Skelly, 35, she/her. 🚫MDNI🚫 or get blocked. OCs/Writing/Art. Unapologetic Villain Lover and fan of army men with questionable morals and choice in facial hair. Sideblog for socially-awkward-skeleton
Fandoms I am actively writing in: Call of Duty, and Far Cry 5
All my fics can be found on AO3 as well. If you're here for the art you can search #skelly sketches (my art tag). All of my fics and art are oc and oc x canon based.
My two main ocs are: Kit Cross (FC5) and Rory Sinclair (COD: MW reboot) (some links connect to my personal blog)
Rory Character Profile
Kit Character Profile
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Ten Years Earlier... (18+ smut)
All Along the Watchtower (Complete)
Evening of Score (Complete)
Shadow Dance (Complete)
The Proposal (Complete)
My Head is Bloodied, But Unbowed (Ongoing)
Enjoy the Silence (18+ smut)
I'm Your Man (18+ smut)
Stay Awake With Me
The Beast in Me - Monster Hybrid AU (Kinktober 2024 smut)
You and I - Prompt Fill
Protective Instinct (Ongoing)
American Beasts (Ongoing Fic)
The Wolf and the Wildcat (Jacob Seed x Fem!OC)
Wind Me Up (18+ smut)
The Hunt (18+ smut)
The Game (18+ smut)
Prompt: "I told you to stay still" (18+ smut)
Prompt: "I think you lost your underwear somewhere" (18+ smut)
Captain John Price x fem!OC (Rory Sinclair) - 3rd person POV, Alternating
Summary: John travels to the US to complete a personal mission - the assassination of General Shepherd
Word count: 4.4K
Tags/Warnings: Minors DNI, Character with Trauma, Established Relationship, Original Characters, Price POV, Price being his questionable self, angst, divorce era arc for Rory and Price begins now, in game dialog used
A/N: The next fic in the timeline for Lieutenant Rory Sinclair (OC), this is the writer's rendition of COD:MWIII with a heavy dose of canon rewriting
January 17, 2024 - London, UK
Word arrives from Laswell and it assumes priority over everything. The mask of normalcy John has adopted for Rory's benefit falters and is then discarded completely. Any discussion of him getting "help" is tabled until he strikes a name from his list allowing his thoughts to center rather than remain a restless stream, stopping the fracturing he endures. There is no prospect of finding any closure or reprieve until Shepherd and Makarov have both been removed, permanently.
Packing a duffel, he grabs only what is required to get in and get out, a change of clothes and a forged passport, the bare necessities — there's no stuffing in the kitchen sink for all eventualities. Only one exists in his case as it is, the general dead in his sights.
The gloom of London in January clogs the townhouse, filling every square inch until the colors de-saturate and turn sallow. It is the final push he needs as he stands in the entrance hall with Rory, informing her he needs to return to base and giving little other reason. He doesn't flinch when he looks her in the eye, there is no second guessing the lie as it slithers off his tongue as slick as oil, coating all that it touches, a slippery thing to be caught in. He catches the hint of skepticism that flickers in her gaze as she waits for the other shoe to drop, instinct more than likely screaming that something doesn't add up. But John doesn't have the time to dissuade her from noticing that two and two don't add up to five, instead, he presses a peck to her forehead, another to her cheek, and in reply each soft curve of her changes into a sharp edge. She doesn't argue, there are no questions, there is only the tight line of her mouth as she judges his words and can find the falsehoods without probing deeply.
He closes the door behind him and doesn't look back.
The walk down the stairs to the street where his vehicle awaits him stretches beyond its usual borders as if reality is trying to give him an out, an opportunity to turn around and pretend this didn't happen.
He refuses to take it.
The boot slams shut, a punctuation on the moment, stopping him from glancing at the bay window and calling attention to Rory standing there — even when she recognizes something is wrong, when it eats at her, she protects his six. She's a good woman, the best, and it should compel him to face the fact he's acting like a heartless monster, but he won't let that kind of sentiment grow roots, separating himself from all other truths except those that remind him ultimately this is all for her. Whether she recognizes it or not currently, eventually, she will learn to understand.
The three hours it takes to drive north to the base fades into a dreamlike journey, blending into a foggy, half-realized recollection before the destination takes shape. It's a road he's traveled countless times, though undoubtedly this may be the last. He parks his SUV in the lot, a remedy produced for the plausible deniability it affords should Rory get the bright idea to investigate the GPS tracking — the type of move he would implement — ensuring she won't be able to discern where he really is while planting ample evidence that keeps her in the clear. Collecting his bag, a taxi pulls up moments later, already bought and paid for, the driver rolling down his window and asking if he's a 'Jack Smith'.
He considers the question, contemplates the mission, and then agrees, climbing into the car.
Sitting there, chin tucked down, beanie pulled low, he scans the dash, noting the camera that points directly at him, red light glowing as it records his appearance for driver and passenger safety — a weapon that will have to be scrubbed later. The world passes by as they drive and his fingers stay stock still as they idle on his thighs. His thumbs tell a different story, however, beating against denim in a repetitive rhythm. All that tension he has been locking up now begs for a release and it's all he is willing to allow until his jittering leg takes matters upon itself. Normally, he could mend the situation by lighting a cigar, but no such luck occurs when he's stuck in a 'No Smoking' automobile and he can't even pull rank to get away with it. Left to the tics of his jaw, the flex of tendon and twitch of muscles in his face, he ignores the need to move and remains static instead. He shows no interest in conversation, opting to glare up at the rearview mirror anytime the cabbie tries to meet his eye — better to intimidate than to give even a scrap of intel that could later be used against him.
Travel is a steady crawl through the midlands mid-morning, as if every driver on the road has nowhere else they need to be. His lip curls and he wishes he was behind the wheel of an armored vehicle capable of ramming its way through every obstacle, anything was preferable to this sluggish dawdle that leaves him with too much time to contemplate his next moves. In between the motivations he is reminded of, glimpses of conscience bleed through. It's not the guilt of taking another man's life — John lost that specific pressure point years ago — it's the thought of Rory looking at him as anything less than the man who would crawl through fire and wade through an ocean of broken glass for her.
Elbow resting on the door, scratching at the scruff on his cheek, he watches as the gray expanse of highway fades into shades of brown and green as they enter the country, arriving at a small, privately owned air field. Only then does Price perk up and his observing stare regards his final destination before he is set to board the plane already fueled up and waiting for his stateside travel.
January 18, 2024 - Washington D.C., USA
When he lands in the capital, John keeps all interactions to a bare minimum, his appearance under the radar. He prefers the idea of affording Shepherd the comfort of thinking that he's safe, that he faces no retribution for the things he has authorized. It leaves him susceptible, lazily drifting through existence, failing to check over his shoulder, and it's in that instant when the general isn't thinking about his own survival that he can strike.
In a cheap room of a two-star accommodation, paint chipped and peeling from around the doors and baseboards, carpet likely older than he is, and a bed whose springs squeak with the slightest adjustment of movement, he preps for a career-ender of a mission, leading into it with a bottle of scotch that Laswell leaves beside the plastic wrapped glasses and ice bucket atop the mini fridge that buzzes loud enough to drown out the neighbors in the room next door.
She stands there, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. He is yet to touch the briefcase she dropped on the bed, there is no rush to view what is enclosed — they both know exactly why he's here, and it's not for a friendly visit.
Glancing over at the bottle in the corner, he finds his feet advancing before his mind has caught up and he pours a generous measure, the amber liquid sloshing as he lifts it to his lips. Downing it in a burning gulp, it sears a trail down his throat and liquid courage floods his veins, carving away any final parts of him that might question the directive. He sets the glass down with a sharp clink, fingers tightening round it momentarily before forcing them to release— he can't afford to get lost in the bottle, not tonight. There are no grounds to celebrate, not when tomorrow demands clear senses as opposed to the distraction of a hangover that will only dull them.
Ears burning, the telltale sign that someone is watching, he glances over to see Laswell boring a hole into the side of his dome. She says nothing at first, eyes narrowed as they rake over him, assessing his state. Finally deciding to speak, she doesn't lift the impenetrable defensive shield she has resurrected. “Does Rory know you're here?”
