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Omggg YAAY congrats on your 1401 followers! It is well deserved 🩷 hope it’s okay for me to request a marriage pact with ghost from the event you’re hosting!!
SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // f!reader, friends to lovers, hidden feelings, marriage pact, simon yearns, kisses
"Do you think you'll be married when you're thirty?"
"Nah."
"Thirty five?"
"Do I look like a proper husband?"
"You do."
He gives you a light elbow in the ribs and you wince, rubbing the stop and sighing like he genuinely hurt you, and that makes the corner of his lips twitch slightly.
You know he won't hurt you. Ever. Being your elder brother's best friend, he sees you as a younger sister. Just take Tommy and put a skirt on him, that's who you are to him, a couple of years younger, always there, always asking questions, always stealing his cigarette when he's about to finish one.
But you see Simon as someone big. As someone stoic and strong, despite his slightly crooked nose and troubling relationship with teachers at school. You always look up on him. He never hurts those who didn't deserve it and always scares away this annoying asshole who keeps following you after school.
You are crushing. But he doesn't have to know.
"You think you'll still be a bachelor by thirty-five?"
"Bachelor." Simon repeats and shakes his head, not liking the word.
"Alright, single. You'll still be single by thirty-five? That sounds hard to believe."
"Ya believed in Santa once."
"As you did."
Simon snickers and nods. He sure did. Everyone did when they were younger.
"I feel like I will be single forever." You say, pulling your knees closer to your chest. Your room is on the first floor of the house, so sitting near the open window feels safe. And if your dad sniffs the smoke he'll kill you.
"Bollocks." Simon exhales smoke out in the air.
"I feel like I will, though. These days it's hard to find someone who is trusting enough and doesn't demand a castle and some gold in return."
You exaggerated. You tend to, when you're feeling romantic and when he's near, ready to listen and never to judge.
Never to judge. That's what makes him so reliable, so trustworthy and you can't help the next words that are coming out of your mouth.
"When I'm thirty-five and still single, would you marry me?"
Simon holds your gaze, the cigarette between his point and middle finger almost gone, the hood of his jumper sits near his brows, yet you see his light lashes that reminds you that he's blonde.
Not stereotypicaly Prince-Charming-Blonde, but Buzz-Cut-Blonde. And that makes him special.
"Why not." He looks away, shrugs and drops the cigarette butt in the mug with some tea on the bottom.
In the moment you feel like you've blown a candle on your birthday. Like you made a wish so dear, but so unlikely to happen.
***
He hasn't changed, and yet he's different.
His skin is still pail, but now he hides in with cargos, large hoodies and masks. He's still tall, but has grown since he last been in your hometown. His eyes are still this chestnut brown, but now they holds too many memories one can physically hold.
His palm was steady when he signed. The pen in his fingers barely moved when he planted his signature after you. And when the courthouse worker announced you as "husband and wife", he just nodded and looked at you with those eyes that read "Can we go home now?"
Home. Home now meant his house. Two-story, three bedrooms, large living room and a spacious backyard. A boy who shared a room with his brother now had all the space to himself. And, well, to you.
You hasn't unpacked you things yet, your mind refusing to imagine all the possible arrangements. It was your room, the one far away from Simon's, and even if it was nice and clean, you still thought it was wrong. Husband and wife sleeping in a separate bedrooms.
We were past the Victorian era, weren't we?
The light in his room was still on, and you peeked around the corner to find Simon sitting on this huge bed of his, shirtless, grey joggers on, drying wet hair with a towel. He catches your gaze and pauses and your heart flips.
You take a step around, already feeling the chills creeping up your spine under the fabric of your nightgown. It's black. His favorite color.
He lowers his hands onto his lap and you notice the same black circling his ring finger. Made out of plastic, cheaper, but sits strongly.
"I thought you wouldn't wear it." You say.
"Ya wear yours."
"I do." You nod, metal on your finger couldn't be more present. "But I thought you wouldn't... want to have something distracting you."
Simon frowns and you know he got it wrong. You try again, stepping even closer, and he doesn't flinch, doesn't stiffen.
"During the deployment. I thought married men don't wear rings on deployments because it distracts them and makes everything uncomfortable."
"The bloke's a piece of shit of he thinks havin' a wife's uncomfortable."
You're very close now. Just a mere reach and you'll be able to touch his face. Simon still looks you straight in the eye, not daring to take his gaze away. Too calm, too relaxed, too...
"Do I make you uncomfortable?" You step closer and now he has to raise his head not to bump his chin into your chest.
You feel his breathing now. You see his shoulders moving up and down as if he has just returned from a run. You notice a slight blush creeping up his neck to his ears, and you feel the tension tightening in your lower abdomen.
"No." He says, and that whisper rings out loudly than any sirens.
Simon pushes the towel to the floor and puts his palm on the back of your left leg, and you feel the touch and you obey. He nudges you closer and you climb on his lap, knees on either side of his hips, the muscles strong and solid under you.
He lifts his palm up, traveling from your thigh to your ass and finally settling down on your back. His palm is hot and big on your back and you exhale.
Simon doesn't look puzzled. Just like in the morning when you two were signing your marriage certificate, he is calm and steady, and it terrifies you for a split second before his other arm lifts up to your face, his palm cupping your cheek.
"Was just waitin' for ya to turn thirty-five."
And when he kisses you, slowly, wholy, you feel like you can breath again.
Simon Riley hates soft things— such a shame he’s grown so attached to one.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
Three rotations of the silver spoon in his hand, each marked with a soft sound. The sugar at the bottom of his cup dissolves, and with one last tink he brings the cup to his lips.
Sweet.
His eyes dart to the clock on the wall.
7:19 pm.
A breath enters his chest, exhaling his shoulders slump.
The counter behind him bites into his back, making him stand straight once again.
With another sip of his tea, his eyes find the clock again.
7:20 PM.
With his jaw a fraction tighter, he pushes off the counter. He leaves the kitchen only for his feet to be tangled in a blanket that’s too soft for skin worn as his.
He bends, his fingers tenderly wrapping around the fabric, placing it back onto the couch, when his eyes land on a soft stuffed animal a man like him would never allow in his home.
He turns. His gaze landing on the clock that seems to taunt him.
7:22 pm
Almost.
Not quite.
But almost.
He hated that word, meant too many things could slip between the cracks.
The blanket in his hand burns in his palm, he releases it only to smooth out the wrinkle he created.
He needs to do something, anything to get his mind off the clock.
Off of—
The fridge.
His sharp gaze settles on the white refrigerator stark against his dark countertops.
Within a step he’s pulling the door open, the cool air doing little to settle the unease in his stomach.
His want to look at the door.
His need to check the clock.
Nothing in the fridge looked useful, nothing edible.
The door slams hard enough to make the cans of your favorite drink rattle inside the door.
He almost flinches at the sound.
You.
His jaw clenched with another uncertainty, and this wasn’t over dinner, or the way his stomach seemed to knot and twist.
His eyes snapped to the clock.
7:38
Right before his mind could catch up with the instant new tightness in his shoulders or the ache in his jaw—
The door opens.
“God Simon, I am exhausted.”
He hears your lovely voice complain the instant you stumble through the door and the kitchen walls seem to fade, and the only thing he can see is you.
You’re already making your way to him, bags under your eyes and your clothes all disheveled from work.
You look as tired as you sound.
But to Simon, it’s the sight his tired eyes have been waiting to see.
He doesn’t speak, but the way his entire body relaxes as you find him in the kitchen seems to tell you enough.
Without words Simon crosses the room to meet you in the middle, his massive arms wrapping tight, steady bands around your waist. He doesn’t ask you about your day, he just holds you.
Like he’s reminding himself you’re really here.
Home.
Simon has spent years learning how to wait— but with you?
It felt impossible.
You melt into him as you always do, already feeling your drained battery slowly recharge.
Everyday you do this, come home and sink into the safety of his arms and chest.
Even when you’re running a tad late.
And Simon?
Simon completely curls to meet your shorter frame, his face, bare of any mask nuzzles into the curve of your neck and shoulder, taking a long steady breath.
Seems he’s recharging too.
“V’missed you luvie.”
He murmurs against you, you lean your head into him, happy to stand in the kitchen held by the scariest, most beautiful man you know.
“Missed you too, Si.”
You mumble right back.
And still the clock that taunted him only seconds ago ticks away, but Simon could care less of how quickly the hands move.
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The most surprising bond your long time boyfriend, Simon Riley would have, would not be with a soldier, but with your evil cat.
Your cat was a one-person cat. She hated people, except for you. Many have tried charming your stone-hearted princess, none have succeeded.
Until Simon. Sort of.
He’d never make you choose between him and your cat, but would appreciate if she stopped yowling and swatting at him just for walking in her general direction.
When you move in together, he can’t even do things in his own home without being criticized.
“Why’re mad?”
“Meow.”
“I’m putting this away.”
“Meow.”
“I live here too, you know.”
“Hissss.”
“You’re right. You’re always right.”
For someone who allegedly hates him, your cat follows Simon around everywhere, with her tail straight up in the air, too.
And she’ll complain about her own proximity to her spare human your boyfriend every chance she gets.
You’d be mindlessly staring at Man Uni and the cat would voluntarily lay on Simon’s half-asleep form. Then yowl.
“…The fuck I’d do to you?”
And she’d refuse to move.
“Get off. I don’t want you on me.”
“She’s comfy!”
“You just want to yell at me, don’t you, y’ little—“
Swat.
Simon’s wide eyed at her audacity.
