NikPrice Week Days 6 & 7: I Missed You & Retirement (kind of)
A little late, yes, but better late than never as they say :D
Also, I initially meant for this fic to be a mix of sappy and spicy but then I was listening to a few sad songs and decided to try my hand at writing angst, hehe. Sorry.
Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Blood & Injury, Angst with Happy Ending
Summary: John Price disappears after killing General Shepherd. Nikolai is in pieces (emotionally).
AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68365791
“He’s stable.” Laswell looked much more tired than she had been the last time Nikolai saw her. The shadows under her eyes were more pronounced, and her posture and tense shoulders told him she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a while. “Doctors said he’s becoming more responsive, so there’s a good chance he’ll wake up any day now.”
They both looked at the sergeant’s unconscious form through the ICU’s observation window, hooked up to a bunch of machines with bandages wrapped around his head. The dark spots on both temples showed the entry and exit points of Makarov’s bullet. It was a miracle he even survived.
“And…” Nikolai hesitated a little, knowing the likely answer he would get. “John?”
Laswell took a long, shaky sigh at that, one that told him everything he needed to know.
They still haven’t found John.
“I should not have let him go after Shepherd on his own.” He looked away from his friend, closing his eyes when he felt the all-too familiar sting of tears. He gripped his crutch, which he had to use since breaking his leg in last month’s op, the dull ache in his knuckles keeping him grounded. Not yet. Not until he sees John himself.
Nikolai should’ve known it’d come to this. It was supposed to be a quick job. In and out, no one else dead except for Shepherd. But when the time came for exfil… John never came. They’d been searching for the past three months after that.
“It's not your fault, Nik.” Laswell put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s a hard man to find if he wants to, but I doubt he’s the type to get himself killed on purpose. Not when he’s got you to worry about.”
He just sighed, nodding a few times because Laswell made a good point. John might make stupid decisions, but he wasn’t stupid enough to let them get him killed.
He twisted the wedding band on his finger like he always did when he got worried.
Nikolai spent the next week doing anything to keep himself busy. Anything to keep himself from rotting in their bed and deluding himself that his husband would somehow just appear in the space beside him. He cleaned the house, took care of their garden, picked up an instrument, exercised as much as his injury would allow, all so he could have even a sliver of normalcy while he waited…
When he heard a knock on his door.
Nikolai’s breath caught in his throat, dread and hope clashing in his thumping heart as he limped over to answer it.
Maybe it was Laswell or one of the 141 coming over to give him the bad news along with whatever they found of John folded inside a flag, or… maybe they just came over to keep him company.
He took a breath as he twisted the doorknob to find one of their elderly neighbours holding a freshly baked pie.
“Miss Merryweather,” seeing a familiar face eased some of the dread weighing on Nikolai’s chest. “Thank you, but what’s the occasion?”
He took the pie from the old lady’s hands, the fruity tart aroma of mulberries tickling his nose. It was the same pie she had greeted them with when they first moved into the little town. Nikolai could vividly recall her barely contained glee when she first saw their wedding bands and asked all about how they met and everything.
“Oh, none in particular, dear,” Miss Merryweather said, her bejewelled hand glinting as she flourished it. “I just noticed you haven’t left your house in a while, and what do you know? I baked one too many pies and thought of you and Jonathan.” She shrugs with a chuckle. “Speaking of, where is your husband? He’s usually the one to answer the door.”
A stab of guilt went through Nikolai, but there was also a little joy in seeing how thoughtful this old woman was, going out of her way to check on him and pulling him out of his misery if only for a moment.
“Ah, well,” Nikolai’s hand flew to the back of his neck, his mind racing as he came up with an excuse. “He just has some work overseas for a few weeks. You know how it is.”
“WHAT?” Miss Merryweather clutched her pearls, aghast like he just spilled the most scandalous gossip to her. “You mean to tell me he’s out working when he should be here and taking care of you? You’ve got a broken leg, for goodness’ sake.”
“Oh no, Nikolai, I know that look on your face.” The old lady huffed in indignation on his behalf. “The moment he returns, let me know; I’ll give him a stern talking to. Lord knows you’re both getting too old to work in the military. I’ll be going back now, dear. Let me know if you need company.”
Miss Merryweather turned around with a wave and hobbled back toward her house, muttering something about men never learning and overworking themselves instead of spending precious time with their spouses. Nikolai, for his part, stood there in stunned silence, warm pie in hand, before he stepped inside.
He went to the kitchen and took a knife and a plate, then went back to the dining table to help himself to a slice. It was delicious, as always, just the right balance of sweet and tart, maybe a hint of lemon, and the crisp, buttery crust brought it all together. Before he could help it, his imagination gave him an image of John taking a bite of the pie and moaning in delight as he chewed slowly and savoured it.
And, somehow, that was what got the tears he’d long held back, pouring out.
It took more effort than usual to swallow that last bite before he pushed his plate away and buried his head in his arms, no longer making any attempt to stop the sobs wracking his chest since the floodgates of his heart had become too worn to hold it all back.