His brow lifts, lobbing the challenge at her in return. “No. Does Sam?”
The clench of her jaw tells him his sucker punch has landed exactly where he hoped, trading barbs that dig into the heart of the matter — despite the relationships they are in, the love they feel, the lies they tell after so many years of being in this career supersede all of that.
“No, but she’s not Rory. She doesn't call me out on this sort of thing. Can't say the same for your wife.”
John bristles, mustache twitching as his nose wrinkles and his upper lip curls. The old fear he tries to kill repeatedly rears its head — will this be the final straw? Will he have given her an excuse to walk away? But he can't dwell on such matters. What's done is done. This was a long time coming, and if she can't see that—
“Ain't my wife yet, is she?”
Kate hums, removing the leather gloves from her fingers methodically. "Move like this… might want to get a jump on that, John."
"Didn't wanna take this from 'er. It gives her somethin' t' think 'bout besides Makarov. Somethin' happy."
Slipping the gloves into the pocket of her coat, she settles in a rickety armchair situated by the dresser. "Spring wedding, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Bet it would've been pretty."
A slow exhale releases through John's nostrils and he scrubs a hand down the sides of his mouth, lowering onto the edge of the bed, the metal whines in retaliation. "Knowin' her? Yeah." His forearms relax on his thighs, hands dangling in the space between. "You're tryin' t' talk me outta this, aren't ya?" he rumbles.
"No. Trying to make you see sense the way she would, or at least have you remember the consequences. Apparently Rory's the only person capable of that when it comes to you."
A muffled chuckle rattles it's way out of him and he rubs at tired lids. Kate makes a fair point, a strong one that he rarely cares to admit, least of all to himself. For the murky morals they both share, Rory's natural niche is as the role of compass, pointing him in a direction that helps him sleep more soundly at night. "She'll understand. 'm sure of it. We'll sort out that weddin' and I'll keep my 'ead down for the foreseeable. Don't need to give anyone a reason t' suspect."
Her brows lift, just slightly, surprise a fleeting thing that comes and goes in the blink of an eye. "We both know this isn't blowing over that easily, John."
A grumble growls in his throat. He is practical, cynical even, he's never been the type to lean towards the optimistic side, that only leads to regret, but some part of him wants to cling to the thought that maybe, just maybe, he might not be destroying the totality of what he has built all for the so-called 'greater good'. "Still needs to be done though, yeah?"
"Are you sure Shepherd is worth burning it all down for?"
"Shepherd's a dangerous, self-servin' bastard. I'll be doin' the world a favor takin' care o' him." Doin' her a favor most of all, he thinks, repeating it in a mantra. All to keep his Rory safe — or at least that's the truth he has decided to settle on.
January 19, 2024 - Washington D.C., USA
The Pentagon.
John has never been afforded the opportunity to visit the nerve center of the American military machine. He's seen his fair share of different outfits, the external appendages of the extended reach of the western empire's grasp on other nation states, but not the place where the decisions are made by those who haven't had their boots on the ground in a real conflict in decades.
From the instant the doors open, the stench of bureaucracy blends with the bleach that covers the gallons of spilled blood that drip from the emails and filed reports traveling through these walls. The halls are empty with the late hour, only the hard at work janitorial crew remain and the rumble of buffers carry from the widespread corners of the building. The sparkling sheen of freshly polished floors reflect the fluorescents above, and it is all so hostilely sterile, the rigid order expected of every soldier translated impossibly into interior design. The portraits hang at a perfect, equal distance, the potted plants seem artificial, lacking a single speck of discoloration — the facade of exacting control is oppressive, as if putting a step out of line might afford someone a bullet only to have another come to wipe it up without grievance.
Before he can truly enter the heart of the building, the office where Shepherd would have planned to have Soap and Ghost disposed of, he first passes through security. Slipping a stolen badge from his pocket, he places it onto the sleek black screen of a card reader. Red lights flicker and his chest squeezes, holding his breath for the alarm that is still deciding whether it wants to ring. Seconds pass drawn out to what feels like hours. He licks his lips, swallows thickly, gaze held still instead of darting wildly. He's meant to be here, important business that requires his specific skill set, willing the universe to bend to his demands and at last the scanner turns green and he is able to continue.
Security is lax tonight thanks to Laswell. Cutting feeds, inter-splicing in old footage routed through the system, hacking the mainframe of an organization that should be far more protected than it is. He stalks past an employee dressed in a gray jumpsuit, the keys dangling down from his belt loop as he collects cleaning supplies from the stationary cart under the framed painting of an older general with a severe countenance. Going unnoticed while his footsteps are drowned out, buried beneath the sounds of wax coating over the countless deceits forged by those with too much power and too little sense, he moves to the elevators and presses the call button, stepping inside at the chime.
Alone, he glances up at the camera that lies hidden in the corner and retrieves the gun and suppressor from the pocket of his jacket, carefully screwing them together at the muzzle, unbothered by the surveillance. The necessary channels will erase his path from view as if he never existed at all. The metal chariot he ascends in clanks and groans as the cables haul him upwards to where his next target awaits him, and watching the numbers climb, he counts down until the doors part, taking steady breaths as he slips the firearm into his jacket, clasping his hands before him.
The hallway he travels down carries on indefinitely, every door facing its mirror image of dark wood, complete with a welcome mat decorated with the seal of the Department of Defense. Working with the efficiency of a business matter but with a vengeance that is entirely personal, he reaches the engraved metal sign he's been searching for — H. Shepherd — and picks the lock.
He enters, encapsulated by shadow, melting into it, disappearing completely.
John barely notices the time tick down on the clock on the wall as he sits in wait, shrouding himself in the darkness afforded by the blind spot he lurks in, blending in with the environment. A ghost. The nightmare he has been taught to believe he is. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, ensuring that when Shepherd returns everything is exactly as he left it.
The glow from outside cuts sharp lines across the wall and from beneath the door he spies the shift of feet that block out the light. Door swinging open, the general's shadow grows as he enters until it's larger than life, stretching out in silhouette as he paces the circumference of his desk. There is something strangely intimate in watching a man in his final moments, before he realizes the ax is about to fall, when he thinks he is untouchable and is afforded the solitude to be his most honest self. It is as if John can read the thoughts going on behind Shepherd's eyes, hear them playing out like radio chatter on a private channel as the general scans across the capital's skyline and the monument for America's first president — a monolith — points up from the ground, a spear tearing a gaping hole through the blackened span dotted with twinkling stars. He appears especially contemplative, his reflection all furrowed brow. It's not hard to imagine he gaslights himself with the same lies John does about being driven to serve anything other than their own egos.
Slowly turning his chair, the buttery leather hide creaks as the older man sinks down and his weight shifts into place. The black hole in the corner where John resides across from him is bleak, vast, impenetrable. Even as the general flicks on the lamp, the emerald shade casting a warm glow over his workspace, the void remains. Oblivious to the events set in motion, blind to the form that appears from out of the shadows as if he were birthed by them and set loose upon creation to do their bidding, getting dirty in the process, it's only when Price decides that the smooth motion stirring from oblivion pulls Shepherd's attention from the periphery, and with the same predatory grace as a darkened shape swimming below the surface before the dorsal fin emerges, the danger is prevalent.
Blood scents the water, the chum piques his interest, and stormy blue-gray steel settles on his next meal to satiate his growing hunger.
"John."
"General." Sitting forward, elbows on his knees, that empty, emotionless visage of his that makes him impossible to read settles less like a mask and more as if this is his natural state. And perhaps it is. Maybe it's just easier to accept this version of himself in the long run.
Reclining in his seat, the pen Shepherd holds lowers to the lacquered wood top. He has enough sense to know work plays second fiddle to the conversation being held with the soldier who threatened to kill him — John can respect that at least. "How'd you get in here?"
"Mutual friend." Price nods in the direction of the hall. Even in the absence of specifics, a name drop is unnecessary, only a singular friend could get him access to the Pentagon.
