RozodejaneroWrites @rozodejanerowrites - Tumblr Blog

Ninety Seconds to Midnight

CWs: Canon typical violence, Medical procedures, Substance abuse, Referenced Suicide

Contains: John-Price POV, Character study, Unresolved romantic tension, Slow burn

Archive of Our Own | Current WIP - ~80,000 words

Chapter notes: The wedding chapter is finally here in part 1 form. I think if I outlined this again I would rejig some elements of the timeline but it is what it is. Though I do believe John would be the type of man who spends 8 years pretending he's over someone then immediately sees then and is like "fuck". Thanks for reading <3 Comments are really appreciated - I love hearing what people think!

Chapter 12, part 1

Zanzibar City, Zanzibar. 2018

Humid air rolls lazily from the ceiling fan, just enough to stick John’s shirt to the back of his neck. The room smells faintly of aftershave and pressed linen, but he can still feel the grime on his skin, gun oil and blood. Twenty four hours ago he was flying out of some Urzikstani FOB. Now, he’s at a beach resort - all turquoise water and postcard sand.

When Black had first told him he and Emma were splurging on a destination Zanzibar wedding, John had thought they were barking mad, but now that he’s here, its actually pretty nice.

Almost nice enough for him to relax.

Almost.

He sits back in the plush yellow lounge chair and fidgets with the cufflinks Black gave him the night before - polished silver, inlaid with a small blue stone. Sapphire. John’s eye is not the most discerning, but they look nice. It feels nice too - to be given a gift, as if he’s actually done anything the help with the wedding. But Black had insisted - “the fact that you’re even here is all I care about mate.”

John’s tried to not to let the guilt simmer, but it does all the same.

He glances across the room. Opposite him, Johnny wrestles with a tie, forming it into something vaguely resembling a Windsor knot, his tongue sticking out like he does when hes trying to rig up a particularly difficult explosive.

Black’s leans back in his wheelchair with a drink. Whats left of his legs sticks out from beneath the kilt. Bare, but ready for the carbon fibre - his ‘dress legs’. He smirks at Johnny in the mirror.

Johnny scowls. “Enjoying the show?”

“Always enjoy watching you struggle Shampoo.” Black says. “But it makes me wonder how you ever passed uniform.”

Johnny glances at him in the mirror, smirks. “Guess Cap had a soft spot for me.”

Black scoffs. “Doubt that. John’s never been nice to a greenie in his life.”

John lets out a soft snort. He remembers first meeting Johnny when he was twelve. Back then, he was just Black’s cousin from the Highlands, the cheeky kid who followed them around like a stray dog.

Always asking questions. Always talking about joining up.

John had seen it plenty of times before - that look. The look the young guys got when the job for into their bloodstream before they were old enough to vote.

John knows that he had the same look, the same determination.

“I felt bad for you Johnny.” He says, letting his hands fall back onto the armrests, “Seemed a waste of talent to fail you on your tie.”

Johnny pouts, but there’s nothing in it, just that feral cheekiness he’s always had, ever since John trained him during selection.

The kid was a natural, even then. The kind of candidate that any evaluator dreamed of scoring - scary good. John had driven him hard, partly to shape him but partly because he wanted to see if he’d break.

He hadn’t.

Johnny fiddles a little bit more before John stands. “Need a hand?”

Johnny hesitate but then sighs and whips the tie over his head and tosses it to John. “Please don’t tell the lads you had to help me with my tie.”

John catches it, untangling the mess and stepping over.

“Wouldn’t dream of it Johnny,” he says, his mouth quirking. “Only thing more embarrassing than that would be not knowing how to do it in the first place.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “I don’t attends as many soirees as you COs do,” he says. “Or dress up for my dates.”

John draws in a breath as he ties the blue silk around Johnny’s collar. Feels it catch halfway down.

“No harm in making an effort,” he says, gruff. He finishes the knot off, gives Johnny a pat and steps back. “Wouldn’t dream of letting you go out there looking like that. Think of Emma’s photos.”

Black grins.

“Speaking of-” Black whips his wheelchair round. “- John, I need you to keep an eye on Alistair. For the photos, speeches, cake cutting - all that crap. He’s not stopped drinking since he landed. ”

John watches Black carefully. “That bad?”

What little John knows about Emma’s brother is that he’s a bootneck, he drinks more than him, Johnny and Black combined, and that Black doesn’t like him. Emma’s parents and grandparents are all dead so he’s also the only immediate family that she has at the wedding.

Black shrugs, he takes a deceptive sip of his drink, but John knows hes reigning it in. “Emma wants him in the pictures. If he disappears, she’ll notice. If he face-plants, she’ll notice. If he makes a fuss, she’ll notice. Easier if you make sure she doesn’t.”

John nods. He can hear the weight behind Black’s voice. He also hears what Black doesn’t say - that Alistair might require a heavier hand.

Johnny looks up from fussing with his shirt cuff. “Better you than me, Cap. Last time I tried to keep a drunk bootneck upright, he nearly flattened me.”

Black snorts. “That’s because you’ve got no weight Shampoo. Takes someone meaner than you to keep a Marine on his feet.”

“Should give him to the bridesmaids then,” Johnny says. “You know Kelli asked me if I lost a fight with a lawn mower.”

Black bursts out laughing. Johnny’s eccentricity has never been a secret - John supposes he’s a Black-MacTavish after all - but he’s always had to keep things reigned in during training. The day after his promotion, he rocked up to base sporting a fucking Mohawk of all things. Basically dared Halford to sanction him.

John grins at the memory and the quip, but it feels tight. His brain catches involuntarily on her name.

Black had told him about Kelli being maid of honour a year ago, at the same time as he asked John to be his best man. The way Black had looked at him back them had seemed like a question, but John was confident - he wasn’t about to let Black down, and it had been eight years. Eight years since that fucking mission. Eight years of getting over it - even if he’s not fully convinced he has. Eight years of letting memory fade into the back of his mind.

He’d never brought her up to his old therapist, even though Jess hounded him about it. But he was confident it didn’t matter. She barely featured in his mind anymore, not like she used to.

He clenches his jaw; he can survive one weekend.

Black nods at Johnny, gesturing over at his dress shirt, rumpled on a coat hanger. “Give that an iron would you?”

Johnny mock curtsies. “Yes, your majesty.”

John tracks over to the balcony, gazes out and takes a breath.

He doesn’t remember the last time he stood still without scanning a horizon. The view’s a nice change from rooftops and kill zones, but he’s still clocking angles and exits by reflex.

