Book Summary: John "Soap" MacTavish has hated you since the very first day you arrived on base and joined their Task Force. You argue all the time, and one day, it pushes Captain Price to his absolute limit. He sends you both away to an isolated cabin in the woods for a week in hopes you can put aside your differences and bond. Will it work? Or will you two just end up hating each other even more?
This is a slow burn enemies to lovers fan fiction featuring Soap and you, the reader.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Soap is mean, like really mean, smut, rough smut, nice smut, slightly non-consensual, lots of swearing, violence, descriptive, blood, angst, fluff, slow burn, PTSD, past trauma, comfort, suggestive language, loss of a loved one, changing family dynamics, depression, funerals, car crash death, loss of a parent, unhealthy coping, child abuse, child neglect, mental/emotional/physical child abuse, neglectful parents, (more to come as I write)
Other Places to Find This Fic:
~ Wattpad
Chapter 1: The Mission
Chapter 2: The Heat of Battle
Chapter 3: The Debrief
Chapter 4: The Cabin: Day 1 (pt. 1)
Chapter 5: The Cabin: Day 1 (pt. 2)
Chapter 6: The Cabin: Day 2
Chapter 7: The Cabin: Day 3 (smut)
Chapter 8: The Cabin: Day 4 (pt. 1)
Chapter 9: The Cabin: Day 4 (pt. 2)
Chapter 10: The Cabin: Day 5 (pt. 1)
Chapter 11: The Cabin: Day 5 (pt. 2)
Chapter 12: The Cabin: Day 5 (pt. 3)
Chapter 13: The Cabin: Day 5 (pt. 4)
Chapter 14: The Cabin: Day 5 (pt. 5)
Chapter 15: The Cabin: Day 5 (pt. 6) (smut)
Chapter 16: Annette (pt. 1)
Chapter 17: Annette (pt. 2)
Chapter 18: Annette (pt. 3)
Chapter 19: The Cabin: Day 6 (pending)
• To the best of my ability, will have weekly updates
• Please do not post my works on any other platforms or use my storyline for AI purposes. If someone finds this to be the case, please let me know
Hey girly, are you ok? I've been checking your account almost every week to see if you have updated the fic or if you would post an update on how you are doing, but it's been too long, so I wanted to check 😊
A mix of writers block, wanting to perfect the next chapter (since it’s a heavy one) and some personal stuff got in the way. But the next chapter is here!! 👇
Summary: John recalls the night that his entire life changed forever. The night the torment of living with Annette finally ends.
Word Count: 13,756
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, swearing, strong language, domestic violence, child abuse, blood and gore, unhealthy family dynamics, medical descriptions, neglect, emotional manipulation.
A/N: Sorry this took so long to post! A mix of writers block, wanting to get the pacing just right, and personal issues got in the way. But I finally have a new chapter for you guys, and I hope you enjoy it :)
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Bitter Allies • Part 18
John was thirteen years old when his father accepted that new job. What was supposed to be a temporary job certainly didn't feel only temporary. He'd have that job for the next four years. And those four years marked some of the darkest memories of John's life. Darker than anything he had ever faced being in the military. And he'd seen some pretty fucked things during his time in the service.
In the beginning, his father was only gone for a week or so at a time, but slowly those stretches of him being gone got longer and longer. Sometimes he'd be gone for a month, be back a few days, and then leave again for another month.
He seemed to enjoy his new job. He always seemed eager to leave for another work trip. When he came home he'd bring gifts and go on and on about how much money he was making and how good it was going to be for them. Always the promise of more family time, but there was always an excuse.
He couldn't quit because he wanted to give them all a college fund, the job market was bad and he couldn't find anything else that paid as good, he wanted to wait until after the big Christmas party and the bonus check, he couldn't just quit in the middle of a project. The list was endless.
It was only much later in life that John realized his father wasn't just working to support them, he was escaping. Escaping Annette, escaping the weight of raising four kids, escaping the chaos of a home that was crumbling. It wasn't a sacrifice, he'd abandoned them.
With his father gone, the thin thread of protection that had once dulled Annette's temper snapped completely. There was no shield now, no buffer. The house became hers. They lived under her rules.
Looking back, Annette probably knew what his father was doing, and it'd made her angry. She couldn't divorce him cause she had nothing else, nowhere to go. She was forced to raise John and his sisters, and she resented them. Those last four years of living in that house were a nightmare.
John still remembers the day it all started. He hadn't been there when it happened, but one evening, standing shoulder to shoulder with Eilidh at the sink as they scrubbed dishes, he'd noticed something. The sleeve of her shirt had been rolled back slightly, and just below her elbow, dark bruises bloomed against her pale skin.
Before he even thought, his hand shot out and caught her arm, making Eilidh gasp.
"John! What are you-" she tried to pull her arm free, but John was already shoving her sleeve higher. His breath caught in his throat. Finger-shaped bruises dug deep into her flesh, ugly purples and yellows, and they kept traveling further up her arm. Her bicep was littered with dark splotches and stopped at about her shoulder, or at least that was as far John could move her sleeve to see.
"What happened." His voice came out sharp, trembling with anger he couldn't swallow down.
Eilidh yanked her arm back, tugging her sleeve down in one motion. "It's nothing." She muttered, her voice tight.
"It's not nothing." John's jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His stomach churned. Annette had gotten a little physical with them in the past. She'd grabbed them plenty of times, but she'd never left any marks behind.
Eilidh wouldn't meet his eyes. She just turned back to the sink, scrubbing harder.
"Eilidh, what did she do to you?" He asked again, his voice breaking. The sound made her flinch, and tears filled her eyes.
"She just—she was mad, okay?" Eilidh whispered. "I forgot to fold the laundry, and she... she grabbed me too hard. That's all."
"That's all?" John hissed. "She bruised your whole arm. That's not nothing, Eilidh." He throws his dish rag back into the sink and turns to leave, but he's quickly stopped by Eilidh grabbing him.
"What are you doing?" She hisses. "Don't make it worse, John. Just let it go, please."
"I'm not going to let her keep doing this." He says.
"And what are you going to do? There's nothing you can do. Anything you do will just make it worse." She was pleading with him.
"And if I don't do anything it'll keep happening." He argues. "So I'm going to go and confront that bitch and tell her that-"
Eilidh stiffens suddenly, her eyes widening and her face going pale. She looked like she was trying to say something but no words came out.
John instinctively looks behind him, only to be met with a sharp stinging slap across the face. It knocks him back to facing Eilidh, and he stumbles into her a little bit. Eilidh screams, and she tries to grab John to steady him. In her fear, she ends up clinging to him, accidentally making it harder for John to get his footing back.
"Who do you think you're calling a bitch?" Annette growls.
John gasps for air a moment. The slap had knocked the wind out of him. "...you." He manages to choke out as he cradles his cheek in his hand.
That earns him a sharp tug to his hair. He hisses, stumbling forward as Annette starts to drag him out of the kitchen. Eilidh is hysterical behind him, pleading for Annette to let him go.
She takes him up stairs, and John stumbles as he tries to keep up with her quick pace. Every time he misses a step and falls, she pulls him back up by his hair, making him hiss in pain. She only lets go once they're in his room. He's thrown into the middle of his room, and John rubs his head where Annette had been gripping his hair.
She's stood in the doorway, arms crossed, breathing hard through her nose. "You really have some nerve, John." She said coldly. "Calling me a bitch in my own house. I think having some reflect on your words will do you some good."
John almost didn't hear her due to the blood rushing through his ears. He looks up at her through blurry eyes. "W-what?" He asks, watching as she turned away and shut his door. That couldn't be it. Annette never gave up so easily. Then John heard a clicking sound. The doorknob rattled a few times.
John was back on his feet immediately, running towards the door and grabbing the knob. He gave it a twist, but the door didn't budge. It was locked.
John twisted it again, harder this time, panic clawing up his throat. "Hey! Let me out!" His voice cracked, raw and too loud in the small space. He slammed his palm against the door. "Open the door!"
From the other side came hurried footsteps. "Johnny." Eilidh's voice, thin and breaking.
And then Annette's in the background, barely heard over Eilidh's sobbing. "Get away from that door."
"John, I'm here..."
John leaned into the door, his voice frantic. "Eilidh. Go call dad. Tell him what she did-"
"Get away from that door!" Annette's voice cuts through sharper his time.
Eilidh is still sobbing. "Please, please let him out! We'll be good! I promise!"
The sound that followed was unmistakable. A sharp crack. Flesh on flesh.
Eilidh screamed.
John felt sick. "NO!" He threw his shoulder into the door, rattling it in its frame. "Please leave her alone! Don't hurt her! Please!" He begs. Him getting hurt by Annette for his own actions was one thing. But he didn't want to see his siblings getting hurt because of him.
Another sound. Eilidh gasping, choking back sobs.
"I warned you." Annette said coldly. "I warned you not to go near his door. Now you listen carefully. If you so much as stand outside his door again, you'll be punished. And next time?" A pause. "Next time will be worse."
"Stop..." Eilidh cried. John wasn't sure what was happening. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
"Go finish the dishes."
"Yes, ma'am." John can hear Eilidh running off then. Tears stream down his face as he stares at the oak door. Annette's cold voice cuts through the wood.
"I'll decide when you're ready to come out, John. You pound on this door again, actually you so much as make a peep, and it's gonna be your sisters who pay for it. You understand?"
John fights back a sob. "Y-yes."
There was a pause. Then her footsteps moved away.
The house fell silent.
John stayed on the floor for a long time, staring at nothing, listening to every creak and breath the house took, waiting for the lock to turn. It never did. Night bled into morning, and morning into night again. The sun rose and set beyond his window, marking time in thin strips of light on the wall.
By the time the door finally opened, two whole days had passed. He'd been let out only twice to use the bathroom, and he didn't get to attend any meals. His stomach hurt from the hunger.
His father came home about two weeks later.
It was loud when he did. Boots thumping down the halls, bags being dropped, his voice filling the house like it always did when he'd been gone. John watched him laugh with Annette, watched the way she leaned into him, soft and pleasant and perfectly normal.
He was only home for two days. Something about a huge conference in Australia. Another opportunity. Another excuse to leave.
John waited for the perfect opportunity. For Annette to step out of the room before he made his move. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
"Dad." He said quietly. "Can I talk to you?"
His father barely looked up from his phone. "Make it quick, Johnny. I'm exhausted."
The words came out tangled and rushed. About the bruises on Eilidh's arm. About how Annette had dragged him upstairs by his hair. About how she'd locked him in his room and left him alone for days.
His father sighed, finally looking at him. "Your stepmom's under a lot of stress." He said. "You kids push her buttons, you know that. She doesn't always mean to be rough."
John's heart dropped. "She locked me in my room." John said, his voice cracking. "She didn't feed me."
"You're exaggerating." His father replied immediately. "Johnny, I know you don't like Annette, but you can't be saying stuff like that." He stood, grabbing his jacket. "Look, I'm not getting in the middle of this. Please just try to get along, yeah? It'll make things easier for everyone.”
That was it. John had never felt more betrayed in his life. It didn't matter. A day later, and his father was gone again.
***
Almost two years later, John was nearing his fifteenth birthday. He, as well as his sisters, had gotten used to hiding any bruises left by Annette.
On that particular day, John remembers waiting outside the school for Eilidh, Rowan, and Kristen. It was their last day of school before spring break. Kids spilled out of the building laughing, shouting about trips and sleepovers, and whatever else.
Eilidh found him first. Quietly standing beside him as they waited for the other two to join them. Rowan followed a moment later, chewing on the strap of her backpack.
"Where's Kristen?" John asked, eyes scanning the crowd of kids. It was beginning to thin out now.
They both shrugged.
Five minutes stretched into ten. John was about to go back into the school to look for her, but then Kristen finally appeared, walking fast, her head down.
"Finally." John says as she joins them. "What took you so long?"
"Nothing." She says. "Just asking a teacher about an assignment."
John shrugged it off, not even questioning her having an assignment over spring break. Their normal banter assumed as they walked home. It was only broken up by Eilidh.
"Kristen." She asked softly. "Are you okay?"
John glances over at his sister, noticing now that she not fully engaging with them.
"Yeah." She said quickly. "I'm fine."
Eilidh studied her for a second longer, then nodded. "Okay."
Kristen stayed quiet, trailing almost half a step behind them. John didn't think too much about it really. She'd gotten in trouble with Annette the night before, so he assumed that had something to do with it. She'd even been quiet that morning.
At home, they scattered almost immediately into their respective rooms. An hour passed. Maybe two. He wasn't sure really.
The sound of a car engine pulled him out of his thoughts and towards his window. There was a grey car pulling up to their house, and a middle aged woman stepped out. John instantly recognized her as one of the teachers from school. It wasn't one he'd had before, but he still recognized her.
She walked up their front porch and knocked on the door. John was up in an instant. Eilidh was also up and joined him as they quietly rushed to the top of the stairs to listen down.
"Why is Mrs Fraser here?" She asks him quietly.
"I don't know."
Annette opened the door, all warm and smiley, her voice pleasant. It was hard to hear them, but John caught a few fragments.
"Hi... from the school... I'm just stopping by... noticed some bruising on Kristen's side today..."
Rowan came and crouched next to them then. "What's going on?"
"Shhh." John and Eilidh hush her at the same time.
Annette laughed softly, her voice a lot louder than the teachers. "Oh, that. She's always climbing trees after her siblings. Took a nasty fall the other day. I keep telling her not to do it, but she simply doesn't listen."
There was a pause. John imagined the teacher hesitating, looking past Annette into the house, but he couldn't see anything.
"Oh, well ...a very lively girl." The teacher says. "...just ... sure she was alright... seemed down today..."
"I know. Their father left this morning for a business trip. I think she's just upset about that. I'll make sure she can call him tonight." Annette says. "Thank you for your concern about her."
Lie after lie.
The teacher seemed to accept it though. There were a few more muffled words exchanged and then the door was being gently shut. For a heartbeat, the house was dead silent.
Then Annette's voice cut through it. "Kristen." The sound of her name was sharp, edged.
"Kristen!" Annette called again, louder this time. "Get down here. Now."
No answer.
John felt Eilidh tense beside him. Rowan's fingers curled into the fabric of Eilidh's sleeve.
"Don't make me come looking for you!" She warned.
Still nothing.
That was when Annette's footsteps started to move across living room, heading towards the stairs. They were quick.
"Go." John whispered urgently. He's up in seconds, pulling Rowan to her feet and pushing her along ahead of him as he went, Eilidh traveling just inches behind him.
They run back down the hall as quietly as they can, turning to retreat back into John's room. They just barely all slip inside and pull the door shut to just a crack as Annette makes it to the top of the stairs.
John pressed his ear to the door as Annette walks past. It sounds like she's going right to Kristen's room. His heart is pounding so hard he was sure it could be heard. Eilidh stood behind him, Rowan tucked against her side.
"Kristen, last chance. Where are you?" There's more silence. "Are you under the bed? Get out from under there now."
There's a sound of shuffling. John can't hear much of what Kristen is saying. She's taking too softly at first, while Annette is shouting.
"Why was there a teacher at my door?!"
"What did you do?!"
"What lies did you tell her?!"
Kristen's voice is getting louder now. She's exclaiming her innocence. Swearing she didn't say anything. Promising it was accident. That it'll never happen again. Her voice is panicked. Pleading.
Then there was a sharp crack.
Kristen screamed.
It made all three siblings jump. Rowan starts to sob immediately. Eilidh spun, pulling her close, pressing Rowan's head into her chest and clamping her hands over Rowan's ears.
John is frozen in place at first, his hands instinctively covering Eilidh's ears, his palms firm against the sides of her head. He's trying to stay out of it. He knows him getting involved only makes it worse.
There's another sharp cracking sound, another scream, and John can't stand it. He bolts to Kristen's room despite Eilidh calling his name. He barrels into her room, shoulder slamming against the door and making it bang against the wall.
"Stop!" He shouts.
Kristen is on the floor, curled in on herself, arms over her head, her whole body shaking. Annette stands over her, a belt clenched in her fist, her arm already drawn back again.
"Please!" He begs, the word tearing out of him. "Please, stop! She didn't do anything. She didn't-"
Annette turns on him slowly, her eyes bright with fury. "Get out."
"Hit me instead." John blurts. "Please. I'll take it. Just don't-don't hurt her."
Annette ignores him completely. She raises the belt back above her head, and John moves in. He grabs her wrist before she can strike Kristen again.
"Stop, please! Please, please stop!" He yells. Everything goes very still. Annette is looking at him now. She yanks her arm free from his grip, and the next pain, pain explodes across John's side.
He cries out, his knees buckling and his arm instantly holding his side. Then the belt comes down on his back, sharp and blinding pain. It steals all the air in lungs, knocking the wind out of him entirely. Before he was catch his breath, it comes again.
He can only choke out a few yells with each hit. Tears run freely down his cheeks. He curls in on himself instinctively, but he doesn't move away from Kristen. He stays between them.
His ears are ringing loudly, but he can still hear Kristen sobbing. She's backed herself into the corner of her room, knees tucked up to her chest and staring anywhere but at John.
Annette cracks the belt against his back one more time. John feels like he's about to pass out. The corners of his vision are darkening, but he never loses consciousness. Luckily, Annette stops before he can.
Her breathing is heavy, uneven. "Do you know what happens if anyone ever finds out? They'll take you away. You'll never get to see each other again. You'll never get to see your father again. You'll have nothing. I'm trying to keep us together. But you always have to make it so fucking difficult."
She turns and leaves the room then, the belt still in her hand. John is breathing hard, the pain still very sharp on his back. He isn't sure if he's bleeding or not.
Kristen scoots over to him then, trying to hug him, but when she places her hands on his back, it hurts. "I-I'm sorry, Johnny. I'm sorry." She babbles the words over and over.
John sits up despite how much it hurts to move. He hugs Kristen, trying not to touch the red welts on her arms from where the belt hit her. "It's alright. It's alright." He keeps saying.
***
A year later, John was sixteen.
The house hadn't changed. Not really. Same walls, same doors, same Annette. Him and his siblings had gotten smarter. Sneakier. They'd all learned how to climb out of the windows. How to sneak food to each other. They'd learned when to speak and when not to, how to keep their faces blank. They learned how to survive.
Life changed for John at the age of sixteen. He was out running errands for Annette. Nothing too complicated. He'd been sent to pick up lightbulbs and a new extension cord. She'd even given him extra money to get something to eat while he was out, which was rare. John planned on just pocketing it though. He was trying to save up to leave.
He cut through the strip of shops, lost in his own thoughts as he pushed open the door to the hardware store. He stopped short though and took a step back. The windows were papered over, the sign stripped down to bare metal. There was a piece of paper tapped to the door.
ARMY RECRUITING STATION
The door chimed softly when he stepped inside. A man behind the desk looked up and smiled, easy and practiced. "Hey there. Can I help you with something?" He had a strong Glaswegian accent.
John hesitated. His pulse thudded in his ears. "I-uh. I was looking for the hardware store." He says.
"Oh, they moved down to the next block over." He says. "Over on Gail Street."
"Alright. Thank you, sir." John nods, turning to leave, but the recruiter stops him.
"You interested in the military, lad?"
John pauses. "I don't know. I guess I've never thought about it before." He says truthfully.
"Well there's lots of opportunity. You could join up with the Royal Regiment of Scotland, the Royal Marines Reserve. You'd get to travel the world, serve your country."
"I'm only sixteen."
The recruiter nodded, unfazed. "That's okay. You can still enlist with parental permission."
John blinked. "I can?"
"Yep. You wouldn't be shipping out to any war zones, but we could put you through basics, get the paperwork started. Gives you options. If you have a moment, we can go over it a little more."
They talked for a few minutes. About basic training. Housing. Schooling. Leaving home. Traveling.
Finally, the man reached into a drawer and pulled out a form, sliding it across the desk. "Here lad, take this home. Look it over. Talk to your parents about it. We always leave over the summer so it doesn't interfere with school."
John picked it up. It was a permission slip. "Thanks." There was no way Annette would sign it, and his dad was never home. Not that he'd sign it either though. John still folds up the paper and puts it in his pocket.
Later that night, once everyone had gone to sleep, he got the slip out and flattened it out on his desk. He read it over probably ten times.
This could be his chance. He could forge his dad's signature, join up with the army. They'd provide housing and food at least for a few months until he could find something else. And then he'd never have to come back here. He could have a fresh start. He could leave all of this behind. Leave Annette, his father, this life.
His sisters...
That made him hesitate. Without him there to act as a buffer, they'd be completely at Annette's mercy. Could he just leave them behind with her?
He wanted to. Well, he didn't want to leave them, but he wanted to leave. He wanted out. He wanted to be selfish.
He picks up a pen and starts to fill the forms out, faking his dad's signature in all the places he needed a parent or guardian to sign. If anything it was fun just to pretend like he was going to turn them in. Like he'd be leaving.
But then John started planning without meaning to. He couldn't stop thinking about it. Every time something happened at home, he found himself daydreaming of it. Picturing what it'd be like. He didn't touch the form again for days, but when he finally did, he noticed the deadline printed at the bottom. Three weeks.
Plenty of time to decide, he told himself.
One afternoon, he'd just finished up his chores and was heading up to his room to rest for a bit. When he stepped inside his room, Eilidh was in there and sitting on his bed.
"What are you doing in my room?" He asks immediately, his eyes then snapping down to what she was holding. There was a piece of paper in her hands.
For a second, neither of them moved.
"Johnny." She said quietly. "What is this?" She flipped it to show him. His stomach drops.
"Give it here." He snaps, stepping closer to her, holding out his hand.
"No." She stood up and move a step away from him, gripping the page. Her eyes scanned it again and then snapped back up to him. "Is this... are you trying to join the army?"
"It's nothing." He said too quickly. "It's just information."
"This is a permission form." Her voice rose. "You need a parent's signature."
"I know that."
"So what, you were just going to ask dad to sign this?" Her mouth twisted. "Or Annette?"
"The recruiters don't know what dad's signature looks like."
Her face hardened. "You can't do this. You can't just leave."
"I-I'm not." He said. He didn't have the heart to tell her. "I didn't plan to actually turn it in.”
She stared at him, searching his face like she was trying to decide if he was lying. "You swear?"
"Yes." He said, and this time the lie came easier. "I swear. I won't do it."
Her shoulders dropped a fraction, but she still looked furious. She shoved the paper back into his chest. "Get rid of it."
"Alright."
She left without another word.
John sat on the edge of his bed for a long time after she was gone, the form crumpled in his fist.
The deadline kept creeping closer. Two weeks passed. Then another.
The night before the deadline, John was listening to Annette screaming downstairs at Rowan. He had tears in his eyes, his cheek was burning. He couldn't even fully remember what happened. Rowan did something, he stepped in, Annette slapped him. He'd been sent off.
That night, he pulled the form out from where he'd hidden it, reading it again.
The deadline was tomorrow.
"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I can't do it anymore."
The next morning, he skipped school. Halfway there, he'd made up some excuse to have to go back home. He told his sisters to go on ahead. Instead of going home though, he walked to the recruiting office.
It all felt unreal. He felt like at any moment Annette would find him and stop him. When he got to the office, he pushed the door open, and the same chime rang out.
The recruiter looked up and smiled. "Hello there young laddie. What can I do for you?"
It was a different man this time, but it didn't matter. John slid the form across the desk. "I have this form."
The man scanned it and lets out a hum. "Shouldn't you be in school, John?" He asks, glancing back up at him.
John felt tense. "I'm going there next. I just wanted to make sure I got the form in before the deadline."
The man glances back down at the form, nods, and tucks it away. "Looks like you just barely made it. We'll just get some basics done, yeah?" He gets up and motions for John to follow him.
"This is Staff Sergeant McKay. He's just going to give you a quick physical and ask you a few questions."
They took his height and weight, checked his vision, ran through a short list of questions. No medical conditions. No medications. No injuries worth noting. He'd passed everything so far.
"Still in school?" McKay asked, seemingly making small talk as he clicks around on his computer.
"Yes, sir."
"What year?"
"Fifth."
McKay nodded. "Good age to be thinking about your future."
John said nothing. Just hummed. There's a pause before McKay continues.
"Anyone here with you today?"
"No, sir."
"All right." He said. "Next step is just a quick verification call."
John frowns. "A what?"
"Standard procedure." McKay said easily. "Just a quick call to mom or dad to get verbal confirmation."
John swallowed. His palms were slick. "Is that... is that really necessary?"
McKay looked up at him.
"It's just-" John starts quickly. "My dad works a lot. He doesn't like being bothered. And he already signed it."
McKay's expression didn't change. "Well lad, most kids' parents come along with them. We do the phone call confirmation when kids come alone. Safeguarding rules for minors."
John's mouth went dry.
