Den of Bones: Home of Dubious Bearded Army Men

February 14, 2024 - St. Petersburg, Russia

Valentine's Day.

If it was possible to choose a more cliche day for them to have a rushed, impromptu elopement, Rory couldn't conceive of one.

Two days ago, John had appeared in her home after three weeks of silence, after she had kicked him out, after he had lied to her once too many, and now, here they were, exchanging rings and their vows in a situation that was anything but the romantic endeavor she had imagined. There's no flowing white gown and veil, no tuxedos, no family, bridesmaids, or groomsmen, she doesn't even get the first dance to INXS' "Never Tear Us Apart" or the gourmet tiered cake. It's just them, a Russian orthodox priest, and Nik and Kate as their legal witnesses to this entire questionable affair, flanked on either side of her — insurance if she chooses to run, or so she can only assume.

The sudden trip is covered by the logical excuse that they are on the hunt for Makarov in his own backyard after evading capture in England. It's certainly not the flight of a man who is already planning to go on the lam after the act of killing another without the benefit of government approval. It's so practical it leaves no room for confusion about any ulterior motives possibly being attached to it.

Classically Price.

He stands across from her, all smiles. Smug. Arrogant. The epitome of the cat who got the cream. He's won the lottery, finally receiving exactly what he's always wanted, and he's gloating over it— A terrible winner, an even worse loser. Holding her hands in his, swallowing them whole, she is made infinitesimal in his plans. A useful asset shifted into a position that keeps her "safe" by his decree and then offers him the legal protection of ensuring the one person who knows all of his dirty secrets can never be asked a single question.

It takes the mind of an evil genius to arrive at a solution such as this, and Rory is tying the knot with him, eyes wide open.

His thumb brushes over her knuckles as if he's trying to work out the nervous tension that survives beneath the skin, easing her into this — it serves little use after sitting through the flight over listening to him explain the logic to her with the same comfort he has during a briefing on mission parameters. The cold, calculating arithmetic that's put them in this scenario — belying all the love this moment is meant to be a symbol of — is something she tries not to spend much time thinking on. For once, she wishes she would have been given the gift of blissful ignorance, it would be easier than seeing just how far her husband is willing to fall to feel like he's winning, reminding the world how he believes the rules don't apply to him.

When she fails to respond quick enough to the priest's command for her to repeat after him, John clears his throat, the rumbling gravel echoing around the domed ceiling and drawing her to the present. Meeting his gaze, she huffs and rolls her eyes, a minor rebellion, the only one she can put up when they are more than halfway through the ceremony and Nik's already poised with the rings in hand for the 'I do's'. She completes the vows, all of it tasting of ash when she gets to the part about promising to honor and obey. Temptation to cross her fingers behind her back as she mutters them with a disapproving glare in his direction crashes over her in a wave, a heated argument brewing in her head that she's looking forward to ripping into him with.

John's turn runs as smooth as silk, pronunciation isn't flubbed as he echoes the priest without hesitation. He doesn't question or concede to his own conscience, any chance of that happening ever again died along with Shepherd and the decision to upend the entire life they were building on a whim. The events of the last year only seemed to cement the belief that everything he does is correct, the best choice for all involved. Somehow, John Price has become more of a megalomaniac. A frightening thought, really, but not surprising either. Her way of handling trauma is shouldering the burden of guilt, eating away at herself until there is nothing left but a broken shell, he chooses to bolster himself until his opinions are bullet proof and he refuses to listen to any other point of view.

A match created in hell.

Her father will be overjoyed.

I do. The two words catch on the tip of her tongue when it's her turn to speak them, clutching to the muscle in an attempt to be choked down and forgotten. Glancing down at her hand held in John's calloused paw, it's easy to see how he chomps at the bit to slide the golden band around her finger, the metal already hovering, nudging against the manicured tip of her nail. She hates how much her hand trembles in his grip.

Four sets of eyes burn into her, holding her accountable for everything that comes next— it's too late to turn away from it now.

That damnable lopsided grin of his, the one that makes him look approachable, spreads across his face and wrinkles every sunbaked-in line after a life hard lived. He shifts his weight, the old floorboards creaking with the movement, and the sound is made exponentially louder with the emptiness of the church as the walls crush in around her. He adjusts his collar, a brief showing of nerves, before his warm touch embraces her cold skin once again and he gives her hands a squeeze, gaze boring into her.

She approaches the situation with the same stoicism she embodies in the moments before she takes a shot — the held breath as she listens to the steady thrum of her own heart, the swell of her lungs expanding in her chest serving as the countdown clock. The moment can only dangle for so long before she either follows through without remorse or gives into the failure of indecision.

It's now or never and she goes with her gut.

"I do." She says it not with the joy of a newlywed bride but with the acceptance that this is a shield for when the world starts crumbling down around her. This isn't the beginning of something beautiful, its the forgiveness for an apology that will never come when he leaves her without a word and she is left wondering where he is and whether he's even breathing.

John barely takes a breath between slipping the ring on her finger and completing his own "I do". He doesn't waste a beat, there is no hesitation in pulling the trigger, especially when it comes to committing himself to her. Looking into his eyes, she sees that small twinkle of the man he would become when war wasn't on the horizon and they were in the safe enclave of their townhouse, the reason she said yes to begin with, agreeing to spend her life cultivating that small parcel of humanity that still resides inside him yet to be snuffed out entirely by the military machine, and she clings to it with teeth and by claw.

The rings are swapped and there is only one thing left to do.

With the priest's consent and the command given, one strong arm wraps around her, hand pressing to her lower back — the same spot he has claimed as his own dozens of times both in private and in public, that little possessive touch — and she is absorbed into him, breath shared, as his mouth lands upon her own, lips slotting over hers, finding their way home.

Time stops, a ripple in the rush headlong into hell, and her hand buries into the short hairs at his nape — her own collar clasping around him with a sharp tug, the chain between them they would both be pulling on either end of for the foreseeable. She shrouds herself in him, wrapped in the heady aroma of earthy tobacco and spicier cologne, trapping herself in his arms without any escape. A part of her given that she will never have returned.

When they finally part to catch their breath, she stares up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. The Cure's Lovesong echoes in her head — one of the songs she had queued on their wedding playlist —However far away, I will always love you. However long I stay, I will always love you. Whatever words I say, I will always love you. Sappy ballad shit John would have rolled his eyes at, but the lyrics were hard to ignore in their current situation.

