> i haven't written in a long time. it's good to be back.
× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141.
Part 1
Traitor.
That's what Price thinks as Simon and Soap drag you from the table, nearly choking on your food as they give you no time to understand what's going on.
Alarms ring in your ears as you force the piece of stale bread down your throat, trying to stand on your feet but they're taller than you, so your feet end up dangling, useless. You take a deep breath, your voice shaking as much as you are.
"What's going on? Is this some kind of sick joke?", you ask, looking at Simon, desperate to find an explanation for this other than the anger and torment in his eyes.
Simon doesn't answer. Nobody does. Soap's grip tightens, but he doesn't say anything, his expression hard.
No.
No.
You can tell they are not joking when you realize they're taking you downstairs. Sweat rolls down your face, fear creeping from the base of your neck to your toes, making you snap. You beg them to tell you what's going on, to explain why you're being dragged down there. You kick and struggle, a sob ripped deep from your chest as you start screaming, begging for a reaction. And then, pain.
Tears fill your eyes when it's Simon who hits your stomach with his fist, effectively shutting you up. You can smell the blood from past tortures mixed with bleach, and, distantly, the scent of forgotten wet rags. There's something salty in the air, and that's when you freeze, the pain in your stomach becoming nothing compared to the fear that grows in your chest.
They know you.
You've been with them for nine years. They know your fears.
"No. No. Please. Simon, Johnny— Please, please, please" you beg, sobbing as you can't do anything but go limp and heavy in their grip, doing the best you can to keep them from tying you to the chair. But it's useless.
Stars and colors dance behind your eyes as a fist connects with the side of your chin. You wonder if it would be better if they made you pass out right now. Maybe if you bite your tongue, it could—
"Gag her" Price tells them.
He's trained you for nine years.
He knows you.
You try to bite down on Johnny's fingers as he stuffs your mouth with an old rag, but it's difficult when your senses are unfocused after such a hard punch. The rag wet and disgusting, the scent and the taste making you sob again, shaking your head, your eyes big as you look at Simon.
Please.
Then a wet rag is pressed to your face. You inhale sharply as cold buckets of salty water are dropped right on your face, the cloth making it impossible for you to breathe. Salty water fills your lungs, making you choke and cough around the gagging rag.
You can hear questions, accusations, but you're paralized with fear, with pain and grief.
Grief.
They've been your friends, your family for so long. It's impossible to tell if you'll live through this. It's impossible for you to think of them as anything but monsters.
You know they usually did this with traitors, with enemies when it was necessary.
And you know they never enjoy it.
You've scolded Simon for smoking so late at night, you've had so many drinks next to him when he can't even speak. Simon often flinches awake from nightmares, startling you and then sharing quiet nights side to side.
You know this.
But then Simon hits your face again, taking the rag out of your mouth, and you can't find the love you have for him. It's expelled from your body with each hard cough, with each drop of blood falling from your nose.
"Did you not hear me?" Price demands, his arms crossed. "I'll ask one more time, then."
Smack.
Your chest is heaving, the fear so paralizing you can't even feel each punch as much as you should.
"What did you tell them?" Price continues, not looking one bit anxious for you to answer. He stands in front of you, his feet dry despite the salt burning your lungs.
"I don't know what you're talking about" you manage, looking up at Price, your eyes wide and bloodshot.
With a hard yank on your hair until your head is thrown back again, you're gagged once more, and the rag is pressed to your face. The salty water keeps on filling your lungs, unable to breathe, unable to cough around the gag.
You can't say anything. You truly don't know shit.
Hours later, when it becomes clear you won't speak, Price kicks you across the chest, hard, and the chair flips back.
You're tied up to the chair, exhausted and wet, your lungs burning with salt.
Memories of you as a child, nearly drown to death by your cousins, fill your mind. It had been a good day, until it wasn't.
Simon had held you when you told him, kissed you, and tucked you in for a good night sleep.
Johnny managed to make you crackle when you told him, patting your head, and saying your cousin had awful skills.
Now, there's nothing. Nothing but pain, and the burning in your lungs.
The hotel room felt too quiet for the night before a wedding.
No laughs, no drinks, no friends or bridesmaids… just you, sat cross-legged on the bed. The veil is still in its protective wrapping beside you, and you kept staring at your phone like it might suddenly light up with his name. It had been almost an hour since you’d last heard from him—just a short message, a joke, something about how he’d probably cry before you did tomorrow. Very Johnny. Very him.
And then… nothing.
You tried not to read into it. Tomorrow was a big day. Nerves were normal. You were nervous too—your stomach had been fluttering all evening, your thoughts drifting between excitement and a quiet, steady fear of everything changing.
But this silence felt different.
You sighed and dropped your phone onto the bed. “He’s fine..” you muttered to yourself. “He’s probably just with the guys.”
Still, your chest felt too tight.
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Across town, Johnny sat alone on the edge of his bed hotel bed, elbows resting on his knees, dog tags hanging loose from his fingers. He’d been turning them over and over for the past twenty minutes.
The faint clink of metal against metal filled the room, rhythmic and restless.
Tomorrow, he was supposed to marry you.
Tomorrow, he was supposed to stand in front of everyone—Price, Ghost, Gaz, your friends, your family—and promise you forever.
Forever.
His jaw tightened.
“Bloody hell…” he muttered under his breath.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled faintly of starch and cologne—the suit hanging neatly in the wardrobe, polished shoes lined up beneath it. Everything was ready.
Well..everything except him.
Because no matter how much he loved you—and God, he loved you more than anything—there was one truth he couldn’t outrun.
He couldn’t promise you he’d come back.
Not with the life he lived.
He’d seen too many soldiers not make it home. Too many folded flags. Too many quiet, devastating knocks on doors. He knew how it happened—quick, clean, impersonal. Sometimes there wasn’t even a body.
Sometimes, it was just the tags.
His grip tightened around the chain in his hand.
“Could be me..” he whispered.
The thought had always been there, lurking in the back of his mind. But tonight it felt louder. Sharper.
Real.
Tomorrow, he’d be tying you to that reality.
To the risk.
To the possibility that one day, someone else would stand where he stood now, rehearsing words to tell you he wasn’t coming home.
His stomach twisted.
“I can’t…” he murmured.
He sat up abruptly, running a hand over his mohawk, breathing uneven.
“I can’t do that to her.”
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Your phone buzzed.
You grabbed it immediately, heart leaping.
But it wasn’t him.
Just a message from one of your bridesmaids, something light and excited about tomorrow. You responded automatically, your mind elsewhere.
Then you paused.
Enough was enough.
You grabbed your jacket, slipped on your shoes, and headed out.
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He didn’t hear the knock at first.
He was pacing now, restless energy coiled in his muscles, mind running in circles he couldn’t break out of. Another knock—louder this time.
He froze.
“Johnny!” your voice called through the door.
His heart dropped.
“…shit.”
For a moment, he considered not answering. Pretending he wasn’t there. Buying himself time.
But that thought died almost instantly.
You were here.
Of course you were.
You always came when something was wrong.
He exhaled slowly and crossed the room, opening the door. You stood there, slightly out of breath, eyes searching his face.
“Hi..” you said softly.
He swallowed. “Hi, lass.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then you stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, closing the door behind you.
“What’s going on?” you asked.
Straight to the point. Always.
He tried to smile. “Nothin’. Just—uh—pre-wedding jitters, y’know?”
You didn’t buy it. Not for a second.
“John.”
The way you said his name—gentle, steady—made his chest ache. You stepped closer, reaching for his hand. His fingers tightened reflexively around the dog tags, and you noticed.Your gaze dropped to them, then back to him.
“…talk to me.”
He hesitated.
God, he didn’t want to ruin this night for you. Didn’t want to put this weight on your shoulders. But you were already here. Already looking at him like you saw right through him.
“…I shouldn’t marry you.” he said quietly.
The words hit the air like a gunshot.
You blinked. “What?”
He looked away, jaw clenched. “It’s not—this isn’t—” He exhaled sharply. “It’s not fair to you.”
“Not fair—?” you echoed, disbelief creeping into your voice. “Johnny, what are you talking about?”
He ran a hand over his face. “My job. My life. You know what it is, but—” He shook his head. “Knowin’ and livin’ it are two different things.”
“I am living it.” you said, a little more firmly now. “I’ve been living it since I fell in love with you.”
He flinched.
“That’s exactly it..” he said. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Silence stretched between you. Then you stepped closer again, your voice softer.
“Is this about you not coming back?”
His eyes snapped to yours.
Of course you understood.
Of course you did.
“…aye.” he admitted.
The word was barely audible.
You studied him for a moment, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the fear he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.
“You think marrying you makes that risk worse?” you asked.
“I think it makes it crueler.” he said bluntly.
The honesty stung—but not in the way he expected.
“Crueler.” you repeated.
He nodded, gaze dropping again. “If somethin’ happens… it’s not just your boyfriend who didn’t come home. It’s your husband. Your future. Everything we ever planned.”
His fingers tightened around the dog tags again.
“I’ve seen it..” he continued quietly. “Seen what it does to people. The waiting. The not knowin’. The knock on the door…” His voice faltered. “I can’t put you through that.”
You let his words settle. Then you reached out, gently prying the dog tags from his grip.
He didn’t resist.
You held them between your fingers, the metal cool against your skin.
“Johnny..” you said softly, “look at me.”
He did.
And what he saw in your eyes wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t doubt.
It was something steady. Certain.
“You think not marrying you would spare me that pain?” you asked.
He frowned slightly. “It would—”
“No.” you interrupted gently. “It wouldn’t.”
He went quiet.
“If something happens to you…” you continued, your voice trembling just a little now, “it doesn’t matter what I am on paper. Girlfriend. Fiancée. Wife. It will still break me.”
His chest tightened.
“You don’t get to protect me from loving you,” you said. The words landed deep. You continued.
“I chose this.” you went on. “I chose you. All of you. The good, the terrifying, the uncertain.”
You placed the dog tags back in his hand, closing his fingers around them.
“And I would choose you again. Tomorrow. Next week. Every time.”
He stared at your joined hands, swallowing hard.
“I know what your job means..” you said. “I know there’s a risk you won’t come back. That thought already keeps me up at night sometimes.”
His shoulders tensed.
“But loving you anyway?” you added softly. “That’s not a burden. It’s a privilege.”
He shook his head slightly, overwhelmed. “You shouldn’t have to be that strong.”
“I don’t have to be..” you said. “I want to be.”
Silence fell again, heavier this time—but not empty.
This time, it was full.
“You think you’re sparing me pain.” you said quietly. “But all you’d really be doing is taking away the time we do have.”
That hit him.
“I don’t want ‘safe’ if it means I don’t get you.” you said. “I don’t want ‘less pain’ if it means less love.”
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.
“I want you, Johnny..however long I get you.”
He stepped forward suddenly, pulling you into his arms.You held onto him just as tightly.
“I’m scared..” he admitted into your hair.
“I know.” you whispered.
“I don’t want to leave you.” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t want you gettin’ that call someday.”
Your grip tightened. “I don’t want that either.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face.
“But if it ever happens..” you said softly, “I want to have been your wife. Not the person who almost was.”
His eyes searched yours, raw and uncertain.
“…you’re sure?” he asked.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Something in him finally settled. Not the fear—that would probably never fully go away. But the doubt. The belief that he was doing the wrong thing by loving you like this.
It eased just enough.
He exhaled slowly, resting his forehead against yours.
“God, I love you..” he murmured.