He flexes his hand, consciously redirects his thoughts - it’s not the time. His best mate is getting married to the girl of his dreams, on a beach with perfect weather and a stocked bar. It’s been a long time coming, would have come sooner, if Black hadn’t been caught in another IED blast.

That time, he didn’t walk it off. Not like the last time.

Black says he likes the wheelchair, like being a battering ram, likes finally living up to his nickname. He wears the legs too. Competed in the Invictus Games last year - even met Prince Harry. He smiles like nothings been taken.

John’s not sure he believes that, but he is happy Black’s found some kind of peace. Someone he knows should be able to make it out, even if he didn’t make it out whole.

The fan squeaks again. Same beat. John fiddles with his watch. Checks the time, an hour still until the ceremony.

Johnny flaps out the dress shirt, examining it with the same focus he does when defusing a bomb.

Black licks his top lip. “Missed a spot Shampoo.”

Johnny drops the shirt on the ironing board and tosses the empty coat hanger at Black. “Shove off.”

Black retaliates by flicking the yellow umbrella in his drink at him.

“I’m getting married Shampoo,” Black says, “You gotta make sure I look good. That’s your job.”

“Nah mate, that’s Cap’s job,” Johnny says, steaming the shirt again. “That’s why you stand next to him. If you stood next to me, it’d be over. Everyone knows I’m the hotter cousin.”

Black raises an eyebrow. “Hotter to who exactly? You’ve got the bone structure of a collapsed tent.”

Johnny hooks the dress shirt on the hanger. He examines it closely.

“Some chicks are into that.”

“Oh yes?” Black says. “And where are these chicks?”

Johnny side-eyes Black with a sly grin.

“All I’ll says is that Emma’s got good taste in friends.”

Black levels a look at Johnny. “None of them are interested in you - I 100% guarantee it.”

Johnny pouts. “What is the point of being a groomsman if I can’t get in with a bridesmaid?” Then he grins and John knows him well enough to know hes being deliberately stupid. “Ain’t that right Cap?”

John clenches his jaw. He’s confident he will be able to manage being back in Kelli’s orbit for one weekend, but he could probably do without Johnny putting thoughts in his head.

He’s tried to find someone. Dates, dinners, fleeting things that never lasted.

He knows he’s got a lot working against him - his schedule, the way he can be blunt to the point of rudeness, the dawning realisation that when people ask about his hobbies, all he has is reading and the gym.

But mostly, it’s that he can’t seem to connect meaningfully with anyone who hasn’t been shot at at least once.

“If I wanted to get fucked I would have stayed at work.”

Both Johnny and Black laugh.

“Too fucking true,” Johnny says with a sigh. “Got your speech done at least?”

“It’s getting there.” John says flatly.

“You were saying that in Ramandi,” Johnny says. “Not much time left.”

John rolls his eyes.

He’s been telling himself he’d get it done. Working on it for months, in between the missions and flights and constant distractions. Normally, he’d barely blink at the idea of speaking in front of a crowd - hes briefed hundreds of solders, presented intelligence reports to some of the top brass in the country. Hell, he was once brought in to sell enlistment to a gymnasium of rowdy teenagers. But that was work. This is personal.

There is so much he thinks he could say, to and about Black, and yet the words get tied up in his pen. He’s spent most of the time staring at a blank page, wondering if he’d always been so inept at telling people how he feels.

He has. He knows this.

Thats why Black’s getting married and he isn’t.

Johns phone buzzes in his pocket, a short, abrupt vibration that sets him on edge. A small spike of adrenaline pulses in his chest before he even checks the screen. He leans over to grab it from his pocket and glances at the message. A simple: call me.

Halford.

“Work?” Black is watching him carefully.

John nods. “It’s nothing,” he says automatically, but he’s already standing, phone in his hand.

Black peers at him over his sunglasses. “It’s my wedding day mate. The world ain’t gonna stop spinning if you don’t reply.”

“You know that’s not how it works,” John says, his voice flat. He slips the spare key care from the table. “Be right back, promise.”

Black exhales, annoyed but not surprised. “Tell Halford to fuck off.”

John doesn’t answer. He’s already halfway down the hall.

The air outside of his room is only marginally cooler, but he feels the relief of it anyway.

His shirt sticks to his back. He forces himself to slow down, to count steps and focus on something tactile as he heads out to the small balcony at the end of the hallway. From here, he can see the western sweep of the resort grounds - sunstruck beach, white chairs lined for the ceremony.

His phone buzzes again. He looks down: when you can.

John clears his throat. He dials Halford’s number. It picks up on the first ring.

“Price.” he says, his voice tired. “That was quick.”

“Would you like me to hang up and wait five minutes?”

Halford laughs. “No. Just need you to confirm the asset movement from Urzikstan - Kola team says Bravo still has the sat intel? The paperwork your guy submitted is a bit unclear.”

John sighs. For not the first time he wishes his lads were as good at reports as they were at extracting targets. He rattles off the details from memory, short and clipped. Quiet. It’s urgent enough that he doesn’t blame Halford for messaging him. It would irritate him more, like it does Black, if it wasn’t just how things are.

“Thanks.” Halford says, once hes done. “Give Black my congratulations.”

“Will do Sir.”

He ends the call.

He leans his head back against the plaster. The wall is cool against his scalp. The breeze from the beach below tickles along his nape. He takes a long breath. As annoying as it is, the phone call grounds him. The questions are familiar.

There is a click. John glances back into the hallway. The door closest to him opens.

And for the first time in eight long years, he sees Kelli Purcell in the flesh.

He freezes.

His breath stalls in his throat. A pulse of heat moves through his chest like a shot fired point-blank.

His hand tightens around his phone, knuckles whitening.

She’s barefoot. A soft linen robe knotted at the waist, sunglasses perched in her hair. Her hair’s grown out past her shoulders. Its been done up for the wedding. It looks wrong, it looks right. He hates that he notices. Hates that he thinks it looks good. Thinks she looks good.

Her eyes are downcast as she raises her phone up to her ear.

“Arne?” She says, “Yes, a donor match? When?… No, I understand, but you need to keep him on the list… Yes, even with the infection risk.”

Her voice is low, clipped. Christ he forgot how lyrical the accent made her sound. She always got shit for it, typical banter, but John had secretly liked it, at least on her. Theres an urgency to it now. Shes got the tone of someone who’s had to argue for a patient too many times.

