hum as he crawls into bed behind you. His hand splays on your hip, briefly waking you. Your skin is fever hot, blisteringly so and it tugs at his heart as he nudges his nose against your scalp. "Bird, you're warm." You made a weak sound of acknowledgement that Ghost gently hushed as his thumb rubbed your hip. "Shh... sleep, I'll take care of you when you wake up."

True to his word, Ghost did. Breakfast in bed, a mug of tea and a glass of water consistently on your nightstand. You could ring a bell and he's right there, one knee on the bed and bent over you like a looming shadow of unconditional love. Now, whether he eats you out or not while you're fever ridden is just making his bedside manner even better.

Gaz sees it in the way you're fumbling with your bra, trying to get ready for date night. It's your one year anniversary and the two of you have been planning this for months. Ghost had chuffed in amusement when the Sergeant laid PTO paperwork on the Lieutenants desk for the weekend so Gaz could focus solely on you. But Ghost signed off on it, of course he did. "Love?" Gaz tilted his head to the side a fraction, eyes squinting in that 'something is off with you and I know it' way of his. You paused, looking over your shoulder. Oh and that just made his heart shatter. Staring back at him was teary eyes, a wobbling chin, followed by a small sniffle. You were sick and putting on a brave act to not ruin the evening. "Oh, love... no, it's ol'right..." He strides over, the tie around his neck undone and slipping off as he wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"No-- no, it's not-- Kyle, it's our anniversary-" He hushes you a knuckle under your chin to tilt your head towards him. He smiled warm and sweet, snorting in rueful amusement.

"Love, you're sick... our anniversary is good wherever we are, what matters is that we spend it together." He couldn't help the laugh bubbling up. "Which is on the couch, some movies... maybe some takeout?" Your heart fluttered, laughing softly with him as he planted kisses all over your face. He was a good boyfriend, one of the best, and the fact he wasn't upset but understanding, the fact he was adapting and changing plans in a way that better fitted the circumstances.

Christ almighty, you were going to marry this man on your second anniversary.

Soap doesn't notice, he gets a call instead. From his Mam. "Johnny, she's sick, she won't say so but I know she is, wee thing is shakin' and coughin' something fierce." Soap cursed under his breath as he walked down the hall beside Ghost at Base. You had driven up to Glasgow for the weekend while he was wrapping up paperwork back in Hereford before he would drive up and meet with you for the MacTavish family reunion, one time of the year everyone got together from all over to rejoice where roots were planted. "Aye, mam, I'll wrap up 'ere and head up. Jus' be gentle with Hen, she was nervous comin' up without me." Soap grimaced as his mother gasped, the woman proudly declaring over the phone that she would do her best and that she'd take good care of you until he showed up. Ghost's shoulders shook silently beside Soap, the manc finding it hilarious that Soap seemed to have gotten is pride and confidence from his mother.

By the time Soap made it to his families home, he parked haphazardly and jumped out of the car. Boots thudding up porch steps as his sisters flitted about in the house. "Johnny, why'd you have her drive up by herself!" One scolded as she brushed by. "Because he had work, Beth! You know-" The twins argued as he skirted down the hall, taking two steps at a time with a grunt. His mam stepped out of his childhood bedroom, nearly jumping out of her skin as Soap speed walked swiftly down the hall. "Och! Johnny, nearly spooked me half ta death, love! She's restin' right now, poor bird is runnin' a fever..." The woman's words fell on deaf ears as he open the door, immeaditely moving to your side and muttering apologies and curses for his own stupidity to have you drive up by yourself, why he didn't notice sooner-- you silenced him, placing your hand on his face. The action made him pause, brain short circuiting before a big grin broke out across his face. He took your wrist, pulling your hand from his face as he leaned in to peer at you better under your mountain of blankets.

The first breath of a baby is praised, applauded and congraduated with warm welcomes to the world. Soft whispers of promise from a mother, the reverent brush of a thumb against a temple from a father. The raspy chuckle of a grand father as he watches the first steps.

