John stares at the question for a second. It’s scrawled in what he can just about identify as his handwriting. The page is smudged, ink spotted in places where it was washed slightly by a younger him’s tears.
If he were to flip to the inside cover, he’d see a name scribbled out, and ‘John’ carefully penned beneath it. He doesn’t.
Instead, he reads the rest of the page. It’s a struggle to make out some of the words, what with the shakiness of his (admittedly already quite illegible) penmanship, but he gets the gist of it.
“I feel like my body is betraying me,” the entry starts with. That no matter what he were to do, it would betray any attempt at proper presentation. That it was unfair, because everybody else got to look in the mirror and see something half-respectable, and he got to see something that wasn’t even identifiable as human half the time.
John glances up at the mirror now from where he’s sat at the edge of the bed. His hair is scruffy, and he’d have to get Nik to help him trim it later. He scratches idly at his beard, checking over himself as he contemplates the book. There’s a shadow lingering behind him, watching quietly.
“They say I should love who I am but I’m not something anyone can love,”, the journal continues. No matter what he was to do, he would remain the same, awful, incomplete thing. Not a real enough man to appeal. But unable to check the boxes demanded of womanhood either. Something else, entirely, that shouldn’t be given a second glance.
The shadow settles next to him, and John feels the familiar warmth of Nikolai’s hand on his knee. It squeezes, only gently. John turns away from the journal another moment to smile at the man. Nik prompts him, reminds him they have dinner with Kate soon.
“I cannot achieve anything like this,”, it continues. No matter what he did, no matter how he acted, he would always be shunned, rejected, turned away. Even the things he could achieve, the risk that came with identifying himself was too great to ever chance it. He wouldn’t reach any meaningful point in life, because every attempt he would make would end the same way it always had.
John’s hardly focusing on the book at this point. He’s looking at the pile of memorabilia next to him. At the bottom of the pile, he knows sits his MsC. International relations. Part-time course while he was in the reserves. A few medals sit comfortably inside an overturned boonie hat he distinctly remembers being given by Simon last year. He takes Nikolai’s hand into his own, savouring the sensation.
“Does it ever get better?”
As Nikolai turns to kiss his cheek, John carefully regards his surroundings once more. There’s a tiny vial of testosterone on his desk. A photo album he knows Nikolai spent the last decade collating, of the two of them and their mutual friends. A ring he twists idly on his finger.
Evil is a puffy-eyed little girl lost in a grocery store, desperately looking for a familiar face.
“End communication.”
A trap with no escape, under a crumbling roof that shelters her from everything but her sins. What was once a fiery passion slowly dies with the growing tongues of fire that flanks her on all sides.
Trapped. It was all a trap. Not a gift. It was never a gift, not the present wrapped in a big red bow she had believed it to be.
Thoughts careen past her, they race as she paces with a mindless desperation. The heat almost solders her joints together.
I can't. I can't. Not like this. I have to do something, anything— I have to make him proud, anything to make him proud! I have to do something. Something with my life, at least. Something. Anything.
Her once relentless resolve can't help but crumble with the filthy cheap walls, melting with erratic grace under the inferno. What did she do? What could she have done to deserve this life of hers?
A voice whispers the answer before she could even finish thinking.
Nothing.
That's all she's done. Nothing, nothing remotely outstanding. Just average, average, so painfully average. She had nothing to be proud of. Under her sharp, cold, calculating facade—that's all it was, a nothing more than a facade, something to convince herself she knew more than she did—what did she have? Under her wits. Under her poker-face. What did she have?
The man takes off his mask. His face– his face looks familiar. But it can't be. Nobody was ever familiar, everything and everyone that could've been had packed up and moved away. Away from here. Away from her.
He turns for a moment. His eyebrows furrow. Is she imagining it, the way his very flesh almost seems to hesitate, flickering between alive and something that wasn't quite there? The way his eyes held a faint, luminescent pink buried deep beneath his irises?
For a moment, she thinks he'll run, fight, keep her out like he always does. Like he was no doubt told to do. His expression is unreadable. Fear? Disgust? He's frozen in place, it seems, even among this scalding amber.
And then he's not. His shoulders sag. He relaxes. He smiles—why is he smiling? Why is he still here? Get out. Get out! He takes a step toward her. She tries to yell, but the blaze chokes her throat dry. Scare him. Scare him away, away from this hell, away from this torture! Can't he feel it? Can’t you feel it? Why is he still here? Why does she want him to leave?