You smiled through your tears. “I love you too.”
He huffed softly. “Still might cry tomorrow.”
You laughed quietly. “Oh, absolutely. I’m counting on it.”
He smiled then—really smiled—for the first time all night.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Alright..” he said. “Tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow..” you echoed.
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The next morning felt like stepping into sunlight after a storm. There were still nerves—of course there were—but they were different now.
Lighter.
Excited.
You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing your dress with slightly shaky hands as your bridesmaids fluttered around you.
“You look incredible..” one of them said.
You smiled, barely hearing them.
Your mind was somewhere else.
With him.
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Soap stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back, trying—and failing—to look calm. Price stood beside him, arms crossed, watching him with a knowing expression.
“Cold feet sorted, then?” Price murmured under his breath.
Soap glanced at him, then nodded slightly.
“…aye.”
Price gave a small, approving nod. “Good.”
Ghost and Gaz stood nearby, both unusually quiet—but present.
Steady.
Soap took a slow breath.
Then the music started.
And everything else faded.
When you appeared at the end of the aisle, his breath caught. He’d seen you in a hundred different ways before—laughing, tired, messy, glowing.
But this?
This was something else entirely. For a moment, the world narrowed to just you.
Walking toward him.
Choosing him.
Again.
And suddenly, all the fear from the night before felt smaller.
Not gone.
But quieter.
Because this—this moment—was real.
And it was his.
By the time you reached him, his eyes were already suspiciously bright. You smiled softly.
“Told you..” you whispered.
He let out a shaky laugh. “Shut it.”
The ceremony passed in a blur of words and promises—but when it came time for vows, everything sharpened again.
Soap took your hands in his, steadying himself.
“I don’t know what the future looks like.” he began honestly. “Can’t promise it’ll be easy. Or long. Or safe.”
A few people shifted at the bluntness—but you didn’t. You just watched him.
“But I can promise you this..” he continued. “Every day I get with you, I’ll give you everything I’ve got. Every bit of love, every bit of fight, every bit of me.”
Your eyes filled with tears.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” he said. “And if I’m lucky enough to spend the rest of my life with you… I’ll consider that the greatest mission I’ve ever been given.”
Your voice trembled when it was your turn—but it didn’t break.
“I don’t need guarantees.” you said. “I just need you.”
His grip tightened on your hands.
“And however long we get.” you continued, “it will always be worth it.”
When the officiant finally said, “You may kiss the bride.” Soap didn’t hesitate.
He pulled you in, kissing you like he needed to prove—to himself, to the world—that this was real. That you were real. That this life, however uncertain, was his.
And for the first time since the night before, he didn’t feel like he was risking everything.
cw: cheating trope (physical and emotional) + angst, mentions of threatening with a pew pew, fed up!reader
felt rage listening to the new sabrina carpenter album and this is the result :) i feel angsty some days and i'm reminded of my many shitty ex partners who cheated !! so consider this.. a vent :P
is in touch with his emotions >> gaz.
it was in the middle of the night, your fiancé was sleeping next to you and well. it was supposed to be an innocent peek at his phone. you noticed his demeanor, it was only a small change but he's always been easy to read. you felt it. something's wrong.
it didn't take long for you to find the emotional affair in kyle's phone. as you scroll through his phone on your side of the bed, you felt tears slip down your face as you read through.. well, a coworker he had. kyle's little emotional affair was with the medic in his platoon. they were sweet, loving, and somehow, unaware that you existed. you look down at the ring on your finger.
kyle had proposed to you about a month ago, it was all fucking romantic. dinner at your favorite restaurant, led you to the botannical garde nearby, and popped the ring. it was gorgeous, a simple round cut diamond with a silver band. he had a matching band to match.
so much for that.
you found yourself scrolling through pictures as well, finding that this affair had been going on for 10 months. gritting your teeth, you push yourself out of the bed. you couldn't stomach being right next to him. your feet padded across the room, your palms wiping the tears that continously streamed down your cheeks.
normally, you're not.. this angry. easily consolable.. but you find yourself looking at the photos over the past couple of years. 2 years together. suddenly, you find yourself crumpled on the couch and sobbing. the door creaks, you feel hands on you and a whisper of 'you okay, darling?'
you don't take kindly to that, shoving kyle away from you. "don't fucking touch me, kyle. i don't want shit to do with you, cheating asshole." you gasp out, wiping your tears. silence.
"lovie.. i.. it doesn't mean anything.. we're just.. we're just coworkers-" kyle attempts to explain himself, grasping your wrist before you choke out a sob.
"i don't want to fucking hear it, garrick!" you snap, pulling it away. "10 months? i can't believe you.." you cry, slipping the ring off and slamming it on the table. "give it to them instead, we're fucking done, kyle!" you rise from the couch, clamoring up the stairs. you slip into your shared bedroom, slamming and locking the bedroom door.
you hear a loud 'FUCK!' from downstairs and the front door slamming.
won’t touch me with a 20 foot pole >> ghost.
the sight in front of you actually sent pain shooting through your fucking chest. the threat of vomitting right then and there was.. tempting. nothing could prepare you to see your husband, simon, pinning his teammate up against the wall, lips pressed to their neck and well. his teammate was moaning his name. not lieutenant, not ghost.
simon.
they hadn't noticed you then but that's.. fuck, you felt sick. you wanted to fucking sob. in your hands was a glass tupperware, it was just something you had made him for lunch. it was as simple as that.
you.. literally came here to drop off the lunch. the lunch you had made him. because he's your goddamn husband and you just wanted to see him eat fucking well. questions swarmed your head. how long? why'd you have to catch them? you thought you fucking knew him. you thought you had married right.
clearly, you were fucking wrong.
being civil about it wasn't how you wanted to go. you sure as fuck weren't taking the moral high road for your cheating ass husband. raising the luncbox above your head, you throw it on the ground. it cracked and shattered all over the ground, the food spilling everywhere. it was fucking fish and chips, his favorite. you look down at it, realizing there were tears
this startled them both and god, it was like simon had seen a ghost. in another moment, that would have made you giggle. but definitely not now. turning on your heels, you find yourself running to the car and hearing footsteps follow you. "birdy! fuck- lovie, wait!" simon calls out to you but you refuse to turn around.
making it to the car, you fumble for your keys but find your wrist pulled and your body facing your husband. "bird, you need to understand that i-"
he didn't get to finish as he felt your hand connect to his clothed cheek. it was less pain, more so the knowledge you were pissed. you breathe hard, lowering the hand you slapped him with.
"don't fucking touch me, ghost." you unlock your car and fuck, simon hadn't heard you call him that since you first met over four years ago. you look up at him and his heart crumbles at the sight of your tears. "do not fucking come back, your shit is going to be out by the flat. we are done." you state coldly, slipping in your car and pulling it in reverse to get the fuck out of there.
you refuse to look at him directly. unfortunately, you catch a glimpse of him on his knees, his shoulders shaking. you recognize that, simon is crying.
or maybe, that was just the car vibrating from the gravel.
has forgotten his devotion >> soap.
“johnny, are you-“ you pinch the bridge in between your eyebrows. “are you bloody serious, mate?” you mumble in disbelief as you see a pair of fucking heels by his combat boots. it was your goddamn apartment. the audacity.
on your first anniversary too. you were in absolute fucking disbelief as you clamor up the stairs, not really being quiet about it. slamming the door open, there he is, balls deep inside another woman.
johnny turns to see you, his face flushed and sweat dripping down his face. the woman in your bed was everything you thought you weren't and man, you knew you were fucking insecure but this was another level.
"wait, bon, this isn't what-" johnny starts before you pick up the clothes on the floor. you look up at them both before sighing. "get the fuck out of my apartment before i call the fucking cops, mactavish." you state, throwing the clothes at the two. your hand slipped into your pocket to grab your phone.
"wait, you cannae be serious, bon?" johnny has the audacity to sound offended, pulling out of the woman as she let out a whine. "it just happened, ya know yer my only one, yeah?" he begs, a little too well as he slipped his pants on.
as much as you wanted him, wanted to take him back, affair be damned, you had a little more dignity than that. you had to.
you begin to hold your phone up to your ear, looking at him with tears welling your eyes. no fucking way you're crying in front of this man. "get the fuck out, johnny." you turn to the lady who is slipping on the pretty red dress. "we're done. i'm calling the cops." you mumble, trying to avoid the hurt stare he gives you. johnny says nothing, taking the girl's hand and leading her out.
as you hear the door shut, you feel yourself crumble. no cops were called, you felt a sense of pride for that bluff.
but man. johnny really forgot all about you like that.
on his willpower is something i don’t understand >> price.
after a long damn day, you finally put your newborn baby in the crib. hours of holding your baby girl, soleil, you couldn't help but let out a sigh as you watched your daughter slumber. she was growing so goddamn fast and man, you were so happy to get to see her growth in real time.
unfortunately, her dad, john price, was missing every single goddamn thing that was happening to her. each babble, each giggle, each cry, he was missing it all. john always claims work, is always out late. the whole goddamn works. he says he's out in the pub but on some days, he comes smelling more like another person rather than alcohol.
today was one of those days. except for he didn't bring home the smell. he brought home the girl. as you clamor down the stairs, you hear the front door open and low and behold.
your daughter's dad. your husband. with some fucking woman leaving red lipstick marks all over his face. price had this woman pinned to the door, lifting her leg and grinding into her clothed groin.
y'know, you would cry if you could. you would be fucking devastated.
but god, did this man have the audacity. it was a shame that he taught you how to cock a gun because man, you really used that to your advantage. grabbing the shotgun that was propped up on the wall like a damn trophy, you cock it and the noise causes both figures to perk up. the woman is pale and price is no fucking better. he's immediately stammering, letting go of the woman.
"doll, put the gun down, i.. we didn't-" and fuck, you couldn't help but roll your eyes, letting your angry tears roll down your cheeks. you point the gun at him. "fuck, doll, put that shit away! i didn't know you were awake!" he stated defensively, holding his hands up.
"so that made it okay? it was fine if i was asleep?" you hiss, looking at the woman then back at him. "get the fuck out, johnathan. i don't want you here." you mumble coldly, still aiming the shotgun in his face, inching closer.
"what about- fuck, doll, what about sol?" price sounds scared, concerned, and.. regretful. you laugh, shaking your head. "keep my daughter's name out of my mouth and get out before i blow your fucking heads off." you threaten and goddamnit, you were close to doing it.
price stays silent before opening the door, letting his fucking mistress out and turning to you. "doll, please, i'm sorry, please just-"
"get the FUCK out, johnathan." you were suddenly up close, pressing the barrel close to his chin. you slam the door, locking the knob and the deadbolt.
there, you fell apart. you sobbed, putting the shotgun back on the wall like some goddamn deer head. all you do is sit there at the bottom of the stairs, your head in your hands and your heart all over your favorite fucking entrance rug.
I unfortunately do think Soap would get lost in a relationship.
He’s so outgoing, so loving, so giving— he’s not the oldest of his six siblings, but the only boy, a prime middle child. He’s selfless, always willing to drop hanging out with friends to pick up his younger sisters, help with a project, play tea party, beat up a prick that tries to overstep with his older sisters even when they were bigger than him.
And when he got older, he yearned to be his own star. Make a name for himself, and he did, became a sergeant, got in special forces, coukd make just about anyone laugh even when they were in the thick of it and inches away from dying.
It’s just, in relationships— the romantic kind— Maybe he’s too selfless.
