#tw mcd

Steve turns, about to leave when his eyes catch a singular door at the end of the backroom. Steve walks towards it, and opens the door gingerly. It’s a small office with no windows, papers are strewn around and boxes slashed open.

In the corner of the room, up above a filing cabinet is a pot of orchids. It’s sitting on a small pot, barely clinging to life but there’s flowers to it. There’s only two branches, the rest of them faded into wilted brown. The petals are blue-ish at the bottom, and darker purple at the ends. Steve reaches over for it, and stares at it in fascination.

“Well, you’re coming with me.”

Steve takes a five dollar bill from his pocket and leaves it at the table. Because yes— he has looted so much in the last few weeks— for guns, for food, for clothing— but this is the one thing Steve wanted to pay for.

—

The grave is hidden. They hid it for a reason. Dustin was adamant it’s someplace that couldn’t be found by people, but the people of Hawkins are two things: close-minded and relentless and somehow, they still found it.

Steve stares at the red paint— blood— whatever it is they used to write atrocious things at Eddie’s headstone this time. Steve doesn’t speak, just falls to his knees and starts scrubbing. Joyce taught him how to clean her fridge years ago when they put the dead demodog in her fridge and Steve is still using that technique to this day.

He scrubs as hard as he can until the water in the bucket is tinted brown and dirt. He tries not to think of the fact that it’s the same color when he was washing his hands after that night, after he didn’t let them leave Eddie’s body in the upside down.

When he finishes, Steve stands up and dusts his jeans off. His knees creaks and his back ache.

Steve never says anything. When he visits Eddie, he starts scrubbing whatever is written in the stone, he stares and then he goes home. Always unable to say anything. Like if he acknowledged it and the grave doesn’t speak back, Steve will finally realize that Eddie truly is gone.

He stares at the pot of orchids he bought. They’re bright in contrast to the headstone and plot. Before he can think twice, Steve crouches down, snapping one of the two stems and putting the stem just below the headstone. He takes the pot back and stares at the headstone once again.

Steve takes a deep breath. He knows he needs to go home soon. Robin would wake up and panic if she realizes he’s not home. His arms clutch on the pot on his hands.

When he finally speaks, his voice is scratchy and unsure.

“You were gone so fast.” Steve says, to no one in particular. It bounces off the trees and fades into the quiet of the night.

There’s a vest hanging on the back of his door, a ring on his night stand, a newly stolen tape of Metallica in his walkman. Robin notices things, but has never said anything. Just holds on to him tighter and gives him a sad smile.

Steve knows he’s never said it out loud. Never even let himself think of it too much. But tomorrow, Steve might die. He doesn’t know where anyone goes after death, he doesn’t even know if he believes in heaven. But if somehow, it’s someplace he never gets to talk to people again, Steve doesn’t want things left unsaid. He doesn’t wanna go with words lodged in his throat.

“You were here one moment then you were gone so— so fast, Munson.” Steve repeats, his voice cracking as he feels the lump grow on his throat.

Steve thinks of him. Thinks of Eddie. Thinks of the bright, brown eyes, the long, messy hair, thinks of the dimpled smile.

He thinks specifically of that one moment after they went to War Zone, and Nancy and Eddie switched seats. Eddie talks about the kids, and high school, and how he was so wrong. Steve remembers the afternoon sunlight, bathing Eddie into a hue of orange in a way that made Steve’s stomach twist and curl, his hair fluttering against the wind as he says, “You’re okay, Harrington.”

Steve stares at the unmoving, lifeless headstone and speaks the truth into the world.

“I haven’t even loved you yet.”

Steve tries to say more, knows there’s more things pressing on his chest. But nothing else comes out, because what else can you say? What else can you do when the person you’re talking to is six inches into the ground?

So Steve backs away, goes home and fights some monsters. Somehow, he survives. He lives his life. Day by day, but living.

And everyday since that night, Steve waters the singular pot of orchid sitting in his and Robin’s kitchen window sill. Steve talks to it, waters it, cares for it. It survives for another five years.

Dustin never says anything, but knows it’s been Steve.

