He still has the bloody suit on, the extortionate, uncomfortable suit that now has fag ash on one sleeve and the smell of sweat clinging to it. He's a pitiful sight, or one worthy of contempt. No one will approach him, John assumes they think he's been to a funeral.

A funeral for the longest relationship he's ever had, maybe.

He owes apologies, countless apologies and money to the missus, now ex, and her family. Is it kinder to run from the institution of marriage and spare them both the ache of an unfulfilling life together, or stomach it and pretend he loves her as any more than a friend? He's unsure, but a coward he is, and he took the easy road.

There's a word for his type, one he cannot voice nor stomach, but it is not the type of man who marries a woman for passion. It's not a man who marries a woman at all.

Getting drunk is a perfect way to pair the oncoming headache of his actions with a literal headache and the taste of stomach acid lingering in his mouth. He may seek atonement, tear himself limb from limb as penance for what he has done, but absolution does not await him. As cruel as it may be, destroying someone in hopes that it will stop the cancerous yearning in his mind from spreading is pusillanimous, and so he will spend his life guilty for offering her hope.

From the corner of his eye, he knows who sat on the bar stool next to him. he couldn't possibly mistake it for anyone else; he knows every little detail of that body by heart and loathes himself for it. Besides, there's only one person who could hunt him down with such accuracy.

"You ran."

There's no accusation in Nikolai's words, a cautious lack of judgement that he doesn't deserve. Unlike most, Nikolai won't attempt to squeeze the answer out of him because he knows the following silence will be all the tempting John needs to spill his guts. Bastard.

"Drink?"

After a long day at work, Nik likes to get Price to unwind on his lap, listening to the Captain vent his frustrations while softly finger fucking him. He loved seeing Price’s thick thighs straddling him, the grip he held to keep himself from shaking too much. Nik always had him though, a gentle hand guiding soft hips closer before snaking up his back and pulling him in for a kiss. Price felt spoiled beyond repair for the cards having dealt him such an amazing man.

Price🚬: Transportation logs were- oh fuck, ngghh…

Nik🚁: Use your words моя любовь, try again for me.

Price🚬: The ngggh- logs were incorrectly dated, oh fuck Nik! And I- I spent the afternoon re-filing th-them-mmnh…

Nik🚁: That’s my хороший мальчик.

Though, in his relationship, he falls victim to homemade soup. Nikolai's homemade soup isn't reliable, he switches up a few of the ingredients every time to keep John on his toes. It's always good, always appeals to the comfortable tastes John favours.

He likes the act of service, of Nikolai cooking in their kitchen and walking through with a bowl in hand just for him. As selfish as it sounds. Above all, he appreciates how tender it is. To be cooked for, cared for and to share a warm meal in a home they call their own, as small as it may be.

That's his baby, yep, he and John got drunk then fooled around. Oops. Anyway, he's gonna be a dad.

John smacks him upside the head for it behind closed doors, the pup isn't Nikolai's responsibility and he shouldn't feel obligated to care for it.

Nikolai just smiles at him, that stupid, dopey smile, and asks if he can get the baby a little onesie with a helicopter on it.

Nik knew he'd never been "on the dating scene". His first love was the service, and it was only usurped by Nik when John realised the yawning chasm in his soul couldn't be filled with violence. Nik had gladly taken up his place in that abyss and he had filled it, like he had always been destined to be there. Hopeless romantic, you say? Well, of course.

"An' then, she text me three weeks later and asked why I'd given up the chase. Girl, you told me you weren't feelin' it and spent our entire final date on your phone," Gaz said, exasperated. "I ain't bein' your next viral TikTok. I'm not a bloody mind reader."

"Aye, that's rough," Soap murmured, pausing to take a swig of his beer. "'Hae I ever telt ye aboot the man I met on Grindr for a quickie?"

Gaz snorted. "Narrow it down for us a bit, Tav..."

