[About]: John Price is dead. Your beloved husband, gone. Grief is weird, however; a part of you feels like he's not really gone. A part of you feels like... he might still be here. Plus, it doesn't help that you found a letter in his handwriting.
[Series word count]: N/A
[cw]: grief, mentions of death, major character death, heavy angst, mentions of religion, smut
[About]: John finally opens up about his time away. You kinda wish he kept it to himself.
[Wc]: 1k
PREVIOUS CHAPTER - SERIES MASTERLIST
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Since his return, John had made a concerted effort to do everything around the house and insisted that you stay put.
Family came and went, hugging each other tearfully as they looked upon the pair of you with smiles. There was something in the air surrounding them, similar to grief but the way they smiled resembled some sort of… disbelief.
‘I think we should move.’
You'd hardly had the chance to raise your fork to your mouth of the first home cooked meal you'd had since his supposed passing. It was a miracle you were even able to make something to eat, maybe even more than John's reappearance. Not only had you not called the repair man to fix the floorboard, but you'd also neglected the hobs too.
Even then, they seemed eager to prove you wrong because they worked on the first try.
‘Move?’ you asked with a mouthful of spaghetti, ‘Why?’
‘Well, after everything that's happened, lovie, wouldn’t you prefer to start over somewhere else?’ he asked, wrapping the pasta around his fork.
‘What happened at work?’ you blurted.
Yesterday, you couldn’t have cared less. All you cared about was the fact that John was back. And that hadn’t changed, of course not, but the sudden request to move hit you like a train.
‘Is that why you want to move?’
His lips formed a thin line and he dropped his fork as he mulled over whatever was going on in that head of his.
‘Nothing bad happened,’ he said after much deliberation, ‘I just figured that… maybe a fresh start would be good. I don’t want you to feel like you’re living with a ghost, love.’
You blinked and narrowed your eyes. ‘I think you’re lying.’
‘I’m not,’ he said, holding his hands up, ‘Seriously – if something happened, I’d tell you.’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday, John.’
‘I know that,’ he said, ‘Just, hear me out, please?’
The heat in your chest quickly quelled as he reached out and grabbed your hand. Again, you were greeted with the fact that he was there with you.
You smiled, begrudgingly. ‘Okay.’
John cleared his throat the same way he did when he was about to give a speech during the holidays.
The last one he’d done had been at his own birthday and you smiled at the thought. All the family gathered around, toasting cans of cheap ale as he drew you into his side and planted a sloppy kiss atop your head.
It was a shame no one wanted to stay to celebrate the fact that you two were home, but you’d overheard both your mum’s in the living room.
‘They’re making up for lost time.’
'Of course. I'm glad they've got each other.'
‘Being gone has made me realise that… I’m done with all the fighting – I’m gettin’ too old and I don’t want to do that to you ever again,’ he confessed, ‘I don’t want to walk out of that door and leave you thinking that you’d be burying an empty box. Not one, not ever again. I- I need you to be safe and I never want to leave ya, not now, not ever.’
He took a breath.
‘And, even though you’re not saying it, lovie, I can see it on your face – this house has been ruined for you because of what happened the last few months and I’d sell my soul if it meant we went somewhere else and just had a fresh start.’
‘John.’
He sighed and looked down at his plate of food and mumbled something.
You caught the end of it. ‘Who died?’
Looking up, he frowned and said, ‘Johnny.’
His hold on you didn’t falter, if anything, it grew to be tighter like he was scared you were going to disappear. The acid of your stomach was burning your heart and you shook your head.
‘No.’
‘We got ambushed… Makarov got to him and I promised–’ he turned his head towards the ceiling as though he was addressing some higher power, ‘I promised him that we’d make it out. Together. But he went home in a box and…’
John broke down crying.
The lobes of your ears were squashed by your shoulders as you jumped from the sudden outburst.
Immediately, you were out of your seat and rounding the table with your hands braced on his shoulders. His chest stammered, tripping like a baby trying to find its footing and he covered his face with his hands.
With your arms wrapped around him, you pressed kisses into the back of his head and shushed him. Never in your time had you seen him cry so hard and your head hurt at the thought of him spending the months he was gone, grovelling in the pain of losing a best friend – a brother.
‘I’m so sorry,’ you managed to squeeze out past the lump in your throat, ‘I’m so, so, sorry, John.’
Wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweater, he shook his head, ‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t you apologise – don’t you ever fuckin’ apologise, you hear?’
Wiping his face with his hand, he sniffed.
‘It’s my fault; I shouldn’t have left. I- I shouldn’t have promised him, I should’ve fixed that floorboard and that fuckin' hob and–’
‘Don’t be silly,’ you huffed, ‘None of that matters and none of it’s your fault. Johnny wouldn’t want you blaming yourself for what happened. You didn’t know what was going to happen, John, you can’t see into the future,’ you rambled, leaning in to look him in the eyes. ‘We’ll move wherever you want to, okay? You name it and we’ll go.’
‘Are you sure?’
You grabbed his hand and pressed a kiss atop it.
The remnants of the war he’d been fighting in his absence were still very much there, even though he’d scrubbed every inch of himself in the shower last night.
‘Wherever you go, I go,’ you said with a smile, pressing the pad of your thumb into the metal band on his finger.
‘Til death do us part,' you added.
John sighed and placed a kiss atop your hand. 'And forever after that.’
[About]: John Price is dead. Your beloved husband, gone. Grief is weird, however; a part of you feels like he's not really gone. A part of you feels like... he might still be here. Plus, it doesn't help that you found a letter in his handwriting.
[Series word count]: N/A
[cw]: grief, mentions of death, major character death, heavy angst, mentions of religion, smut
[About]: John finally opens up about his time away. You kinda wish he kept it to himself.
[Wc]: 1k
PREVIOUS CHAPTER - SERIES MASTERLIST
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Since his return, John had made a concerted effort to do everything around the house and insisted that you stay put.
Family came and went, hugging each other tearfully as they looked upon the pair of you with smiles. There was something in the air surrounding them, similar to grief but the way they smiled resembled some sort of… disbelief.
‘I think we should move.’
You'd hardly had the chance to raise your fork to your mouth of the first home cooked meal you'd had since his supposed passing. It was a miracle you were even able to make something to eat, maybe even more than John's reappearance. Not only had you not called the repair man to fix the floorboard, but you'd also neglected the hobs too.
Even then, they seemed eager to prove you wrong because they worked on the first try.
‘Move?’ you asked with a mouthful of spaghetti, ‘Why?’
‘Well, after everything that's happened, lovie, wouldn’t you prefer to start over somewhere else?’ he asked, wrapping the pasta around his fork.
‘What happened at work?’ you blurted.
Yesterday, you couldn’t have cared less. All you cared about was the fact that John was back. And that hadn’t changed, of course not, but the sudden request to move hit you like a train.
‘Is that why you want to move?’
His lips formed a thin line and he dropped his fork as he mulled over whatever was going on in that head of his.
‘Nothing bad happened,’ he said after much deliberation, ‘I just figured that… maybe a fresh start would be good. I don’t want you to feel like you’re living with a ghost, love.’
You blinked and narrowed your eyes. ‘I think you’re lying.’
‘I’m not,’ he said, holding his hands up, ‘Seriously – if something happened, I’d tell you.’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday, John.’
‘I know that,’ he said, ‘Just, hear me out, please?’
The heat in your chest quickly quelled as he reached out and grabbed your hand. Again, you were greeted with the fact that he was there with you.
You smiled, begrudgingly. ‘Okay.’
John cleared his throat the same way he did when he was about to give a speech during the holidays.
The last one he’d done had been at his own birthday and you smiled at the thought. All the family gathered around, toasting cans of cheap ale as he drew you into his side and planted a sloppy kiss atop your head.
It was a shame no one wanted to stay to celebrate the fact that you two were home, but you’d overheard both your mum’s in the living room.
‘They’re making up for lost time.’
'Of course. I'm glad they've got each other.'
‘Being gone has made me realise that… I’m done with all the fighting – I’m gettin’ too old and I don’t want to do that to you ever again,’ he confessed, ‘I don’t want to walk out of that door and leave you thinking that you’d be burying an empty box. Not one, not ever again. I- I need you to be safe and I never want to leave ya, not now, not ever.’
He took a breath.
‘And, even though you’re not saying it, lovie, I can see it on your face – this house has been ruined for you because of what happened the last few months and I’d sell my soul if it meant we went somewhere else and just had a fresh start.’
‘John.’