Nevertheless, Simon accepts defeat, and sinks further into the couch.
“I’m sick o’ your shit, Ganondorf.”
“Meow.”
Nevertheless, it’s obvious Simon adores the cat. He senses a kindred spirit. Yeah, he knows, he tells her as he scratches her behind her neck. She allows him. He doesn’t quite like people either. Well, besides your mum, of course. He talks to your cat like she’s a grown adult person.
“Why’re mad now?”
“Meow.”
“Your mum’s in the bath. You can wait five more minutes with me, yeah?”
The delicious smell of peach cobbler greets Simon as he entered your shared home. He takes a moment to savor the smell before slipping off his boots, putting them in their rightful place right next to your tennis shoes. Hanging his keys on the hook right next to yours, he slowly lets out of breath he didn't know he was holding in all day. Simon was just grateful the day was over and he got to be home with you and his favorite peach cobbler you had promised to make him all week.
He can hear you in the next room, the laundry room, humming some tune while most likely folding clothes fresh out of the dryer. He gently smiles to himself as he starts walking through the dining room to get to the kitchen so he can check on the dessert he's been craving all week.
He stops in his tracks when he sees it sitting on the dining room table. Brand new Kate Spade tote bag. Simon feels a chill run down his spine and his stomach start to twist, "Love? Can ya come 'ere?"
You softly pad your feet through the house, follwing his voice to find him in the dining room, looking like he saw a ghost (hehe did u see what i did there). "Baby! You're home, i missed yo-"
"wot is this love?", he asked pointing at the bag on the table.
"Oh! It's my new work bag, I've been wanting one and I went to the outlets today with some of the girls. It was on clearance too, it was a really good deal!" You told him excitedly, picking up the bag to show it off.
It took you a second to noticfe his face, "what's wrong simon?" immediately dropping your excitedness and dropping your arms with the bag in it.
He lightly shakes his head, leaning one arm on one of the dining chairs, "no, nothin' "
"Simon you're pouting."
"no i'm not"
a mischevious smile grows on your face, moving closer to simon and poking his stomach, "you totally are si."
He sighs rolling his eyes, "you're my woman, I could hav' bought you tha' " slowing wrapping his arms around your waist tugging you closer to him.
you giggle, "si I am a grown woman, I can take care of my self you know that. If there's something I want I can buy it for my self."
simon drops his head to rest on your shoulder, your hands coming up to run through his hair.
"I know tha' just like takin' care of you" he mumbles into your shoulder.
You process his words, they make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. A smile grows on your face and you turn your head to place a kiss on simon's temple.
Girlie! Hi!! The frank langdon obsession…continues. I had a thought on my hot girl walk for a potential mood board- what if the Pitt crew is out to drinks after work. There’s some mutual pining between you and Langdon, but nothing established yet. Some guy at the bar is hitting on you, but you’re not interested - he sends a drink to your table or something.
Thinking Langdon gets either huffy/jealous OR he puts his arm around you to “help you out” and pretend you’re together.
Feels very romcom coded 🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️ thoughts?!?
"That guy's been making eyes at you all night," Cassie murmurs, leaning in as her gaze darts towards the bar.
"Not my type." You hardly glance up, but you don't have to. Your type is sitting right next to you, nursing a beer and chatting to Ellis. His thigh is pressed against yours, and you can't tell if the contact or the alcohol is making you feel dizzy.
Unfortunately, the glance seems to be enough for the man across the room, and he gets up. "Shit," you curse.
"Everything okay?" Frank's attention is back on you, notch between his brow.
"That guy over there is coming over to hit on her," Cassie interjects helpfully, and you've never wanted the ground to swallow you whole more.
You're expecting Frank to crack a joke, or maybe encourage the flirting, but instead his voice drops to a whisper. "Want me to get rid of him?"
Not trusting your voice to hold up, you nod. Almost immediately, an arm is slung around your shoulder, and any gap between you both is closed.
"Drop your face into my neck, and laugh like I said something funny," He instructs.
The laugh comes easy - this entire situation is absurd. But you do what he says anyway, freezing entirely when you feel his lips skim at your hairline. His fingers are warm against your bare skin, and it's definitely not the alcohol anymore.
When you finally tilt your chin up, meeting his gaze, the world slows to a complete halt. His eyes flick down to your lips for the briefest second, before he swallows.
"Uh, guys?" Cassie's voice breaks you out of your haze. "Dude's gone. You can stop looking like you want to eat each other alive."
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I wanted to thank you all for all the love on my Brendon park fan fic! I truly was not expecting so much interest in it. Part 2 will be coming at some point in time, my days have been super insane with my internship. I’m hoping to sit down this weekend and write it but no promises LOL.
Anyways sending peace and love your way, thanks again for all the love
Simon Riley x the Loudest, most Chalant woman possible.
She talks loud and laughs even louder. She beams at things she likes on the streets, compliments strangers freely, wears all her favorite colors, tries to pet just about every dog or cat that crosses her path, is one of the first on the dance floor when her favorite song comes on, and cries at things as silly as sad TikTok edits. She fills rooms without trying.
And Simon Riley. The definition of an unremarkable man outside his uniform (if you’re not counting the scars from his service). He wears jeans and a blank shirt everyday. He likes what men usually like— a few pints, Manchester United, good weather, the nice burn of a good work out— at a normal volume. He has just about two or three sentences to say about anything, maybe four if he’s really passionate.
He thinks that people don’t really get it. Your family and friends. He’s sure they think him a bore, doesn’t know why you insist he’s the best man for you. He thinks that maybe it would be the same if people who know him met you too. Would say that someone that burns so brightly, sings so loudly would grate on Simon.
Johnny gets it. Simon asks him over to help him move your stuff and his to a bigger apartment (says he’s not having you help him carry the sofa up two flights of stairs). He watches you fall into step next to Simon after. Hears Simon say something to you that Johnny can’t remember and you’re cackling like a loon, bent at the waist and holding onto Simon’s arm for support. And Simon’s mouth ticks up into something smug and happy before he says something else that has you off again.
Johnny thinks there might be nobody better in the world for each other.
→ [rated: f], fluff. sweet boyfriend brendon park x female reader.
summary: sweet brendon is there to take care of anything you need.
content warning: no warnings ! just brendon being the sweetest boyfriend ever !
word count: 0.4k.
author's notes: this came to me when i had an emergency with my kitchen sink last week and i just had to write it ! sweet!boyfriend!brendon you're so special to me 😭😭
you've been going out with brendon for a few months now, so it isn't really weird that he has a key to your apartment.
and brendon's a great boyfriend, so it's even less weird when he uses said key to surprise you on a saturday morning, with breakfast from your favorite bakery.
only he was not expecting to find you already up so early, much less did he expect to find you underneath your kitchen sink, tools scattered all around the floors.
he puts the bakery bags down on the table and then he's on his knees beside your body. “what are you doing?” he asks.
“my sink was leaking,” you answer mindlessly.
“i can see that,” he says. “i could've fixed that for you,”
“no, baby, seriously, i got it,” you say, peeking at him from underneath the sink.
“why didn’t you tell me it needed fixing?” brendon asks, and if you’d look up from the pipe that was currently giving you hell, you’d see him pouting. that absolute mountain of a man was pouting.
“because i can do it myself,” you answer.
“nope,” brendon shakes his head. next thing you know, you're being pulled from under the sink by your legs. “i know you don’t like asking for help with anything but you just gotta let me be your man, y’know that,” he says.
“brendon!” you yelp, giggling.
“hi baby,” he says, smiling down at you. brendon looms over your body, “now, why don't you get up, go take a nice and warm shower while i finish up this sink, huh?”
“bren, i said i got it—”
“i know you do, baby. i just want to finish it for you, okay?”
“why? ‘cause i'm a woman?” you ask, crossing your arms defiantly, even though you don't look at all that defiant laying down on the middle of the kitchen floor.
“no. cause you're my woman and i want to take care of you. can i?” he says, stretching out his arm to help you up.
when you're standing face to face — not so much, as brendon is quite a lot inches taller than you —, his smile softens and he kisses your sweaty forehead.
“you're the most smart and capable woman i know. and i love you because of that. you're brains and competency turns me on so much.” he mumbles. “you've got me now. i'm your man. i'll take care of everything for you— because you deserve to be taken care of, baby. you've been the one doing the caring for so long. let me do this now, yeah? let me spoil you rotten and take care of you like you deserve it.” he playfully gives your ass a little pat. “go take a shower, yeah? i brought breakfast and i want to watch a new show with you. been saving it for weeks now.”
synopsisyou and john have always been cut from the same cloth, close in the way only you two could be working in the ER. but what john doesn't know- your deep love for him- can't hurt him. only you. but if you have to hear him love a girl that isn't you one more time, your heart might not make it.
warningsheavy angst, language, sex allusions
authornotei've been binge watching ER, I'm obsessed, my god its so good and of course, I love John Carter. i don't know if anyone else will care but i have to write for this man
“John! Oh John!”
John. Oh John. It was a mantra prayed upon next door to your room. It was religious, almost every other night the calling for his name.
It was damn right sinful.
When John had invited you to move in with him almost six months ago you thought all your problems were solved. You would no longer lose rent on a stuffy apartment you didn't even like, being kept up by frat parties that seemed to run all night. You'd share with Carter, be able to study together as you had since starting as med students together, be able to help each other out and share the rent.
“Oh my god, John!”
You hadn't thought about the noise. The moaning, the thudding of beds, the awkward greeting of the new girl of the week in the mornings where all you wanted to do was drink coffee and get ready for the day in peace.