The voice returns, it rejects, it insists, the icy, blue-eyed beast. No, he has to stay. Stay and atone. He was a part of the plan after all, she remembered now. It's his fault. It's him, all him and the Cassette Man, all his fault, his fault, his fault. His fault for everything! A murderer, that's what he was. A murderer, though they weren't technically alive.
It's a thought tugging at her brain from the deepest, oldest parts of her, murderer, murderer, murderer, yet another voice argues back. Don't you understand! He's all we have. He's all I have.
The man reaches out. His wrinkled prune of a hand tells of a damage wreaked by something more than fire. She almost reaches back. She catches herself.
No, she knew better. She had nobody. Father said she had nobody, nobody but him. A part of her wished that was true.
But she saw no truth, none in the way his father spoke to their endless metal labyrinth like it could answer with anything more than a child's lofty giggle. Never an embrace, not a hug, not a meaningful word to her. Not even her own father could spare her a second glance.
The man’s hand is still outstretched, a defiant glint in his eyes that says she must take it. She has nobody. Amongst the vast universe, she was nobody. But maybe, if even for just a fleeting second, maybe she could have somebody.
She reaches for his hand. The barrier separating them falls. Good riddance, she thinks. She wants a hug. She wants to feel something more than a hand on hers—how long has it been since she’s had a hug?—and he steps forward too. He raises his other hand. A hug. The thought of it makes her smile. She can't feel the fire anymore. It's nothing.
The last of whatever was holding this wretched place together finally gives way, and his hands just fall short of hers before the building crumbles to ashes.
With a final glance into her brother's eyes—they look kinder now, the kindest she's ever seen them—she succumbs to the void as the evening wind whips the rowdy flames into submission.
And then she was nothing.
they live happily ever after right scottt?? right?? .
honestlt I needed something to satisfy the tragic afton kid itch even though it is a very different, messier writing style but I was just in the feels for these two
i love having fun while writing the stupidest shit i’m working on my sleeper agent fic right now and jfc.
Price had just about gathered himself when the man brushed his hair out of his eyes. They were this chocolatey brown that glittered even in the dingy lights of the pub, and Price could have sworn they could see his soul, what with the way they stared at him so intently.
“Privet?”
He’d never seen such a sight. They were piercing, harsh, but he was convinced sharp edges could do him no harm. They flitted around, taking in the environment. John absently wondered if they would glitter just the same in the sunlight, or in complete darkness. If they’d still look at him as warmly.
“Hello? Bonjour? Hallo? Ciao? Nihao? ¿Hola? Marhaban? Do you speak?” the man asked, smiling dreamily as his eyes settled onto John’s own.
It was the final question that finally reminded him why he was there, and he sputtered out a reply.
“..uhm, hi, uhm, John. John Price.” He stuck out a hand awkwardly.
“Nikolai,” the man responded, shaking it. Fuck, his hands were so soft. Price felt his heart drop a little when he had to pull back away.
“What do you need?” Nikolai asked.
“...” John realised that the section of his brain reserved for intel had been replaced by a section reserved for thirst, because instead of his talking points he asked “kiss me?”
“As you wish, John.” He leaned forwards, grinning, before pressing his lips against Price’s in a chaste kiss.
“John, I am fine,” Nikolai insisted, despite his hiss of pain only a moment later as he returned his left foot to the ground. They were only a few minutes from home, so Nik’d made the stupid, irresponsible, childish choice to just bear through it.
“Don’t look fine, Nik,” he prodded. Upon Nikolai’s lack of reply, John instead shifted to the other side of him, wrapping an arm around Nik’s back, beneath his shoulders.
“I am walking. I am breathing. I am— ЕБАТЬ!” Nikolai’s knee buckled as he walked, and a hand dug into John’s shirt, on instinct to try and keep himself off the ground.
The thing that actually kept Nikolai off the ground was John catching him and pulling him up. It took more effort than he would have liked, and if he were in a better state of mind, he’d take a detour to the gym later to try and rectify that. Instead, he braced Nikolai properly on himself, and kept walking.
“You’re fine, you’re fine, Nik, you’re fine,” John mumbled. It’s his turn to lie now.