Used to giving 80 and his partner giving 20. Doing any and everything to make his partner feel wanted, putting them on a pedestal even when they didn’t deserve it, but still getting left behind. Being an after thought. Johnny is the type to change and change and change himself again to fit a mold for his partner knowing he won’t fit. Knowing his heart won’t be able to take it in the end. The man would drop his friends and family to be with the person he loves the most, even when he’s with the most despicable person on earth, he wouldn’t realize it. Soap could see the light in them, try to carve it out and show off how beautiful it is. But sometimes, the spark just isn’t there. Sometimes you don’t see light in a dark cave, your eyes are just desperate for something to shine.
And hes used to being an after thought, hes the middle child for gods sake. He couldn’t wear his sisters hand me downs, but still had to wait too long to buy clothes that fit proper. Parents accidentally missed events to go to his sisters. And Johnny understood, he took it. He always took the pain and held it.
But shouldn’t you be able to lean on someone in relationships?
He kept at it, hopeful his time would come, going through the motions of multiple relationships and still being put last. Still not fitting in his own love life. He hated it.
And maybe it did took a bullet to the head for Johnny to realize that he had to be his authentic self for anything to work out for him. His ex not showing up to the hospital, not even when he was in a coma, the endless days looking out the large window with the beautiful view of the countryside.
But you, darling you, fell in Johnny’s lap right from heaven. In physical therapy due to a car accident. Laughing at him where he stood, right after you fell to the floor after losing your footing.
“Fucks funny?”
“You.” You laugh again, propping yourself up on your arms, “Who are you doin all this for? Other people or yourself? Pushin yourself so damn hard to ‘hurry up ‘nd get better’ instead of takin your much needed time. Be easy on yourself.”
And it’s maybe the first time Johnny’s been told to treat himself with proper care. Be the center of his own life for once.
He was hesitant at first, still pushing, ended up overdoing it, and you came to his room, snacks in your lap, that ‘I-told-you-so’ gloating face on. Didn’t even have time to say anything, Johnny simply snatched the chocolate crunch bar he knew was for him and grumpily ate it while you giggled away.
You were someone who noticed every little detail, more than Simon.
That Johnny would flinch but still unconsciously touch his gunshot wound. How he’d say he was going to read, but end up looking at the landscape of the hospital most of the time. That he had big laugh that sounded like a howl, eyes the could get so filled with joy it could make any passerbyer happy. How his hair got longer and longer, down to his neck.
And when you brushed his hair back to see his face, his ears turned beat red, letting out a nevous laugh as he limped off, mumbling a ‘bloody hell’
He was scared, more than anything, to try again. Scared that he’d end up being the same he once was, with you. Scared of what the future had for him outside of recovery.
You can see the hesitation, the instances you brush fingers, or stare at each other too long, how you somehow always end up closer than intended to.
“Bon, ‘s not tha I don’t care for ye—“
“-It’s just not time.” You interject. You shrug, “That’s okay. I’m riding the wave just fine.”
But it hurt, stung a little more when you were the one leaving out the hospital first. Only coming back for twice a month therapy.
Johnny learned to stand on two feet, metaphorically and literally.
You can’t move until you’re comfortable being alone with yourself.
Life got easier for him once he learned to take in the little moments, like joking with the kids who were in physical therapy, listening to the story’s the rest of the 141 had to tell him and finding enjoyment in them despite not being apart of the action, feeling the cool breeze of autumn on skin, cigarette between his fingers, sitting with the elderly also having a smoke break.
a/n: Lorde said “I made you god cause it was all, that I knew how to do. But I don’t beloooooong to anyyyyyonnnnnee.” Sorry about the random cut off, I didn’t know how to end this but I wanted it out my drafts.
It’s a bad mission up in the mountains in Spring. You and the team were trekking through the tall grass and inclined hillsides before shots were being fired. Everyone was scrambling for protection or a counter that you all lost each other.
You’re now sprinting through the lushness of tree branches and weeds. The shots sound farther away now which calls your heartbeat a little. So now you’re trying the comms to see where everyone ran off to in the chaos. “Cap? Can you hear me? LT! You there?” The response you get is silence. Now your heartbeat is back to running its marathon.
You try the next best thing and track them. While searching the area for clues, you didn’t notice the eyes in the bushes. Suddenly everything goes black and you’re back in the living room in between Johnny and Kyle on the couch. That felt like a really bad dream just now. You shake it off and relax enjoying the moment with them. Your chest feels inexplicably warm while your breathing pattern is slower.
Meanwhile, Johnny’s feet are hitting the ground hard as he sprints towards the sound of a gunshot and your scream. Branches and leaves are smacking him in the face and tugging on his gear. Kyle can barely keep up with Johnny’s pace but stays right on his tail. The sight is gut-wrenching for both of them.
Chest red and ripped open by a bullet as you lay on your back. There’s a gentle stream right next to you carrying some of your blood off to a place they won’t find. Butterflies flying all around you marveling at the sight. The sun shines down on you as if knowing your body is getting cold.
Even now, Johnny still thought you looked beautiful.
!How I imagine each TF141 member reacting when they catch you mid-change.
John Price (Captain Price)
You're mid-change from your date night clothes to pajamas. You don’t even hear him come in at first.
You just feel it—that familiar drop in your stomach when you realize you’re bare, seen, wrong somehow. Your body reacts before your mind does, turning away, shoulders curling inward.
He clocks it immediately.
You’re turned half away, bare without realizing it, already stiffening like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. He sees the way your shoulders creep up—defensive. Expectant.
“Easy,” he says, instinctive. Low. Grounding. Like he’s talking someone down from the edge.
You start to reach for your clothes anyway.
“Hey.” One word, firm enough to stop you. Not sharp. Just… steady.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t make a thing of it.
“You’re alright,” he adds, quieter now. Certain.
Not flattery. Not reassurance. A fact.
He steps closer, giving you time, always time.
Now in front of you, his hand settles at your side—warm, solid—like it’s always known where it belongs.
“I won’t have you thinkin’ you need permission to exist,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Not in my presence.”
His thumb brushes once, absentminded. Protective.
And for the first time, you don’t feel inspected.
You feel safe.
Johnny Mactavish (Soap)
You’re changing—positive you locked the door to keep unwanted visitors out.
A certain Johnny MacTavish, specifically.
Your back is to the door, humming softly to yourself, relaxed. Then—
A creak.
You stop mid-note.
Soap sees you—and grins.
It’s immediate. Soft. The kind that sneaks onto his face before he can stop it, like his body reacts faster than his brain.
“Oh,” he breathes, the word slipping out like an accident.
Heat crawls up your neck. You freeze, instinct kicking in, already scrambling for shame you didn’t mean to feel.
“Hey—hey,” he says quickly, stepping closer. His hands come up at once, gentle, cupping your face like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” you ask, even as your hands start to move, trying to cover yourself.
“Hide.”
The grin softens, fades into something earnest. Fond. “Christ,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “You’ve no idea how good you look when you’re not tryin’.”
His eyes move over you openly—appreciative, unashamed. Not searching for flaws. Not measuring. Like there’s nothing to critique, nothing to fix.
“You ken that, right?” he adds quietly, forehead resting against yours. “There’s not a damn thing about you I’d change.”
When he kisses you, it’s warm. Unhurried. There’s a smile in it, still—like loving you is the easiest thing he’s ever done.
Simon Riley (Ghost)
You think, I’ll just change real quick before Simon gets out of the shower.
Big mistake.
You’re halfway undressed, reaching for your underwear, when the bathroom door opens. Steam spills into the room—then Simon steps out, towel slung low around his hips, skin still damp.
He goes still.
Not because he’s uncomfortable—but because he’s stunned.
His breath catches, sharp and quiet, like something punched the air from his lungs. You see his jaw tighten, eyes darkening as they settle on you.
He doesn’t look away.
Doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t pretend.
His gaze is heavy. Intent. Like he’s taking you in and filing the moment somewhere deep and permanent.
“…Christ,” he mutters.
Heat floods your chest. Instinct kicks in. You move to cover yourself.
His hand comes up—not to stop you, but to steady you. Fingers warm against your wrist. Grounding.
“No,” he says, voice low, rough with something dangerously close to reverence. “Don’t.”
He steps closer, forehead resting briefly against yours, like he needs the contact to stay steady.
“You have any idea,” he murmurs, barely audible, “how hard it is not to worship you right now?”
The word hits harder than any compliment.
And when Ghost looks at you, there’s no shame left in the room at all.
Kyle Garrick (Gaz)
You’re on the bed in your bra and panties, waiting for the iron to heat up so you can do your hair.
Kyle walks in mid-sentence, already talking—
—and stops.
Not freezing. Not recoiling.
Just blinking, like his brain needs a second to catch up with what it’s seeing.
“Damn,” he says quietly. Honest. Like the word slipped out before he could stop it.
You flinch anyway. Old reflex. Your hands come up, half-formed apology already tightening in your chest.
“Hey—no,” he says immediately, crossing the room in two easy steps. “What are you doin’?”
You hesitate. “I—”
He gently catches your wrists, thumbs brushing over your pulse. Not stopping you so much as grounding you.
“Don’t hide,” he says, softer now. Not a command. A request. “I like seein’ you.”
The way he looks at you isn’t heavy or evaluative. It’s open. Curious. Warm. Like he’s enjoying the moment instead of bracing for it.
“You ever catch yourself forgettin’ how good you look when you’re just… existin’?” he adds with a quiet laugh. “’Cause I don’t.”
His hands settle at your hips naturally, like muscle memory. Thumbs press in with easy familiarity—no hesitation, no careful distance. Just comfort.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, affectionate and proud, like it’s the simplest truth he knows.
When he kisses you, it’s unhurried, smiling into it, like he’s got nowhere else to be and nothing else on his mind.
You don’t rush to cover yourself.
You don’t brace.
You just stand there, breathing, letting yourself be wanted without question.
You weren't going to be the one to fix him this time around. No use in playing the martyr, and you sure as hell weren't going to walk back into that kitchen with an ice pack and an apology for an argument you didn't start. If John MacTavish wanted an audience instead of a partner, he could sit in that empty, echoing house and applaud his own isolation until the sun came out.
[12k] hurt/comfort, angst, mental breakdown, a pint with the homies as therapy, apology in form of attempted cooking, explicit sexual content. ive been moving my house for the past fucking century so he is so valid in my head idc also this probably makes no sense on some parts. bear with me im exhausted. ily. ALSO BEAR WITH THE ATTEMPTED SCOTTISH english is not my first language AT ALL
The packing tape tore with a loud, violent screech that echoed off the bare walls of the old apartment.
For the last four days, Johnny MacTavish had been a one-man demolition and construction crew —even though the movers told him over and over that they got it, he needs to conserve this energy for actually settling in— operating at a volume that was starting to make your teeth vibrate.
He’d been performing, hard. Every roll of bubble wrap was a microphone for a terrible dad joke, every stack of plastic bins was an excuse to do a booming, theatrical impression of Price lecturing a recruit. He was currently wearing a backward baseball cap, a grease stained gray t-shirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders, and a manic, wide-eyed grin that didn’t quite reach his bloodshot eyes.
“Right then! That’s the kitchen sorted, sunshine,” he barked, his voice entirely too loud for the empty room as he folded the empty cardboard box flat, setting it aside. He swung a black marker around his finger like a sidearm, winking at you. “Unless you have any more o’ those tiny, useless decorative plates in some other box. Hazard, those are. Proper lethal if they fall.”