McKay leaned back slightly, studying him now. "You seem nervous."
"I'm not." John said too fast. "I just..."
"John," McKay interrupted, voice still even, "did your father sign this form?"
The room fell very quiet.
"Yes." John mutters.
McKay didn't respond right away. He turned the form around and tapped the signature line with his pen. "Are you sure? Listen, forging a parent or guardian's signature is a serious offense. It can carry legal consequences. Not just for you, but for us if we knowingly accept it. So I'm gonna ask you again before we give your dad a ring. Did he sign this form?"
His hands curled into fists in his lap. "No." He whispered, gaze dropping to his lap.
McKay exhaled slowly. "All right. Thank you for telling the truth. Who signed it then?"
"I... I did..." Before McKay can say anything, John continues. "Am I in trouble? I won't do it again. I swear."
"Why do you want to join the army, John?" He asks, and John is silent. "Look, you're not in any trouble. I just want to understand what's going on."
John's throat burned. "I don't know... I just... thought it'd be cool to join the army."
There's another beat of silence before McKay answers. "John we have a duty to flag concerns when a minor shows up faking their intake forms."
John's chest tightened. "What does that mean?"
"It means," McKay said gently, "that if there's something going on at home, you don't feel safe, anything like that, then we can help you."
John keeps his gaze down. He wanted to tell him everything, but he was so scared. His fingers buzzed with adrenaline, his vision felt narrow. The words burned his throat, but fear pushed them down. What was the point? Annette always won. If there was one thing he'd learned, getting help just made things worse.
"Nothing like that." He finally says. "My parents just would never let me."
McKay sighs heavily. John wasn't sure if he believed him or not. "Alright. But lad, I'm still gonna have to call home and let them know about this, alright? We can't have you doing this."
Fuck. There it was.
John felt sick. His face was burning up. He wished he'd just went to school. Torn up the form and thrown it out like Eilidh had wanted. Annette was going to be furious when she found out...
"Yes, sir..." He manages to say.
John didn't go back to school after he left the Army Recruiting Office. Luckily the house was empty when he got there. Annette was out. He went straight to his room, shut the door, and sunk down into the bed.
Hours later, he heard the door downstairs open, voices, and the sound of shoes being kicked off. His sisters were home. A minute later and they were all going up the stairs and then there was a knock on his door.
He didn't answer, but the door opened anyway. "John?" Eilidh's voice was soft. "My God, there you are. We waited forever for you. Why didn't you wait for us like you normally do?"
His chest tightened. "I didn't go to school today."
"Why?"
John dragged a hand down his face. "Because I went to the army recruiting office instead."
The words landed heavy between them. He couldn't see her face, he was still laying flat on his bed not having moved since he got home earlier, but he could hear her expression shift.
"You what?!" She hisses. "John, you promised! You promised... you're leaving us?" She was whisper shouting, but her words trail off as she starts to cry.
"I know, I know. I'm sorry." He said quickly, sitting up now. "And no, I'm not. They figured out that I faked dad's signature."
"But you would have left us if they hadn't?" She spits out. She was angry.
John's jaw tightens. "Yes. I would have. Forgive me, Eilidh, for wanting out of this hellhole." He's a lot meaner than he intended to be.
Eilidh glares at him, her lip trembling. "And what would you have done? They would have found out eventually. Then what?"
"I don't know!" John growls, louder than he intended. He quickly lowers his voice back down. "I don't know... but it doesn't matter anyway. Cause I'm not going. So just drop it and leave me alone."
Eilidh huffs, but she does leave then. John was ready to just put all of this behind him, but of course it was never that simple.
Later that night at dinner time, their father was home. No one had been expecting him. It seemed Annette might have known he was coming cause she was dressed up a little more than usual. But she never told them when he was coming around.
He'd gotten home about an hour before dinner time, cheerful as ever. John couldn't even pretend to be happy to see him though. Both because he was anticipating his father to find out about the military thing and because he just genuinely wasn't happy to see him anymore.
Later that night, they all sat and ate quietly as their father went on with story after story about work. John mostly picked at his food, only half listening, but then his father said something that caught his attention.
"So how was school today? You guys getting good grades still?"
There was a collection of "yes, sir." and "it was good/alright."
Then Annette spoke up. "Oh, was school good today? That's odd, cause they actually called today." She said, her eyes trained on John. "They said John wasn't there."
His father's gaze shifted immediately into confusion. "Is that right?" He asked.
John kept his eyes on his plate. "Yeah."
"Well?" His father pressed. "Why not?"
John swallowed. "I wasn't feeling good. I just... came home."
Annette let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Oh please, John. That is the oldest excuse in the book."
John's jaw tightened, but he didn't look up. "I didn't feel good." He repeated.
Annette crossed her arms. "I didn't see you come home." She points out. "You were probably out getting into trouble."
"I wasn't-" John started, then stopped himself. "No."
His father leaned forward slightly. "So you expect me to believe you just walked out of school and came home?"
John nodded once. "Yeah."
Silence stretched.
Then Annette turned her head toward the others. "Well, did any of you see him when you got home?" She asked. There was a pause. Eilidh spoke first, quiet but steady.
"Yeah. He was there."
Kristen gave a confirming nod, and Rowan nodded after a second. "He told us he didn't feel good."
Annette watched them, eyes narrowing slightly. Then she looked back at John "Funny. You look perfectly fine now."
John forced himself to shrug. "I feel better."
His father leaned back in his chair, studying him in a way that made John's skin crawl. Before he could say anything else, his phone rang. It chimed loudly, cutting through the tension a little.
"Oh! Gotta take this. Might be work." He says, standing quickly and excusing himself. He almost seemed happy to have his work call to distract him.
No one spoke as he walked out into the hall. The moment he was gone, the room seemed to hold its breath. Annette didn't move. Her eyes stayed on John.
"Where did you go, John?" She asks again, cold and sharp this time.
"I told you. Home. I didn't feel good today." John kept his gaze fixed downward, every muscle in his body tight. From the hallway, his father's voice murmured. Low, indistinct.
It was silent for a while. Only the sound silverware clinking against plates and his father's muffled voice in the other room.
The call wasn't very long though. A minute later, footsteps came back toward the dining room.
His father reappeared in the doorway, though his expression had changed.
"Girls." He said, voice firm. "Upstairs. Now."
That made John look up. His sisters hesitated a moment, confusion on their faces, but they all slowly start to stand. The chairs scraped as they stood, one by one, filing out quickly and quietly. Eilidh hesitated for half a second, glancing at John, before following the others.
The room fell silent again. John didn't move.
"Look at me." His father says.
He didn't want to.
"Look at me, John."
Slowly, he lifted his head.
His father was staring at him.
"What were you doing at an Army recruitment office today?"
John's blood ran cold. He said nothing.
Annette's head snapped toward him. "You what?" She demanded.
His father took a step closer to the table. "They just called." He said. "Said he showed up with paperwork. Tried to enlist."
Annette let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning fully toward John now. "Are you out of your mind?"
"I-" John started, but the words got stuck in his throat.
"What the hell were you thinking?" His father cut in, voice rising. "You think you can just forge signatures and walk into something like that?"
John's hands curled into fists under the table. "I wasn't-"
"You weren't what?" Annette snapped. "Planning on leaving? Just disappearing? Is that it?"
"I didn't-"
"Don't lie." His father said sharply. "You telling me the got the wrong John MacTavish?"
The room felt too small. John's chest was tight, his pulse pounding in his ears.
"I just-" He stopped, jaw clenching. "I wanted out. I wanted to leave."
The words hung there. For a second, no one spoke. His father shook his head, anger simmering just under the surface.
"What? We aren't good enough for you? You can't appreciate all the hard work I do to put clothes on your back and food on the table? Is that it?"
John stared back at him, breathing hard, but said nothing.
"You've got a real problem, John." He said. "You act out all the time. You're disrespectful to Annette. You lie to our faces. And now you're skipping school and trying to forge my signature on government documents?! What do you have to say for yourself?"
John lowered his gaze back to the table. There was nothing left to say. He closes his eyes. "Sorry. It won't happen again."
There was some big lecture that came after that, but John can't remember it. He just remembers not being hungry that night.
***
As hopeless as it seemed after his failed attempt to escape to the military, John would only spent one more year in that house. This is the night that still replays in his head like it happened yesterday. The one he has nightmares about. The day everything changed.
John was seventeen, about to turn eighteen in roughly a month, and it was Christmas break. Annette stayed the same, but him and his siblings had changed quite a bit over the years. Rowan had changed the most in the past year though.
She was a teenager now and was becoming more rebellious. She tested the limits with Annette a lot more now and, as a result, got in trouble a lot more. But it wasn't just Annette. She tested things with them too. There were many nights where she'd sneak out of the house to go to parties, hangout with friends, or whatever else.
None of them were strangers to sneaking out. John had left on quite a few occasions to go party with some friends, go out drinking in the woods, or even once to hook up with a girl. Even Eilidh, as motherly as she'd become over the years, did as well from time to time.
The only one who didn't sneak out was Kristen, but she was still quite young. Even then she'd been once before to tag along with them to go to some festival in town. Where they'd all sneak out maybe once every two or three weeks, Rowan was doing it sometimes three times a week.
Most nights she'd come back around 2:00 am, but sometimes it'd be much earlier in the morning than that. That always stressed Eilidh out, but John didn't care as much as long as she came back before Annette was up.
There was only night where she hadn't come home, and Eilidh had woken him up over it. He'd had to go looking for Rowan in the wee hours of the morning only to find her passed out drunk at a house party. John actually knew the guy who was hosting it, and he gave him a ton of shit about letting his little sister drink. It'd ended in a very heated argument that led to a physical fight. John won very easily since the guy was pretty intoxicated. He passed out after a single punch. He probably would have continued to hit the guy too if it weren't for the other party goers separating them, and a group of girls reminding John he should get his sister home.
He had to carry Rowan home and ended up having to sneak her in through the front door. She was far too gone to get up onto the roof and go through their bedroom window like how they usually did. Going through the front door was always extremely risky, but somehow they managed to get her inside, upstairs, and back into bed without waking anyone up. Then they'd had to cover for Rowan all morning to keep Annette from finding her hungover.
Once Rowan stopped puking and sobered up a bit, she'd gotten the lecture of a lifetime from her older siblings. John was probably too mean about it. There had been some cussing, name calling, and things said that shouldn't have been said. But in the end, the message had gotten across, and Rowan didn't drink again. Or at least John never had to go get her.
She still continued to sneak out though, but it'd been without incident since that night. That all changed one morning, on the first day of Christmas break.
John had woken up the sound of someone walking past his door. It didn't take much to wake him up anymore. He was simply going to ignore it and go back sleep, but then the sound of hushed voices made him open his eyes. He listens for a little while, unable to pick out exactly what's being said, but he hears the tone.
Rushed. Urgent. And then a hissing sound. Water running.
He sighs, deciding to go and investigate. He pushes himself up slowly, the mattress creaking under his weight as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold under his feet as he made his to the hallway. Peaking down the hall, he could see the bathroom door was shut, though there was light shining from the bottom crack.
He slowly makes his way to the door, the voices becoming a little more clear the closer to got.
"...wash the fuck out." It was Eilidh.
"It will! Stop worrying!" Rowan.
John's brows furrow a little, and he gently taps on the door. "Hey," he whispers. "It's John. What the fuck is going on in there?"
There's a pause and then silence. A few seconds pass by and then the door opens. Eilidh is the one who opens it, and she stands aside, motioning him in.
"Come see for yourself." She says as John steps into the bathroom.
The first thing his eyes land on is Rowan. Specifically her hair. Rowan had always had really pretty long straight blonde hair, but it was no longer entirely blonde. A very bright streak of purple now colored a section of her hair.
John just stared at it for a moment, his mind struggling to catch up.
"What the hell is that?" He asked finally, his voice low as he steps closer and runs his fingers through the purple strains. "You dyed your hair?"
Annette was very against them coloring their hair. She said it was unnatural and trashy. Rowan had asked their father if she could a few months back, but he and Annette had both said no. Absolutely not.
Rowan rolled her eyes and gave him a defensive look as she swats his hand away. "Relax." She muttered. "It's temporary."
"It better fucking be." John hisses.
"It is! It washes out." She snaps, irritation in her tone. "It's supposed to come out after a couple rinses. It's fine."
"Well, it's not coming out." Eilidh says. "It's hardly even faded."
John then notices that they had been trying to rinse it out. Rowan's hair is wet, and there was purple tinted water droplets all over the countertop. By the looks of it, they'd rinsed it a couple times already as there were a few towels scattered about to mop up the water.
"What did you use to dye it?" He asks, looking down at his hand now and seeing his fingertips were stained purple from where he'd touched her hair earlier.
"I don't know! Everyone at the party was doing it. The girl who did it told me that it washes it." Rowan says, turning the sink back on and holding her hair under the water again.
"Yeah, but you're a fucking blonde!" Eilidh whisper shouts. "Your hair stains so easily."
"Fuck, Rowan. Annette is going to kill you." John tries to wipe his fingers on the towel to get the staining off. It kind of works. "What were you thinking?"
Rowan was getting pissed off. "God John! You don't think I know that?! Just help me fix it!"
John glares at her, but he tries to keep his cool. He's mad that she put herself in this situation though. "I don't know what to tell you, Ro! Why are we always having to clean up your fucking mess?!"
Eilidh steps in then, sending John a look that said to stop escalating. "Can you two stop arguing! We need to get this out before Annette wakes up."
John rolls his eyes, but he tries to dial it back in. "Why are you doing this in the sink? Get in the shower and wash it." He suggests, watching lightly tinted purple water swirl down the drain.
"We're trying to be quiet." Rowan answers him. "If Annette hears the shower running this early she's going to come investigate."
She had a point there. It was far too early to be taking a shower, and the running water pumps would have woken Annette up.
John stands there a second longer before sighing. He knew nothing about hair. This wasn't something he could fix.
"Look, I can't do much here." He muttered, keeping his voice low. "Just... try to get as much out as you can now, and then take a proper shower first thing. Like around seven or eight. That's normal enough she won't question it."
Eilidh nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
Rowan didn't say anything, just hunched a little further over the sink, jaw tight as Eilidh worked at the streak again.
John hesitated for half a second longer, then stepped back toward the door. "Wake me if it gets worse." He added under his breath.
Neither of them answered.
He slipped out into the hallway and closed the door softly behind him, the muted sound of running water immediately dulling again. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the floor, listening. Then he shook his head and went back to his room.
He wasn't sure how much time passed when he woke up next, but the sun was just starting to rise as light poured into his room.
He swung his legs out of bed and he got up, running a hand through his hair. He needed to go check on the purple hair situation. As he steps into the hallway, he glances towards the bathroom. The door was still closed, the light was on, and he could hear the shower running now.
He moved past it and toward the girls' room, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside.
Eilidh was there, pacing. She turned the second she heard him, relief flashing across her face for just a moment before it was replaced with worry.
"Well?" John asked quietly, closing the door behind him. "Did it come out?"
Eilidh shook her head. "Nope." Her voice was tight. "It's still purple. I mean it faded a little, but you can still see it."
John exhaled slowly. "Fuck."
For a long moment, they just both stood there in silence. Trying to think.
"Could she cover it?" He asked finally. "Tie it back or something? Wear a head band?"
Eilidh shook her head again. "Not really. It's too close to the front. You'd still see it."
"A hat?"
"A bit odd to wear a winter hat inside, isn't it?" She shot back.
"Doesn't have to be a winter hat."
"Rowan doesn't wear hats though. And still why would she wear one inside?"
John shrugs. "I mean first time for anything right? She could just say-"
Before he can finish his thought, there's the sound of footsteps running up to the door. A second later, Rowan bursts through.
She was wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping wet still, and she looked-
John's stomach dropped.
The purple was somehow worse. It definitely wasn't as vibrant as when he last saw her, but it had spread. It was no longer just a single strip of hair, the entire left side of her head was purple.
"What the hell-" He blurts out.
"It didn't come out!" Rowan's voice cracked, panic bleeding through as she pushed the door shut behind her. "The shower made it worse! The shampoo it made it worse!"
She was becoming hysterical. Hyperventilating and shaking. "It was supposed to wash out, I did exactly what she said. It wasn't suppose to be permanent. It wasn't-"
"Hey, hey-" Eilidh stepped in quickly, grabbing her wrists. "Stop. Stop, you're making it worse."
"I can't fix it!" Rowan's breathing was too fast now, her voice breaking as tears started to spill over. "I can't fix it, she's going to see it, she's going to-"
"Rowan," Eilidh said firmly. "Look at me. Breathe."
"What's going on? Why are you- oh my God. What happened?" John look over as Kristen walks into the room, shutting the door behind her and staring at Rowan.
"Rowan thought it was a good idea to dye her hair." John explains. "Now we can't get it out."
Eilidh glares at him. "Not helping, John."
"What? She asked." He argues.
Rowan starts shaking her head and then clutches it, beginning to spiral even more. "No, no, no... this isn't- th-this isn't- this is so bad. She's gonna kill me." Her voice was shaky.
John sighs, trying to calm her down now too. "Ro, seriously. Calm down. We're gonna figure it out. It's gonna be alright."
"Come on." Eilidh said, softer now, guiding her back toward the door. "Johnny's right. We'll keep trying. It's ok. We'll figure something out."
"It's not ok. It's not ok though." Rowan whispered, but she let herself be led away anyway.
They moved into the hallway, Eilidh guiding Rowan back to the bathroom. Kristen trailed behind them, wanting to see if she could help somehow. But then...
"Girls?”
Annette.
John's entire body went rigid. He immediately turns to Kristen. "Kris, go to your room." She gave John a scared look, but did as she was told.
"What's going on up there? Why are you making so much noise this early?"
Rowan made a small, panicked sound. She was full on panicking now. Breathing heavily and bouncing on her feet.
"I-it's nothing!" Eilidh calls out, all while trying to keep Rowan quiet. But then, the stairs start creaking like Annette was walking up them.
"Shit." John muttered under his breath. He grabs his sisters and practically shoves them towards the bathroom. "Get in the bathroom. Both of you. Try to figure it out, I'll cover for as long as I can."
The door barely had time to click shut before the footsteps reached the top of the stairs.
John stepped back from it quickly, forcing himself to look normal, like he hadn't just shoved both of his sisters into the bathroom in a panic. His heart was pounding so hard though, but he kept his shoulders loose and his expression blank.
Annette rounded the corner a second later.
Her eyes went straight to him.
"What's going on?" She asked immediately, her voice sharp with suspicion. "Why are you up?”
John didn't answer right away. Not because he didn't have something ready, he was pretty quick with making up stories on the spot, but he just knew better than to rush it.
He glanced back at the door, trying to appear hesitant. Then, lowering his voice slightly, and said, "Rowan... uh.. she got her first period."
Annette is silent, and it takes everything for John to keep his gaze down and not check her expression.
"She woke up and freaked out a bit." He continues, rubbing the back of his neck like it was awkward to even say out loud. "Didn't really know what was going on. Eilidh's in there helping her."
There was a beat of silence. Then Annette stepped forward. She knocked on the bathroom door, firm and controlled. "Rowan?"
There was a pause. No answer from Rowan. So Annette continues. "Did you bleed on the bedding?"
Another pause. And then Eilidh answers.
"...She's not sure."
Annette stood there for a second longer, then nodded once to herself. "I'll check." She said simply. "Do you need a pad or anything?"
"No, we're ok." Eilidh answers again.
"Alright. Let me know if you need something." And then she began to walk towards Eilidh and Rowan's bedroom.
John watches Annette go into their room and then looks back at the door. "You'll be alright, Ro. Just let Eilidh help you. I'll be in my room."
John goes into his room and sits on the bed. About a minute or two later, Annette comes back down the hall, and he hears her knocking on the door again.
"I didn't see any blood on the bed." Annette says, her tone even. "Breakfast will be ready in thirty minutes."
John heard a muffled reply from who he assumes was Eilidh. There's a knock on his door next, and Annette pokes her head in.
"John, get up, go get Kristen up, and you two start making breakfast." She tells him, leaving his door open as she leaves.
John mumbles an "alright" and slides off his bed. He steps into the hallway just in time to watch Annette turn the corner to head back down the stairs. He waits a few seconds and then opens the bathroom door a crack.
"I gotta go down and start breakfast." He tells his sisters. Rowan is sitting on the closed toilet seat, and Eilidh is drying her hair with a towel.
"Alright. Stall for as long as you can." Eilidh tells him.
John nods and then shuts the door. As he does, Kristen pops back out of her room and slowly makes her way over to him.
"Johnny... what's going on?" She asks softly. "What's gonna happen to Rowan?"
He takes a deep breath, putting on his older brother mask. "Nothing is gonna happen to Rowan. They'll get the color out." He says. "But we gotta buy them some time. Come on."
He motions with his head as he starts down the hallway to go to the kitchen. Once there, he really does try to move as slowly as he can. The heat on the pan was super lower so that the eggs cooked slower, he took his time putting the toast in the toaster, and he made Kristen squeeze some oranges instead of serving milk.
Well after thirty minutes had gone by, Annette was starting to get impatient with them. She'd already checked in on them two times, and was now down there for a third time.
"John, Kristen, what is taking so long? Can we hurry it up? Your father is gonna be home later today and I want everyone to get to cleaning after you eat. So let's go." She says, clapping her hands and then leaves again.
John nods quickly, pretending to move faster, though he keeps same speed the second she's gone, trying to buy a few more minutes.
"I didn't know dad was coming home today." Kristen says, slowly collecting a stack of plates and bringing them over for John to dish out the scrambled eggs.
"When do we ever?" He comments, dumping some eggs onto the plate Kristen was holding. She doesn't reply.
He's in the middle of dumping the last bit of scrambled eggs from the pan when he freezes.
"Johnny? What-"
"Shh.." John quiets Kristen, listening harder. By the time it registers what he's hearing, it's too late. There were voices coming from upstairs.
"Fuck, fuck." He curses, setting the pan back down and then racing towards the stairs. He takes them two at a time, Annette's angry voice and Rowan's cries getting louder the closer he gets.
He reaches the top in time to find Rowan stumbling out of her room, her back pressing against the opposing wall as Annette followed her out. She was sobbing, face red and blotchy, and Eilidh was trying to grab Annette's arms, only to get shoved off.
"It'll wash out! We just need to give it a few days! It's gonna go away! It's not permanent!" Rowan was shouting, voice shaking.
"Who dyed her hair?! If it wasn't you, who did it?!" Annette snaps, pointing at Eilidh and then looking back to Rowan. "Your hair wasn't purple last night, so who did it?!"
"Just a friend!" Rowan cries.
"When?! You have people in here last night?!" Annette shouts, getting right into Rowan's face and making her shrink down.
"No!"
"Then what?! You been sneaking out at night?!"
"I-I don't know!" Rowan cries, unable to think straight.
"I fucking knew it!" Annette seethes, and then she grabs a fist full of Rowan's hair and starts marching down the hall, pulling Rowan along with her.
Rowan screams in pain, and John runs down the hall before he can even think.
"Stop! What are you going to do?! Let her go!" He yells, trying to block the hallway, only to get shoved to the side. His back hits a door that wasn't latched all the way and he falls back into the room, landing on his butt.
By the time he's on his feet again and stumbling back into the hallway, Annette is dragging Rowan down the stairs, and Eilidh is hot on their heels, screaming, begging, grabbing Annette's wrist to try and pry her fingers out of Rowan's hair.
Annette stops midway down the stairs, turns, and smacks Eilidh across the face, causing her to fall back on the stairs. John runs over, almost falling down the stairs himself as he kneels next to his sister.
"Eilidh! Are you ok?!" He shouts, cradling her head as Eilidh curls up into a ball on the steps. She holding her cheek with her hand and crying, and when John pulls her hand back a little to check her face, her cheek is already red and swelling up a bit.
He wants to help her, but Rowan's terrified screams in the kitchen pull his attention back to her. He leaves Eilidh curled up on the stairs and bolts for the kitchen, arriving just in time to see Annette force Rowan down into one of the dining chairs. Rowan is sobbing so hard she can barely breathe, twisting violently as Annette fists a hand in her hair and yanks her head back.
Then John sees the scissors. Annette snaps them open and immediately starts hacking unevenly at Rowan's hair.
Rowan screams. "Stop! Stop, please!" She cries, grabbing desperately at Annette's wrists while trying to kick at her with her legs. "Don't cut it! I'm sorry!"
But Annette keeps going, sawing through the strands while cursing at her. Chunks of blonde and purple hair begin falling onto Rowan's lap and the kitchen floor.
Something in John snaps. He rushes forward without thinking and grabs Annette around the shoulders, wrenching her backward away from Rowan. Rowan stumbles sideways out of the chair as Annette screams in rage, still clutching the scissors.