His brow furrows looking down at her, catching the wet gleam that clings to her lashes, and he combs his fingers through her hair, twisting the strands around them. They both know this is the last moment they will have together that remains their own before the world will mercilessly hound them until the clock runs out.

“The ink's not even bloody dry yet.”

The cramped room of a bachelor's flat above a tobacconists in St. Petersburg is their last detour on the road paved for them as John packs up all the contents of what will be the rest of his life in a duffel bag on the bed. It's the furthest thing from a honeymoon suite. The window barely lets the daylight in through the cloudy streaks of water stains on the glass leaving the room wrapped in a soft-filtered gray haze. Water leaks from a rusty faucet in the kitchenette, the inconsistent plinking drip on the metal basin counting them down.

Rory has watched him pack countless times before, heading out for another mission of world-ending potential where he stands as the only bulwark against it, but there's no timeline for his return on this occasion. This is where they part ways. Where she will be dogged by government agencies for information leading to his arrest, and he will be hunted as a wanted man, an outlaw with a warrant over his head.

Lifting the marriage license, she inspects it — hardly any ticket to freedom, that's for certain — little more than a scrap of paper that's meant to serve as insurance, but she doubts the credibility of that claim. It may hold up in a court of law that she will be saved from the onslaught of questions about the whereabouts of Price or to have her act as witness against him, but they are both Special Forces soldiers and have a distinct awareness that military intelligence doesn't much care for legal protections if it bars them from information they are invested in.

“This is absolute bollocks," she mutters, letting the license drop to the bed in a slow flutter downwards. Heaving out a sigh, she stands there, unsure of what to do with herself, her hands already begging to be made busy and so she buries them against her chest as she crosses her arms.

“I know, my girl.”

The resignation in his voice is almost her undoing, the quiet way it is clear that he's already considered how a conversation like this will look, preparing himself for her reactions, accepting that the best he can hope for is a bittersweet goodbye as he leaves her on the doorstep of a place that still carries the hint of the scent of their intermingled bodies only to be aired out and have them disappear on the wind — just like he will.

“Don't act like you're not the one responsible for it.” She paces, brushing a hand through her hair. “How the hell am I supposed to just go back to England, a married woman, knowing I'm likely never going to see my husband again?”

“We'll see each other, Ror. I promise.” The command is final, one he will not be swayed on, and any opposition to it will be summarily dealt with. His tone leaves no room for her to question the validity of it. One way or another, he will make it happen — if anyone can, it's him.

He's given thought to all of this, the chain of events, the sequence and how it will all play out. If he's the one directing then she will let him take the lead, allowing herself to follow even when it puts her in the position of not knowing what to expect next. Marriage is a partnership, and she's willing to give some slack on the chain binding them. Ceding control, she sits on the edge of the bed beside him, staring up with soft, pleading eyes. “What am I supposed to do?”

Fingers fidget in her lap, traveling up and down her thighs as they pick at the hangnails clinging to the edges of her thumb, left raw and sore and red. Focus locking on, John stops, full pause right in the middle of the process of folding one of several gray tee shirts, and he holds the eye contact. A moment passes, just a beat, a plan formulating in real time as he regards her. “Act the innocent. Be my li'l lamb, yeah?” Cupping her cheek, his thumb strokes along the warm, rosy skin.

Rory leans into his touch, nuzzling into it, chasing the sensation before he has to take it away from her for a period longer than she can bear to think on. A weak smile that doesn't reach her eyes flickers on her face and she tries to ease the tension with a breathy chuckle that takes more effort than she's willing to admit. “My father's never going to forgive you for this.”

“Your dad was never gonna forgive me any’ow. This jus' gives 'im more ammunition. And I don't much care what he thinks, he's not my priority.”

A huffed scoff brushes past her and dances across his palm as he continues to caress her face. “No, running off into danger is.”

Leaning down, he presses his forehead to hers, his voice lowering to a smoky husk, “Y'know tha's not true.”

Her eyes close and she rests against his weight, pushing back against the demands that will be made of her just to bask in him a little while longer. "This isn't the way I pictured our wedding, John," she murmurs.

"I know you're not happy. Went about it the wrong way, went too far this time." His lower lip juts out as if he's contemplating something. "Might still get a proper weddin' someday, just like we planned, eh?"

She blinks, taking a long, slow breath, but doesn't bother replying. A proper wedding is a pipe dream and she's not stupid enough to believe that chance will ever happen. "This was our special day, and all it amounted to was another decision, made by you. Again. You made your case, I understand the logic of it — I do." It's as if she's already swearing on oath. "But it doesn't make the reality of it easier to swallow. Marrying you was supposed to be something that kept us together, and now it's there as armor while we have to spend god knows how long separated." A sad laugh spills forward. "Can't even use my big, scary husband as a way out of things since you won't be around to back me up anymore. Going to have to deal with all the plonkers of the world without you by my side."

He chuckles, shaking his head, and she welcomes the shaft of light that breaks through the darkness. "Don't need me for all tha'. Without me, you won't have to spend so much time tryin' to convince everyone that you're smarter than they are, they'll already see it because you won't be bickerin' with me about it instead."

"Stop it," she insists, smacking him on the shoulder in retort as she laughs. "I'm going to miss having you as a pain in my arse."

"Gonna miss havin' you as a pain in mine as well, sweetheart."

Cradling his face in her palms, the scruff of his beard scrapes gently as her nails scratch through the coarse whiskers. Pulling back, she gazes into those frozen blue eyes of his, steely — and for the moment — placid. "I know we don't say it before a mission, that it's become a bit of a superstition with us not to, but I can't just watch you leave without saying it this time." She worries her lip, teeth dimpling the plump flesh. "I love you, John. I always will."

Quiet for a moment, he lingers there in the soft patch of vulnerability she has planted, and stares at her. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, raw with the visible sliver of just how difficult this truly is for him to do. To do to her. "Love you too, my girl. Nothin's changin' tha', not ever."

Wrapping her arms around the broad bulk of his shoulders, she buries his face in the curve of her neck. "Be safe," she whispers against his ear, barely audible as she tries to still the quiver in her words.

"I will."

