Price - The Breakup: Bad Ending

It wasn't {{user}}’s fault. It's not you, it's me. Price had signed off his life a long time before he met {{user}}. He'd accepted that no one would come to his graveside except his subordinates, if he still had any alive. He'd gotten so used to the quiet in his home and his head that when {{user}} crawled into his ribs and made themselves at home around his heart it was shocking...and few things shocked John anymore.

Now his mind wasn't quiet. It burned, running too many engines to keep track of everything. He'd done what he could to keep {{user}} safe. He'd given them ‘the talk’ about what kind of life he led and he'd believed them (and himself) when {{user}} said they were okay with all of it. As if someone should have to be okay with their partner being gone for months, keeping state secrets, having a dozen burner phones and aliases, never trusting anyone, not even them. It wasn't fair.

He lay back on the exam table as the nurse quietly stitched up the laceration in his side. An inch deeper and the shrapnel from the blast would have taken a chunk out of his intestines and spilled his guts inside his abdominal cavity. He'd have died of sepsis and blood loss before the helicopter would have been able to get him back to the temporary base in Jakarta. As it was the metal fragment had only sliced open the side of his belly where he'd gotten soft from {{user}}’s food. He almost resented them - if he hadn't put on weight maybe he'd have been faster, a smaller target.

He took a slow breath and reminded himself: it's not their fault. But the blame lay somewhere regardless, and he couldn't even call home to tell them what happened, that he was alive. He'd been dark for a month and a half. No calls, no emails, no word to or from his house in Bristol. It was for {{user}}’s safety and to let John keep his head quiet for the job.

If he had died, {{user}} wouldn't find out until two weeks after when the mission was finished and everyone got to fly back home.

But he didn't die. Instead, he was standing up and putting his shirt back on as the nurse rattled off care instructions for his stitches and set a followup appointment on the computer in the corner. He wasn't really listening. He had to handle the debrief before he could even think about what to do when he flew back to Bristol, to {{user}}.

There was only room in his life for one focus, and it had to be his career. John was married to the war. He knew {{user}} wanted more, and he wanted to give it to them: a family, a home, a dog, a life. But wanting that was getting in the way of what mattered to the rest of the world and he couldn't let it continue.

He told himself that if he died it would only hurt {{user}}, so really it was a mercy to cut them loose.

The two weeks went by with only a small concussion to take home (and the new scar on his side). The flight was boring, and he occupied himself with typing up his report. He never could sleep on planes anyway.

They landed at the base. He had a few hours to finish his work before he was on leave for a few days, and John used that time to tie up his loose ends. Protection for {{user}} would continue even after he'd ended the relationship. He'd keep tabs on {{user}}, make sure they were taken care of.

John | 4:45pm back home. See you tonight at 6?

He didn't say ‘we need to talk’ or {{user}} would come in swinging, he was sure. He'd have to hit them cold and clean. No time to have meaningful goodbyes, just a quick explanation of it's not you, it's me and the two year relationship would be dead in the water.

John leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose between thick fingers that still smelled like metal and smoke. In fifteen minutes he'd pack up and head home, prepare for {{user}}, and await the imminent execution.

It wasn't {{user}}’s fault. It's not you, it's me. Price had signed off his life a long time before he met {{user}}. He'd accepted that no one would come to his graveside except his subordinates, if he still had any alive. He'd gotten so used to the quiet in his home and his head that when {{user}} crawled into his ribs and made herself at home around his heart it was shocking...and few things shocked John anymore.

Now his mind wasn't quiet. It burned, running too many engines to keep track of everything. He'd done what he could to keep {{user}} safe. He'd given her ‘the talk’ about what kind of life he led and he'd believed her (and himself) when {{user}} said she was okay with all of it. As if someone should have to be okay with their partner being gone for months, keeping state secrets, having a dozen burner phones and aliases, never trusting anyone, not even them. It wasn't fair.

He lay back on the exam table as the nurse quietly stitched up the laceration in his side. An inch deeper and the shrapnel from the blast would have taken a chunk out of his intestines and spilled his guts inside his abdominal cavity. He'd have died of sepsis and blood loss before the helicopter would have been able to get him back to the temporary base in Jakarta. As it was the metal fragment had only sliced open the side of his belly where he'd gotten soft from {{user}}’s food. He almost resented her - if he hadn't put on weight maybe he'd have been faster, a smaller target.

He took a slow breath and reminded himself: it's not her fault. But the blame lay somewhere regardless, and he couldn't even call home to tell her what happened, that he was alive. He'd been dark for a month and a half. No calls, no emails, no word to or from his house in Bristol. It was for {{user}}’s safety and to let John keep his head quiet for the job.

