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John knew he should have called to let you know that he’d be late. Again. At this point, it's become some sort of routine. He knew you would be pissed, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to admit it out loud—like somehow, if he had a strong enough will, the work would get done quickly and he could be home… thirty minutes ago. He hates disappointing you, but paperwork and documents have a time limit and he promised you forever. Until death do you part.

He hadn’t even taken off his boots before you’d shoved the cold remnants of the lovely dinner you cooked right into his hands. You’d avoided his routine kiss to your lips and glared at him the entire time his food was heating up in the microwave. In a moment of weakness, perhaps from hunger, or exhaustion, John snapped at you.

“Got a starin’ problem?”

He’d regretted the words as soon as they slipped past his lips. Your loud voice had echoed throughout the kitchen as you gave him a piece of your mind, chest heaving with hurt and anger. You were just lonely and in the dark, aware he’d been at work but unsure of his whereabouts, and he hadn’t even bothered to soothe your nerves with something as simple as a phone call. He knew that if he were to open his mouth again, he would only say something he’d regret, so he remained silent. Stoic. It did nothing to help your already fragile state.

“You can sleep on the fucking couch tonight, Jonathan,” you snarl, pulling your robe tighter around your body. “I don’t want to look at you right now.”

There’s no remorse in your voice, pure venom dripping off of your tongue as you call him by his real name, not the beloved nicknames you usually adorn him with. It’s all wrong. Dystopian. For a moment, John doesn’t see the woman he married—the one who showed him how sweet it is to truly love and be loved—but the ghost of someone he hasn’t thought about in years.

/

“For fuck’s sake, Jonathan! Why would you do that?!” Mrs. Price screeches, backhanding the young boy across his sad, chubby face.

“I-I’m sorry Mummy, I didn’t m-mean to-” blubbers John, cupping his red cheek in his hands with a quivering bottom lip.

“Save it. Clean up your mess and then get the fuck out of my kitchen. I don’t want to see you again for the rest o’the night.”

His mother stomps upstairs and slams the door to her bedroom shut, leaving the five-year-old to figure out how to clean sticky cake batter off of the floor all by himself.

/

As you whip your head around and start up the stairs, John feels the unfamiliar sting of tears beading at his waterline. He huffs with frustration, clenching and unclenching his fists as you storm out of his sight. A grown man, nearly bloody crying because he got yelled at. It’s laughable. It pisses him off.

With a deep sigh, your husband drags a heavy palm over his face to clear away that maddening moisture and trudges his way into the living room. The loveseat greets him with a croak of its springs as he flops down onto it, mindlessly grabbing the remote and turning some game he doesn’t care about on the telly. It’s just background noise for his self-deprecation.

John has never been the best at communication. He’s less a man of his word than a man of his actions, using his body to explain how he’s feeling. It used to be that arguments or minor disagreements between the two of you would end with him bending you over the bed, fucking away all of that anger and frustration. It used to be that when he got back from an op or a rough day at work, his kisses would get slow and sloppy and he'd use your cunt to pacify himself when life got to be too much. It worked for your relationship most of the time, but lately, it’s been blowing up in his face.

You, although you adore John and understand that his love language is physical touch, still need some words of affirmation. Your husband tries to talk to you, let you in—truly, he does—but if there’s just one small glint in your eye that suggests you don’t like what he’s saying, he shuts down entirely. You think he’s purposefully creating distance to hurt you. John believes he’s doing you a favor by giving you space.

/

“Daddy, I made you s’m pudding,” seven-year-old John bashfully presents his father a platter with a messy pile of what was supposed to be a fluffy sponge cake.

“Bloody ‘ell, tha’ thing is hideous,” the man laughs condescendingly, waving his son away. “Throw it in the bin.”

“B-but it’s f’you!” The little boy stammers, shuffling closer to where his dad rests on the settee.

“I said I don’t fuckin’ wan’ it,” Mr. Price hisses, raising his hand to smack his young boy—his hand misses John’s face and instead knocks the platter out of his hands, sending the cake right down to the ground. “Ah- ya daft fuckin’-! Clean this shite up and leave me the ‘ell alone!”

“Y-yes sir, I’m s-sorry,” sniffles the child, breathing out through his mouth.