He sighed and looked down at his plate of food and mumbled something.
You caught the end of it. ‘Who died?’
Looking up, he frowned and said, ‘Johnny.’
His hold on you didn’t falter, if anything, it grew to be tighter like he was scared you were going to disappear. The acid of your stomach was burning your heart and you shook your head.
‘No.’
‘We got ambushed… Makarov got to him and I promised–’ he turned his head towards the ceiling as though he was addressing some higher power, ‘I promised him that we’d make it out. Together. But he went home in a box and…’
John broke down crying.
The lobes of your ears were squashed by your shoulders as you jumped from the sudden outburst.
Immediately, you were out of your seat and rounding the table with your hands braced on his shoulders. His chest stammered, tripping like a baby trying to find its footing and he covered his face with his hands.
With your arms wrapped around him, you pressed kisses into the back of his head and shushed him. Never in your time had you seen him cry so hard and your head hurt at the thought of him spending the months he was gone, grovelling in the pain of losing a best friend – a brother.
‘I’m so sorry,’ you managed to squeeze out past the lump in your throat, ‘I’m so, so, sorry, John.’
Wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweater, he shook his head, ‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t you apologise – don’t you ever fuckin’ apologise, you hear?’
Wiping his face with his hand, he sniffed.
‘It’s my fault; I shouldn’t have left. I- I shouldn’t have promised him, I should’ve fixed that floorboard and that fuckin' hob and–’
‘Don’t be silly,’ you huffed, ‘None of that matters and none of it’s your fault. Johnny wouldn’t want you blaming yourself for what happened. You didn’t know what was going to happen, John, you can’t see into the future,’ you rambled, leaning in to look him in the eyes. ‘We’ll move wherever you want to, okay? You name it and we’ll go.’
‘Are you sure?’
You grabbed his hand and pressed a kiss atop it.
The remnants of the war he’d been fighting in his absence were still very much there, even though he’d scrubbed every inch of himself in the shower last night.
‘Wherever you go, I go,’ you said with a smile, pressing the pad of your thumb into the metal band on his finger.
‘Til death do us part,' you added.
John sighed and placed a kiss atop your hand. 'And forever after that.’
Guys I'm going abroad next week for two WHOLE weeks and I don't know what the wifi situation is going to be like.
Can you please respond to me with your FAVOURITE COD x reader, Leon Kennedy x reader, soldier boy x reader (or any character played by jensen ackles), Captain America x reader (and any others honestly why not) on AO3 (name and author or the link!) so I can download them to my kindle pretty please!!!!!
[About]: John Price is dead. Your beloved husband, gone. Grief is weird, however; a part of you feels like he's not really gone. A part of you feels like... he might still be here. Plus, it doesn't help that you found a letter in his handwriting.
[Series word count]: N/A
[cw]: grief, mentions of death, major character death, heavy angst, mentions of religion, smut
Chapter 4 is out now!! I completely forgot that I queued this post -- hence the late update on the masterlist, but I hope you've been enjoying this mini series!
You woke in the morning and put your hand against the pillow on the opposite side of the bed.
The pillow that had taken to playing the role of your late husband and was doing a shoddy job of it – and that was you being polite. The jacket was too baggy and when you slipped your hand through the unbuttoned gaps, your fingers brushed against something glossy.
Silky, smooth. Slippery.
The corners of it jabbed into your skin as you opened your eyes and held it in front of you.
From outside you could hear the cawing of a crow and as the haze of a restless sleep dissipated from your eyes, you looked at what you realised was a photograph, not unlike the ones in the back of the journal.
But this one was different; this one was new.
And the usual suspects, the only suspects, were contained within it.
Your bedroom, your face and John’s in full view, sitting in bed together. Your lips pursed and you narrowed your eyes. In an effort to see better, you rubbed your face with a huff before looking at the picture again.
‘I don’t remember this,’ you mumbled.
The picture touched the tip of your nose as you inspected it. Then, it fell onto the duvet and you pressed your feet into the bottom of the mattress and pushed yourself against the headboard like it had bit you.
In your chest, your heart raced like a rabbit and the hairs on your arms rose like the dead.
The palms of your hands dug into the sockets of your eyes like shovels in a grave plot as your hand crept towards the photograph you’d discarded. You grabbed it with a wince, and peaked past closed eyes like a child peaking atop its duvet at the sweater hanging on a chair they’d mistaken for a monster standing in the corner of the room.