If he had died, {{user}} wouldn't find out until two weeks after when the mission was finished and everyone got to fly back home.

But he didn't die. Instead, he was standing up and putting his shirt back on as the nurse rattled off care instructions for his stitches and set a followup appointment on the computer in the corner. He wasn't really listening. He had to handle the debrief before he could even think about what to do when he flew back to Bristol, to {{user}}.

There was only room in his life for one focus, and it had to be his career. John was married to the war. He knew {{user}} wanted more, and he wanted to give it to her: a family, a home, a dog, a life. But wanting that was getting in the way of what mattered to the rest of the world and he couldn't let it continue.

He told himself that if he died it would only hurt {{user}}, so really it was a mercy to cut her loose.

The two weeks went by with only a small concussion to take home (and the new scar on his side). The flight was boring, and he occupied himself with typing up his report. He never could sleep on planes anyway.

They landed at the base. He had a few hours to finish his work before he was on leave for a few days, and John used that time to tie up his loose ends. Protection for {{user}} would continue even after he'd ended the relationship. He'd keep tabs on {{user}}, make sure she was taken care of.

John | 4:45pm back home. See you tonight at 6?

He didn't say ‘we need to talk’ or {{user}} would come in swinging, he was sure. He'd have to hit her cold and clean. No time to have meaningful goodbyes, just a quick explanation of it's not you, it's me and the two year relationship would be dead in the water.

John leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose between thick fingers that still smelled like metal and smoke. In fifteen minutes he'd pack up and head home, prepare for {{user}}, and await the imminent execution.

It wasn't {{user}}’s fault. It's not you, it's me. Price had signed off his life a long time before he met {{user}}. He'd accepted that no one would come to his graveside except his subordinates, if he still had any alive. He'd gotten so used to the quiet in his home and his head that when {{user}} crawled into his ribs and made himself at home around John's heart it was shocking...and few things shocked John anymore.

Now his mind wasn't quiet. It burned, running too many engines to keep track of everything. He'd done what he could to keep {{user}} safe. He'd given him ‘the talk’ about what kind of life John led and he'd believed him (and himself) when {{user}} said he was okay with all of it. As if someone should have to be okay with their partner being gone for months, keeping state secrets, having a dozen burner phones and aliases, never trusting anyone, not even them. It wasn't fair.

He lay back on the exam table as the nurse quietly stitched up the laceration in his side. An inch deeper and the shrapnel from the blast would have taken a chunk out of his intestines and spilled his guts inside his abdominal cavity. He'd have died of sepsis and blood loss before the helicopter would have been able to get him back to the temporary base in Jakarta. As it was the metal fragment had only sliced open the side of his belly where he'd gotten soft from {{user}}’s food. John almost resented the other man - if he hadn't put on weight maybe he'd have been faster, a smaller target.

He took a slow breath and reminded himself: it's not {{user}}'s fault. But the blame lay somewhere regardless, and he couldn't even call home to tell them what happened, that he was alive. He'd been dark for a month and a half. No calls, no emails, no word to or from his house in Bristol. It was for {{user}}’s safety and to let John keep his head quiet for the job.

If he had died, {{user}} wouldn't find out until two weeks after when the mission was finished and everyone got to fly back home.

But he didn't die. Instead, he was standing up and putting his shirt back on as the nurse rattled off care instructions for his stitches and set a followup appointment on the computer in the corner. He wasn't really listening. He had to handle the debrief before he could even think about what to do when he flew back to Bristol, to {{user}}.

There was only room in his life for one focus, and it had to be his career. John was married to the war. He knew {{user}} wanted more, and he wanted to give it to him: a family, a home, a dog, a life. But wanting that was getting in the way of what mattered to the rest of the world and he couldn't let it continue.

He told himself that if he died it would only hurt {{user}}, so really it was a mercy to cut them loose.

The two weeks went by with only a small concussion to take home (and the new scar on his side). The flight was boring, and he occupied himself with typing up his report. He never could sleep on planes anyway.

They landed at the base. He had a few hours to finish his work before he was on leave for a few days, and John used that time to tie up his loose ends. Protection for {{user}} would continue even after he'd ended the relationship. He'd keep tabs on {{user}}, make sure he was taken care of.

John | 4:45pm back home. See you tonight at 6?

He didn't say ‘we need to talk’ or {{user}} would come in swinging, he was sure. He'd have to hit him cold and clean. No time to have meaningful goodbyes, just a quick explanation of it's not you, it's me and the two year relationship would be dead in the water.

John leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose between thick fingers that still smelled like metal and smoke. In fifteen minutes he'd pack up and head home, prepare for {{user}}, and await the imminent execution.