#soft!john walker

C's corner: In honor of December, I will be posting a few blurbs having to do with the holidays/winter. Let me know if you have any requests

MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: none, just stubbornness and one very determined boyfriend

SUMMARY: You’ve spent your whole life doing everything yourself, so shoveling the driveway in the middle of a snowstorm at 8 a.m. makes perfect sense to you. You don’t need help. You definitely don’t need John’s help.

You've always done everything yourself.

If a lightbulb goes out, you're up on the chair with a new one before John can even get the step stool. If the sink leaks, you've already watched three tutorial videos and have the wrench in your hand.

Groceries? You're the one carrying three bags on each arm while he follows you, grumbling, "Y'know I am right here." He thinks it's cute… and also mildly infuriating.

So he shouldn't be surprised to wake up to an empty bed and a suspicious quiet in the house.

"Babe?" he calls, voice still rough with sleep as he checks the bathroom, the kitchen. The coffee pot is on, but you're nowhere in sight.

He spots it then, swirling white outside the window.

The world beyond the glass is a blur of snow, fat flakes whipping sideways in a full on snowstorm. And there, halfway down the driveway, is you.

You, in your thick coat, shovel in hand, out in the middle of the snowstorm.

Shoveling.

John freezes at the window for exactly three seconds, processing

"You've got to be kidding me."

He yanks on a hoodie, pulls on his boots without socks, and storms toward the door, muttering under his breath, "She better not have a death wish, because I swear..."

The wind hits him the second he opens the door, icy and vicious, snatching his breath. Snow flies into his face, sticking in his hair and beard. He squints against it and stomps out onto the porch.

"HEY!" he booms over the howl of the wind.

You shovel another heavy line of snow and toss it aside, pretending not to hear him.

He isn't fooled.

"Don't you dare ignore me," he warns, trudging down the steps. Snow is already past his ankles. "What are you doing?"

You finally look up, cheeks flushed from exertion and cold, snowflakes clinging to your lashes. "What's it look like?" you yell back. "I'm shoveling!"

His eyes narrow, that little vein in his forehead starting to show. "You're out here in the middle of a damn snowstorm..."

"It's not a storm," you argue. "It's just… aggressively snowing."

"...shoveling the driveway," he continues as if you didn't speak, "by yourself, at..." he checks his watch "...eight in the morning?"

You shrug, digging the shovel into another drift. "The snow doesn't care what time it is."

John steps off the porch, squinting like the snow personally insulted him. "Where's your hat?"

"In the house."

"Where it does what? Supervise?"

You roll your eyes. "I'm almost done, relax."

He walks closer, boots crunching over the half-cleared driveway. Up close, you can see the way his jaw ticks, the lines between his brows deepening as he takes you in, no hat, no scarf, jacket unzipped, hair dusted in white.

"How long have you been out here?" he asks.

You look away. "Not that long."

"That's not an answer."

You puff out another cloud of breath. "I woke up at six."

"Six?!" His voice goes up a full octave. "You've been out here for two hours?"

"On and off," you protest. "I went inside for coffee."

"Oh, great," he says. "You hydrated with caffeine and came right back out to freeze to death. That's much better."

You grit your teeth, shoveling another path just to prove a point. "I'm not freezing to death. I'm fine. I've done this a hundred times."

"Yeah, before you lived with a six-foot-something human snowplow," he snaps, jabbing a thumb at his chest. "You were supposed to wake me up."

"I didn't want to bother you," you shoot back.

He stares at you like you've spoken another language. "Bother me? By letting me shovel my own damn driveway?"

You grip the handle a little tighter. "I always do it myself. It's not a big deal."

"It is when you're out here half dressed, in a storm, for two hours," he says. His brows pinch together, his voice dropping into that low, irritated concern he gets when you do something he interprets as a direct attack on his blood pressure. "You're gonna get sick."

You snort. "That's not how that works, John."

"I don't care if it's scientifically accurate," he mutters. "You're coming inside."

You shove another pile out of the way. "I told you, I'm almost done..."

"Yeah?" He takes another step closer, looming now, arms crossed over his chest. "Define 'almost.'"

You gesture vaguely down the driveway. "I just have… that part. And then the sidewalk. And maybe the steps."

He follows your hand and sees the untouched half of the driveway, the snow still coming down, already starting to fill in what you've cleared. His eye twitches.

"We're gonna lose this battle," he says flatly. "The snow is winning. Get inside."

"John..."

"Nope." He shakes his head, decisive. "We're not arguing. You're cold."

"I'm not cold," you lie immediately, even as your teeth threaten to chatter.

He gives you a slow, disbelieving once-over. "Your nose is literally the color of a stop sign."

You lift your free hand, covering your nose self consciously. "It's fine."

John sighs, the long, put-upon sound of a man who knows he's about to do something dramatic. "I tried the reasonable approach," he mutters. "I really did."

You narrow your eyes. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he says, closing the space between you in three strides, "you brought this on yourself."

"John, don't..."