/

Before John’s age reached the double-digits, he learned that his presence was nothing more than a nuisance. He was to be taken in small doses—too clingy, too needy, too sensitive to remain a constant in his loved ones’ lives. By the time he was a teenager, he rarely stayed home, opting to sleep in the shitty car he bought with the money he made from his shitty job instead. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t have anybody until he finally turned eighteen and enlisted.

His superiors liked him well enough—he never talked back or challenged an order. John always went above and beyond on the physical challenges that his fellow soldiers whined about, and didn’t complain about having to clean the barracks or some other place on base. It helped him climb the ladder quickly, which turned what he might have considered his acquaintances into bitter, spiteful people much like his parents.

Working alone became like second nature to John. It didn’t stray far from what he was used to, and it didn’t force him to try and make nice with other young adults who despised him. For years, he took comfort in the solo missions he was sent on. He was fully prepared to die a nameless soldier in some foreign country whose name he couldn’t pronounce, nothing but a forgotten piles of bones buried beneath dirt and rubble. A lot of times, he fantasized about speeding up the process.

Only a week after he was named Lieutenant and granted a short leave for celebration, he met you. His junior by a few years, for sure, but neither of you seemed to care. You were the one to ask him out first, confidence boosted by the couple of drinks he bought for you at the bar. The whiskey in his system is the only reason he agreed—had he been sober, his anxiety and self-awareness would have made him reject you instantly, spare you the burden of ever knowing him. That’s not at all how it happened.

John knew he was in from the very first moment you took his hand and dragged him into your flat. You were the one to take his virginity, the first to kiss him like a lover would. For once, he let his guard down, let you take his beating heart from his chest and clasp it in your soft, willing hands. He didn’t expect the relationship to go much further than a hookup every now and again, but after a year of seeing you both in bed and fully clothed, he found himself desperate to see you in that ivory dress you eyed every time he walked with you past the bridal shop.

/

“Sorry t’bother you, love,” John began, hesitantly placing his hands on your waist, but you cut him off with a short, sweet kiss to his lips.

“You never bother me,” you respond, cupping his face in your hands.

John’s heart races, blinking rapidly as he gathers the courage to ask you the only thing that’s been on his mind.

“I-I wan’…” he sucks in a deep breath, using every ounce of willpower in his body to force his eyes to stay on yours. “I wan’ you t’be my wife. If tha’s wha’ you wan’, of course. If not, I understand, I jus’ thought-”

“John, stop. Of course I wanna be your wife,” you scoff, a wide, enthused grin spreading across your face.

/

Before he knew it, he had given you his last name and every bit of himself. You didn’t treat him like a burden. You never made him believe that talking to him was a chore. You loved him and held him like it was what you were made for.

Arguments never started until he got promoted to Captain, and suddenly the high he’d been riding plummeted. He shut down even more where he might have usually let you in on his pain. He stopped initiating sex most of the time. He barely ate. The stress of the job was the heaviest weight on his shoulders and for once, he couldn’t allow you to lighten the load.

John started to pull away, focus more on his task force than being the good husband he tried so hard to be. He started staying on base later. He would barely give you a proper kiss goodbye before leaving to go on an op, and the usual reunion sex when he got back was reduced to a quick fuck before he inevitably fell asleep.

/

“John, please?”

“I'm not feelin’ it tonight, darlin’. I’m sorry.”

You chew on your bottom lip, trying to blink back tears. He’s been acting so odd lately, standoffish, and you can’t keep your suspicions to yourself anymore.

“Are you cheating on me?” Your voice is so small, but he hears the question clear as day.

John freezes, turning slowly to face you. His brows furrow, and he shakes his head immediately, rushing to pull you into his arms.

“No, love. I’m not. I could never do that to you,” he croaks, hands trembling as they squeeze your waist. “Never.”

“Please just talk to me. Please. I wanna know why you’re avoiding me,” you sniffle, pressing your forehead against his.

“I promise that’s not my intention.”

/

That was the first and only lie John ever told you. He’s not a stupid man. He is calculated and he knew exactly what he was doing. Creating distance between the both of you was easier than talking to you. It still is.

Yes, John should have called earlier tonight, but he didn’t. He was counting on your anger, your disappointment. It’ll be easier for you to handle, being angry with him.

He left the note at his desk, signed it like he would any other document and put it along with the other papers. He didn’t tell his men goodbye—he’s a coward and he knows it, but again, it’s easier to move on from anger than to believe that they could have done something to prevent it. John has never been a confident man, but he has always been sure.