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. He’s just stuck.

Theres no way to return the way he came without crossing her path and beyond simply not wanting to do it, interrupting her during a call like this feels wrong.

His whole body feels like it’s on a hair-trigger. Muscles taut, breath shallow. His feet won’t move. His brain screams at him to get a grip, but his body isn’t listening.

He stares down at the railing, jaw tight, the old awkwardness pulling taut under his skin.

“…Yes. I’ll send the documentation tomorrow. Please keep me updated.”

A pause. Then her tone softens, almost imperceptibly. “Thank you Arne.”

The call ends. She exhales, shoulders dropping just slightly. She turns to look out at the beach-

And freezes when she sees him on the balcony.

Their eyes meet.

Clear and blue. The same colour as the water below - bright, inviting, and a little cruel.

His breath stutters before he catches it. And for a second he can sees it hit her too.

She draws in a sharp, reflexive breath. Her fingers tighten around her phone. Her stance shifts, bracing.

John pushes off the railing. His instincts are screaming conflicting orders: move, don’t move. Speak, don’t.

“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

His voice comes out rougher than he intends.

She swallows, the movement sharp in the stillness between them. She glances down at the phone in his hand.

“Work?”

He nods. Can’t seem to form a word. His jaw flexes again.

She licks her lips. Her weight shifts.

He sees the way she crosses one arm lightly over her middle - a casual gesture, but not really. A hold. A self-soothing gesture.

The kind she used to do after field ops, before the adrenaline wore off.

Shit.

He doesn’t move. Just stares.

His heart’s pounding so hard he can feel it in his fingertips.

He knows it’s strange, knows he’s holding himself too still, knows he should just leave.

They have nothing to say to each other.

And yet-

Hes dreamed of this moment in a thousand different ways and each of them pales in comparison to the woman standing before him. In the flesh. Real.

Not a memory. Not a hallucination. Not a ghost.

Kelli shifts her weight. “It’s good to see you, John.”

He lets out a short, dry laugh. “Sure.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

He shifts his stance, tries to relax his shoulders, but everything feels tight - compressed. His fingers twitch like they want to reach for something but don’t know what.

Kelli watches him with an expression he can’t quite decipher.

But her jaw is tight. Her breathing a little shallow. He knuckles are still pale from clutching her phone.

She’s holding it together, maybe just barely. Like he is.

The silence stretches.

Finally, she nods. “See you at the ceremony,” she says, giving him one last look before she turns back to the door.

John stays rooted to the spot, staring down at the beach.

His chest still tight. His hand still gripping the phone like it’s something solid to hold onto.

Every lie he told himself turns to shredded ribbons inside his head.

He’s fucked.

————————————

The ceremony is good, even to his utilitarian eye. The sky is clear and the soft ocean breeze takes the edge off the temperature. Orange and white tropical flowers decorate the wide wooden deck that extends from the resort and onto the beach.

He’d been glad at first he didn’t have to walk in with Kelli. But standing up front, watching her come down the aisle - it hits harder than he’d expected. Too close to the pictures he thought he’d burned out of his head. Only in those, she wasn’t scanning the crowd for her boyfriend. Wasn’t smiling at another man like that.

John keeps an eye on Alistair, passes Black a handkerchief, hauls Johnny into line. Keeps his focus anywhere but her. Keeps it on Emma instead, as she comes down - safer that way.

When it’s over, he claps and cheers with everyone else. Happy, but something feels off. He pushes it down.

The photographer is already barking instructions by the time John makes it onto the sand. Black’s in full Highland dress - kilt, sporran, jacket sharp enough to cut rope. Even the prosthetics have had a polish, carbon-fibre shining under the hem like they’re part of the uniform.

The effect is a bit disjointed against the tropical backdrop, but Black’s never cared.

John’s had enough sand for a lifetime. Dry, rough, always stinks of gunfire. But it represented something else for Black - childhood summers, holidays in Spain, the night he proposed to Emma.

So John tries to ignore how Kelli’s laughter drifts into his ear, and instead focuses on making sure Black is comfortable on the sand.

The light is just starting to go golden and the photographer is salivating over it.

She fans everyone out in a careful mess of colour - groomsmen on one side, bridesmaids on the other, Black and Emma in the middle.

“Right,” she says, “best man and maid of honour, you next. Get in close, Arms round each other.”

John freezes. He feels Kelli hesitate too, just a fractional pause.

The photographer waves impatiently. “Come on folks, its not a firing squad yeah? Look like you like each other.”

John forces himself forward. The sand is hot on his feet. He may never forgive Black for making him take his shoes of for a photo.

He steps in beside Kelli, sets his hand just below her shoulder blade. Doesn’t quite touch the linen. Feels the heat. The muscle tight under his palm - not from posing, he’d bet. Her perfume’s something light, citrus under salt. His chest tightens.

Kelli doesn’t look at him. She just tilts her head toward the lens with the polite smile of someone determined not to show her teeth. He can feel the heat radiating off her shoulder into his palm, the faintest shift in her stance when the photographer makes them squeeze in closer.

“One more!” the woman calls. “Hold it-yes, that’s good.”

The shutter clicks in quick succession. John lets go the moment they’re released, stepping back before the sand can swallow him whole.

“Alright, now big family group,” the photographer announces. “Bride’s family first, please.”

John watches from the side as Emma’s family gathers in, herded by Kelli. Emma put her in green. Brings out her eyes. Still tall, still solid, but softer now. Civilian. He doesn’t like that he notices.

John flexes his hands.

He didn’t expect it to hit this hard. Like nothing’s changed. Like everything has. He doesn’t have a name for the feeling.

The photographer’s sigh cuts through the noise. “We’re missing the brother.”

John blinks. Shit. Black doesn’t say a word, but when John glances over, he’s wearing a look that says everything.

John tears his eyes away from Kelli and scans the crowd. Sure enough, Alistair is staggering off toward the bar, half a bottle already in hand. John might have heard the stories about Alistair, but if he’s honest with himself, he didn’t really think the prick would be quite as brazen as to immediately get wasted at his sister’s wedding.

“Fuck’s sake.”

John strides over, clamps a hand on his elbow before he can vanish into the resort. “You’re up, Alistair. Pictures first, pint after.”

Alistair jerks against his grip, eyes bleary but sharp enough to take him in. “Christ. It’s Captain fucking Price.” He says the name like hes half awed half pissed. “Didn’t think Emma’s big day came with a bloody Hereford delegation.”