Gripping her waist, his fingers circle the narrow span of it, and for a moment she imagines a version where he refuses to let go, where he doesn't walk away in the end. She knows it's a fantasy, one that is impossible to exist, but it's the one warm thing that will get her through the night now that the bed they share will be cold on his half, leaving her with too much space to ever fill.

Arriving back home in London, her footsteps are louder on the polished floors when they remain solitary. There isn't a set that follows in her wake, coming up on her rear. No shadow that moves at her six, eyes on her back to keep the threats away, no intrinsic gravitational pull that keeps her at his side. That first cool breeze against her lower back as she drops her lone bag on the floor and the hem of her shirt lifts — pale skin touching the air — is like ice. An inescapable reminder that there's no heavy hand resting there to remind her she's not alone.

She is. They both are now.

Moving through her home like a ghost, she goes through the motions in some semblance of personhood that feels like it hangs from her like loose skin waiting to be removed. The leash dragging behind her as she wanders the hall, a dog waiting for its master to return, lost without them. She rages against it internally, but still acts out the part in a trained response to his absence. The house is empty without his energy, she fails to fill it with her own. There will always be an empty hole in this enclosed universe of theirs, something necessary for the creation of life removed from the equation. She must evolve or die, even if it takes everything out of her.

Rory stands in the kitchen once more, staring blankly at the corner table, picturing that first bit of fear in John's eyes breaching the surface as he sat there — a leviathan of a thing in the grand scheme for a man who is reticent with whatever emotion might fleetingly grace him before it's forcibly crushed back down into the depths. The counters are clean, the floor mopped, the groceries in the fridge still fresh — it is the facade of normality, of control that she portrays. If the outward appearance is put together than she must be as well, even when she's struggling.

John always knew better than to believe what he saw at first glance with her, pity so few else seem to.

In a week's time she will return to work, wear her brave face, and be the leader she is expected to be. She will hunt Makarov down and all the while do what she can from her side of things to keep the authorities off of John's tail, to give him enough distance to hunker down and vanish from sight, gaining the upper hand. She will become the wolf in sheep's clothing all over again, playing his game as the queen on the board, proving her devotion. Not to the cause, but to him. Passing his test with flying colors.

The kettle squeals, she pours her tea — a splash of milk and a spoon of honey in a cup of Earl Grey — and she takes up watch at the window, observing the world as it passes by. It is none the wiser. It escapes calamity regularly, and the person who has been its defense for years has finally left it behind to follow his own rules of which there are both many and none. Unquantifiable. There is no knowing what is in store for her now, chaos has been unleashed by a man who is enamored with control, and she can only hope for the best, even when optimism runs in short supply these days.

Liquid passes over her tongue as she takes a sip, warming her mouth. The heat radiates into her fingers as she cradles the cup in her hands, it doesn't spread much further than that. A small comfort that unfortunately has come to ring hollow. Another veneer she wears — put the kettle on, ignore what settles on the horizon.

She turns from the window. There is no point in looking in reflections for what she is missing, she won't find it, not anymore.

Just how he wanted.

The distant screeching of famished seabirds and the unsavory stench of diesel mixing with the brine of sea water act as indicators of where he might be held prisoner — a factory along the Thames, or perhaps an abandoned warehouse at the docks. The wet dripping of a leaking pipe onto musty concrete and damp wood is the only other ambient sound afforded to their captive from beneath the hood they shoved over his head, preventing him from knowing whether the sun is still out or whether he's been unconscious long enough that the rest of the evening has faded away into the bleakness of night.

The building settles and creaks but is otherwise free of any other sounds of movement. Sensory deprivation and solitary confinement are put into use to break a lesser man with no experience in the art of warfare they are both well educated in. At this point, it's overkill, but John doesn't much mind, it soothes the feral edges of him that stalk the periphery of his thoughts and sniff out the weakness in the crumpled shape in front of them. He smirks, standing firmly planted with his arms crossed over his chest, Simon striking much the same intimidating pose, all carved granite and hardened steel. They don't move, not an inch, control held over muscle as much as it is over environment, honed into weapons that don't jam or spring before the trigger is pulled.

February 12, 2024 - London, UK

She's been living in an empty home for three weeks, and yet, today, when the door opens, the air feels different. Heavier. Pressurized with the humid weight that settles in the limbo between land and sky before a storm breaks and ozone scents the air. Hackles rise, a tickle of the short hairs on her nape, the soldier's perception that something is amiss perks up before her vision spots it. Everything is exactly how she left it, and yet something is out of place. It isn't seen, it's felt. Intensely.

Her first reaction is to proceed to the side table in the front hall, to the locked drawer, to the side arm she keeps there, just in case. Fingers curl into the wooden edge. A little tug, a faint creak as the drawer scrapes along the slides. A spike of cortisol, adrenaline. Her heartbeat ticks up incrementally, her breathing, however, remains steady. When she reaches into the gap of the drawer's opening, a cold dread fills her. Fingers search blindly, patting along the grain. Empty.

Something draws her towards the kitchen, and it's not the bags of groceries in her arms. It's a gravity well. One she knows personally.

Footsteps echo through the house, bouncing off the high ceilings and ping-ponging in the corners, she doesn't silence them. Better to let him hear her coming. Through the hall she travels, towards the doorway that leads into the kitchen. She anticipates a visitor, sitting at the table in the corner, the breakfast nook — a blind spot.

When she enters, her focus is immediately drawn to the shadowy figure sitting precisely where she expects. Facing the door, arms folded on top, there's a slight hunch in his broad shoulders but he is otherwise relaxed and ready for her arrival. Her pistol rests on the table, clip removed. The gunmetal reflects the dimming light from outside the window — a small spark in a room painted in shades of dull, lifeless gray. No lights on, he sits in the gloom. The monster who strikes in the dark. Shifting the bags in her arms, Rory's brow furrows and she sighs, weighted with a bone-deep weariness. Her steps carry her without any rush and she places the brown paper parcels of groceries down on the island counter along with her keys, the soft rustle of packaging and the chime of metal on granite evaporating quickly in the solemn silence. She doesn't turn to face him, muttering into the bags instead as she starts pulling out produce and pantry supplies, “Do I need to change the locks?”

“No."

John's gruff, gravelly baritone is the first clap of thunder as the storm rolls in. Every hair on her arms stands, gooseflesh bubbling along the surface of her skin. Her jaw clenches, but she continues searching within the bags for a sense of normalcy. "Is that so?"