An acceptance that this day would always approach eventually falls over Shepherd with a quiet hum. "Laswell…"
The calm, practiced reach under his desk for the pistol secured there, strapped on in case of emergency, does not go unnoticed. Pride once more proving Shepherd doesn't think to consider that Price might have inspected the room prior to his entrance. It's sloppy. The general has lost his edge.
"Uh-uh." Price rises from the armchair he's been biding in, waiting out his chance to dethrone a monarch who has grown fat and lazy during his residence at the top. With a confident stride, the prowl of a wolf who has calculated the weak points of his prey, John doesn't have to aim his weapon at Shepherd, opting to clutch it, his pose relaxed, at ease. There is no betrayal of his body, it works in perfect symbiosis with a calculating wit. He has nothing to shake about now.
"You're better than this, Cap'n."
He grunts, a stifled growl in the depth of his throat. The faint smirk that curls the corners of his lips betrays just how much he enjoys possessing the upper hand in this situation. "We both were."
"This job is about making sacrifices for the greater good."
The justification — it's the exact belief John regularly relies on to shut out the demons that dance in the inky depths of his sanity, calling himself a monster to feel even remotely human despite his ego preferring to be called a hero and then for more medals to be pinned to his chest. He doesn't argue, doesn't plead to emotion, they have both been at this extensively, there is no other option for them. "Agreed."
The general rears back even as he tries to remain stiff, imposing, as if the faint beads of sweat starting to collect in his brow aren't a dead giveaway. "You got a body count o' your own, John."
There's no flash of hesitation. As soon as Shepherd shuts his trap, John lifts his pistol, aiming down the sights until the general is facing down the merciless eyes of the barrel. Cold concentration seizes control and the tendons flicker as molars clamp down atop of each other. This confrontation has a lone course to follow, John has made sure of that.
"It'll come back to haunt you."
Flicking off the safety, a nimble movement of his thumb that is pure muscle memory, his focus trains on the man he's imagined dead more times than he can count.
"Oh, I am not gonna beg for my life." Shepherd's voice doesn't waver and John is almost tempted to applaud him for a last show of spine when there has been a distinct lack of one previously. "Not from you or anybody else, Cap'n."
"Wouldn't do you any good."
The tension breaks with the whine of a suppressed bullet being fired, a slug breaking through the skull and brain tissue to paint chunks of bone and gray matter on the window behind. A quick death — quicker than what Shepherd deserves — but it summarily ties up a loose end and allows John to stop being forced to look to the past and only heed the future. He doesn't stay to clean or to lord what he has committed over a cooling body, as with any kill, he departs as soon as the job is complete. In and out, easy as you please. There is nothing remaining for him to do here having tied a tourniquet to a bleeding wound, cauterizing it, and then watching as the blood flow permanently stops.
January 20, 2024 - London, UK
The route home allows a certain numb peace to blanket over him, a portion of his vigilance subsequently allowed to rejoin the whole after being severed for so long, reconstituting into the steady nerves of a soldier who remembers exactly what he is capable of. He doesn't replay the last moments with Shepherd, it serves no purpose, the old anger hibernates no longer drudged up to pick at the scab. He drives as the music plays at a faint hum, hardly able to be heard above the engine purring, there for ambience and not truly being listened to. Composed, his grip perches at ten and two on the wheel. Arms relaxed, spine straight without being ramrod — he is at ease, a rare sensation these days.
Pulling up to the house, he parks in his routine spot, seemingly reserved for the SUV that nestles at the heels of Rory's car.
The bag on his shoulder seems to weigh less as he climbs the steps, as if the majority of the mass carried has emptied along with the bullet in the chamber. He is free from the drag of tired feet, propelled by the draw of the citadel, the prize assured to him after all the effort and the turmoil. Scrubbing his face, he sheds the last remnants of a deed that was instigated a year ago, preferring to scrutinize the white door before him, the gateway to the remains of his fate.
Turning the knob, it swings ajar with a faint creak in an entryway that lacks activity, and the calm reassurance he tried to instill on the road suffocates when devoid of oxygen to fan the flames. There is no jubilation, no celebration for the crime he has committed, not even the fond welcome he has grown accustomed to, just the silent shame of a woman who was abandoned to sit and stew while slotting pieces of a puzzle together, absent of his guiding hand to adjust as required.
Sounds of a news report drift from the sitting room he had deserted her in days ago, and he drops his bag, the duffel hitting the floor with the resounding thud of a lead weight. His steps are slow but sure, meeting the sight of Rory, staring with rapt attention on the telly, from the doorway. He doesn't get a word of greeting in before she shuts it down, tossing the remote on the settee cushion beside her as she rises to face him.
"Did you think I wasn't going to figure it out?"
Her eyes are sunken, swallowed by grim circles, red and bloodshot. Christ, has she slept a wink since he walked out? Brows knitting together, she glares at him, paused at the precipice for him to prove her correct. The silence casts judgment on him as much as she does, his reflection on the black screen resembling that of a mugshot of the guilty.
"Or did you figure I would just happily go along with playing as your alibi?"
He doesn't have an answer for her, not the savvy one he would prefer. The first reaction is to pacify her, to replace the muted fury she carries with his own train of thought, to sway her to his side. "Ror—"
She intervenes before he even manages to get a word in edgewise. "So, you've killed Shepherd. Are you happy now?"
Yes. Yes, he is.
But he can't say that, can he? Not when she's standing there with that look in her eye, like he's just killed someone who matters. It's not Shepherd she's angry over, not really. The spirited soldier of her past has been filtered down, the careful planning of an officer has taken over in its stead — she has seen the scope of the actions he has committed to and the consequences have left her wanting.
chapter 26 is posted and thus begins the divorce era arc for Rory and Price. Working on chapter 27 already. Let us not forget however that the wedding one shot is also still in motion, let the toxic relationship continue!
Captain John Price x fem!OC (Rory Sinclair) - 3rd person POV, Alternating
Summary: John travels to the US to complete a personal mission - the assassination of General Shepherd
Word count: 4.4K
Tags/Warnings: Minors DNI, Character with Trauma, Established Relationship, Original Characters, Price POV, Price being his questionable self, angst, divorce era arc for Rory and Price begins now, in game dialog used
A/N: The next fic in the timeline for Lieutenant Rory Sinclair (OC), this is the writer's rendition of COD:MWIII with a heavy dose of canon rewriting
January 17, 2024 - London, UK
Word arrives from Laswell and it assumes priority over everything. The mask of normalcy John has adopted for Rory's benefit falters and is then discarded completely. Any discussion of him getting "help" is tabled until he strikes a name from his list allowing his thoughts to center rather than remain a restless stream, stopping the fracturing he endures. There is no prospect of finding any closure or reprieve until Shepherd and Makarov have both been removed, permanently.
Packing a duffel, he grabs only what is required to get in and get out, a change of clothes and a forged passport, the bare necessities — there's no stuffing in the kitchen sink for all eventualities. Only one exists in his case as it is, the general dead in his sights.
The gloom of London in January clogs the townhouse, filling every square inch until the colors de-saturate and turn sallow. It is the final push he needs as he stands in the entrance hall with Rory, informing her he needs to return to base and giving little other reason. He doesn't flinch when he looks her in the eye, there is no second guessing the lie as it slithers off his tongue as slick as oil, coating all that it touches, a slippery thing to be caught in. He catches the hint of skepticism that flickers in her gaze as she waits for the other shoe to drop, instinct more than likely screaming that something doesn't add up. But John doesn't have the time to dissuade her from noticing that two and two don't add up to five, instead, he presses a peck to her forehead, another to her cheek, and in reply each soft curve of her changes into a sharp edge. She doesn't argue, there are no questions, there is only the tight line of her mouth as she judges his words and can find the falsehoods without probing deeply.
He closes the door behind him and doesn't look back.
The walk down the stairs to the street where his vehicle awaits him stretches beyond its usual borders as if reality is trying to give him an out, an opportunity to turn around and pretend this didn't happen.
He refuses to take it.
The boot slams shut, a punctuation on the moment, stopping him from glancing at the bay window and calling attention to Rory standing there — even when she recognizes something is wrong, when it eats at her, she protects his six. She's a good woman, the best, and it should compel him to face the fact he's acting like a heartless monster, but he won't let that kind of sentiment grow roots, separating himself from all other truths except those that remind him ultimately this is all for her. Whether she recognizes it or not currently, eventually, she will learn to understand.
