#equilibrium 2002

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JOHN PRESTON x yn.

how would john react if he were to fall for you? head-canons:

he notices it like a glitch in the matrix. catastrophic.

- love doesn’t come to preston like a blooming thing. it arrives like a rupture. like a misfired round. like the tremor before a building falls.

- it’s subtle, at first — the way his hand lingers too long beside yours, the way he watches you when you aren’t looking, not for suspicion — for confirmation.

- and then it hits him: he cares. you, specifically. singularly.

- and caring is dangerous. caring is treason. he’s fucked and he know it.

he isolates immediately.

he pulls away. not out of cruelty — but preservation. not yours — his. because you represent something uncontainable. not a distraction — a total ideological dismantling.

- he stops speaking as much. turns his face slightly when you enter a room. yet, he doesn’t ignite himself in the morning anymore.

- and you think he’s grown cold — but inside, his equilibrium has shattered. he’s terrified he’ll look at you and give everything away.

he logs it like a threat.

- in his mind, you become a file. a surveillance feed. a classified variable.

he runs mental risk analyses. plays out scenarios:

what if someone else notices he looks at you too long?

what if your records are pulled for questioning?

what if he’s forced to choose between you and the system?

- his body goes cold with the math of it.

proximity betrays him.

- one morning, your fingers graze his glove as you hand him something, and he stills. not dramatically — just frozen, like the system inside him glitches for half a second.

- and he looks at your face, really looks, and he feels it again. warmth. like a fever he never allowed himself to notice before.

- you smile gently, and he forgets what he was supposed to say.

he tries to eliminate the possibility.

- he avoids you, methodically. reassigns you to distant posts. uses clinical excuses. keeps you off joint missions.

- and when that doesn’t work, he files internal reports on himself — coded and anonymized — to see if there are patterns being flagged.

- when the database shows nothing, he doesn’t relax. it only makes him more paranoid.

- because it means he’s hiding it too well. and that means the feeling is growing.

he tests himself cruelly.

- he exposes himself to others in distress: people begging, crying, pleading — to see if he reacts.

when he feels nothing for them, but still thinks about you…he knows.

- this isn’t just a chemical imbalance. you are the catalyst.

- and he is failing the system.

he prepares a contingency.

- a hidden space where you could run. an identity forged. records scrubbed.

- he never tells you. never plans to use it. but it exists. in case someone else finds out. in case he has to choose between handing you over or betraying the government.

- and he knows what he’ll do. he’ll do it for you.

you become his anchor and his test.

- he trains harder. shoots more precisely. moves with almost robotic discipline — all in the name of regaining control.

but the thoughts creep in: what would your voice sound like if you whispered just to him? would your breath hitch if he touched your cheek? would you smile if he said your name softly?

- he meditates. fasts. anything to erase the image. it doesn’t work. your presence follows him like a pulse.

when he confesses, it’s not romantic. it’s reverent.

- it’s not a declaration. it’s a submission. the words feel foreign in his mouth: “i care for you.”

they don’t sound right. they’re not enough.

- his voice is flat, but his hands shake. his shoulders twitch — a man trying to hold back centuries of indoctrination. “you are… the first thing that feels real.”

after that — you are sacred. untouchable.

- he doesn’t flaunt it. doesn’t press. he just protects. instinctively. he stands between you and any threat, without words, without glory.

- he listens more. touches less. studies your smallest reactions like they’re scripture.