There’s always one singular stem of orchid in Eddie’s grave.

he could acknowledge he wasn’t as close as say laswell may have been, but he knew that price’s wife was not common knowledge around the base either.

he’d pieced it together over the years on missions; catching the odd comment shared over coms; the glint of a ring around his neck; the odd teased mention of her when they sat in the rec room after barely scraping through a tough spot, when price needed the company as well as the silence ghost offered before returning to the real world.

it was how simon knew the sergeants were staying when price let slip about her one day. because he doesn’t let anything slip, wouldn’t, especially about her.

“got anyone at home waiting for you, sir?” gaz asked as he sighed impatiently over the coms, hour three of silently waiting and watching had finally gotten to him.

“i do,” price said simply, not offering any further information. ghost could imagine the amusement tugging at his daft facial hair as price refused to continue without prompting and simon smiled under his mask when he heard johnny scoff next to him before chiming in.

“c’mon sir, give us a wee bit more’n that,” he weedled. “when’d ya meet? is she nice?”

john hummed, the sound low and crackly over the radio in their ears. “met when i moved.”

“oh, a real meet-cute type thing, eh?” gaz teased.

john ignored him. “wouldn’t say she’s nice, soap. she’s more than that. ‘nice’ is your aunt’s new wallpaper; you have permission to shoot me point blank if i start calling her nice.”

“what is she then?” ghost piped up. this was the chattiest john had ever been on the subject and he was going to take advantage.

john went silent for long enough that the three men thought that was it, the end to their sharing session and knowing more about their captain outside of work. simon chewed the inside of his cheek.

“she’s devoted,” john whispered finally before his voice firmed. “heads up, team, movement 2 o’clock. anyone got eyes on the target?”

—

it was months later when she was brought up again, the team thinking. nothing of it until price’s phone pinged in his pocket enough times to pique johnny’s interest as they prepped to leave.

“that the wife, sir?” he asked.

john huffed, didn’t bother checking his phone as he turned and shook his head. “she’s clingy, but she doesn’t bother me when i’m at work.”

“how’d you know?” gaz asked. “could be an emergency.”

“‘n’ how’d you get her to agree tae tha’?” soap followed up quickly, having had issues with his own flings petering out when he was distant and slow to reply.

“been with her long enough now it’s routine,” john said simply. he checked his weapons before heading for the exit. “helo in 5, be air ready.”

—

the mission had gone to shit, and they were stuck hidden in a building that looked like it was 10 seconds away from collapsing under a brisk wind when ghost finally felt his patience snap.

it was no one’s fault, but being stuck in another country with no back up and a target on their backs for an extra three weeks wasn’t ideal and johnny’s insistence on playing cards at every opportunity to keep his idle hands and mind busy combined with gaz’s tinny whistling had made for the perfect scenario to grate on simon’s patience quicker than anything else ever had.

“tell us about her. ya wife,” simon asked, his gaze slipping across to john, watching him pick at his nails. his cuticles were red and raw from four days of agitated fidgeting since they’d ran out of cigars and cigarettes. every so often simon caught him pat his empty pocket before he’d remember and huff heavily through his nose like a bull.

john closed his eyes at the mention of his wife and sighed. he started his description without protest or hesitance. “shes soft spoken. christ, you’d hardly know she was there half the time, she’s so quiet. but she’s firm. stands her ground no matter what,” he chuckled. “don’t think i’ve ever won an argument against her.”

kyle laughed and ghost closed his own eyes, trying to picture what he thought the captain’s wife might look like. pretty certainly, but was she tall, plump, did she have an endearing gap between her front teeth, did she keep her hair short or long?

“she’s a bit of a homebody,” john admitted bashfully, unaware of simon’s drifting thoughts. “but i can’t say i mind it.”

“not wanting to leave the bedroom much when yer back?” johnny joked, hissing when ghost punched his thigh.

john just smiled placidly, eyes still closed. his eyebrows pulled down as he gushed, “god she’s gorgeous in red. wears it every time i come home.”

“lucky bastard,” gaz huffed.

“yeah.” john nodded and finally opened his eyes. “yeah, lucky.”