The three hours it takes to drive north to the base fades into a dreamlike journey, blending into a foggy, half-realized recollection before the destination takes shape. It's a road he's traveled countless times, though undoubtedly this may be the last. He parks his SUV in the lot, a remedy produced for the plausible deniability it affords should Rory get the bright idea to investigate the GPS tracking — the type of move he would implement — ensuring she won't be able to discern where he really is while planting ample evidence that keeps her in the clear. Collecting his bag, a taxi pulls up moments later, already bought and paid for, the driver rolling down his window and asking if he's a 'Jack Smith'.
He considers the question, contemplates the mission, and then agrees, climbing into the car.
Sitting there, chin tucked down, beanie pulled low, he scans the dash, noting the camera that points directly at him, red light glowing as it records his appearance for driver and passenger safety — a weapon that will have to be scrubbed later. The world passes by as they drive and his fingers stay stock still as they idle on his thighs. His thumbs tell a different story, however, beating against denim in a repetitive rhythm. All that tension he has been locking up now begs for a release and it's all he is willing to allow until his jittering leg takes matters upon itself. Normally, he could mend the situation by lighting a cigar, but no such luck occurs when he's stuck in a 'No Smoking' automobile and he can't even pull rank to get away with it. Left to the tics of his jaw, the flex of tendon and twitch of muscles in his face, he ignores the need to move and remains static instead. He shows no interest in conversation, opting to glare up at the rearview mirror anytime the cabbie tries to meet his eye — better to intimidate than to give even a scrap of intel that could later be used against him.
Travel is a steady crawl through the midlands mid-morning, as if every driver on the road has nowhere else they need to be. His lip curls and he wishes he was behind the wheel of an armored vehicle capable of ramming its way through every obstacle, anything was preferable to this sluggish dawdle that leaves him with too much time to contemplate his next moves. In between the motivations he is reminded of, glimpses of conscience bleed through. It's not the guilt of taking another man's life — John lost that specific pressure point years ago — it's the thought of Rory looking at him as anything less than the man who would crawl through fire and wade through an ocean of broken glass for her.
Elbow resting on the door, scratching at the scruff on his cheek, he watches as the gray expanse of highway fades into shades of brown and green as they enter the country, arriving at a small, privately owned air field. Only then does Price perk up and his observing stare regards his final destination before he is set to board the plane already fueled up and waiting for his stateside travel.
January 18, 2024 - Washington D.C., USA
When he lands in the capital, John keeps all interactions to a bare minimum, his appearance under the radar. He prefers the idea of affording Shepherd the comfort of thinking that he's safe, that he faces no retribution for the things he has authorized. It leaves him susceptible, lazily drifting through existence, failing to check over his shoulder, and it's in that instant when the general isn't thinking about his own survival that he can strike.
In a cheap room of a two-star accommodation, paint chipped and peeling from around the doors and baseboards, carpet likely older than he is, and a bed whose springs squeak with the slightest adjustment of movement, he preps for a career-ender of a mission, leading into it with a bottle of scotch that Laswell leaves beside the plastic wrapped glasses and ice bucket atop the mini fridge that buzzes loud enough to drown out the neighbors in the room next door.
She stands there, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. He is yet to touch the briefcase she dropped on the bed, there is no rush to view what is enclosed — they both know exactly why he's here, and it's not for a friendly visit.
Glancing over at the bottle in the corner, he finds his feet advancing before his mind has caught up and he pours a generous measure, the amber liquid sloshing as he lifts it to his lips. Downing it in a burning gulp, it sears a trail down his throat and liquid courage floods his veins, carving away any final parts of him that might question the directive. He sets the glass down with a sharp clink, fingers tightening round it momentarily before forcing them to release— he can't afford to get lost in the bottle, not tonight. There are no grounds to celebrate, not when tomorrow demands clear senses as opposed to the distraction of a hangover that will only dull them.
Ears burning, the telltale sign that someone is watching, he glances over to see Laswell boring a hole into the side of his dome. She says nothing at first, eyes narrowed as they rake over him, assessing his state. Finally deciding to speak, she doesn't lift the impenetrable defensive shield she has resurrected. “Does Rory know you're here?”
His brow lifts, lobbing the challenge at her in return. “No. Does Sam?”
The clench of her jaw tells him his sucker punch has landed exactly where he hoped, trading barbs that dig into the heart of the matter — despite the relationships they are in, the love they feel, the lies they tell after so many years of being in this career supersede all of that.
“No, but she’s not Rory. She doesn't call me out on this sort of thing. Can't say the same for your wife.”
John bristles, mustache twitching as his nose wrinkles and his upper lip curls. The old fear he tries to kill repeatedly rears its head — will this be the final straw? Will he have given her an excuse to walk away? But he can't dwell on such matters. What's done is done. This was a long time coming, and if she can't see that—
“Ain't my wife yet, is she?”
Kate hums, removing the leather gloves from her fingers methodically. "Move like this… might want to get a jump on that, John."
"Didn't wanna take this from 'er. It gives her somethin' t' think 'bout besides Makarov. Somethin' happy."
Slipping the gloves into the pocket of her coat, she settles in a rickety armchair situated by the dresser. "Spring wedding, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Bet it would've been pretty."
A slow exhale releases through John's nostrils and he scrubs a hand down the sides of his mouth, lowering onto the edge of the bed, the metal whines in retaliation. "Knowin' her? Yeah." His forearms relax on his thighs, hands dangling in the space between. "You're tryin' t' talk me outta this, aren't ya?" he rumbles.
"No. Trying to make you see sense the way she would, or at least have you remember the consequences. Apparently Rory's the only person capable of that when it comes to you."
A muffled chuckle rattles it's way out of him and he rubs at tired lids. Kate makes a fair point, a strong one that he rarely cares to admit, least of all to himself. For the murky morals they both share, Rory's natural niche is as the role of compass, pointing him in a direction that helps him sleep more soundly at night. "She'll understand. 'm sure of it. We'll sort out that weddin' and I'll keep my 'ead down for the foreseeable. Don't need to give anyone a reason t' suspect."
Her brows lift, just slightly, surprise a fleeting thing that comes and goes in the blink of an eye. "We both know this isn't blowing over that easily, John."
A grumble growls in his throat. He is practical, cynical even, he's never been the type to lean towards the optimistic side, that only leads to regret, but some part of him wants to cling to the thought that maybe, just maybe, he might not be destroying the totality of what he has built all for the so-called 'greater good'. "Still needs to be done though, yeah?"
"Are you sure Shepherd is worth burning it all down for?"
"Shepherd's a dangerous, self-servin' bastard. I'll be doin' the world a favor takin' care o' him." Doin' her a favor most of all, he thinks, repeating it in a mantra. All to keep his Rory safe — or at least that's the truth he has decided to settle on.
January 19, 2024 - Washington D.C., USA
The Pentagon.
John has never been afforded the opportunity to visit the nerve center of the American military machine. He's seen his fair share of different outfits, the external appendages of the extended reach of the western empire's grasp on other nation states, but not the place where the decisions are made by those who haven't had their boots on the ground in a real conflict in decades.
From the instant the doors open, the stench of bureaucracy blends with the bleach that covers the gallons of spilled blood that drip from the emails and filed reports traveling through these walls. The halls are empty with the late hour, only the hard at work janitorial crew remain and the rumble of buffers carry from the widespread corners of the building. The sparkling sheen of freshly polished floors reflect the fluorescents above, and it is all so hostilely sterile, the rigid order expected of every soldier translated impossibly into interior design. The portraits hang at a perfect, equal distance, the potted plants seem artificial, lacking a single speck of discoloration — the facade of exacting control is oppressive, as if putting a step out of line might afford someone a bullet only to have another come to wipe it up without grievance.
