#mactav

No, he understands, cognitively at least, that the 'overcast' they feel is just a confirmation bias that taints their view of things. A circular prophecy caused by the messes they constantly have to clean up. His brain's way of preparing for further danger and traumatic experiences. The world above this, above all the bullshit they deal with is still beautiful. Because 'normal' people don't have to deal with terrorists as a job, they don't have the blood of an invisible war clouding their vision. There is beauty out there. He's certain of it.

He's certain of it. As he looks into your teary, crying eyes.

Your bed is soft. But not too soft. Not like the mud he and Ghost had to sleep in just two weeks before this. No, this is warm, dry. Both of your legs tangled up in smooth, silken sheets. He can hear the hum of the heat from the vent just behind the bed  but only just barely so, he's so focused on the soft, shuddering breaths you're taking as you look up at him.

He's not touching you. Not anymore. You had moved back, when he'd answered. Apologized, more like (he hates when you ask, don't know why you always do, you know what he's going to fucking say), told you that 'No sweetheart. Much as he cares for you, loves you even, he is not going to quit his role in the most prestigious unit in the SAS'. What he didn't tell you is that, if he does end up quitting one day, it almost certainly wouldn't be for a girl he only knew in passing as a young boy, only now sees about annually, when the fever strikes. Could only really potentially see quarterly, if he so chose to. Which he won’t. Price can be a vindictive old bastard about time-off.

You wouldn't think though, would you? Not with the way you're sobbing over him. Like you two’ve been married for the better part of a decade and you've just caught him with another bird. Your eyes are just swimming with tears. Face all dark with blood and puffy with your own sadness. He realizes he's staring, but so are you. John swallows raggedly, as you blink up at him. Causes a fresh pair to peel past your joined, tear-slicken lashes. Spilling down like fresh acetone on the flame within him. Something jumps. Something ugly.

"...'m.." He swallows again. Wonders what you see in him. Wonders what the hell you're looking at right now. Sobbing over right now. Fucking bent and weeping like someone's actually died. "I'm...sorry." He's apologized before. Spent his whole life apologizing. To priests and popes. To Jesus. To Peter. Maybe even more so, now in his adult life.

Did you know, Price and Ghost used to send him and Gaz for the job? Apologizing. Comforting. Sometimes it was men they had to move. It was typically women though. Sobbing, borderline inconsolable over the bodies of their men. Combatants who were dispatched, sometimes allies, usually not. No matter, it was his and Gaz's job to console. To apologize. To get them to move someplace where they wouldn't end up in the dirt right next to their husbands. Like it was some task to just be pushed to the lower ranks. Like scrubbing the bathrooms and sweeping the floor. He didn't see it that way, though. Certainly not how his seniors did. He would never see it like that. Weeping women. Sobbing. It was the kind of thing that really messed with him. More than the shooting maybe.

The people he killed, well, they were all inside the bubble. Behind the curtain of civility that most people don't dare to cross. Fair game, once you do. All's fair there. But the people dragged there by sheer proximity? Well...That's a different case right? Young widows aren't...Well it isn't a crime to sob over your dead husband. Or your injured son. They're grieving. That's natural...It's what good people do. What any good ma or wife would do. He tried not to be rough or mean. Not shout and drag them away by their frocks and shit. Some people were rough with them, but he wasn't. They're just civvies. Noncombatants dragged by the enemy into a world they never should've gotten involved with. He was soft. He...apologized. 

He can’t even look you in your eyes right now, not through the mess of wetness there. Can hardly understand your garbled words as you gasp out, "You're going to fucking die out there, John—" Before you're collapsed onto your forearms, bawling into your silky, golden pillowcase. He has to grit his teeth.

Would you cry like that? If you got the news? If his Ma had to write some Facebook post about his death in the field...It's all to protect people like you, in the end. And yet you're here, fucking gasping and sobbing yourself something sick over him. Someone who you don't even see but once a year. Dozens of men like him have died. Allies past. You don't sob for them though. No, it's not about the sacrifice to you, is it? It's about him. About the fact that he'd be dead and you'd be left here, without him.

He wonders really. He swallows thickly, as you look up at him again. Bambi in the eyes.

"Does that even bother you!?" You all but yell at him. But it's not at all like yelling. Not like Simon or Price does. He's white knuckling the sheets. Fucking...pathetic. It's the only word he can think of, as he looks at you. Face hot with your own misery. Getting attached to something like him. Don't you see who he is? What he is?

John is certain he's going to hell. Maybe not for what he’s done. Maybe not for the killing and the violence. Those can be forgiven, he’s sure. But maybe just for this moment. Or the moments before. Just the way your eyes look right now. The way it causes his entire body to just ignite.

He's panting, like a damn dog as he watches you. Watches those wide eyes go even wider. Shaking scared and silent like the fucking lamb you are as he works himself to the sight. Canine tooth digging into his right cheek as he ruts his slick cock against the useless, fucking irritatingly smooth slide of your silk sheets. Dribbling pre all over the pristine fabric. Probably fucking pressed it for him you did. He knows you would feel better than it. Do feel better than it. But you'd never let him. Fuck. Not if he’s acting the way he’s acting now. Jesus fucking Christ he really has no self-control–