“No one’s on duty here Alistair,” John says hauling him back toward the sand, jaw tight.

Alistair barks a laugh that curdles into a cough. He doesn’t make it easy to drag him - he must be an inch taller, probably a touch heavier. “Is that right?” He leans in closer than he needs to, breath reeking of whisky. “I’ve heard about you Captain. Always on. Always the officer with the answers.” His eyes glint, mean but knowing. “Bet you’re not half as tidy when no one’s looking.”

John clamps down harder, steering him into place. “Shut it.”

Alistair smirks faintly, like he’s scored a point. “Aye. Thought so.”

John pushes him forward. “’s not about me mate - don’t ruin your sister’s wedding by getting wasted before the cake yeah.”

“You threatening me Price?”

John tightens his grip and mutters in Alistair’s ear. “You tell me Ronan.”

Alistair lets out a wry chuckle. “Emma already hates me mate,” he says, suddenly sounding perfectly sober. “Don’t even know why she invited me.”

John doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he just pushes Alistair toward the group again.

But Alistair’s tone troubles him. He knows the tone of a man who believes he has nothing to lose, even if that man is wrong. He also knows the tone of a man who thinks of himself as worthless - a void of emotion hidden under layers of bravado.

John suddenly realises that Black didn’t just assign him Alistair just because they’re both the biggest men at the wedding.

Its because Black knows he would get it.

He clenches his teeth.

By the time John gets Alistair slotted into the photo, the family’s arranged and smiling. Alistair sways but holds. Emma beams, seeming none the wiser.

John should feel relief at having done his part, even if he can now understand exactly why Black doesn’t like the fucker.

Instead, all he feels is the weight of it: everyone doing their share to hold the day together. Emma carrying her family, Black carrying Emma.

And him. Holding the line where he’s told. Pretending it doesn’t matter that Kelli’s three steps away, smiling at someone else.

————————————

Sunset throws the water gold and orange. Tiki lights strung over the deck. Black manic family laughs and cheers as they arrive back from their photos down on the beach.

John smiles.

Not at ease. But the best he’s managed in weeks. The beer has taken the edge off, and now he can get more. His best mate’s married, he’s survived close to an hour of photos standing near Kelli without combusting.

He’s annoyed with himself for it - that low pulse that ignores time, reason.

He pushes it down, the same way he’s been pushing it down for eight years.

Lot of good that’s done him.

He focuses on something, anything else. Grilled fish from the bar grill makes his stomach twist with hunger. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

The air has cooled, a breeze from the beach floating across the sand and into the outdoor function area. John picks at his shirt but it sticks less. As he enters, he clocks the exits without thinking.

The waiter directs him and Johnny to the wedding party table. John stops. Hand on the back of a chair. His name placard stares back at him.

Directly across from him is Kelli.

Shes gazing up at her boyfriend - a skinny guy in a black suit that looks half a size too small. David. A podiatrist from Sheffield. That’s what Black said. The prick wipes something from her shoulder, kisses her hair, pulls out her chair. He looks like she cut him out of a Harrods catalogue.

It turns his stomach. Not just because he tell himself that he hates them both.

They both glance up as his chair scrapes against the wooden deck. For some inexplicably stupid reason David’s face lights up and he circles to John’s side before Kelli can stop him, hand already out.

“You must be John Price?”

Firm grip. John returns it without thinking.

“David,” he adds, “Kelli’s boyfriend. Didn’t catch you last night.”

“Got in late,” he grunts.

David gives him a quick once over, puffs his own chest out. But the way he’s looking at him is less as a threat and more appreciative - like he and John share something by virtue of being men.

“Kell’s told me a lot about you.” David nods. “Always looking out for her in Afghanistan, right?”

Kelli half chokes on her Sauvignon Blanc.

John lets go of his hand.

“We didn’t work together so much, but sure,” he says. At least the lie comes easy.

Johnny peers at them both with a mouth full of bread. He’s wasted no time in diving into the table rolls - John doesn’t blame him. He’s starving.

“Wait, you worked together?” he says, sounding both surprised and in awe. He gives Kelli a once over that John knows he thinks is subtle. “You were in the army?”

Kelli cocks her head at him.

“Is that hard to believe for some reason?” she says.

Johnny shrugs.

“Not that - all Tank’s ever said is you’re a doctor.” He says. “Never said you worked with Cap.”

“We barely worked together-”

“We did four tours together in Afghanistan.”

Johnny looks between them both, mild bemusement tugging at his brow. John doesn’t look at him though. He stares at Kelli.

For the first time, she is watching him.

“Four tours right John?” she asks. Her voice is light, but her eyes are fixed on him in a way that isn’t. It’s as if she’s trying to force him to say it, to acknowledge her. Like she apparently acknowledges him - despite not reaching out once in eight years.

“Yeah,” he says, “Four tours. Plus that half one in Sangin.”

Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “The HVT op.”

“Yes,” he says. “The last one before you… stepped away.”

There’s a shift in the air. Not loud, not obvious, but he can feel it at the table. He’s the only one here who knows how much was packed into those last three days.

There is a long pause.

David grins, seemingly oblivious, but theres an edge to it now. “Well, she speaks very highly of you.”

John tries not to let the surprise show on his face, just lifts his beer to take a drink. “I find that very hard to believe.”

Kelli stares at her wine like it’s got the answers.

“Nonsense.” David leans closer conspiratorially. “Frankly I’m glad she had a strong mentor to ground her.” He winks. “Who knows what trouble she would have got herself into. She’s still got all these grand ideas. Half of them would send her halfway round the world if I didn’t talk her down.”

He laughs as if theres a joke in there that John’s supposed to get. John glances over at Kelli, theres a light flush across her cheeks.

“I’m right here you know.” She says, her voice cool. Her fingers tap the stem of her wine glass - a soft, quick rhythm, like she’s biting down more words.

David smiles.

“Sorry honey,” he says, sounding not sorry at all. He saunters back over to her side and pats her shoulder. “You know how anxious I get about your little ideas.”

Kelli’s jaw tightens but she smiles up at David.

John can’t work out what the fuck’s going on.

He exhales slowly through his nose. Doesn’t say anything. But the phrase ‘talk her down’ sticks in his brain. Like she’s some kind of fire to be extinguished.

John knows he’s good at clocking people. He’s had decades of it. But he can’t quite get a read on this prick.

Cocky, sure. But not in the way men are when they’ve got something to prove. No bluster, no edge. David holds himself like a man who’s never had to check the room to see where he stands. Like it’s a given everyone in it will see things his way.