You didn’t laugh. You couldn’t. Despite knowing damn well that Johnny just had to be the funniest person you’d ever met, you couldn’t have it in you right now. You just leaned against the doorframe, watching him slice the tape on top of another box with a pocketknife, his movements frantic and jittery.
He’s crashing, you thought, a familiar, heavy knot tightening in your chest. He’s running on absolute fumes and he thinks I can’t see it.
You knew the math. You’d been lying awake beside him for the past four nights, listening to the agonizingly slow shift of his weight as he stared up at the ceiling all night, breathing shallow and tight. You’d felt the heat radiating off his lower back— the tight, iron-hard knot of muscle he’d been nursing since the last drop zone, but every time your hand had drifted down to soothe it in the dark, he’d subtly rolled away, changing the subject with a sleepy chuckle or a lazy kiss.
He didn’t want to be coddled. He didn’t want his partner looking at him like he was faulty. So instead, he’d turned the stress of moving into a three-ring circus, hoisting three heavy moving boxes at once, sprinting down the stairs, and cracking jokes until his voice was hoarse.
He was trying to outrun his own body.
Johnny grabbed the edge of a massive, double-walled cardboard box sitting near the doorway then. It was packed to the absolute brim with books you both adored, and you knew it must’ve weighed about a ton.
“Johnny, leave that one,” you said, voice dropping into a firm register, stepping forward to intercept him. “Seriously. It’s too heavy for one go. We’ll split the books into smaller loads and carry into the bookcase like that.”
Johnny scoffed, a loud, theatrical sound that bounced off the empty walls. He dropped his hands to his hips, chest puffing as he exaggeratedly flexed his biceps, his thick Scottish cadence dripping with faux offence. “What, think the big bad Scot cannae handle a wee bit of paper? Come off it, hen, I carry sixty pounds of kit through the week.”
Before you could grab his arm to stop him, he bent at the waist, dug his fingers beneath the cardboard flaps, and hoisted.
He got the box three inches off the floor.
Then, a sharp, audible hitch caught in the back of Johnny’s throat— a sound so small and broken that it made your blood run cold. The box slipped from his fingers, crashing back onto the floor with a heavy thud that shook the floorboards. Johnny didn’t straighten up. He didn’t yell either, no, none of that— he just froze, stuck in an awkward, half-bent position, his large hands instantly flying out to grip the sturdy edge of the open plan kitchen's counter just to keep his knees from buckling under his own mass.
The color drained from his face in an instant flash, leaving him stark white beneath his tan. A microscopic tremor got to his thighs, tracing up his rigid spine as the spasm pinned him to the spot like a rusted vice.
"Johnny?" you rushed forward, the casual domesticity of the afternoon evaporating into panic as you reached out to him. "Talk to me, don't move."
The moment your hands brushed through the hot, sweat-slicked skin of his shoulders to stabilize him, something dark and volatile snapped inside him.
"Don't touch me," Johnny snarled, his voice a raw, vicious bark that cut through the quiet room like a blade. With a jerky heave of his upper body, he aggressively wrenched his shoulder away from your grip, knuckles whitening around the edge of the counter as he practically shoved you back. "Just— fuckin' back off!"
The sheer, toxic humiliation bleeding from his eyes was blinding. He was breathing in short, whistling gasps through his nose, jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck looked about ready to snap, entirely mortified that he'd broken down right in front of you.
You stumbled back half a step, the force of his snarl hitting you backwards. The big, empty space suddenly felt suffocatingly small, the echo of the drop of that box feeling close and concrete enough to touch.
"Shove me like that again and watch what happens, Johnny," you snapped, the panic in your chest curdling into a defensive spike of adrenaline. You held your hands up, fingers trembling a bit, though your stance hardened under his gaze. "Stop being an ass for five seconds and let me help you!"
"I don't need your bloody help!" he shot back, his voice rising into a jagged roar that sounded completely unhinged in the bare room. He didn't move an inch —he couldn't, really— but his fingers dug harder into the marble counter. His face was distorted with a twisted mix of agony and sheer, unadulterated shame. "You think I'm some pathetic old dog you need to keep a leash on? Constantly on my arse, hovering, always watching my damn back like I’d die otherwise!"
"Because you're acting like a fucking idiot!" you yelled, stepping right back into his space, refusing to let him intimidate you with the Sergeant persona. The frustration of all those sleepless nights finally boiled over, tearing past your throat before you could stop it. "You think you're so clever, huh, Johnny? You think I don't hear you tossing and turning at night? Don't see the pathetic little show you put on because your fucking ego is too fragile to admit you're in pain? It's exhausting!"
Johnny's eyes widened, a flash of pure betrayal cutting through the blown-out black of his pupils. He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Exhausting? Oh, I'm so sorry to trouble you, luv! Sorry my fragile ego is such a burden on your pretty wee life!" the sarcasm bled from his teeth like battery acid. He tilted his chin up, straightened up a little, jaw shaking with the effort to keep his voice steady. "If I'm such a drain, why the fuck did you even pack your shite? Nobody forced you into this house. Nobody asked you to play the bleeding-heart martyr for a soldier who doesnae want your pity!"
"It isn't pity, you arrogant prick, it's a relationship!" you threw back, voice cracking, the venom in your words sharp enough to draw blood. "But clearly, you don't know the first fucking thing about that, do you? You don't want a partner, no no. You want a fucking audience! You just want someone to sit around and clap for the great Soap MacTavish while you slowly kill yourself to prove a point!"
"Shut your fucking mouth!" Johnny growled, entering a dangerous register that you'd only ever heard him use on a radio grid during a catastrophic op. He glared up at you, chest heaving in ragged gapes. "You dinnae ken shite about what I want. You want to talk points? You've been looking for a reason to call me broken since the day we got together. You're just terrified that if I'm no’ some charity case for you to fix, a fucking project, you won't have a single bloody clue what you're actually worth to me!"
The room went dead, agonizingly silent. The words hung in the space between you like a dropped pin, cutting straight through the core of every insecurity you've ever had.
The targeted cruelty of his words hit you square in the chest as your breath hitched. The anger that had been keeping your posture rigid suddenly drained out of you, leaving a cold, hollow ache behind your ribs. You just went quiet— a heavy stillness settling over your shoulders as you stepped back.
You looked at him. Really looked at him. At the grip he had on the counter, the bead of sweat rolling down his pale temple, the ugly sneer twisting his features.
"Is that what you really think?" your voice came out small, flat, completely stripped of a fire from a moment ago. It was the quietness of a person who has simply run out of ways to fight. "That I keep you as a project?”
Your sudden drop in volume didn't snap him out of it, rather, made the claustrophobia of his own humiliation worse. Johnny couldn't stand the way you were looking at him right now— like he was something to be pitied, something small. He needed to keep the fight loud. Needed to drive you away before the tears in his own eyes from the agony in his spine forced him to beg for your help.
"Dinnae give me that pathetic, quiet routine now!" he mocked, voice a breathless rasp as he struggled to keep his head up. "Fucking typical. The second you get called out on your shite, you play the silent victim. You've been looking down your nose at me for months! Acting like some high-and-mighty saint because you're the one who has tae patch up the big, dumb grunt!"
He let out a harsh, wet breath through his teeth, words spilling out with a desperate venom.
"You love it, don't you? Gives you a proper wee thrill to think the great Sergeant MacTavish cannae even lift a box of bloody books without his wife having to hold his hand. You're codependent, luv. You're so terrified of actually dealing with your own goddamn failures that you've made me, my health, my fucking mental your entire identity. It's fucking suffocating!" he growled. "A fucking parasite on my payroll, you are, hovering around like a vulture waiting for me to break so you can feel important once in your miserable life!"
He was completely out of breath, chest heaving violently, face flushed a dark, angry crimson now as he stared at you through his eyelashes. The words were monstrous. Complete lies, born entirely out of cornered animal instinct, but he'd thrown them anyway— right into the space of the new home you were supposed to build together.
The word parasite squeezed at your heart, but your expression didn't change. The silence that followed was total, swallowing up the last bits of the hyperactive performance Johnny had been putting on for days.
You looked at him for a long, unreadable second, watching the frantic, shallow rise and fall of his chest. A quiet realization settled deep into your core. It wasn't just that he was in pain, or that he was a stubborn arsehole— but when he felt small, he'd look at the person who loved him most and try to tear them down to match his level. He didn't want a partner right now, he didn't want you, his wife. He wanted to hurt you, because he couldn't hurt the spine that had just betrayed him.
"Okay." you said.
The voice didn't even sound like it belonged to you. It was entirely flat, devoid of anger, sorrow, or disappointment. Just blank acceptance. You turned on your heel, boots clicking quietly against the bare floorboards, and walked out of the kitchen. Picking up your car keys from the counter by the entryway, you stepped out into the humid afternoon air, and let the deadbolt click into place behind you with an agonizing finality.
Inside, the silence rushed back in to choke Johnny.
The adrenaline began to drain from his system as he managed to stand just a bit more upright, leaving only the white-hot reality of the pain he was in. The physical ache was nothing compared to the hollow thud in his stomach. The venomous words he'd just thrown at you began to echo off the blank walls, suddenly sounding louder, stupider, and infinitely more monstrous now that he was entirely alone in the house.
Parasite. Charity case. Miserable life.
"Fuck," he choked out, a raw sob catching in his throat. He closed his eyes, forehead dropping heavily against the cool wooden counter as the humiliation mutated into suffocating panic. He'd done it. He'd actually blown the whole thing apart because he was too much of a coward to say I'm hurting.
He couldn't stay here. The empty house felt like a mirror reflecting every ugly word he'd just thrown your way. He needed to get out, needed a distraction, a runaway from the weight of his own godpremiated ego before he completely lost his mind.
Johnny slid his hand down his pocket and pulled out his phone. His fingers were shaking so violently he almost dropped the device. Tapping the speed dial for the one person who wouldn't ask him a single emotional question, he brought the phone up to his ear.
The line clicked open after two short rings.
"Soap," Simon's deep, monotonous rumble came through the speaker.
"Simon," Johnny rasped, voice raw and stripped of its usual bouncing energy. He swallowed hard, clenching his eyes shut as a fresh spike of pain shot through his hip. "Need a lift. Get me oot the house."
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. Simon, despite wondering, didn't ask why Johnny's voice sounded cracked, or why he was calling from a house he was supposed to be settling into with his wife. He just heard the defensive strain in his breath and did the calculation instantly.
"Where are you?" Simon asked.
"New place. Kitchen," Johnny muttered. "Front door's gotta be unlocked. Just... come inside and get me. Don’ ask."
"Ten minutes. Stay put."
The line went dead. Johnny dropped the phone onto the counter next to his hand, staring blindly at the massive box of books sitting on the floor below him.
The ride to their usual pub was dead silent. Simon hadn't asked a single question when he hauled Johnny off the kitchen counter, mapping a steady arm around the Sargeant's torso to carry his locked weight out to his truck. He didn't ask why Johnny's face was tracked with dried sweat, or why his jaw was clamped so hard a muscle in his cheek was violently twitching.
When they pulled up to the pub, Simon slid the truck into the dim alley by the side entrance, keeping Johnny out of the neon glare of the main street.
Getting inside was a slow, agonizing march. Johnny hated every bloody second of it, hating the way his boots dragged on the ground, hating the way his locked lower back made him lean heavily into Simon's shoulder just to cross the threshold. The pub was low-lit, smelling of stale ale, wood varnish, and old tobacco— which was a familiar comfort that usually made Johnny slide straight into a good mood. It felt just like a cage tonight.