Metal and wood whine behind her — he's shifting in his seat. The sharpness of his gaze lands firmly on the spot at the back of her head. The laser sight of a sniper. It burns into her scalp, bores through the bone, and aims to kill at the gray matter. "If you're pissed about the weapon, you get why I had t' do it. Shot might've gone off that ruined more than just the drywall."

A dry, almost breathy chuckle that always follows his gallows humor rasps from him and travels down her spine in a shiver. Flashes of red pierce the space behind her eyelids and the image sticks — a callous reminder. Gripping the counter with white knuckles for a count of three, she takes a deep breath and turns, leaning on the cold, hard stone behind her.

Rory's finger flicks over a switch and the pendant lights overhead bathe the room in a subdued golden glow, overwhelming the dour gray of the day and filling the space with warmth, with the reminder of home and not another battlefield, even as he tries to turn it into one. "Why are you here?"

"Just to talk.”

“Could've used a phone.”

He doesn't reply for a long moment, just regards her with that flinty stare that can see right into her. “You woulda hung up." Adjusting his stance, his legs spread wider as he bends forward and rests his forearms on his thighs, hands clasped in the space between. The same position he takes when entering a negotiation— in this case, with someone who meets his arguments with her own and doesn't merely stand down. "You wanted your space, I gave it to ya. But I'm not repeatin' the mistakes o' the past, lettin' that silence go on f'any longer than it has to."

St. Petersburg. The time she walked away with every reason to. They didn't speak for the rest of the op, not more than what was required. Not until they got home. The knot of stress that had existed then coils tight, a viper's nest in the pit of her stomach.

"So that's why you're here, to make amends? Is there going to be an apology coming, or…?" She folds her arms defensively over her chest, the first bricks in the barrier steadily being laid down, sandbags dropped for fortification.

He blinks, brow lifting, they are both painfully aware that is unlikely. "Shouldn't 'ave gone about it the way I did. Shoulda told you.” It's not technically an apology, it's simply a statement of fact. Awareness of the incorrect choice, but not admitting to the consequences after.

She sighs and rakes through her hair, tugging on the strands wound around her fingers. A pinch of pressure that felt worlds better than the pulsing that builds in her temples. “You're really just going to tell me what I'm already aware of instead? And then, what? You expect me to just roll over and forgive you, yeah?” She shakes her head and moves to the stove, the groceries left in organized disarray for the time being. “Right, well, I'm putting the kettle on. You want a cuppa?”

"Could do with a dram."

"No."

The cupboard above her closes with a slam, taking the brunt of her frustrations, followed by the counter and the mugs as she puts them down with more force than is required.

"Careful now, sweetheart," he mutters, nodding towards his red Liverpool insignia mug, the patronizing tone not lost on her. "Don't wanna break my favorite, yeah?"

Head turning sharply, she stares him down with a glare that sears with the inescapable heat of an inferno. "Arrogant fucking bastard," she spits. "You're lucky I'm not belting this thing at your bloody mush, you know that?" Rory stalks forward, fire in her words. "You show up in my home, unannounced, after I told you to leave and you're just sitting there like this is Sunday fucking tea?" Cutting the distance between them, she grips his chin forcefully, fingers digging into his stubbled flesh. "You should be groveling on your fucking knees for me right now." "Ror—" He stares up at her, meeting her fire with the cold gray of a wrathful sea. His arm lifts and she can already sense the "calm down" gesture coming. "Don't," she hisses. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down right now, or I swear to god I will punch you so hard in the gob you'll be missing the vast majority of your front teeth."

"I don't doubt tha' f' a second." The hand drops to his lap instantly. Wrong tactic, new strategy required.

Chest heaving, the face-off doesn't end. She's on a precipice and the anger is blurring her thoughts. A shrill scream from the kettle breaks her sustained focus and offers her a restraint from a leap she's not sure she wants to take. Pushing him with a harsher than necessary shove, she retreats to the stove. An efficiency of movement that comes with routine takes over as she shuts off the burner, plunks tea bags from the tin into each mug, and then pours the hot, steaming water over top. Ripping open the fridge door, she grabs the milk and pours the exact splashes in. John doesn't take sugar and she takes honey, and it's all too ingrained for her liking.

Thumping his drink down on the table in front of him, the brown liquid spills over the rim and trails down the side, but neither of them move to clean the mess. She shakes — anger, strain, the tension she's been carrying for so long now — it exhibits itself through the vibration of her tendons and muscles finally given a snapping point. Rory pretends not to see it, turning her attention to the window, on the world that exists out there that has no idea of what the two of them inside have been capable of.

John doesn't break the moment with words, but by wrapping his fingers around her wrist, steadying it. "I deserve it. All of it."

"You do," she confirms with a breath, her pulse thrumming under calloused points of contact.

"Sit down, love." It's not a suggestion. There's a solidity to the request that makes it a command.

Her sigh lands with a growl from low in her throat as she slumps down into the seat opposite him. It's not a defeat, she's just choosing the battle she wants to pick— This isn't it. The lines are still drawn. Chugging down a mouthful of scalding tea doesn't make her flinch, the burn just concentrates her attention. Her tongue is numb as she swallows, it's the only thing about her that is. High-strung, wound tight, she is brimming with a frustration that has swelled inside her for years, ebbing and flowing with the raging tide that resides in John's eyes.

"Been talkin' it over with Nik. Think we should elope."

He states it so plainly, tossing a frag grenade into an already sensitive situation. The blow back is immense, the brunt of it hitting her square in the chest where it deposits the shrapnel. It's inconceivable to her. "You've been talking over our wedding plans with Nik after I kicked you out?"

"Knew you'd get over it eventually." He shrugs a shoulder so casually it makes her taste bile. "No point in not gettin' a jump on things. Kickin' me out was only temporary."

She shoves her mug forward, an intrinsic reaction, trying to deflect the hit. "For fuck's sake. Do you even hear yourself sometimes?" She doesn't shout, the fire dims into something colder, more resolute. "Every choice you make is your own, but this isn't the battlefield where you call the shots, John. This is our life." Pressing a finger to the tabletop, her nail taps the wood. A hammer trying to deliver the blow that makes the point stick once and for all. "Together. We agreed from the start we wouldn't do this type of thing to one another. There's no leader here, we're partners. You can't just drag me about as if I have no will of my own."