But a grandmothers love is special in it’s own way.

She’s there when you fall off your bike, cleaning up scraped knees as you sit on the edge of a tub.

She’s there, laying a plate of your favorite food, pressing a warm kiss to your damp head after a bubble bath.

She’s there, spinning tales like a spiders web in evenings, lights dim as you drift off to sleep.

You stand on the back porch, watching the garden now. It’s raining again. You’re half tempted to work while the soil is wet, but your muscles burn. You’d been at for days now, rain or shine. Steam from your tea mug rises, curling in the air as rain drops travel down petals, dripping down onto leaves before disappearing to earth. A distant sound catches your attention.

A warbling bleat.

You set your mug down with a clink on the railing, stepping off the porch and into the rain. Another bleat, higher pitched with a note of anxiety. It tugged at you, pulling you. Bare feet padding in wet grass and soaked soil until you find—

Basil. Curled up in a ball under a think, thorny bush.

A frown tugs at your lips.

“Oh, Basil…” You murmured, getting down in the dirt to fish the lamb out. Basil bleated, a bit softner now, as if relieved someone found her. You sucked your teeth sharply when a thorn dragged across the back of your hand, making you wince. “Damnit.” You squinted, snatching Basil by the hock and gently pulled her out from beneath the bush. With a huff, you gathered the lamb up in your arms.

“Why’d you go and do that, hm? John’s probably lost half his mind looking for you.” The chastising was— softer really, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be truly frustrated with the escape artist of a lamb. Basil bleated quietly, nudging your palm as you walked in the sprinkling of rain up the hill to John’s property. You paused, brows furrowing at where wire had been broken at the fence, a clear exit for Basil. You stepped close, just a fraction, inspecting the damage.

A tuft of fur was caught in the twirled wire, a greying brown.

“Ah, you found her.”

John’s familiar rumble made you jolt slightly, gaze flicking to him. He held an umbrella, a slight crease between his brows, smile tugging at his lips beneath those mutton chops of his. You looked ridiculous, you were sure of it. Jeans soaked with rain and mud, sweater just as terrible. Basil bleated, wriggling in your arms before John closed the distance and took Basil, chiding at the lamb.

“We’ve discussed this, ‘nough that now, Basil.” He grumbled at the animal who only bleated in reluctant defeat. A huff of a laugh escaped you, wiping your soil smudged hands onto already ruined jeans.

“Didn’t know you chastised your sheep like kids.” You glanced up, catching his gaze. It wasn’t focused on your eyes, more so your right hand where pain simmered and a thick wetness ran down digits.

“Did you know you’re bleeding?”

You glanced down at your hand. Nasty looking cut, nothing a good cleaning and antiseptic couldn’t fix though.

“I mean, I knew. But it’s fine-” John adjusted Basil in his arms, handing the umbrella to your freehand before taking your wounded one in his. He held it close, studying the cut.

“Bit deep though, love. Don’t you think?” When his gaze met yours, your heart thumped in your ears. He was close, touching. His hand was calloused, working hands from decades of service and years of work filled retirement— if you could even call it retirement. His eyes bored into yours, blue that edged towards a stormy grey. Like an overcast sky, on the verge of raining. “Come, lets get you right.” He released your hand, the warmth leaving you a touch colder than before as he herded you towards his home.

You didn’t have much say in it, apparently, mind catching up once your reached the front steps. He sat Basil down to trotted to the door, little tail wiggling expectantly. Spoiled rotten thing, more of a pet than a farm animal. He took the umbrella from you, closing it and setting it aside before opening the door and guiding you in before following behind. It was— cold inside. The furniture was old and mismatched, worn by time rather than neglect. As if collected over time, rather than purchased for the hell of it. But it was tasteful in a way. Coffee lingered in the air, the scent of a burning cigar somewhere. Lights dim, curtains pulled to let natural light pour in. the rain outside grew heavier, pitter pattering against the roof in a steady pace now.

His home.