“you’ll be back with her soon, cap,” gaz reassured him when he saw price swallow thickly.

“thanks, gaz. now who’s taking first watch tonight? soap?”

—

john was quiet on the plane ride home, not unusually so, but ghost noticed the difference all the same.

he was pensive perhaps, worried what his wife would say when he finally got home a month later than scheduled, uncontactable the entire time. ghost could understand to a certain degree that john would have more important things on his mind than what his three subordinates were going to do as soon as they stepped foot on home soil, so he didn’t push when john ignored the few threads of conversation thrown his way by their younger sergeants. instead he nodded when john said a quick goodbye as they all parted ways in the airport.

simon could only assume john was the same all the way home in the cab that dropped him outside of his little three bed house.

he didn’t see however how john hesitated at the door to his home that evening. how he gripped the front door keys tightly in his fist, shook as he stared down at his feet instead of letting his eyes drift and catch on the windows, and felt as though he could crack a tooth from how hard he was clenching his teeth.

he finally opened the door when he thought the neighbours might begin to get worried and stepped inside, flicking on the lights as he went.

it wasn’t until he got to the kitchen that he found her.

stood bare foot, silent, eyes wide and pleading, blood seeping - always seeping. would it ever stop? would the blood ever end? - through her white pyjama top, his top that she’d borrowed for the night, and trickling down her bare legs.

her mouth opened and she visibly struggled for breath, but no sound escaped even as her tongue wagged on the floor of her mouth, lapping at the backs of her teeth as all words escaped her.

he swallowed back bile.

“hello, sweetheart,” he choked out. “sorry i’m late.”

the blood pooled at her feet, the panties she wore were seeped a dark purple from the viscus liquid dying the dark blue material and the shirt stuck to her front. john had remembered loving seeing her like this in a morning, had always thought she looked best in as little clothing as possible.

“i know you hate it when work keeps me busy, but it was unexpected. we were caught—“ a high screech, not dissimilar to that of a whistle that only a dog could hear, pierced through his ears and cut his words short. he curled in and covered his ears, but he knew it would do no good, he should’ve known better than to talk about work around her.

not after what had happened last time he got back late after overtime.

tears prickle at his eyes and the sound abruptly stopped. he’d never questioned why it seemed to be only him that could hear her protests, why his neighbours never mentioned a shrill cry every so often from his home. he had always said she was made for him and that had apparently translated literally into the afterlife.

he looked up at her again - it was best not to ignore her he found. it only made her angry.

“it won’t happen again,” he promised wetly. “i did my best to get back as soon as i could, i promise, sweetheart—“ he choked on his words, biting back a sob. she watched unblinkingly, silent except for the wet squelch of her feet on the laminate.

they both knew he wasn’t apologising for being late this time. he got like this sometimes, when her agonised face and mangled body was too much to bear after a long mission and the guilt bore down like a physical presence.

he couldn’t help but think if he’d gotten home even just an hour earlier he might’ve been able to save her, to have kept her company instead of leaving her on the floor alone and cold, maybe he could have caught the bastards that had hurt her while he was still travelling back from deployment after agreeing to hang back and finish his paperwork there and then instead of emailing it across.

he reached a shaking hand forward and blew out a ragged breath when his hand met nothing but frigid air. but when he brought his hand up to his face he could smell the copper tang of his dead wife’s blood on his skin. the stench unwashable, cloying, but if he concentrated hard enough it ever so faintly smelt like the vanilla perfume she used to wear.

“was telling the lads about you, love,” he forced an empty chuckle as he walked around her to the kettle and went through their usual routine. “think they might’ve fallen a little in love, not that i could blame them.”

he ran a hand over his face and gave himself a moment to let the tears fall as his palm hid his eyes. her silence was the worst part of it all, but he could see the glaring red of her in his peripheral when he dropped his hand to the counter.

it wasn’t pretending his wife was still alive if she was right there at his shoulder, was it?

“looks like i’ll need to grab you some more pg tips, sweetheart,” he said and poured the boiling water into two cups, sparing a glance over his shoulder at his wife. “we’re almost out.”