"You don't think I know tha'?"

"Well then why are you doing it?"

She pleads for truth from a man who spends so much time living in untold layers of lies. Ones he tells himself have turned into a creed. Ones he tells her are a constructed peace, built to maintain her safety, turning her into Rapunzel in her tower. The very thing he was so proud he would no longer have to do when they first got together has risen to a level above their heads, leaving them to drown. The vast lack of anything in his steely gaze as she waits for his reply is hard to bear. There are no cracks in the armor, no loosening of the ligature between them. A placid surface that hides the destruction of the black beneath, the terrible violence of Lake Superior in his gaze before he blinks away and takes a sip of his tea. "I can't lose ya, Ror. You said yes to me, to being my wife. Mine. You're a bloody smart bird with a good head on your shoulders. You're everythin' I coulda ever wanted. Bein' away from ya—" She knows where he's been: Simon's. Close enough to base, far enough to give her space, sleeping on a worn down couch like it's a doss-house. "This is my home. Here, with you. I'm tryin' to hold onto tha', t' protect it."

She tows her drink towards herself as a shield, nails tapping on the ceramic, the soft tinging an arrhythmic counterpoint to his almost-confession. "You've become overbearing, John. It's one thing to control and manipulate easy as you please when its war, but I won't stand for it in the place I'm supposed to feel safe." She leans forward, lowering her voice to a whisper, "I let you see the weakest parts of me, trusted you with them— that took a lot for me. I can't have you using that as a weapon."

"Not tryin' to."

The worst part is, he probably believes he isn't. She rolls her eyes and drinks the tea, a failed coping mechanism to help her relax. "Maybe not on purpose, but it's obvious you're having a hard time turning that part of yourself off. Is that an after effect of the sarin too?"

His brows knit, blink and it's missed. A flinch. An infinitesimal failing on his part. She's picking at a wound that hasn't even entirely closed yet, making it bleed after he's knocked her out of balance too often.

"I do want to marry you. Not as some tactic. Truly."

“A marriage is supposed to start with trust. Honesty. Respect. And so far, you haven't shown me any of that.” Her gaze falls and she worries her lip, suddenly interested in the patterns of the wood grain of a table she's owned for years. “You love me, and I bloody love the bones of you, but I don't want our union to be some chess move, a get out of jail free card.” Her voice cracks like shattered glass and the sting of tears start to lick at the corners.

There is no goddamn way she's allowing him to see this chink in her during a pivotal conversation that sets the course for the rest of their future together, if there even was such a thing now. Swallowing the surge of emotion that begs to creep its way out of her, she wipes her palm down her face. "So, where do we go from here now that everything's changed?"

"S'pose tha's up to you, innit?"

"I won't be another plot in a scheme by Captain Price."

"You're not. I swear it."

"See, that's the thing, love." She leans forward, voice lowering. "You tell enough lies, it gets hard to find the truth in your voice anymore."

His jaw clenches, works from side to side, mouth scrunching and he has the appearance of some worn out hound that's set for retirement from the hunt. "Don't leave me, Ror." The rumble is quieter than she's ever heard it, rougher than sandpaper on rocks. The look he gives her is no longer empty, nor is it replaced with fury, instead the powder blue swims. "Not again." There's something else that lives there in the depths, a kraken that surfaces. Fear. He's learned never to let that show, but he's presenting it to her and he's no longer turning away.

Her mind screams it's another manipulation, that he's playing her for a fool. And maybe he is. Maybe he's learned to play a new game to drag her into the deep with him. But she's falling for it— hook, line, and sinker. She rubs at her brow, gripping her mug in the other hand, closing her eyes, yet it doesn't ease the tension that floods her. Makarov was still out there somewhere, that was supposed to be her focus, and instead she was in her kitchen facing down a future she would have to learn to live with one way or another.

"The worst part is: I don't want to leave you. You've got me so bloody twisted in knots that I don't know how to do this—" She gestures to her home, to the domestic side of her life. "— on my own anymore. And it's so bloody frustrating, because when its good with you, John, it's— I've never been happier. But when you pull this sort of shit, when you try to pull the wool over my eyes or you start to make the moves of the "Captain" and not my future husband, it makes me question everything. I worry I'm going to regret ever letting you into my life." Standing up, unable to look at him, the chair scrapes the floor behind her and she takes her mug to the sink, running the water to rinse it out. "I knew who you were when I started this, knew what I was getting into. I didn't enter into this blind, but I genuinely believed you could at least differentiate between the parts of you that were required and when."

The chair grates behind her, then the heavy thumps of boots on granite floors that grow closer, followed by the clunk of a half-full mug of tea landing on the counter beside her. She waits for the yelling, for the argument to continue, made rigid when he still doesn't apologize but he does cup her cheek, turning her to look at him.

He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't say a word, he just leans down and kisses her forehead, his whiskers rasping along her skin as his lips hold their position, lingering there. "I fucked up," he breathes, rustling her hair, his voice raw. "I know I did."

The sharp points of tears prickle at her eyes and she tries to bite them back by sucking her lip between her teeth and tearing at the skin but with no success as they still slip free.

Cradling her face, his thumbs brush away the wet trails of her tears. "I'm beggin' ya, Ror. I'll do anythin' t' keep ya." Burying his face in the crook of her neck, John nuzzles into her, burning her with beard and mustache as he kisses the tender skin. "Anythin'."

Her hands stay at her sides for a long time, hands clenching into fists, unwillingly accepting her place as a participant in this dance that has consumed them both. The love is strong, the rage just as much— and she's so fucking tired of being angry.

The turn of her head seals their fate. Lips finding his, her nose nudging his own as they give into a kiss that's as much a defeat as it is recognition. The taste of salty tears passes between them, the brine of mouths crashing together in frantic motions like waves against the shore, and they are each other's port. There's a safety in their dynamic, one that has always existed despite the dangers of the job, the lies they tell the world, themselves, and to each other. She knows what to expect from it, even when it pisses her off, even when it has her kicking him out of the house. Its the burning hot vitriol settled by a consuming desire stronger than a tsunami tugging them into the undertow.