By the time they finally arrived home, Nikolai had bitten several small holes in his lip to keep himself from sobbing out in pain. John didn’t point out that it was clearly in vain, instead pulling Nik tight to his chest on their bed. Nik’s legs bung off the bed, and only with the weight finally removed from them did he take a shuddering breath, laying back into his embrace.
“…I’ll get someone to step in for you for exfil.” He knew Nikolai would normally object to such a thing, the man worked himself to death after all, and he was somewhat glad that Nik was in too much pain to do so. Instead, Nikolai hummed in agreement and squeezed John’s hand.
“...” Nik turned to press his face into the crook of John’s arm. It was quiet in their flat, save for the occasional brush of a curtain against the wall as wind swept through the crack in the window, but the near-silence only served to give Nik even less to focus on aside from the pain.
“I’ll, uhm, you.. want me to leave? Get you a drink? Painkillers? Book?”
“Nyet, stay. I just need you. Please.”
He nodded, and shuffled them higher up the bed, taking care to not aggravate the offending muscle. He curled his body around Nikolai and pressed a kiss to his jaw.
John waited for Nik to drift properly to sleep before extracting an arm from beneath him to message Kate.
If he made the case that the both of them were unavailable, well, that was his business. He had more important things to care for, such as the bear of a man now half-sprawled across him.
for @nekrosmos! (thanks for putting up with all the asks)
@nikprice-gift-exchange (cheers mate)
cw for a dash of internalised homophobia (though i’d argue it’s more a fear of external homophobia)
W/C: 2084
-/-
“Da, John, I have my bags. What are you— Nyet, nyet, I can carry them,” Nikolai affirmed, snatching his small backpack away from the other man as John’s fingers locked around the worn strap.
Price had asked Nikolai to join him over the holidays (something about needing a good drinking partner, if Nik wasn’t mistaken). Nik agreed in an instant, packed his few things, and here they were.
The lights outside John’s block of flats didn’t work. Nikolai stood, a bag in each of his hands, ignoring the slight cold biting at him. He was more than used to the mind (and finger)-numbing cold characteristic of his home country, but he had desperately hoped that it would be a little warmer here. Naive, he realised, as John pulled him inside, out of the cold.
“Traffic bad? Yer late,” John murmured. Maybe it would’ve been courteous to have picked Nik up himself, but he wanted to try and clear enough of his neglected belongings out of the way for Nikolai to have more than a square foot of space in the flat. John looked at the other man questioningly when he didn’t receive a reply, head cocked to the side.
“I walked,” Nikolai grinned as they trudged up the stairs. The stairwell was mostly silent, save for the humming of a bulb above them.
When they reached the flat, John elbowed open the door (he’d given up locking it, given that the building’s door locked as well) and kicked off the trainers he’d shoved on.
Nikolai hesitated before following suit, waiting for a slight nod from John before removing his own tattered boots. He set them down neatly against the wall before following the other man properly into his home. It was sparsely decorated (he assumed the Sergeant simply hadn’t the time or means to go further than year-old Christmas cards and a battered guitar abandoned in the hallway), but he looked around appreciatively nonetheless.
“Right, uh, there’s— I’ve set the sofa up for you, if that’s alright, shouldn’t be too uncomfortable, but if it is, just gimme a shout, and help yourself to the kitchen, ‘s all yours, I don’t mind, and— just dump your shit there, yeah.” At that, Nikolai dropped both his bags by the side of the sofa, settling down onto it in such a way that John swore it sunk under his weight.
They’d only worked together for about a year, but it should have been enough time for John to properly register just how big Nikolai was. He spread himself out, legs spread apart, an arm across the back of the sofa and another on the armrest, but that didn’t explain the sheer size of him. It was rare he felt small. But, as Nik stared back at him with those big brown eyes of his, John couldn’t help but feel more than a little nervous.
“You still drink? I’ll get you some vodka? I got some of the good shit,” John lied. What he really had was a half-emptied bottle of Tesco’s finest (read: worst) Imperial, but he’d found that Nik didn’t really complain unless it came back up after he’d drank it. Anything that left that little burn in their mouths was good enough.
“Nyet! I— I have a gift. For hosting,” Nikolai said, quickly reaching for one of his bags to retrieve a bottle of Macallan.
John prided himself on stoicism. He prided himself on maintaining the same facade of semi-disinterest no matter what was put before his eyes. But that quickly collapsed as he read the label on the bottle thrust into his hands. “Macallan, fuck, Nik, ‘s worth more than what I make. You kidding?”