Your bed was next to Carters, a wall separating the two of you.
This girl was blonde, slim, not from the hospital from what you could tell. They'd stumbled in at eleven and you'd heard him jingle at the door so you hid yourself away, running from the living room you paid rent for to offer them privacy and peace that they never offered you.
“John...” the girl had whined, you imagined her hands crawling up his chest, peeling off his coat and scarf, dragging her lips over his neck.
“Wait, wait, wait-” you heard John, probably making sure the coast was clear before he took her on the sofa. The sofa you'd paid for! He'd called your name, checking where you were. Gathering you'd hidden yourself away he carried on.
It wasn't the first night the sound of fucking next door had kept you up, in fact you'd lost count of the many of women John preferred to you. Slowly your patience was failing. Sleep as an intern in the ER was precious- like a gem stone. You shouldn't have been losing it in your own apartment.
You heard the mumble of medical procedures and thought you were in a nightmare.
“John, what are you doing?” the girl asked.
You knew what he was doing. To make himself last and drag on the night he thought about medical notes, the books you studied piled on the coffee table.
“Making it last,” you heard him say.
You wished he wouldn't.
When the low moaning started again you couldn't take it.
It was somewhere past four but you'd never known Mark Greene to turn away help.
“What are you doing here? You're not on till seven,” said Carol as you threw on your doctors coat, swinging on the stethoscope.
Outside it was dark, starting to rain and you'd drank two coffees on the way in. You weren't feeling awake but the hustle of the ER and the calls of trauma were better to hear than the moaning and slams of bed.
“Couldn't sleep, thought I'd get in early, early bird catches the.... something,” you said, eyeing the board. Abdominal pains, sores, vision blurs, the usual. There were plenty not taken up with a doctor.
“Couldn't sleep huh?” Carol asked, as familiar with the drill as you were.
“Nop.”
“And what was her name this time?”
“I didn't catch it.”
You didn't know if it was a head nurse thing or just a Hathaway thing but Carol had caught the feelings you had for John maybe even before you had.
She'd watch the two of you come in as fresh faced med students aiming for two different things. The two of you worked well on cases. You learnt how to take a more direct approach through Carters determination in surgery and John learnt to take closer care with his patients with your attentiveness in a pedes rotation.
“God, men are pigs,” said Carol.
“What have I done now?” asked Ross as he passed, leaving and picking up a chart. “You're in early,” he observed.
“I'm dedicated.”
“Wanna check out a cough in five?”
“I'll be there.”
You didn't need to stare to see Carol and Doug share a look. As you'd taken an interest in pedes work in the ER you'd been brought under Dough Ross's rather large wings. And if you were around Ross by proximity you were around Carol. And if you were around them Carter wasn't far.
It was a chain of terrible love stories.
“Eventually you'll get written up for overtime,” said Carol.
“A hospital that hates over-achievers, damn.”
“You should just talk to him.”
You turn to her, leaning on the counter. “And tell him what? I hate him having sex?”
“Well if he could be a little quieter,” she suggested.
“It's not him, it's the women.”
Carol was silent as you distracted yourself with the charts. You knew what she would say next, you knew what you would say after that and it would continue as it had for months. “You should tell him how you-”
“-no.”
“What's the worst that could happen?”
“He says he doesn't feel the same way, tells everyone, I'm left embarrassed, I lose my apartment, need I go on?”
Her eyes rolled. “No I get it.”
“Hey!” Ross called out. “Cough! Five! Let's go!”
You followed him on and used what you'd come to the Er to get: distractions. You followed Ross around from patient to patient, got called in on a trauma and even had time to change the the filters in the coffee machine before you were faced with John.
He was bright eyed, smiling with his dimples. Heck, you were even convinced his eyes lit up seeing you, with your coat hanging off, hair already falling out of its hold and he'd just left some blonde babe. Maybe she'd dropped him off at the hospital and he'd beg a lift back with you. Or he'd told her to let herself out the apartment.
Carter had no right to look at you like that.
“Hey,” he smiled. “You get in early? I thought you started at seven with me?”
“Oh yeah... I was paged in early.”
“Trauma?”
“Cough.”
He laughed. “You were paged in for a cough.”
“I know can you believe it,” you had tried to make it sarcastic, wanted it to seem like a passing comment but your lips didn't move into a smile and it fell weak into your stomach.
John leant next to you at the counter, tilting his body in a way to try to look at you. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn't I be?”
“Something's up, what?”
Maybe it was how close you’d worked, going from students to interns. Or it was your living together which made you both understand each other with small looks.
Clearly you didn’t know each other well enough, otherwise he’d note the bags under your eyes or the way your body didn’t lean into his like you used to.
John jutted his hip against yours with a chuckle. “Talk to me, c’mon.”
“I just didn’t get much sleep last night.” You admitted.
How stupid could men be?
John didn’t even catch on to what you were laying down. “How about we do something tonight? Catch a movie? Get some dinner?”
You and John used to do that sort of thing often. When you'd first moved in together it was all watching films with take out, taking it in turns to order your favourites. You could hardly recall what the films were about because the two of you spoke throughout them. It took a month then you knew everything there was to know about him.
But that was almost two years ago and things were different.
You were in love with him.
He had no idea.
Instead he had love for hours a night and that seemed to do him fine.
John was still waiting for an answer. “Dinner? Movie?”
You looked at him. Over his shoulder you spotted Carol, shaking her head. “Dinner sounds great.”
John's face broke out into a smile. “Yes!” he cheered. His lips pressed to your head quick, gone before you could get a feel of him.
“Carter!” Benton called.
Benton's ordering and bossing around of Carter had grated on his nerves for months but you'd never seen him smile so wide and all but skip to him.
Maybe things weren't being so bad.
“Why would you agree to go to dinner?” asked Carol.
Why would you? Because even if he wasn't your lover, he was still your friend. You'd take that. “Was I supposed to say no?”
“You're gonna hurt yourself,” she said.
But sadly you had hope, which was probably the only thing keeping you in the state you were in.
“It's just dinner with a friend,” you said, picking up a patients chart, any chart.
Carol clocked her head at you. “It's not though is it?”
“To him it is.”
John appeared at your side, hands bracing your arms as he leant over you. For a moment you panicked, imagining that he heard it all. His grin said different. “I'll book us Nona's, your favourite Italian, I'll get it for eight.”
He disappeared, rushing around the corner. You got a last look at his scrubs and gown.
When you turned back to Carol she'd gone too.
“And so I said to him, that's not his Appendix, that's his Kidney.”
Johns laughter bounced around the restaurant. As promised he’d booked your favourite Italian, a table in the window lit by a candle and golden lights around you.
There was an empty plate from a tiramisu you’d shared and several empty glasses of wine dotted around from the evening you’d shared, lipstick of your stained glasses you’d had.
John had entertained you all night, telling jokes, talking about work. His eyes had been lit up since you both sat down, talking animated and never letting a moment of quiet. He’d even dressed up, supporting a suit as if this was some kind of date.
With the lights down low and dragging your fingers over your glass of wine, you almost imagined it was.
The waiter came by and John waved him down.
“Another bottle of white,” he ordered, sharing the last dregs of the bottle between your two glasses.
“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re trying to get me drunk,” you joked.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he laughed. “I’ve missed you. It’s just nice that we get to do this, I didn’t see you at all yesterday. You were in bed when I got home.”
Home. Home with his date.
“We’ve been… busy,” you said.
Johns smile broke but only a fraction, some sort of disappointment floating by and marring his expression. “Yeah, I-I guess we have.”
There was a flicker of silence, the first sort there’d been in the night.
The wine was delivered.
“We should do this once a week,” suggested John, alight with the idea.
You laughed. “What, with our schedule?”
“Okay.” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Once a month, surely we can manage that, right? We’re capable people, capable doctors.”
There was more laughter, dulling the ache you’d been carrying.
At some point Johns hand had come down and touched yours.
You’d expected him to pay your hand friendly, move it away and make another crack at a joke.
His hand lingered. Stayed, his fingers stayed slowly moving against the back of your hand.
John watched as his fingers drew lazy circles over your skin. There was a smile playing on his lips.
You didn’t have it in you to move away. You chuckled lightly. “What are you doing?”
John looked at you, his other hand coming up to cup his chin as he rested there. “I’ve missed you.”
It was sincere, almost loving.
You laughed it away. “You’ve said that already.”
“What? A guy can’t say it again?”
“A guy can’t say but you…” you trailed off.
“I what?” asked John pointedly, tilting his head to get a better look of you.
It was almost cruel how unaware he was, or maybe acted he was. The thought that he knew your feelings that were oh so obvious to some and were using them against you made you feel sick.
You slipped your hand out of his and took a sip of your wine. “Nothing.”
“No, what?” he asked, nudging himself closer to the table. “What were you gonna say?”
You drained the glass of wine and picked up the bottle, pouring yourself more while John watched and waited. You laughed, doing your best to brush it off. “I dunno what I was gonna say, slipped by me.”
You could tell he didn't believe you. He seemed to like to chose when he wanted to believe you.
“I-” He'd just started to speak when his gaze drifted over your shoulder and widened at the door. “Oh god, don't turn around, don't look- don't look!”
Frowning you did just what he said not to do, wine still in hand.
Carter was busy slouching in his chair, trying to hide.
A girl walked in with two of her friends, peeling off their coats and handing them to the staff at the door. They were all large smiles and tanned skin, dresses that hugged perfectly and hands manicured. They were alight with life and not drowned in exhaustion like you.
