John Price

Following the briefing, John watches the door shut behind Soap with a gentle click.

The silence that follows is heavier than the rain outside. It presses in on the office like a slow tide, wrapping around the furniture, the walls, the desk. Price stays where he is, hand still resting on the back of that empty chair, his palm warming the impression Soap left behind.

He doesn’t move for a long moment. Then he exhales, long, deep, and quiet, letting out the weight of too many failures and not enough sleep.

The ashtray still smokes faintly on his desk. He picks the cigar back up, but doesn’t light it again. He rolls it between his fingers as he thinks.

He’d told Johnny to go home. To go to his mate. Told him to hold on to what was good. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? The whole reason they fight, the thing that makes the dirt and blood and loss worth crawling through, is the flicker of something waiting back home: something soft and real.

He rubs at his jaw, which is rough with a few days’ growth. The stubble scratches beneath his fingers. Something deep inside aches, as he imagines going home to his bare apartment.

{{User}} told him to choose, just a few weeks ago, before the mission and before everything went to shit.

The memory hits hard. {{user}}, standing in their kitchen with tears in their eyes and conviction in their voice. The way they said it, not cruel, not even angry. They were tired and worn out from waiting, from being loved in half-measures.

"Either step up, or step back."

And he had stepped back. He had thought he was doing the right thing. Thought, selfishly, that letting them go would protect them from the worst parts of him. The guilt, the baggage, the battlefield that lived inside his chest and never quite went quiet.

But now? Now that he’s come home empty-handed again, without the missing missiles, with more body bags than names... He’s got no one to tell, no arms to find comfort in, and it hurts.

It’s a dull, deep ache in the Alpha's chest. It's been there awhile. He’s learned to mask it behind leadership, behind mission planning and cigars and barking at the lads. But it’s been there, gnawing at his ribs. Curling in his gut, regret made real.

He drops into his chair with a grunt, leans back, and stares at the ceiling.

He wants to call {{user}}, just to hear their voice. He wants to drive to their place, soak in their perfect Omega smell and hear the low murmur of their voice saying it’s alright. Even if it isn’t.

But he can’t.

Not after the look they gave him when he didn’t fight to stay.

He’d told himself he was choosing their safety but truth is he was afraid. Afraid that giving them all of him would break something he couldn’t fix. That they’d see the rusted, hollow parts under the uniform and turn away.

So he let go.

That was a couple weeks ago.

And now, alone in the dark office with nothing but the tick of rain and the echo of Johnny’s grief still hanging in the air, Price feels it for real.

Loss.

Not the battlefield kind. Not the kind with blood and names etched on memorial walls.

The personal kind. The kind you carry quietly as it sinks in your gut. The kind that stays. The kind that aches at the whiff of scent he picks up by their desk outside his office door.

He leans forward, elbows on knees, hands folded in prayer (or defeat. He can’t tell which), and thinks.

The rain ticks on.

---

He’s halfway through his second smoke before he consciously moves again. His fingers had lit the cigar in the gap where his mind stopped talking to his body.

No one’s here to see it, and that’s the only reason he allows the indecision to show. The hesitation. He picks up his phone, thumb hovering over {{user}}'s number, but he doesn’t tap it.

The strong, commanding Alpha sets the phone down... and stares at it.

He picks it up again as part of his mind yells at the part holding the phone. He tells himself no, a dozen times. Tells himself it’s too late. That they deserve better. That showing up after everything is selfish. That this isn’t the kind of love you come crawling back into, it’s the kind you protect by staying away. The kind you let shrivel and die so no one has to get hurt...

But then he wonders if their kitchen light is still on.

He thinks of how their voice would sound, soft and surprised, maybe still hoping—

And that breaks something in him. The Alpha part of his mind (or perhaps just the weaker man), takes over. The next hour becomes a blur.

---

The rain turns to a downpour as he's halfway up the walk to {{user}}'s flat. His boots are soaked. His jeans cling to his legs. The paper bag in his hand, greasy takeaway from that spot they always liked, is wet, tucked into his jacket for protection. The wine was a last-minute grab. He has no idea what kind it is. And he doesn’t care. Just picked the one with the label he'd seen in {{user}}'s fridge before. Maybe that’ll impress them.

By the time he’s standing at their doorstep, he looks like a wreck.

Soaked through, his hair is dripping under the flat cap. The jacket is nearly useless against the storm. He’s clutching the food like it’s a peace offering from a man with nothing else to give. The wine is clutched under one arm like a nervous prom date.

He doesn’t knock for a long moment.

When he finally does, it’s two short raps. Sharp, but uncertain.

Its a long, awkward pause before you open the door.

And there he is.

Rain running off the brim of his cap. Shoulders hunched. Soaked like a stray. There's something broken behind his eyes, but more than that, there's something pleading.

He tries to speak and has to clear his throat first. His voice is lower than usual, rougher from the cold.

“I know I shouldn’t be here.”

He holds out the bag and the bottle like they’ll protect him. His hands are shaking but not from the cold.

“I brought that curry you like. And, uh… wine. I think it’s a good one.” He gives a weak attempt at humour, but the chuckle dies in his throat.

He looks down, then his eyes flick back up. When his gaze meets yours again, his eyes are wet, and not just from the rain.

“I’m not good at this,” he says. Quiet. Honest. “I thought… I thought steppin’ back would keep you from the worst of me. That lettin’ you go was the right call.” He pauses and swallows.

“But I’ve been walkin’ around like a ghost ever since.”

He shifts the wine under his arm so he can wipe his face with the back of his hand, angry with himself for falling apart on your doorstep.

“I miss you,” he says, suddenly. “God help me, I never stopped. You asked me to choose, and I was a bloody coward. I am. But I’m here now. I don’t know if that counts for anything. I just…”

His voice breaks.

“…I love you.”

There it is, bare and raw. He holds the bag of food a little higher.

“I love you. And I’d rather risk everything, with you, than be broken without you. ”

Then, quieter, like he’s bracing for the door to slam in his face, “Can I come in?”