The man shook his head in reply. “You are host, so I have a gift. Why would I joke?” He said, smiling until it was eventually reciprocated by the Sergeant. Nik pulled his knees up beneath himself as John left for the kitchen, presumably to fetch a couple of glasses.
“Assume you just wanna sit ‘n’ rest, but tomorrow, you up to going out somewhere?” Nikolai looked to his side as the man started speaking, a little startled by John’s presence back at his side. Nikolai took the tumbler with a smile, lifting it to his lips as he mulled over his answer.
“Da. That would be nice. Could we visit the, uhm, what is it… the Norway tree?”
John just blinked back at the other man, glass frozen halfway to his mouth in sheer confusion. “The fuck is a— Nik, come on. What’re you on about?”
“You know. The tree. From Norway. In… Tranalgular?” He attempted. John quickly realised that place names were clearly not included in self-taught language learning, and almost cackled as he realised what Nik was actually getting at.
“Trafalgar, mate. Trafalgar Square. Sure we can,” John laughed, louder this time.
They sat there, talking for the majority of the evening, until eventually John withdrew back to his room.
-/-
The next morning, Nikolai went to the kitchen without a word, searching the cupboards for ingredients.
John woke shortly after, to the clattering of pans. He pulled on the closest clothes to himself (some joggers and a baggy tank from a gym trip he had yet to wash the kit from), and walked through the flat best he could with bleary-eyes. “Nik, fuck’re you doing?”
“Cooking,” Nikolai replied, voice still thick with the blur of sleep. “So you can eat. Just eggs,” he smiled, cracking one, two over the pan before jabbing them with a spatula.
“I didn’t… ask you to do that, mate, but…. cheers. Yeah. Let me know if you need any help.” John was going back to sleep. He was decisively not dealing with this at seven in the morning.
Nik finished cooking after ten minute’s dedication. The eggs were a sweet yellow, save for the spots of green where he had mixed chives through as he scrambled.
He abandoned his work to go and wake the other man, shaking him by the shoulder. People spoke against trying to wake soldiers. Something about it being dangerous, that it could put you at risk, whatever. But Nik couldn’t see any real anger in the man’s eyes, nor any fear, as John slowly rose from his slumber. Only slight sleepiness.
“Nik, what?”
“I am done cooking. I made you toast as well, I hope that is okay,” he smiled, reaching out to squeeze John’s shoulder again.
“...thanks,” John murmured, ignoring the sudden blush that arose as Nikolai touched him again so gently, as if he was something to be treasured.
The food was, of course, stellar. Couldn’t be anything else, really.
John ate quickly, shovelling the eggs down as Nik made a mental note to check the other man had ever eaten food before this moment.
Nikolai dressed in a leather jacket and cargos, thin t-shirt beneath, he tied his hair back with an elastic band which had been poached from John’s CO’s desk weeks ago. John joined him at the door, thick trenchcoat and wool scarf not enough to stop him from shivering as he stepped outside.
Similar to breakfast, their journey was also one of little note. Nik blanked at the tube maps, leaving John to decipher them alone. Nikolai got several dirty looks for talking about how much he hated
Once they disembarked, John wrapped an arm around Nikolai’s waist. “Gets busy, Nik, don’t want you to disappear,” he murmured, checking his face for any sign of discomfort before walking him down the road. It was crowded, of course, but John kept his place at Nikolai’s side as the pair walked.
“Nik, fuck’s sake, sit down,” John rasped. Nikolai had been pacing up and down whilst listening to the other man talk, and it was driving John insane. That, and the officer watching him was making the Sergeant a little too uncomfortable.
“I am sorry. I am just.. energised, da? I like this time with you,” Nik replied, coming to a halt and dropping down onto the steps to sit beside John.
“You… like time with me?” John repeated. Maybe it was naïve, but he would kill to have someone care to be with him. To go on walks with him, to talk to him. No elaborate gestures.
“Da. I like this time. Thank you for coming,” Nik grinned. He squeezed John’s shoulder before looking back across the square, to the tree that was the centre of their plans for today.
“It is unique,” he commented. The only other comment he had to hand was that it was “Уродливый до упаду”, and he knew damn well John wouldn’t understand what that meant.
“It is fucking horrifying, Nik.” The tree was a hulking thing, with yellow string lights draped directly towards the ground. It lacked any other decoration, sans the small star that sat at its point.