He looks over at his duffel bag and stares blankly. He shouldn’t stall, but he is human, after all, and he is scared. He feels like that neglected little boy all over again. He feels like he’s failed that little boy. He’s failed you. He’s failed his men. This is the one thing he cannot fail.

John stands to retrieve his gun from the black bag. It’s loaded, of course, safety off and a silencer over the nozzle. Standard procedure. For the first time in over a decade, his hands shake as he handles the gun, and he feels true fear.

He’s quiet when he slips out the back door. Tears stream down his freckled face but he holds in his sobs. He huffs with bitter amusement—his mother would tell him that he’s finally doing something right.

Crickets chirp around him as he steps into the backyard. He didn’t put his boots back on, so he can feel the grass brushing against the thin material of his socks. John looks up to the sky and admires the moon—the same one he’d talk to through the window of his childhood bedroom on unbearably lonely nights, his first friend—and the stars one last time. He lifts his hand and presses the gun to his temple, sucking in a deep breath.

“John!” You shriek, eyes wide as you burst through the back door. “John, no, put it down!”

Your husband tenses at the sound of your panicked voice, but he doesn’t lower the gun. Not when you approach, and not when you wrap your arms around his waist, burrowing your face between his shoulder blades.

“Go back inside, darlin’. Please,” he mutters, refusing to look at you.

“Baby, no, please just-”

“Cap’n, put the fuckin’ gun down.”

It’s Kyle’s voice that startles him enough to make him drop the weapon. How in the hell did he know where he’d be? How did he find the note so quickly? Why was he even still on base? Is that why you came out here so quickly?

None of this was supposed to happen. You’re not supposed to be here. Kyle definitely isn’t supposed to be here. John should be dead by now. His body should be cooling in the grass and you should be peacefully asleep, content with your one last night of half-normalcy.

He has once again failed.

“John,” you weep, quickly turning him around to face you and throwing your arms around his neck while Kyle drops the magazine and empties the chamber of his captain’s gun.

“Go back inside,” he pleads weakly, ashamed and embarrassed.

You rapidly shake your head, clinging to him tighter. The reality of what has just occurred hits him like a train and he falls to his knees, taking you right down with him. You don’t complain, or even flinch. You just hold him and let him sob into the crook of your neck. Even in your worst moments, you still look out for this broken, wretched man.

“I’m so sorry,” your lip trembles as you cup his face in your sweaty palms, thumbs brushing over his beard. “John, if I had known- oh, baby, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s not your fault,” he interrupts, holding you just the same. “It’s not your fault. I sh-should have… should have never…”

“Let’s not talk about this right now,” you whisper, trying not to break down all over again as you hear Kyle explaining the situation to Simon and Johnny over the phone. “Just be here with me. Please. I haven’t had my husband in a long time.”

There you are on your stomach, pinned under Simon, his hands on your back, his front against your butt. But... clothed.

"What type of freak shit are yall doing?" Gaz asks, watching you squirm under Simon again. He doesn't let you move, pressing down on your lower back once more, growling something quietly at you.

You cry out, whimpering again and clinging to nothing. "Simon, Simon please!" You whine again.

"Take it Doll. Take it." He says, rubbing that same spot.

You groan loudly, starting to fight him again.

"Alright dude, what the hell!" Soap questions, pushing Simon off of you.

You crawl away quickly, standing with a groan.

"What?" Simon grumbles out, pushing Soap back a bit, watching Kyle hug you tightly.

"You can't just pin down girls ya like and- and do whatever the hell that was!" Soap growls out.

Simon tilts his head, looking to you and back to Soap. "What the fuck are you on MacTavish?" Simon asks again, pushing past the sergeant to you.

"You- whatever you were doing to her." Soap continues, getting between you two again.

"Move." He says to his sergeant harshly, leaving no room for argument. But Soap doesn't, standing his ground and protecting you from his perverted lieutenant.

"I'm not gonna ask again." Simon says, glowering down at Soap. Kyle is behind both of them, you behind him as they stand bodyguard.

Finally free from Simon's hands, you quickly dart out of the door, hearing the growl of Simon behind you.

"Fuck off Lt.!" You yell back, turning corners and jumping over furniture and people as Simon is stuck behind his two sergeants. You get as far away as you can.