Your attention swapped between the jacket his pillow was wearing and the photograph in your hand. Sure as shit, just behind his head you saw it: the jacket.
Wrapped around the pillow like a damn pillowcase. And you? You were sound asleep wearing the same sweater you were wearing at that very moment. John looked normal, John looked perfect, but there was a telling glint in his eyes, something that demanded you pay attention to him.
It was clear: he wanted you to see him. And you did. You saw him like a blot of ink on a clear page – like the letters he’d left you.
With that, you began to bawl and declare.
‘I see you,’ you snivelled, looking around the room, ‘I do, I do!’
You’d not said those words with such passion since your wedding day. Similar to that day, you were wrapped in white and crying.
‘You’re not gone, you’re here, you’re still with me.’
The words were a struggle to get out as you heaved, your sobs and sentences in a race with one another to see who could slide down your tongue and jump out of your mouth the quickest.
Falling back against your pillow, you kept hold of the photograph even though you weren’t looking at it anymore and cried with sheer vexation.
Everything you’d endured since he had been gone had not been endured alone; he was right there, looking over your shoulder. It had been you who had done wrong because you hadn’t searched for him or even looked for a sign. You’d accepted the fact he was gone without a question and spent the time tossing and turning, cursing him for just doing his job.
And that wasn’t fair to him.
You knew that now, you knew it now because you saw him. Yes, he was there, in the corner of the room, right where the boxes had been stored, looking at you. A tear rolled down your cheek as you blinked. But he didn’t disappear, he didn’t leave, he was as permanent as the ink on the pages of the letters that he’d given you.
‘J- John?’ you croaked, wiping your face.
You heard his boots against the floorboard like how you’d heard them when he’d creep into your room in the middle of the night and the rustling of his jacket as he shrugged it off and dropped it into the box of clothes. Everything made noise, everything was alive. You saw the flush in his cheeks and the creases in his eyes as he smiled at you.
The mattress creaked below him as he took a seat at the edge of the bed and held his hand out to you. ‘C’mere, lovie.’
The photo was discarded as you raced to him, throwing your arms around his neck and burying your face in the nape of his neck.
A tremor tore through your body as you sobbed and when you pulled away from him, you picked up his hands and brought them to your face. They were warm, he was warm and he was there, looking at you and smiling down like he’d just been away for a short while. Had it not been for those boxes, you would have thought it was all a horrible dream.
‘B- But I thought, I thought you were–’
‘I know, darling, I know,’ John said, ‘Things went bad, I had to leave for a while but I didn’t want to spook ya when I came back. I didn’t know what you’d think.’
Neither did you.
With him sitting there with you there, you couldn’t decide if you wanted to slap him or kiss him. Your body opted to decide for you as you leant in and pressed your lips against his. They were warm, they were soft. He pulled you in like it’d been an eternity since he’d last seen you and you struggled to catch your breath and the room span around you.
None of that mattered though; John was back and you heard him take four more breaths when you pulled away from him, smiling so brightly, your face felt like it was going to tear.
You clung on his hands and squeezed them. For the first time in months, you were home.
[About]: John Price is dead. Your beloved husband, gone. Grief is weird, however; a part of you feels like he's not really gone. A part of you feels like... he might still be here. Plus, it doesn't help that you found a letter in his handwriting.
[Series word count]: N/A
[cw]: grief, mentions of death, major character death, heavy angst, mentions of religion, smut
[About]: Needing reassurance, you call your mum for help; you're sure you're dealing with the paranormal, but she's convinced it's something else.
[Wc]: 1.3k
PREVIOUS CHAPTER - SERIES MASTERLIST
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
‘I just… I feel like I’m going crazy, tell me I’m not going crazy.’
You nearly begged your mother after calling her over to tell you something to make everything make sense.
‘I heard his voice, I swear, I heard his fucking voice and I felt warm air, l- like it was his breath or something right against my ear.’
She was supposed to be your crutch, but she asked, ‘Baby, have you been sleeping?’
You blinked and she settled her hand on your knee and frowned.
'Mum-'
‘I know,' she shushed you, 'but the last couple of months have been difficult for you, and John wouldn’t want you to be torturing yourself like this. You need to look after yourself.’