Johnny raises a hand, interrupts abruptly.

“Wait, wait-” he says, “You’re not Kelli…Purcell are you?”

Kelli nods, slow. “Yeah?”

John’s pulse spikes for a moment - he doesn’t want to know what Johnny seems to have heard about him and Kelli. Probably nothing good, probably some mutated version of events that has been pieced together in his head like a puzzle missing about half it’s pieces.

Nevertheless, Johnny’s mouth drops open. He looks from Kelli, over to John, then back to Kelli.

He opens his mouth to speak-

Then lets out a sharp yelp as Black appears out of nowhere and clips him with his wheelchair.

“Watch out Shampoo,” Black says cheerily, Emma perched on his lap like she’s exactly where she belongs. He glances over at John for half a moment. The look in his eyes is not hard to decipher.

“What the fuck Tank,” Johnny whines, rubbing his shin, “Christ, you’re more of a menace missing two limbs than you were with them.”

“I’m all about efficiency,” Black says without missing a beat. “Streamlined for maximum chaos.”

Emma leans forward, grinning. “You should see him on the dance floor. Clears it faster than a fire alarm.”

“Oh I’ve seen him on the dance floor,” Johnny says, “looks like he’s trying to get a wasp out of his kilt.”

The table laugh and John chuckles into his glass. He can’t help but look over at Kelli. They make brief eye contact and its heat filling his veins again. It’s that feeling hes been chasing with every failed date and awkward encounter.

Right here, again.

The laughter at the table settles into the easy hum of cutlery and clinking glasses. The first plates arrive - grilled fish, salad, something sweet with mango.

John digs in without thinking. It’s the first proper food he’s had all day. Across the table, Kelli’s glass catches the light as she lifts it.

David is whispering something in her ear - his mouth close to her ear.

The unwelcome mix of guilt and resentment catches in his throat again.

They’re halfway through the second course when one of the plus ones, Alice, asks Kelli what she’s doing these days.

John doesn’t look up from his fish, but he zeros in on the conversation.

“Just working at St Mary’s,” she says through a small mouthful of food. “Almost finished my residency.”

Emma pipes up. “Tell them about MSF.”

Kelli hesitates, she glances at David. His lips are pursed, just slightly and John can tell whatever it is, he doesn’t approve.

Johnny speaks up, brash but curious. “That’s a charity right?”

Kelli nods, tapping the rim of her wine class. “Doctors without Borders. They do humanitarian work.”

“Like overseas and stuff?”

Kelli takes a sip of her wine. “Yeah, they provide medicine in conflicts, disasters and the like. I’d-uh-” she glances at David again, “-I’d probably apply as a emergency doctor, given my background you know.”

Johnny grins. “That’s pretty sick.”

David clears his throat. “She’s been talking about this MSF thing for ages,” he says, topping up her wine. “Romantic sort of idea. All noble and dangerous.”

There’s a laugh in his voice, like it’s a charming quirk of hers.

The others titter politely but John doesn’t laugh. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Emma roll her eyes.

“I keep telling her she’ll miss proper medicine.” David continues. “There’s only so much you can do without decent facilities, you know?” He laughs. “You know one of their essential criteria is working with limited resources? I mean what are you supposed to do with that?”

Emma levels her brow at him. “You’re a bleeding foot doctor for retired millionaires David, I wouldn't get too high and mighty.”

David barely falters at Emma’s barb. He just nods, slowly, like shes a child.

“We all have our specialities Emma. And I would argue that Kelli’s is serviced better in a fully equipped hospital on the other side of the Channel. One where she can actually achieve something.”

The table goes quiet for half a second. John wonders over the implications of that particular statement. He plays a little game in his head of whether David is patronising Kelli, the countries she’d work in or the MSF mission. Probably all three.

His jaw clenches.

He doesn’t know where she found this guy. He doesn’t want to know

Kelli smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Placating, diffusing. Like shes used to smoothing over David’s condescension. Its the same expression she used to wear when she justified Mullen’s bullshit to him. That hits him with unexpected intensity.

“Sometimes you make do with what you’ve got.” She says. “That’s kind of the point David. That’s why I want to help in the first place - I have experience in that.”

“I think it sounds really cool,” says Johnny around a mouthful of food. “Christ knows half the places we travel through need all the help they can get, ain’t that right Cap?”

John inclines his head but says nothing. He can feel the tension in his chest building, mirroring that at the table, but he doesn't really want to get involved.

“Need extra help once you’re done I’m sure,” says Emma, half joking but there is a cold undercurrent to her tone. John knows she has become far more critical of the western war machine since their discharge. Doubly so since Black’s accident.

As if to placate her, Black gives her a little nudge and kisses her gently on the cheek.

The mood at the table has shifted from mild small-talk and banter to something more loaded.

Alice chimes in again, her voice a little placating, but also curious. “Isn’t it really dangerous though? I’ve heard about kidnappings…”

Kelli nods, glances sideways at David again. Her jaw tightens, as if this is a line of questioning that she is all too familiar with.

“It is,” she says, “but its no less risky than getting shot at in Afghanistan. And honestly? It’s a risk I’m willing to take if it means getting help to people who don’t have it.”

She says it with conviction, but her eyes are hard - she’s bracing for another joke.

David sighs dramatically to the group. “Told you. Romantic. She’s always wants to be a hero with that Florence Nightingale streak of hers.”

He turns to Alice, like it’s charming. Like he’s blessing them all with the sound of his own smug voice.

“Hard not to love her for it, but it’s not exactly sustainable. Especially when we’re thinking about the future.”

Kelli’s frowns slightly. Emma raises an eyebrow over her wine glass. Both women look at each other.

David pats Kelli’s forearm. “I’m just hoping she grows out of this phase before she actually signs anything.”

Until now, John’s been stone silent. But this last line cuts through - the implication that something Kelli clearly wants to do is a phase.

He puts down his cutlery with quiet precision. Looks at David, but doesn’t raise his voice.

“Mate. It’s not a phase. Never was.”

Silence. Forks freeze mid-air. Every head turns to look at him.

David frowns and for the first time, looks a little irritated. A crack in the facade.

“And you would know?”

John doesn’t hesitate.

“She patched up hundreds of men under fire and always came back for more - four tours.”

He meets Kelli’s eye without meaning to.

“So yeah. I would.”

There's a beat of silence, heavier than before. Kelli’s eye move to her plate, frozen. Her shoulder shifts slightly - like she wants to say something, but can’t.