--

"Back. away." You demand, ready to run again as Soap and Gaz corner you.

"Nah ah little lady." Gaz says, a lazy smile on his face.

--

"You guys fucking suck!" You yell, squirming in Soap's hold, Gaz walking behind him for backup in case you tried to run again.

They quickly deliver you back to your lieutenant, dropping you at his very feet.

"Don't run bunny, won't and never will end well for you." Simon says, kneeling next to you. "On your stomach." He growls.

You huff, turning over and glaring at the sergeants who brought you here. "Dead to me. All of you." You growl before it fades into a soft moan of pleasure and pain as Simon settles back onto your butt, rubbing from your lower back and up.

"There ya go." He croons, adding more pressure.

"When I--fuck, fuck."

"Right there?" He teases.

"No, fuck you. And when I get the chance, I'm gonna break every single one of your stupid little fing-- FUCK!" You grip nothing again, clawing for one of the sergeants-- something, anything.

"Soap. You had the most to say, hold her hand." Simon commands, rubbing circles now.

Soap is hesitant, and even more so at your sadistic smile as he slowly moves closer. You quickly latch onto him when he gets close enough, pulling him down with you.

Soap sits there with you, grunting in pain every time your nails dig into his pale skin.

Simon continues to massage you, hitting all the right parts that scream in agony under his hands. Your body begs for more, but your mouth knows better than to give Ghost a big head.

"Gonna kill you Simon." You say before he makes you whine and whimper as if it's some joke.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Nice-- ngh-- and slow." You relay.

"Like this?" He asks, a slow, long drag of his knuckles down your back.

You don't answer, can't, as you fall into a fit of more moans. You squeeze Soap, your salvation between the pain and pleasure.

"Jesus lass, keep gripping me like that, you're gonna leave a mark." Soap grumbles, hissing when you break skin. Again.

"Shut the fuck up!" You growl, whining again almost to the point of tears.

"Gonna do your shoulders after." Simon says as if it's a threat. And it is.

"Please no, please, Simon. Simon, Simon, please, hear me out."

"Mmm..." He mulls, looking down at your turned head. You, no longer holding onto Soap for dear life.

"Tomorow. Please, just do it tomorrow." You plead, eyes misty with unshed tears of pain-- pleasure?

"That's the thing Doll, I don't really feel like chasing tomorrow. I don't feel like chasing at all."

"I'll- I'll come to you. Please. Just tommorow."

"Why should I believe you when you just tried to run 40 minutes ago?"

"Cmon Lt., you know I'm not a liar."

"No, but you're a runner." He counters.

"F-fine. End of day. I'll come to you after dinner."

"I don't know if that works for me Doll."

"Please." You beg again.

--

"Dead to me. All of you." You say at dinner, glaring at Simon, Johnny, and Kyle.

"What is she talking about?" Price asks, slightly amused.

"She won't go to medical and I'm tired of hearing her complain about being sore." Ghost says nonchalantly.

"She doesn't like Lt's massages." Soap chimes in. "Got a couple of scars from 'er." He continues, showing Price his arm. The thin crescents now just a slight pink from where you dug your nails into him.

"Wouldn't have happened if you didn't force me to go to him." You snap back.

"Yeah, yeah."

"What's this about you not going to medical?" Of course that's the part he focuses on.

"Well, I--"

"It's handled Cap'n. Don't gotta worry about 'er." Ghost finally chimes in, staring directly at you.

You flick him your finger before going back to your food. You had to mentally prepare for his heavy, deft... strong... veiny hands to massage out the kinks in your shoulder.

Oh fuck.

--

"Sit." Simon says, pointing to his office chair.

"We can't do tomorrow?" You ask weakly, already moving to the chair.

"No. We're doing legs tomorrow."

"What--"

"Shh." He says, his heavy hands on your shoulders.

You sighed, moaning before he even got to rubbing.

"Eager?" He teases.

"N-- oh~" you moan, leaning back into his chair.

"There ya go. Relax." He encourages kindly, genuinely happy to help. He really was tired of you complaining about being sore and didn't need you stiff on a mission. He'd work through all your... kinks if it meant a better mission... and maybe listening to you moan his name, begging for a release he wouldn't give.

Maybe.

Bold of you to assume he does the small things out of the goodness of his heart without any benefit for himself.

Naive even.

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