The notes were sitting right next to you on the coffee table and you leant over and snatched one of them, pointing at the block-capitals scribbled in the middle of the page. ‘I have!’ you exclaimed, ‘I know what I’ve heard – the knock at the door, h- his voice and they’re not just a figment or anything; that’s his handwriting, mum.’
‘Darling,’ she said. Her chest swelled with the breath she took and she took hold of the paper in your hand. ‘There’s nothing there.’
The ticking of your heart stopped. Every muscle and tendon ceased and, had it not been for your bones, you would have melted right there and then, hoping to seep through the cracks in the floorboard to escape the sharp chill of horror that crept up your spine as you turned the piece of paper back to you.
His writing was still there, very much so. But the look of concern sitting on your mum’s brow and the knot in your throat smudged. They looked like streaks of mascara strewn across the page.
‘But I–’ I can see them.
The words stuck to the roof of your mouth like a glob of melted chocolate, but no matter how many times you poked at them with your tongue, they refused to shift.
So, instead, as you fell into your mothers arm like you’d just resurfaced from the water in a swim lesson, you choked out, ‘Don’t mind me.’
You felt like you were on John’s cheap fishing boat as she rocked you side to side. Damn bastard was a tight arse with his money, never spent it on anything for himself, all whilst you walked around with a wedding ring which made your mortgage queasy.
It was all you could see as you rested your head on your mothers shoulder, sobbing your little heart out. She rubbed your back and shushed you even though it did nothing to quell you.
Things had been hard enough, you wanted John back like your body needed oxygen and your mind had opted to play tricks on you. Mum couldn’t see the writing so it had to be false. It had to be your head. Of course it was your head because John was dead. The man you loved was gone and all you had to show for it were a couple blank pieces of paper, his clothes and dog tags.
And he was a big man so to have something so small to replace him… well, it simply just wouldn’t work and your mother’s arms were an insult to the memory you were trying to drown yourself in.
Nothing could fill John’s boots. Not your mum and not the mind taunting you. She took you to bed like you were little again, tucked you in and planted a kiss in the centre of your forehead, requesting that you call her if you need anything and for you to not move.
‘Stay put and get some rest, flower; you need it.’
You nodded and closed your eyes. She stayed until she thought you’d fallen asleep and you waited, still with your eyes closed, until you heard the front door close and her car pull out of the driveway.
You felt like you were seven with your Nintendo DS tucked beneath your pillow again, creeping out of bed for a midnight snack when, in reality, you grabbed the letters off the table and went back to your room where, in the corner by the wardrobe were going to the boxes of stuff you’d taken down from the attic.
John didn’t have many worldly possessions and when the pair of you moved into your home together, he’d pulled up with two boxes which contained all the valuables from his apartment and childhood (according to him). You sat on the floor with the notes, intent on tucking them away. Really, you didn’t know what to believe. You felt like you were going crazy. Maybe you were, but there was something in there that could surely give you some form of closure.
John’s journal – the one he’d kept when you’d first been going out together. You’d been through it before with the author right beside you.
‘I can’t believe you used to journal,’ you said, watching him flick through the yellowing pages of the leather bound book. ‘I didn’t even know you kept one.’
‘My mum was always pushing me to keep one. She bought me one after I first told her about you and told me I’d want to remember that time for the rest of me life,’ he explained. Sitting to his left were a bundle of photographs you’d taken during your wedding and honeymoon.
On the top of the pile was a photo of your first kiss as man and wife. He flipped to the back of the book where there was a pocket and plucked the photo from the top of the pile.
‘And she was right.’
You turned to the back of the book and pulled the photographs from out of the pocket. At the top of the pile was your wedding photo, exactly where it was the last time the pair of you had gone through it together.
But John had shown you the other photographs: your first date down on the docks in Liverpool, the pair of you grinning ear to ear when he graduated from cadets and finally enrolled into the army, your proposal, first house and so much more.
He’d been there since the beginning. Well, since things started to matter and memories started to stick and now you were stuck, alone, and all you had to show for him were the photographs.
Tucking them back into the pocket, you took hold of the letters and put them there too and dropped the journal back into the box. There wasn’t much more in there aside from old school trophies, medals, and a few old hats that retired.