You looked back to John and didn't even have to guess and why he was hiding from them. Your brows rose at him.
“I went to school with her,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. “She has a massive crush on me.”
“Does she?” at least you weren't the only fool to love him.
John nodded, the front of his hair moving as he did.
You looked again and as if she sensed you, the girl turned.
“No... no... no....” chanted John as she seemed to recognise him, even half swallowed by the table as he was trying to be.
“John Carter!” the girl greeted with her arms out and her wide smile.
John was polite in standing and hugging her.
You were polite in occupying yourself with the wine.
“Oh my god, look at you it's been so long!” she said, pulling away. Her hand smoothed the jacket of his suit. “God when I last saw you you were winning horses races on... oh, what was your horses name, again?”
“Marigold,” said John.
“Marigold, that's right!” she laughed, hand slapping at his bicep and lingering.
You snorted at the obvious affection she was laying on. At least (you hoped) you were slightly more incredulous.
They both looked to you.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt,” she apologised.
John went to speak but you spoke before he had the chance.
“You didn't, actually, join us if you like,” you invited.
John's face fell. “What?”
“Oh, I mean I'm here with friends but, hey, what's one drink between old friends?” she pulled up a chair effortlessly, setting it between you and Carter.
Carter himself lingered up on his feet, pulling his jacket close and slotting a button in. He looked at you, almost with some betrayed ideas in his eyes. He sat down, deflated but his old friend from school - Samantha- was already taking his wine glass and filling it. She was already talking about the first time she met John.
You didn't know why you'd decided to interrupt your own night with him. Just as you didn't know why John seemed to perturbed that you had.
Two days later he was at it again.
“John! Oh, John!”
You didn't even get a glance at this one, you had no idea who it was. The old friend from the restaurants or a friend of hers that had joined you later in the night. Maybe it was patient or a friend or family of patients. It could've even been the new intern that had started. You didn't know.
They were all blending into one.
“John! John! John!”
You'd tried putting on headphone from you walk man. You'd tried smothering yourself with your cushion. You'd tried every trick under the sun but it was as if the sounds of pleasure had buried itself in your bones. Even if you couldn't hear it, you knew it was there and it was enough in your bones to have you tossing and turning.
“H, stands for hemolysis, the- the break down of red blood cells-”
You threw your covers off. It was nearing three a.m. The ER could always use an extra pair of hands. That's what you told yourself as you pulled on clothes in the dark, desperate to get out the apartment before you crawl out of your skin.
Perhaps turning on the light would have been beneficial.
You pulled up your pants, jumping to do so but sliding on a lose sock. You fell, hurtling to the ground and trying to catch yourself on the desk had only resulted in banging your head on the side.
For a moment, lying in the dark of your room with a new ache in your head you thought maybe you were concussed because there was suddenly no noise. No nothing.
“John-”
“- wait, shh, shh-”
Nope, still there.
You finally got your pants on without any more injury and left your room.
There were to empty beer bottles at the kitchen counter. You noticed them as you pulled kitchen roll onto your head, pulling it back you pulled open the fridge to check in the light. A little blood.
All the more reason to get to the ER.
You were just fetching your bag from the side when the squeak of a door behind you alerted you.
“Hey, what's going on?” John spoke up.
You didn't dare turn around. You knew if you did you'd find a recently fucked-out Carter, maybe his friend hanging off his arm like his other friends had two nights before at Nona's.
He called out your name.
“Nothing, John,” you dismissed, swinging your bag over your shoulder.
“Where are you going, it's like, three am?”
You didn't answer.
“Did the hospital call?”
“Just go back to bed, Carter.”
It could have been the head split, the fact you were running on little sleep as it was or that John was so insisting he cared when the noise of you falling had clearly broken him out of his blissed state.
You never called him Carter. If you did, it was a bad sign.
“Wait- wait- jus' a second, hold on-”
You turned, catching a glimpse of him retreating back in his room.
You dabbed at your cut again, seething at the pain it brought.
You doubted stitches were needed but maybe some glue. Heck, maybe you could find an on-call room and sleep off the wound.
John's door opened again and he was rushing out, tugging a shirt on with joggers already pulled up. He flicked the light on and you watched his eyes widen at the cut as if you'd been shot. “Woah-woah, hey-hey-”
“Leave it, John.”
“What happened? What'd you do?” he rushed to you, sliding on the floor as he cupped your cheeks, checking the cut in the light.
His clothes hung limp on him and you didn't even have to look close to see the blue and purple bruises at his neck, still fresh, a thin trail of kisses not yet settled. There was no slouch in him like you knew there to be in you. He was alert. The kind of attention sex required.
He was using all that energy- the energy he was stealing from you- to asses your wound.
“What were you doing, jumping-jacks?” he tried to joke.
You didn't feel like laughing. “Can you leave it, please?”
The crinkle at his eyes at his own teasing dropped. He became as dull as you felt.
“No, no I- I can't leave it,” he said, serious. “You're bleeding, you're hurt, what happened?”
You sighed. “I was dressing in the dark, I'm a clutz.”
He shook his head. “Why were you dressing at three am?”
“Because I'm going into work.”
“We're not on nights.”
“Then I'm going in for fun.”
“Like the other night when you were paged in for a cough that didn't exists?” he said. “Mark told me, so what's going on?”
You had hoped Mark Greene- your mentor- wouldn't be noticing the slow falling apart of your love life. No such luck there. “Nothing,” you told him. “Nothing is going on.”
“You running off in the night is something, in my books at least,” said John, stern. His arms fell to his side. “So, you want to tell me?”
You'd just done a thirty-six hour shift and was only reward with two hours sleep. You didn't have it in you to be kind to him while your own chest felt like it was caving in on itself. “No, I don't.”
John scoffed. “Well, I've got all night, I can wait.”
“No, you don't.”
He frowned.
At that moment his latest peeked out of the room. She'd had the decency to wrap herself up in his thin white sheet at least. Her hair was a mess, her body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She genuinely seemed sorry to be interrupting but clearly wanted to get back to the high she was chasing.
“Hey, John, is everything okay?”
She was so un-like you. She was everything you weren't. You didn't even know who she was but she wasn't you and seeing her coming out of John's room, wrapped up in his sheet and smell and faint marks of him you were reminded of that.
You didn't know why she- an odd number in his list of conquests- broke your heart. But it did.
You chocked on a sob, turning away from them both.
John's neck snapped to you at the noise. “Hey, hey-” his hands were soft on your forearms but you shrugged him off.
“John?” asked the girl again, a lazy drawl of her voice piercing your heart.
“Just, go back in, I'll- I'll be a second,” he said, dismissively.
It some how made it all the much worse because he didn't care for the other girls feelings. It was nothing serious to him, it never was. If it was serious, if he brought a girl back and took painstaking effort to introduce the two of you maybe you could pull on a brave face, pretend to be happy for him.
But he was constantly throwing it all in your face.
“John?” the girl asked again.
“Meg, seriously, I just need to sort this out-”
Sort it out? Like you were something on a check list?
You'd managed to make it to the front door before John caught you.
“Hey, wait! No- jus'-” his hand slammed down over you on the door, closing it before you could escape. “You're scaring me now, what's going on?”
“Nothing,” your own voice betrayed you, cracking as tears escaped you.
You rushed to wipe them away but John beat you to it.
“Hey, hey.” His thumb swept at the tears, voice laced in worry and pain. “Why are you crying? What's happened?”
You knew yourself well enough from the years of stress of medical school, from losing patients that were making promising progress and dying, from months of hearing John love on a girl that wasn't you to know when you couldn't trust your voice. All you could do was duck your head and sniff.
John was still close enough for you to smell the other girls perfume on him. “Why- why don't we sit down? I'll make you some tea.”
“I don't want tea,” you chuckled dryly.
John seemed startled. Tea was always what you offered him after the hard days. “Coffee?”
“I just want to go,” you admitted.
“Go? Go where?” he asked, voice almost as broken as yours. “You want to leave, you want to get out of here?”
He asked like he was almost understanding where you were coming from.
You nodded.
“Can I come with you?”
You shook your head.
John nodded with tight lips, like his own heart was breaking. “Okay them, I- I can't let you go. Not alone.”
You cried. “John-”
“It's three am it's dark out, I'm not letting you go anywhere alone-”
“John-”
“And frankly you're scaring me right now, I can't stand seeing you like this-”
“- I just don't want to be near you right now.”
The confession hung between the two of you like a hook caught in your hearts and tearing you both down. It was one thing you hurting because of John's actions but it wasn't like you'd told him how you felt. So really, you were hurting him for nothing.
“Okay, okay,” he said calmly. Turing for a second to gather himself up, patting the back of his hair down. “Okay you don't have to be anywhere near me but can you at least stay? So I know you're safe. I'll- I'll hide in my room or something. Out there, it's-it's not and I know you hate me right now but you will give me a heart attack if you go-”
“- I don't hate you,” you uttered.
“Well you just said you don't want to be near me,” he pointed out, the first angry notes in his voice. He took a deep breath and took a step closer, his hands clenched in together. John bent a little in the knees to get a look at you. “I'm sorry, whatever I did, I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”
He hadn't. Nothing he'd done had been with you in mind.
John laughed at himself. “It's me, for Christ sake, I'd never do anything to hurt you, okay? You've got to believe me. You know me.... you know me!”
The door to his room opened again and in the dim light the both of you saw his girl- Meg- wander out. She was in one of his old grey shirts, flaunting herself with jutted out hips. She threw herself down on the sofa and watched, waiting.