Simon steered him toward a secluded booth in the far corner and dropped Johnny into the cracked leather seat with careful leverage, ensuring his spine was supported against the high wooden back before sliding into the opposite side.
"Pint of heavy?" Simon rumbled, his deep voice cutting through the early evening crowd.
"Aye," Johnny croaked, eyes fixed firmly on the scratched grain of the table.
Simon signaled the bartender with a sharp tilt of his chin, and within minutes, two dark, frothing glasses of Tennent's were set between them. Johnny didn't waste a second. He reached out and took a massive, desperate gulp, letting the cold, bitter liquid burn down his throat to numb the sick ache expanding behind his ribs.
He wanted the beer to wash away the echo of his own voice. Parasite. The words were a loop in his head, each repetition making him feel physically nauseous.
The heavy front door of the pub swung open a little while later, the bell chiming loudly over the jukebox. Johnny didn't lift his head, but he heard the familiar ring of Kyle's laughter and the sharp, distinct scrape of Price's gait. The rest of the boys had arrived. Simon must've called them on the way to pick him up. Good thinking.
"Look at this," Gaz's voice bounced across the room as he approached the booth, a massive grin on his face, completely oblivious to the atmosphere between the two men already seated. "The moving crew got an early start without us. Where's the other half of the mortgage, Soap? Figure you two would be glued at the hip tonight."
Price slid into the booth next to Simon, heavy canvas jacket smelling faintly of cigar smoke and the damp air. He took one good look at Johnny —the ghostly paleness of his skin and the unnatural way he was sitting, well, also, the complete lack of mischief in his eyes— and the Captain's easygoing expression vanished instantly.
"Johnny," Price said and leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. "Where's your wife? And why do you look like a truck ran over you?"
Johnny's grip tightened around his pint until his knuckles went white, but he didn't answer. He couldn't even feel like lifting his glass to fake a sip. The silence radiating from him was so loud it instantly choked out the remaining laughter Gaz had brought in from the alley.
Gaz's smile faltered, his eyes darting from Johnny's hollow face to the rigid set of Simon's shoulders.
"What's going on?" Gaz murmured, the easy cadence vanishing as he slowly slid closer to Johnny in the booth, eyes locked to him. "Soap. Look at me, man. What happened?"
Johnny didn't look up. He couldn't face them. He was staring so hard at a knot in the dark oak table that his vision was starting to blur at the edges. The room felt like it was spinning, the low hum of the jukebox and the clinking of glasses in the background morphing into something suffocating.
"Back blew out," Simon rumbled from the shadows of his hoodie. "Spasm. Had to carry him out of the kitchen."
Price reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter, and tapped it against the wood while his eyes bore into Johnny's.
"Bloody idiot," Price muttered. "Told you to take a medical leave after the last drop. I told you specifically to let us handle the move. And now look at you."
"Am fine," Johnny hissed through his teeth, the words a raw, fractured lie that scraped past his throat like broken glass. He finally lifted his head, blue eyes bloodshot. "I jus’ need a drink, a'ight? No’ a lecture from the Captain on my off-hours."
"Where is she, Johnny?" Price intercepted, his tone turning cold. He didn't care about his pride right now, no, what he cared about was the wreckage he could smell on him. "She spent the last week packing your life into boxes. The second your back snaps, she's gone? Doesn't track."
"She walked," Johnny whispered, the venom suddenly draining out of him, leaving his voice small, hollow and broken. He looked down at his white knuckles, the image of your empty expression as you took your car keys flashing behind his eyelids. "I... I told her to get the fuck away from me. Called her a parasite. Told her she was using my health to make herself feel… important."
The booth went completely dead.
Gaz let out a low whistle, leaning back against the leather with a look of genuine shock. Johnny just wasn't the kind of man to do that. He just wasn't. For something like that to happen, Gaz thought, he must’ve been keeping shit bottled for some time. How didn’t I notice?
Simon looked down with a hum, yet, Price didn't blink. He stared straight at Johnny, expression hardening into something unreadable. He slowly slid his hands off the table, leaning back, voice dropping into a quieter register that made Johnny feel smaller than he ever had.
"You miserable, cowardly little bastard." Price said softly.
Johnny dropped his forehead into his hand, his fingers tangling into the short, damp sides of his fauxhawk, elbows resting on the table.
"I ken," he choked out. "Fucking hell, Price, I ken. The second it happened... the second pain hit and I couldnae move, I just... I saw red, man. Couldnae bear her looking at me broken. So I broke her instead, like a fucking idiot."
Gaz looked away then, the anger on Johnny's behalf melting into an awkward sort of sadness. Kyle knew how much Johnny loved you, the entire team did. He would never shut up about you, always talk about what little events and gifts he'd planned out for you for when he'd be back home, with a soft glint in his eyes that would make a stone-cold man jealous of the bond. Watching the Scot completely sabotage his own life out of pure, stubborn pride was painful to witness as a friend.
The ice in Price's eyes shifted. He'd seen a hundred good soldiers do the exact same thing— push away the people who cared about them because they didn't know how to carry their own vulnerability without a rifle in their hands.
"You've got a lot of fight in you, MacTavish," Price said. "But you're a bloody fool if you think real strength is hiding a busted spine from the person who shares your bed. I know her, not as much as you do but still, I'm sure she wasn't looking down on you, mate," he smiled softly then. "She's trying to keep you from destroying yourself, you know? You rewarded her by treating her like enemy collateral, so congratulations on that."
"Mm, yeah. Fuck-up of the decade," Kyle spoke with a soft, knowing grin on his lips, wanting to just calm Johnny down a bit. "But she loves you, no? She'd understand."
Johnny let out a fractured breath. "I dinnae even ken what to say to her. How do I even fix this? She’d this look on her face when she walked oot... didnae even yell at me. She just... left."
Simon finally shifted in the shadows next to Price, his bulk drawing the light as he leaned forward. "Don't say anything yet," Simon rumbled. "Fix the spine first. When I get you home, you take your meds. Words don't mean shit when you're still standing at ninety degrees."
Price and Gaz nodded at that, and the Captain reached over, tapping Johnny's white-knuckled hand until the Sergeant finally let go of the glass.
"Drink your pint, son," Price ordered softly, the edge of the commanding officer bleeding back into a paternal warmth. "Lie flat on the floor back home, let the ice pack do its work, and then wait until she's feeling ready to look at you again. Don't rush it. When she eventually does, you better have your mouth shut and your hands open."
The hum of the highway had long since faded into a dull white noise, dashboard clock glowing a steady 21:42 in the dark cabin of your car. You weren't necessarily driving to a hotel. Not back to the old, empty apartment either. Just... driving.
The steering wheel felt cold beneath your tight grip, knuckles slightly aching from how hard you'd been holding onto the leather for the last five miles.
The words from back in the kitchen didn't make you cry like you'd expected them to. They didn't make you want to scream or turn the car around to pack a solid punch against his jaw —which, well, unethical but deserved—. It all just made you feel completely, utterly hollow. It was the kind of heavy quietness that settles deep into your bones when you realize you've spent years of your life pouring your entire soul into a vessel that would rather leak than to let itself be filled. You had watched him. You had stayed awake with him. You had patched his bruises and stitched his cuts when he was too stubborn to let the med team do it. You had structured your entire life around his survival, only for him to look you in the eye and tell you it was all just a parasitic transaction.
How sad, that is. You really hadn't seen anything wrong with it until he turned it around, sharpened it, and poked around your heart with it.
With a slow exhale, you flicked the turn signal and pulled into the gravel lot of an all-night diner. You had half a mind to get a strong drink but you would actually need to drive back home —would you, even?— so as the neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a pink and blue bleed across the wet pavement, you killed the engine. The sudden absence of your car's vibration made the emptiness in your chest feel twice as heavy.
You didn't go inside, not yet. Just sat there in the dim cabin, resting your head back against the headrest, staring out the driver's side window as the light patter of rain started to smudge the city skyline.
Your hand drifted down to the passenger seat, fingers brushing against the cold metal of your house keys. You knew exactly what was happening back at that house. You knew Johnny's pride better than he knew anything about himself. Right now, he was either lying on that cold floor in agony, cursing his own name, or he had called the one person who would haul his broken arse out of the wreckage without saying much. He was running. He was hiding behind the Sergeant because the man you married was too terrified to look at the damage he'd just done.
You pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack on the dashboard, clicking your lighter until the small flame illuminated the pale lines of your face in the rearview mirror. You blew the smoke straight at the windshield, watching it curl and disappear into the dark.
You weren't going to be the one to fix him this time around. No use in playing the martyr, and you sure as hell weren't going to walk back into that kitchen with an ice pack and an apology for an argument you didn't start. If John MacTavish wanted an audience instead of a partner, he could sit in that empty, echoing house and applaud his own isolation until the sun came out.
You closed your eyes, letting the bitter taste of the tobacco settle on your tongue, waiting for the cold hum of the adrenaline to finally let you breathe.
You didn't want to think about him. You didn't want to think about the way his face looked when his pride curdled into something monstrous. But the silence in the car was an empty canvas, and your mind kept filling it with the exact trajectory of his evening.
By now, Simon would have reached him. There wouldn't have been an argument, Simon didn't possess the emotional currency to waste on Johnny sometimes. A bitter, humorless smile touched the corner of your lips in the dark. Let them patch him up. Let Price or whomever give him the lecture. You had spent years being the only buffer between John MacTavish and his own self-destructive pacing, and all it had earned you was an insult designed to strip away at your dignity.
Meanwhile, the heavy side door of the pub banged shut against the brick alleyway. Simon walked out first, heavy combat boots clicking with a heavy rhythm against the wet asphalt. Behind him, Johnny followed, his movement a hitching shuffle. His left hand was clamped over his lower back. He looked smaller now, the manic circus of the last few days completely crushed beneath the weight of the codeine pills Price had shoved down his throat before they left the booth.
"Get in," Simon rumbled as he opened the driver's door of the black pickup. Johnny climbed into the cab with a pathetic groan, feeling the pain in his spine as he lowered his body weight onto the worn fabric seat. He rested his head back against the glass, staring blankly out at the passing streetlights as Simon pulled out into the traffic. The alcohol was a dull, heavy thud in his veins, but it wasn't doing a damn thing to quiet the self-mockery in his head.
Parasite. Charity case.
"She won’t be there," Johnny whispered, his voice a broken rasp against the rumble of the tires. He didn't look at Simon as he said it. He just watched the rain start to streak across the side mirror. "I... I dinnae think she'll be coming back tonight, Si."
Simon didn't spare him a glance. He kept his eyes locked on the dark stretch of the highway ahead, his large hands steady on the wheel.
"Then sit in the dark and feel it," Simon said. "You wanted to be the only one carrying the weight, MacTavish. Enjoy the quiet. She'll be back."
"What if something happens to her? Like, she goes to a shady motel and I'm no’ there and then—"
"You severely underestimate how capable your wife is," a ghost of a chuckle passed through Simon's voice as he said it. "She's not stupid either. Being upset won't make her reckless. You just focus on what's ahead now."
You spent the night at a quiet, roadside motel. The room smelled faintly of industrial lavender and old carpets, an unfeeling space that didn't demand anything from you. You didn't catch much sleep, but for the first time in the better half of a week, you didn't have to listen to the frantic pacing of a man trying to outrun his own skin.
When the sun finally went down the following evening, you finally drove back.