And every bit of it was so him in a way.

“Your… house. It’s cozy.” You turned, watching as he made his way towards his kitchen. He maneuvered about, opening cabinets in search of supplies.

“Aye. Like it that way, preferably.” You scrunched your nose slightly at the thick sarcasm lacing his voice, padding into the kitchen. “You, uh, normally walk about without shoes?” He glanced at your briefly before peering into a cabinet. You leaned against the counter.

“Depends. Didn’t think much about shoes when I found Basil.” You shrugged halfheartedly before glancing over your shoulder to watch Basil settle by the hearth to warm up as fire crackled. “You normally let sheep in your house?” John laughed quietly at the question, a raspy sound before shutting a cabinet. He switched the sink on as you walked over, fingers wrapping around your wrist to guide it under lukewarm water.

“Not normally. Basil is jus’ stubborn. Bit of a soft spot for the brat.” He worked diligently with practiced hands, switching off the water and cleaning the wound before dressing it neatly in gauze. You blinked once he finished as he tossed the pads and clothes in the bin, inspecting his work.

“Did they teach you this while serving?” You watched as he paused briefly, studying before he gave a curt nod.

“Aye. Bit rusty, but decent work.” He shrugged it off. Just as the lid of the trash bin slowly closed, you caught sight of bloody gauze. It was old wrapping, a bunching of it stuffed.

“You get hurt recently?” You asked absently as he prepared a kettle. He filled it with water, turned an eye on, listening as it click, click, clicked before he set the kettle on.

“Get hurt occasionally… happens. Especially with the land.” He glanced at you over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly. “Awful lot of questions today. Getting comfortable, are we?”

You snorted, a short sound of half-hearted, strained amusement. It was to fill the silence, a nervous tick you couldn’t shake. You had grown used to silence, needing to fill it with something, interesting or not.

Colin did a number on you. He really did. The relationship was spectacular in the beginning when you two were in college. Late night studying turned into warm smiles and fingers interlocked. Driving around for a dinner, eating greasy food while laughing before falling into his cheap mattress for brief few minutes of mind melting pleasure.

Four years, and it eventually soured. The honey moon phase faded, graduation from college came and went, adulting became the priority that topped everything. Bills, finances, budgeting— schedules that didn’t always line up. Growing distant over years that when the two of your realized it; there was a hollow ache. The late nights of staying up and waiting for him to come home from the office turned dull. Sex grew farther and distant. A vibrator giving better orgasms than his own cock.

The arguments were the worst. You clung to the idea that maybe, just maybe, Colin would go back to who you knew. Messy haired, smile stretched across his face, peppering kisses all over your face when waking up beside you. Coffee runs, brief stops at the bookstore two blocks from the apartment.

The texts between him and the new girl in his department is what made the cord snap clean.

You blinked, meeting John’s gaze as it searched yours. A warmth laid behind those stormy eyes. The same warmth that rested in his palms. The same warmth that still had your skin buzzing.

“Sorry, John. Lost in thought for a moment.” You shrugged half-heartedly, a rueful smile tugging at your lips. He stared, cataloguing, a flicker of disapproval in his gaze at the way you dismissed the hollowness in your voice as your cleared your throat when your phone buzzed in your back pocket.

“Someone calling you?” He asked casually, turning back to the task at hand. He opened a cabinet to pull down two mugs as you checked your phone.

Your heart dropped, then thumped rapidly in your ears like a deafening war drum. Your grip tightened on the phone, a wave of emotions hitting you like a category four hurricane. You had to leave, couldn’t stick around, hide out at John’s. No, no point in bringing a storm to his comfortable silence. You pushed away from the counter, damp feet padding against cold floor boards.

“I-I’ve got to go. Thanks, John.” You pushed open the door as he called out to you, that deafening drumming in your ears washing out his voice as you jogged back to your cottage. A soon to be warzone with Colin on his way now.