You wiped your tears away, telling yourself to get a grip. “Can we just- can we do this later, John, please?”
You'd thought the tears and begging would have been enough but John looked at you, studying all over you. He took in a deep breath like he was getting his confidence from somewhere.
He shook his head, staring at you. “No. Okay, wait- just wait for for a second, one second.”
You did. You waited one second and watched as he returned to Meg, crouching at the sofa and talking low to her. He even put his hand on hers and spoke very calmly and clearly.
Whatever he was saying Meg seemed to not like, or really understand, her eyes flickered back up to yours accusingly.
That's when you slipped out the door and hailed down a taxi to take you to the ER.
Carol had offered to help but you said no, so did Lydia, practically following you down with the right kit to take care of the cut on your head. Genie had offered with a kind understanding smile but you'd hidden yourself away on an empty bed with a mirror.
Mark was the only one you'd let stay in the room, even then you weren't letting him get close enough to help. “We should get a CT, at least.”
“Geez, it's just a small cut,” you chuckled, putting the thin strips of tape over it to help bring it together. It was the sort of thing that wasn't even medical. Just common sense.
“Better safe than sorry,” he said.
“And do you want to be the one to tell Wheever you ordered un-neccary tests and wasted hospital rescourse and money?”
You'd thought that would have been enough to deter him but instead Mark leaned forward.
“Yes.”
Damn.
“As chief resident I don't have to have you working till you get the all cleared.”
You huffed. You could always find an on-call room to catch up on sleep but you feared you'd re-play John's heartbreak over again if you did. “Fine, book me the CT,” you said, slinging your stephscope back around your neck and pocketing your pocket mirror.
“Thank you,” said Mark and with one last look of conserved worry, he left.
But the door swung open a second later and Carter waltzed in, hands in the pocket of his lab coat. He paused and looked at you, as if you were a patient of his.
It was going on four. He'd followed you in.
You opened your mouth to say something. A sorry, maybe. An apology for ruining his sex time and for crying.
John beat you to it. “I know you said you didn't want to be around me but I'm sorry, I-” he laughed at the very idea that was true. He knew you too well for that. “I don't believe you.”
“What do you want me to do about that?”
“I want you to talk to me.” John grabbed the stool close and sat on it, pushing himself close in front of you like any attentive doctor would. He grabbed your hands. “Talk to me.”
You wondered what you should have told him first. That out of desperation for your well-being Chuni had offered up her spare room at her place till you could get a place of your own. That Mark was willing to move around the schedule and face Wheever's wrath in doing so. That you couldn't take one more night of not being the one John chose.
“I'm sorry for being mad earlier, at the apartment,” you said first, looking down to where he held your hands. His knuckles were bleached white from the tightness he held onto you to. “I'm not- I'm not mad at you.”
His body sagged in relief. “You're not?”
“No.”
“Oh - thank god.” His body curved over yours, breath fanning the envelope of your hands.
“It's just me, it's just stuff,” you dismissed.
“No, it's not just stuff,” he said, equally as dismissive. “If it's getting you up in the middle of the night, ending in you being hurt- I mean... we can sort it.”
His thumb was a delicate tough as he brushed over your cut.
It didn't feel as painful when he did.
John's gaze lingered on your cut before looking back at your eyes. There was nothing to indicate he knew what this was really about, only a small hurting sorrow that he didn't know how to help you.
It was enough to hurt you all over again.
But maybe pulling the band off at once was better than a slow, agonising pull.
You squeezed his hands. “John, I'm moving out.”
The words were like heavy stones sinking in the bottom of a lake. You saw his expression blanked, his hands release yours slowly and his face pale as if the world was ending. His eyes searched yours trying to detect a hint of amusement.
He found nothing.
Mark popped his head back in, saving you. “CT's ready for you.”
“Thanks Mark,” you said as he nodded once and left again.
John hadn't moved, frozen in place. He stared past your body.
“I'll um... I've got to go...” it was the cowards way out but the way you saw it you'd been tough a long time, lying in bed and crying yourself to sleep. Letting yourself feel pathetic for doing so when you had so much more in life to give it meaning. If you could just get away enough, create some distance so you didn't feel trapped you could at least keep his hand in friendship. At least still have the privilege of looking in his eyes everyday and know, just for a second, you once had a chance for it all with him.
When you got back to the door and looked back, John was still on the stool, eyes watering.
Three hours later your shift officially started but you were already four patients deep, a case in pedes with Ross, a trauma that had gone up to the OR, an elderly man with a nasty fall to his hip and possible schizophrenia. Your last was a young girl, complaining of stomach craps. You suspected pregnancy and was thinking as much when you glanced out the door to the front desk.
John was staring through the door at you, Carol at his side trying to talk to him also staring in at you.
It wasn't a good sign in any case, not when Carol knew everything and John knew so little. It didn't help he looked wrecked. Tie askew, hair sticking up in the way that indicated hands running through it in stress.
Then he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.
“Leanne, have you been sexually active recently?”
“With my boyfriend.”
“And how long ago was your last period?”
“Two weeks.”
“Are you late?”
“Not yet.”
You jotted it all down on the chart. “Ok, we're gonna get some blood work, start you on an IV and get a urine sample in-”
The door swung open and you and Maleek who was helping on the case looked up.
John stood there, breathless like he'd ran the ten or so paces it took to get here.
“John?” you asked.
“You love me?”
The world stilled. There was suddenly nothing but you and him. Him looking at you astonished, like he couldn't believe it. At a loss of words from the very idea.
“I'm sorry- what?”
He took a heavy step forward, a deep inahle seething. “You love me.”
It wasn't an accusation the second time.
You looked back to the fifteen year old and Maleek who seemed as startled as you. “Can we not- I'm with a patient-”
“It's okay, I got this,” said Maleek, stepping in the way.
And John Carter was still standing there, catching his breath and staring at you.
You, with little other choice, barged past him.
You heard Carol calling out for you as you marched around trying to find a private corner to have the dreaded confrontation.
“I'm sorry!” she called.
John was hot on your heels. “Don't apologise, I deserved to know!”
Benton had joined the crew of on lookers at the desk. “Do I want to know?” you heard him ask.
“Probably not,” Mark replied.
Exam room two was empty and you held the door open for Carter. He marched in, hands running over his hair again as he mumbled to himself. You closed the door behind, locking it and closing the blinds because you knew everyone was going to try to listen to your world crumble.
You gave yourself a two second head start in catching your breath before turning to him.
John stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, waiting. His lip tucked under his teeth. “You love me.”
“Who told you?”
“Carol,” he said. “I was so worried about you I asked if she knew what was going on but turns out everyone did. You know, I could've asked Doug, Mark, Susan, Genie, basically everyone I mean- was I the last one to know?”
“There was nothing for you to know.”
“Really?” he scoffed.
“Yes!” you snapped. “It was my feelings, you didn't need to know them!”
“Yes, I did! I needed to know!”
“Why?”
“Why? Because- because it's me!”
You groaned, frustration ripping through the tears you had cried that morning. “What does it matter, John? You don't love me!”
“Of course I love you!”
“Not in the way I love you, not like that!”
“Yes I do!” he all but screamed.
The room fell silent. You could hear the labour of his breath and the wheels and running outside the room. A trauma was called in yet nobody was rescuing you or John.
He stood there, exposed.
Yes I do!
It was the heat of the argument, you told yourself, as you shook the idea out of you. For a second you almost believed him.
John deflated, watching as you hugged yourself, as you didn't rush to him or smile at his confession. “Do you... do you think I don't love you?”
You levelled your gaze on him.
As if he could see the break of your heart through the windows to your soul he shattered.
“Oh my god. You think I don't love you?”
You lifted your shoulders in a tired shrug. “Was I supposed to believe you did? You fuck a different girl every night while I'm on the other side of the damn wall.” The words come out bitten and finally the penny dropped for John.
The sleepless nights, the times he knew you were tired, the way you hid around every corner, in every room. Slowly he fit all the pieces together and he didn't like what he was seeing.
“That wasn't- they were- they were nothing,” he stuttered.
It was your turn to scoff. “Yeah, it never sounded like nothing-”
“You have to believe me, okay, you- you have to-” he begged, rushing in front of you. His hands took yours without your offer and he held it close to him, over his chest where you could feel his racing heart by the palm of your hand. “- you can't- you have to-”
He clenched his jaw.
You waited for more. “Can't what?”
John screwed his eyes shut, uttering a curse before opening his eyes. They pleaded onto you. “You can't think they meant anything over you. You can't,” he said so definitely you almost believed him. Almost.
“You're not making sense.”
“I know- I- I know,” he said, moving closer to you. He rested his head on your shoulder and you didn't have the strength to move. There was no smell of any other girl, only your shampoo he used in his hair. You could feel the tremble of his body. “This isn't how I wanted this to go.”
You were still, like you were a bunny in the jaws of a lion.
John pulled back and you were shocked at the redness of his eyes, at the tears threatening to spill. “When I dreamt about this I dreamt roses and a better declaration,” he chuckled at himself.
“I'm glad you find this really amusing, John, but I-”
“I don't- I don't,” he said at once. But he still chuckled dryly. “I just think I've messed up my whole life and I- I don't know how to fix this.”
You weren't sure what he was saying because he couldn't be talking about whatever was going on between the two of you. Frankly, you weren't sure what was going on. There was confessions hanging in the air like dirty laundry and tears from him that you didn't know what to do with. None of it made sense.
Your brain went to the only sense it could make.
“You've ruined your life?” you asked, full of concern for him. “What? Is one of the girls pregnant?”