"The fuck is wrong with you?!" John shouts.
Annette twists immediately, trying to jab at him with the scissors still in her hand. John grabs her wrist on instinct, panic surging through him as they struggle violently in the middle of the kitchen. She's screaming and cussing at him while he desperately tries to force the scissors away from her.
They struggle for a few seconds before he finally manages to wrench the scissors loose. The second they leave Annette's hand, she starts hitting him with closed fists instead. John shoves her away hard out of pure instinct.
Annette stumbles backward into the kitchen counter, knocking over several glass bottles before falling to the floor.
"Stay the fuck away from my sister!" John yells, breathing hard. His hands are shaking violently as he grips the scissors like a knife. "You touch her again, and I swear to God I'll stab you!"
Annette stares at him from the floor for a second in complete shock, like she can't believe he actually pushed her back. Then her expression twists into fury.
"John MacTavish, you give me those fucking scissors!" She screams, scrambling back to her feet.
"No!" John shouts back immediately, scissors still raised up like a weapon. "Back the fuck up! I mean it! Stay back!"
He's terrified. And despite being the person he is now, the person who wouldn't ever hesitate, he's still just a kid. He can't bring himself to actually try and stab her.
Annette rises slowly, one hand braced against the counter. Her fingers close around the neck of one of the fallen glass bottles.
"Give. Me. The fucking. Scissors." She snarls, and then she suddenly she lunges.
Before John could react, he feels a sharp stinging on his face, couples with the crisp sound of glass shattering. He crashes hard onto the floor, the scissors clattering from his hand. When he lifts his head, there's a puddle of blood pooling on the floor and a metallic taste in his mouth.
John could barely hear anything over the ringing in his ears. Everything felt distant and warped, like the whole kitchen had dropped underwater.
His head was spinning violently. Warm blood poured over his mouth and chin faster than he could process, dripping from his jaw onto the floor in thick, dark drops. When he tried to breathe through his mouth, pain ripped through the lower half of his face so sharply it made him gag.
Rowan was screaming. Just screaming. Eilidh stumbled into the kitchen a second later, one hand still pressed to her swelling cheek, and the second she saw the blood she let out a horrified sob.
"John!"
Kristen was crying hysterically near the doorway, frozen in place with both hands over her mouth.
John pushed himself upright slowly, dazed, one hand braced against the floor while the other clamped instinctively over his mouth.
Blood immediately seeped through his fingers.
It hurt. God, it hurt.
His vision blurred as another wave of dizziness hit him.
Across from him, Annette still stood near the counter holding the jagged neck of the broken bottle. Her chest was rising and falling hard. For the first time since this started, she looked stunned and pale. Like she was shocked at what she'd done.
John could feel something wasn't right with his lip. It felt completely cut in half, and the cut stretched all the way down his chin. He could feel the separated, loose, floppy skin with his fingers. And there was so much blood. It just continued to pour from his lip.
Then the front door opened.
"Hello?" Then rapid footsteps. "What's going on? I heard scream..." The second his father rounded the corner and saw the scene, his expression dropped completely.
Silence. His father took it all in.
John on the floor covered in blood. Glass everywhere. Rowan hysterically crying with chunks of uneven hair hanging around her face. Eilidh shaking. Kristen sobbing. And Annette standing there holding broken glass.
"What the fuck happened?!" His father shouted.
He crossed the kitchen immediately and dropped to his knees beside John. "Jesus Christ! Johnny!!"
John flinched hard when his father tried to touch his face.
"Easy, easy, lad..." His dad said quickly, grabbing his wrist gently instead. "Let me see."
John lowered his shaking hand just enough. His father's face went pale.
"Annette!" He barked, snapping his head up at her. "Get a towel! Now!"
Annette startled slightly, like she'd been pulled back into herself. She dropped the broken bottle neck into the sink with a clatter and hurried for a towel.
John's father turned back toward him, gripping the back of his neck carefully to keep him upright. "You're gonna be ok, Johnny. It's gonna be alright, lad. Just keep your hand right there. Annette! Hurry!"
John nodded weakly, flinching as he presses his hand back on his face. It hurt so badly.
Annette returned with a dish towel, and his father snatched it from her before pressing it firmly against John's mouth.
Pain exploded through him again.
John cried out despite himself, curling forward slightly as fresh blood soaked through the fabric almost instantly. He yelled, crying as his father shushed him softly.
"Fuck!" His father yells as he pulls the towel back to find it completely soaked. He looked back at Annette. "What happened?"
Annette opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first.
"What happened?!" His father yells louder this time, making everyone flinch.
"He threatened me." She said weakly. "He had scissors-he shoved me-and I-I..."
"You hit him with a bottle?" His father snapped. "On his fucking face?!"
"I didn't mean to do that!" She shouted, voice cracking. "He got between me and Rowan and he grabbed me and he was threatening me with scissors-"
"Because you were cutting her hair!" Eilidh screamed through her sobs.
"Shut up!" Annette shot back automatically.
"Johnny was protecting me!" Rowan shouted through tears. "You were hurting me!"
"Everybody stop!" John's father roared.
The kitchen fell silent again, except for John's pained sounds and the continued hyperventilating from his sisters.
His father looked back down at John again, eyes scanning the amount of blood still pouring through the towel.
"We need to take him to the hospital." He said immediately.
Annette's face changed instantly. "No! We can't-"
His father looked up sharply. "What?!"
"We can't bring him to a hospital!"
"What the hell do you mean we can't bring him to a hospital?" He snapped.
Annette was shaking. John had never seen her this freaked out. "Look at him! Look at the girls. Look at this house right now." She gestured wildly around the kitchen. "If we take him in there like this, they're going to ask questions."
His father stared at her, his chest heaving.
"They'll report it." She continued rapidly. "They'll take them. They'll take the children."
"Well what the fuck do you want me to do then?! He's bleeding out! He needs stitches! He needs a doctor!" His father shouts, looking back down at his son.
"You think they won't call someone? You think they'll just stitch him up and send him home?" Annette shot back. "Hmm? They're going to ask questions. You will never see him again after this! Any of them! They'll declare you an unfit father."
John closed his eyes. His lip throbbed violently with every heartbeat. His head hurt from all the shouting. He just wanted it to all be over.
His father's jaw clenched hard.
"They'll separate them." Annette continues, her voice trembling now. "They'll take the girls. They'll take him. They'll put them in foster care, and we'll never get them back."
John groaned quietly beneath the towel, another pulse of pain ripping through his face. His father looked down at him again. The towel was soaked through.
"Fuck..." His father whispered shakily. Then finally, "Alright... Help me get him to the bathroom."
"No!" Eilidh shouted instantly. "Dad, he needs a hospital!"
"We are not taking him to a fucking hospital!" Annette snapped back immediately.
"He could die!" She argues.
"He's not going to die!" Annette yells back.
John wished they would all stop yelling. Every raised voice made his skull pound harder.
His father crouched again and slid an arm carefully around John's back. "Come on, son." He muttered. "Up."
Pain tore through John's face as soon as he moved. He cried out despite himself, body curling instinctively.
"I know, I know." His father said quickly, tightening his grip. "I know. I've got you."
The kitchen tilted sickeningly as John was hauled to his feet. Blood dripped steadily from the towel onto the floorboards. He felt the urge to vomit, but he never did.
He was in a bathroom after that, sitting on the closed toilet lid, dizzy and pale, while his father rummaged frantically through cabinets for supplies. Annette stood nearby holding towels to John's face with shaking hands while Eilidh hovered in the doorway refusing to leave.
"What are you doing?" She asked again, horrified.
"What does it look like?" His father muttered, pushing past her to leave the bathroom for a moment and coming back holding a sewing needle and black thread.
John's stomach dropped immediately. "No..." He whispered weakly.
His father didn't say anything. He poured vodka over the needle and thread and then onto another towel.
"We need to close it." He said quietly, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. "Otherwise it won't stop bleeding."
John shook his head immediately. "No, no-please- dad please..."
"It'll be quick."
"No!" Panic surged through him suddenly. "Please don't- please just take me to a hospital-"
"We can't." Annette cut in sharply from behind him. "We can take him once it heals a little."
John looked at his father desperately instead. His father wouldn't meet his eyes.
"It's gonna be alright. Johnny, it's gonna be alright." He repeats, his hands shaking as he grabbed his son's jaw.
John jerked violently the second the needle pierced his skin. Agony exploded through his face. He screamed, eyes squeezing shut, his body horribly tense as he tried to sit still. Each prick from the needle hurt so badly and the drag of the thread through his lip felt like fire.
"It hurts!" John sobbed, grabbing at his father's wrists. "Stop! Ow!"
"We're almost done! Just a little more... it's gonna be ok!"
John cried until his throat hurt, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face while his father forced the needle through torn flesh over and over again with trembling hands. At some point Annette had to help hold his shoulders still.
By the end, John was shaking so badly he could barely stay upright.
His father finally tied off the thread and stepped back breathing hard. Tears were streaming down his face.
"There..." He whispered weakly, sniffling and wiping his eyes.
John slumped forward immediately, dizzy and exhausted, blood and tears soaking the towel in his lap. His father held him upright while John struggled not to pass out.
"Get him some ice and some pain killers..."
That was the last thing he heard before he blacked out.
The next two days were absolute hell.
John drifted in and out of sleep constantly. Every time he woke up, his face was in so much pain. It had swelled horribly, the wound burned, and it was bruising dark beneath the stitches.
Sometimes he woke to Eilidh sitting beside him changing cold cloths on his forehead. Sometimes it was Rowan sat there, crying quietly and holding his hand. His father checked the stitches obsessively. Annette never came around, but he sometimes woke up and heard them yelling and arguing with each other.
By the second night, the fever started. At first it was mild. Then it wasn't.
John woke up shivering violently and sweating through his blankets. His skin burned so hot. He cried out, begging for someone. Calling for help.
Eilidh rushed into his room. "Johnny?! Are you ok?" She asks, touching his face and immediately retracting her hand with a gasp.
"Dad... dad!" She shouts immediately, panic rising into her voice. "Something's wrong! Come quick!" She ran out of the room, but in a few seconds, his father was rushing back in.
The lights turned on, blinding John, and he cried out in discomfort. He could barely open his eyes anymore. Everything hurt. Even breathing.
The second he saw John properly, his face drained of color. The stitched wound had turned an angry red color. It was swollen so much and leaking yellow around the edges.
"Johnny has a fever." His father says. It's silent for a second and then his father snaps. "Fuck this!"
He yanked the blankets off John, making him whine, and slid both arms under him. John groans weakly as he was lifted up.
"We're taking him to the goddamn hospital."
Annette grabbed his arm instantly. "Wait-"
"No!" His father growls at her with a fury John had never seen before. "If we wait any longer he's going to fucking die! Stay out of my fucking way! I'm taking my son to the hospital like we should have done when you first smashed that bottle in his fucking face!"
His father carried John downstairs. The cold winter air hit John's burning skin like ice water. It made his entire body shake violently. His head lolled weakly against his father's shoulder while every hurried step, every jostle, sent fresh pain tearing through his face. He could hear his father talking to him the entire way to the car, voice frantic and uneven.
"Stay awake for me, son. Come on. Stay with me."
John tried to answer, but his mouth hurt too badly. His lip throbbed with every heartbeat. Everything felt blurry and distant now. The porch light smeared into long streaks across his vision, and he kept drifting in and out.
He barely registered being lowered into the backseat. The leather felt freezing beneath him. His father buckled him in with shaking hands before slamming the door shut and rushing around to the driver's seat.
Then the car was moving. At some point he vaguely felt his father reach back and squeeze his arm.
"Almost there, Johnny. Just hang in there, lad."
John tried. But the pain was everywhere now. His face. His head. His throat. His stomach rolled sickeningly, but he couldn't throw up. He didn't have anything in his stomach. The metallic taste in his mouth only got stronger, mixing with the taste of infection. Then everything disappeared into darkness again.
The next time he surfaced, there were voices all around him.
Bright lights burned against his eyelids. Something beeped steadily nearby. Hands touched him carefully, moving his arms, adjusting things attached to his skin.
"John? John? Can you hear me?"
A light flashed directly into his eyes and he groaned weakly, trying to turn his head away.
"That's good. Stay with us, sweetheart."
"Can you tell me your last name?"
His throat barely worked. "Mac..." He mumbled thickly.
More voices. More movement. He lift his hand to touch his face. It felt ten times heavier than normal.
"Easy. Don't touch the stitches."
Stitches.
The word cut through the fog for a moment, and memory came crashing back all at once. Rowan. Annette screaming. Glass shattering across his face. His father forcing a needle through his lip while he begged him to stop...
John made a weak, broken sound.
"You're ok." Someone said quickly. "You're ok, sweetheart. You're safe."
Safe.
The word barely registered before exhaustion dragged him under again.
When John woke the next time, the room was much quieter. Soft daylight filtered through partially opened blinds beside the bed, pale and gray against the walls. His body felt heavy and slow, but the burning fever from before had dulled into a deep ache. His face still hurt horribly though. Tight. Swollen.
He tried to swallow, his throat is so dry. It makes him cough, and then a straw is being poked in his mouth.
"Gentle sips, lad." Someone says, and John takes a sip. Cool water coats his mouth and throat, and he starts to chug the water, making the person pull the cup away.
"Easy. I know you're thirsty, but you can't down the whole cup."
He then notices that there was someone sitting beside the bed. Not a nurse. A man in plain clothes with a notebook resting on his knee.
John blinks at him, still coming around, and the man offers him a small, careful smile.
"Hey there." He says softly. "How're you feeling?" John licks his lips before answering.
"...Hurts."
"I bet." The man's voice stayed gentle. "My name's Daniel Harris. I'm a social worker here at the hospital."
John's stomach tightened immediately at the words social worker, and Daniel must have noticed because his expression softened a little more.
"You're not in trouble." He assured him quietly. "I just want to talk for a bit, alright?"
John swallowed painfully and gave the faintest nod.
Daniel leaned back slightly in his chair. "You had the doctors pretty worried there when you first got here. You had a very high fever and the wound to your lip was badly infected. It's under control now though."
John frowned weakly, trying to process the words through the fog still clouding his head.
"The stitches that were originally put in had to come out." Daniel continued carefully. "The doctors cleaned your wound properly, drained the infection, and stitched it back together. You ended up needing forty-three stitches altogether. Inside and outside your lip."
John stared at him. Forty-three... The number sounded unreal.
Daniel continued softly, "You've been unconscious or heavily sedated for most of the last twelve days.”
"Twelve...?" John croaked.
"Almost two weeks." Daniel confirmed gently.
John blinked slowly at the ceiling. It didn't feel possible. The last thing he really remembered clearly was the car ride in.
Daniel gave him a moment before speaking again.
"John," he said carefully, "can you tell me what happened to you? What caused the injury to your face?"
The question made John tense automatically. Daniel noticed immediately, but he didn't push. He just waited quietly. And after a long silence, John started talking.
At first his voice barely worked. The words came out rough and broken from disuse, but once he started, it all just kept spilling out. He told him about Rowan's hair. About Annette finding out. About the yelling, and Rowan crying while Eilidh tried to protect her. He explained how Annette dragged Rowan downstairs and tried to cut her hair off with scissors. He told him about stepping in. About the fight in the kitchen. About Annette smashing the bottle in his face. About his father stitching his face up at home because they were too afraid to take him to the hospital. And then everything else in between. Every horror. Every last detail over the past eight years.
Daniel listened to every word without interrupting except for small questions here and there. Mostly he just wrote things down quietly while John talked.
John only stopped talking once his voice went out. Once he physically couldn't speak anymore. Then he just laid there in silence.
Daniel closed the notebook slowly. "Your sisters already talked to us." He said gently. "They told us the same things you did." John's chest tightened.
"They're okay?" He asked quickly.
"They're safe." Daniel assured him. "All three of them."
John let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “Where are they?”
“They were all placed in emergency foster care. But we were able to keep all three of them together. They’re with a very lovely couple, and they’ve been doing really well.” He tells John softly.
John nods a little bit, trying to take comfort in knowing his sisters were safe and away from…
His parents. John quickly looks back at Daniel.
“What about my dad? And Annette?” He asks hurriedly. If his sisters were in foster care… did that mean?
Daniel hesitated briefly before continuing. "Your father and Annette are both currently in jail while the investigation is ongoing."
The words hit John harder than he expected. He looked down immediately, eyes burning.
His dad was in jail. Because of him. Because he talked.
A horrible knot twisted in his chest, sharp and painful and confusing. Relief crashed into guilt so hard it made him feel sick. Before he realized it, tears were spilling down his face.
Daniel's expression softened immediately. He moved the notebook aside and leaned forward slightly.
"Hey." He said quietly. "It's ok."
John covered his eyes weakly with one hand, shoulders shaking.
"I didn't..." His voice broke badly. "I didn't want..."
"I know." Daniel said gently. "I know..."
John cried harder then. Not loud or dramatic. Just an exhausted, painful cry that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him. Relief. Fear. Guilt. Anger.
Everything tangled together after years of holding it in.
Daniel stayed right there beside the bed while he cried.
"You're safe now." He said quietly after a while. "And so are your sisters."
John shook violently for a second trying to catch his breath. Daniel handed him a tissue before continuing softly. "You don't have to hold it together anymore, John. You can cry. You are safe. It's all over."
And for the first time in years John finally let his shoulders relax, and he sobbed.
A/N: I am back! I got just a little writers block but I finally finished this chapter. I will not stop updating this story. It will be seen to completion!
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Bitter Allies • Chapter 17
As much as John hated it, life went on in the MacTavish house. He tried his best to avoid Annette at all costs, but of course with her living in their home, it was rather difficult. Especially when Annette was insistent on inserting herself into John's life whether he wanted her to or not.
She wasn't overtly cruel— not at first at least. She just tried too hard.
The second he got home from school, she was there at the door asking him about his day. If he sat in the kitchen to do homework, she was hovering to see if he needed help with his math. She would buy him clothes without asking him, pack him lunches with dumb little notes like he hadn't packed his own for the last year, invade his privacy by cleaning his room for him.
While all those things were nice things to do, the issue was that John had told her on multiple occasions not to do them. He didn't want new clothes, or help with homework, and he certainly could take care of himself enough to pack his own lunches and clean his own space. He didn't need her for those things yet she was insistent on doing them.
John started to do this homework upstairs in his room just to avoid her, but of course that didn't stop her from checking in on him either.
One afternoon, while he was working on a writing assignment, his door swung open without warning.
Annette didn't knock. She never did.
"Johnny?" She said with that overly sweet voice of hers. "Are you doing your school work?"
John didn't even look up. "Yes." He answers shortly.
"Oh." Annette says, taking a few steps closer to him. John can feel her looking over his shoulder. "Do you need help with your homework?"
"No."
"Are you sure? I was always pretty good at writing assignments when I was in school."
"I'm fine." He mutters, gripping his pencil a little tighter.
He hears her sigh, as if frustrated, and then instead of leaving, she places a hand on his shoulder. "Well then, why don't take a break and come help me with dinner? I could use an extra set of hands."
John tensed as she touched him. "I'm busy." He says, keeping his voice even despite how badly he wanted to snap.
"Come on, Johnny, it would be fu-"
"Don't call me Johnny." He growls, the words came out sharper than he intended, but he didn't care. She was getting on his nerves again.
Annette blinked, her smile faltering and hand slipping off his shoulder. She clears her throat, forcing the smile back on her face. "John." She corrected, her voice tight. "Come help me in the kitchen."
"I said I'm busy." He snaps.
Her lips pressed together and something in her eyes shifted. It wasn't anger, but something colder. Calculating.
Then, just like that, the warm smile was back. "Alright. Maybe next time." She said lightly, stepping back out into the hall.
She left his door open.
***
Later that night at dinner, John picked at his food. He wasn't really hungry. He twirled his fork through his spaghetti, pushing the noodles around his plate.
He forced himself to take another bite, but the taste made his stomach churn. The sauce was thick and overly salty, almost like someone had spilled too much seasoning into the pot. He chewed slowly, swallowing with effort, while his sisters ate without complaint.
Annette sat across from him, a small, pleased smile on her face as she twirled her fork in her spaghetti. "Everything alright, Johnny?" She asked, her voice light.
John gripped his fork tighter. He hated when she called him that, but correcting her never seemed to do any good. Instead, he just nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "Yeah. Just not that hungry."
"Shame." She hummed, taking another bite. "I made this just for you. I thought spaghetti was your favorite."
Before John could say anything, the front door opened, and his father stepped inside, sighing as he loosened his tie. "Sorry I'm late." He announces. "Long day."
He comes into the kitchen a minute later, placing a kiss on Annette's lips, and then taking his seat. "How was everyone's day?" He asks, looking towards John and his sisters while Annette fixes him a plate of food.
Rowan and Eilidh perked up immediately, launching into stories about their day—school, a funny thing that happened at lunch, a teacher giving them a compliment. Their father smiled at them, nodding along, but there was exhaustion in his eyes.
Then his gaze landed on Annette. "And how was your day, honey?"
"Oh, fine." She said lightly. "I had two little helpers today in the kitchen." She glances toward John. "I asked Johnny too, but he was too busy to want to come help."
John bristled, his gaze snapping up to meet Annette's from across the table. "I was doing homework." He says tightly.
His father turned to him. "Is it done?"
"Yes."
"Then you can help Annette clean up."
John set his fork down with a little too much force. "Why? I—"
His father raised an eyebrow at him. "Your sisters helped to make dinner, you can help with cleaning up. It's only fair. Plus you need to start helping out your step-mum more."
John's stomach twisted at the word. He had to bite back the argument burning in his throat.
"I still have studying to do." He lies.
"Johnny, cleaning up will take but five minutes." Annette says, and his father hums in agreement.
John scowls down at his food. Now he really wasn't hungry anymore.
As dinner wrapped up, John threw his half eaten pasta away and then went into the kitchen to start the hot water for the dishes. Once the drain was plugged and water started to collect, he got to work. The faster the dishes got done, the faster he could go back to his room.
He scrubbed the plate in his hands harder than necessary, the sound of the sponge grating against the ceramic filling the tense silence in the kitchen. Annette came in just a minute later and stood beside him, towel in hand.
"Want some help, Johnny? You wash and I'll dry." She offers.
John's jaw tightened. "Don't call me that." He tells her again.
Annette let out a quiet chuckle. "Oh? And what would you prefer I call you?"
"Just John is fine." He says, handing her the clean the plate to dry.
She takes it with an exaggerated sigh. "Well, if we're making requests..." She grumbles as she starts drying. "I'd rather you call me 'Mum' instead of Annette."
John froze, stopping mid scrub. He turned to look at her. His hands clenched into fists. "You're not my mum." He said, voice low and sharp.
"I know that." Annette replied smoothly, tilting her head. "But wouldn't it be nice if we at least tried to be a proper family? I want to be a part of your life."
John saw red. "Fuck off."
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and as soon as they did, he regretted it. Annette's breath caught in shock, and his father's voice cut through the room like a whip. "John!"
John stiffened, his body going rigid as he turned to face his father. His eyes were no longer filled with exhaustion, but blazing with anger, the disappointment in them cutting deeper than anything else.
He strode towards John in two steps, grabbing his face in one hand and pinching his cheeks. "You do not speak to Annette like that!" His father's voice was a low and fierce growl as he forced John to meet his gaze. "Apologize. Now."
John's heart pounded in his chest as he stared up at his father. He's never cussed before, at least not in front of his parents, and the anger in his father's eyes makes him nervous. He's rarely ever seen his father this angry.
John swallowed hard, his eyes downcast. "...Sorry." He muttered, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.
"I never want to hear such fowl words from you ever again. Do you understand me?" His father continues, and John nods quickly, his body tense.
"Good." His father seethes. "Now you finish these dishes and then go upstairs and finish your homework." He says, releasing him.
John quickly turned back to the sink, his vision blurring as he picked up the next plate and started scrubbing. His hands are shaky, and he has to bite his lip to keep it from trembling.
With that, John's father turned and left the kitchen. Annette seemed to look between John and his father for a moment before huffing and following after him.
***
Later that night, John left his room to go downstairs for a cup of water before bed. He hadn't left it since finishing the dishes. He didn't dare to. But his mouth and throat were dry from crying, and he figured everyone had to be in their own rooms by now. On the way down, he had to pass by his father and Annette's room. He moves slowly so they wouldn't be able to hear him, and he can hear them talking as he creeps by. He wasn't going to stop originally, but something caught his attention.
"I don't understand why you let him speak to me that way." Annette was saying, her voice tight with frustration.
"I don't." His father responded, exhaustion creeping back into his tone. "I told him to apologize. He did. I don't know why you're so upset."
"That's not enough!" Annette shot back. "You let him curse at me, and the only thing you did was tell him to say sorry? He needs real consequences. You should have washed his mouth out with soap right then and there."