David gives a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

“Right.” He says. “Always came back… except when she didn’t.”

He says it lightly - but there's weight behind it. The implication hangs there between the syllables.

John clenches his jaw. “At least when she left, it wasn’t because someone talked her out of it.”

David leans back, voice mild. “Maybe. Or maybe she left because she knew she wasn’t cut out for that life. No shame in knowing your limits.”

Kelli’s spine goes rigid. She lets out a small exhale, like she’s been punched in the ribs. A flush creeps up her neck. She pushes her chair back quietly.

“Excuse me.”

She stands, smooths the fabric of her dress automatically, and walks toward the edge of the terrace - slow, controlled. But her fingers are trembling at her sides.

Johnny breaks the silence. “What the hell was that?”

“That was these two knobs not knowing when to shut he fuck up.” Emma says, her normally warm eyes, staring down both him and David.

David, still seated, lifts his glass like he hasn’t noticed the ripple effect. But there’s a flicker of something colder in his eyes now.

“It’s not personal Emma. We’ve all got to grow up at some point.”

Black shakes his head. “Give it a rest mate.”

The table goes quiet again. The clink of plates seems louder in the vacuum.

John takes a sip, goes back to his meal. Like nothing happened.

There’s a small pause before the table slowly goes back to a hum of muted conversation and jangling cutlery. Emma murmurs something to Black and follows Kelli with her glass of wine. David is still talking - mostly to Alice now - but John doesn’t hear a word.

Hes watching Kelli and Emma out on the beach now. He stands, he needs to get a drink.

He’s halfway to the bar when Johnny catches up beside him.

“You alright?” he asks, “You looked like you were about to punch him in the face.”

John shakes his head. “’m fine.”

He really needs to get it together. Being affected by Kelli so much is one thing, but messing up Black and Emma’s wedding because hes being affected by Kelli is a whole other thing. It’s just so fucking hard when Kelli has apparently found herself another Mullen. Christ, the Prick reminds John so much of that fucker, it’s uncanny. Where does she find these assholes?

He signals to the bartender.

“Beer thanks.”

He can tell Johnny wants to ask him more and decides to preempt the questioning. “We just worked together okay. We had a falling out.”

Johnny nods slowly. “Right.”

John glances to his other side as Black wheels up next to him. “You planning on acting like a knob again? Or am I gonna have to cut you off early.”

John looks away.

“Didn’t start it.”

“Yeah, well. You didn’t stop anything either.”

John turns to look down at Black.

“You heard that Prick.” He says. “I was trying to defend her.”

“Oh is that what you think you did?” Black says with raised brows,” because it really just seems like you pushed things just to get your word in.”

John opens his mouth to retort.

Black holds up a hand.

“No. I knew this would happen. You had eight years to deal with whatevers going on up in that munted head of yours and you didn’t. So you can keep it together just for tonight. Kelli’s a big girl, she can fuck whatever asshole she wants. What I want is for this wedding to end happy.”

There’s no anger on Black’s face, just that same calm exasperation he’s always had when John’s about to say something stupid in a emotionally high-stakes situation. John feels that sudden urge to tell Black that it’s because he wants Kelli to fuck him, he is an asshole after all - it would be very on brand. But the realisation that that is something that he still wants, sits heavy in his stomach. So instead he says, “Wasn’t planning to say anything at all.”

Black looks at him for a long moment.

“You never do.” He says finally, “That’s the problem. Honestly for someone who can run an opp with god-like precision you really are remarkably incompetent at being like, a normal human being.”

John flexes his jaw.

“You know that’s why I’m so good at it.”

He stiffens when he phone starts buzzing.

Black looks down at his pocket. He sighs quietly and raises an eyebrow.

“You gonna get that?

The way he says it makes it sound like a test. Unfair, John thinks, because there is no way to pass - he has to answer, he can’t not answer. “You know I am.”

Black sighs. “Like I said before: tell Halford to fuck off. You’re on leave.”

John waves him off and grabs his beer. He retreats to the beach end of the deck where it’s quieter, and pulls out his phone.

“Halford.”

“Price,” Halford greet. “Look, sorry about this but one of the Kola COs is disputing what your guy’s submitted. I need to you to clarify.”

John resists the urge to groan. Instead he kicks a small stone across the sand. “Sir, is this really urgent? I’m technically on leave.

Halford at least sounds apologetic. “Sorry son,” he says, “You know what these intel types are like.”

John takes a sip of his beer. “Of course Sir.”

Halford rattles off the discrepancies - a string to truly banal nonsense points that leave the mental note in John’s mind to never work with Kola again if he can help it. He should have known, the CO was the most pedantic little knob he’d ever met. Christ, its inter-unit bureaucracy at it’s finest. And during Black’s wedding too. When Halford ends the call and John stares down at the beach for a moment longer. At this end of the deck he can hear the soft sounds of the water as the waves break against the sand. It’s calm and nice.

“- at least he was sticking up for you.” The voice is Emma’s, drifting over the sand. John can see the outlines of her and Kelli hunched over one of the beach chairs further down the beach. “Not like that prick.”

John doesn’t want to know. He hurries back toward the reception, back up onto the deck.

Johnny intercepts him. “Black told me, you’re up soon for the speech. After Aunt Mags. Also-” he looks around. “-still wants us to keep an eye on Alistair.”

John scans the crowd and immediately locks onto the drunkard leaning against the bar.

“You know I didn’t realise that when Black joked about Emma’s asshole of a brother being an alcoholic, I didn’t realise he wasn’t actually joking.”

Johnny makes a face. “Yeah. It’s kind of fucked.”

They watch as Alistair tips back another beer, slow and deliberate.

“Thing is,” Johnny mutters, “he doesn’t even look like the type. I mean, Black says he was a bootneck, right? Heard he was decent too. Why would a bloke like that end up… like that?”

John takes a measured breath, Johnny is still pretty young. He’s seen a lot sure, but he’s not been jaded enough yet to fully understand that dulling the pain however you can is a perfectly reasonable response to the shit they have to see and do day in-day out.

“Because he was decent.” He says. “Once upon a time at least, maybe - I don’t fucking know. Some lads lash out Johnny. Some shut down or find a bottle, a needle, whatever it is that dulls the noise long enough to get them through the night.”

Johnny frowns, like he wants to argue but can’t.

“I’d never do that.”