John stepped out onto the porch, nostrils flared. Not in anger, but tasting the scent of fear in the air. A sick, acrid scent that made his hackles raise and a growl rumble low in his chest as he watched your form grow farther and farther away.

The floor creaked with each measured step of anxiety. Down the hall, the clock ticked steadily, like a promise of entrapment. It was suffocating, even in an empty house. Like an all too familiar rope tethering around your throat, drawing tighter with each second that ticked by. You showered, scrubbed skin raw as if washing away sins you’d never committed would come and haunt you. But it only fried your nerves further.

You bowed your head into your hands, thee subtle rumble of cars engine drawing nearer. Breathe in, breathe out.

Tired squelching through mud, pebbles rattling. Breath in, hold.

A cars engine shutting off, a door opening. Breath out.

The car door slamming shut.

You stood up from the couch, striding towards the door just as a fist beat on it with ruthless thuds. Upon opening the door, revealed Colin. He was dressed in a suit, hair dripping with rain as it came down in sheets before he scoffed and barged in. Shoes haphazardly brushed against the mat before he stepped inside and walked in, tracking in mud and rain.

“Christ above, do you have any clue how hard it was to find this place?” Colin ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking about and taking in the cottages antiques with barely concealed disinterest. You quietly shut the door, a dullness creeping in as his voice grated on your nerves.

“Well, hello. How are you? I’m fine, how are you? Oh, just fine.” You huffed, walking past him in the hall and into the kitchen. Colin shot a heated look your way, could feel his eyes burn in the back of your head.

“What’s your problem? I fly all the way out here and that’s how I get greeted?” He was hot on your heels, taking up space with his overbearing presence. The wards thrummed dangerously, crying out in warning to you.

“Colin, I didn’t ask you to come out here. You decided on your own to text me an hour before you arrived after a— what? Nine hour, ten hour flight?” You pulled down two mugs, setting them on the counter. “Why are you even here? We had a fight, we called it quits. I left.” You pulled out a kettle and filled it with water as he settled in a chair at the dining room table, tugging his tie loosely.

“It’s different.” He admits, reluctance heavy in his tone. He wouldn’t even look at you, just stared ahead at the wall. “Without you. I don’t—” He drew in a sharp breath. “—like it. Come home, Dove.”

You paused, facing the stove with your back to him. That tone. It wasn’t a request.

It was a demand.

Your hand twitched at the hand of the kettle, fear and anger warring within. Colin shifts in his chair, eyes narrowed.

“Come home. You don’t belong in this… delipidating cottage in fuck all nowhere, Dove. You belong back in America, with me—” You whirled around, facing him.

“That’s such bullshit, Colin. That is such a crock of shit! You know this house is important to me, you know Gran passed it down to me, promised it—”

“Your fuckin’ Gran?” He barked out a bitter laugh as he stood up, chair scraping against the floor in a shrill sound. “Dove, you are such a hypocrite. You didn’t fly up and see that old bat while we were dating once. Four fucking years! Yet you stand here, singing her praises like she’s some saint.”

It stung. Like a sharp blade slicing deep, through layers of muscle and fat. Grief, guilt— it bubbled up hot, tears welling. Colin smirked, tilting his head to the side mockingly.

“Aw… Baby, don’t cry. I’m just being honest… You didn’t really care that much, because if you did, you would’ve flown up here to spend time with her.” He closed in, invading space. It was a stark contrast. How when John stepped close, it wasn’t threatening. It was firm in a way, as if grounding, focusing. Colin invaded space like he was owed something. He reached, the knuckle of a digit tracing your wobbling jaw as you fought back tears. “You know, I missed you. I really missed you. I just… I think you’ve got this fantasy in your head. You know how it gets… You get these…” He sucked his teeth, disapproving. “Ideas.”

It landed like a lead weight, hung heavy in the air as a tear ran down your cheek. A war drum rattled in your eyes, thump, thump, thumping as if preparing for the stinger.

“You belong at home, with me. Hey, I got that promotion finally. I even called your Mom and told her you were coming back home. She was ecstatic, said she couldn’t wait.”