John frowns, leaning his ear closer to the door to listen.
His father sighed. "He's never spoken like that before. He's struggling—"
"We're all struggling." Annette interrupted. "Rowan, Kristen and Eilidh have adjusted just fine, but John refuses to even try. He's disrespectful, he's defiant, and now he's swearing at me? Are you really just going to let that slide?"
There was a pause. John swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he waited for his father's response.
"I'm not letting it slide." His father said eventually. "But I'm not shoving a bar of soap down his throat either." He says firmly.
Annette scoffed. "So what, he gets to do whatever he wants? No consequences? No discipline?"
Another pause. Then, more hesitantly, his father said, "Of course not. Things do need to change."
John's stomach twisted.
Annette hummed, her tone softer now—persuasive. "Then let me help. John needs a strong mother figure in his life, and he needs structure. You've been working late, you don't have time to deal with all this. We are a team now."
John held his breath.
His father hesitated before finally asking, "What do you have in mind?"
***
Things started to change after that day. Annette made a whole bunch of new rules.
Bedtime was earlier now—much earlier. Meals had to be eaten in full, no exceptions and no throwing away food. A chore chart was made and chores had to be done by certain times. Hanging out with friends became a privilege, not a given. And swearing or back talk was strictly forbidden. Breaking said rules resulted in varying punishments. Ones that only got worse over time.
Not that surprisingly, John broke the most rules at first. He got in trouble for "talking back" quite a bit. Though the talking back wasn't really talking back.
One time, he was just trying to go to a friend's house after school. It was the weekend, and his father never said no normally, but he still went to ask.
"Hey dad, can I go over to Colin's for a bit?" He asks.
His father was at the kitchen table, bills spread out and punching some numbers into a calculator. He glances up from his work to look at John. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Just be home by-"
"John." Annette calls from the living room. She appears in the doorway a few seconds later, arms crossed and a brow raised. "Your father is busy. You can ask me."
"Annette, it's fine. He can-" His father starts to say, but Annette cuts him off.
"Ewan." She raises a brow at him, and his father sighs.
"Ask your step-mum." He says softly to John.
John frowns at him. "What? Why? You just said I could." He says, making Annette give him a look.
"John, don't talk back to your father. He told you to ask me." She says.
John looks to his father for help, but he's just gone back to working on the bills at the table. "Just ask her, John." He says, not looking up.
John purses his lips together and looks back at Annette. "Can I go to my friend's house?" He asks shortly.
"No." Annette answers quickly.
"Why not?" John immediately throws back, irritation creeping into his tone. "My dad just said I could. All my homework is done, I did my chores last night."
"Because I said so." She shrugs.
"That's not a reason."
Annette's eyes narrowed. "You don't need a reason. You need to listen."
John scoffs, looking back to his father. "Dad, come on. This is stupid."
John's father sighs, looking back up at Annette. "Is there a reason he can't go?" He asks her, making Annette roll her eyes and huff.
"Well for one, he's getting a tone with me like he always does." She says. "And he left some dirty dishes in the sink last night. So since his chores didn't get finished, no friends today."
John gawks at her. "I did the dishes last night after dinner!" He argues, his voice raising now.
"Not all of them." Annette says. "There was a cup in there this morning."
"I had a glass of water before bed last night."
"And you didn't clean it. So your chores weren't done." Annette says, making John's jaw drop. She couldn't be serious.
"Dad." He looks back to his father for help, but his dad just looked drained.
Annette steps in before his father can do say anything. "The answer is no. Now quite bothering your father, and go upstairs. You can spend the day in your room since you like to talk back to me." She grabs him by his shoulders, rather tightly, and pushes him back out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.
John spent the whole weekend up in his room. He was only allowed to come down again for dinner.
***
The rules weren't the only new thing either. It was a few weeks after Christmas, and John was up in his room drawing. He'd gotten a book from his father for Christmas that taught you how to draw different animals. He was following the step-by-step guide to draw a shark when a sudden wailing pulled his attention away from book. It was one of his sisters.
John was on his feet in an instant, throwing his pencils down and practically running down the hall towards where the crying was coming from. He found Rowan in the hallway, stomping her feet, her face beet red, and in a complete melt down.
"Rowan?" John asks, confused as he tries to piece together whatever happened that's made her this upset.
Then an awful scrapping sound came from inside Rowan's room, and soon her white dresser started to poke out into the hallway. As John moved closer, he could see Annette on the other side.
"Rowan, honey, I need to get this through the door." She said sweetly, still pressing the dresser forward. "Move, please."
Rowan didn't move though. She stood in the doorway to her room, little fists clenched at her sides, and she cried out again. Annette started to push the dresser again, and John quickly darted over to push it back before she could run over Rowan.
"What are you doing?!" He shouts. "Why are you moving her things?!" He demands to know.
Annette looks up and glares at John. "She's moving into Eilidh's room." She says simply. "I need this space for my work."
Rowan seemed to sob harder. "I don't want to share a room!!" She wails. "I hate Eilidh's room!"
"You can't kick her out of her room!" John shouts.
"John. Move. Your father and I talked this over this morning." She narrows her eyes at him. "I am going to start up my own business and I need an office space. So get out of the way."
John crosses his arms, holding his ground. "No. It can wait until Dad gets home. If he knew how upset-"
Annette slams her hands down on the dresser, cutting him off. "John! I will not say it again! Get out of the way or so help me you won't have lunch or dinner tonight!"
John clenches his teeth. He wanted to think that was an empty threat, but he knew better than to test Annette. "Fine. But I'm talking to dad the second he gets home." Whether or not he would listen was another story. "Rowan, come on."
Rowan doesn't move though. She stares at her dresser, her lip starting to tremble as a whole new wave of tears threatens to spill over. "No! It's not fair!"
Annette lets out a frustrated growl. "Rowan. You are testing my patience today. Now move." She marches around the dresser as she talks, and when she gets to Rowan, she grabs her by the wrist and starts to drag her down the hallway. Rowan starts crying again and digs her heels into the ground, but a six year old's strength couldn't match a forty something year old woman's.
"Let go of her! You're gonna hurt her!" John yells as Rowan suddenly goes dead weight and starts getting dragged.
"Oh she's fine. She's just throwing a fit." Annette drags her just a little further before letting go, and Rowan stays on the ground, sobbing and holding her wrist. John quickly picks her up, and Rowan wraps her arms tightly around him.
"Johnny! Don't let her take my room!" She sobs as John hoists her up.
"It's gonna be ok, Ro. Just wait until dad gets home. He'll give you your room back." He tells her softly as he carries her away to stay in his room.
His father was home late that night. He missed dinner completely. Rowan was stomping her foot and refusing to go to bed when he finally came through the door. She bolted down the stairs when she heard him, her face still blotchy and red from earlier.
"Daddy!" She wailed, throwing herself at his legs. "Annette moved all my stuff into Eilidh's room! She took my room!"
His father staggered a bit at the force of her hug, clearly caught off guard. He looked down, trying to soothe her with one hand while setting his work bag aside with the other.
"Whoa, hey now, sweetheart—what's this?" He asked, crouching down. "Why are we crying?"
"She said I have to share a room with Eilidh!" Rowan sobbed. "I want my room back!"
John watched on from the hallway, waiting to see what his father was going to do.
His father sighed and picked her up, rocking her gently in his arms. "I know it's different, sweetheart, but it won't be so bad sharing a room with your big sister. It'll be like one big sleepover! That's fun, isn't it?" He says, trying to deescalate the situation and make it more appealing.
Rowan shakes her head though. "I don't wanna share a room! I want my own room!" She cries.
"Listen to me, Ro. Annette needs her own space to work from home. We had to make a few changes for that. I know it's hard, but you'll have so much fun with Eilidh."
Rowan shakes her head, hot angry tears streaming down her cheeks. "No!" She wails. "I want my room! I want my room!"
"Come on, sweetie. I'll tuck you in and I'll read you a story. How about that?" He offers, picking her up as she continued to sob. He starts towards the stairs where John was standing.
John waits with his arms crossed as his father approached. "It's not fair." He says, making his father look at him tiredly.
"John, this isn't up for discussion." He says, moving past him to walk up the stairs.
"Why can't she just use your study?" He says, following after him. "You barely use it anymore unless you're home. And you're never home lately."
His father stops halfway up the stairs and turns, expression tight. "I am not going to go back and forth with you about this. She'll adjust. Kids adjust. You need to stay out of it. You're just making it harder for her."
"And Annette isn't? You should have been here this morning. Annette grabbed Rowan by the wrist and dragged her out of room while she was crying. And then she threatened not to feed me lunch or dinner if I got in the way!"
That made his dad pause on the steps. He seemed to be in thought for a little while before finally looking back at John. "I'm sure she wasn't trying to hurt Rowan. And I'm also sure she didn't mean what she said about the whole not feeding you thing." He says dismissively.
John's jaw dropped as he stared at his father. "Rowan's wrist was red where she grabbed her." Of course it wasn't anymore. It'd faded after about an hour. "And-"
"John. That's enough." His father says. "I'll have a word with her about it. But right now it's late and I need to get Rowan settled. Come on. I'll tuck you in as well." He offers, holding his arm out to John.
John begrudgingly went with his father. He wasn't happy about how that conversation went, but at least he said he was going to talk to Annette. He still had hope that things would change.
***
Things proceeded to get worse.
It had been nearly a month since Rowan had been forced to move out of her room and into Eilidh's. It took Rowan a while to get used to sharing a room with Eilidh, but the bitterness did fade after some time.
A lot of nights the girls got in trouble for staying up and talking when they were suppose to be sleeping. The first couple times had just been verbal warnings by Annette and sometimes their dad. They usually always listen and would go back to their own beds.
John's room was right next to Eilidh and Rowan's, and one Friday night, he could hear them giggling. He knew if he could hear them, then there was a good chance Annette could as well.
And sure enough. About five minutes later, he hears his father's bedroom door open, Eilidh and Rowan's hushed whispers and hurried shuffling to get to their own beds, Annette's footsteps stomping past his room, and then his sisters' door opening.
"I have had enough of this!" Annette shouted, slamming the light switch on. "Do you two think this is a game?! That this is some slumber party?!"
John held his breath, watching his wall from where the shouting was bleeding through.
"But it's a Friday. We don't have school tomorrow. Why can't we stay up a little later?"
It was Eilidh. Her soft voice barely heard through John's wall.
"Out of bed! Now!" Annette snapped, her footsteps moving further into the room, probably towards Eilidh's bed. "You can go sleep on the couch since you can't keep your mouth shut."
"W-what?" Eilidh stammered, followed by a thudding sound. Annette had pulled her out of bed.
"Move!" She barks. "I'm done with this."
Without another word, John could hear Eilidh's quick and light footsteps patter across the floor. She was sniffling as she ran past his closed door. Their bedroom door was slammed shut, and Annette's heavy stomps passed by a second later, returning to her own room.
Eilidh slept out there for a whole week before she was allowed to sleep in her own bed again.
***
On another instance, it was Rowan again.
Their father was at work—he had been working later and later these days, barely home before they were already in bed. This was one of those days.
John was downstairs reading in the living room when he heard Rowan and Annette in the kitchen.
"Uh-uh." Annette's voice came sharp and quick. "Put that back."
There was a pause. Then Rowan's small, hesitant voice. "But I'm thirsty..."
"You can have something with dinner. Which is in thirty minutes." Annette's tone was clipped, already irritated.
Another pause and then a loud crash followed by a gasp. John tensed and looked up from his book. He couldn't see the kitchen from where he was, but he kept listening.
"Rowan! What the hell did you do?!" Came Annette's raised voice.
"I-I'm sorry! It slipped!"
"Now I have to stop everything I'm doing and clean that up! Get out of the kitchen! All you kids do is make a mess everywhere you go."
John heard Rowan running out of the kitchen, following by the unmistakeable hiccuping of her starting to cry. He set his book down and followed after her, finding her halfway up the stairs and curled up one of the steps.
"Hey." He said gently, crouching down next to her. "What's wrong?"
"I just wanted some juice cause I was thirsty, and Annette said I couldn't have any, and when I tried to put it back it slipped and spilled everywhere, and then Annette yelled at me." She says, her breath beginning to stutter and catch as she tried not to cry. It wasn't working. Tears were starting to flow down her cheeks anyway.
John glanced over his shoulder, listening for any movement downstairs. All was quiet—for now. He sat next to her and rested a hand on her back. "It's okay." He mutters, "Just breathe, alright? You gotta calm down or else you're gonna make her more angry."
"I hate her, Johnny. I don't want her here anymore. I want it go back to the way things were." She sobs, breaking out in tears. She couldn't help it.
"I know, I know. Shhh..." He tries to soothe her, keep her from crying. If there was one thing Annette hated, it was hearing them cry.
"I want daddy! And I want some juice!" She sobs louder, making John wince. Both because he didn't enjoy seeing his sister upset and because he knew what was coming.
A loud smack of something being thrown down, a kitchen towel probably, and then the sound of footsteps coming towards them.
"Ro, please stop crying." John whispered hurriedly, but it was too late. Annette appeared at the bottom of the stairs, giving Rowan an angry look.
"I don't want to hear you huffing and snotting! You wanna cry? You can go cry up in your room where I don't have to hear it!" She marches up the steps as she talks and grabs Rowan by the elbow, yanking her to her feet and taking her up the stairs.
"You don't have to-"
"John! Not a word if you know what's good for you." She threatens over her shoulder, which makes John shut his mouth. He didn't want to make her more upset than she already was. He just turns and looks away as Rowan gets dragged off her room.
***
Not even Kristen was safe. Being the youngest she tended to get off easier than the older kids, but she still would get in trouble.
When she misbehaved, Annette's go to was to make her sit on the stairs in a time-out. Though sometimes she wouldn't let her watch cartoons or she'd take her toys away.
Kristen always cried whenever Annette did those things, which made Annette more upset. If she didn't calm down within five minutes, she would pick her up and take her to her room. Once Kristen figured out how to open doors, Annette started locking it.
On days when Kristen couldn't stop crying in her room, John or Eilidh would sneak in to go comfort her. Annette either never noticed they did that or she didn't care since it made Kristen stop.
***
Then there was the time John went into town with Annette. Normally he avoided running errands with her at all costs, but he needed school supplies for the upcoming year.
They were at the checkout register, and the woman working it had been acquaintances with their family for years. Her name was Holly or something like that. She smiles as she sees John and Annette approaching the register.
"Little Johnny MacTavish! I haven't seen you in quite a while. You're a lot taller than I remember." She smiles, and John offers her a half smile back.
Annette smiles at the two of them. "Oh. Do you two know each other?" She asks.
"Oh I've known Johnny for years. Since he was just a wee lad." Holly says. "His mother would bring him to the nursery at church on Sundays during the service." She explains. "I don't believe we've ever met though. What's your relation to Johnny?" She asks.
Annette seems off put by the question. She tilts her head and blinks a little before answering. "Well, I'm Annette MacTavish. I married his father."
"Oh! I didn't know Ewan remarried." She says, sounding surprised. "Though I guess there's no way I could have known. We never see him anymore."
"We've been married for over a year." Annette says. "We'll be coming up on our two year soon."
"Oh, how lovely." Holly replies with a warm smile. "You're very lucky. Ewan is a good man, and Johnny and his sisters are wonderful kids. Their mum would be happy to know someone is loving and taking care of them."
Annette beams at that. She seems proud, which was odd to John. Especially since she did anything but love or care for them. "Well thank you. They've been such a blessing. Truly."
Then, to John's horror, she slid an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze, pulling him in for a side hug.
He immediately jerked away, wriggling out of her grip without a second thought. "Don't," he muttered under his breath, loud enough that Holly heard it.
Annette froze for a second. Her smile stayed fixed, her voice light, but her hand dropped quickly to her side.
"Oh, teenage boys." She said with an airy chuckle. "They're always too cool for hugs from their mums."
"Step-mum." John corrects her.
Annette's smile twitched, a little too tight now. She lets out a dry chuckle, and Holly starts to look a little uncomfortable.
"Well," Holley starts after a beat of awkward silence. "It was very nice to meet you, Annette. Johnny, tell your dad I said hi, alright?" She gives John another smile.
"Will do." John nods, and then they gather their things and head back to the car.
The ride home was silent, and John just looked out the window the whole way. When they pulled into the driveway, Annette got out without a word and hurried inside, the front door closing sharply behind her.
John didn't think much of it at first. He stayed behind, reaching into the backseat to gather the shopping bags. He walked through the door, shut it behind him, and made his way to the kitchen, the bags rustling against his leg as he moved. He barely had a chance to set them down before a sharp tug yanked his head back.
"Ow—!" He gasps, dropping the bags and stumbling as her grip on his hair tightens.
"Are you proud of yourself?" Annette hissed from behind him. "Embarrassing me like that? In public?"
"I didn't—" He tries, but she gave his hair another jerk, just enough to shut him up and send a fresh sting across his scalp.
"You will not undermine me. Ever. And you will not correct me in front of anyone like that ever again."
John bites the inside of his cheek, blinking rapidly. His hands curl around hers, trying to pry her fingers free and ease the stinging pain.
"Do you understand me?!" She asks when John doesn't say anything.
"Yes." John answers quickly.
She lets go a moment later with a scoff. "You're lucky your father wasn't home. He'd be ashamed of the way you act."
Eilidh was standing just outside her bedroom, halfway down the hall. She'd heard the commotion and now watched him wide-eyed, noticing the tight set of his jaw and the way he wouldn't meet her gaze.
"John?" She asked quietly, taking a step toward him. "What happened?"
He shook his head and brushed past her without a word.
"John?" She tried again, more insistently, but he didn't slow down. He reached his room and shut the door behind him with a quiet soft click—not a slam. He didn't dare to slam his door.
He pressed his back against the door, chest tight, breath catching. His head throbbed where Annette had yanked his hair, the sting still fresh. He rubbed the spot gently, wincing at the tenderness beneath his fingers.
A few seconds passed before there was a soft knock on the door.
"Johnny...?" Eilidh's voice came through, quiet and concerned. "Are you okay?"
"Go away." He said, his voice low and flat.
There was silence. Then the sound of her retreating footsteps down the hall.
John just sat there a moment, breathing in through his nose, willing himself not to cry.
***
She got comfortable grabbing them like that. And somehow that just became how things were.
It didn't matter if John went to his father about it. He just shrugged it off and said she had a reason for doing the things she did. There was always an excuse.
And now he was lucky to even get the chance to tell his dad when something happened. He wasn't home anymore. Most of his time was spent at the office or holed up in his study with the door shut. John had heard him and Annette muttering about bills piling up. That was the most important thing on his dad's mind at the moment.
John was almost asleep when he heard his door creak open and shut softly. He squinted toward the sound, the faint light coming from under the crack of his door was just enough to catch a black shadow tiptoeing toward him.
"John? Are you awake?"
It was Eilidh.
"Yeah. Why are you in here? Annette is going to flip if she finds out you're in here past bedtime." He whispers back to her as she moves to sit on his bed.
"It's fine. She's downstairs with Dad right now." She whispered back, glancing at the door behind her. She hesitated only a second before continuing, getting right to the point. "I was just getting up to pee, and I heard them talking in the kitchen."
John's brow furrowed.
"Dad was saying that he's not making enough money to support us anymore. He said he's thinking about taking a new job. One where he has to travel. He'd be gone for a long time, but he'd make almost double."
John sat up straighter at that. "Did it sound like he was going to do it?”
Eilidh shrugged, hugging her arms. "I don't know. He didn't seem like he wanted to, but Annette was encouraging it. She kept saying she could handle things here while he was gone. And she said it'd just be temporary. Until she could find something too."
John let out a soft, dry laugh and looked down at his hands. "Yeah. Like she'd ever get a job. Just like that 'small business' she was gonna start in Rowan's room."
"I know." Eilidh murmured.
They were quiet for a beat.
"It's not like dad's around much anymore either." John muttered.
"I know." She said again, her voice smaller this time. She stared at the blanket pooled around her legs. "But at least when he is, Annette isn't as mean.
John didn't argue. That part was true. Annette was better when their dad was around—less yelling, less grabbing, more smiling. As fake as it was, it was a relief when she acted like someone else.
"Well, maybe-" John pauses mid sentence as he hears a noise from downstairs.
"You should get back to your room." He whispered urgently, already listening to the quiet footsteps below. "I think they're coming up."
Eilidh nodded and slipped off the bed. "Goodnight, Johnny." She whispers.
"Night, Eilidh." He murmured, watching her as she cracked the door open, peeked into the hallway, and slipped out silently like a shadow. The door clicked shut behind her.
A week later, he'd almost completely forgotten the conversation with Eilidh about their dad getting a new job. Until it was brought up by his father at dinner one night.
"There's something I've been meaning to tell you kids." His dad started. His voice was tired but trying to be cheerful. "A new opportunity's come up at work. A big one."
John glanced at Eilidh from across the table. She returned his look.
"It's a new position, one that would mean I'd be traveling for a while. Couple of months at a time, maybe a little more, depending on what they need from me." He says. "But it comes with a significant raise. Which means we could have a little extra money to go do fun things. Like go on vacation or getting something new for everyone."
Rowan looks like from her plate. "Are you going to be gone for my birthday?"
Their dad smiled at her, though there was a pause before he answered. "I'll try not to be. But if I am, I'll send you something special, alright? And we can celebrate however you want when I'm back."
John's eyes didn't leave his father's face. "Do you have to take it?" He asked quietly.
His father hesitated again, just a flicker of doubt before smoothing it over. "It's only temporary. Just until we build the savings back up. You don't need to worry about any of that. I know it'll take some getting used to, but we're strong. I'll be back to my old job before you know it."
Not a Bitter Allies update, but I just wanted to also mention that I got to meet Neil Ellice! He was at a comic con around where I live and I got to go meet him, get pictures, and I got a few things signed!!
He’s a super nice guy! Very talkative and friendly. I hope to go and see him again someday!
Hi everyone! I’m still around and writing. Just had a super busy month. It was my birthday a few weeks ago, I went on a vacation with one of my friends, and then I was playing catch up at work.
I am working on the next chapter for Bitter Allies, but it might be a while yet. I want to get the pacing right and make sure I’m doing justice to the next section since it deals a lot with abuse.
I will keep posting for this story until it’s complete! Thanks for being patient and for your continued support 😊
Summary: Soap starts to open up to you about his past. Starting at the very beginning.
Word Count: 7,721
Warnings: Strong themes, death of a loved one, funerals, car crash victim, depression, coping with loss of a family member, stepparents, changing family themes, fighting, mourning of a loved one
A/N: I was gone way too long 😭 Anyway, I finally have an update for this story! This was a tough one to write, and I’m afraid it’s only gonna get worse. Grab your tissues! And enjoy 😊
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Bitter Allies • Part 16
Before he joined the military, before he got the name Soap, before he became the youngest candidate to pass SAS selection, before he joined Task Force 141, got his rank, and became a demolitions expert and sniper— he was simply John MacTavish. A young boy living in the Scotland countryside with his parents.
Back then, his life was ordinary, much like that of any other young lad. He'd spend hours outside, splashing through streams, playing in the woods, and running through fields with his friends until the sun dipped below the hills. He'd help his father with chores, handing him tools while he fixed a fence, or stand on a stool in the kitchen, watching his mother's deft hands knead dough for bread and steal cookies fresh off the baking sheet. He was a big brother to three little sisters—fighting with them as much as he adored them. His greatest worries back then were rainy afternoons or when his peas touched his mashed potatoes.
But those days slipped away, faster than he could grasp.
How naïve that little boy had been—how sheltered. Then again, why shouldn't he have been? Childhood should be like that: safe, carefree, uncomplicated. And for a time, it was. But those days ended. The world cracked open like glass. John would have given anything to go back—to when his sisters' eyes shone bright with laughter, to the warmth of his mother's embrace, to the days when his father was still a good man.
Before the crash.
Before Annette.
Before everything that came after.
***
John was up late, or at least what he believed to be late, reading an Amazing Spider-Man comic for what was probably the hundredth time. He'd gotten it for his birthday about a week ago. He'd just turned ten not but a few months ago, and he was allowed to stay up until 10:00 pm now. His sisters, all younger than him, still had to go to bed at 9:00 pm, so he was enjoying time to himself.
The house was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway and the soft rustle of pages as John flipped through his comic. His lamp cast a warm glow over his small room, illuminating the mess of action figures, schoolbooks, and stray socks scattered across the floor. Outside his window, the sky was an inky black, clouds swallowing the faint silver light of the moon.
John shifted on his stomach, propped up on his elbows as his eyes scanned the brightly colored panels. Spider-Man was mid-swing through New York, and John was completely absorbed in the comic despite having read it three or four times now. But then he heard it—the creak of the floorboards downstairs.
