#i repeat

You know that voice. You know that fucking voice.

"John?"

He hums, downing the glass in three greedy pulls and sets it empty on the counter. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth and watches as you struggle to comprehend what was happening.

"Wh—? What the hell!? Why are you—? What did you—how—?"

"You been alright?" He sheds his coat, dropping it where he stood before advancing.

You can see him better when he comes into the glow of the television. He's tracked in vengeance along with the mud. The anger. The violence. The hatred in his eyes. Something dangerous is etched into the lines of his face and it aged him more than the time he was gone could have.

"I... um... yeah. You?"

He doesn't answer, exactly. Instead he backs you up until your hips bump against your bookshelf and he brackets you entirely, leaving you engulfed. His beard was grown out, you noted. Up close it was more salt than pepper and it looked a little patchy—like parts of it had been torn out. The grime, sweat, and gunpowder caked into his skin had you wrinkling your nose. Certainly not an accountant, then.

"Good to hear." He growls, his callused palms coming up to frame your face. Without any warning, he kisses you. You're too stunned to push him away and your mouth goes slack under his. It's not pleasent, exactly. It's rough and scratchy and unexpected, and then just as abruptly, it's over.

"Missed you." He calls over his shoulder, already heading towards your bathroom. You're rooted to the spot, lips parted and breathing staggered. The taste of him curls into your cheeks.

"You can't just—"

"Just what?" He peels his shirt over his head, half listening to you as he turns on your shower.

"—appear! How did you even get in, anyway? My door was locked." You stand just outside the loo, hands planted on your waist.

"Key." He grunts, undoing his belt. The buckle jingles as he flips it open and he tugs down his fly.

You huff in disbelief, flushing.

"You shouldn't even have a key to my place. How did you—actually, never mind. I don't want to know. And can you please stop getting naked!?"

His lips twitch as he shucks off his jeans. Completely unashamed, he kicks his growing pile of laundry aside along with his filthy boots. Near every inch of his strong, hairy physique is on display for you now as he toys with the band of his underwear. Amused, he slips it down an inch, letting his happy trail peak out from beneath the fabric and you try not to notice the bulge.

"How else am I s'possed to shower, darling? Boots 'n all?"

"No." Your gaze drops to the tiled floor and remains anchored on the chip where you dropped something ages ago.

"Right. You gonna stay and watch, then?"

"What!?" You look up, alarmed. "No!"

"You're more than welcome to, love." His grin is lascivious. "Could use the company."

That was the last straw.

You bolt, slamming the door behind you. Sliding down the wall, you press trembling fingers to your heated cheeks. This was all very confusing. Gone was the John Price you thought you knew. The man currently in your shower was not the same one who used to check up on you in the hall, or offer to fix your leaky faucet that once time. Something had happened to him since you'd seen him last. The question is, what?

Him standing in your bathroom like this (LORD HAVE MERCY i need to be sedated):