There will never be someone quite like the other for either of them, the hidden variable of what could be will never be found. There is only them. For better or worse. Until death do they part. The fact that his ring still sits snugly on her finger, that she never took it off in all this time, is proof of that.

She coils herself around him, wrapping him in the suffocating embrace of a woman who has been trained to lean on him as a crutch, not realizing just how much she has fallen prey to his efforts to fuse them, wielding the chaos of their lives together into an alloy stronger than steel until he is no longer able to be extracted. There is no escaping him now, nor her fate as his wife. There is no question over whether she forgives him, neither of them pressing for an apology or a pardon, not when they both know that in the coming days their future together won't allow for words to pass between them, much less wasted ones.

Directing her back towards the counter, her back hits the solid edge with a quiet grunt against his mouth, his body pinning hers as they both pant heavily. "Two days," he starts, eyes closed as his warm breath brushes over her lips. "Russia. Nik's got it all set up f' us. We say our vows, tie the knot." He slides his hands down over her cheeks, past the smooth column of her neck, tracing the curve of her shoulders. "You'll be untouchable. No matter where I am, who's lookin' f' me, I'll know you're safe. Ya good with tha'?"

Wetting her lips, she gazes up at him, fear and the residual fury battling inside of her as a new plan of John's plays out without any of her input. "Suppose I have to be, don't I?"

His head angles, pushing his brow into hers. "You're a tough bird, love. This'll get easier. It always does."

The weight of the last year crushes down, the load bearing walls bending and bowing underneath it. Another lie they will both keep living, keep telling each other and everyone else. It gets easier — and another part of her will extinguish and die in order to prove it.

January 20, 2024 - London, UK

Nothing sits right with her, not since he walked out the door. The sixth sense of a well-trained soldier pounds within the confines of her skull, making the truth she witnesses on the telly unavoidable. The morning news feed on the BBC consists of nonstop reporting from American sources regarding the alleged assassination of General Herschel Shepherd and the timeline coincides perfectly: John departs out of the blue, gone for several days, and now the man he threatened is dead. She could feel it coming, the change in the wind's direction, looked him in the eye and saw it in those unforgiving depths. He never lets an opportunity pass him by, but getting into the Pentagon isn't a feat he could complete alone, clearly someone had been working on his side—

Laswell.

It all plays out with the clarity of a movie reel in her mind, impossible to halt, the events have already unfolded and she is forced to bear witness to it, to react after the fact as just a fellow member of the audience.

Rory sighs, head bowing forward as she rakes through her hair, rending on tresses that sting along her scalp, sinking into the cushions of a plush couch that seeks to swallow her whole. She immediately begins to chart the multitude of courses this choice might take, which might be preferable, and what it will cost her to stop it from spiraling out of control. The newscaster's report fades to a dull drone as she turns the possibilities over and finds no clear cut answer, none of them show a light at the end of the tunnel. This wasn't a mission sought by the government, there is no safety net, John skirted the rules they've learned to bend to their own requirements and has murdered an individual in an ally nation's upper echelon. Rank won't acquit him, neither will his usefulness, there are others to replace an aging captain whose extensive experience has just become his downfall.

Her hands drag down her face, pulling at the exhaustion that digs in with hooks. Something terrible was going to happen, she felt it ticking, a time bomb in her chest. Watching him leave, she had opted to forego the argument, too tired of the silent ones they had been entangled in and not wanting to initiate another. The guilt bubbles up, that nascent gurgle below the surface before the geyser spews and dowses her in years worth of the things she bottles up.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She's complicit in the worst way, a coward too afraid of causing a ripple in the water, and look what she has received in return.

She stands up, paces; thinks better of it, sits down. Leg bouncing against the coffee table, the rapid movement shakes the half empty mug of tea and the candles that sit atop it before she stills the limb by clamping down on her lap, choking the limb into submission. Nails claw at the jacquard weave of her pajama pants, burrowing into the flesh, carving crescents behind. Locking onto the television, she chews her lip until the tang of copper filters over her tongue with a swipe over the broken skin to relieve it.

There is no bandage for this. John has tugged on the lead, dragging her into it without a word of discussion.

At the click of the lock in the entrance hall, she perks, rearing up as her attention darts sideways in the direction of the sound. The battle readiness starts the surge of adrenaline through her veins, but Rory holds, refusing to move. Staring straight ahead, the act of sheltering the fact she is more than capable of perceiving the actions he's taken ceases immediately, the passive aggressive rebuttal to his choice to conceal his intentions from her.

Her eyelid twitches at the heavy drop of his duffel, tensing with each footfall of his boots that count down to the inferno he chose to ignite, that she is about to unleash as it breeds inside her, feasting on the remaining tranquil bits of logic she wants to rely on, fuel to build to a full conflagration that aims to burn to ashes anything that remains after the fire he has set to the life they share.

Sensing him there before he even speaks, the weight of his actions are magnetic, and the iron in her veins seems drawn to the form that looms behind her, lurking in the doorway. She snatches up the remote on the cushion beside her and shuts off the rambling voices she has tuned out, tossing it aside as soon as the tool has completed its purpose. Rising to stand, she stares him down, unflinching. Hard. The form he's been sculpting her into for as long as he has known her.

"Did you think I wasn't going to figure it out?" She glares at him, basking in the silence created by a black screen. "Or did you figure I would just happily go along with playing as your alibi?"

He pauses, lengthy enough that she has to assume he didn't expect to be backed into a corner the instant he arrived home, and the complex wit that can concoct countless coercements is suddenly made quiet.

"Ror—"

"So, you've killed Shepherd. Are you happy now?"

Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be? It's visible in the set of his shoulders. There's no shame there, no remorse. Her glower remains fixed on him, waiting for him to be honest about it with her.

"'s not about bein' happy."

Refusing to conceal the disbelieving scoff that puffs out of her, her grip finds purchase on her hips, holding firm, resolute in her stance as she faces down the lone person she's supposed to be able to trust. "What's it about then, eh?"

"'s about keepin' you safe."

Here we go. Her eyes practically roll out of her head as they reach for the ceiling and slide back down, settling into place. It's the reason he gives in every situation, and it has worn out its welcome since the first instance he used it with her in Moscow.

"That's what 's always been about. Gettin' rid o' Shepherd's been on the cards for a while, just been waitin' f' the right moment."

"And a few months before our wedding is the correct time, is it?"