It normally wouldn't have catch his attention, but for some reason that night it did. He paused, his grin fading slightly as he glanced toward his closed bedroom door. His dad was still awake, clearly. That wasn't unusual, but the steady pacing, the heaviness of his father's steps, made John frown.
He set his comic aside, slipping off his bed and quietly padding across the floor. He cracked the door open just enough to peek out into the dim hallway. The light from downstairs glowed faintly, and he could just barely make out his father's voice.
John crept out of his room, moving carefully to avoid the floorboards he knew would squeak. He crouched low at the top of the stairs, gripping the banister as he peered down. His father was standing near the phone, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping the receiver so tightly his knuckles were white.
"No, she left hours ago. She should've been home by now." His father's voice was low and tight, a sharp edge to it that made John's stomach twist. He never sounded like this.
A long pause followed, broken only by John's own quiet breathing.
"Yes, I've called the police already. They said nothing's come in yet. But something's wrong, I can feel it." His father's voice cracked slightly at the end, though he quickly cleared his throat.
John's chest felt tight, his fingers trembling slightly where they gripped the wood of the banister. His mother wasn't home yet. That had to be who his father was talking about. He hadn't even really noticed her absence until now, but now that he thought about it, it was odd she wasn't home yet.
His father began pacing again, his hand running through his graying hair as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. "No, I'll keep calling around. You just... you just let me know if you hear anything, alright?"
The receiver clattered into its cradle with a sharp clack, and his father let out a deep breath, bracing both hands on the edge of the counter. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring down at the linoleum floor.
John's throat felt dry, his stomach knotting. He wanted to go down there, to ask his dad what was happening, to hear him say something—anything—that would make this gnawing unease go away. But he stayed frozen at the top of the stairs, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.
The silence stretched on until his father straightened again, rubbing a hand down his face before reaching for the phone once more. He started to press the buttons, dialing another number.
John slipped back into the shadows of the hallway, retreating to his room as quietly as he could. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his head resting against the wood.
His comic lay forgotten on the bed as he sat down on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. The tick of the clock felt louder now, each second dragging on and on.
"She'll come home." He told himself. "Mum's fine. She'll walk through the door any minute now."
John stayed on the floor for what felt like hours, knees pulled tight to his chest and his chin resting on them. He listened for the sound of her car pulling up. Every creak of the house, every distant sound from outside made his head snap up, his ears straining for the sound of the front door opening.
But it never came.
At some point, he climbed back onto his bed and curled up under the covers, but he didn't turn off his lamp. He tried to read his comic some more, but he couldn't focus on it. Soon, the clock beside him read 10:15. Normally his mum or his father would have been upstairs at 10:00 sharp to tell him goodnight.
John's eyes were heavy, but he forced himself to stay awake, staring at the faint glow of the hallway light under his bedroom door. He heard his father's footsteps again, slower this time, slowly coming up the stairs and down the hall.
When the soft knock came at his door, John sat up, half expecting to see his mum there with his father. The door opened with a quiet creak, and he heard his father sigh as he stepped into the room.
"John?" His father said softly.
His father was standing just inside the doorway. He looked tired—more tired than John had ever seen him. His shoulders were slumped, and the lines on his face seemed deeper somehow.
"It's past your bedtime, son." His father said, his voice gentle but firm. "You need to get to bed."
John hesitated, clutching the edge of his blanket in his small fists. "Where's mum?"
The question hung in the air. His father paused, his lips pressing into a thin line before he spoke.
"Just running late getting home." His voice was steady, but John could hear the strain behind it, the way it wavered slightly at the edges. "But she'll be home soon, alright?"
He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
John nodded slowly, though the answer didn't ease the knot in his chest. "Okay."
His father stepped forward, taking John's comic, closing it, and setting it up. He then flicked his lamp off, casting the room into darkness.
"Goodnight, John." He says softly, heading to the doorway.
"Goodnight." John called after him, waiting until his father had stepped out of the room and shut his door before lying down.
He stared up at the ceiling, the sound of his father's footsteps fading down the hallway. Not towards his room, but back downstairs. Occasionally, John could still hear his voice as he made more phone calls.
The next morning, light crept through the thin curtains of John's bedroom, casting faint golden streaks across the walls. He blinked awake slowly, his head heavy, eyes scratchy from a night of broken sleep. For a moment, he thought maybe everything was fine—that he'd wake up, go downstairs, and his mum would be in the kitchen making breakfast, humming to herself as she flipped pancakes.
John climbed out of bed, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor as he padded to his door and pulled it open. The hallway was quiet, his sisters' rooms still shut tight. They were probably still asleep.
John made his way down the stairs, stopping at the top to listen for the sound of pots clanking together or for his mum's soft voice talking to his father. It was completely silent though. He makes his way down, and when he got to the kitchen, he froze.
His father was sitting at the table, shoulders hunched over, his hands pressed tightly against his face. A mug of coffee sat in front of him, no steam coming off it and still full. His hair was disheveled, and the lines on his face looked deeper than they had the night before.
John lingered in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside. "Morning, Dad."
His father flinched slightly, lowering his hands and blinking as if he'd just realized John was there. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin under them purple with exhaustion. "Morning, son." He said quietly, his voice hoarse. "You're up early."
John ignores him and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Is Mum back yet?"
The silence that followed was unbearable. His father didn't answer right away, just stared down at the tabletop, his hands clenched into fists on either side of the empty mug.
Before he could reply, there was a sharp knock at the front door.
His father stood up quickly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he did. It made John wince slightly.
"Stay here, John." He said firmly, his voice low and uneven.
John nodded, his feet glued to the floor as he watched his father hurry out of the kitchen. However he didn't stay there long. Curiosity pulled at him, and before he could stop himself, John crept closer to the hallway, peeking around the corner.
Two police officers stood at the door—a man and a woman, both in crisp uniforms. The male officer had a hat tucked under his arm, while the female officer's hands were folded tightly in front of her.
His father stood in the doorway, shoulders tense, head slightly bowed.
"...found her car early this morning," the male officer was saying. His voice was soft. "It appears she lost control and went off the road. She hit a tree. We're... very sorry, Mr. MacTavish."
John's breath caught in his throat.
"No... No, that's not right." He could see his father's shoulders stiffen, his jaw tightening as he shook his head slowly. "You must've made a mistake."
The female officer frowns, her eyes holding a sorrow John would never forget. "We're sorry, Mr. Mactavish. It was her."
"Are you sure?" His father asked, voice softer, pleading. "Are you sure she's..."
There's a pause before the officer's answer. "Yes. The paramedics declared her deceased upon arrival. She'd been gone for hours. They believe she died on or shortly after impact."
His father's head dipped lower, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as if he were trying to physically stop the sob that threatened to escape. The female officer stepped forward slightly. "Is there anyone we can call for you? Family? Friends?"
His father shook his head once, sharp and quick. "No." He rasped, his voice cracking. "No thank you."
The officers exchanged a glance before the male officer nodded. "We'll... we'll leave you to process this. If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to reach out."
His father barely nodded before slowly closing the door.
John couldn't move. He was trying so hard to process what he'd heard. It had to have been a mistake. His chest tight, his breaths coming quick and shallow. His father stood there in the entryway, his back to John, his head hung low.
For a moment, everything was completely silent and still.
Then, his father let out a sound—a low, guttural noise, like an animal in pain. His shoulders shook once, twice, before he pressed his hands to his face and stumbled back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor.
John's eyes filled with tears, frozen in place. His father—this strong, unshakable figure in his life—was crumbling right in front of him.
John couldn't stay silent anymore. A gasping cry left his throat and he took a hesitant step out into the hallway, his small voice breaking the silence. "Dad?"
His father turned slightly, his face pale, his eyes red and brimming with tears he was desperately trying to hold back. A few escaped though, running down his father's cheeks and into his beard.
"What... what were they talking about?" John's voice cracked as he spoke, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
"Johnny..." He rasped, his voice raw, fragile. "Your mum... she's... she's umm... there's been an accident. Your mum is... she's dead."
John's vision blurred as his father's words echoed in his head, louder and louder until they drowned out everything else. His chest tightened, his breath caught in his throat, and for a terrifying moment, it felt like he couldn't breathe.
When the air finally forced its way out, it came in a broken, heart-wrenching wail. Tears streamed down his face, hot and endless, his hands clutching his chest like he was trying to hold himself together. He wanted his mum—he wanted her so badly it hurt. He wanted to hear her voice just one more time, to feel her warm embrace, to feel the soft press of her lips on his forehead as she whispered how much she loved him.
But he would never have those things again. The weight of that realization hit him hard, leaving a hollow ache in his chest so raw and so deep it felt unbearable. He crumbled to the floor, sobbing so hard it shook his whole body.
John's father closed the space between them within two strides. He scooped his son up and held him tightly, his large hand cradling the back of his head. John collapsed into him, his face pressed against his father's chest as he trembled and sobbed.
John's world felt like it was shattering around him, each sharp piece cutting into his chest, making it harder to breathe. His mother—his warm, kind, loving mother—was gone.
And nothing would ever be the same again after that.
***
John doesn't remember much of the funeral. Only a few things. A church, a dark wooden casket with white lilies on top of it, and seeing his mum one last time.
He'd arrived at the church about an hour before the service started. He held his father's had as he approached the casket. It was closed at the time.
"Is she in there?" John asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
His father hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, son. She is."
John swallowed hard, his heart pounding. He stared at the casket, his chest tightening with every second that passed. "Can I see her?"
His father stiffened, his hand gripping John's shoulder a little tighter. "John, I don't think that—"
"Please." John cut him off, his voice trembling. "Please. I want to see her."
For a long moment, his father didn't respond, his face a mask of grief and hesitation. Then, with a heavy sigh, he gave a small nod. "Okay," he said quietly. "Just for a moment, yeah?" His father brushed his cheek softly and then carefully lifted the lid up.
John clenched his jaw as the lid was raised. His heart was pounding so hard. And when he saw her, his body felt numb.
There was his mum, lying inside. They'd tried to make her look peaceful, and for the most part, they had. Her eyes were shut, and she almost looked asleep. But the signs of the accident were still there. Faint cuts lined her pale cheeks and forehead, hidden as best as possible under makeup. A faint bruise marked her temple, dark against her pale skin, but blotted out with makeup.
John's chest heaved as he tried to keep the tears in. He gripped the edge of the casket, his fingers trembling.
His father knelt beside him, wrapping his arms around John and holding him close. "You've been so brave, John." His father murmured, his voice thick with emotion and slightly shaky. "I'm so proud of you and how you've been handling this. And I know your mum would have been too. She loved you so much."
John nods a little, knowing that if he tried to speak he would break down completely. He was still trying to hold himself together.
His father squeezes him tightly again. "It's ok to cry, son." He says softly. "Just let it out. I'm right here."
John squeezes his eyes shut, his body shaking. He presses his forehead against the edge of the casket, takes a shuddery breath, and then sobs.
***
The house had changed in the year since his mum passed.
The first month it seemed like there was always someone at their house. Dropping off food, cards, flowers, always asking how he was doing. He got sick of it. He just wanted to be alone.
Then people stopped showing up and it became suffocatingly quiet—so quiet John could hardly stand it. His father practically turned into a ghost, just drifting through the halls, eyes hollow and shoulders slumped. Meals were eaten in silence, rooms were left half-cleaned, and some days his father barely left the armchair by the fireplace.
Some days it seemed like his father had died in that car accident too. He spend all of his time just sitting and staring off into space. He'd only come around enough to cook occasionally for John and his sisters. And even then "cooking" was just reheating the frozen meals left by the local church. Once those ran out, it was frozen pizzas or takeout.
Then his father began to spend more and more time at the local bar. There were many days where he'd be gone from sun up until sun down and return home absolutely wasted. John got used to coming home and finding him passed out on the floor in the hallway. He learned to go in through the back door so his sisters didn't have to see it.
That went on for a few months. John hated his father drunk. But then one day, everything changed. His father suddenly stopped going to the bar, he started getting up in the mornings, his eyes got clearer and his smile returned. The distant, hollow man who had drifted through their lives was slowly replaced by someone familiar—someone John remembered. There was a warmth about him that hadn't been there in what felt like forever.
It was... nice. They started doing things together again—little things, like actually cooking, going to the market together, watching movies. It felt like a piece of the life they'd once had was coming back. John didn't even think to question the sudden change; he was too caught up in the joy of having his father back. For the first time in a long time, it felt like they might be okay.
School had just started up, putting John back into a somewhat normal routine. His sister, Rowan, was also starting school that year and joined him and Eilidh, his other sister, on their walk to school each morning. They were about four weeks in now, and John was starting to feel happy for the first time since the accident.
Walking home from school one afternoon, John was half listening as Eilidh and Rowan rambled on about something that happened in class. As they approached their house, John noticed a car pulled up next to his father's. He didn't think much of it at first, but as they stepped inside, he could hear a woman's laughter coming from the kitchen.
John's brows furrowed. Normally having visitors wouldn't have been a big deal, but it's been ages since they'd had anyone over. Even Eilidh and Rowan seemed off put by the foreign voice.
"Who's here?" Eilidh asks John softly, making John shrug a shoulder.
"Dunno." He mutters as he starts down the hallway to the kitchen.
As he got closer, he could start to make out his father talking and laughing. It was a kind of laugh that John hadn't heard in nearly a year.
He stops abruptly as he rounds the corner and looks into the kitchen causing Eilidh to bump into his back with a small "oof." There was his father, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hands and smiling at a woman who was seated next to him. Not in just any chair though. It was the chair where his mum had always sat.
She was perched gracefully, a steaming mug of tea cradled in her hands. Her blonde hair cascaded in soft, perfect waves over her shoulders, not a strand out of place. Her makeup was subtle but polished, enhancing sharp green eyes that flicked up to meet his the second she noticed him standing in the doorway.
She was smiling. Not a wide, toothy grin, but something small and pleasant, as if she were trying to seem gentle—approachable. She wore a pale cream blouse tucked into some dark skinny jeans, her nails painted a soft pink.
His father was smiling, too. Not the broken, distant man John had grown used to over the past year, but someone... lighter. It was almost like the dad he remembered before the accident, a version of him that had only just started to come a little bit ago. This woman seemed to enhance it though. It should've been a good thing, but it made John's stomach twist uncomfortably.
"Oh, here they are now!" His father exclaimed, making John look away from the woman and towards him. "Come in. There's someone I'd like you to meet."
John didn't move at first, but Eilidh obediently stepped around him and into the kitchen a little ways, Rowan following after her. Their eyes were curious as they looked between their father and the woman.
His father's smile grew softer as he gestured between them. "Annette, this is my son John, and these wee ones here are Eilidh and Rowan. Eilidh is my eldest daughter and Rowan is the middle of the girls."
Annette's eyes crinkled at the corners as she turned her attention on them. "Oh, you're just as lovely as your father said." She cooed, her voice syrupy sweet. "Eilidh is such a pretty name and I love your blonde curls, Rowan."
Eilidh said a soft thank you, and Rowan ducks her head slightly, taking a step towards John and tucking into his side. It makes his father chuckle.
"Rowan is a little shy." He explains, and John notices as his father places a hand on Annette's shoulder.
Annette just giggles slightly, looking back at his father and placing her hand over his. The exchange is quick, and Annette is turning her attention to John now, their eyes meeting. "And it's nice to meet you as well, John. I've heard a lot about you. Your father speaks so highly of you." She looks back to his father once more, giving him a bright smile.
John narrows his eyes slightly, quickly piecing together what their relationship was. He hoped he was wrong. "And you are? I haven't heard a thing about you." He shoots his father a look as he says it, making the couple look back at him.
John's father clears his throat. "This is Annette." He says, gesturing towards her. "We've been... spending some time together. She's a friend."
John's eyes darted between his father and the woman—Annette. Spending time together. He wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what his father meant.
"So you replaced mum that fast huh." He says bitterly. Annette's eyes widened and John's father's eyes narrowed.
"John Alexander!" His father barks, making both him and his sisters jump. "I am not replacing your mother."
The force behind his father's words hangs heavy in the kitchen, sharp enough to cut through the tension. John's shoulders are tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Could've fooled me." He mutters bitterly under his breath, but loud enough for both of them to hear it.
"John..." Annette speaks up softly, her voice sickeningly sweet. "I know this must be so hard for you, sweetheart. Losing your mum, trying to adjust to everything... but I'm not here to take her place."
"Don't!" John snaps, his voice sharp and trembling with restrained anger. "Don't you talk about her. You don't know her. You don't know us."
Annette flinches at his words, and Rowan starts to sniffle, but before John can even register either reaction, his father slams his fist onto the table. The loud, sudden bang makes Rowan clutch tightly at his sleeve, and she starts to cry.
"John!" His father's voice cracks through the air again, sharper this time. His face is flushed, and there's a glint of something unreadable in his eyes—anger and disappointment. "You will not speak to Annette like that! She has done nothing to deserve this attitude from you."
John scoffs, his eyes filling with tears, but he's blinking them back. "Whatever." He growls out, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "But just because you're replacing mum doesn't mean I'm going to."
His father points towards the hallway, his voice low and firm. "Go upstairs! Now. Take your schoolwork and don't come down until I tell you. We will talk about this later."
John tugs his arm free of Rowan's grasp, making her cry harder, and he turns, quickly running up the stairs towards his room. His vision starts to blur, and he angrily wipes away any tears that fall.
Once in his room, he slammed his door shut and threw his bag down, his body shaking slightly. He never fought with his dad. At least not from what he could remember. And he was so mad at him for bringing this new person into their lives without even a heads up.
He goes to his bed, but he's not alone for too long. He can hear Rowan's sobs getting louder as she nears his door, and then his doorknob starts to jiggle as she opens it. She walks in, eyes red and cheeks already puffy.
"Go away, Rowan!" He snaps, being a little more harsh than he meant to be, but he wanted to be alone.
"But Johnny..." She sobs, hiccuping softly and taking shallow shuddery breaths. She gets closer, trying to climb up onto his bed with him.
John pushes her away though, his hand on her chest to keep her back. "Stop! Go away!" He yells again.
His father comes in next, his face still fuming. "Rowan, come on! Get out of your brother's room." He picks her up, which just makes her cry more as he carries her out and shuts his door. Her cries get softer, but he can still hear her through the walls.
Ten minutes crawled by. John sat on the edge of his bed still, staring at the floor, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. His hands balled into fists, resting against his knees as he tried to steady his breathing. He was still angry.
His door opened once more, and John half expected to see his dad, but instead it was Eilidh this time.
"Johnny?" She says softly, almost hesitantly.
He glares at her. "Get out." He growls. "I want to be alone! Stop coming in here!"
"Why are you so upset? Dad said they were just friends." She says innocently, making John sigh and turn to face her.
"They aren't 'just friends' you dobber! They're dating." Saying those words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "He's replacing mum is what he's doing."
Eilidh frowns at him, her brows pinching together as she crosses her arms. "Don't call me a dobber! You're being really mean!" Her lip starts to tremble.
John lets out a frustrated groan. "Well you're being annoying!" He throws back.
"Stop being such a moany git!" She shouts back, tears filling her eyes now as she turns and runs out of his room.
John's angry only lasted a few more seconds, quickly being replaced with guilt. Now he'd upset two of his sisters, and he really didn't like making them upset. He lets out a frustrated groan and sinks into his bed, more hot tears filling his eyes.
***
It was a few hours before Annette finally left. John could hear as his father walked her to the door and as they said their goodbyes. Right after that, his father's footsteps started up the stairs and were soon right outside his door. There was a soft knock, and then his father came in, making John pull his blanket up more around himself.
"John." His father said softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "We need to talk."
John didn't respond. He hoped his father would just think that he was sleeping or something and leave him alone.
His father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before sitting down on the edge of the bed. John still didn't move.
"I know you're upset." His father started, his voice low and measured, the way he always spoke when he was trying to stay calm. "And I understand why. But you've got to believe me when I say... Annette isn't here to replace your mum."
John snapped at that, his face twisting with anger as he sat up. "Then why is she here?" He spat.
His father flinched, his shoulders stiffening at John's words. "John, listen to me—"
"No!" John shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "You don't get it! It hasn't even been a year! You're acting like mum never even mattered. Like we can just move on and be happy again!"
His father's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. For a long moment, he just stared at John, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes glassy.
"That's not true." His father said finally, his voice trembling slightly. "Your mum... she mattered more to me than anything in this world. And when she—when she was taken from us, it felt like the world stopped turning."
John's throat tightened, and his father continued.
"For months, John, I could barely get out of bed. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat—I couldn't breathe without feeling like I was drowning."
John looked away, his vision blurring with tears. "You didn't even ask us. You didn't even tell us. You just... brought her here. Like we'd just be ok with it."
His father's face fell, and he looked down at his hands, clasped tightly together. "You're right," he said softly. "I should've talked to you first. I should've explained it better. I didn't want to hurt you, John, I swear it.
But Annette... she helped me feel... normal again. She reminded me that there's still something left to hold onto. That maybe—just maybe—it's okay to let myself smile again. To be... happy."
John shook his head, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. "But I'm not happy. I just want mum back. I don't want anyone else."
John's father sighs heavily, his voice wavering just slightly. "I know. I wish more than anything that your mum was still here."
John sniffled, wiping his face roughly with the sleeve of his shirt. His father reached over to his desk and grabbed a tissue, offering it to him.
"I'm not asking you to like her. I'm not asking you to accept her right now. But I am asking you to give her a chance. For me."
John took the tissue and used it to blow his nose and wiped his eyes one more time. "And if I don't like her?" He questions, looking back over to his father.
He's silent for a moment before he answers. "She's not gonna be your new mum if you don't want that. Just think about what I've said, alright? We'll have dinner with her in a week or so. You can get to know her better then. Who knows? You might find you like her."
The answer didn't really sit well with John—it felt like avoiding the question entirely—but being so young, he didn't have the words to argue. He was tired. With a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagged, and he gave a reluctant nod.
His father offered a small, encouraging smile, squeezing his shoulder firmly. "That's my boy." He murmured before standing up and heading toward the door. He paused in the doorway, turning back to look at John.
"I love you, son. You and your sisters. I only want what's best for you."
John forced a faint smile. "I love you too." He replied, his voice soft. His father returned the smile before stepping out and closing the door behind him.
As soon as the latch clicked, the smile fell from John's face. He lay back on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His chest still felt heavy. He didn't want Annette in their lives, but he trusted his father. If he said she wasn't going to replace his mum, he had to believe him.
If he couldn't trust his father, who was he going to trust.
***
The MacTavish family began to see a lot more of Annette after that. It started with her coming over once a week—always with a warm smile, always with some little treat or compliment ready for the girls and him. Then it became twice a week. Then almost every dinner.
John tried to be on his best behavior around her. He still wasn't sold on having her around, but he was at least trying for his father. He smiled at Annette and said hi whenever she was around. Spoke to her when she spoke to him, but he wasn't one to start the conversation.
Eilidh was quickly warming up to her, and so was Rowan. Kirsten, only being three going on four at the time, didn't even really know what was going on, but she modeled her behavior after her siblings.
John wanted to tell his father that he still didn't want Annette in their lives, but how could he? The way his dad smiled at Annette—an easy, effortless smile he hadn't seen since before his mother died— how could he possibly ruin that? His father seemed to think Annette made their lives better, and for everyone but John, it looked to be true.
Then, only a few months later, his father sat them all down in the living room. John immediately knew something was off; his father couldn't stop fidgeting. Annette sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his knee, her smile soft and hesitant. They kept sharing looks, they kept grinning at each other.
"We have some news." His father said, glancing at Annette before clearing his throat. "Annette and I... we've decided to get married."
John's heart plummeted. His stomach felt like it was folding in on itself, and his hands balled into fists against his knees. He couldn't say anything. He couldn't even breathe. He just sat there silent and stone-faced.
His sisters gasped and started to cheer, their faces lighting up with excitement. They were already asking if they'd get to be in the wedding, if they got to be flower girls.
They looked so happy—his sisters beaming, his father smiling wider than he had in months. How could he ruin this for them?
"Johnny, what do you think?" Annette's voice cut into his thoughts, soft but expectant. She was looking at him now, her head tilted slightly, a carefully practiced smile on her lips. His father looked at him too, waiting for his answer.
Forcing a smile onto his face, John tried to push down the storm of emotions threatening to spill out. "That's... great news." He muttered, the words tasting bitter.
Maybe it wasn't going to be the worst this. At least everyone looked happy.
The weeks after that announcement were a blur. Plans were made, and it was decided that they'd have a small ceremony—just them, at a tiny church on the outskirts of town.