The tires crunched quietly over the gravel driveway as you cut the engine, and you noticed how every single light in the house was blazing, casting long and sharp squares of yellow onto the dark lawn.
You unlocked the front door, expecting the silence of an empty fortress, instead, the moment the deadbolt clicked back, a wave of thick, acrid smoke and the overwhelming scent of burnt garlic hit you square in the face.
From the kitchen, there was a sudden, violent clatter of metal-- a heavy pan slamming against the stovetop, followed by a sharp intake of breath. You walked down the hallway and stopped at the threshold.
The kitchen was an absolute warzone. Johnny had tried to stage a comeback, apparently, and he had done it with the exact same aggressive overcompensation that had broken his back a day ago. The marble island was buried under an erratic mountain of pots, open cookbooks, spilled olive oil, and chopped vegetables that had rolled into the sink. It seemed like he'd attempted some massive multi-course culinary production which was of course a desperate and theatrical display to prove he could be a "normal", attentive partner who could handle domestic life.
And he had completely, utterly ruined it.
Johnny was standing by the stove, massive shoulders hunched, face flushed a dark crimson beneath a film of sweat. He was wearing an old apron over a clean t-shirt, but his movements were stiff, and the main course in the skillet was a blackened, smoking mass of ruin.
In his right hand, he was clumsily trying to wrap a piece of paper towel around his left index finger. The white paper was already blooming with a small, bright smear of crimson where the knife had slipped.
He didn't hear you step into the room as he was too busy staring at the smoking pan, breathing shallow, chest heaving. The pressure of the past week— the insomnia, the agony, the insults he'd hurled at you, and now this mess on the counter, they all finally converged into a single, crushing weight.
Johnny's hands suddenly went entirely limp. The paper towel dropped into the spilled oil on the counter. He let out a small, broken sound— a pathetic wheeze that sounded like all the air being kicked out of his lungs. His knees gave out. Moving with a stiff clumsiness, Johnny sat straight down onto the floor, back sliding flat against the front of the lower cabinets. He pulled his knees up to his chest, forearms resting on the caps as his head dropped into his hands.
The great Sergeant MacTavish was sitting in the middle of a ruined kitchen, defeated by a simple domestic task.
"Johnny," you whispered, the coldness in your chest fracturing a bit at the sight of him looking so thoroughly destroyed. He flinched at the sound of your voice but didn't look up. Couldn't. He kept his face buried in his palms, shoulders beginning to tremble as the first ugly sob tore out of his throat.
"I cannae do it," he choked out, voice cracking, thick with a sorrow that went far deeper than a simple burnt dinner. The blood from his cut finger had smeared blood against his temple, but he didn't seem to care. "Cannae fuckin' do it. I wanted... I wanted to build something. Show you I could be normal. That I could take care of a house. Take care of you."
He lifted his head just enough to look at you through bloodshot eyes.
"But I dinnae ken how to make anything," Johnny sobbed, the truth finally spilling out into the smoky air. "I look at a box of books and I break. I look at a kitchen and I burn it down. I look at the person I love more than life itself and I call her a parasite. I dinnae ken how to create a home, lass. I only ken how to destroy things. That's all I've ever been good for."
The anger that had kept you driving through the dark night, the cold indifference that had carried you through the motel to right here— it all evaporated the second you heard your husband's voice break. Seeing him like this, stripped entirely of the loud and charming and swaggering Sergeant persona was almost jarring. He looked painfully human, surrounded by the literal and figurative wreckage of trying too hard.
You crossed the path, boots carefully stepping over a stray piece of chopped celery and a splatter of olive oil.
Johnny flinched softly when you sat down right into the mess beside him, but he didn't move away this time. He just kept his face buried in his bloodied hands, massive frame shaking with those quiet sobs that sounded like they were tearing his throat on the way out. He really should let himself cry more often, you thought. He could get better at it.
"Hey," you whispered, voice gentle as you reached out. You didn't touch his back —you knew the muscles would still be a volatile trap— but you gently took a hold of his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. He let his hands fall. "Look at me, Johnny," you commanded softly, tilting your head until he was forced to meet your gaze. "Look at me."
"I ruined it," he rasped, tears cutting clean lines through his cheek. "I ruined the whole bloody thing. The house, the dinner... what you and I have. I dinnae ken how to be a husband oot here, hen. I look at a normal life and I jus’... handle it like a breach-and-clear. I break the hinges clean off."
"You didn't ruin what we have," you said, thumb reaching up to firmly wipe at the tears. You held his hand firmly between both of yours, trying your best to ground him a bit. "And you don't destroy everything. You're running on zero sleep, your back is probably shit, and you tried to cook a, what, four-course meal to apologize because you're too stubborn to just say I'm sorry, I was scared."
Johnny swallowed hard, jaw trembling as he stared at your intertwined hands. "I am," he whispered, the admission sounding entirely devoid of pride for once. "Am sorry. I'm so fuckin' sorry for all that I said. You're no’... you're the only thing keeping me anchored, luv. The thought of you looking at me and seeing a useless piece of shite... it made me feel like a ghost."
"I don't see that," you murmured, leaning forward until your forehead rested gently against his damp temple, letting him breathe in your proximity. "I see my stupid husband. And he needs an ice pack, a proper bandage on this finger, and a takeaway pizza."
A tiny, breathless sound escaped Johnny's lips— halfway between a sob and a wet laugh. He let his head drop onto your shoulder, his massive weight slumping against you in absolute surrender.
"Operational failure," he mumbled into your neck. "Think you can help the Sergeant off the deck, sunshine?"
"Only if you promise to not touch any boxes tomorrow," you said.
Johnny didn't scoff this time. He squeezed your hand, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles. "Aye," he breathed. "Whatever you say, boss."
After a few long minutes, Johnny's breathing finally leveled out. The trembling in his shoulder subsided into an exhausted shudder. He didn't lift his head from your shoulder straight away, seemingly content to just exist in the quiet safety of your space, hiding his face in the crook of your neck until the last remnants of his panic completely cleared.
When he finally pulled back, he looked raw, his blue eyes heavy and ringed with red. But the frantic, wild look in them was entirely gone. He looked down at his hand, still cradled between yours, and let out a sigh.
"Look at us," he murmured, voice deep and rough from the crying, a faint trace of his classic mischievous lilt returning to his tone. "Moving into a beautiful new place, and we're spending our first proper evening together sitting in a puddle of olive oil."
"It's a pretty nice puddle," you said softly, a teasing smile finally breaking through your fatigue. "Gives the kitchen character."
Johnny let out a breathy chuckle. He reached up with his clean hand, palm lingering against your cheek, skin hot and comforting.
"I dinnae deserve you, lass," he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours with such intensity that it made your heart skip. "I mean it. After the absolute shite I spat yesterday... I winnae have blamed you if you hadnae returned and left me to rot in this empty house."
"You do deserve me," you corrected firmly. "You just don't deserve to get away with being a prick when you're hurt. There's a difference."
"Aye, still," he murmured, head dropping back against the cabinet behind him with a sheepish groan. "Message received, loud and clear. Loud and bloody clear."
He looked around the kitchen. "Right then," he grunted, trying to shift his weight to stand up, only for a sharp hitch in his lower back to make him freeze instantly with a quiet click of his teeth. He sank right back down, face flushing with a mix of residual annoyance and sheepishness. "Or... maybe I'll just stay down here for another five minutes. Let the floor ground me. Meditate or something."
"Wise choice," you said, standing up carefully and stepping over the mess. You reached down, gently patting his shoulder. "I'm going to open the windows to get this smoke out, then call in that pizza. Don't move an inch, Sergeant."
Johnny watched you move across the kitchen, his gaze heavy, devoted, and entirely soft as he rested his arms back on his knees. "Standing down," he rumbled quietly, eyes tracking you through the dim air of the room.
The clean scent of lemon-scented cleaning spray had mostly won the battle against the burnt garlic, though a cool night breeze still swept in from the slightly cracked living room window. The cardboard boxes that had felt like a suffocating maze yesterday were now just a messy, comforting perimeter around the space. A massive box —the one that had caused all the trouble— served as an impromptu coffee table between you. Balanced precariously on top of it was a large, greasy cardboard pizza box, a couple of paper napkins, and two cold cans of soda.
The television was casting a flickering blue and amber glow across the bare walls. It was tuned to some mindless, late-night reality rerun which didn't demand a single ounce of brainpower from either of you.
Johnny was sitting on the floor, back braced solid against the front base of the couch. He was strictly following your orders not to move unnecessarily, though he looked infinitely more relaxed than he had two hours ago. Most of the pain was gone, and in its place was a dull ache that he knew better than to push on. He was wearing a pair of his softest oversized gray sweatpants and the clean t-shirt from before, an ice pack tucked securely behind his lower back. His left index finger was neatly bandaged.
"Fucking brilliant, this," Johnny mumbled around a massive bite of pepperoni pizza, voice dropping into a satisfied rumble. He wiped a smudge of grease from his chin with the back of his hand, eyes locked onto the television screen where someone was yelling about a renovated kitchen. "Better than whatever brick of charcoal I was trying to serve you, anyway."
You sat right beside him on the floor, shoulder pressed flush against his broad upper arm. The proximity was quiet and much, much needed, the lingering static of the past days finally fading into a familiar, domestic hum. The part about you being codependent was true, yes. But half the truth was missing— he was just as codependent, if not more. Most would say obsessed. Gaz, much to everyone's dismay, called it pussy-drunk.
"Don't sell yourself short, MacTavish," you teased softly, taking a sip of your soda. "The smoke alarm would give your cooking a solid ten out of ten if we'd put batteries in it yesterday."
Johnny let out a low, vibrating chuckle. He leaned his head sideways, resting his temple against yours for a brief second before reaching over. His large fingers hooked gently around your wrist, tugging your hand into his lap until your fingers were laced together over the soft fabric of his sweatpants.
“Aye, well, the Sergeant likes to make an entrance,” he murmured, tone shifting into something entirely stripped of the swagger. He squeezed your hand, eyes drifting away from the TV to look down at your intertwined fingers. “Thanks for coming back, luv. Seriously.”
“I told you,” you whispered, leaning your weight into his side, letting him carry the physical contact. “You’re stuck with me. Even when you’re a stubborn bastard.”
“Especially when am a stubborn bastard,” he corrected with a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He took another slice of pizza with his free hand, thumb tracing circles on the back of your wrist as the television hummed in the warm room.
The move back up to the couch was a slow, coordinated operation, with Johnny executing a stiff pivot to protect his lower back while you braced his shoulder. Once he was settled against the cushions —thick pillows wedged behind him and the ice pack freshly swapped— the tension in the room shifted entirely.
You slid in right next to him, curling your body into his flank. You draped one leg over his thick, sweatpants-clad thighs, your knee hooking over his hip to anchor yourself against him. Johnny’s large arm immediately wound around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His hand, thick and warm, rested flat against your upper thigh, fingers mindlessly kneading at the fabric of your shorts.
“Look at you,” Johnny rumbled, a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips as he looked down at your leg over his lap. “Takin’ up all the real estate already. Been home for fifteen minutes and you’re already invading my perimeter.”
“Stabilizing the casualty, more like,” you countered smoothly, resting your chin on his shoulder so you could look up into his heavy-lidded blue eyes. “One of those standard medical protocols, you know? You’re supposed to stay immobilized under a heavy weight.”
“Is that a fact?” he chuckled whilst his thumb traced a slow, teasing line up the side of your knee, his touch sending a quiet flare of heat straight up your spine. “Funny sort o’ medicine they’re teaching these days. Proper thorough, though. I’m feeling highly immobilized.”