He doesn't answer, his gaze flickering to the dark screen where she had been observing his handiwork through the editorial lens of the country's news agency, having to get the story from the outside and whatever bias they've been told to spin it with as opposed to hearing it from his own lips.

“You started planning this after Mexico, didn't you?” The light that usually exists in her hazel depths, drawing other in, fades to a shadow of its former glory. Too much bullshit dumped on her plate, taking it upon herself to try and clean up a mess that isn't her own, the dust from the previous swell of chaos having barely settled.

John fails to meet her penetrating glare, arms folding in a barrier, shielding himself from her coming onslaught, a barrage he prepares for rather than excusing what has occurred — at least he's learned that tactic doesn't work with her.

Giving her head a shake, she is frustrated by the lack of retort. Once again she appears prone to overreaction, uniquely capable of any human emotion when compared to him. She doesn't have any interest in picking a fight with the stoic Price, she fancies a skirmish with the mad dog who bites when pushed. “You didn't listen to a fucking word I said then, did you?”

“Course I did. Held my cards close to my chest, didn’t I?” Piercing blue focuses in on her from under a darkened brow, daring her to continue poking the bear. The tic of his jaw flexing, the tightening of the tendon, it's a sign she’s walking on shaky ground. He’s on edge. 

Good.

A huffed out sigh, the short burst of air from her nostrils, is quickly followed by the tut of her tongue as she sucks her teeth. She seethes, ricocheting between wanting to simply kill him and put herself out of her misery or tearing him a new arsehole. “So fucking close you pushed me out,” she snarls, mirroring his own stance. This isn't open, honest conversation. This is warfare and both of them are digging in, lobbing weapon bursts across the No Man’s Land that is meant to be their relationship and the trust they had built — the trust John has summarily shattered.

Determined furrow knitting his bushy brows, tugging at the old bisecting scar, his chin lifts in a challenge. He plants his weight, not shifting, repeating the same logic again and again, willing it to land, to be inescapable, so it might finally constitute as genuine. “I had to. Had t' look out for ya."

Utter horseshit.

“You did it because you knew I'd talk you out of it if you’d told me in the first place,” she snaps. “And Captain Price just had to have his way, yeah? He knows best,” she continues, her tone utterly facetious. “Christ, John. Did you even consider what would happen if this got out? If one whiff was caught?” She draws closer, pointing her finger at him, holding him to ransom. “It's not just you going down for it, love. Kate is your accomplice. Si, Kyle, me — we will be hounded like dogs for our allegiance to you." She slaps a hand over the neckline of the tank top she wears, fingers clawing at the material. "How is anyone supposed to believe we had nothing to do with it either?"

Looking into his eyes, she is given naught in return, only empty fathoms that are missing a spark following Soap's death. "You could be court martialed." She quiets while pleading with the stranger who has taken over his body. "Left to be on the run until they catch you. And they bloody well will. Eventually, you will fuck up. Everyone does. What happens then, eh?” 

“Rory—”

“No, goddammit, John." Gripping at her hair, she clutches to the tresses as the initial tremble of her nerves begin to vibrate. The frustration peaks. The fear of being abandoned again pricks at her brain in sharp, gouging needles. "I am done listening to all the lies and manipulations you enjoy spinning. Do you hear me?” Hands falling, appearance disheveled, her face-framing waves are a mess, as wild as her psyche is. “This wasn't about Soap or Makarov. This was a personal vendetta you carried out, and for what?”

“Shepherd deserved everythin' he got." He stands there as if this is a debate about drapes, a perfectly normal conversation that she should be on board with, while she climbs the walls, hysterical with the treachery he's committed and that he justifies without question. "He betrayed us, darlin'. I did what I had to.”

Turning sharply, she stares, blankly. Dumbfounded. Her mouth agape with the shock of how casually he handles this. “Assassination in cold blood?”

“Don't act like you're above that!” he barks, breaking free of the control he's been trying to exert over his need to retaliate, stepping into the room, narrowing the space between them.

“When I did so it was sanctioned, they were my orders, not because it was on a whim, John!” She tastes the hypocrisy as she spits, a piss poor excuse for an argument. There had certainly been times when she had acted sans orders, bending rules to remove those that deserved it, but this wasn’t about her or her past. 

“This wasn't on a whim." He punctuates the words with the thrust of a finger towards her. " 's not just about Soap… or Makarov—" he bites the name out, tearing through it with gritted teeth. “This was for us, Ror. He was willing to turn on Soap and Ghost because they stumbled onto circumstances he wanted to hide. He knew about us, Graves knows about us. I had to do somethin' to guard ya, my girl.”

“Don't you dare shift the blame to my shoulders!" Standing right under his nose, she cranes her neck to stare up at him, but she doesn't run scared, not in the heat of the battle. "I have enough black spots on my conscience. I didn't ask you to do that, you chose to do it of your own goddamn volition. I don't need you running off and pulling this shit only to try to tell me it's in my name.”

“'s tha' so?" He pushes her to retreat from him in a single step, bare foot skidding over the rug. Voice lowering into more of a threat than when he shouts, his intentful watch on her narrows. "Are you really tha' surprised? I've done this before f' ya, haven't I? Didn't seem too bothered when it was those blokes in Russia I took care of f' you.”

“That was different," she wavers, betrayed by the faint quiver.

“How?" Mouth curling into that scrunch that betrays any calm he chooses to wear. "It wasn't business, it was personal, Ror," he gravels. "Same as this.”

Thoughts race as she tries to morph his justifications into some semblance of legitimacy — even if it's just the one he has enacted — and a sickening lurch in her stomach freezes her on the spot. The color drains from her cheeks, sickly pale with horror as the entire context clicks into place. “Tell me that this plan wasn't the reason you finally proposed," she murmurs.

All the half-remembered bits of legal code her father would espouse for the last two decades resurfaces. Spousal privilege. UK law dictates a spouse cannot be compelled to testify for the prosecution against their legal partner. And it is all so glaringly, sickeningly John that she wonders if she has any right to act shocked at all. What better protection is there versus the powers-that-be than to use her as a human shield?

"Marrying me so I can't take the stand, can't get questioned, can't be punished. Please tell me that this wasn't what instigated our wedding plans.”

His eyes fall, just that slight slip that doesn't escape her notice, and Rory's breath catches.

“Maybe a li'l, yeah.”