“It is important,” Nikolai retorted. He didn’t even know why he was defending the thing. Traditional decoration? Sure. Historical significance? Sure! Tree that looked more like a skinned pipe cleaner than plant life? Fuck off.
“It is an abomination to this country, mate,” came the reply. John attempted to lightly elbow Nikolai, but froze when Nik only drew him slightly closer instead.
“Da, maybe so. But so are you with that hair.” Nikolai used the other man’s pause to snatch the beanie off of his head. leaving the half-grown out mullet visible to the world.
“Oi, you fucking bastard, Nik, give that back.”
“Ask nicely,” he smirked. Maybe he was being too mean, but how could he help it when John’s face went just as red as his ears had in the cold?
“Nikolai, please ever so kindly give me my hat back or on our next mission I will put a bullet through you,” came the ever-so-nice request.
Nik obliged. He pulled the hat back down over John’s hair, before patting the top of it patronisingly.
“There you are, John,” he crooned. “Now, can we eat? I do not want to look at this tree anymore.”
“Sure, there’s this little place that does walk-ins a few minutes away. Good spaghetti.” John was more than glad for the change of subject.
-/-
John pored through the menu, trying to settle on what to order.
But the more he thought, the more he looked around. And the more he looked around, the more he realised just how very out of place they were.
“Nik, do you— you happy here? Comfy? It’s cold, there’s somewhere back home that’s got heating?” He was scrambling, and he knew that damn well, but John clung to the hope that Nikolai wouldn’t notice and would just agree.
“Nyet. I can never be cold with you, you are— you are like fire, da? It is fine here. Are you okay?”
John certainly wasn’t okay after that statement, but he wasn’t about to admit that. He, carefully, nodded his head, smiling at Nikolai as he tried to calm his racing heart.
“Yeah, ‘s just… you reckon they think we’re on a date? We’re two guys, at Christmas, in a restaurant, together.”
John lowered his head as Nikolai laughed, taking one of John’s hands into his own.
“Would that be so bad? I have seen worse couples,” Nik smirked, using his free hand to gently lift John’s jaw to face him. “And you are not so bad looking, hm?”
John laughed harder, hoping that would distract from the fact he was practically glowing red at this point. “You’re not half-awful yourself, Nik. But what’re you getting at?”
“I would not.. mind to be on a date with you,” Nikolai said, leaning slightly further across the table now. He smiled at the way John seemed to squirm under his gaze, bright red at the very prospect of Nikolai paying him attention. “If you feel the same, of course.”
“…Promise you ain’t joking?”
“If I were, Laswell can rip my heart out for you. Okay?”
“Okay,” John replied, though only half of it got out before Nik had John’s face pressed against his own in a kiss. Nikolai was half on top of the table to reach, and John’s hands took too long to find their way to Nik’s face, but it was good enough for the both of them.
After what felt like an hour (but was still too short for Nikolai), they separated, John grinning as he took great interest in the menu again.
He had a feeling nothing would taste quite as good, though.
Nikolai never thought he would be the ‘open’ one between the two of them. Nikolai, who grew up being told men anything like what he was now should be put to death? Nikolai, who watched people from the same little boxes he belonged to be tortured for who they were? Nikolai who fled his country only to find that the alternative was hardly better? Yeah, fuck off would Nik ever be ‘open’.
But when he meets John ‘if I close my eyes and put it back in its box it doesn’t exist’ Price, he realises maybe he might have to be in order to coax the other man out.
One night, when they’re sat chatting at a pub that one of the sergeants dragged the 141 out to, Nikolai makes his first step.
“Oi, Nik, you got anyone after that Russian arse?”
“Nyet. My last partner was in Russia. Nobody since.” And he watches as John pauses momentarily at the word ‘partner’. It’s hardly a fucking sign, hardly anything, and nobody else in the group gives a shit that it was the word he chose.
But John does. John, who spent his life hearing nothing that could ‘intentionally promote homosexuality’, latches onto it.
Nikolai has to fight the urge to look at John. He can’t give the game up so early.
It’s a few months later, when John is still wallowing in his single misery, that Nikolai makes his next step. They’re out with the Laswells, and Kate is talking about figuring out who she was via Sarah Connor.
John is nodding along with that same detached expression he wears when he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t understand the language spoken in front of him, or he isn’t about to pull a gun on someone, or he has no clue what it’s like growing up gay.