John swiped his hands over his face, roughly. “No. No, I've just realised I fucked everything up with you.”
You stared at him and laughed. “And that's your entire life ruined?”
Carter nodded earnestly.
He loved you? He was insisting he did. Looking at you like he did.
A fist grabbed your heart and squeezed. You counted every girl you'd met through him and tried to add it up to love. It only made your head hurt and you knew it had nothing to do with the cut.
“I can't- I can't do this right now,” you said. “I have patients. So do you.”
“Can we talk? Tonight. Can we- can we talk? Please. Back home,” he begged, voice quiet like you'd never heard him before. “Please don't leave me.”
You wanted to argue there was nothing to leave. That even if you were going to go you still had a room of things to pack and sort. “Okay, fine, tonight.”
For the rest of the day you and John avoided each other, only working side by side on traumas. It was the only clue anyone got about the two of you. Nobody had dared ask what was going on but as you threw yourself into work and John got back on the floor after a thorough self-pity party they were all smart enough to guess it didn't go well.
“So, you're talking?” asked Carol at the end of your shift as you finished passing off your charts.
“Tonight, yeah.”
“That's good, isn't it?”
You huffed, finding your bag. “He says he loves me, Carol.”
She didn't know whether to smile or not. “Yeah, I think he does.”
“So what were the girls?”
“Distractions? A bit of fun? Men don't always have to make sense. Even if they are in love,” she told you, knowing all too well the the ins and outs of men and stupid choices through Doug Ross and their famous on and off relationship. “But give him a chance, he might surprise you.”
A chance.
You were tired. The kind that came from a long shift and little sleep. The kind you'd become accustom to that it didn't shock you when you felt it knocking on your door.
Were you too tired for a chance?
A throat cleared behind you and Carol disappeared from your side.
John stood in front of you, sheepish, with a bouquet in hand. They were your favourite flowers. “For you.”
Ignoring the audience that was trying (and failing) at being subtle, you took them.
“Thank you.”
He nodded, shy, in a way you hadn't seen him be since the both of you first started in the ER.
Nobody knew what to say next.
“Can I, um, can I take you home now?”
You could have been petty and told him you'd catch the subway back. Or that you'd hail a cab but you were both going the same way and you'd end up in your living room, talking, one way or another.
The car ride was quiet with John trying to find a radio station that didn't grate on him and ended up in silence.
When he pulled up in front of your apartment building he rushed out the car like it was on fire. He pulled open your door before you got the chance and helped you with your bag and bouquet.
In the apartment it was just as un-touched as it had been in the morning.
You didn't realise until you saw it so that you'd been expecting a lingering guest.
But there was only signs of you and John.
He was watching you while he set both your things down. “Do you want a drink?”
“No, no thanks I think I should be sober for this,” you said. Amicable ground was trying to be found, keeping your voice neutral was the best you could do. “Do you want a drink?”
“No, no.”
The silence was invasive. An un-wanted guest.
You would start it, as you had with all your messed up feelings. You could finish it even if it hurt. “If you love me what were all the girls?”
John seemed to leap at the chance to defend himself. “Nothing. They were nothing, they were-” he paused, taking time to think about his next words. “They were just distractions. Meaningless. To get you out of my mind.”
“Cheap, John.” It was almost word for word what Carol said.
“Nothing I say can defend myself, I'm not trying to defend myself I'm trying to tell you the truth. I need you, and if I've ruined this I'm not letting you go without fighting.”
He approached you, giving you space and time to step back or flinch away. You didn't.
“I've loved you since I met you. Ever since you came up to me thinking I was a doctor and knew where labs were, I knew it. Love at first sight- if you think that's bullshit- I don't care because I knew it. But you made it clear, very clear you were here to be the best doctor you could be and I wanted that for you, I still do- I always will,” he said.
You remembered John years ago, tailored white coat and hopeful. You'd gone up to him because you were supposed to meet Doctor Greene in labs and had no idea where that was and he was the first person in a white coat and clipboard you'd seen.
You did twelve hours next to him that day, competing on stitches and sutures.
“You know, I had an apartment when I heard you were looking to move in with someone, cheap rent and that,” he said, laughing at himself. “I moved out of that apartment and got another one within the week with a spare room just so I could ask you to move in.”
The apartment you were stood in.
“What?”
John nodded like he knew it was ridiculous. “It worked.”
You knew the Carter family was rich beyond imagination. You'd always wondered why John insisted on a room mate when he could afford to live comfortably without one.
“When you told me you were thinking of moving in with Anna god I had a heart attack, practically begged her to back off.”
John had helped you pack your old place, had carried your stuff with care into his apartment. It had looked so much like him, so lived in you wouldn't even think to wonder how long he'd lived there. You'd never have guessed only a week till you invaded with your stuff.
“It was the closest I could have you without having you.”
“Why didn't you tell me then?” you asked.
His face screwed up like he regretted it. He did, you guessed. “Because we both get tired. We get irritable. I hate failing patients and you take on so many that you can't give yourself a minute to think during the day.”
You weren't sure if it was a compliment or not.
“We work together, we live together, take patients together I figured we'd crash and burn if I told you how I felt,” he admitted. “And- god, help me- if I had to live only being your friend it was better than living without you at all.”
But you and John had never argued. The both of you had figured out how to silently read each other. How to know when he needed space or a hug and a shoulder to cry on. He knew when you needed an extra pair of hands or to just put a stupid movie on to fall asleep too.
The nights you'd fallen asleep in his arms on the sofa and woke in your bed. The mornings where you were on and he wasn't but he was still up to get you a coffee. The days you worked close together and ignored everyone else. It all meant something else now.
“The girls were to forget,” said John. “It didn't work, hardly. All I could think about was you. And I know- I know it's wrong. I had to recite medical facts to myself just to get the thought of you out my head.”
“I thought you did that to make it last for them,” you admitted, realising now how silly it's all been.
He shook his head. “I didn't mean to hurt you. I'd rather cut off my own hands than make you cry. And I've made you cry and hurt you so just get a knife and-” he made a chopping motion, chocking on a laugh.
John wiped his tears with the back of his hand and he looked at you. “If you want to leave then leave but I can't let you go. I'll be around, I'll be really hard to get rid of.”
The both of your rooms stood behind you. Both dark. Both separate cages for the two of you.
“All I could think about when I saw you with those girls was how much they were never like me,” you spoke, quietly. “I thought you'd never... you know... think of me that way.”
John's hands were firm on your cheeks, gaining your attention. “It was always about you. You didn't deserve that, you didn't, I wish I could take it all back and tell you. But why didn't you tell me?”
Why? Because you were afraid. Knowing what you knew now it didn't seem a strong enough argument.
You laughed. “Are we stupid?”
John grinned through his own tears. He nodded, caressing your cheeks. “I think we are, I think so.”
Your foreheads leaned against each other as you laughed.
Slowly, it faded as he pressed his forehead into yours harder.
“I'm so sorry, baby.”
“I'm sorry,” you said, hands coming to hold his face, feeling the rough stubble in your palms.
“No, no, you have nothing to be sorry for, it's me, it's me,” he uttered, eyes closing. “If I've ruined this forever please tell me.”
You couldn't say he didn't have a point. Working long hours made you both difficult at times but never to each other. You couldn't say the girls wouldn't hurt you for some time more, that your insecurities weren't something you had to work on yourself.
Yet, you couldn't say you could manage without him.
“I don't think you have, no.”
John breathed out against you. “No?”
“No,” you shook your head against his. “I think if we love each other-”
“- we do, we do-”
“ -we should at least give it a try.”
“I'm not trying with you, I'm not trying- I'm doing,” John assured you, hands still moving along your cheeks, your hair, anything to hold you. “I'm not messing it up again, I'm not. I'd propose right now if you asked me to.”
You pulled back enough to stare at him seriously. “Don't.”
“Okay, okay, I won't,” he said. When he opened his eyes back at you he smirked, a twitch to his brows. “At least not today.”
There was laughter in place of tears and you knew that if you slept tonight there'd be no need to hurt. Maybe, instead, time to heal.
“Not for a long time,” you told him.
John nodded along, mockingly going along with you. “But eventually right?”
“Maybe you should kiss me before we get that far?”
The laughter died quietly. You were slowly brought into his arms as they wrapped around you, hands moving down your back without going further.
There was a gentle breeze of his warmth and the tips of his hair tickled you as he tilted his head, your own neck moving back to meet him.
It was soft and sweet. A small press of his lips like he was too scared to break you. It was your hands around his neck that brought him closer, it was his whimper that moved him on as his hands held your waist. You stayed pressing into each other, promising silent things as you did, until you both recognised the burn in your lungs for breath.
“I love you,” he said, slowly dragging his lips against yours again.
Thinking abt Brendon Park baby wearing. It would be so fucking hot. He insists he does it becuase the baby is heavy and your back doesn’t need that. You already carried them for 9 long months, you don’t need to wreck your back even more. It’s the least he can do.
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Pairing: Brendon Park x Wife!Reader, Past!Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (Female Reader, referred to with you/she/her pronouns)
Crossover: The Pitt x Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (Reboot)
Summary: Price promised Brendon Park that Task Force 141 would bring his wife home. They kept their promise—just not in the way Brendon ever imagined.
Three nights after your flag-draped casket arrives in Pittsburgh without them, the men you died protecting come to face the husband and children you left behind. Among them is Ghost, carrying what remains of a love he once let go and a grief he refuses to place beside your family’s.