Before he can truly enter the heart of the building, the office where Shepherd would have planned to have Soap and Ghost disposed of, he first passes through security. Slipping a stolen badge from his pocket, he places it onto the sleek black screen of a card reader. Red lights flicker and his chest squeezes, holding his breath for the alarm that is still deciding whether it wants to ring. Seconds pass drawn out to what feels like hours. He licks his lips, swallows thickly, gaze held still instead of darting wildly. He's meant to be here, important business that requires his specific skill set, willing the universe to bend to his demands and at last the scanner turns green and he is able to continue.
Security is lax tonight thanks to Laswell. Cutting feeds, inter-splicing in old footage routed through the system, hacking the mainframe of an organization that should be far more protected than it is. He stalks past an employee dressed in a gray jumpsuit, the keys dangling down from his belt loop as he collects cleaning supplies from the stationary cart under the framed painting of an older general with a severe countenance. Going unnoticed while his footsteps are drowned out, buried beneath the sounds of wax coating over the countless deceits forged by those with too much power and too little sense, he moves to the elevators and presses the call button, stepping inside at the chime.
Alone, he glances up at the camera that lies hidden in the corner and retrieves the gun and suppressor from the pocket of his jacket, carefully screwing them together at the muzzle, unbothered by the surveillance. The necessary channels will erase his path from view as if he never existed at all. The metal chariot he ascends in clanks and groans as the cables haul him upwards to where his next target awaits him, and watching the numbers climb, he counts down until the doors part, taking steady breaths as he slips the firearm into his jacket, clasping his hands before him.
The hallway he travels down carries on indefinitely, every door facing its mirror image of dark wood, complete with a welcome mat decorated with the seal of the Department of Defense. Working with the efficiency of a business matter but with a vengeance that is entirely personal, he reaches the engraved metal sign he's been searching for — H. Shepherd — and picks the lock.
He enters, encapsulated by shadow, melting into it, disappearing completely.
John barely notices the time tick down on the clock on the wall as he sits in wait, shrouding himself in the darkness afforded by the blind spot he lurks in, blending in with the environment. A ghost. The nightmare he has been taught to believe he is. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, ensuring that when Shepherd returns everything is exactly as he left it.
The glow from outside cuts sharp lines across the wall and from beneath the door he spies the shift of feet that block out the light. Door swinging open, the general's shadow grows as he enters until it's larger than life, stretching out in silhouette as he paces the circumference of his desk. There is something strangely intimate in watching a man in his final moments, before he realizes the ax is about to fall, when he thinks he is untouchable and is afforded the solitude to be his most honest self. It is as if John can read the thoughts going on behind Shepherd's eyes, hear them playing out like radio chatter on a private channel as the general scans across the capital's skyline and the monument for America's first president — a monolith — points up from the ground, a spear tearing a gaping hole through the blackened span dotted with twinkling stars. He appears especially contemplative, his reflection all furrowed brow. It's not hard to imagine he gaslights himself with the same lies John does about being driven to serve anything other than their own egos.
Slowly turning his chair, the buttery leather hide creaks as the older man sinks down and his weight shifts into place. The black hole in the corner where John resides across from him is bleak, vast, impenetrable. Even as the general flicks on the lamp, the emerald shade casting a warm glow over his workspace, the void remains. Oblivious to the events set in motion, blind to the form that appears from out of the shadows as if he were birthed by them and set loose upon creation to do their bidding, getting dirty in the process, it's only when Price decides that the smooth motion stirring from oblivion pulls Shepherd's attention from the periphery, and with the same predatory grace as a darkened shape swimming below the surface before the dorsal fin emerges, the danger is prevalent.
Blood scents the water, the chum piques his interest, and stormy blue-gray steel settles on his next meal to satiate his growing hunger.
"John."
"General." Sitting forward, elbows on his knees, that empty, emotionless visage of his that makes him impossible to read settles less like a mask and more as if this is his natural state. And perhaps it is. Maybe it's just easier to accept this version of himself in the long run.
Reclining in his seat, the pen Shepherd holds lowers to the lacquered wood top. He has enough sense to know work plays second fiddle to the conversation being held with the soldier who threatened to kill him — John can respect that at least. "How'd you get in here?"
"Mutual friend." Price nods in the direction of the hall. Even in the absence of specifics, a name drop is unnecessary, only a singular friend could get him access to the Pentagon.
An acceptance that this day would always approach eventually falls over Shepherd with a quiet hum. "Laswell…"
The calm, practiced reach under his desk for the pistol secured there, strapped on in case of emergency, does not go unnoticed. Pride once more proving Shepherd doesn't think to consider that Price might have inspected the room prior to his entrance. It's sloppy. The general has lost his edge.
"Uh-uh." Price rises from the armchair he's been biding in, waiting out his chance to dethrone a monarch who has grown fat and lazy during his residence at the top. With a confident stride, the prowl of a wolf who has calculated the weak points of his prey, John doesn't have to aim his weapon at Shepherd, opting to clutch it, his pose relaxed, at ease. There is no betrayal of his body, it works in perfect symbiosis with a calculating wit. He has nothing to shake about now.
"You're better than this, Cap'n."
He grunts, a stifled growl in the depth of his throat. The faint smirk that curls the corners of his lips betrays just how much he enjoys possessing the upper hand in this situation. "We both were."
"This job is about making sacrifices for the greater good."
The justification — it's the exact belief John regularly relies on to shut out the demons that dance in the inky depths of his sanity, calling himself a monster to feel even remotely human despite his ego preferring to be called a hero and then for more medals to be pinned to his chest. He doesn't argue, doesn't plead to emotion, they have both been at this extensively, there is no other option for them. "Agreed."
The general rears back even as he tries to remain stiff, imposing, as if the faint beads of sweat starting to collect in his brow aren't a dead giveaway. "You got a body count o' your own, John."
There's no flash of hesitation. As soon as Shepherd shuts his trap, John lifts his pistol, aiming down the sights until the general is facing down the merciless eyes of the barrel. Cold concentration seizes control and the tendons flicker as molars clamp down atop of each other. This confrontation has a lone course to follow, John has made sure of that.
"It'll come back to haunt you."
Flicking off the safety, a nimble movement of his thumb that is pure muscle memory, his focus trains on the man he's imagined dead more times than he can count.
"Oh, I am not gonna beg for my life." Shepherd's voice doesn't waver and John is almost tempted to applaud him for a last show of spine when there has been a distinct lack of one previously. "Not from you or anybody else, Cap'n."
"Wouldn't do you any good."
The tension breaks with the whine of a suppressed bullet being fired, a slug breaking through the skull and brain tissue to paint chunks of bone and gray matter on the window behind. A quick death — quicker than what Shepherd deserves — but it summarily ties up a loose end and allows John to stop being forced to look to the past and only heed the future. He doesn't stay to clean or to lord what he has committed over a cooling body, as with any kill, he departs as soon as the job is complete. In and out, easy as you please. There is nothing remaining for him to do here having tied a tourniquet to a bleeding wound, cauterizing it, and then watching as the blood flow permanently stops.
January 20, 2024 - London, UK
The route home allows a certain numb peace to blanket over him, a portion of his vigilance subsequently allowed to rejoin the whole after being severed for so long, reconstituting into the steady nerves of a soldier who remembers exactly what he is capable of. He doesn't replay the last moments with Shepherd, it serves no purpose, the old anger hibernates no longer drudged up to pick at the scab. He drives as the music plays at a faint hum, hardly able to be heard above the engine purring, there for ambience and not truly being listened to. Composed, his grip perches at ten and two on the wheel. Arms relaxed, spine straight without being ramrod — he is at ease, a rare sensation these days.
Pulling up to the house, he parks in his routine spot, seemingly reserved for the SUV that nestles at the heels of Rory's car.
The bag on his shoulder seems to weigh less as he climbs the steps, as if the majority of the mass carried has emptied along with the bullet in the chamber. He is free from the drag of tired feet, propelled by the draw of the citadel, the prize assured to him after all the effort and the turmoil. Scrubbing his face, he sheds the last remnants of a deed that was instigated a year ago, preferring to scrutinize the white door before him, the gateway to the remains of his fate.
