The wind off the North Sea had teeth this morning, sharp and salty, the kind that reminded old soldiers they weren’t as young as their scars liked to pretend.
Captain John Price (retired, thank fuck) stood on the weathered deck of the big stone cottage they’d all pooled money to buy years ago, puffing on a cigar that probably cost more than his first month’s pension. You'd expect they gave war vetterans a better recognition, huh?
The house sat on a bluff where England grudgingly gave way to Scotland. The scenery was covered with grey cliffs, screaming gulls, and the sort of stubborn heather that refused to die even in winter. It was perfect. If it weren't so damn bloody quiet.
Until it wasn’t.
“Oi, Cap,” Johnny called from the kitchen window, his silver-streaked mohawk somehow still defying gravity at seventy-two. “Ghost’s hogging the binoculars again. Says he saw a ‘suspicious figure’ on the rocks.”
Simon didn’t even glance up from the cliff path below. The black balaclava was gone these days (mostly), replaced by a plain dark scarf wrapped high against the cold, but the man still moved like a shadow that had barely learnt manners.
“Woman,” Simon grunted. “Stuck.”
Kyle leaned over the railing beside John with a mug of tea. “She’s been climbing around those tide pools for twenty minutes. Tide’s coming in faster than she thinks. Reckon we should—”
“Aye, already moving,” John said, stubbing out the cigar. Four old bastards in weatherproof jackets and bad knees headed down the path like it was an op. Old habits died hard.
You were having the time of your bloody life.
Seventy years young, silver hair whipped wild by the wind, wearing a bright yellow raincoat that made you look like a rebellious canary. Your late husband Richard (bless his boring soul) would have had a fit if he saw you right now—perched on a slick rock shelf, one leg dangling over the edge, trying to get the perfect angle of the waves crashing against the cliffs while the sea crept higher behind you.
“Come on, you beautiful bastard,” you muttered to the ocean, clicking the shutter. “Give me drama.”
The drama arrived in the form of four extremely large, extremely retired SAS operators almost stumbling their way down to you like mountain goats with military training.
“Ma’am,” John called, voice carrying over the wind. “Tide’s about to cut you off. Might want to consider a tactical retreat.”
You looked up, camera still raised, and grinned like a woman who’d just been handed a live grenade and told it was a party popper.
“Oh, thank Christ. Witnesses! If I drown, tell my daughter I died doing something interesting for once.”
Johnny barked a laugh. Simon tilted his head, assessing. Kyle was already scanning the best route down to her. John just pinched the bridge of his nose, already sensing the chaos this woman was about to bring into their quiet retirement.
You tried to stand. The rock, that cunt, betrayed you. One boot slipped, arms windmilling, and suddenly, you were sliding toward the churning water with a delighted “Whoop—!”
Four pairs of hands grabbed whatever they could reach—yellow raincoat, camera strap, one very indignant arm—and hauled you up onto safer ground. You ended up pressed against a broad chest that smelled faintly of cigar smoke and gun oil, looking up into the most ridiculous set of concerned silver-fox faces you'd seen in decades.
John steadied you, hands firm but careful. “You alright, love?”
You blinked water out of your eyes and took in the four of them; they were rugged, scarred, stupidly handsome in that lived-in way, and felt something dangerous spark in your chest. Rebellion, yes. But also a kind of mischief only women past sixty were capable of.
“Darlings,” you said, patting Price’s chest with a wicked smile, “I’ve been stuck in worse places. Though I don’t usually get rescued by an entire calendar shoot.
Johnny wheezed, Kyle hid a grin behind his hand, and even Simon's eyes crinkled at the corners.
Price sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his mustache. “Name’s John. These reprobates are Johnny, Kyle, and Simon. And you are?”
“Your local trouble” You gave a little bow, still dripping. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen.”
You looked at each of them slowly, deliberately, the way a woman who’d spent decades being proper finally decided she didn’t have to anymore.
“Any of you lot any good at getting stubborn old women out of trouble?”
I know I'm the girl who collected stars but im not really a girl yk???? im a girl who is also a boy but at the same time im neither of those and im a secret third thing
Someone who likes to gather little lights in their pockets. this is my quiet corner of the universe, i'm new to writing, and definitely could get better.
this is a safe space for my things, but sometimes the sky rumbles a little darker. Please read my stormwatch to know more!
dni, masterlist and tw below!
✨ the constellations✨
click the stars below to wander deeper:
☄️ the celestial code — rules & dni.
🪐 stormwatch — trigger warnings.
🌙 map of stars — my masterlist.
🎨 sunlight sketches — my drawing space.
🌕 the singing moon -- playlists to dream away into
thank you for being here. leave a star before you go!! 🌟