“No film, for me it was… well, it was a few things. I just knew one day, like you do. This man I met when in Copenhagen was the, how do you say… nail in the coffin.”
Kate fights to not laugh at the sudden look of hope that manifests briefly on John’s face before being schooled away.
“Yer gay?”
“I never said I was not, John.”
“……I don’t mind.”
Nik joins her in the same fight.
“If you did, you would not be welcome on this picnic, John.”
They drop the topic shortly after. If Price goes away with a suddenly renewed purpose in life, that was his business and his alone.
The last proverbial straw is drawn when Nikolai and Price sit at a pub alone, hours after a mission. John is more than a little inebriated, and Nikolai isn’t much better for wear.
“You know, this man I dated in Copenhagen, you remind me of him… you are so driven, like him. He was not so scruffy, though.” He accentuates this last point by ruffling John’s hair, and is quickly responded to with the toe of John’s boot in his shin.
“Yer saying I remind you of a man you dated.”
“Da,” he confirms, sipping his drink like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say to your friend.
“Good or bad way?”
“As much as I like to insult you, good.”
John takes a great interest in the countertop as he tries to figure out how the fuck he’s meant to respond to that.
“…Nik why’re you so open about this shit?”
“Why are you not?” And John freezes.
In his mind, he’d maintained the perfect façade his entire life. Sure, there might have been one or two odd glances in locker rooms over the years, but those meant nothing. And he might have been deliberately single his entire life, and he might have never even considered the option after having met Nikolai, but it was normal to focus on his work.
“…’m not gay, Nik,” he splutters.
“I would not mind if you were.”
“…you tell anyone about this conversation, I’ll kill you.” John is less focused on the threat he’s making than he is on the soft smile now on Nikolai’s face.
“I would expect nothing less.”
John sits in silence for a few more moments, feeling the bare force of Nikolai’s eyes on his face. A solid minute passes before he speaks again.
“…might have thought about it before.”
Nikolai just nods, sagely, as he finishes off his drink.
“You are allowed to feel things. Nobody we know will mind, I am sure.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
The conversation goes no further than that. They return to easier topics; John is going to a concert this weekend, Nikolai has a classified mission in Georgia, Soap’s singing is absolutely terrible. Easy things. Safe things.
But, when he gets a message a week later reading ‘need to tell you something’, Nikolai knows he was absolutely right.
was written as a gift for someone but idk if theyd want their name attached so. rewatching whiplash atm jfc i forgot how fucked it was.
cws for: hospitalisation, bit of injury description, near-death (but its fluffy at the end i promise). nik is a bit silly! (read: needs to calm the fuck down.)
W/C: 2176
-/-
Nikolai was not an anxious man. After all he’d lived through, he would argue he was one of the most composed people he knew. Rarely did his calm smile break into anything else (either laughter or tears), and when it did, he kept it to himself.
But, when he woke up in a hospital bed, memories blurry, his carefully constructed display collapsed in only a moment.
Nikolai clawed at the tubes stuck into his arm, until blood began to bead at the entry point. He was gasping for air, pulling and pulling until the IV tore free. He wasn’t staying here, not by any fucking stretch of the imagination. He’d rather off himself right here than rot in some Ultranationalist’s camp.
Next, he reached for the ECG machine set up at his other side. Scanning it, he eventually found the button which would disable it. He shut it off without a second thought, hands already dropping to his chest to remove the leads.
After counting twelve, Nik turned his attention to the more urgent issue of escape.
Nikolai checked his pockets, ignoring the pain that rippled through his now-free arm as he searched.
No phone, no knife. Just keys.
He snatched a tissue from a box discarded at his side, using it to blot at the blood still coming from his arm, as he stood.
Nik had barely taken two steps before he had hands on him again.
“Nik! Fucking hell, Nik, don’t—” John reached over his shoulder to punch the ‘call nurse’ button, once, twice, thrice, as he pushed Nikolai back down onto the bed.
“…yer fine, Nik, Jesus Christ, what’re you thinking?” John held him in place until he stopped thrashing against him. “Yer safe, just…” John took a deep breath, watching as the man under his hands slowly did the same, “…just rest, yeah? More ye rest, quicker you can get out of here.”
Nikolai settled as John’s hand shifted from around his biceps to gently on his shoulders. John kept his hand in place, gently rubbing, as two nurses came into the room.