You don't even get to finish the sentence before he plucks the shovel straight out of your hands like you're a toddler holding a plastic toy, jams it point-first into the snowbank beside you, and then, before your brain can catch up, he bends, grips the back of your thighs, and hauls you over his shoulder.

You yelp, the world tipping upside down with a rush of blood to your head.

"John!" you squeal, muffled by his back. "Put me down!"

"Not a chance, sweetheart," he grunts, adjusting you like you weigh nothing. One arm hooks around the back of your knees, the other bracing your waist. "You had your shot. Now it's my turn."

You smack at his back with your gloved hands. "I am an independent adult!"

"Uh-huh." He starts marching toward the house, boots crunching over the snow. "An independent adult with no hat, no scarf, and a death wish."

The wind hits your exposed legs and you hiss. "It's not a death wish, it's called being productive!"

"It's called frostbite waiting to happen!"

"You're being dramatic," you grumble, though your voice wobbles a little because you are upside down and also very aware that the neighborhood can probably see this.

He snorts. "Says the woman shoveling like she's fighting the final boss of winter."

You squirm, trying to twist and see where you're going, but all you get is a view of the half cleared driveway and your shovel, abandoned and sticking out of the snow like a sad little flag of surrender.

"John, seriously," you protest. "I'm going to fall."

"I've got you," he says, and he says it so easily, so confidently, that something in your chest squeezes. "I'm not dropping you. Relax."

Your fingers curl in the back of his shirt at the solid warmth of him under your gloves. His shoulder digs into your stomach, but he keeps a hand splayed steady against your back, protective even while he's lecturing you.

"You do realize," you mutter, "this is completely unnecessary."

"You being out there alone for two hours is unnecessary," he shoots back. "This is a proportionate response."

"You kidnapped me from my own driveway."

"Correction, I rescued you from your terrible decision making."

"You are unbelievable."

"And you are stubborn." He huffs a breath, the sound vibrating through his back. "We're a fun pair."

He tromps up the steps, shouldering the front door open. Warmth spills out, along with the faint smell of coffee you'd left on the counter. He steps inside and uses his heel to kick the door shut behind him.

The sudden change in temperature makes you shiver. You hadn't realized how cold you really were until now.

"See?" he says, like he can feel it. "Freezing. I knew it."

"I am not freezing," you argue weakly, even as your body goes from numb to pins and needles in seconds.

"You're arguing while upside down," he says. "That's how I know you're lying."

"You started this!"

He chuckles, finally slowing. "Sit tight. We're almost there."

"Where is 'there' exactly?" you demand.

"Couch. Blankets. Possibly a lecture," he says. "We'll see how cooperative you are."

He bends and, with surprising gentleness, lowers you until your feet find the floor. Your knees wobble, the room tilting for a second after hanging upside down. You grab his forearms to steady yourself, fingers clutching at warm muscle, and he catches you around the waist automatically.

You're suddenly very close. His cheeks are pink from the cold, a few snowflakes melting in his hair. His eyes sweep over your face, checking you, like he's cataloguing each little detail, the red tip of your nose, the flushed skin, the way your hands are shaking slightly where they rest on him.

"Hey," he says softly, the irritation blunted now by concern. "You okay?"

You swallow. "Yeah. Just… dizzy."

"That's what happens when you play shovel warrior for two hours," he says, but it comes out quieter, his thumb brushing absentmindedly along your side where his hand rests. "Come on."

He steers you toward the living room, one arm secure around your shoulders. You let him guide you, mostly because your legs are still protesting and partially because his body heat feels really, really good.

"Sit," he orders, nudging you down onto the couch.

You drop onto the cushions with a sigh, the couch swallowing you. John snags the throw blanket from the back and shakes it out, the fabric fluttering over you in a warm cloud before he tucks it around your shoulders like he's wrapping a burrito.

You wiggle your hands free. "I can do that myself, you know."

"Yeah," he says, stepping back to look you over with his hands on his hips. "I know you can. That's half the problem."

You blink. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He lets out another long breath, the last of his irritation settling into something more like exasperated affection. "It means you're so used to doing everything yourself, you don't even think to ask me."

You pull the blanket tighter around you, suddenly a little defensive. "I didn't want to wake you up. You were actually sleeping for once. I can handle snow."

"I know you can handle it," he says. "You can handle just about anything. Doesn't mean you have to."

You look away, picking at the edge of the blanket. "I'm not… used to asking people for help."

"Yeah." His voice softens, like he gets it. Like he's seen it a hundred times already. "I've noticed."

You shrug one shoulder. "I don't want to be a burden."

John's quiet for a beat. When you finally meet his eyes again, there's no annoyance there, just something steady and warm.

"Hey," he says, and you hate how much you like the way he says that, like it's a subtle way of saying hey, look at me. "You're my girlfriend. You're not a burden. You're… my responsibility."

Your brows shoot up. "Oh, I'm your responsibility now?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Yeah. In the sense that I am absolutely responsible for making sure you don't do dumb things like reenacting a polar expedition at dawn."

You snort. "It was hardly a polar expedition."

"You were one frostbite away from starring in a cautionary tale," he insists. Then his expression turns more sincere. "Let me help, okay? That's what I'm here for."