Turning the knob, it swings ajar with a faint creak in an entryway that lacks activity, and the calm reassurance he tried to instill on the road suffocates when devoid of oxygen to fan the flames. There is no jubilation, no celebration for the crime he has committed, not even the fond welcome he has grown accustomed to, just the silent shame of a woman who was abandoned to sit and stew while slotting pieces of a puzzle together, absent of his guiding hand to adjust as required.
Sounds of a news report drift from the sitting room he had deserted her in days ago, and he drops his bag, the duffel hitting the floor with the resounding thud of a lead weight. His steps are slow but sure, meeting the sight of Rory, staring with rapt attention on the telly, from the doorway. He doesn't get a word of greeting in before she shuts it down, tossing the remote on the settee cushion beside her as she rises to face him.
"Did you think I wasn't going to figure it out?"
Her eyes are sunken, swallowed by grim circles, red and bloodshot. Christ, has she slept a wink since he walked out? Brows knitting together, she glares at him, paused at the precipice for him to prove her correct. The silence casts judgment on him as much as she does, his reflection on the black screen resembling that of a mugshot of the guilty.
"Or did you figure I would just happily go along with playing as your alibi?"
He doesn't have an answer for her, not the savvy one he would prefer. The first reaction is to pacify her, to replace the muted fury she carries with his own train of thought, to sway her to his side. "Ror—"
She intervenes before he even manages to get a word in edgewise. "So, you've killed Shepherd. Are you happy now?"
Yes. Yes, he is.
But he can't say that, can he? Not when she's standing there with that look in her eye, like he's just killed someone who matters. It's not Shepherd she's angry over, not really. The spirited soldier of her past has been filtered down, the careful planning of an officer has taken over in its stead — she has seen the scope of the actions he has committed to and the consequences have left her wanting.
girl with ptsd voice: hey, so something really bad is gonna happen, right? you guys are picking up on that too, yeah? The other shoe is about to drop, I just know it.
and for funsies this morning, a little snippet from the wedding oneshot that I'll post once MHIBBU is finished:
He stands across from her, all smiles. Smug. Arrogant. The epitome of the cat who got the cream. He's won the lottery, finally receiving exactly what he's always wanted, and he's gloating over it— A terrible winner, an even worse loser. Holding her hands in his, swallowing them whole, she is made infinitesimal in his plans. A useful asset shifted into a position that keeps her "safe" by his decree and then offers him the legal protection of ensuring the one person who knows all of his dirty secrets can never be asked a single question.
It takes the mind of an evil genius to arrive at a solution like this, and she's tying the knot with him, eyes wide open.
His thumb brushes over her knuckles as if he's trying to work out the nervous tension that survives beneath the skin, easing her into this — it serves little use when she's sat through an entire flight over listening to him explain the logic to her with the same comfort he has during a briefing on mission parameters. The cold, calculating arithmetic that's put them in this scenario — belying all the love this moment is meant to be a symbol of — is something she tries not to spend much time thinking on. For once, she wishes she would have been given the gift of blissful ignorance, it would be easier than seeing just how far her husband is willing to fall to feel like he's winning, reminding the world just how little he believes the rules apply to him.
When she fails to respond quick enough to the priest's command for her to repeat after him, John clears his throat, the rumbling gravel echoing around the domed ceiling and drawing her back to the present. Meeting his gaze, she huffs and rolls her eyes, a minor rebellion, the only one she can put up when they are more than halfway through the ceremony and Nik's already poised with the rings in hand for the 'I do's'.
She repeats the vows, all of it tasting like ash when she gets to the part about promising to honor and obey. Temptation to cross her fingers behind her back as she mutters them with a disapproving glare in his direction crashes over her in a wave. There is an entire argument brewing in the back of her head that she's looking forward to ripping into him with.
Captain John Price x fem!OC (Rory Sinclair) - 3rd person POV, Alternating
Summary: John begins to plan his assassination of General Shepherd, and Rory finally faces the silent but uncomfortably present elephant in the room between her and John as he begins to slip away from her
Word count: 3.7K
Tags/Warnings: Minors DNI, Character with Trauma, Established Relationship, Original Characters, OC POV, angst, guilt, grief, Price being his questionable self
A/N: The next fic in the timeline for Lieutenant Rory Sinclair (OC), this is the writer's rendition of COD:MWIII with a heavy dose of canon rewriting
January 4, 2024 - London, UK
Feet pounding over pavement, reverberations grinding the weakened joints of his knees, John only half pays attention as he traverses the Thames route he's been taking for days. The repeating pattern of cement guardrails and lamp posts blur together for each kilometer he travels, nothing standing out as recognizable as he hurries past.
The funeral has passed, there's a lifeless shell in the ground, but the world hasn't ended.
Makarov is out there. Somewhere. Injured but not removed as he had hoped the Russian ultranationalist might be. While stateside, Shepherd is confined to headquarters as the senate investigations continue — exposed and susceptible to attack. Two directions pull at him, but only a singular course has the rudimentary option to control the outcome, and he would be a fool to look a gift horse in the mouth for it. Vladimir is the target he wants, a chance to atone for his mistakes, to give everyone a reason to forget the rare failure on his record— but he's smart, even if undoubtedly insane, he will never allow for the task to be easy. The general, on the other hand, is the mark that only requires being acquaintances with the right people to complete the intended termination of a particularly prideful pest.
Harsh gusts scrapes over his cheeks, making an already brisk day feel unquestionably worse. Sea birds circle above him, crying out as they lean laterally from the draft that pushes up from below, setting them adrift from their bearing. Their squawks carry out across the water in a cacophony, the lament of hungry, screeching gulls whose stomachs scarcely seem to fill, eliciting a near-constant ravenous state.
John endures that emptiness on a regular basis, gorging on every win he tucks under his belt.
Stuck at home, he paces like a hunting dog aching to clamp his jaws around a scrawny neck, looking for something to break as his mind detaches, lost on things better left forgotten. Instead, muscle burns with the requirement of movement, battling against the lethargy being thrust upon him that causes a contemptible absence of direction. Running, seeing no finish in sight except for the ever widening horizon line, results in focus on more imminent obligations and resorting to his natural inclination to plan.
Preparations in motion since last year, the gears of the clock tick down to the inevitable moment when he aims to strike, and the future now becoming the present makes sitting on his hands a recourse he is no longer willing to take as his authority fragments, crumbling apart, driving him to clench the leash harder, to corral everything under his command and stifle dissent by any means possible available to him. He deserves this. He needs this. Shepherd's head on a pike resolves a pivotal stress that has been a concern lingering in his faculties for an extended period.
Rounding a curve, he heads for the bridge that takes him to the other bank of the river and the empty lot atop a parking garage in the city. Always arriving predawn for his run, he leaves as the business district starts to wake and too many prying eyes begin to wander meaning witnesses he can't afford. When he reaches the SUV — nondescript, gunmetal gray, he's a man who appreciates the 'utility' portion of the vehicle's name — he climbs into the driver's seat with a weary sigh.
Seconds pass, and as he catches his breath the windows fog with the falling temperatures of the exterior and the warmth of the smoldering furnace of his body, colliding in a storm front.
Opening the center console, he roots through old theater ticket stubs, throat lozenges, the novelty Liverpool FC BIC Rory grabbed at a convenience store, and a cigar clipper, finding a burner phone he had bought in cash a few weeks ago — simple flip style, out of fashion for years, and fit for a lone call. Dialing a number he knows by heart, the sequence of buttons is almost reflexive, requiring little to no effort on his part. Relaxing back, sniffling away the cold in his nostrils that compels them to drip, he maintains concentration on the goings on outside his windshield. Some might say it's paranoia, he calls it 'just being careful'.
It rings. Once. Twice.
Three o'clock in the morning in Virginia and Laswell still answers, this is why he holds her in such high regard — Reliability.
"Tell me this is important," she mutters, voice kept low. Sleep clings to her, piggybacking along, and leaving her raspy.
He can hear the bed groaning as Kate shifts and sits up, grasping for the bedside drawer and what he assumes is her pack of cigarettes and lighter. The scuff of slippers shuffling over wood flooring follows, the quiet creak of the bedroom door shutting accompanies it.
"Woke you, eh?"
"Yeah."
