john price

The one thing he had never gotten used to after the injury was just how slow he was walking.

It wasn’t his fault. No, not entirely. But the action was still tagged with the name of a Price, the same one who had been essentially crippled into an early retirement by some dumb recruits not knowing how to properly manage their weaponry and shooting him in the knee as a result. His military career didn’t go out with a bang— he did not, in fact, die in the middle of battle as he had hoped— but the man simply went out with a little whimper and a whole lot of knee pain.

Said pain hadn’t been as apparent as it was now. It was one of the first times in a good while he had really been out— the good Mactavish boy was hosting a little party (but he called it a ball because party sounded just a tad bit too deep into debauchery) to celebrate some victory in the Unit Price wasn’t leading anymore. They didn’t need a leader, the 141; they were a good sort of lot with stable heads on their shoulders. But the fear of missing out was grand, and it left him stumbling around the fields of his mind trying to give a proper explication as to why him?

On top of that, he was literally stumbling around. If it wasn’t for the cane in his hand he would have probably fallen face first onto the nice carpeted floors a gazillion times. Not even talking about the stairs, either. It was a nightmare. He was so slow, people were constantly shuffling out of his way or in front of his path just so they could get around, and it felt so helpless. To see all of the couples and nobles and wives and husbands and children seemingly avoid him just because of how he was— which again, was not his fault— it would make anyone go crazy. It was making him do that especially, one foot stepping into place and the other dragging along the floor like some kind of awful curse never to be removed.

It would make anyone stir, with dread, with anguish and grief and loneliness. And it wasn’t easy having those feelings and actually having to linger with them, not burying them behind the call of duty and wish for war. John had never married. The life of a soldier had left little room for such things, and he had never found anyone who stirred his heart enough to consider it. His friends were few and far between, and even then they weren’t close enough to see that vulnerability he was laying so bare in the modern moment. Now, as he grew older, he felt the absence of companionship more keenly. The echoing halls of his manor were a constant reminder of what he lacked, and the days stretched on in an endless cycle of monotony.

But tonight was different. Tonight was a rare opportunity to escape the confines of his solitude, and Price could feel in his bones that it was going to be good. He had attended such events before, but they had always felt like a duty rather than a pleasure. Yet, as he arrived inside the nicely arranged and lavishly decorated Mactavish manor, the man understood that tonight was going to be a night worthy of joy again.

The elegant rooms of the Scot’s citadel, a whirl of color and light, filled with the sound of music and laughter. Decorative objects of the family’s history lined the walls, much more neatly put together than his own manor (which was bullshit, because how could a man ten years his junior be better at anything compared to him!?) People lingered and mingled all around, sipping on champagne for a bit before dancing a few rounds and then going back to the alcohol after. The crowd was a mix of familiar faces and strangers, all dressed to the absolute tens. John moved through the room, exchanging polite greetings and nodding to those he knew. The faces he saw couldn’t help but hide their pity at the man— now destined to be a whimpering, pathetic old man who struggled to do the most basic of tasks and would never live life how he wanted ever again.

And then he saw them.

Across the room, sitting near the grand piano where a few people sat and lingered and drank, was a figure that caught his eye. They were dressed in the most elegant attire, their posture straight and poised, smile gracing their lips from who knows what. John’s heart nearly kept out of its chest, skipping a few beats and making him feel like he was back as a boy in private school again. He had never felt this way before, not in all his years. It was as if something had awoken inside him, something he had long thought dead. Hopefully the lost nerves in his knee.

He couldn't take his eyes off them. The rest of the room faded into the background, the noise and movement becoming a distant hum. It all blurred together into a cacophony until it was silenced to nothing, and that nothing became their overwhelming glow from across that damn room. All John could focus on was them, their presence filling his mind completely. He had to meet them, had to know more about them. The thought of spending the rest of the evening without speaking to them was unbearable, almost a fate worse than death itself. What was the worst they could say if he simply made an introduction? To go away? This was for the military, and most people around at the very least knew his name.

John's hand trembled slightly as he made his way across the room, his injured knee protesting with every step, hands curling around the ball of his wooden cane tentatively. But he ignored the pain, ignored the cries from his joints telling him to finally sit down, his focus entirely on the figure before him. He had faced down enemy forces, had led men into battle without a second thought, but this... this was different. This was something he had never encountered before. This was admiration in its finest form, like a painter finding their muse for the first time. Love was a bold word, but maybe that’s what it really was.

When John finally reached speaking distance, he found himself at a loss. What could he say? How could he say it to not sound like a bumbling fool of a man? Which ways could he express the emotions that were now swirling within him? He had been a man of action all his life, but now, in the presence of this person, he felt... unsure. Vulnerable, even. In a place he wouldn’t have liked to be.

But fuck it. If the younger generation of soldiers could do this without a breeze, then maybe he could too.

John gently coughed into his gloved hand, watching as the stranger turned their head in his direction. And all he could do was smile.

"Good evening," he managed to say, his voice steady despite the feeling of fireworks exploding in his gut. "I don't believe we've met before."