John looks straight at her as he says it and she is gutted, entirely. The hard truth unsheathed and dragged across her belly, tearing out her insides with a dull blade that catches on the soft parts of her that still exist. Used. Cheap. That's what she is. Not even worth marrying unless it serves as a benefit to be reaped by someone else.

“Fucking hell,” she rasps, muttering with rolling anger. The amber flecks in her irises flare, swallowing the soft mossy green of her irises, and the blinders are removed as her fears turn to fury, seeing him for the monster that lay concealed deep down. The feet build between them, increasing the distance as she moves, each hitch straining her lungs as her heart bleeds.

He attempts to close the expanse, to force her into the chokehold he's had on her from the start. To attach the collar around her throat that she has just pulled loose from only to tighten it in a noose. "I took every precaution. Planned for any possible deviations. And all of it had you – your happiness, your life – at the forefront, darlin’." Hoarse with emotion as he tries to counter her, to convince her that he did this with the best of intentions. “It's always been about you, my girl. Always.”

A wrecked laugh slips past her, the old coping mechanism stirring as she faces down the inherent cruelty of his decision. “So everyone else gets put on the firing line?”

“You don't deserve to be punished, love. I didn't want you knowing or getting involved in all this.”

“I fucking am now, aren't I?" she shouts. "You've made a mockery of everything we’ve built, turned it all into another stupid goddamn strategy.”

False placidity settles over him, his tone deceptively mild. “Don't you say tha' t' me.” He points at her, growling low, “Dont you fuckin' say tha'. I'd do anythin' f'you. I've killed f' you. I'd die f' you, Rory.” Bounding towards her with the dangerous grace he employs on the battlefield, he cradles her cheeks, fingers grabbing at her as if she might disappear, and his attention bores into her, manic and frenzied. “D'you have any idea how it felt when I saw those missiles flyin'? Thinking I'd lost you forever? My sweet girl, the only good fuckin' thing I've got. My whole bloody world ended," he croaks, the stoic soldier breaking, stormy blues turning bloodshot. “I felt my heart break in my fuckin' chest.”

Her lip trembles looking up at him. “You murdered a four star general, John.”

“I killed a man, same as I ‘ave before.”

“Those were enemies in a war." Her arm shoots out, gesturing at the television that lies idle in the room. "Killing Shepherd, it will ruin you. Not just your career but life as you know it, and you’re dragging Kate down with you. You’re throwing all of it away, and for what?”

“For you! To protect you, to keep everyone safe.”

“Don’t treat this as if it were some self-sacrificing bullshit. You’ve never played the martyr, John. Don’t start pretending to now because you've been caught.” Her brow furrows, clenching her teeth. She shoves him off as she tears free from his grip. “Christ, I'm no better than Konni with Makarov when it comes to you, and you love it, don't you? I'm the sole disciple in the cult of John fucking Price,” she mutters. “It doesn't bode well for our marriage when you're out here testing the limits of my devotion just to find what it takes for me to break.”

“I'm not testin’ anythin’.”

“Oh, are you not? Could've fooled me.”

“This wasn't a test, Ror. I swear." He holds his hands up in surrender or contrarily to pacify the wild torrent he has kicked up.

"Everything is a test with you. Willingly or not. There is no escaping it." She sighs, deflating, shrinking down into the shape of the woman who believed she had gotten what she wanted, who had placed an ounce of hope into her circumstances instead of expecting the worst. "Just when I think I've figured out how low you can go, you find a new way to throw me off kilter." Tears of frustration, of a hurt that strikes at the core of her, brim and blur her vision at the edges . "I can't do this anymore," she whispers. "I can't even look at you."

"Rory, sweetheart, please—"

Hiding her tremors from him by crossing her arms — he no longer gets to observe that part of her, not after this — the anger gutters, falling flat, and she shuts him out. “I want you to leave, John,” she murmurs quietly.

John's brows lift up to meet his hairline. The physical manifestation of the rare occasion where he appears genuinely staggered, as if he never foresaw this as an eventuality to prepare for. “What?”

“I'm trying to be civil here, I don't—" She worries her pout, tasting the tang of metal all over again as the split flesh reopens. "I don't want to have to tell you to just get out.” 

“Ror—” Suddenly uncertain, she is offered a glimpse of who she believed she knew underneath.

“I need some time. Working together, living together. It's best if we just— that we spend it apart.”

“After all that's happened?" He strides forward once more, purposeful. Intimidation to make her see sense, or at least his version of it. "Everything we've lost? Don't let Makarov steal this from us too.”

“It's not Makarov that did it. Excellent use of emotional manipulation though.”

His gaze sharpens, but he is smarter than to argue further. Conceding — for the present — he jerks out a sharp nod, jaw clenched tight. “You just…" A sigh is the only sign of his momentary defeat. "Be careful, yeah?” he mutters, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, misreading the room entirely for a split second.

She turns away before he can touch her, the change of the angle of her jaw acting as a clear rejection, leaving no room to be misconstrued. Brutal refusal, the equal counterpoint to his treatment of her.

The reticence that follows is thick, not bothering to grace him with a reply even as he crumples in her periphery, staring at her profile as if he doesn't recognize it, but she fails to treat him with any acknowledgement. On this she will not waver — not for him — his actions force her hand. The walls fortify, the moat digs deeper, wider; the only safety she can offer herself comes from closing off, from abandoning the shield she has relied on extensively because it became comfortable to do so.

Drawing back after being met by a blockade he has no defense against, retreat serves as the only viable option after losing this encounter. "I'll go pack some things," he mutters, allowing her the room she deems necessary.

Boots climb the stairs down the hall, and each landing sends reverberations pulsing through her. Every inch of this home is suffused with him — he's in the walls, the floors, his presence marks all the furnishings — she can feel him everywhere. At the sound of the closet doors creaking open and armfuls of clothing being torn from the hangers, she becomes frighteningly aware of how close she comes to experiencing an amputation. Hers arrives with no sedation, no anesthesia — she feels every scrape of the saw against bone as the severing continues.

When the front door closes, Rory makes no move to stand at the window. There are no goodbyes, no closing arguments, it just ends. She doesn't need to see the back of him to know that. This was her stipulation, what she wanted, and somehow, without a word being shared, he still manages to make her feel guilty for it.

Invictus - William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,