You got him a new one every year for his birthday and he’d kept every single one. With that thought, you got up and went back to bed, pulling the cover over yourself like your mother had done. You’d have to put the things back up in the attic; they couldn’t sit there in the corner of the room forever.
Life would have to move on, but you didn’t want it to. You didn’t want the sympathy, you didn’t want the thoughts, you just wanted him.
You just wanted John.
And it wasn’t like you’d actively made the decision to leave, your brain was doing everything to make sure you stayed put with your hands actively digging into the heat of his memory. Turning on your side, you opened your eyes and exhaled, petting the pillow like it was his head.
‘Why’d you have to go?’ you mumbled with heavy eyes, ‘Too busy saving everyone else you forgot to save yourself.’
But that wasn’t the man you wanted to remember and it wasn’t the man in those boxes. Captain Price was just another part of him, it wasn’t John.
Price was firm and brutal, but John… your John was soft and kind. And you supposed he still was there with you, but not in your bed and certainly not in spirit.
Rather, he was an amalgamation of all his earthly possessions which sat in the corner of your room and watched you drift off to sleep.
[About]: Needing reassurance, you call your mum for help; you're sure you're dealing with the paranormal, but she's convinced it's something else.
[Wc]: 1.3k
PREVIOUS CHAPTER - SERIES MASTERLIST
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
‘I just… I feel like I’m going crazy, tell me I’m not going crazy.’
You nearly begged your mother after calling her over to tell you something to make everything make sense.
‘I heard his voice, I swear, I heard his fucking voice and I felt warm air, l- like it was his breath or something right against my ear.’
She was supposed to be your crutch, but she asked, ‘Baby, have you been sleeping?’
You blinked and she settled her hand on your knee and frowned.
'Mum-'
‘I know,' she shushed you, 'but the last couple of months have been difficult for you, and John wouldn’t want you to be torturing yourself like this. You need to look after yourself.’
The notes were sitting right next to you on the coffee table and you leant over and snatched one of them, pointing at the block-capitals scribbled in the middle of the page. ‘I have!’ you exclaimed, ‘I know what I’ve heard – the knock at the door, h- his voice and they’re not just a figment or anything; that’s his handwriting, mum.’
‘Darling,’ she said. Her chest swelled with the breath she took and she took hold of the paper in your hand. ‘There’s nothing there.’
The ticking of your heart stopped. Every muscle and tendon ceased and, had it not been for your bones, you would have melted right there and then, hoping to seep through the cracks in the floorboard to escape the sharp chill of horror that crept up your spine as you turned the piece of paper back to you.
His writing was still there, very much so. But the look of concern sitting on your mum’s brow and the knot in your throat smudged. They looked like streaks of mascara strewn across the page.
‘But I–’ I can see them.
The words stuck to the roof of your mouth like a glob of melted chocolate, but no matter how many times you poked at them with your tongue, they refused to shift.
So, instead, as you fell into your mothers arm like you’d just resurfaced from the water in a swim lesson, you choked out, ‘Don’t mind me.’
You felt like you were on John’s cheap fishing boat as she rocked you side to side. Damn bastard was a tight arse with his money, never spent it on anything for himself, all whilst you walked around with a wedding ring which made your mortgage queasy.
It was all you could see as you rested your head on your mothers shoulder, sobbing your little heart out. She rubbed your back and shushed you even though it did nothing to quell you.
Things had been hard enough, you wanted John back like your body needed oxygen and your mind had opted to play tricks on you. Mum couldn’t see the writing so it had to be false. It had to be your head. Of course it was your head because John was dead. The man you loved was gone and all you had to show for it were a couple blank pieces of paper, his clothes and dog tags.
And he was a big man so to have something so small to replace him… well, it simply just wouldn’t work and your mother’s arms were an insult to the memory you were trying to drown yourself in.
Nothing could fill John’s boots. Not your mum and not the mind taunting you. She took you to bed like you were little again, tucked you in and planted a kiss in the centre of your forehead, requesting that you call her if you need anything and for you to not move.
‘Stay put and get some rest, flower; you need it.’
You nodded and closed your eyes. She stayed until she thought you’d fallen asleep and you waited, still with your eyes closed, until you heard the front door close and her car pull out of the driveway.
You felt like you were seven with your Nintendo DS tucked beneath your pillow again, creeping out of bed for a midnight snack when, in reality, you grabbed the letters off the table and went back to your room where, in the corner by the wardrobe were going to the boxes of stuff you’d taken down from the attic.