You shift under his gaze, suddenly feeling a little raw in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. "I'm trying," you admit quietly. "It's just… new."

He nods, like he understands that more than you said. "We'll take it slow. Step one, when it's aggressively snowing..." he gives you a pointed look "you wake me up. Deal?"

You chew your lip, considering. "And what if I wake you up and you're grumpy?"

"I'm already grumpy," he deadpans. "Might as well put it to good use."

You snort, the sound turning into a reluctant laugh. "Fine. Deal."

He grins, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. "Good. Now, I'm gonna make you some hot chocolate so your insides remember what warmth feels like."

"I can make my own..."

His eyes narrow.

You catch yourself. "I… can sit here and… let you make it."

"There you go," he says, satisfied. "Character development."

You roll your eyes but sink back into the cushions anyway, blanket cocooned around you. As he turns toward the kitchen, you hear him muttering under his breath about you being "a menace" and "too stubborn for your own good," but his tone is fond.

You close your eyes for a second, letting the heat seep into your fingers. The house is quiet except for the low rumble of John in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the clink of mugs. The contrast to the howling wind outside makes the living room feel extra cozy.

A moment later he's back, juggling two steaming mugs. He sets one on the coffee table and hands you the other, careful to angle the handle toward you.

"Careful," he warns. "It's hot."

You take it, your gloved fingers fumbling. He clicks his tongue and gently tugs the gloves off one hand, then the other, stuffing them into his pocket.

"Hands," he says. "You can't warm up with snow gloves on."

"You're very bossy today," you murmur, curling your bare fingers around the mug. The warmth sinks in immediately, making you sigh.

"I'm bossy every day," he points out, dropping down onto the couch next to you. The seat dips, your shoulder brushing his. "You just usually argue harder."

"I'm conserving energy," you say. "I was out there battling nature."

He gives you a side eye. "I know. I watched you for a full minute before I came out. You looked like you were about to declare war on the driveway."

You puff a laugh, taking a careful sip. It's rich and warm and way too sweet, and you know he added extra marshmallows just because he knows you like it that way.

"You know," you say after a moment, staring into your mug, "you could've just… taken the shovel and helped."

"I was going to," he says. "Then you said you weren't done yet in that tone."

"What tone?" you ask, offended.

He mimics you in a high, dramatic voice. "'I'm not finished yet.'"

You gape. "That is not what I sound like."

"That is exactly what you sound like when you're about to push yourself too far," he counters. "And I knew if I just took the shovel, you'd try to wrestle it back."

You open your mouth, then close it. "…Okay, yeah, maybe."

"So," he says, smug, "over the shoulder was the safest option for both of us."

You stare at him. "Safest?"

"Yeah. That way you couldn't slip on the ice, and I got to be the hero," he says, grin widening. "Win-win."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "You just wanted an excuse to show off."

"I don't need an excuse to show off," he replies instantly. "But I do appreciate one when it presents itself."

You elbow his side, earning a soft oof. "You're insufferable."

"You love me."

You make a face, but your heart does a little flip anyway. "…Unfortunately."

He chuckles, draping an arm along the back of the couch behind you. After a second, you lean into him, letting your shoulder press against his chest. He immediately takes advantage, tugging you closer until you're tucked against his side, blanket spread over both of you now.

"You know," he says quietly, lips brushing your hair, "you don't have to prove anything to me."

"I wasn't," you argue automatically, even as the words land a little too true.

He hums, not calling you out, just… there. Solid. Warm. Gentle in a way that constantly surprises you, considering how tough he can be with the rest of the world.

"I like that you're independent," he adds. "I love that you can handle yourself. Just… let me handle some things too, yeah?"

You play with the edge of the blanket, thinking. Letting someone else handle things, handle you, still feels weird. Vulnerable. But the way he'd marched out into the snow without even a coat, just because you weren't in bed where he left you, makes something tender unfurl in your chest.

"Okay," you say softly. "I'll… try. No promises."

He smiles against your hair. "I'll take 'try.' And next time you wanna shovel, you wake me up and we'll do it together. Or, wild idea, we wait until it stops snowing."

You sniff. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Fun?" He pulls back to look at you. "You and I have very different definitions of fun."

You tilt your head, lips quirking. "You didn't have fun carrying me inside?"

His eyes spark with mischief. "Oh, I had fun with that part, for sure."

You swat at him, laughing. He catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his lips, his gaze softening.

"Seriously, though," he says, a little quieter, a little more serious. "Next time… don't make me come out and fish you out of a snowdrift, okay?"

You feel your cheeks warm, and it has nothing to do with the hot chocolate. "Next time," you promise, "I'll wake you up. You can be my very grumpy snowplow."

He grins. "That's all I ask."

You take another sip of hot chocolate, then nestle back into his side, listening to the wind howl uselessly against the windows. Outside, the driveway is being swallowed by snow again, but you find you don't really care.

For once, it's not your job to fix it. Not alone, anyway.

You've got your own overprotective, infuriating, wonderful human snowplow for that.