Lies, lies, lies.

“Wouldn’t it be nice? We could go to that coffee shop on 5th you like so much back at home?” A frown found its way across your face, stomach churning. You hated that fucking place, that bitch he was shagging at the office loved that god forsaken place. The coffee was always burnt, always off tasting. Overpriced.

“I-I… hate that place, Colin. Julie liked that place.” The words came out shaky, a lump in your throat as your eyes searched his face. He stared at you, carefully practiced smile he’d always use to soften blows falling away. A grim expression made the smile lines disappear, that easy going spark in his eyes snuffed out as he narrowed them at you. He stepped a fraction closer, looming— imposing.

“C-Colin, please stop-”

A voice called out from the front door, calling out your name as the door creaked open. John. Colin snapped his gaze to the doorway of the kitchen, stepping back, retreating two steps out of your space. The front door shut as he called out, now in the hall. You remained, cornered, crowded. Hands shaking with a vice grip on the counters.

John’s boots thudded cautiously down the hall. “I saw that car out there, heard some raised voices—” He stopped dead in his tracks, right on the threshold of the kitchen. His eyes landed on Colin, registering his presence. Pupils expanding and retracting, sizing him up. His gaze then swept to you and your horrified form. His expression softened with concern at first, a flicker of shock passing in his eyes before his expression hardened and his eyes immediately fixed on Colin. “Hello.” Warmth abandoned, cold detachment as he greeted— no, simply acknowledged Colin.

Your breath wavered, shaking like a fragileness settled. Safety registering. John was a Captain, John read enemies like books, John knew. All it took was a sweep of the room and you could practically taste the tension that clung to the air like a cloying, floral perfume. The floral perfume was instead Colin’s sharp cologne that clung to the collar of his shirt.

“Hello.” Colin greeted back, confusion barely there in his tone but clear in the creases that lined his face. He stepped toward John, the Captain straightening slowly to his full height as Colin approached. You noticed, in that moment, how much John actually hunched. As if to appear smaller than what he actually was. Colin offered his hand for a simple shake to John. “Colin. You are?”

John’s eyes darkened, a muscle in his jaw ticking as if reeling something back, putting a leash on his temper and yanking it back. He took Colin’s hand in his, giving a firm but simple shake. “Captain John Price.” Colin swallowed at the title, registering the weight behind it. The amount of blood that would have to be on someone’s hands to reach that title. John kept a firm grip on Colin’s hand, holding his gaze as he addressed you. “Love, the kettle. Please.”

The kettle whistling behind you finally registered in your mind. You turned, muttering an apology as you turned the stove eye off and pulled a third mug down from the cabinet. Behind you, a storm brewed. John’s lip twitched in a sneer as he stared Colin down, leaning in slightly as he inhaled deeply. Colin leaned away, discomfort radiating from him. John narrowed his eyes, voice a low rumble. “Doesn’t feel very nice to ‘ave someone in yer space, does it, Colin?” Your ex glanced at you, watching as you tended to tea before meeting John’s gaze. John leaned back out of Colin’s space, slowly releasing his grip on the young man’s hand. Colin quickly took a few steps away, clearing his throat.

“Dove, you’ve, uh, got time tomorrow, yeah?” You blinked, caught off guard by Colin’s question. You poured steaming water into the three mugs.

“Uh, yes… I do…” Dropping tea bags into the three mugs, you turned to the two men. “I made tea-” Colin gave a firm shake of his head, pale as he adjusted his blazer.

“No, I can’t stay. I need to check in at my hotel. We’ll talk more later.” Colin quickly left, steps retreating the down hall and out the door before slamming it behind him. John’s fist clenched at the slam, a vein bulging in his temple as he stared off toward the hall. Before debating on following him, you spoke up, voice shaky with aftershocks from the tension but relieved.

“John, you alright?” His fist unclenched, expression softening before he looked over at you. He blinked then offered a small smile as he hunched slightly.