John didn’t have many worldly possessions and when the pair of you moved into your home together, he’d pulled up with two boxes which contained all the valuables from his apartment and childhood (according to him). You sat on the floor with the notes, intent on tucking them away. Really, you didn’t know what to believe. You felt like you were going crazy. Maybe you were, but there was something in there that could surely give you some form of closure.
John’s journal – the one he’d kept when you’d first been going out together. You’d been through it before with the author right beside you.
‘I can’t believe you used to journal,’ you said, watching him flick through the yellowing pages of the leather bound book. ‘I didn’t even know you kept one.’
‘My mum was always pushing me to keep one. She bought me one after I first told her about you and told me I’d want to remember that time for the rest of me life,’ he explained. Sitting to his left were a bundle of photographs you’d taken during your wedding and honeymoon.
On the top of the pile was a photo of your first kiss as man and wife. He flipped to the back of the book where there was a pocket and plucked the photo from the top of the pile.
‘And she was right.’
You turned to the back of the book and pulled the photographs from out of the pocket. At the top of the pile was your wedding photo, exactly where it was the last time the pair of you had gone through it together.
But John had shown you the other photographs: your first date down on the docks in Liverpool, the pair of you grinning ear to ear when he graduated from cadets and finally enrolled into the army, your proposal, first house and so much more.
He’d been there since the beginning. Well, since things started to matter and memories started to stick and now you were stuck, alone, and all you had to show for him were the photographs.
Tucking them back into the pocket, you took hold of the letters and put them there too and dropped the journal back into the box. There wasn’t much more in there aside from old school trophies, medals, and a few old hats that retired.
You got him a new one every year for his birthday and he’d kept every single one. With that thought, you got up and went back to bed, pulling the cover over yourself like your mother had done. You’d have to put the things back up in the attic; they couldn’t sit there in the corner of the room forever.
Life would have to move on, but you didn’t want it to. You didn’t want the sympathy, you didn’t want the thoughts, you just wanted him.
You just wanted John.
And it wasn’t like you’d actively made the decision to leave, your brain was doing everything to make sure you stayed put with your hands actively digging into the heat of his memory. Turning on your side, you opened your eyes and exhaled, petting the pillow like it was his head.
‘Why’d you have to go?’ you mumbled with heavy eyes, ‘Too busy saving everyone else you forgot to save yourself.’
But that wasn’t the man you wanted to remember and it wasn’t the man in those boxes. Captain Price was just another part of him, it wasn’t John.
Price was firm and brutal, but John… your John was soft and kind. And you supposed he still was there with you, but not in your bed and certainly not in spirit.
Rather, he was an amalgamation of all his earthly possessions which sat in the corner of your room and watched you drift off to sleep.
[About]: John Price is dead. Your beloved husband, gone. Grief is weird, however; a part of you feels like he's not really gone. A part of you feels like... he might still be here. Plus, it doesn't help that you found a letter in his handwriting.
[Series word count]: N/A
[cw]: grief, mentions of death, major character death, heavy angst, mentions of religion, smut
Dad Simon who lets his daughter paint his nails and add little stickers onto them so when he goes back to the base (having for gotten to take the nail polish off) he's given strange looks when he takes his gloves off.
'Nice nails, Lt. That cat sticker really matches ye eyes.'
'She's not just a cat,' he says sternly, looking down at the sticker on his middle finger, 'her names Hello Kitty, Sergeant. Get it right.'
'Right,' Soap says, promptly nodding his head, 'sorry, Lt. Won't make that mistake again.'
[About]: John Price is dead. Your beloved husband, gone. Grief is weird, however; a part of you feels like he's not really gone. A part of you feels like... he might still be here. Plus, it doesn't help that you found a letter in his handwriting.
[Series word count]: N/A
[cw]: grief, mentions of death, major character death, heavy angst, mentions of religion, smut
[About]: John Price is dead. Your beloved husband, gone. Grief is weird, however; a part of you feels like he's not really gone. A part of you feels like... he might still be here. Plus, it doesn't help that you found a letter in his handwriting.
[Series word count]: N/A
[cw]: grief, mentions of death, major character death, heavy angst, mentions of religion, smut
snowghoul
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