The day came far too quickly. John stood stiffly in a button-up shirt that felt too tight around his neck, his hands jammed into his pockets as he watched his father and Annette exchange vows at the altar. Eilidh, Rowan, and Kristen stood beside him, clutching tiny bouquets and wearing their Sunday Easter dresses.
When the minister reached the words "speak now or forever hold your peace", John's heart pounded in his chest. For one brief moment, he thought about saying something—about shouting out how much he didn't want his dad to marry her.
But he didn't. He stayed silent.
When it was over, when Annette became Annette MacTavish, John felt defeated.
Annette moved in a day later. She breezed through their entire home, "tidying up" the place to make room for her things. In reality, she was boxing up all his mum's things and shoving them into a closet under the stairs.
His mum's clothes were taken out of his dad's room to make room for hers. The kitchen cabinets and draws were rearranged to hold her glassware. Decorations were taken down and replaced with Annette's little trinkets. A shelf that held his mother's keepsakes was cleared to make room for Annette's books. Even the smell of their home was different. Her perfume polluted the halls.
The house felt different now. Like it wasn't theirs anymore—it was hers.
Only about a week after the wedding, John's father sat them all down again.
"Annette and I are going to go away for a little while." He said carefully. "Just a short trip, a honeymoon. You'll all be staying with Mrs. McKay while we're gone. It'll only be for a week, alright?"
John didn't answer. He just nodded stiffly.
The morning before they left, everyone was bustling around the house, packing bags and gathering the things they needed. John was in his room, stuffing clothes into a duffel bag when Annette appeared in the doorway.
"John?" She said sweetly, dropping a bunch of suitcases and bags on the floor in the hallway. "Would you take these downstairs for me?"
John didn't even look up from his packing. "No." He answers shortly. She was perfectly capable to taking her own bags down. And John wasn't even packed yet because he'd been helping his sisters pack.
There was a brief silence before Annette spoke again, her voice tight. "Excuse me?"
His father appeared a moment later, catching the tail end of the exchange. "What's going on?" He asks, looking between her and John.
Annette straightened up, putting on the smile she always wore. "I was just asking if John would help me carrying a few bags downstairs and he told me no."
"John." He said softly. "Help your stepmother out and-"
John never tensed up so quickly in his entire life. That was the thing that finally broke him after weeks of holding everything in. He turns around quickly, his eyes blazing with anger. "She's not my mother!" He spat.
The room went silent. Annette's expression flickered—something cold and sharp flashing in her eyes before she quickly smoothed it over with a small, hurt frown.
"You know. It's ok, Ewan." She says, her voice taking a slightly whiny pitch. "He's not ready to accept me yet, and... and it's ok. I'll take the bags down myself." She started to fan her eyes a little, like she was about to cry, but John didn't see any tears. With a shuddery breath, she picks up a single bag and walks quickly down the hall.
"Annette! Darling, he didn't mean anything by-" His father sighs heavily, and then turns his gaze back to John. "Dammit, John, you've made her upset."
"You said she wasn't going to be my mother." He reminds his father sharply, stuffing more of his clothes into the duffle bag.
"I didn't say she was your mother. I told you to help your step-mother. It's different." His father says, making John roll his eyes.
"I don't want to call her that either." He growls.
"That's enough! When we get back from our trip you better have that attitude of yours sorted out!" His father shouts, making John flinch just slightly.
John holds his tongue, and just continues packing in silence. When he doesn't say anything more, his father grumbles and starts to pick up the remaining suitcases to carry them down. John bites his cheek to keep from crying.
***
Two and a half weeks go by before his father and Annette come back. They were only suppose to be gone for one. John almost liked the time away from them though. So when his father's car comes rolling up Mrs. McKay's dirt driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them, he's almost disappointed.
Still, when Eilidh shrieked, "Daddy's home!" and bolted out the front door, Rowan right on her heels, John couldn't stop himself from running after them.
His father had just stepped out of the car by the time the three MacTavish kids reached him. John clung to his father first, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck as Eilidh and Rowan squished in behind him.
His father's strong arms held them all, his voice warm and affectionate as he kissed each of their heads. "Ah, I missed my wee ones so much." He said, fluffing up John's hair.
Eilidh giggled. "We missed you too, daddy!" She said, her small hands clutching the front of his jacket.
John leans into his father, letting himself relax a bit. It was nice to see his dad again, even if part of him had started enjoying the quiet without Annette around.
"Don't forget about me!"
Speaking of Annette. She came running around the other side of the car, arms outstretched.
John felt his father shift him to one side, making room for Annette to wrap herself around the group. She squeezed them all tightly, her perfume strong and floral, making John's nose wrinkle.
"Oh, I missed you all so much!" She cooed. "I couldn't wait to get back just to see you guys!"
John rolls his eyes a little at that. Sure. She was so anxious to get back to them she ended up extending their trip by a whole week.
"Were you kids good for Mrs. McKay?" His father asks, standing back up straight as Mrs. McKay walked out holding Kristen, who was squealing and kicking happily.
"Oh they were a joy." Mrs. McKay says, handing over the youngest MacTavish to his father. "Absolute angels the entire time."
His dad beamed with pride as he takes Kristen and coos at her softly. "I'm glad to hear they were well behaved. Thank you again for being able to watch them." He wraps his arm around John again.
"Anytime, Ewan. They really are great kids. Malina would be so proud."
John perks up at that. That was his mum's name. His real mum. He glances up at his father to see his reaction, and he's pretty sure his father's eyes look a little misty at the mention of her.
"Well, you know, I'm convinced that's all her doing. She was an amazing woman."
"Kids, let's get everything loaded up, shall we?" Annette says suddenly with a bright smile.
John blinked, his gaze snapping from his dad to Annette. Mrs. McKay hesitated, just for a moment, glancing between Annette and John's father. Her warm expression faltered briefly, but she quickly smiled and nodded. "Yes, you kids should grab your things." She agreed, her tone a bit softer now. "I'll help you carry them out."
John shuffled toward the house with Eilidh, Rowan, and Mrs. McKay trailing behind. About halfway, he glances back, seeing Annette and his father talking. Annette's arms were crossed over her chest.
Once inside, they quickly gathered their bags. It didn't take too long as their stuff had been piled by the door earlier that morning. By the time they were back outside, Annette was back to beaming her bright smile, and his father was putting Kristen in a car seat.
The bags were thrown into the trunk, they all said one last thank you and goodbye to Mrs. McKay, and then everyone piled into the car, buckled up, and they were on their way home.
Annette immediately launched into a full telling of their honeymoon. She described the warm beaches, the fancy dinners, and the "cute little boutique" where she found the new necklace she was wearing.
She talked the entire trip home, not once stopping to ask about them. John just stared out the window, resting his head on the glass and trying to shut most of it out.
They were only fifteen minutes from home, but it was a long car trip.
Hello!!! I hope that you had a good Christmas! How are you doing!?💗💓
Hello! Yes, I had a good Christmas! Been a bit busy with work (I work in healthcare) and then family holiday stuff.
I’ve got a draft already started for Bitter Allies! It’s just been slow going with the writing process. I’m thinking this next one will be a big chapter, so it might be a while until it’s posted. But it will be posted!
I hope you had a great Christmas and New Years! ❤️
heya fwiend, havent heard from you in a while... this is in no way meant to pressure you, just wanna check in and ask if youre okay?
sending you a virtual hug either way!💜
Hiiii!! Yes, I am doing well! Thank you for checking in ❤️ I’m just getting ready for comic con (which is now one week away!!!) and it’s kept me busy and away from writing. I’ve been working on my cosplay every night for like two weeks now.
For anyone interested, I’m cosplaying Ahsoka this year! I’m super excited but it’s been a lot of sewing, gluing, and painting. I’ll be happy and sad when it’s over, but I can’t wait to have time again to start writing.
I hope you’re doing well, and I’m sending virtual hugs right back 😊🫶🏻
Hi everyone!! Sorry for the delay in updates! Comic Con for me is in a few weeks and all of my time has been put towards making a cosplay. So I haven’t had any time to write since all my time has been put into that.
I will continue Bitter Allies. There will be more updates. I just need all the time I can get to make and finish an outfit.
Summary: You finally catch a fish. Afterwards, you have a nice dinner with Soap and then do a little stargazing after, which turns into anything but stargazing.
Word Count: 14,875
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, swearing, strong language, animal death, smut, p in v, fluff, slightly rough smut, unprotected sex, sexual language, slight male masturbation, developing feels
A/N: Look at that word count… this is a long one. Lots of good stuff though! Also the drawing in this chapter is one that I did! Anyone, sorry for the wait, and please enjoy!!
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Bitter Allies • Part 15
Your options for clothing is beginning to really run thin. With Soap having destroyed one pair, and the bear shitting on the other, you only had two left. One was hanging out on the porch to dry, and the other wasn't the best for wading into the water. They didn't roll up very well, so you opt to wear the shorts you sleep in instead.
The sleep shorts weren't ideal either, but at least the shortened length would keep them out of the water, and they were dry. And now that you're back into some dry clothing, you can continue your fishing.
While you're back out in the water, watching carefully for what will hopefully be the last fish you try to catch, Soap is back on short making a fire. Every now and then, your gaze drifts from watching the water to check on the progress he's made. At least that's what you tell yourself you're checking on. You're not looking at him just because you want to look at him.
Though you have to admit, your moment from early was still fresh in your mind. As was the dream, your kiss from last night, and your little hookup a few nights back.
Thinking about each encounter made you angry with yourself but also made your heart leap in your chest. You liked it far more than you should, and with this last moment of weakness between you, you found that you didn't want to stop. Even now, after clearing your head, you almost regret listening to him. Part of you wishes you ignored him and kept going. Consequences be damned. It was almost like you were starting to fall for...
No! Absolutely not!
You physically recoil at that thought. You could not be falling for Soap MacTavish. You could not be starting to have feelings for this man. This guy who's caused you nothing but anguish during your entire time with the 141. That could not be what was happening.
But then what else could explain it? Soap seemed to think the whole reason that you slept with each other in the first place was because of stress. Stress couldn't be causing the continued make out sessions though. You didn't really feel stressed anymore. At least not because of Soap. Things had been great within the past twenty four hours.
So then were you really starting to fall for the Scot?
Sighing softly to yourself, you try to force those thoughts out of your head. Just tonight and then two more days. Maybe once you got out of the woods those feelings were go away.
"Oi! Lass! Catch anything yet?!"
You jolt a bit as Soap's voice reaches your ears, heart hammering in your chest now. You take a deep breath to settle your poor heart and then turn to look back at him, trying to act like he hadn't just startled you.
"No! And I won't with all your shouting!" You yell back.
There was no fish around anyway. Not big ones worth catching at least. You turn back to look at the water, debating if you should move and try somewhere else or keeping trying where you were.
"You want some help?" Soap asks, and when you look back at him, he's walked closer to the shoreline.
Huffing softly, you drop your stance and putting a hand on your hip. "I think I'm alright for now."
Soap shrugs a bit, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I'll be right back then. Gonna run inside and get something."
You watch as he retreats back towards the cabin, only looking away once he's up the steps. Sighing softly, you turn back to the water, continuing to play the waiting game.
Not a minute later, you hear the cabin door open back up and can make out the sounds of him getting close once again. You don't think too much of it when you can no longer hear him, but after about ten seconds, you begin to feel as though you're being watched.
Frowning, you turn back around to try and figure out why you're feeling that way, only to find Soap seated at a tree close to where you were. He was still a good few feet away, but he's close enough for you to notice the black journal in his lap and a pencil in his hand.
"What are you doing?" You ask curiously, brows furrowing.
"Drawing." He says simply, not taking his eyes off the page.
It makes you shift nervously. You try to ignore him, turning your attention back to the water. After only a few seconds though, you quickly figure out you can't just ignore him, and you turn back to look at him.
"Why?" You venture further, catching him at a moment where he's looking up and out towards whatever it is he's drawing. It seems to just be the lake, but you can't really tell.
"Why not?" Soap shrugs, his eyes staying up a second longer before going back to his sketch. "I'm done making the fire. Just trying to pass the time while I wait on your ass to catch a fish so we can start cooking."
You glare a little at him for that.
"Shouldn't you be watching the fire?" You glance towards where the little blaze is going. "You know so we don't set the woods and our housing on fire?"
Soap waves his hand in a dismissive gesture, still not looking up at you. "It's not gonna escape that pit. Besides it's like five meters away. I can keep an eye on it and draw." He argues.
You keep watching him, lips pursed together nervously. It crossed your mind he might be drawing you, but you didn't want to ask him if he was. He probably wasn't anyway. Why on earth would he draw you? It wasn't like he...
"You gonna just stand there staring at me or are you gonna catch a fish?" Soap asks, making you snap out of your daze instantly.
Your face flushes hot, heart skipping a beat as your eyes meet his. Oh god. You'd just been standing there... staring at him.
"I—I wasn't staring." You stammer, trying to will the heat in your cheeks away. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and your fluster only deepens. "I wasn't!" You insist a bit too quickly, your voice pitching higher in embarrassment. "I just... got lost in thought, that's all."
"Thinking about what?" He asks, raising a brow, which makes your face burn hotter if that was even possible. You quickly turn to try and hide your blush, but you're sure he's already noticed.
"Nothing." You answer shortly. Why did you care if he was drawing you? It was keeping him quiet and away from you, so it didn't really matter.
Soap laughs softly from his spot. He doesn't add anything else, and after a moment of silence, you assume he's gone back to his sketching, though you stubbornly refuse to glance back and confirm. Your attention returns fully to the water, focusing on the little ripples on the surface as you steady yourself.
Now that you're standing still, the fish begin to reappear, swimming cautiously around your legs. You keep your breathing shallow, body unmoving as you wait. After what feels like an eternity, one of a decent size glides lazily toward you. Your heart skips in excitement, but you keep your composure, not daring to move just yet and risk scaring it off.
The fish swims closer, and the closer it gets, the more your heart hammers in your chest. You hold your breath, raising your spear ever so slightly. Remembering Soap's advice, you adjust your aim—just a little lower than your instinct tells you.
Then, in a swift motion, you snap the spear down, piercing the water's calm surface. At first, you can't tell if you've gotten anything, but then your spear starts to jerk, making you hold it tighter. The fish wriggles and thrashes against the spear, but you've got it.
"Oh my God! Soap! I got one! I did it!" You shout, your voice breaking with excitement. "Quick! Come here! I got one!"
You press down harder on the spear, driving it deeper into the mud beneath the water to ensure the fish won't escape. From behind, you hear a splash as Soap jumps in and charges through the water, closing the distance between you in seconds. His hand instinctively finds its place at the small of your back as he comes up beside you.
"You finally got one?" He asks, a little breathless from the sprint over.
You nod eagerly, feeling the fish tug and jerk at the end of your spear. "Yes! I got one! Hurry, grab it before it gets away!"
Soap chuckles, and you feel a playful pinch at your hip. You're so focused on not losing the fish though you hardly even notice it. "I don't think it's going anywhere, hen." He reassures you as he bends down to reach into the water to get it. His hand wraps around the flailing fish, the other grasping your spear shaft.
"Let up on the spear. I got 'em. He's not going anywhere." He tells you. As he holds onto the fish with one hand, his other hand helps guide the spear up, lifting it just enough to pull it out of the water.
"Are you sure you got it?" You ask, resisting just a little bit at first. You wanted to be absolutely sure he had your fish.
Soap glances up at you from his crouched down position, and instead of answering you with words, he stands, hauling the fish up out of the water with him. You gasp a little in surprise, watching it thrashing around a little before settling. It was a pretty impressive fish, or at least you thought so. To a fisherman it probably wasn't anything too excited or even that big. But for your first time catching a fish, you were thrilled.
"Oh my God! I caught that?!" You were grinning so wide your cheeks hurt just slightly.
Soap's grinning too, chuckling softly as he glances between the fish and your beaming face. "Yeah, you did. Not too bad for a first timer." He praises, turning the fish a little to inspect it. The movement makes the fish squirm, its scales flashing under the sunlight as it struggles.
"It's huge! It looked smaller in the water." You say, looking it over as Soap turns it. You can't help but admire how the scales shimmer with iridescent greens and silvers, the white underbelly glistening in contrast. It looks similar to the others you'd been catching earlier.
Soap scoffs playfully. "Huge? Let's not get too carried away now." He chuckles, and you shoot him a glare, which only widens his grin. "But hey, for a first timer, I'd say it's a pretty decent catch." He adds, forearm flexing as the fish gives a sudden, powerful thrash. It's almost as if the fish is protesting his words and proving you were right.
You smirk, folding your arms across your chest as Soap regains control of the fish. "Don't ruin this for me, MacTavish. I'm allowed to be excited—I've been out here for hours."
Soap chuckles lightly and gives you a half smirk. "Alright, I'll shut up." He concedes, still chuckling softly as he turns and starts making his way back towards the shoreline.
You follow after him with a smile, still silently celebrating to yourself. It was going to be so much more satisfying to eat all the fish later knowing you were going to be eating one you caught yourself. You couldn't wait to get them over the fire.
"Hey States." Soap calls back to you after a few seconds, pulling you out of your thoughts and making you glance up at him. He still walking, only glancing over his shoulder slightly. "You did good. This is a really nice catch."
You pause for just a second, his praise taking a moment to process. When it does though, a warm feeling settles over you. "Thanks." You say softly, surprised that him saying something like that meant so much to you. Maybe it was because Soap never gave you compliments.
"So do you wanna kill it?" Soap asks as you walk onto the slightly sandy shore, pulling you rather abruptly from the high you'd been on.
"What?" You ask, looking back at him in surprise. "Do.. do I have to?" You frown. You'd been hoping, since he'd killed all the other fish, he'd just finish off this one off too. For whatever reason, it made you squeamish to think about killing it.
"Well, no." Soap says, immediately easing your anxiety about that. "I'll kill it if you don't want to. Just thought since you'd caught it and everything, you'd want to finish the job." He shrugs, looking back over at you again, almost like he waiting to see if you'd to change your mind.
You shake your head though. "No. I can't. I'm gonna feel so bad." Sure, you were responsible for catching it, and you were going to eat it, but for whatever reason, it was hard for you to kill innocent animals.
Soap gives you a look, but he quickly gets to work on getting his knife out to end the fish. "So you can kill people for a living but not a fish?" He questions, poking the knife through the gills and making a quick and clean cut. You have to look away when he does it. It still makes you uneasy.
"It's different when it's animals." You frown, risking a glance back to see if he was done. He was, and he was just tucking his knife back into his pocket. The fish was now still, blood dripping out of it where Soap made the cut.
"Don't go on missions with Ghost then." He mutters, tipping the fish upside down to let the fish bleed out better. It wouldn't take that long or at least the others didn't.
Soap's words pique your interest. You're well aware of how Ghost is. He's a very "do whatever it takes to get the job done" kind of guy. The way Soap says it though makes you think he's got a story.
"Why not?" You venture, tilting your head slightly. It's a gesture that makes Soap want to spare you, and you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes.
"Let's just say... he has no problem with shooting anything that might compromise him."
As vague as he's being, you understand pretty well. You know Price has given you the advice to shoot a dog if it was going to bark and alert others to your presence. Ghost most definitely stood by that principle. Honestly he was probably the one who told Price that in the first place.
You can't help but make a face at the thought of having to shoot an animal. "That... that sounds like him." You nod, leaving the conversation at that. You were just going to be sad if you kept talking about it.
"So... When can we get cooking?" You change the topic to something more appealing.
The second your mind goes back to food, you instantly get hungry. Your stomach makes this a well known fact too as it lets out a low and long rumble. It's been at least two hours since you decided to go fishing, and you're starving at this point.
Soap laughs as your stomach growls, his eyes flicking down as if he expected to see if rolling like it did in the cartoons. "We can start right now. Sounds like you won't make it much longer if we don't." He teases, an almost playful smirk tugging at his lips as he pinches your side lightly.
You swat his hand away as he pinches you and glare at him, which only makes him chuckle. "You gotta learn how to keep your hands to yourself." You huff as you follow behind him.
"Says the woman who can't seem to keep her hands off me." He laughs, glancing over his shoulder at you and raising a brow.
Your eyes widen at his words, and your cheeks start to burn a little. "Oh shut the fuck up. You act like you aren't equally as bad. If not worse!"
Soap huffs softly at your accusation as he places now the now fully bled out fish one of the logs in the stack of wood he's collected. "So you're not denying it?"
You freeze for just a moment, realizing in horror that you aren't. Has your whole dynamic with Soap really changed that much? Your mind struggles to come up with something to say back. You can't just deny it now that he's pointed it out.
So you deflect. You let out a groan and roll your eyes. "You're impossible, you know that?" You grumble, trying to sound indifferent, though the heat in your cheeks gives you away.
Soap just keeps smirking at you. "Aye, but I'm starting to think you like it." He answers cheekily as he wipes his hands off on his pants.
"Absolutely not." You shoot that down fast. "I'm only trying to be nice to you so you don't burn my fish."
"What makes you think I'm cooking your fish for you?" Soap huffs. "I caught most of them. Hell I even prepped all them while you were out there splashing around in the water. You can at least cook your own damn fish."
He picks up his fishing spear from the ground as he talks and works one of the fish onto the stick. It was the biggest fish too, but you weren't going to argue. He did technically catch it, and he ate a lot more than you did anyway.
"Fine. I can probably cook a fish better than you anyway." You shrug, walking over to grab one of the pre-prepped fish from the little pan Soap has placed them in.
"You wanna cook them all then?" He asks, offering the stick with his fish on it over to you.
You roll your eyes and push his hand away before taking your own fish and working it gently onto the your stick. "Just cook your own damn fish, Soap." You sigh, moving to the opposite side of the fire to cook your own fish.
You don't look back up at him, your eyes focused on making sure your fish doesn't burn to a crisp, but Soap smiles over at you through the fire.
***
You watch as the flames gently lick up over the fish, cooking the outsides to a slightly browned colored. It shouldn't take too long for the fish to cook, maybe only about ten minutes. It's already dripping juice down onto the burning logs though and the smell is incredible. It's the best thing you've smelled in years, and it's making your mouth water.
Time is passing by so slowly though. The longer you watch the fish cook, the more your stomach seems to feel like it's cramping up. You're about ready to just take it off the fire and risk eating it raw, but the last thing you want to do is give yourself food poisoning and have to wait it out for the rest of the few days you're here.
You watch as another drop leaves the fish and sizzles on some of the coals. In response, stomach lets off a particularly loud and long growl, one that makes Soap peak up over the fire at you.
"You hanging in there, States?" He asks, a slight chuckle in his voice.
You let out a low grunt in response, eyes fixed hungrily on the fish that's still not ready. "Barely," you mutter, frustration lacing your voice. Soap chuckles again, only adding to your annoyance. "It's taking forever." You grumble, and with a sigh, you flip the fish over, to cook the other side a little more.
"Mine's done."
Your head snaps up at that, disbelief etched across your face. Across the fire, Soap's wearing a smug grin as he pulls his fish off the flames and inspects it. You squint, trying to get a better look, but from where you're sitting, you can't tell if it's actually cooked or if he's just messing with you.
"How the hell is yours done already? We started at the same time!" You pout, unable to hide the hint of envy in your voice.
Soap huffs, that irritatingly self-satisfied grin never leaving his face. "Because I know what I'm doing." He replies matter-of-factly.
He glances down at his fish with a contented sigh. "Oh, this is gonna taste so good." He mumbles, and you watch as he begins blowing on it to cool it off.
You roll your eyes and slump back down, watching as your stubborn fish continues to sizzle over the flames. "Shut up, Soap." You mumble, the words almost drowned out by the grumbling of your empty stomach.
"Need some help?" He offers, that same infuriatingly amused tone coloring his voice. It only makes you bristle further.
"No." You snap, sharper than you intended. "Stop being an ass."
Soap's brows lift slightly, taken aback by your sudden outburst. A few minutes ago, you'd been lighthearted and playful, but now— He sighs softly, shoulders relaxing. "Alright, alright." The teasing drops from his voice, replaced by something gentler. "I was just messin'. No need to get all hangry on me."
You shoot him a half-hearted glare before dropping your gaze back to the fish, your irritation simmering low. "I'm not hangry."
"Uh-huh. Sure sounds like it." He murmurs, but his tone has shifted—more genuine, less needling. "C'mere, States. I've got hot coals over here. They'll cook your fish faster."
You hesitate, glancing over at him. You're still not happy with him, but you're also so hungry. You'd do almost anything to get your damn fish to cook faster so you can eat. Reluctantly, you sigh and stand up, walking over to where he's sitting.
When you settle beside him, Soap shifts slightly, carefully laying his own stick with the cooked fish against a log. Once it's balanced, he scoots closer to you, his thigh brushing against yours. The feeling makes your heart jump despite the previous frustration you were feeling towards him just a moment prior.