John lets out a short laugh. He looks over at the twenty-two year old. Johnny is staring at Alistair, something angry in his expression, no pity, just contempt.

John’s voice stays low, even. “It’s not weakness, Johnny.”

Johnny’s jaw clenches. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” John says, “It’s what happens when you don’t deal with it and it deals with you instead.” He takes a breath, remembering how he felt curled up in the bathroom, trying to get the words out to Black at two in the morning.

He takes another look at Alistair, then back at Johnny. “And don’t think you’re immune kid. None of us are. War doesn’t care how good you are. Doesn’t matter if you’re the sharpest lad in the unit, or the daftest. It finds the cracks, it always does.”

Johnny goes quiet, mouth tugging sideways. He glances at John with a hint of unease.

John pats him once on the shoulder, more solid than gentle. “Come on. We’ve got a speech to sit through. Let Alistair be my problem.”

A few minutes later, after the crowd settles, after Kelli and Emma return, Black’s mum gets up and makes her speech.

John has always found Maggie Black to be a paradoxically severe yet good humoured woman. He supposes it comes from circumstance - Black’s father walked out when he was three years old and hasn’t been seen since. Maggie was left to raise two daughters and a son, something she attacked with ruthless efficiency and relentless optimism. John thinks it probably goes a long way to explain Black’s general attitude toward both women and life.

By the end of the speech, everyone is a little glassy eyed, and for the first time, John feels actually nervous about his own speech.

It’s a tough act to follow.

The emcee’s already calling him up before he can think about it for too long.

He stands.

He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, then glances down at it once.

And then, after a beat, he folds it again - slowly - and tucks it away.

He looks around the room - all friends and family. Bright faces flushed with alcohol and joy. Eyes expectant.

“Right. I’m John. Forty-eight hours ago, I was in a warehouse in central Asia getting shot at.”

There’s a few laughs, nervous ones. He probably shouldn't be announcing that, but he has the sudden urge to be actually genuine - be a human being just like Black said.

“Which, yeah. Probably not the best opener for a wedding speech. Sorry. Just…a bit hard to switch gears.

He rubs the back of his neck, scanning the crowd. A sea of faces stare back at him - faces confused, nervous, a little alarmed maybe.

Emma is staring daggers at him.

“I didn’t think I’d be here, honestly. I don’t usually make it to things like this as Black knows. Not because I don’t want to - I do - just… the job gets in the way. Always has.”

He pauses for a moment. Not for effect, but to work out what he wants to say next. Fuck why did he put the speech away? The crowd has settled a little, still nervous and unsure, but there are some friendly faces. Black’s mum smiles up at him - hesitant but encouraging.

He clears his throat.

“So when Tom asked me to be his best man, I thought… alright, maybe he’s finally lost his mind.”

That earns him a few titters.

He looks down.

“Truth is, I almost said no. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I didn’t think I could do him justice.”

The crowd is silent, faces staring at him, glancing at each other, waiting for a punchline to drop maybe.

John clenches his jaw. “I’ve known Tom a long time. Long enough to know he’s impossible to insult and harder to kill. He’s been through hell. Proper hell. And somehow he’s come out of it not just in one piece - but still smiling. Still taking the piss out of everyone. Still… him.”

The seat of nervous faces begin to soften and a few smiles start to emerge.

“I’ve led Tom into more than my fair share of bad situations. Places we weren’t supposed to survive. And yet… he always came out cracking jokes, looking out for the lads, pulling the ones who couldn’t walk. You want to know what kind of man he is?”

John pauses. Deliberate.

“He’s the kind of man who lost both his legs, and the first thing he cared about when he woke up was if everyone else made it out alive.”

Appreciative murmurs ripple across the room.

“Hes the kind of man who always stands up for people.”

John takes a breath.

“Hes the kind of man that notices when you’re struggling and pulls you out without hesitation.”

The crowd is smiling now, theres a few glassy eyes. But John doesn’t linger on any of them - he just looks at Black. Black is staring back at him like he’s about to cry.

“War has taken a lot from us. Bits of our bodies, sure. But also the quiet things. Some people get lost in it. Some don’t make it back at all.”

He pauses again. He glances across the room - his eyes land on Kelli for just a fraction of a second, then back to Black

“But somehow, Tom never lost himself. Never forgot who he was. And never stopped showing up for the rest of us - even when we didn’t deserve it.”

He breathes in slowly.

“And then… there’s Emma.”

John smiles, he shits his gaze to Emma and stumbles over his next sentence.

Gone are the daggers and instead shes looking at him like he’s some kind of vision from God - her face open and soft, her eyes glassy. Emma has never looked at him like that. Never even close.

He swallows thickly.

“Emma, you’ve been the best thing that’s ever happened to him. You make him happy, and as you would know - finding someone worth holding on to is rare in our line of work -”

His eyes catch on Kelli again before he can stop himself. It’s nothing, just half a second, but it lands heavy. She’s watching him, intent, like she’s seeing him for the first time. His chest tightens. He looks away immediately, clears his throat.

“- rarer still to keep them.”

“So here’s to you both. May life treat you better than the battlefield did. And may you keep choosing each other - even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

He raises his glass. “Cheers.”

The room erupts into a loud chorus of cheers.

John takes a sip then makes a beeline to get the hell off the stage. Black and Emma immediately intercept him. Emma lurches forward and wraps her arms around him.

“Hid that heart of yours well away didn’ you.” She says into his ear. “Bastard.”

John squeezes her back. He and Emma have always had a tense relationship, but he meant every word.

Black rolls up next to him, gives him a nudge with his wheel. He wipes the back of his hand over his face.

“If I knew were about to pull that out of your ass, I wouldn’t have chewed you out so hard.”

John leans down and gives him a hug, clapping him on the back a few times.

“Nah,” he says, ”you were right.”

Black laughs. He gazes up at him.

“You know I love you right man?”

John nods. He can’t quite bring himself to say it back. Even though he does.

“I know.”

He stands by the wall as Emma and Black roll over to take his place at the head of the room.

“Alright you tossers,” Black says to the room. “Not sure we can top Britain’s hardest man finally convincing me he has a heart-” theres a titter of laughter, “-so we’ll keep it short. We asked Kelli if she wanted to do a speech but she said she’d rather enlist again so we’re not doing that.”

The laughter is louder this time. The contrast tugs at John as he watches the bridesmaids make faces at Kelli, who slinks back into her chair. Emma’s family boos her good naturedly.