Collecting the lighter from the storage beside him, he turns it absently in his grip. "Needed to discuss the parameters of an upcoming mission with ya."
"Upcoming—" she cuts herself off, a correction as she abandons the flow of that particular conversation. He pictures her furrowed brow in response, the lines cleaving down towards her nose, and the bleary gaze beneath. "Care to clarify, John?"
"Makarov is in the wind, Actual's not." He shrugs a shoulder, lips pursing as he studies the object in his palm that he rarely gives a second glance to. "Not anymore at least. Gold Eagle's had his wings clipped." His thumb trails over the glossy red plastic, over the corner where it has chipped, the rough edges of the divot catching on his callouses. "I'm ready."
A long silence drags on Laswell's end, followed by the flick of the spark wheel. In the background, crickets chatter in a serenade of several recurring stridulations. A sharp inhale this early into waking rattles before smoke blankets it, softening the sound before the drawn out release of an exhale.
"Certain you want to go through with it?"
"'s a good a time as any. The best, really. One less thorn in the side, lookin' forward t' be rid of it." He thinks of the teasing grin Rory had given him when she slid the cheap BIC from the counter display alongside their liter of milk, "the necessities" she had called it. For a household of smokers it was only proper. "Happy wife, happy life— you know the sayin'." He returns it to the compartment and continues, stating it with all of his usual conviction, refusing to doubt himself or his plans, "This is the way t' do it."
Laswell gives a heavy sigh of contemplation, sorting the details before confirming one way or the other. "It's a big ask. Not impossible, but complicated," she says, maintaining her position as the only reasonable person on this call. "The Pentagon isn't exactly a field trip. That being said, it's not Fort Knox either." Another beat, and the smirk he's sure she is wearing is audible. "Doesn't hold the country's gold reserves, does it?"
"Just all the States' military secrets."
"As if those don't get traded constantly with other nations." Another drag of the cigarettes hisses before she releases the smoke in a huff of breath. "Need to take some time to figure out security, ID scanners, times when the guard duty swaps, when there are areas without coverage, which cameras I can hack into."
"How long do ya need?"
"Week, maybe two. Want to make sure they don't change plans and formations before you're already neck deep in it."
"Copy."
"I'll get back to you with the details when I've got them. And John—?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't do anything half-cocked. This isn't some black mission against the Russians… this is borderline treason."
"I'm aware. Got no intention o' fuckin' this up, Kate. Believe me. Got too much to lose, and so do you."
January 7, 2024 - London, UK
The townhouse is a hush except for an incorporeal voice on the telly at a meager level in the sitting room. Left to her own devices while John has once more departed the townhouse, Rory stands in the kitchen, frozen while staring blankly into the refrigerator, stuck this way for the last fifteen minutes. The plan had been to prepare a cup of tea, instead, the plastic dairy jug dangles from her fingers as she observes the shelves and the perishable foods that fill them. There is no stopping the flow of thoughts and how they constantly turn to what might exist in John's mind and attempting to decipher his next course of action. The more space he gives her, the more she endeavors to tune her ability to read him, to understand. Striving to fix what breaks when she can't seem to mend herself when required.
It's only the sound of the front door unlocking with a heavy click that snaps her from the spell, blinking to dispel the fog, and she emerges fully aware. Gripping the milk firmly, she shuts the fridge, and a tepid mug greets her. A spent sigh releases and she places the container down on the counter with more weight than it requires.
There's not much motivation for finessing that cuppa, not when it's as lukewarm as she is about her own footing with the man she loves.
When she hears the squeak of rubber runner soles on the polished floors of the hallway, she pours the wasted drink down the drain and returns everything to where it belongs, appearing as if she hasn't gone mad. Turning towards the doorway, she finds him fixed there, watching her, nose and cheeks left pink, sweat beading on his temples and slipping down the side of his neck, leaving his exercise gear with stains on the back, chest, and pits.
Running to evade or wear himself ragged, she's not quite sure which.
"How was the run?" It's a lame question, but she hopes it might initiate a conversation with him. Seemingly damn near impossible to do these days, she yearns for anything more than the barest grunt out of him that says he is willing to do more than merely recognize that she lives with him.
"Fine."
A one word answer, she expects nothing different.
Pulling out a bottle of water, she slides it across the island to him. "Need to stay hydrated."
He considers the offered beverage, returning to her as he snatches it up in his paw. "'ppreciate it." Cracking open the lid, he guzzles nearly half the liquid down, an act to prevent having to utter any more than he has to for any extent.
At no time have they ever been this withdrawn before — not without a whirlwind of a fight, at least. There is no intention to push him, to force the incident until even home is no longer an escape for him, but she can't maintain walking on eggshells for him forever either.
"You haven't been around lately," Rory remarks on the obvious in a soft murmur, fidgeting as she leans on the granite, a thumb scratching over the webbing of the other.
Jaw clenched, he grunts — the runs do little to calm him. To her, they resemble a chance for him to amass more distance between them. "Didn't figure you'd want me 'round."
"Love," she sighs and steps forward, peeling away from the shield between them. "I'm not Simon or Kyle. I can forgive plenty, you know that."
A curt nod is all she receives in response.
"We're all grieving, and I—" She stumbles on the words, a rare sight for her, and she clears her throat. "For as long as I've known you, you've handled things by burying them. But just this once," rolling the engagement ring beneath the joint of her knuckle, warm gold brushes her skin, "don't you think you should try talking about it?"
“There's nothin' t' talk about.”
“Soap died standing in the firing line for you. You had his blood on your face—”
“I know!” he barks, slamming his palm down flat.
Rory jumps, a quiet gasp escaping her as she physically distances from him. The spark of fear in the look she sends him is a choke chain that sits tightly wound about his throat and immediately yanks him into some semblance of stability, giving him clarity. With a deep, steadying breath, his whole body crumples, hunching over. A wounded animal backed into a corner and he has just lashed out at the singular individual who offers her hand — a soul that under no condition has he possibly dared intend to bite.
He is quieter now, the low gravel catching and not from being breathless due to sprinting. “I know.”
“Then speak with someone.” She's not usually the type to plead, but there's a desperation that she can't hide, and it builds behind the eyes. Fretting at the knot of her furrowed brow, she tries to release the pressure, massaging into the lines, but it is a temporary aid. “There's no need to swallow it down like it's bloody poison. You have to stop letting it rot you from the inside out."
A suppressed chuckle floats in her direction, his shoulders shaking as the stored energy attempts to break loose. "Bit o' the pot callin' the kettle black there, eh love?" His smile is a weary thing. "What am I s'posed to say, Ror? What?” Reaching out, he cups her cheek, settles over the curve of it, and he locates his natural spot. “'m glad tha' talkin' your problems out with some professional works f' ya, but 's not gonna work f' me, sweetheart. 's just not.”
“So, alternatively, you'll just do naught.” After all these years, she's come to accept the stubborn nature of him that existed before she came into the picture, and that he refuses to change.
“I just need time. Time alone, t' sort out my head.”
“I'm your future wife…" She begs for an ounce of trust in this situation. "And you're isolating from me when you have a problem. We're meant to solve it together.”
His silence screams more than any quarrel between them could and she retreats a step. The compulsion to protect her has endured since Moscow, yet he doesn't expect the same treatment in return, and she understands why — or concludes that she does. Wetting her lips with a shaky tongue, she worries the flesh softly afterward, working off another layer.
“You don't trust me to help you through.”
“I didn't say tha'.”
“You didn’t have to.” A solid mass forms, an unswallowable lump the size of a boulder. Rubbing down the slope of her features, she swallows and it does sod all to clear the route. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
Stepping away from the counter, she passes by him on her route to the hall. In a flash, he reaches out for her. “Ror –” His grip on her arm is taut as he pulls her into his vicinity. “Wait,” he husks.