Warnings: Major character death/Reader death, heavy grief and bereavement, child grief, military death and repatriation, survivor’s guilt, past relationship, lingering one-sided feelings, implied explosion and combat violence, heavy angst, hurt with very little comfort, no traditional happy ending, Modern Warfare AU where Roach is part of the reboot 141.
A/N: Hi! This was something that I wanted to try, and I’m curious to see how it is received. Reblogs are open for this one, so I would really appreciate it if everyone could be kind. I’m still a little hesitant about allowing reblogs, but I enjoyed seeing the response to one of my previous fics, so I thought I would give it another try and see how it goes.
The casket arrived in Pittsburgh without Task Force 141.
Brendon noticed that before anything else.
Before the black government vehicle rolled through the secured hangar doors on the military side of Pittsburgh International Airport. Before the uniformed officers stepped onto the concrete beneath the cold November sky. Before the British flag stretched tightly across polished wood came into view, every fold immaculate beneath the floodlights lining the military ramp.
None of them were there.
No Price. No Ghost. No Soap, Gaz, or Roach.
Instead, a British officer Brendon had never met walked beside you.
Major Elias Ward had accompanied your remains from RAF Brize Norton to Dover Air Force Base, where the official dignified transfer and mortuary processing had taken place. When you were cleared for the final journey home, he boarded the dedicated aircraft with you and remained beside you until it touched down on the military ramp at Pittsburgh International Airport, near the 911th Airlift Wing’s Air Reserve Station.
His uniform was spotless, but exhaustion had settled into the lines around his eyes. He carried a narrow black presentation case against his chest as though it contained something fragile.
Brendon stood with one hand resting on his son’s shoulder and the other wrapped tightly around his daughter’s fingers.
Mason was eleven and old enough to understand what the casket meant, although he had not cried since the casualty officers came to the house. He had stood beside Brendon while two uniformed strangers explained that his mother had died overseas, his hands buried in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and his face frighteningly blank.
Seven-year-old Sophie kept staring toward the aircraft as though she expected you to step down after everyone else.
Brendon was still wearing his hospital clothes beneath his coat. He had left PTMC as soon as another attending could take over the procedure, stripping off his gloves while Garcia explained that your flight had landed earlier than expected.
He remembered telling her to close for him.
He remembered Garcia taking his shoulders in both hands and telling him she had it.
After that, there was nothing.
He could not remember changing out of his surgical gown. He could not remember calling the children’s school or driving across the city. He could not remember parking outside the hangar.
He only remembered the casket coming through the doors without the people who had promised to bring you home.
Major Ward stopped in front of him.
“Doctor Park?”
Brendon did not look at the officer. His eyes remained fixed on the flag covering you.
“Where are they?”
Ward’s expression tightened.
“Captain Price and his unit were placed under operational restriction following the incident.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Mason’s shoulder went rigid beneath Brendon’s palm.
Ward glanced toward the children before lowering his voice.
“They were not cleared to leave immediately. By the time they were, none of them believed they had the right to stand beside her casket and face you.”
Brendon finally looked at him.
“They didn’t believe they had the right?”
“No, sir.”
“They could survive chemical attacks, gunfire and torture, but they couldn’t face my children?”
Ward’s jaw shifted.
“There is a difference between recovering one of your own and delivering her to the people who were waiting for her.”
Brendon wanted to hit him.
He wanted to grab the front of the man’s uniform and demand that he open the casket, wake you up and explain how five men trained to walk through hell had been too afraid to stand in a hangar with your husband and children.
Instead, Sophie tugged on his sleeve.
“Daddy?”
Every person in the hangar went still. She looked past him toward the casket.
“Is Mommy inside there?”
Brendon crouched in front of her. His knees struck the concrete harder than he intended, but he barely felt it.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
Sophie stared at him, her small face serious.
“Can we see her?”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Ward turned his face away.
“Later,” Brendon finally managed. His voice scraped against his throat. “After they make her ready.”
“Why does she have to get ready?”
Brendon swallowed.
“Because she had a very long trip.”
Sophie considered that before nodding. She trusted him. She believed that he still understood how the world worked and that, if he promised she could see her mother later, he could make it happen.
That was the worst part.
She pressed herself against his chest, and Brendon held her while the honour guard approached the casket.
Mason did not move.
His face stayed blank as the officers lifted you. Only his breathing changed, growing shallow and uneven beneath Brendon’s hand.
They carried you past them with slow, measured steps.
Brendon watched until the casket disappeared beyond the hangar doors.
Major Ward remained behind.
“The Regiment asked me to give you this.”
Brendon slowly rose.
Ward lowered the narrow case and opened it.
A folded Union Flag rested inside, along with your beret, dog tags and the battered watch Brendon had given you on your first wedding anniversary.
He had bought it because you were always late.
You had laughed when you opened the box and told him that a watch could not fix a personality defect. Then you had worn it every day for thirteen years.
Brendon stared at the scratches across its face.
“The flag covered her during the transfer out of theatre,” Ward said. “She served beside British soldiers. She saved British lives. The Regiment wanted her family to know she was considered one of ours.”
Brendon looked at the Union Flag.
“She was ours here, too.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Ward accepted the words without argument.
Brendon reached for the watch.
The metal was cold against his palm.
“Was she alone?”
“No, sir.”
Ward answered immediately, and something in Brendon’s chest twisted.
“She was never alone.”
“Who was with her?”
Ward’s gaze dropped briefly to the presentation case.
“Sergeant MacTavish.”
Soap.
Brendon closed his fingers around the watch.
“Did she suffer?”
Ward took a careful breath.
“I was not present when she died.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.” Ward’s voice softened. “It isn’t.”
Brendon waited.
“She was given pain relief as soon as the team reached cover. Captain Price remained with her until evacuation personnel arrived. Sergeant Riley did not leave her during the flight out of theatre.”
Ghost.
Brendon looked toward the doors through which they had carried you.
“Then why isn’t he here?”
Ward did not answer.
He did not need to.
Brendon closed the case himself.
Price came to the house three nights later.
All five of them did.
Brendon had been sitting at the kitchen table with your calendar in front of him, staring at an appointment you had written down for Mason’s dentist six months from now.
Mason — dentist, 3:30. Do not let Brendon claim he forgot.
Your handwriting slanted upward at the end, as though even the letters were amused with him.
The doorbell rang shortly after nine.
Sophie was asleep upstairs with one of your old sweatshirts tucked beneath her chin. Mason had gone to bed but had not closed his bedroom door, something he had not done since the casualty officers came.
Brendon opened the front door and found Task Force 141 standing beneath the porch light in civilian clothes.
They looked wrong without their gear.
Smaller somehow.
Human in a way Brendon had never wanted them to be.
Price stood at the front in a dark coat, his shoulders squared as though he were reporting for punishment. Ghost remained behind him, his face covered even here. Gaz kept his hands buried in his pockets. Roach stared at the wooden boards beneath his feet.
Soap had one arm strapped against his chest.
Brendon saw the bandages near his throat. Healing burns climbed along one side of his face, disappearing beneath his collar.
He understood before anyone spoke.
“Which one?”
No one answered.
Brendon stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him so the children would not hear.
“Which one did she die saving?”
Soap’s eyes filled immediately.
“Me.”
Brendon crossed the space between them.
Price moved first, putting himself between Brendon and Soap.
Brendon’s fist struck Price across the mouth.
The blow snapped his head sideways. Price stumbled into the railing, one hand catching the wooden post as blood appeared along his lower lip.
Ghost did not reach for Brendon.
None of them did.
Brendon hit Price again, catching him near the jaw.
“You promised me.”
Price remained upright this time.
“You stood in my kitchen.” Brendon grabbed the front of Price’s coat. His hands shook violently against the fabric. “You ate at my table. You looked my children in the face and promised you would bring her home.”
“I did.”
“In a box!”
The words carried through the quiet street.
Price closed his eyes.
Brendon shoved him away.
The captain struck the railing again but made no attempt to defend himself.
Brendon turned toward Soap.
Soap looked ill. His injured arm remained secured tightly against his chest, and stitches disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.
“She came back for me,” he said.
His Scottish accent had gone thin with grief.
“The first blast trapped my leg. She could’ve made the extraction point, but she came back.”
Brendon pressed both hands over his face.
“She got me loose,” Soap continued. “There was another device.”
“Stop.”
“She covered me before it went.”
“I said stop.”
Soap’s mouth closed.
For several seconds, the only sound came from Brendon’s breathing.
Then Soap spoke again.
“She was conscious afterward.”
Brendon’s hands dropped.
Price looked sharply at Soap, but Soap continued.
“She knew she wasn’t coming home,” he whispered. “She made me take her tags. Told me Mason would pretend he was fine and Sophie would start sleeping with the hallway light on.”
Brendon stared at him.
“She said you’d forget to eat unless someone put food directly in front of you.”
A sob tore out of Brendon before he could swallow it.
He bent forward, one hand braced against his knee, the other pressed to his mouth.
Soap looked down at the porch boards.
“She told me to tell you that she wasn’t scared until she thought about you having to tell the kids.”
Brendon squeezed his eyes shut. He could see you saying it.
Not because you had not been afraid to die, but because even at the end, you would have been thinking about everyone except yourself.
“She kept asking if we’d contacted you,” Price said quietly. Blood remained on his lower lip. “We told her we had.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Brendon looked up.
Price did not look away.
“Communications were compromised. We couldn’t reach command until after she was gone.”
“You lied to her.”
“Yes.”
Brendon straightened, his vision blurring. His mind was no longer on the porch. It was with you in those final minutes, wondering whether you had been scared, whether it had hurt, whether you had known how badly he would have wanted to be there.