"Here, put the fish right above these coals." Soap instructs, his voice low. He points with one hand and gently adjusts your stick with the other. His fingers curl over yours as he guides it into place. Instead of focusing on where your fish is being placed by the coals, your eyes stay glued to where his hand lays over yours.
"There. It'll be done in no time." He says softly, his hand dropping away and resting back in his lap.
You shift your gaze back to your fish, noticing how much more intense the fire feels over here. The heat that radiates off the coals feels hotter and almost makes your cheeks burn.
While you're focused on your fish, you feel Soap shift back away from you for a second. When you look, you can see he's reached back over to get his fish. The sight of it, browned, charred, ready to eat, instantly makes your stomach growl again, and you catch Soap glance over at you, a little frown creasing his forehead.
Then, without a word, he nudges you gently. "Here." He says, holding out his perfectly cooked fish to you. "Eat this."
You blink, surprised. "What? But... you already—"
"I'll eat yours when it's done." He interrupts, his voice unusually gentle. "Go on, take it. You're starving, and I don't want you passing out on me or anything."
You look between him and the fish, a small frown forming on your lips. It was such a sweet gesture, and so uncharacteristic of him. You glance up to meet his eyes, finding they were already looking back at you, his gaze tender and warm.
When you still don't make a move to take the fish from him, his features soften even more. "States, either take the damn fish, or I'm gonna make you take it." He warns lightly, and you can tell he's not mad, but he's being serious.
His threat puts you at ease, and you smile. That was more like the Soap you knew. "Thanks." You murmur quietly, accepting the stick as he reaches over to grab yours in exchange.
The second the fish is in your hands, saliva starts to pool in your mouth. You don't waste any time, bringing it to your lips and taking a big, eager bite. The moment the warm, flaky fish hits your tongue, it's as if every sense lights up at once. It's not perfectly seasoned or delicately prepared—it's slightly charred on the edges and a little tough to bite off and chew. But after a week of bland MREs and tasteless food, this is the best thing you've eaten in your entire life.
A slight smoky flavor from the fire lingers on your tongue, and the little bit of salt you added before is just barely noticeable. You take a second bit and hum quietly in appreciation, barely able to suppress the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth.
Soap watches you for a moment, a soft and pleasant expression on his face. "Better?" He asks quietly.
You nod, still in the middle of chewing, eyes closed as you savor your current bite. "Yeah... thanks, Soap." You say mutter after a bit, feeling your earlier anger melt instantly. Maybe you were just hangry.
"No problem, hen." He murmurs sweetly, his gaze returning to the fish cooking on the coals and turning it over.
You glance back over at him, watching the side of his face. The flames cast an orangish glow to his cheeks and shadows to his jawline. It's strange how different he looks in this moment—maybe it's the firelight, or maybe it's just how at ease he seems, sitting beside you.
An unfamiliar warmth settles deeper in your chest, wrapping around your heart, filling you with a lightness you haven't felt in... you don't even know how long. It radiates through you, down to your fingertips and the tips of your toes, making you feel almost weightless.
You blink, suddenly aware of how much you enjoy being around Soap—how much you've come to look forward to these moments. The banter, the teasing, the soft simple moments like this one. The way he looks at you sometimes with something unspoken that you can't quite put your finger on.
You take a shaky breath to try and steady yourself, to shake off the warmth spreading through you, but it's no use. Being around Soap just... feels good. Better than you expected. Better than you'd let yourself admit until now.
He glances over, catching your gaze for a second, and a small smile tugs at his lips. "You alright, hen?" He asks, his tone light but laced with a quiet concern.
You nod quickly, looking away as your heart skips a beat. "Yeah, I'm good." You manage to say, though your voice sounds breathy.
Soap watches you a moment longer before going back to tending to the fish, seemingly unaware of the shift happening inside you. But you're aware. So painfully aware of how close he's sitting, of the warmth of his leg brushing against yours, of the subtle comfort that his presence brings. You can't shake the feeling that something's changed between you—you know something has. Something you can't quite name, but it's there, and it's only growing.
"There!" Soap's voice pulls your attention back to him. "All done. Told ya they'd cook faster over here." He smiles, blowing gently on the fish. He glances back to you as he does, noticing the barely touched fish, only sporting two bites, on the stick in your lap.
"How's the fish, lass? It looks like you've hardly touched it." He frowns. Knowing how hungry you were a moment before, he's a little surprised the entire thing wasn't completely gone by now.
You look back down at your fish, smiling a little. "It's really good. I'm just trying to make it last." You lift it back up to your lips to take another bite then, which makes Soap relax a bit.
"I hope it tastes as good as it smells." He says softly, turning his over to look for a good place to dig in. He tries to take a small bite but immediately withdrawals, making a face. "Ah, way too fucking hot yet. Just burnt my tongue."
Without thinking, you hold out the fish you'd been eating to him. "Wanna take a bite?" You ask, it taking you a moment to realize what you were doing. By the time you do, it's far too late to take it back.
Soap looks at you with an amused sparkle in his eye and he laughs. "Nah, I don't wanna get your cooties." He teases lightly, making you roll your eyes at him despite the smile making your cheeks burn.
"Soap we've had sex and you've kissed me how many times now? You definitely have my cooties already. More aren't gonna hurt you." You tease right back. It makes him laugh harder, and he even throws his head back a little as he does.
"I guess I can't argue with that." He says as he comes down from his laughter. "Alright, give it here then."
He motions for you to hand the fish over, so you hold it out for him to take. Instead of just taking it from you though, he grabs around your hand and brings the fish up to his lips.
As he takes a bite, his eyes flick up to meet yours, locking as his teeth slowly sink in. Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him, eyes widened just the slightest. And Soap knows what it's doing to you. You see the corner of his lips twitch up into a smirk as he leans back, chewing slowly.
Your mind is scrambling for something to say to break this new tension that's formed. A tension that's not helping you sort through your newly discovered feelings.
"You.. you like it?" You find yourself saying, watching as he swipes his thumb across his bottom lip and sucks the juices off.
"Not a five star meal, but the best bloody thing I've had in a while." He chuckles. "We should have done this day one."
That makes you giggle a bit, and you relax slightly as you go back to eating peacefully. "I think I probably would have drown you in the lake if we went near it day one." You point out, remembering how absolutely angry he'd made you during the flight over and the walk to the cabin.
Soap laughs softly, attempting once more to eat his own fish and taking a tentative bite out of it. "I could see you trying." He says as he takes a small bite, making you narrow your eyes at him.
"Try? I totally could." You huff. You've never been allowed to spar each other before, Price wouldn't let you since he was worried you two would end up seriously hurting each other, but you feel like you can take him.
Soap huffs back and shakes his head. "States, you weigh nothing to me. I'm practically double your weight. Plus I'm taller than you. In water, I'm gonna win." He shrugs, taking another bite of his fish.
You scoff at him, wanting to argue, but he made a decent point. He'd have the advantage in water. "So you're saying on land I'd kick your ass then?" You raise your brow at him.
Soap gives you a side glance, then huffs through his nose and shakes his head, dismissing you easily. "Hell no. I'd beat you on land too. Without a doubt."
You roll your eyes. "You underestimate me. I could so pin you if we sparred." You say, with maybe a little too much confidence.
Soap pauses a moment, as if thinking, and then shrugs. "Alright. Let's spar then." He says, quickly catching your attention.
"What? Like right now?" You frown.
"Yeah, right now. Let's settle it."
"Oh..." You purse your lips together. Sure you were confident that you could take Soap in a sparring match, but maybe not in the middle of the woods. Or without mats. And definitely not with all the sexual tension between you lately.
"Maybe not right now." You say slowly. "We're eating, and I'm hungry. And tired." You shift a little where you're sitting, giving a half-hearted shrug. "It just wouldn't be a fair match."
You notice Soap beginning to grin as soon as the excuse leaves your lips. "Yeah, sure. Alright." He chuckles softly, leaving it at that as he settles back down to finish his fish.
***
The rest of the evening is spent cooking and eating the fish you caught. It was the most satisfying meal you've had since arriving to the cabin. It was going to be hard to go back to eating the MREs for the remaining few days, but there was also the potential to go out fishing again tomorrow. And hopefully you'd be quicker at catching them then.
By the time you're both done eating, the sun has almost set completely over the horizon. It's getting dark out, the only light coming from the moon and the fire that was still burning bright but slowly turning into only embers.
You sigh softly, your stomach feeling like it was ready to burst. "I ate way too much." You chuckle, resting a hand on your now protruding belly. "That was the best meal ever though."
Soap laughs softly as he finishes piling up all your scraps and utensils off to the side to be cleaned up later. "You ready to turn in for the night then, lass?" He asks, standing by the fire and looking down at you.
You hum softly in thought but then shake your head. "No. I think I want to stay out here a little longer. Disgust a bit before bed."
You really hadn't gotten the chance to enjoy the night air since you arrived. There was always something that kept you inside almost as soon as the sun began to set. It was such a peaceful night tonight too. You want to enjoy it and the bonfire a while longer.
Soap nods a little, and you watch as he goes back to the wood pile. "I'll put another log on for you then." He says, looking over the few pieces of wood that remained.
"Thanks." You smile, watching as he picks out a log and carries it over to the fire. He tries to place it gently as not to make the entire log pile collapse, but it's a vein effort since the second he sets it down, everything falls over, causing a bunch of sparks to flare up into the air.
You follow the trail of sparks up a little ways, far enough that your attention gets pulled to the sky. Above you, the stars are just starting to come out, and they're already so much brighter than what you'd ever see on base.
"Wow..." You breathe softly. "I never noticed all the stars you can see out here."
Soap looks up towards the sky as well, humming pleasantly. "It's pretty." He mumbles, and there's a brief of moment of silence that falls between you as you both admire the twinkling lights.
You almost forget where you are for a moment until Soap breaks the silence. "I can go grab a blanket and lay it out. That way you can lay down and not have to crane your neck to see." He offers.
You look back at him, warmth filling your chest at the sweet offer. You're starting to get used to this side of Soap.
"Yeah." You smile. "That'd be nice."
"Alright. I'll be back in a second." With that, he's off, walking back towards the cabin.
You watch his figure retreat until he disappears inside. Once he's out of sight, your gaze drops to watching the fire, a soft sigh leaving your lips. You find yourself hoping that he'll want to stay and star gaze with you for bit.
Before you can overthink too much about that thought, you hear the cabin door open and slam shut as Soap makes his way back over to you. In his arms, he carries the blanket from his sleeping roll. It was really the only blanket you had, but the fact he was willing to use it just so you could stargaze was a sweet concept.
"Where do you want it?" He asks once he's within ear shot from you. You're a little unprepared for his question and quickly start to glance around for an open spot to lay the blanket out.
"Oh.. uh.. maybe just right over here by the fire?" You motion to a somewhat cleared off area that's just a little ways away from the fire. You know the second you move away from the flames that you're gonna start getting cold, but hopefully you'll still be close enough to stay warm.
Soap gets right to work on laying out the blanket where you've requested it to go, unfolding it and making sure it lays flat. When he's done, he stands up and motions down at it.
"There you go." He says simply as you get up and move to blanket. Kicking your shoes off, you step onto it and sit down.
"Thanks." You hum softly, moving around a bit to get comfortable.
Soap watches you a moment, still standing off to the side of the blanket. "It's not a problem, lass." He shrugs dismissively. "Just bring the blanket in when you're done. And put the fire out." He adds, making you instantly look back up at him.
"You're not staying?" You frown, disappointment settling heavily in your chest.
Soap pauses, almost like he was surprised you'd ask that. "Uh.. yeah. I was just gonna go in..." He says slowly. "Did... did you want me to stay?" He asks hesitantly, uncertain.
"Well... yeah." You answer him softly. Your voice sounds so much more vulnerable than you expected it to be. "I want you to stay. Or I wouldn't mind the company at least. You know in case the bear comes back or something."
You're rambling a little, which just makes Soap smile. He looks down towards his feet as he does and then starts kick his shoes off too.
"Alright. I guess I can watch the sky with you for a little while." He agrees, instantly making any nerves you had die off.
"Great." You sigh softly, smiling as he settles onto the blanket beside you, leaving a modest space as he lays back.
You lay back on the blanket too, already able to feel the cool ground quickly seeping through the blanket and into your backside. If you had the thermal liner, it'd be much better, but you don't feel like getting up to get it.
A silence settles between you as both your gazes fixate on the stars above you. Even though the stars were the whole reason you were out here still in the first place, you find your attention is more focused on the man next to you.
"Did you ever stargaze back in Scotland?" You find yourself asking, keeping your eyes on the sky.
"Maybe a bit?" Soap replies, and you can hear the rustle of his shoulders moving against the blanket as he shrugs. "I mean the stars in Scotland are beautiful. But I don't think I ever did something like this." He explains. "What about you?"
"Not really." You chuckle. "It's impossible to really get stars like this in the city. Even out in the country they aren't too bright. But I dated a guy once who took me stargazing before. Really it was just to make out though. I don't think he really intended on looking for constellations."
Soap hums softly. "I can't believe you had a guy who wanted to date you." He mutters.
You shoot him a glare and wack his chest, which makes Soap laugh. "Ass." You grumble, though you're smiling too. "I'll have you know I had a lot of suitors back in America."
"What was wrong with them?" He adds, making you wind up to hit his chest again. He flinches and holds his hands up defensively. "I'm only kidding!" He says through his laughter. "I don't doubt you had a lot of guys lined up to date you."
"I can't tell if you're being serious or not." You huff despite the smile on your face. You settle back down into your spot, listening as Soap does the same. It seems like he's closer now.
"I'm being serious." He confirms. "You're an attractive woman, States. Lots of guys like you. Hell, there's a lot of idiots back on base who have crushes on you."
You raise your brows in surprise. "Really?" You've never paid much attention to things like that before, or at least no one's ever made it obvious.
"Yeah, really. Gets annoying, honestly. You know how many guys outside our task force have asked me if you're single or if I can set them up with you?" He scoffs at the end, almost like just thinking about it was as annoying as the real thing.
"Do I even want to know what you've told them?" No guy had ever asked you out, so you're sure the things he said weren't very nice. There was no way Soap had played the knight in shining armor trying to protect you.
"Told 'em you were a bitch. That you were psychotic, smelled bad, snored in your sleep. Lots of stuff." He shrugs, as if saying those things wasn't a big deal. You have to admit though that it hurt to hear him admit that.
"No wonder I had no idea anyone was interested." You mutter, the hurt coming through in your tone a little despite you trying to hide it. You hear Soap's head shift as he looks over at you, but you keep your gaze on the sky.
"You wouldn't have wanted to date those men anyway, States. All of them just wanted in your pants. I wasn't gonna just let them use you like that."
You pause, taking in what he said. "Why would you do that? I thought you didn't like me."
Soap scoffs softly. "I didn't. But I'm not a total asshole. You're still part of my team, and I'm not about to let some horny pricks hurt you. That's my job." He tries to say it jokingly, trying to lighten the mood a little.
You roll your eyes, but there was something sweet about the whole thing. You couldn't really be upset with him for scaring off men like that, but still. It still hurt he said those things.
"Lucky me." You sigh, trying to push past it. It makes Soap chuckle softly, but he can still tell you're unhappy.
Soap looks back up at the sky, a brief silence settling before you. After a few seconds, he breaks it.
"You know, now I'm gonna have to start telling them other things to ward them off." He says, making you glance over at him.
"Why's that?" You venture curiously.
Soap seems to hesitant a second before he answers. "Well... cause you're really not that half bad. I mean you're still kinda annoying, but you're not too bad either."
As back handed as it sounded, it was one of the nicest things Soap has ever said to you. You find yourself smiling and almost swooning over those words.
"You're not so bad either, Soap." You mumble back, watching as a smile settles on his face too. Your gaze returns to the stars then, and you feel a sense of peace and contentment settle over you.
You lay there in silence for maybe a minute longer before you turn to look at Soap once more. "Did you finish your drawing from earlier?" You ask.
"Ehh, mostly. I didn't have time to finish the scenery." He says, his gaze staying fixed on the sky.
You hum softly, trying to work up the courage to ask to see it. You're not sure why, but it feels so personal to ask about seeing his artwork.
"Can I see it?" You finally ask in a soft voice, glancing back over to Soap. He looks back at you, almost seeming hesitant.
"You really want to?" He asks slowly, and you nod, chewing the inside of your cheek nervously. "Ok. Yeah, sure." He nods.
Sitting up, he leans over towards where he last placed the book last, balanced on the wooden log he'd been sitting at earlier. "I'm not sure how well you'll be able to see it." He adds as he grabs it.
He makes a good point, it's now almost completely dark aside from the fire and a little light from the moon. You're hoping though that you're close enough to the fire to see most of the picture.
"That's alright. I still wanna see it." You tell him, sitting up and watching as he flips through a few pages to look for it. You wonder what else he's drawn since being here.
As soon as he finds it, he starts to scoot closer to you. "Here. This is what I was able to get done."
He hands the book over to you, and you take it from him. You have to angle the book a certain way towards the fire to see it, but the image slowly becomes illuminated.
It was a drawing of you. Out in the middle of the lake, spear in hand. The background isn't finished at all or even sketched out. The main focus of the drawing was you. And given the amount of time Soap had, which you assume hadn't been long, there was an impressive amount of detail.
Your heart skips in your chest as you study the image. Your cheeks are burning a little, but you can't help but smile. So he had been drawing you after all.
"You drew me?" You ask softly, eyes not leaving the page.
Next to you, Soap smiles a little. If you'd looked, you would have seen that his own cheeks were slightly pink. Though it could have just been the orange glow from the fire.
"Yeah. You were such a good model cause you were standing out there for so long." He jokes.
You huff softly and glare over at him. "I had a feeling you were drawing me." You grumble, turning your attention back to the drawing and studying more of the image. "It's really nice though. You must have sketched this in like five minutes."
Soap shrugs a little. "This took me longer than five minutes. I was working on it earlier. It's a little sloppy compared to some of my other drawings."
You glance back over at him. "Can I see the others?" You ask, and he chuckles a little before shrugging.
"Go ahead." He nods, and you start to slowly flip through his sketch book, looking over all the sketches he's done in the past five days.
A lot of them are sketches of the cabin and the lake. Some are half finished, others are very detailed. He's also drawn a few animals and a few things from inside of the cabin, like the wood stove and a half finished sketch of what looks like your dining area.
As you look them over, a little breeze picks up, making you shiver. It was starting to get very cold out, and despite the fire being close by still, you were getting a little chilly.
Soap hears you shiver and looks up from watching you flip through the book. "Cold?" He asks, and you nod.
"Just a little." You admit, trying to shrug it off.
His eyes drift down to your practically bare legs, hardly covered by the pajama shorts you were wearing. "You know, pants would help." He teases, making you shake your head.
"You mean the pants that are damp still because you tackled me in the water earlier?" You raise an eyebrow at him, which makes him laugh.
"Ah. Right. Well, come here then." He says softly, his voice dipping lower as he shifts closer to you.
Before you can even react, his arm slides around your back, guiding you firmly into his side. You feel the warmth of his body almost immediately, seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and you stiffen for just a second as he adjusts his hold. His hand settles at the curve of your waist, fingers pressing gently into your side, not pulling you in too tight, but enough that your back is now pressed to his chest and side a bit.
You can feel his every breath and every flex of his muscles with every subtle movement he makes. You glance up at him, wide-eyed, but Soap's already looking back down at you.
"Better?" He murmurs, his voice a soft rumble that seems to vibrate right through you. His leg shifts then, brushing lightly against yours, and you're hyper-aware of how solid and strong his body feels beside you. Every point of contact—his arm around you, the slight pressure of his thigh against your knee, the way his breath is practically on you neck—sends a subtle shiver through you that has nothing to do with the cold air.
"Uh..." You can't seem to form a coherent thought, let alone a response. All you can focus on is how close he is. The heat radiating off him, his scent— it's all making your head spin just a little.
Your heart hammers harder in your chest, the steady thump-thump-thump of it so loud you're sure he can hear it. You swallow, trying to clear the sudden dryness in your throat. "Yeah. Better." You finally manage to say, the words coming out quieter than you intend.
He gives you a small, almost satisfied smile, the corners of his mouth curving up just slightly. "Good."
You try to focus your attention back on the book, but it's pointless. You can't concentrate on the thing to save your life. You're doing everything you can to calm your heart down before it beats out of your chest. Just to play along, you absentmindedly turn to the next page of the sketch book, but you have no idea what's actually on the page.
Then his thumb starts to brush against your hip, and the simple motion sends a jolt of electricity through you, making your breath catch. Your heart pounds so loudly in your ears, and you're struggling to keep your breathing from increasing.
Soap shifts again, his thigh now fully against yours. He's so warm, like a living heater, though at this point it's hard to tell if you're warm from his body heat or something else.
Then you notice it. The fast thumps against your back. His heart hammering away in his own chest at the same rate that yours is. He's having the same reaction as you are. If you listen, you can hear him trying to control his breathing too. The sound is too choppy to be natural.
Knowing he's feeling the same way calms your own nerves immensely. Slowly, your body relaxes against his, and you begin to cuddle in closer to him. You tilt your head towards his just the slightest bit, and Soap presses his cheek down onto the top of your head.
You hear Soap exhale softly, like he's releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding, and his arm tightens around you just a fraction more, the motion sending a fresh wave of warmth through your entire body. His fingers splay out across your side, the tips brushing lightly against your ribs, making your pulse flutter wildly.
Your eyes slowly close, the sketch book forgotten in your lap. You let yourself fully relax into Soap and soak up this feeling. You know it's attraction, or at least part of it is. You've felt this before with other men, but there's still something more there. Your body feels electric when he holds you like this. You've never felt that way before.
"States.."
Your name leaves Soap's lips, making your heart flutter up into your throat. You carefully tilt your head up, eyes meeting Soap's slowly. Once they do, it feels like you can't breathe. His eyes are so heavy with emotion you can't even think.
His hand, cold but gentle, touches your cheek. It's such a shocking contrast that it reminds you to breathe. He cups your jaw, keeping your head tilted up towards him, though you weren't planning on looking away.
"Oh, fuck it..."
He mumbles it so softly you're sure you wouldn't have heard him if you'd been a fraction of an inch further from him. Even if you hadn't, his actions spoke for him.
He closes whatever distance was between you fast. The first brush of his lips against yours is tentative, almost testing. They're soft, warmer than his hands, and the touch is light enough that you barely feel it at first.
Your lips make a soft, almost inaudible popping sound as they part. You're left with just a ghostly feeling of where his lips were and his warm breath against them from his labored breathing as he gages your reaction.
You feel numb almost. Definitely like you're floating. Then a rush of emotion surges through you—excitement, confusion, desire, everything all at once. You feel a flush spread across your cheeks, a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire crackling nearby. You don't know what to say, don't know how to put into words what's racing through your head. So instead, you take a deep breath, steady yourself, and lean in.
This time, you're the one to close the distance. You bring your hand to the back of his neck, and your lips press against his, firmer than his first kiss, your eyes sliding shut as the world tilts on its axis. Soap stiffens for a heartbeat, a small, almost inaudible gasp escaping him. But then you feel him relax, his whole body seeming to melt against yours as he returns the kiss, his mouth moving slowly, carefully, against yours. There's still a hint of that same hesitation, but it's fading with every second.
You pull back an inch, just enough to catch your breath, and when you open your eyes, you find Soap staring down at you. His pupils are blown wide, dark with an intensity that takes your breath away. His lips are slightly parted, his breathing ragged, and the way he's looking at you sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.
"This ok?" He asks breathily, his hand still gripping your jaw. He's nervous, you realize.
You give him a smile and gently move your fingers to the base of his hairline. His eyes struggle to not roll back as you play with the short hairs there.
"More than ok." You assure him, putting a light pressure on the back of his head and pulling his lips back down to yours. When they meet this time, Soap is smiling, and he almost seems to sigh against your lips.
You exchange a few more tender kisses but then something shifts. His hand on your waist starts to tighten, pulling you closer, and his lips press more firmly against yours, drawing in a quiet gasp from you.
The sound seems to spur him on. Soap's hand leaves your cheek to slip back into your hair, his fingers threading through it as he tilts your head just enough to deepen the kiss. Your own hands move to his shoulders, going between gripping them and cupping the sides of his neck. It's like every nerve ending in your body lights up the moment your lips touch, the sensation so intense it's almost dizzying.
You can feel the roughness of his stubble scrape lightly against your skin as his lips part against yours, coaxing your mouth open. The first slide of his tongue is a shock—a gentle, seeking motion that sends a thrill racing down your spine. You make a small sound, something between a whimper and a sigh, and Soap responds instantly. His tongue slips into your mouth, the taste of him invading your senses, and you find yourself pressing closer, desperate to feel more of him.