Clenching her hands into fists, the frustration bubbles over. "My brain is shit, I get that… but do you have to make me feel more useless than I already do?” A tear rolls down her cheek, leaking from red rimmed lids. “You and your relentless need to ensure I'm safe—"
“Christ, woman,” he rasps. Cupping his palms on the contours of her face, his thumbs brush over the peaks of her cheekbones, removing the glistening hints of her anguish with a careful wipe. “You aren’t useless, you’re bloody perfect. Keepin’ yourself sane, the team whole, keepin’ me goin’. I couldn’t ask f' more from you, my girl." He tilts his forehead down, resting inches from hers. The warmth of him radiates outward, encompassing her as his gaze holds her own and his tone softens, only doing so for her. "’s why I have t' do this on my own. Ain’t right for me to put it on you.”
"Perfect?" A faint, disbelieving scoff drifts in a hot puff. "I'm a pain in the arse."
"An impressive pain in the arse though." The smile he wears appears too easily. A bandage. Or better yet, a distraction, diverting her attentions by making it about them and not him.
"You're hurting, John." Stroking over the damp wicking material of his sleeves, her touch lingers on the wrinkles in his shirt. "I can tell when you're out of sorts. If you can't put this on me, than who can you?"
"Got more than enough on your plate, sweetheart." He thumbs through the swoop of hair that covers her eye, twirling the strands absently. "I'll not see ya strugglin'. I'm strong enough to carry this for us both," he assures her. "'s how we've always dealt with our business, eh?"
"You might be able to carry it, yeah, but the more we're apart—" She exhales, pushing the air from her lungs in a huff, "We promised we wouldn't keep secrets, that there would be no lies with each other. I'm not asking you to spill your guts, this isn't some confessional, just—" She sweeps her thumb along his temple, the vein there throbbing with the stress he's under. "Give me some sort of idea of what's going on in there, yeah?"
His gaze falls, a moment of vulnerability he rarely lets show. "There's a lot." Slowly lifting to meet her concerned focus, he's being as honest with her as he can be. "And no good place t' start."
"Then start with the worst of it. My darling, I have been through hell. Let me help you see this through too."
Chuckling to cope, using her own methods against her, he cards through her hair and tucks the strands behind her ears before leaning down and pecking her hairline. "You're a tough bird."
"Glad you finally noticed."
He looks down at her from under his brows. "That better be you takin' the piss."
"It was."
"Good. Cause I haven't seen you as anythin' less after our first mission. If there's anyone I'd choose to have lookin' out f' me, 's you."
Arms encompassing her, he tugs her close into a great big bear hug that has her grasping his biceps so she's not lost in the broadness of his torso. His mouth hunts out hers, nudging her chin up with a lift of his own, taking the lead as he kisses her with a craving that shows no end.
It has been over a week since he's kissed her, a lengthier period than she's comfortable with. An act so simple, so elementary between them shouldn't be a luxury, some infrequent occurrence, and it feels like the universe is righting itself as she follows his silent command, devoid of all struggle, meeting every press of his lips with her own. She is far too keen to step in line when it pertains to John, and a strange sense of harmony fills her, as if this state she's locked in with him is the only correct choice.
That is, until he detaches from out of the blue. Focus ripped from her, it lands on the latest breaking news report that plays on the BBC. His arms drop, falling from her waist, and he moves to where the television continues its broadcast.
She finds him stood stationary in the entryway, his attention locked on the screen, on the window in the upper right regarding the senate hearings, General Shepherd, and the small speck of proof that he did indeed seek to kill his men. Rory stops beside him, a pillar parallel at the doorjamb, listening intently as the world witnesses the slippery eel they were tied to slithering his way out of any legal repercussions.
"Scott-fuckin'-free," he growls, a chokehold grip encircling the jamb, trying to strangle the inanimate structure as if that might affect the actual object of his ire.
"Not surprising that's the case. People in his position of power, they seldom experience any justice. Friends with too many people who they can drag down under with them."
"Bollocks."
He stares at the screen, at the still of a wrinkled mug he despises, and the darkness begins to stir in him, that endless void that takes no prisoners. His mouth scrunches, curling in the dead giveaway gesture that he demands retribution. She regards him, attention narrowing as she forecasts him based on tells, and that deadened alarm of her conscience starts to blare. An alarm that has survived from the moment she said yes to being his and has transformed into an impossibility to ignore even if she wants to. It sobers her instantly, emotion removed, supplanted by logic.
“John?”
The sharpness of his flinty glare crawls sideways to connect with her own and the turns of her intestines entangle further as every instinct and impulse tells her a nightmare is coming, the same notion that causes birds to take flight en mass before a tsunami hits, emptying the sky as the waves recede and reveal the hidden base of the shore. Her heart rabbits, pounding against the confines of its cage, and frigid, creeping terror unfurls down her spine as if she can feel the specter of death’s kiss right there with them.
“'s nothin’, darl –”
Her index finger intervenes before he can finish the lie, the tip sinking into the cupid's bow and the bushy whiskers of his mustache. “You want to try that again?”
Clutching to the digit, he pulls it away and presses a kiss to the tip. “Nothin’, Ror,” he states with the finality of an order given, enacting the Pavlovian reaction that gets her to comply, to stand down as he sweeps the problem aside.
She stills, not pressing the point, utilizing the power for the completion of a minor amount of arithmetic instead, arriving upon the truth that attaches itself to all circumstances regarding John and the fact that he is at the brink — Someone will have to pay. He can’t find Makarov, so an alternate blip on his radar becomes the scapegoat, the thing to take out his cold, merciless fury on. The objective forming is visible in the set of his glare, in the cavernous depths of stormy blue that seem to go on and on in perpetuity, tunneling into the circles of hell, and at the very bottom exists a pit, a region reserved solely for traitors.
Shepherd.
She knows it. He knows it. The conclusion is settled. I’m comin’ for you— a simple warning, and the captain invariably keeps his promises. He just needed a reason and it landed in his lap and sprayed over him, slick and dripping with red.
Protective Instinct chapter 3 is coming along, enjoy a snippet of Price finally getting his hands on Theo this wip wednesday:
The door creaks as he enters a red brick prison with one bistro table in the corner, and tucked up against the wall is Theo working on the smoke he lets dangle from his fingers as he scrolls mindlessly on his phone, smirking to himself.
Fuck, he wants to punch this cunt in the gob so badly. It takes everything in him not to let his fist swing blindly.
"Hot one, innit?" John mutters, clipping the end off his cigar and slipping it between his lips. With a flick of the lighter, the amber glow of flame encapsulates the end, burning into a bright red cherry.
Theo barely lifts his gaze from his phone, not giving anyone he doesn't approve of the time of day. "Suppose it is. But then again, I'm not wearin' jeans and boots, am I?"
He hears the scoff that puffs out from the twat's nose and his eyes narrow. Any chance at mercy being shown is dead and buried in that ten second interaction. The streaming plume that he exhales masks the murderous glare he sends in Theo's direction.
"No, s'pose you're not."
With a roll of his eyes, Theo glances up at him and flicks his cigarette away, not bothering to stub it out. "Can I help you with somethin'?"
"Funny you should ask tha'." A wry grin slowly crawls across John's lips, the upturn hidden by his mustache, but the cruel gleam in his eyes shine with a smug pride. Reaching into the back of his jeans, hidden beneath the hem of his shirt, he makes contact with the carbon fiber of the grip of his gun. Any nerves he might have had fade away, finding himself in his element. "Been meanin' to have a proper chat with ya."
Observing a man's face shift through several emotions at once never gets tiresome, even after all these years. The moment they realize their back is to the wall, that they've been caught and there's no way out, except through and they stand no chance, is his absolute favorite. Witnessing Theo's brows pinch, the confusion that bleeds into fear, it's better than any overpriced drink he could have ever hoped to taste on the premises.
"Are you— Is this a robbery?"
The chuckle that tumbles from John is more off putting than the weapon he's obviously reaching for, carrying the sound of the unhinged enjoyment of pressing his boot down on his prey's neck and watching them squirm.
"You should be so lucky."
When the suppressed pistol is finally revealed, it takes Theo a moment to even recognize it, staring blankly at the cold, unforgiving extension of the man that looms before him. His breath catches and the warm, satisfying feeling of success starts to take root in John's belly.
"Move." He directs with his gun, a little flick of the barrel that signifies where he wants Theo to go, and every time the weapon shifts, his chest swells at the sight of how the other man flinches.