God, if he had been, he would have begged you to stay. He would have kept asking you to hold on until the words became selfish, because he would not have known how to let you go.
So he said the only thing that made sense now.
“Good.”
Price’s brow tightened.
“Good,” Brendon repeated, his voice breaking. “She didn’t need to know I wasn’t there.”
The front door opened behind him. Mason stood in the doorway wearing his pyjamas. His hair was rumpled from bed, but his eyes were wide awake.
Brendon’s stomach dropped.
“Mason—”
His son’s gaze moved across the five men before settling on Soap’s injured arm.
“You're the one?”
Soap’s face crumpled.
“Aye.”
Mason walked onto the porch.
Brendon reached for him, but his son moved past his hand and stopped in front of Soap.
“My mom saved you?”
“She did.”
“Why?”
Soap lowered himself carefully onto one knee despite his injuries. His face tightened with the movement, but he did not stop until he was level with Mason.
“Because she was my friend,” he said. “Because she knew I had people waiting for me too.”
Mason’s chin trembled.
“Then you better do something good.”
Soap stared at him.
“With your life,” Mason said. “You better make it worth what she gave you.”
Soap bowed his head.
“I’ll try.”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“No,” Soap whispered. “It isn’t.”
Mason stood there for another second, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Then he turned and buried his face against Brendon’s chest. Brendon wrapped both arms around him.
Mason’s entire body shook as the first sob came out of him. It sounded small and frightened, nothing like the silence he had carried around for the past three days.
Brendon held the back of his head and pressed his face into his son’s hair.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, although he no longer knew whether he was speaking to Mason or trying to convince himself. “I’ve got you.”
Behind them, the front door opened wider.
Sophie appeared in the doorway, clutching one of your old sweatshirts.
The grey fabric hung nearly to her knees. She had pushed one sleeve clumsily above her wrist while the other covered most of her hand.
She looked at the men who had returned without you.
“Are you Mommy’s friends?”
Price wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Yes, love.”
Sophie held the sweatshirt tighter.
“She would want you to come inside, then.”
That broke whatever composure they had left.
Gaz pressed a hand over his mouth. Roach sank onto the porch step, elbows braced against his knees as his head dropped. Price turned away, his jaw tightening while he stared into the darkness beyond the railing.
Ghost said nothing. He only looked towards the empty street, as though there were something in the dark he could drag you back from, if only for your children.
Ghost understood the first punch. Price had promised to bring you home, and the rest of them had made that promise in their own ways. Brendon had every right to break something when they arrived on his porch without you.
Then your daughter appeared wearing the grey sweatshirt you had stolen from your husband years ago.
Ghost recognised it immediately. He remembered you curled into the corner of a safe-house sofa, arguing with Brendon through a cracked phone screen while Ghost cleaned blood from his gloves just outside the camera’s view.
“My name is on the tag,” Brendon had said.
You had twisted around to check before laughing and wearing it anyway.
Something tightened beneath Ghost’s ribs, but he pushed the feeling aside.
Years before Brendon, that laugh had belonged to moments shared only with him. Whatever had existed between the two of you had never been given much of a chance to become a life. Ghost had wanted you, but wanting you had been easy. Staying would have meant letting you close enough to see everything he kept buried, and he had been too damaged and too frightened of what loving him might eventually cost you to ask for that.
He had let you go before you could build a future around a man who did not know how to believe in one.
It had hurt you. For a while, the two of you spoke only when the job required it, but eventually you found your way back to each other. You became friends again, not the way you had been before, but close enough to trust each other through long missions, bad orders and everything that followed.
Ghost never tried to interfere when you met Brendon, although he remembered the first time you mentioned him.
You had returned from a favour for Laswell after helping an American unit with something outside Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, of all bloody places. Ghost had barely thought about the city before you came back saying you had met someone there.
Once the assignment was over, the soldiers from the base had taken you to a nearby bar. Some drunken patron had mistaken your patience for permission and put his hands where they did not belong.
You had not needed rescuing. Ghost knew you could have put the man through the nearest table before anyone finished ordering another round, but Brendon had stepped in anyway.
You told the story with an amused smile, describing the American doctor who had caught the man’s wrist and calmly advised him to move before you broke it yourself. Brendon had understood that you were perfectly capable of defending yourself. He had simply made it clear that the stranger would not be touching you again.
Things had taken off from there.
Ghost remembered the jealousy that settled beneath his skin when you returned. You seemed lighter and distracted, carrying a private happiness you tried and failed to hide. When Soap made some filthy joke about how thoroughly the American doctor must have seen you off before the flight home, you told him to shut his mouth without meeting anyone’s eyes.
That had been answer enough.
Ghost kept his thoughts to himself. He assumed Brendon would become a story you occasionally told, one unexpected night with an American you had met in a city neither of you had expected to matter.
He never imagined it would lead to a wedding ring beneath your gloves, photographs tucked into your vest and two children waiting for you in Pittsburgh. He never imagined he would one day stand on your porch and see that same grey sweatshirt hanging from your daughter’s shoulders while your husband tried to survive the fact that you were gone.
Pittsburgh should have been a passing detail. Instead, it became the place where you built the rest of your life.
Even after you married Brendon, there were moments when the past still found its way between you and Ghost.
One night in a safe house, you sat cross-legged on the floor beside him with the pieces of your rifles spread across an old towel. You cleaned his weapon while he worked on yours, continuing a habit left over from the years when trusting each other had come more easily than admitting what you felt.
Ghost inspected the bolt you handed back to him.
“You missed a spot.”
You glanced over without lifting your head. “No, I didn’t.”
“Carbon on the edge.”
“That was already there.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You keeping photographs of it now?”
Ghost looked at you across the scattered gun parts. “Could start.”
Your mouth curved. “You always were fussy about my weapons.”
“Someone had to keep you alive.”
“That what you called it?”
The teasing came back easily—too easily—and for a moment, the years between you seemed to disappear. Ghost remembered the way you looked at him then, amused and fond, with just enough understanding in your eyes to make the room feel smaller.
Then your phone vibrated against the floor, and Brendon’s name lit the screen.
The old familiarity between you settled back into the past where it belonged.
You picked up the phone with a softness already touching your face.
“Hey, you.”
The warmth in your voice struck Ghost harder than he expected. He lowered his head and returned to your rifle, dragging the cloth carefully through the chamber while Brendon spoke through the phone.
“No, we’re fine,” you said, glancing towards Ghost. “Just cleaning up before we move again.”
Brendon said something that made you smile, and Ghost kept his attention fixed on the weapon in his hands.
“I know,” you murmured. “I miss you too.”
There was no hesitation in your voice. Whatever flame had once existed between you and Ghost belonged to another time, while Brendon had become the life you were returning to.
When the call ended, you placed the phone beside your knee and reached for the rifle.
“Where were we?”
Ghost checked the chamber one last time before handing it back to you.
“We’re finished.”
You studied him for a moment, as though you knew something had shifted and respected him enough to leave it alone.
“All right, then.”
Ghost missed the years when your smiles had turned towards him first. He still remembered the softness of your lips against his and the way you had once looked at him as though there might still be a man beneath everything the world had made of him.
Missing it did not make it his.
Brendon had built the life with you that Ghost had once been too afraid to imagine. He had seen how freely you smiled around your husband and heard the warmth that entered your voice whenever you spoke about the home waiting for you in Pittsburgh. Your love for Brendon lived in every part of you: the ring beneath your gloves, the photographs tucked into your vest and the children waiting for their mother to come home.
Ghost respected you both too much to turn his regret into something you had to carry.
Perhaps another version of him, in another life, might have been brave enough to stay. In this one, he had always stood outside the frame.
When Sophie invited them inside, Ghost lowered his head and waited for Brendon to open the door.
Brendon looked down at his children and understood that you were still taking care of them through every habit you had left behind.
There was Mason’s stubbornness, Sophie’s open heart, the extra meals labelled in the freezer, the emergency contacts taped inside the kitchen cupboard, and your handwriting on the calendar reminding him about dentist appointments months after your death.
He opened the door wider. The five men entered quietly.
Gaz helped Roach to his feet. Price paused beside Brendon, his lower lip already swelling, but neither man apologised.
There was nothing either of them could say that would make an apology useful.
Soap stopped at the threshold.
Mason had not released Brendon’s coat, but he turned his head enough to look at him.
Soap waited.
After a moment, Mason gave a small nod.
Only then did Soap step inside.
Sophie led them toward the living room, dragging the sleeve of your sweatshirt along the floor.
“You have to be quiet,” she told them. “Mommy’s things are sleeping.”
Price made a sound that might have been a breath or the beginning of another breakdown.
Brendon remained on the porch.
The cold air moved against his face, carrying the faint smell of rain and chimney smoke from somewhere farther down the street.
The road was empty.
For one irrational moment, he imagined headlights turning the corner. Your car pulling into the driveway. You leaning across the centre console to grab your bag before stepping out, tired and irritated because nobody had warned you that Pittsburgh had already become this cold.
He imagined you climbing the steps and asking why everyone was standing around looking miserable.
Nothing happened.
The street remained empty.
Inside the house, the Union Flag rested beside the folded American one.
Two countries had claimed the honour of mourning you.
Neither could give you back.
Brendon opened his hand.
Your watch lay in his palm, its scratched face reflecting the porch light. The second hand had stopped sometime during the journey home.
He pressed it into his skin until the metal hurt.
Then he went inside to raise the children you had died trying to come home to.
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