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fwibblefwobble · 10 months

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xii. it won't cost you much (just a single drop of blood)

Pairing: Mob Boss!Price x F!Reader Word Count: 12.9k Warnings: alcohol, emotional and mental manipulation, bruises, mental breakdown, makarov being a creep, self-harm, scars, thoughts of suicide, cheating (technically), blood, guns, possible inaccurate translations Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. A/N: very big thanks and endless hugs to @chaoskrakenuwu and @mvtthewmurdvck for putting up with me for the duration of this chapter and letting me annoy them with my ramblings, this chapter would not exist without them. fair warning, there's not a lot of editing in this chapter either because i drove myself crazy looking at it, so if you see a spelling/grammar mistake or something just use suspension of disbelief and pretend it's not there please. and a small heads up about the taglist: if you're name is crossed off i've tried tagging you, but for some reason or another your tag doesn't show up and i will be removing it if it doesn't work on the next chapter. please double check your visibility settings if you want to be on the taglist! prev | next

Who knew rock bottom looked like standing before a wall of mirrors in a bespoke wedding gown?

You weren’t allowed any input on the design, much like the first time you’d gotten married. If you had, the dress wouldn’t look anything like this—a gaudy gem-encrusted garment with a fit more akin to too-tight lingerie than a wedding dress.

It’s hard to feel comfortable with so much skin on display; the thought of standing before a crowd of strangers in this barely there slip makes you nauseous. Makarov was pleased, though, having you model the dress during your last interrogation.

He’s been careful not to leave lasting marks on you since then.

You take your wins where you can get them now, no matter how small they are.

Kira circles you, inspecting you with her father’s blue-green gaze, a vulture watching for its prey to take its last breath. You refuse to give her the satisfaction. She hums and murmurs to herself, occasionally stopping to punch and prod at the fabric. If her nails catch your skin every once in a while, you don’t comment on it.

“What do you think?” Kira asks, turning away from you to the couches behind you. Phillip looks up from his phone for the first time in an hour, giving you a generous once-over.

“Is it too long?” Kira ponders. You catch her sly gaze in the mirror and sink your teeth into your tongue until you taste iron.

She does this to you at every fitting.

“Any shorter, and she’ll be walking naked down the aisle,” Phillip chuckles.

“I doubt my father would mind,” Kira smirks, plucking at the hem of your dress with those too-sharp nails.

They’ve been like this for the past month, bonding over their mutual love of humiliating you.

You snapped at her once when she’d asked if you’d be more useful than your mother and stay alive after having your first child. The slap had been crisp, and you rode the high of that victory for the rest of the day.

She’d gone crying to her father, of course, and you weren’t able to get out of bed for two days afterward.

Now, you resolve to stay silent, biting back any words that bubble up on the top of your tongue.

Your bedroom doors open, your soon-to-be husband waltzing in with Shepherd behind him. You keep your eyes forward, feeling the way he leers over you. You know better than to meet his eyes; it’ll only encourage him, and you know no one in this room will stop him.

“We’re almost done,” Kira says, and you tense when her fingers brush across your neck to mess with your hair.

“Take your time,” Makarov hums, moving to stand behind Phillip, leaning against the back of the couch. The three men speak quietly to each other while Kira flits around you. She stands in front of you, trying to match your hair pins with your necklace, and you chance a glance over her shoulder. You catch Makarov’s reflection immediately, his intense stare aimed solely at you as he speaks to the others.

He smirks, lust-filled and victorious, and you avert your gaze immediately.

Kira clicks her tongue, stepping back from you with her mouth pressed into a small pout. “I think this is the best we’re going to get today,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and walking over to the group.

“There’s still a week left,” Phillip reassures her with a soft smile, pulling her into his side. “Everything will be perfect.”

You watch them kiss in the reflection, the shattered pieces of your heart crumbling into dust.

“We’re going to be late,” Shepherd says, stern as ever. Phillip nods, arm sliding around Kira’s waist as he guides her from your bedroom. Makarov’s eyes briefly break from you to watch them leave, the corners of his mouth twitching into a quick frown.

The mask slips back on, and he turns back to you with a toothy smile.

