Sorry About the Mess...

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.