“Good, don’t make me pull rank and order you to stay put.”
“Oh, pulling rank now, are we?” Johnny’s smirk widened, his eyes darkening slightly as they tracked how your lips moved with each word. “Dangerous game, sunshine. I might be a compliance hazard on a normal day, but now? Not much I can do. You could, technically, do whatever you want wi’ me.”
“Is that an invitation, MacTavish?” you murmured, shifting your weight so your pelvis pressed just a fraction closer against his side.
“Depends,” he rasped, breathing turning a little more shallow as his eyes locked onto yours. The playful banter was rapidly melting into a thick friction. He leaned his head down, rough beard scraping tantalizingly close to your jawline as he breathed against your skin. “Plan on takin’ advantage of a wounded soldier, or are you jus’ going to sit there an’ look pretty while I stew in my own juices?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” you whispered, a quiet laugh escaping you when his grip on your waist tightened pointedly, pulling you so close you could feel the sudden, hard ridge of his length pulsing thick and demanding against your leg, completely mocking his supposed injury.
“Decide fast, lassie,” Johnny growled softly, lips brushing the column of your neck, breath blistering hot against your skin. “Wi’ a back or without, if you keep moving like that, I might jus’ have to take you to bed.”
You let out a breathy laugh, hand sliding up his chest to rest against the center of his collarbones, gently applying just enough pressure to keep him from leaning any closer.
“Absolutely not,” you murmured. “You’re physically compromised, baby. There’s zero chance I’m letting you throw your spine out of alignment again because you can’t keep your hands to yourself. No sex. Doctor’s orders.”
Johnny let out a theatrical, long-suffering groan, head dropping back against the couch cushions as if you’d delivered a devastating defeat. “Aw, come off it, hen,” he complained, though the wide and boyish grin spreading across his face completely gave him away. “It’s a specialized form of physical therapy! Creative pain management, that’s all i’ is.”
“It’s a one-way ticket to the nearest hospital and you spending your days flat on the damn floor,” you countered, sliding your hand up again to cup his jaw, thumb gently tracing the edge of his cheekbone. “Don’t argue me on this one.”
Johnny’s eyes, despite your warnings, darkened with an incredibly smug glint settling into his gaze as he tilted his chin into your palm, chasing your touch. He didn’t look remotely discouraged, if anything, the challenge just made it all a whole lot hotter for him. His large hand on your thigh slid a few inches higher, fingers hooking into the hem of your shorts.
“Right then,” Johnny rasped. “If the Sergeant’s restricted from active duty… we adapt and overcome. You get a wee bit more over my lap, and do all the heavy liftin’ while I keep my hands on your hips to keep us steady, hm?”
You stared at him, eyebrows raising in skepticism. “And what happens when you accidentally tense up because I move too fast? Or when your reflexes kick in and you try to fuck up into me? Still pressure on your lower back, MacTavish. It’s a no-go.”
Johnny let out a long, dramatic groan, head thumping back against the cushions as if you’d just completely crushed his spirit. “Proper warden tonight, are you?”
But the wicked, low glint in his blue eyes didn’t fade for a second. His voice dropped into a rough, suggestive purr when he spoke again.
“A’ight, shifting parameters,” he rasped. “If I’m entirely banned from moving… you jus’ use those gorgeous hands of yours. Or that pretty mouth. I winnae lift a finger, luv. I’ll jus’... sit back, look miserable, and let my attentive wee wife handle the recovery, hm?”
You tilted your head, a highly amused smile tugging at the corner of your lips. You reached out, tapping his nose with a finger. “Hold on. Why exactly am I rewarding you for being a massive prick to me for the past week?”
Johnny’s smug smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a thoroughly pathetic, exaggerated pout. He slumped down an inch into the couch, his bottom lip literally sticking out as he let out a whiny groan, looking up at you through his eyelashes like a scolded hound.
“Aw, come off it, luv. That’s no’ fair,” he whined, his thick Scottish cadence turning incredibly soft and pleading. “I apologized! I cleaned the oil off the floor, and am lookin’ very silly. You cannae just dangle the prize in front of the dog and then take it away. Have a wee bit of mercy on a dying man, sunshine.”
You couldn't really help it, the absurdity of the expression on his face broke your resolve in an instant. A soft laugh escaped your throat, your hand sliding up from his jaw to gently mess up the short sides of his fauxhawk.
"Oh, poor Sergeant," you cooed, voice dripping in mock sympathy as you leaned in closer, face just inches from his. "A tragic casualty of his own massive ego. Truly heartbreaking."
Johnny tracked your movement with a sharp focus, pathetic pout twitching into a desperate, hopeful grin when he realized you weren't actually pulling away. He tilted his head back against the cushion, blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
"It is!" he insisted as his hand on your knee subtly slid back up to your thigh, fingers spreading wide and warm against your skin. "Proper tragic. You wouldnae let a decorated soldier suffer like this, would you? Where's the compassion? Basic human decency?"
"I think my compassion was burned to a crisp along with that garlic, but m'kay," you murmured, lips brushing dangerously close to his jawline as you shifted your weight just enough to make him catch his breath. It was so endearing to see that after all those years, he was still so desperate for your touch, yearning so much for an ounce of your attention. "But... I suppose I could offer a compromise."
Johnny's grip on your waist tightened instantly, pulling you a fraction closer as a gravelly chuckle vibrated through his chest. "Aye? And what's it, then? I'm all ears, lovie."
"You stay completely still. You don't touch, don't lift, and no playing hero," you whispered, fingers trailing down his neck to rest against the warm, solid ink on his shoulder. "And if you're a very good, very quiet boy for the rest of the night... I might consider taking care of you before we go to sleep. Might."
Johnny's pupils dilated slightly in the dim blue light of the television, a dark heat settling over his features whilst he swallowed hard. The teasing lilt vanished from his voice, replaced by raw intensity that made your own pulse skip a beat.
"Fuckin' hell, sunshine," he growled softly, large hand firm on your hip to keep you pinned flush against him. "Deal. A willnae move a bloody inch."
A wicked little glint flashed in your eyes as you took a deliberate breath. If the Sergeant wanted to play the role of the perfectly compliant, helpless casualty, you were more than happy to establish the rules.
You leaned down further, tips of your fingers tracing a lazy path down the center of his chest. Your touch was feather-light, barely brushing against the fabric of his t-shirt whilst his chest moved with each shallow breath he took. You tracked the hard line of his sternum until you reached the hem. Johnny's breathing hitched, chest expanding beneath your palm as he forced himself to stay perfectly still, knuckles whitening where he was clamping his hand to your hip.
"Very good," you murmured against his jawline, voice a low purr. "Look at you. A model of absolute discipline."
Then, without a shred of warning, you flicked your fingers right over his nipple through the cotton of his shirt.
Johnny gasped, entire frame jolting in a knee-jerk reaction. He practically jumped an inch off the cushions, but the sudden movement was a terrible tactical error. The second his torso twisted, the knot in his lower back rebelled.
"Ah— fuckin'—" he cried out while his face contorted intl a grimace of defeat, and he slumped right back against the pillows, clutching his side. "You're such a damned— Jesus—"
You burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up from your chest as you collapsed slightly against his shoulder, unable to hold back. Johnny glared down at you, but within about two seconds, the ridiculousness of the situation broke through his tough-guy facade. A breathless chuckle tore past his lips, broad shoulders shaking as he joined into the laughter echoing softly against your hair.
"Bloody hell, sunshine," his hand came up to rub his face as he laughed through the discomfort. "This could as well be considered a war crime. Sectioned under the Geneva Convention, probably. Disabling a wounded soldier wi' nipple play."
"You said you wouldn't move an inch," you pointed out, sides aching as you wiped a tear of laughter from your eye, shifting back to check the ice pack behind him. "Your reaction time needs work, baby."
"My reaction time is fine," Johnny grumbled with a defeated grin stretching across his face. "It's my wife that's the hazard. Reckon I need you to be kept away jus’ to survive the recovery phase."
You shifted your weight slightly again, anchoring your leg more firmly across his thighs as the laughter quieted down.
"You're such a wee shite," Johnny rumbled affectionately, voice rough and deeply satisfied as he kept palming at every bit of bare skin he could reach. He was still smiling, chest rising and falling in measured breaths to keep his back from hurting again. "An absolute hazard to my recovery."
"You were supposed to stand still, mate, I don't see how this is a me problem," you reminded him again, fingers trailing down the center of his chest, tracking the seam of his t-shirt until your hand slipped lower, past the waistband of the soft gray sweatpants.
Johnny's breath caught sharply in his throat. His jaw tightened as your palm pressed flat against his length, feeling the thick, demanding heat of him pulsing hard against your touch. He let out a low grunt, head dropping back against the cushion, eyes half-closed as he fought hard against the instinct to arch into your touch.
Slowly, you eased the fabric down, freeing him into the cool air of the room. He was heavy in your palm, fully rigid and attentive.
You didn't want to rush it at all. You leaned down, eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you brought your hand to your mouth, letting a big glob of saliva fall right into your palm, slick, sheen. The wet sound was incredibly loud in the dark room where Soap was watching your every single move.
When you closed your hand around him, the friction was instant and intense. You began a slow, teasing stroke, thumb smoothing over the crown before your grip tightened, pulling all the way down to the base.
"Ah... fuck, babe," Johnny groaned, his knuckles turning entirely white where he was gripping the edge of the couch cushion, broad shoulders tensing as he forced his lower body to remain entirely stationary. "You're killin' me. This has got to be torture."
"Are you complaining, Sergeant?" you whispered, pace remaining steady, agonizingly torturous as you twisted your wrist slightly at the top of each stroke, catching the most sensitive skin there.
"No," he rasped, eyes snapping open, burning with a desperate heat as he stared up at you. He swallowed hard again, voice becoming a rough growl that was entirely helpless to your touch. "No, luv. Dinnae stop, jus'... keep it going."
You picked up the pace just a fraction, thumb sweeping firmly over the wet head of his length before your hand slid all the way back down to the base. Johnny's hips gave a microscopic twitch against your thighs.
"Look at you," you murmured, leaning down until your breath brushed the heated skin of his neck. "So disciplined when you're desperate. Where was all this obedience during the move?"
Johnny let out a breathless chuckle, fingers gripping so hard into your hip that the pressure felt bruising. His blue eyes were blown out, dark and completely fixed on yours.
"Didnae ken the reward for followin' orders was going to be this fucking good, did I?" he rasped. "Thought a had to carry the whole world to keep you looking a' me, sunshine. But am helpless to whatever you wanna do to me now."
"You like feeling helpless for once, Johnny?" you twisted your wrist slightly at the top of the stroke, making his chest heave as he swallowed down a loud groan. "No big bad Scot, just you, sitting perfectly still and taking exactly what I give you."
"God, fuck, yes," he growled, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead as his jaw clenched hard. He tilted his chin up, neck tendons straining as you kept the pace steady despite the burn on your wrist and arm, relentless, and agonizingly slow. "Tell me— tell me exactly how you want me, luv. Tell me how good it feels to have me at your feet."
"Feels perfect," you whispered against his lips, thumb catching the bead of pre-come smoothing over the top. "For once, my husband isn't a machine, and he's gonna stay quiet, keep those hands to himself, and let me take care of it."
"Aye, boss," he choked out, breathing turning into short gasps as the friction began to push him dangerously close to the edge. "All yours, every bit o' me. Every fucking— ah, fucking bit. Just... keep going. Keep it going, please."