Instead, Black thanks his family, hands the mic to Emma who does the same, speaks for longer about how grateful she is, how happy, how in love. It’s nice, earnest and before long there’s another toast, the music starts and the room dims.

Black rolls onto the dance floor, Emma on his lap. John watches them and that familiar tug of jealousy, resentment and guilt returns.

He needs another drink.

Johnny claps him on the back as John slides in next to him at the bar.

“Can I get you to speak at my wedding?”

John looks sideways at him.

“You planning on finding a girl any time soon?”

Johnny grins. He nods over at one of Emma’s bridesmaids, trying - and failing - to be subtle. “Reckon Eve’s been giving me looks all night,” he says, “Once the music starts, it’ll be a done deal.” John turns. “No, don’t fuckin’-”

Eve is one Emma’s four bridesmaids, a slight thing with black hair, ambiguous south Asian features and a thick Liverpudlian accent.

“Isn’t she the lesbian?”

“No Alice is the lesbian,” Johnny says, “Eve’s bi.” He frowns, the bravado suddenly cracking. “I think? Maybe. Hm.”

Eve looks up and smiles at them both. Gives a small wave. John nods. She seems friendly. Cute, a little crazy based on what John observed during the wedding photos - Johnny’s type, assuming she’s not a lesbian.

What the hell. He’s feeling buoyed after the speech, and despite his tendency to brood, the alcohol is making him feel looser and not as depressed.

So he points at Johnny, raises an eyebrow, then gives a double thumbs up.

He can feel Johnny slink back into the bar. “Jesus Christ Price.”

“You said she was giving you the eye,” John says, “I’m just moving things along. Look. She’s coming over.”

Eve excuses herself from her conversation and starts walking over to them.

“Nice speech,” she says, nodding at him. “Wasn’t sure where you were going at the start, but it turned out quite nice.”

John nods.

“Thanks,” he grunts.

Eve looks him up and down - assessing, as if she already knows something about him, and is sizing him up to see if he watches with the idea shes been carrying in her head.

“I was warned about you.” She says. Her tone is level, but there’s a bite to it. John doesn’t need more than a second of eye contact to know she’s not a fan.

Johnny blinks, he looks between John and Eve.

“You were warned about him?” he says, incredulous. “What about me?”

John takes a sip of his beer.

“I don’t think she means it in the way you’re thinking Johnny.”

Johnny snots. “Then what way?”

Eve doesn't answer Johnny. She’s still looking at him, a deceptively mild expression on her face. “Kelli’s told me a few things,” she says. “Nothing bad. Actually… all good, if I’m honest. Said you looked out for her. That you were solid when it counted. But Emma-” she pauses. “-well lets just say we were told to keep any eye on you.”

John shifts his weight, thrown by the unexpected shift from softness to warning. He’s suddenly wishing he hadn’t encouraged her over at all. “It was a long time ago.”

“Maybe,” Eve says. She glances toward the table where Kelli is laughing at something David’s said, though the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I just… whatever happened before, don’t make tonight harder for her. She’s already… carrying a lot.”

John’s brow furrows. “I’m not-”

But Eve’s already turned away from him. Shes looking at Johnny now.

“And you,” she says, lips quirking, “you’ve got a reputation too, Shampoo.” She gives him a long, amused once-over - the kind someone might give a puppy caught stealing socks. “Don’t start trouble on the dance floor, alright? I promised Emma I’d look after the bridesmaids, not babysit the groomsmen.”

She claps him lightly on the arm, laughing, then weaves back into the crowd.

“Holy shit,” Johnny breathes, eyes wide. “She definitely fancies me.”

John shoots him an incredulous look. It figures that Johnny would get a laugh and he’d get a warning. He drowns a mouthful of beer.

Women might bamboozle him at the best of times but even he can tell Eve is not particularly interested in men. “That woman is not interested in you Johnny.”

Johnny frowns, watching Eve as she moves across the room, back to the table. “Don’t break my heart Cap.”

The music dips. The room hushes just enough for John to notice the shift. He follows the ripple of attention to the far side of the floor, where David’s taken the mic, Kelli’s hand clasped tightly in his.

“Sorry to steal the spotlight for a minute,” David says, grinning like this is all harmless fun. “But there’s something I’ve been meaning to say for a while now…”

A low cheer rolls through the room. Someone whistles.

Kelli’s smile is there, but it’s the same one she had a minute ago with David at the table - fixed at the edges, not quite reaching her eyes. John catches the small shift in her shoulders.

“First off,” David says, looking out over the crowd, “I want to thank you all for being here tonight. You’ve made this day unforgettable for Emma and Tom, and for us.” His gaze comes back to Kelli. “And, well… you’ve all made it the perfect moment.”

John feels the first prickle of unease crawl up his spine. He glances over at Black and Emma. Black looks surprised, confused. Emma looks like she wants to shoot David.

David squeezes Kelli’s hand and steps forward like he’s been waiting all night for this cue.

“Kelli,” he says, voice pitched for the room, “from the day we met, you’ve been the most brilliant, stubborn, infuriating woman I’ve ever known. You’ve kept me on my toes, made me sharper, more ambitious-” his smile widens, “-and somehow, you’ve even managed to put up with me.”

The room chuckles on cue. David lets the sound hang like applause.

John’s eyes never leave Kelli. She’s smiling, but it’s thin, polite, fixed at the corners. The kind of smile you wear when you’re not sure if you’re in on the joke or the punchline.

She holds her arm over her stomach.

David keeps going. “You’ve seen me at my worst, and you’ve still been there to remind me I can be better. You’ve been my anchor, and I think everyone here knows, with you beside me, I can handle whatever the future throws at us.”

The box comes out of David’s pocket. The crowd gasps like they’ve rehearsed it.

John’s stomach turns. He tells himself it’s the beer, the food, the heat - anything but the truth.

The truth; that the flame he told himself he’d stamped out years ago is still there. Still burning, small and stubborn in the dark, refusing to die. Maybe he kept it alive on purpose. Maybe because if it went out, that old part of him would be gone for good.

“So,” David says, sinking to one knee with all the confidence of a man certain the answer will be yes, “I’d like nothing more than to make this official. Will you marry me?”

Kelli’s eyes flick over the crowd, it’s quick, almost involuntary. Then she comes back to David. Her nod is small, hesitant, almost embarrassed. Enough to make the room erupt, but not enough to convince John she meant it.

John stays rooted to the spot, beer heavy in his hand. The distance between them feels wider than it’s ever been. Somehow wider even than the eight years of silence.

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