He didn’t even know if his beloved was still alive or not. And maybe he didn’t want to know. Maybe he was better off accepting the worst and moving on.
Except he couldn’t do it.
He wanted—no, needed —to hold on to the possibility that John was still out there, and that they’d find him. Because he knew that if it were his husband in his stead, John would’ve fought to find him, broken leg be damned. So he allowed himself this moment of pain. Just this once.
“Nikolai, I’ve got news.” Laswell called one rainy evening when Nikolai was cooking some zharkoye for dinner.
“What is it?” He put the call on speaker and went back to slicing his potatoes and carrots.
He froze at the mention of that name. His grip on his knife tightened at the mere utterance of the man who’d caused so many of their lives’ problems to begin with.
A pause, and then a simple “He’s dead.”
Nikolai set his knife down. Hearing that the ultranationalist leader had kicked the bucket should’ve surprised him. Should have been cause for celebration. But it wasn't the news he wanted. But maybe it would give him an idea, a clue, about his husband’s whereabouts. So he said, “Give me details.”
Laswell gave him the rundown. Someone got to Makarov before Task Force 141 and killed him and his inner circle within three months, with the first kill being dated back to a week after John’s disappearance, and Makarov, based on autopsy reports, was the last and most recent, having died just last week.
All the information left Nikolai reeling. It was almost too good to be true. But just as he was about to ask something else, he heard someone knocking on the door.
“I’ll call you back.” He hung up on Laswell and limped over to the door.
Another series of knocks, a little more insistent this time. He wondered if it was just one of the neighbours checking in on him as they had in the past few weeks. But when he opened the door, what he saw punched all the air out of his lungs.
There he stood, soaked from the rain. Nikolai could see bruises and cuts all over his skin, bandages under his ruined and bloodied clothes and over his knuckles and his forehead. His bloodied right hand still gripped a gun while his left arm hung in a sling. His wet, unkempt hair stuck to his marred face, along with a few cuts in his cheeks, and his eyes…
His eyes showed all the anguish his face was too tired, too wounded, to express. He looked like he’d been dragged into hell, forced to see its darkest depths, and fought his way out. Others might have mistaken him for a complete stranger. But Nikolai knew better. He’d recognize those ocean eyes anywhere.
His husband tried to take a step closer, only for his knees to give out and Nikolai to lunge forward and catch him, careful not to hold him too tightly lest he aggravate any of his injuries. John, in contrast, clung to him like a man caught in a flood, like his Nikolai was the only one keeping him from being dragged away by the current.
“I—is this… are you real?” John croaked out as he nuzzled his face into Nikolai’s chest, his body trembling. Whether from the cold or from his injuries didn’t matter. “Please tell me you’re real.”
“Shhh, I’m right here, lyubimyy. I have you.” He pressed his lips onto his husband’s forehead and held him closer, letting John put his ear over his chest so he could hear Nikolai’s heartbeat, his hand rubbing circles on his back as tears ran down his face. “You are safe now.”
John nodded. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too. I thought—I thought I’d never see you again.” He was trying not to break down, because his John needed help. But he was just so relieved that his beloved was finally home that he could do nothing about his tears.
“I’m sorry,” John whispered, his voice cracking as he buried his face in Nikolai’s chest, sobs wracking his body. “I’m s-sorry.”
“Shhh, no need for that, solnyshko.” He soothed his husband as he sobbed and wailed in his embrace. “Just let it all out, alright? Take all the time you need. No one can hurt you anymore.”
John had lost weight. He could tell because carrying a man while he had a broken leg in a cast should not have been as easy. He carries his husband over to their bathroom, helping him out of his ragged clothes then lowering him into the bathtub. Nikolai grimaced as removed the bandages, seeing hastily sutured wounds of different sizes and dark bruises around his torso. His left arm did not seem to be broken, but there was a lot of swelling around his elbow.
He unlatched the showerhead and switched it on, spraying some on his hands to make sure it was not too hot, and hung it back and stripped himself down to his boxers, putting a cast protector on his leg before joining his husband in the tub.
Nikolai took care not to press too hard as he cleaned his husband's skin. As he did so, he asked John if he could tell him about his injuries and how he got them while looking at his body to assess whether he should take his husband to the hospital or if he could just treat them himself.
Head: Concussion from a punch along with light cuts around his cheeks and chin. Bruising around the right eye.
Torso: Multiple gunshot and stab wounds. Bullets extracted and wounds disinfected and sutured by John upon getting to safety.
Arms: Shallow cuts and mild bruising on the right arm. The left arm was dislocated at the elbow but reset and treated by an off-duty nurse.
Legs: Light bruising, one gunshot wound through his right calf sutured.
“Makarov.” John answered with a sigh. He looked close to falling asleep.
Nikolai paused. “What? When?”
“When I came to kill him.” John put an arm over his eyes as he explained. “The others in his circle were easy kills. Picked ‘em off one by one. Makarov did most of these,” he gestures at his injuries.