The low hum of the television was entirely swallowed by the heavy, ragged sound of Johnny's breathing. The slick friction of your palm against his length was relentless.
Your thumb firmly smoothed the excess moisture over the hypersensitive tip, making his lower stomach ripple. "The great Sergeant MacTavish, reduced to a shivering mess," you whispered with a giggle. "You like being handled like this because you broke your own body trying to act tough?"
"God, fuck— fuck, yes," he choked out, head thrashing back against the cushions. His large hand was still clamped hard on your hip, fingers digging into your skin with a desperate grip just to keep himself from thrusting against your palm. "Am a mess— mhm, look at what you— fucking destroying me—"
"You said you only know how to destroy things, hm?" your pace turned faster, tighter, grip compressing him perfectly as you leaned in to lick a wet, hot stripe right up the side of his neck. "Let me do the dirty work, then. Break you down and all."
Johnny let out a fractured groan, eyes rolling back for a second as the intense heat of your tongue combined with the pace of your hand.
"Aye, break me," he rasped, voice nothing more than a begging growl, stripped of any lingering pride. "Wreck me, baby, take everythin'— 'm yours, just please, faster— gonna come soon, please."
"Not yet," you commanded, voice low and lethal as you shifted your grip a bit, using the slick heat to stroke him with a punishing speed that left him entirely breathless. "Not until I tell you."
"Aw, hell, sunshine... please," he whimpered, a raw sound tearing past his teeth as his entire upper body went rigid, chest heaving while he did his absolute best to not shatter right there and then.
You didn't let him wait a second longer. Sliding off the couch onto your knees between his thighs, you replaced the tight grip of your hand with the burning heat of your mouth, taking him deep in one smooth motion.
Johnny's entire upper body went rigid, a choked gasp tearing from his throat as his eyes rolled back. His fingers dug into the fabric of the couch cushions with a desperate force, knuckles popping under the strain as he fought every single instinct to thrust against you, deeper into your mouth.
The wet suction was the absolute end of his discipline. You swirled your tongue around the tip, hand wrapping around the base of his length to hold him perfectly still while your mouth worked him with a punishing intensity.
"Holy fuck—" he rasped, head thrashing side to side against the couch cushions, a dark flush covering his neck as the friction pushed him straight over the precipice. "I'm coming— fuck, I'm coming!"
To your surprise, he managed to stay completely paralyzed under your control, no pushing, pulling, lifting. His chest heaved while he shattered, letting out a guttural groan that vibrated deep in his throat. You didn't back off though, instead, you held him tight against your palm, squeezing out every last drop whilst swallowing every single thick, heavy rope of his release, taking the full force of him until he was completely spent.
The living room fell quiet, save for the ragged, wheezing sound of Johnny's breathing as he tried to ride off the aftershocks of his release. He laid there, entirely unraveled, eyes closed, forehead covered in a thick film of sweat. Slowly, his grip on the couch loosened and his trembling hand reached down to find your shoulder, fingers hooking gently into your shirt to signal you to get up.
"Fucking hell, lass," he breathed, voice nothing more than an exhausted whisper as you curled back into his side. He kissed the top of your head, ignoring the smug grin on your lips. "You're an absolute angel. A terrifying, beautiful angel."
Johnny wasn't the kind of man to let this slide, though. One of the things you appreciated most about him was that he never took you for granted, never just took and took from you and didn't give back. The aftermath of his orgasm lasted only a few minutes before his breathing leveled out again, the intense head of his skin pressed against your side doing nothing to help the feeling of dampness pooling between your thighs.
He hooked his large arm under your shoulders, fingers tightening against you with a possessive grip that left no room for negotiation.
"Moving phase two," he rasped against your ear as his lips found purchase at the lobes. "Up we go, aye, sunshine?"
"Johnny, your back—"
"My back is perfectly fine for this next bit," he spoke softly, a completely unrepentant smirk cutting through the dark shadow of his jawline. He braced himself carefully, shifting off the couch whilst keeping his spine completely straight as he guided you towards the hallway.
The bedroom was dark, the uncurtained windows letting in the silvery glow of the streetlights outside. The mattress was sitting directly on the floor for now, surrounded by a few boxes. Johnny laid back into the mattress with calculated precision, and then, to your surprise, he did... nothing.
Just looked up at you through his eyelashes, blue eyes dark, wide, and burning with a predatory focus as he reached and firmly grabbed the hem of your shirt when you followed him on the bed.
"Right there," he commanded, "Straddle me, luv. Sit on my face, please."
"Johnny," you breathed, pulse instantly skyrocketing as you looked down at his mouth, his tongue tracking slowly over his bottom lip, leaving it glistening in the dim light. "You said you'd stay still."
"I am staying still," he argued, large hands sliding up your thighs, fingers digging into your skin to guide you exactly where he wanted you. "Complete casualty, I swear. You'll take total control, sunshine, drop your shorts and ride my mouth, m'kay?"
You didn't hesitate, not when he seemed so sure of himself —and, well, looked at you like he was a second away from beginning to salivate— so you slid your shorts down your legs, casting them into the dark, and stepped over his chest. Your knees settled on either side of his jaw before you began to lower your weight.
He didn't even try to take it slow. The first touch of his tongue was a heavy stroke between the lips of your cunt that made your entire body shudder. Johnny let out a muffled groan of satisfaction against your skin, large palms gripping at the sides of your hips, keeping you clamped down right over his lips.
"Grind down on me, just like that," he said, muffled, as his tongue began to work you with relentless speed. "Take every bit of me."
You shifted a bit to lean your palms over his thighs as the heat of his mouth hit you over and over again, pulling sharp gasps and soft moans from your throat with each move. Johnny’s hands were literal clamps on your hips, keeping you centered exactly where he wanted you, craved you, fingers digging into your skin to get a hold of his own reactions.
His tongue was thick, wet, and utterly ruthless, tracing the most sensitive parts of you with a slow, heavy pressure before picking up the rhythm. He knew exactly how to work you like this, his breath scorching your bare skin every time he exhaled, the vibrations of his muffled dirty talk and groans sending a direct spike of heat straight to your core.
“Johnny—” you choked out, one hand flying to his hair, digging into his scalp as you grabbed a handful. It drew a long moan straight out of him as your knees began to tremble. His head tilted then, trying to take you even deeper, the tip of his tongue dipping in and out while his nose brushed against your clit, before being replaced by his lips. He was making out with you down there, tongue flicking over the center of your pleasure which made your hips helplessly shudder each time. He wasn’t letting you back off an inch, either. Not that you expected him to— Johnny, bless his heart, would live in between your thighs if you’d let him.
“Give it t’me,” he let out a breathless sound that felt entirely intoxicated by you. “Cream on me.”
Your breath caught, vision blurring at the edges as the heavy suction of his lips pushed you straight over the edge. You clamped your thighs tightly against his head, back arching as a loud, undone cry tore from your lips. Johnny took the full force of your climax without a flinch, tongue sweeping continuously through the shocks of your release, drinking you in with a desperate sort of hunger until your body went entirely limp in his hold.
You pushed yourself back down a bit, then collapsed forward against his chest, skin slick with sweat, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his sternum. Johnny’s arms instantly came up to wrap securely around your torso, pulling you flush against him as he let out a long, deeply satisfied sigh into your hair. He was breathing just as hard as you, of course, considering breathing properly wasn’t on the list of his priorities just now.
“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered against your ear as his large hand stroked down your bare back. “Have I ever told you, you taste perfect?”
“Only about a few thousand times, yes,” you chuckled whilst Johnny’s chin rubbed gently against the crown of your head. The silence of the entire house felt peaceful now.
“I love you,” he spoke into the dark and let out a breathy chuckle, head tilting back against the pillows. “Remind me to throw my spine out of alignment more often if this is the standard recovery plan.”
With your chin resting on his chest to look up at his face in the dim moonlight, you glared at him. “Don’t get any ideas, you idiot. The clinic is officially closed. You’re on a very strict and very boring house arrest.”
“Is that a fact?” Johnny’s lips twitched into a lopsided smirk, and his heavy-lidded blue eyes still carried that familiar, bright lilt in them despite the exhaustion. He reached up, bandaged finger gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before his thumb rested against your jawline. “A month? Thought I showed excellent discipline out there, cap. And no offense but to think you’d be able to keep your hands off of—”
“You’re so lucky I didn’t leave you to sleep on the floor with all that burnt garlic,” you let out a soft laugh.
“Aye, the garlic,” he groaned sheepishly, his smirk widening into a full boyish grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Minor tactical miscalculation. Recipe lady said medium-high heat but I reckon the new stone has a bit more fight in it than the old one.”
“I don’t think this one’s on the stove, really.”
“Hey, I was trying to be romantic,” he whined softly, thick Scottish cadence turning playfully defensive as he squeezed at your skin. “A massive feast to show my beautiful wife I can handle the domestic front. Does the thought no’ count in this house, what has happened to us?”
“Next time, think about how much your beautiful wife would appreciate a takeaway menu instead of dishes,” you murmured, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to the center of his jaw, feeling the rough scratch of his stubble against your lips. “Saves on the paper towels too.”
“Duly noted,” Johnny breathed, eyes softening visibly as he looked down at you, the teasing banter fading into the quiet, heavy devotion you still hadn’t grown accustomed to. He wound his arm tighter around your waist, pulling you up until your head was tucked securely under his chin. “Takeaway from now on. Or… I’ll stick to chopping veggies. Under close supervision.”
“Very close supervision,” you whispered, fingers lightly tracing the soft cotton of his shirt over his ribs. “I don’t trust you that close to the stove, I think.”
“Fair,” a faint huff of laughter hit you then.
He was starting to drift, you could tell. The exhaustion of the last few days —the pain, the pride, and an absolutely shite evening— was finally catching up to him, but the manic edge was gone entirely. He just felt heavy, warm, and finally relaxed against you. Outside, the rain picked up again. The boxes could wait until tomorrow. The unhung curtains, empty shelves, lingering scent of lemon and the bug spray Johnny had generously bathed the smallest centipede you’d ever seen with— none of it seemed to reach you at that moment. For the first time since you’d signed the lease, the house didn’t feel like an overwhelming checklist of chores or a battleground of pride. It just felt… quiet. The better kind.
Johnny’s hand on your back slowed down, long fingers going limp as his breathing deepened into the steady cadence of deep sleep. He tightened his hold on you one last time in his subconscious, and you closed your eyes, letting the solid beat of his chest lull you down into the dark, finally safe in the fortress you’d both broken down to build.
hii! as requested by some lovely lovely people. love you and thank you. also tagged some folks who might be interested. as always lmk if you don't want to be tagged!! and plsplspls let me know what you thimk!! literally come on my asks and straight up RAMBLE i love it sm
@slut4fandoms (i know you requested fluff bear with me LOL) @artistsfuneral (the comms going silent thing is on the way!) @mactavishcock (i go on my activity, see your username, and giggle each time) @somedeadmoth (his shit will be beaten out of him soon!)
Price’s ears buzz, the breathe stalls in his chest. “Say again?”
“The sergeant! He’s gone!”
His life nearly comes crashing down, imaging the fallout of losing Kyle.
Blessedly, unimaginably, impossibly, he was okay.
For some reason, it’s that moment he first thinks of when he sees the bullet rip through Johnny’s skull. That moment where he thought he lost one of his boys. The relief when he realized Kyle was okay.