He was less focused on what they were doing to him, and more on John’s voice in his ear, just repeating, “yer fine, yer safe”. It was a softness that felt a little foreign coming from the other man, but Nikolai ignored it in favour of the exhaustion that was a suddenly overwhelming force on his body.
Before Price could let himself properly focus on the other man slowly drifting off, the clipped, somewhat impatient tone of one of the two nurses in the room cut through the sudden peace.
“Now, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Family only, at the moment.”
Price looked over at the man and scowled. Blue-scrubbed fucker trying to tell him he couldn’t stay to keep his.. friend company.
“Military protection, shut your arse,” he scowled, not moving from his position at Nikolai’s side. It wasn’t true, per se, but he’d rather
If the nurse replied, Price didn’t hear it, having busied himself with tucking Nikolai back beneath the duvet. He waited until the room was empty to finally sit down beside Nikolai.
Truth was, it was Price’s fault they were here. His mission, his orders, led one of his closest friends into a crash landing. Trying to keep him safe, no less, is what had put Nikolai in danger in the first place. And instead of protecting him, Price had nearly killed the man. Two bruised ribs, second degree burns down his back, nine breaks in four fingers, lacerated liver.
Price set down the card he had bought on the small table next to his chair. He’d argued with the staff until they agreed to move Nikolai to a private room, rather than a bed with flimsy curtains that were left open more than they were shut.
In the privacy of the room, John finally let out the breath he had been holding ever since he had carried Nikolai into the hospital. When he had first found Nikolai, and gathered him into his arms from the smouldering remains of the UH-60, Price had had the brief thought that it was a corpse that he clutched.
He watched Nikolai’s chest rise and fall. With each breath, Price calmed a little more.
Nikolai woke up to John’s eyes still on him. Blearier, now, sure, and fluttering closer to shut, but still there, watching, waiting.
“…John?” He reached out, patting around with his undamaged hand until he made contact with what he assumed was the Captain.
“..huh—? Yeah, yeah, Nik, ‘m… I’m here, okay?”
John took his hand into his own, gently running a calloused thumb over the knuckles.
His eyes threatened to snap shut as he watched Nikolai smile up at him. John’d been up for hours, waiting, watching, in the hopes Nikolai would wake up once more.
And that just made it all the worse that he couldn’t keep his eyes open now. He barely followed the words as they came out his own mouth.
“…d’you mind if.. if I sleep, Nik? …Wanted te be up te talk, but—”
If Nikolai was honest, the answer was yes, he did mind, because he doesn’t want to be alone right now he wants to be with someone he can trust he wants someone to watch over him he wants John it was easier to have someone who can translate at his side.
But, looking at the redness of John’s eyes, he hung that thought up and shook his head.
“It is fine. Sleep, John.”
He didn’t pull his hand from John’s, clutching the other man’s hand tightly as he drifted to sleep in his seat.
Moving slowly, so as not to aggravate his breathing further, he reached to pick up the card that John had left by his side.
The handwriting was smudged, and hurried, but he could parse parts of it, at the very least.
“Nik,
I’m sorry you [smudged] because of me. Feel like I’ve been putting [smudged]. ahead of [smudged], and I’m sorry. Truth is, I really [smudged] you, but the thought of [smudged]. But I’ll [smudged], for you.
Get well soon, m[smudged].
Always [smudged],
John.”
Maybe more than half of it would have been legible if not for the man’s left-handedness, but he read over the card again and again nonetheless.
If Nikolai was in any better a state of mind, he wouldn’t have let himself begin to imagine what the rest of the card said. He wouldn’t have convinced himself that John had claimed he cared for him, that John loved him.
Because he loved John. More than anything. And if he let himself hope, and it wasn’t true, then… Nikolai wasn’t sure he would move past it.
He sat himself up, carefully, just enough to be able to watch John dozing. He’d come so close, too close, to never being able to hear those snores again. Never being able to watch John’s sternness melt away as exhaustion took over.
It was in that moment Nikolai decided he would not let himself die without telling John how he felt first.
-/-
“Nik?”
“Yeah?” Nikolai asked, looking over at John as he settled into the other man’s car. He’d just been discharged, and John had jumped at the opportunity to drive him home.
“…Know ye can’t drink, because of yer,” he gestured vaguely to Nikolai’s entire state, “everything, but I thought, uh, you might wanna go out fer a meal? Better than, uh, sittin’ in bed miserable. My treat.”