"Shut yer pus. Naw, this yin brak intae ma flat when I deployed and slept in ma bed for the hale week. Wore ma clothes and everythin'."

Rudy's eyes widened. "Qué va..."

John blew out a puff of grey smoke and cleared his throat before leaning across to Nik. "Fanks for savin' me. I fink I woulda been eaten alive."

Nik hummed in agreement.

John continued. "If you go before me, I'm stayin' on my own. Maybe invest in a dog. You've set the bar too fuckin' high, mate."

Nikolai's fingers were in his hair. John's eyes were closed. He was close to sleep, the good kind of afternoon-drowsy where the whole world is just a little softer. Close enough to sleep that his limbs had gone heavy. He shifted to get comfortable, his weight adjusting the dip in the mattress beneath them... and the fitted sheet's corner popped loose with a soft thwip, folding up on itself in a crumpled triangle against the bare mattress pad.

He heard it. That specific little sound of fabric escaping.

His whole body stiffened.

"...John?"

John's jaw clenched, eyes still shut, because if he didn't acknowledge it maybe it hadn't happened.

Nikolai looked down at him, then at the corner of the sheet, a little patch of bare mattress showing in the sunlight. He'd hardly registered it really.

He bit back a laugh... barely.

"Oh no," he said. Very flat. "Tragedy. Should I call someone."

"Don't," John said muffled into his leg, voice already thick and bone-tired and completely undone by some dozen centimeters of un-tucked cotton. "Don't you dare laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing." He was absolutely laughing, just quietly.

"Nik..."

"It is a war crime, I agree. The sheet has committed a war crime."

John made a sound that was half a laugh and half a genuine, hiccupping little sob, screwing his eyes shut tighter, one hand coming up to cover his face. "Fuck," he said, and he was actually crying now, a few stupid tears leaking out, catching the light stupidly on his lashes, "'M fuckin cryin' over the bloody sheet. After all the shit of today—it's a sheet."

"I know, moya lyubov." Nikolai kept stroking his hair, gentle and as seemingly as unbothered as usual, watching John's lashes clump together under the tears. "It's very unfair. The sheet should know better. It has one job."

"Shut up." John pressed his face into Nikolai's leg, somewhere between laughing and crying and too exhausted to tell the difference.

Nikolai held him there, one hand splayed warm on his back now, the other still carding slowly through his hair. He let John have his moment, snorting and sniffling into his jeans.

"Needs washing anyway," Nikolai said quietly.

John tilted his head and cracked one eye open. "What?"

"The sheet. Whole set, probably. We will do it later, when we get up." Nik shrugged. "No rush. Not going anywhere. Day is not going anywhere either."

John let out a long breath, some of the tension bleeding out of him. "...Okay."

"Okay."

"I'm—thank you," John mumbled, eyes drifting shut again.

"Of course." Nikolai's fingers slowed to pet just at the base of his neckh. "Sleep, John. Sheet will still be a war criminal when you wake up."

No words exchanged between them when Nikolai sits in his armchair and silently opens his arms so John can crawl to his lap and cling onto him, Nikolai's arms circling his back and soft hands scratching his short hair until John feels more or less himself again.

Only the silence after the whir of helicopter blades quiets down following a mission that was too close to a disaster and John reaches out over the gap between their seats so Nikolai can take his hand, squeezing just enough to ease the trembling in the pilot's usually steady fingers.

Nothing but the quiet click of a bedroom door closing and soft footsteps on hardwood floor before the rustle of sheets and a shuddery sigh that John can't quite stifle when Nikolai lays down on top of him, finally quieting his mind enough to rest.

The pitter patter of rain almost masking the shaky breaths that Nikolai takes as he stares out of the kitchen window remembering things he'd rather forget, half chopped vegetables forgotten in front of him before John's arms wrap around him and the knife in his hand is gently pried away, the pilot's shoulders gradually relaxing as John sways them slowly.