There's a soft, wet sound as his tongue tangles with yours, a quiet pop as he pulls back only to kiss you again, harder this time. His fingers tighten in your hair, his other hand moving from your waist to grip your hip, pulling you up into his lap. The motion sends a wave of heat crashing through you, your body arching slightly into his, and you gasp again, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you deeper.
Your hands move without thinking, sliding down to feel the hard muscle of his chest. From there, one hand slides up to the back of his neck again, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, the tension in his muscles. Your other hand fists his shirt, knuckles brushing against the hard plane of his chest as you try to anchor yourself. It's overwhelming, the way he's kissing you—so intense, so utterly consuming. Every time you think you've caught your breath, he shifts, tilts his head, and the kiss changes, becomes something even deeper, more insistent.
You shift your hips slightly, wiggling down more into his lap. You slide right down onto a hard lump, and the feeling of it against your thigh and pelvis is unmistakable.
Soap makes a low sound deep in his throat, almost a growl, and the vibration of it against your lips sends another shudder through you. His hands move again, one sliding down your back, pressing you even closer against him, the other cupping the back of your head, holding you in place as if he can't bear the thought of you pulling away. You're not sure if you even could if you tried.
You feel his teeth graze your lower lip, a light nip that has you gasping into his mouth. He pulls back just enough to murmur something, the words lost, and then he's kissing you again, harder, fiercer, like he's trying to pour every unsaid word, every hidden feeling into the press of his lips.
It's not just a kiss. It's like a release of something that's been building for so long, something you've both been holding back without even realizing it. And now that the dam's broken, there's no stopping it. Soap's kisses are relentless, almost desperate, and you can feel your heart pounding so hard it's a wonder it hasn't burst right out of your chest.
You can't help it—you let out a small, breathless moan, and Soap freezes for just a second. His lips hover over yours, his breath mingling with yours as he stares up at you, eyes dark and filled with something that makes your stomach flip.
"States..." He whispers, voice rough and thick. He swallows, his gaze flicking down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. "You—"
Whatever he was going to say is lost as you lean up, capturing his mouth again. This time, you're the one pushing, deepening the kiss, your tongue sliding against his, tasting and teasing, drawing out another one of those low, rumbling sounds from deep in his chest. Soap's hand tightens in your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist, holding you so close you can feel the steady thud of his heart against your chest.
And then he's kissing you back with renewed intensity, the hand on your waist sliding down to your hip, fingers digging into your ass and making you gasp. He uses the leverage to pull you down harder against his bulge, and you're not sure if it's him or you, but your hips start rocking against him, bring a delicious friction to both of you.
It's dizzying, overwhelming, and yet you can't get enough. Your fingers slip up into his hair, tugging gently, and Soap groans softly against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. You can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles coil and flex, the restraint in the way his hands hold you, as if he's struggling to keep himself in check.
When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and ragged against your lips. He's staring at you, eyes wide and almost wild, his chest heaving with every breath.
"Fuck, States..." He whispers, voice hoarse and raw, and the sound of it sends another shiver through you and a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.
The way he's looking at you—like he's on the verge of losing control—makes your pulse skip, the intensity of it stealing your breath. His chest rises and falls rapidly, every breath a visible struggle to calm himself. But you can tell he's not calm. Not even close.
You can feel the tremor in his hands where they still hold you, the way his fingers dig in a little too tightly, like he's trying to ground himself.
"Soap..." You murmur his name softly, almost in a daze, watching as his eyes trail your body. He's barely holding back. You want him. Desperately. Every nerve in your body is singing for him to touch you, to keep going.
Soap's gaze flickers back up to yours. "I want this," he breathes, his voice low, strained. "I want you. So damn bad, States." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion.
You carefully bring your hand up to cup his cheek and brush your thumb against his rough stubble. His eyes flutter shut at the tough, and he leans into your hand.
"I want you too..." You breathe.
Soap's eyes open slowly, and when he looks at you, there's something vulnerable in his gaze. He swallows thickly, opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but hesitates. Whatever it is, he decides against it, his brow furrowing slightly before he just leans forward and captures your lips in a fierce kiss. It's almost like he's pouring all his unspoken words into it, the intensity of his grip on you saying everything he can't.
You mirror his sudden urgency for a moment, but then your hand comes up to gently cup his face, thumb brushing his cheek to slow him down. "Soap... wait..."
He pauses immediately, pulling back just enough to look up at you, confusion and concern flickering in his eyes. His chest is still heaving, breaths mingling with yours, but he stays still, waiting for you to continue.
"If we keep going, I want to do it slow. Not like the first time." You say gently, making his concern gaze soften quickly.
He leans in again, placing a few delicate kisses along your jaw, making his way to your ear. "Then let me take my time, aye?" He whispers, deep voice sending a shiver down your spine.
You nod weakly, eyes fluttering shut as he dips his head, mouth hovering just over the sensitive skin beneath your ear. His lips brush softly against your pulse, his wet tongue darting out and licking a small strip. "I want to feel every inch of you." He whispers, his voice deep and husky, making you whimper.
He starts to kiss at your pulse point, teeth dragging against the sensitive skin. "Wanna hear every sound you make... every little gasp and moan..." He trails off, his tone almost ragged now, as if he's struggling to keep himself in check. "Want to know exactly what makes you lose your mind, hen."
A breathless whine escapes you at his words, and you moan out his name. Not his callsign, his name.
"John..." You breathe, and his mouth stills, his lips hovering just over your skin. You feel his gaze on you, intense and searing, and when you force your eyes open, you find his face so close.
"S-sorry... just sli-"
"Say it again." He cuts you off.
"What?" You ask slowly, brows furrowed just a little.
"Say my name again." He elaborates, eyes growing heavy as he stares at you.
Hesitantly, you do as he asks. "John." You whisper.
His breath stutters, and for a moment, he just looks at you, something intense and almost awed flickering in his gaze. Then, with a soft groan, he dips his head, capturing your lips again in a slow, languid kiss that's completely different from the ones before. This isn't rushed or frantic; it's deliberate, controlled, as if he's savoring every second, every slide of his mouth against yours.
You sigh into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding along the seam of your lips once more, and you part for him instantly, welcoming him in. He explores your mouth with a tenderness that has your heart skipping, each caress of his tongue sending pleasure zipping through you.
Your hips start to find a natural rhythm by themselves, rubbing against the warm hard lump that's been pressing up into you this entire time. Every gentle grind draws a soft but heavy, muffled sound from him, a deep, throaty hum from deep in his chest.
"God, States..." He breathes, pulling back just enough to press his forehead against yours, his chest heaving. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, and the sight sends another wave of heat crashing through you. "I want to take my time, but fuck... you're making it so hard."
"I thought that was the whole point." You joke, a little grin forming on your lips. Soap looks confused for a moment but then a look of understanding crosses his face.
"You know what I'm talking about." He chuckles, shaking his head. His lips return to your neck, placing wet open mouthed kisses along your pulse point.
Your eyes flutter shut and you giggle softly, hands moving down to grip his shoulders. As amazing as his lips felt on your neck, you push him away. Soap looks up at you with heavy eyes, and you slide your hands down to his chest and gently start pushing him back to lay down. He stiffens up a little as you try, unsure of what you were doing.
"Let me, okay? Just... let me." You tell him softly, and you swear you can see his pupils dilate slightly. His muscles starts to relax under your fingertips, and he lets you push him back against the blanket. His eyes are fixated on yours the whole way down, hands sliding down your sides to settle on your hips and thighs.
Your heart is pounding as you stare down at him. He looks so good under you. You never believed in a million years that Soap would ever be nice to you let along let you be on top of him like this. You always imagined the only time he'd ever be under you was if you beat him in sparring. And he wouldn't be looking at you the way he is now.
There's something intoxicating about the way he watches you—like you're the only thing that exists for him right now. You shift your hips a little, adjusting your position just slightly so that you're more centered on his bulge. That movement alone makes his grip on your hips tighten significantly, and once you start grinding, he's a goner. The contact draws a low, rough sound from him, something between a growl and a groan, his head tipping back against the blanket.
"Fuck..." He breathes, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. His grip flexes, a barely restrained tremor running through his fingers. When his eyes open again, they're trained on where your hips meet. "Christ, States. You're killing me here." He growls out, his accent much thicker now.
You giggle softly, relishing in this power you have over him. "You're very impatient."
Soap rolls his eyes, his hands roaming your thighs a little as he continues to watch. "You would be too if a bonnie lass was grindin' on your dick." His hands drift to the hem of your shorts, giving them a gentle tug. "Now, how about we get these off you, hen."
You swallow hard, heart pounding in your chest, but you nod and rise up on your knees, letting him peel them down. His knuckles brushing against you as he goes, the sensation making heat pool between your legs.
He only manages to get them down to your mid thigh before he stops abruptly. "Oh hell's fucking bells..." He groans, his voice is little more than a husky rasp. "You just had to wear those, huh?"
You glance down at yourself, forgetting what you were even wearing. When your eyes settle on the delicate red lace of your underwear, heat rushes to your cheeks. It's the same pair Soap had grabbed when you'd been forced to repack your things. This wasn't something you picked out for him—hadn't even thought for a second you'd be here with him right now.
"I-I didn't plan this." You stutter, embarrassment creeping into your voice. "I just grabbed whatever was clean."
Soap hums softly, almost like he wasn't even fully listening to you. His gaze was on the red lacy pattern, thumbs tracing the hemline. "Doesn't matter." He mumbles. "These are staying on though. Gonna ruin 'em."
You can't help but scoff at him for that. "What's up with you and wanting to ruin my clothes?" You huff, stumbling forward just a little as Soap reaches around you to start undoing his pants. You hear the sound of the button and zipper coming undone and then feel Soap shuffling under you to pull them down.
"Less clothes you have, the better." He replies cheekily, his hands moving to your hips now that his pants are down. You know he's taken his underwear down too because you can feel his member's tip on your butt cheek, painting it with precum. "Hop off a second and get those shorts off. Leave the underwear on."
He gives your hip a little pat, and you do as he asks, swinging your leg off him and working them down your legs. "I like these, so play nice with them." You tell him, meaning to look at his face, but the some movement draws your focus.
You gasp softly, eyes focusing on where his hand is slowly stroking himself. He's completely hard, his shaft glistening from where his hand has smeared the precum. You feel dizzy from the sudden rush of arousal that hits you.
Soap grins as he watches your face, his stokes getting a little quicker and making a lewd wet sound with each stroke. "If I ruin them I'll buy you more." He promises, a smirk in his tone as he releases his member. "Now come here." He motions with his head for you to straddle him once more.
"You better." You grumble half heartedly, feeling dazed still from the image of him stroking himself. It only makes Soap chuckle.
Moving back over to him, you place your hands on his chest to help yourself balance as you swing your leg back over him. Soap takes your hips, guiding you back to hover over his member. You move your underwear aside for him, and he does the rest, his own hand guiding his member to your entrance.
He rubs it against you a little bit, trying to find your opening. Once it catches, he pushes up, and you wince a little as his bulbous tip starts to penetrate you. You hum a little when he suddenly pops inside, and Soap pauses, his thumb rubbing against your hip to try and sooth you.
"You alright?" He asks, his eyes struggling to look up at you instead of where his member is disappearing into you.
"Yeah." You nod. "I'm good. Just gotta go slow."
Soap hums softly, relaxing his hips to let you take over. "Take your time, hen. We've got all the time in the world right now." Even despite his sweet words, his gaze is heavy.
You sit up a little bit more to get a better angle to help him slide in. The new angle works wonders, and as you lift and lower yourself onto him, you take him a little deeper each time.
Every time you sink lower, Soap's breathing starts to pick up. His eyes are focused on where you're connected, his jaw tense and his hands beginning to grip your hips. By the time you're fully seated on him, he looks like he's barely hanging on.
"Fuck..." He groans, his head falling back as you pause to adjust to him. "You're squeezin' me so tight, States. Gonna make me blow before we even get started." He chuckles breathily.
You smile down at him. "Want me to climb off for a moment so you can gather yourself?" You ask, teasing attempting to lift your hips.
You don't make it an inch up before Soap slams you back down. "Do you fucking dare." He all but growls, making you giggle again. "Start moving. Otherwise I'm flipping us." He threatens.
You roll your eyes, but his threat gets you moving. You start grinding your hips, setting a slow and smooth rhythm. It feels nice, and Soap seems to be enjoying it too. His eyes fall shut after the first few rocks, and he a soft groan leaves his lips.
After a little while, you switch up the angle, leaning forward a bit and placing your hands on Soap's chest once more. This angle makes him brush against a whole different spot inside you, pulling a moan from your lips.
Soap's eyes snap open instantly as the sound leaves your lips, and your eyes lock together. You keep rocking gently, his hands pushing and pulling at your hips to help with the motion. His gaze is so intense, and the feeling of his member and rough pubic hairs against your clit are pushing you towards the edge already.
Your body starts to shake and you squeeze your eyes shut as the burning in your clit intensifies. "Fuck... Soap..." You whisper, panting softly as your gentle rocks turn a little more desperate.
"You gonna come for me?" He asks, his voice deep and accent thick. "Almost there States, just keep rocking those pretty hips."
He coaxes you, his hips now moving under yours, thrusting along with each movement you make.
You moan again, arms growing weak, which forces you to lean down onto your elbows, closer to Soap. His lips on your throat the second you're within reach, kissing and nipping at the tender skin, hands still digging into the flesh of your hips.
"Come on, lass. You can do it. Give me one. I'm right behind ya." He groans against your throat, his hips starting to snap up.
That's all it takes. You grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as the coil of pleasure tightens almost painfully low in your belly. Your entire body tenses, each thrust from Soap pushing you closer and closer until you can't hold it anymore. Your entire body tenses and then relaxes as a wave of pleasure washes over you.
A choked cry tears from your throat as you shatter around him, your body arching against his as an orgasm rips through you.
"Ahhh! John—! I'm.. I'm-" His name spills from your lips in a broken sob as your whole body pulses with pleasure. At the same time, Soap starts to snap up into you a little hard, drawing even more cries out of your lips.
It's overwhelming, mind-numbing, and all you can do is gasp and writhe atop him, every nerve ending alight as his hips continue to ram up into you.
You can hear Soap panting under you, his breath hitching every time your walls convulse around him. "Fucking hell. That's it States... that's it..." Soap pants, his eyes squeezing shut as your walls clench and flutter around him.
"Fuck! I'm gonna come!" His voice is strangled, almost hoarse. His thrusts turn into stuttering jerks as he nears his own release. "Don't stop, States! Fuck I'm so close..."
You take over, hips grinding almost wildly against him. You're starting to get overstimulated, but you don't care. You want to get him off.
"Come on, Johnny... come for me." You say through gasps, gripping his shoulders tightly as you watch his face twist into pleasure.
Soap groans loudly, his hips jerking up suddenly. He buries himself as deep as he can go, your name leaving your lips in a strangled groan. "Fuck! (Y/n)! I-I gonna.. I-"
His whole body tenses beneath you, a low, guttural groan rumbling in his chest as he spills inside you. You can feel each thick of rope shoot up into you, his length twitching and throbbing as he empties himself.
Then his hips fall back down against the blanket, and you collapse on top of him, burying your face into the side of his neck. He throws an arm around you, and for a moment, neither of you move, both caught in the aftershocks, riding out the last shivers of pleasure together.
"God, States..." He murmurs breathlessly, his fingers lazily tracing soothing patterns on your lower back. His chest heaves beneath yours, both of you still panting, bodies slick with sweat and utterly spent. He presses a lingering kiss to your temple, his lips soft and tender against your flushed skin. "Y'alright, hen?" He asks gently, voice hoarse with exhaustion.
You manage a weak nod, smiling against his neck. "Yeah... I'm good." You whisper, voice still trembling a little. "Really good."
He huffs a small, breathless laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Glad you enjoyed yourself." He sighs, sounding content.
You hum gently in response, a small smile on your lips. The two of you stay like that for a while, legs tangled and wrapped up in each other's arms. His thumb continues its lazy circles along your spine, and you let out a contented sigh, relishing in the warmth and feeling of his heart beat becoming steady under your fingers.
Then he shifts slightly, and you hear him huff a breathy chuckle. "So much for stargazin', huh?" He teases softly, his voice laced with a playful warmth.
You snort. "Yeah, you're just as bad as the last guy who wanted to go stargazing with me." You can't help but grin, remembering your story from earlier. "Guess I'll never to be able to stargaze."
"Eh, we'll just have to make sure you're on the bottom next time." He replies cheekily, a grin spreading across his face.
You roll your eyes at him, but you can't help but pause. "Next time?" You echo, face turning a little more serious.
Soap gazes up at you, a soft chuckle leaving his lips. "Well let's be honest, there's been a lot of sexual tension between us lately. And with the history we have of having tension with each other, I'm sure there will be more."
You huff softly. "Almost sounds like you're hoping there will be more tension."
Soap grins at you. "I wouldn't mind it if it meant a pretty lass like you will bounce on my lap." He teases, reaching down to pinch your butt.
You blush a little at his words and then jolt in surprise as he pinches you, a little squeak leaving your lips. The movement makes both of you moan in discomfort, bodies still very sensitive. Once the overstimulation settles, you look back down at him.
"So... you would want to do this again?" You ask slowly, curiously.
Soap's grin softens, and he shrugs one shoulder. "Aye... I, uh, wouldn't mind it," he mutters, gaze dropping. "This. Us." He swallows, hesitating. "It's... nice. I wouldn't mind spending more time with you."
His voice is quiet, almost tentative, and you find yourself staring at him, caught off guard by the sudden vulnerability in his words. It's rare to see him like this, so unsure and a little shy.
"Yeah... I wouldn't mind that either." You smile down at him, your words seeming to make him relax.
Soap smiles back at up you, his mouth opening to say something, but a shiver from you makes him pause. Now that you've come down from the high of having sex, the cool night air is beginning to bite at your sweat slicked skin. His brows furrow a bit, and he takes in the feeling of the goose pimpled skin of your thighs.
"Getting cold, lass?" He murmurs.
"Yeah... just a little." You admit, your shaky voice betraying you.
He hums thoughtfully and gives your hip a gentle squeeze. "Let's head inside then, yeah? Don't want you freezin' out here." He chuckles, rubbing your legs softly to try and warm you up a little.
"Yeah, that's probably a good idea." You chuckle, only now realizing that it's pitch black out. The fire has died down significantly, leaving only the moonlight.
You place your hands on Soap's chest and sit up, entire body feeling heavy. Your legs especially feel weak as you move them under you to lift yourself off him.
Your slow movements make Soap chuckle softly, his hands moving to your hips to help you up. "Legs feeling a little weak there?" He grins, helping to lift you off his cock.
There's a soft pop as his cock slips out of you, and you wince at the odd sensation. Your entire space between your legs was sticky and sore.
"Maybe." You huff softly, even as you rely on Soap to help move you off him. He just rolls his eyes and hands you your shorts.
Once you're seated beside him, you try to clean yourself up best you can before moving your underwear back into place. Meanwhile, Soap is fixing himself up too. He's tucked himself back into his underwear, pulled his pants back up, and stood up.
He looks down at you, watching as you put your shorts back on. "Head on in, lass." He tells you softly once they're on. "I'll clean up out here, put the fire out. You head inside and clean up."
"I can help." You offer, making him smile as he holds out a hand to help you up. You take it gratefully, letting him pull you to your feet. "I can get the water to put out the fire."
Soap watches you take two wobbly steps and then laughs softly. "No, it's alright, hen." He insists, grabbing your wrist to stop you. "Besides, by the time I'm done here you might have just made it to the steps." He teases, noticing your slowed pace.
He's greatly exaggerating your speed. You're not that slow, but you get the feeling he's not gonna let you help. You're afraid his next move was gonna be carrying you inside, so you cave.
"Alright." You sigh. "I'll head in. See you in a bit." You chuckle, making your way back to the cabin.
Soap watching you leave, a grin on his face as he takes a moment to admire your little post sex waddle. "Be in in a minute!" He calls after you before getting to work.
It doesn't take you nearly as long to get to the cabin as Soap seemed to imply. Once inside, the first thing you do is change out of your soiled red panties and try to freshen up a little better. Then you get a fire going in the wood stove and peak out the window to see how Soap was doing. By the time you look, the fire is out, and he's on his way back.
Moving to your bed, which is still right next to his, you wait for him come in. A second or so later, the door opens and slams shut, and his heavy footfalls come to the bedroom.
He steps into the room and shuts the door, glancing over at you and smiling a bit. The blanket you were laying on earlier is rolled up and under his arm.
"Surprised to see you made it into bed." He jokes, dropping the roll onto your cot before moving back to the door to kick his shoes off.
You huff softly, taking the roll from him as he drops it off. "We're gonna have to go a lot more rounds if the goal is to paralyze me." You mumble, unfolding the blanket and trying to spreading it out over the cots.
Soap hums deeply from the door way, glancing back at you. "Don't tempt me, States. I'll take you again right now."
Your heart jumps in your chest. His words excite you way too much. "I just put on fresh underwear. You can wait till morning." You joke, which makes him laugh.
"First thing it is then." He chuckles, starting to get himself ready for bed. Which really just involved him stripping down to nothing but his underwear. You watch as he pulls his shirt off over his head.
"You waiting on me?" He asks, glancing back over as you once it was off. He noticed that you hadn't laid down yet.
You shrug a little. "Yeah, pretty much. I've gotten used to hearing you snore at night. Can't sleep without it now."
That makes Soap scoff as he tosses his shirt on the floor. "I don't snore." He claims, undoing his pants, stepping out of them, and kicking them aside. "You're the one who snores."
You roll your eyes, watching as he walks over to you. "I'll ask Ghost when we get back. He'll agree with me that you snore." You shoot back, shrinking away just a touch as he hovers over you a bit.
There's an amused grin on his face as he takes your chin gently. "Brat." He mutters, surprising you by placing a quick peck to your lips. You hadn't been expecting that at all.
Feeling flustered, your gaze drops as you try to collect yourself, though you quickly become distracted. You've never noticed it before, but Soap's chest is littered with scars. It makes sense given his profession, but the red firelight from the stove seems to accent them more.
"Wow..." You breathe, absentmindedly reaching out to trace one. "You've got so many." You whisper, making Soap drop his hand from your chin and look down at where your fingertips traced along a long white scar on his ribs.
"Yeah." He mutters. "My job is... pretty dangerous I guess." He shrugs, continuing to watch your fingers roam without stopping them.
"Are they all from your time in the service?" You ask, looking back up at him. You've only collected a few from your time in the army. Your only non-service related scar was one on your knee from falling off your bike as a kid.
Soap shrugs a little. "Most of them. Not all of them though." He answers you, stepping away from your touch to crawl over you and onto his cod. Your bed squeaks its horrid melody as he does, and you wince at the grading sound.
Once he's settled on his cot, and once it's silent, you look back at him. The firelight illuminates just one section of his face, showing off the long jagged scar on his chin. Gently, you reach out and touch it, making Soap quickly meet your gaze.
"How'd you get this one?" You ask softly, thumb tracing the faded silver-white line.
Soap seems to tense the second you touch it, his gaze locked onto your face. When the question leaves your lips, he sighs and takes your hand, moving it away from his face.
"It's a long story, hen." He sighs, his hand holding yours in his lap. He stares down at it instead of looking at you.
"We've got all night." You reason, which makes his lips twitch the slightest bit into a smile.
"It's also a sad one." He adds, his deep voice just above a whisper. It makes you pause, and you quickly notice the slumped posture he has suddenly.
"I'm a very empathetic person." You add softly, which makes him laugh softly. "But we also don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." You add.
Soap is silent for a moment, almost as if he's debating if he wants to talk or not. After a few minute long seconds, he finally sighs. "My... my childhood wasn't the best, States..."
Thank god it's gonna be a happy ending because I just can NOT be ready for full angst 😭😭
Same 😭
I’m all for angst, but it needs to end well. It’s the worst thing when you’re reading a good story and then it hits you with a sad ending. I need a warning or something. It’s not to say I don’t appreciate a sad ending, but I just need to be mentally prepared. And some days you just can’t do a sad ending.
Literally every fanfiction I’ve written though, if I kill off the main love interest, they come back either in the same chapter at the end or one chapter later. I just can’t do it, I’m a sucker for happy endings 😭
Yes, I am alive still! I got a little busy but I am back and have been working on the next chapter for Bitter Allies.
So far, it’s at 11k words and growing. I’m hoping it’ll be out within the next few days. There’s been a lot more to write about than I previously planned, and I want to get them off day five.
But just a little something to get you excited for the next update, there’s gonna be cute moments, fluffy moments, and smut. I’m putting a little of everything in this next one!
Thanks for your patience! I’m gonna get back to writing now!