‘Da. That would be nice, John.” He smiled at the Captain as they pulled away. “Can we go straight there?”
“Yeah, yeah, ‘course. It’s, uh,” John rapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he thought, “ten minutes out.” John took a hand away to turn the CD player on. Normally, Nikolai would have objected to John playing his CDs (frankly he wasn’t even sure it deserved to be called music), but after the week he’d had, he didn’t have the energy to intervene.
As they pulled into the car park of the restaurant, Price walked around the car to Nikolai’s door. He took Nik’s hand, helping him to step out of the car.
“Ain’t the best place, but the burgers’re good,” he smiled. It was one of those full smiles, that Nik adored, where the edges of his cheeks met the corners of his eyes and little wrinkles formed as he grinned at Nikolai.
The section they were seated in was empty, save for the two of them, and they were handed their menus promptly.
“…John, what is good?” Nikolai asked.
“Well, I mean, it depends, there’s—” he looked to his side (they’d been put in a booth, and it was easier to just sit together than try and decide who sits where) and saw Nikolai already beginning to tune him out despite his best efforts to pay attention, and decided for a more straightforward answer. “Try the house burger. ‘s whot I’m having,” he said.
Price ordered for the both of them, as well as two waters. Didn’t seem fair to drink if Nik couldn’t, after all.
“Kate’s been asking after you. Told her yer recoverin’ fine, but still a little under.”
“I will visit her soon.”
“Good.”
“...”
“...”
Fucking hell, was Price craving anything that’d help this conversation from where it had ground to a standstill. He silently cursed Nikolai’s stupid liver.
He was midway through his second curse to the organ when he was interrupted by Nikolai himself.
Nik had turned to better face him, sipping on his water as he tried to figure out the latter half of his question. “John,” he started, waiting for Price to turn to him before continuing. Nikolai set his glass down and ran a slightly shaking hand through his hair. “I have been thinking a lot, lately.”
“Wouldn’t expect anyfing less from you, mate. Whot about?”
Nikolai swallowed. “You. I, uhm, I… You can say no, of course. I know we have made our jokes, but, uhm,” he paused. John’s eyes were on his, and it was taking some hard fucking work not to get lost in them.
“Take yer time,” John said. Gods, his smile was sickeningly sweet.
“…I thought, uhm, when I was there, that I would die. And I was scared that if I did not tell you this now, I would not get the chance.”
John just nodded, relegating himself to silence to give the other man space to gather himself.
“I think I love you.”
Fuckin’ hell, that was not what Price had expected. He opened his mouth to speak, but upon no words coming out, shut it again.
Love was a word. A strong one, that Price took great care not to use freely. He loved splitting whiskey late at night in his office, he loved cigars that cost triple his annual income, he loved walks through fields when nobody was around to question how close he was stood to his friend. He loved never having to watch his back, because he knew someone who would always be at it.
He loved the faint smell of cologne, actual cologne, of sandalwood and pine, faintly entwined with motor oil. He loved knowing he was safe when his name was spoken, because the way the ‘J’ rolled in Nikolai’s—
Price broke himself out from his train of thought, to see Nikolai still watching him nervously.
“…I do not mind if you do not return my feelings. Just do not leave me to wait any—“
Arms slung around his neck as John practically threw himself towards the other man.
“…always you, Nik, always fuckin’ you, nobody else. Couldn’t ever be, Christ, Nik, can— can I kiss you?”
John moved slightly back, giving him the space he needed to nod and lean forwards just enough for their lips to brush.
“Da.”
It was John who closed the gap, pulling Nik down just enough to connect them together. He brought his unbroken hand to gently stroke John’s jaw, hand pushing through his beard. He let himself savour the view of John’s eyes so close to his own. He closed his eyes in order to commit the sight to memory. John shuffled closer to him, and he soon felt a second hand also at the back of his head.
John’s lips were soft, and the feeling of them moving against his own finally, after so long, was enough to make him pull away just enough to gasp out “John, moya dorogoy, never leave.”
He pulled John back closer to him after another moment, this time just to hold him tight to his chest. His back was against the wall, and his arm squished between John and the booth’s plush back, but he couldn’t care less.
“I love you, Nik. Have done from the first day I met ya,” John mumbled into his shoulder. “I’ve always been yours. Always.”
Nikolai held him in silence, craning his neck to press another kiss to his crown.