Nikolai did not reply to that. Instead, a fresh wave of tears ran down his face and mixed with the water as he reached over and pressed kisses on his husband’s forehead and then his lips. He held him there for a long time.
“Don’t do that again,” he pleaded as he pulled his face away and held his husband’s face, locking their eyes. “We almost lost Soap. I can’t lose you too.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” John’s voice cracked as he put a hand over Nikolai’s. “I-I’m not going anywhere, Nik. I’m done.”
A moment of silence as they held each other’s gazes, an unspoken understanding passed between them. Nikolai nodded, “That’s good.”
He switched the shower off and took a pair of towels off the shelf by the sink, wrapping one around his waist before he helped his husband up, wrapped him in the towel and carried him over to their couch, grabbing their first aid kit off the top shelf while he was at it.
Changing John’s stitches and bandages and re-securing his left arm in a splint was a quiet affair broken only by the latter’s occasional wincing and whimpering when Nikolai touched a sore bruise or stuck his suturing needle into more recent wounds. He had fallen asleep by the time they were done, which brought memories of when they got stuck in that safe house. It felt like a lifetime ago. When John confessed to liking Nikolai, who then offered to take him out on a trip to France in return. It was also the first time they had slept in each other’s arms.
He carried John over to their bed and carefully tucked him in, when the man stirred and whined, reaching out for Nikolai. He switched his damp boxers out with a dry pair as quickly and quietly as he could before slipping under the blanket and pulling the man into his arms again, whispering comforting words and sweet reassurances until John’s whines turned into soft snores. He then took his phone and called Laswell.
“Nik?” Laswell answered after a few seconds. "Did something happen?”
A pause. And then, “Who?”
“John,” he heard Laswell let out a big sigh of relief that bordered on crying. “He is home.”
Miss Merryweather came to visit a few days later with an apple pie she almost dropped when she saw the state John was in, immediately setting the pie down on the coffee table and fussing over him like he was a rowdy child who got into his first brawl at school.
“My goodness, John, you got me so worried sick!” The older lady nattered as she hovered over John, frantically inspecting his injuries while he and Nikolai tried to explain themselves to no avail. “First, Nikolai breaks his leg, and apparently you’re on the other side of the planet for work and can’t take care of your poor husband. Now here you are, all beaten and bruised. WHAT IF YOU DIED?”
“Is alright, Miss Merryweather,” Nikolai chuckled as he pulled her away to spare John from any more of her poking and prodding, letting her sit down in her usual armchair while he went to fetch the tea kettle. “I took care of his injuries when he got back. Besides, John and I…” he looked to John, who nodded for him to continue, “we turned in our resignations yesterday.”
“Really?” the old woman gasped, ringed fingers over her mouth. John nodded in response.
“Just figured we’re getting too old for this, is all.” He added while Nikolai handed him a cup of tea. “Thank you, love. I’ve already let the task force know who’ll be taking my place as captain.”
“Oh, about time, too. Thank heavens,” Miss Merryweather tossed her hands up as if to say hallelujah as she slumped back into her chair. “Goodness knows the last thing I needed was dying of worry for you two.”
They spent the early morning enjoying the pie and tea while talking about the latest gossip in the neighbourhood and travelling again once John and Nikolai had recovered from their injuries. She eventually left, bidding them both a speedy recovery and telling them to let her know if they needed anything.
John lowered his head onto Nikolai’s shoulder, then wrapped himself around his husband as much as his injuries allowed, breathing him in and listening to his heartbeat through his back. It felt surreal. Just a few weeks ago he was going from place to place, chasing leads and hunting down anyone connected to Makarov. He made the mistake of stopping Soap from killing the ultranationalist when they first had the chance. That mistake left Soap in a coma and he knew that mistake would have cost him more of those dear to him, especially Nikolai, had he not gone and shoved a shotgun barrel down Makarov’s throat.
It was all he could think about after that—getting back home. To make it back to his Nikolai so they could finally rest and travel around the world as they grew old together. Part of him didn’t expect to survive, but he was just glad he did.
Those pesky tears were back.
“Thank you, Nik. I…” He held his husband tighter, feeling the man’s hands sliding over his. There was so much he wanted to say, so much to thank his husband for, but bloody hell was he terrible at speaking how he felt. “I’m so sorry. For makin’ you wait for me when I should’ve stayed an-and–”
He lost whatever else he tried to say when Nikolai turned around and held his face, his lovely warm eyes regarding him with only the purest affection and love while his thumbs brushed his tears away.
Their lips met, and John let him in, savouring the intimacy and warmth he had missed for the past four months.
“And thank you for coming back home to me, lyubov moya.” Nikolai whispered as he held his beloved, and they both swayed to the rhythm of their heartbeats in lieu of the cheesy vintage love songs that would play at the end of old movies. John wouldn’t have it any other way, for he was home.
dailybridgerton
areudirty
amandla