“Come say goodbye, Птичка.” It’s a command, not a request. You step down from the platform, eyes focused on the ground as you walk into his arms.

Makarov kisses you on the cheek, hands roaming over your body and the thin fabric of your dress. You keep still, letting him feel you and trying to ignore the trail of uncleanliness that lingers after his touch. He presses his lips to your ear, hands tightening on your hips. “Птичка, ты меня любишь?”

Your stomach churns, biting into your tongue as you nod. He chuckles into your ear, leaving a lingering kiss on your neck. He steps back, arrogance and superiority so thick you nearly choke on it, smirking down at you.

“I’ll come see you after the meeting.” He gives you another once over, a sly grin sent to Shepherd before following Phillip and Kira.

The room lapses to silence as Shepherd stays behind with you.

Shepherd is…awkward at best. He does his best to avoid you, keeping his eyes trained forward whenever he’s in the same room as you. He’s hesitant to speak with you or even acknowledge you.

But there are times—

Shepherd clears his throat, turning further away from you as he picks up the white throw from the back of the couch and holds it out to you. Gingerly, you take it from him, wrapping it around your shoulders. It’s not very long, but it covers more than your dress, and it’s soft on your skin.

“Thank you,” you murmur, unsure of what else to say. Shepherd nods, eyes flitting to you, then briefly down to your covered chest. He turns to face you, still unable to look you in the face.

“The, uh—” he coughs, shuffling on his feet, “—the meeting should last a few hours.”

You look up at him, a curious tilt to your head. Shepherd huffs, hands clenched into fists.

“We—Makarov will be busy for a while if you want some…time…to yourself.”

“Oh. Um, okay,” you nod.

Shepherd nods stiffly, fists unclenching.

“You…be careful.” He chokes the words out, rushing out of the room before you can respond.

You’re left standing in your bedroom, half-naked and staring at the door.

A few hours to yourself with the comfort of knowing you won’t be stolen from your bed? It’s a weight off your shoulders, if a small one. Maybe you’ll actually be able to get some rest.

The first thing you do is get out of that ridiculous dress. You’re quick and careful, getting it off as fast as possible without tearing it.

Oh, how you wish you could tear it. You’d rip it to shreds and set fire to the scraps.

Your clothes are limited, every piece too tight or revealing or smothered in Makarov’s cologne. Anything’s better than that dress, you reason, pulling on one of his black button-ups. You search for pants, fighting not to gag at the overpowering aroma of bitter almond and ambergris that assaults your nose. You dig through your dresser, through the vast collection of sleep shorts, trying to find the longest pair.

The flash of red amongst the black and white of your wardrobe gives you pause. You shuffle through the clothes, searching for the rest of the red piece lying at the bottom of the drawer. You toss another black shirt aside, fingers grazing across the maroon cashmere of the folded sweater beneath it.

Why was this still here? You figured Phillip would’ve gotten rid of it, or Makarov would’ve thrown it out while he was replacing your closet.

Maybe Makarov assumed it was Phillip’s?

Fingertips gently brush across the fabric, gathering the familiar sweater in your hands. You don’t know what it is—a sharp pang of nostalgia or the painful longing of your heart—but you bring the sweater up to your nose, taking a deep inhale.

It smells mostly of laundry soap, but just beneath the delicate stitches, you catch the faint scent of spiced whiskey laced with sweet tobacco and amber.

How the hell did you end up here?

How the hell were you going to get out of here?

You thought you had a chance with Phillip, that maybe you could play the role of perfect wife long enough to get him to ease up on you. It wouldn’t have been the life you wanted, but it’d be familiar—something you were accustomed to—and you’d get to keep your family, your home, your name. Hell, you’d felt somewhat normal up on that stage despite knowing the performance was all for him.

Then Kira appeared. Then that fucking blonde and her blue dress. Then—

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him—didn’t miss all of them. It had only been a year, but it was the best year of your life. A year of safety, surrounded by people who you thought genuinely cared for and loved you. For the first time in your life, you had friends, a family, a home.

Was it all a lie?

It couldn’t have been. They couldn’t have known who you were the entire time, but…maybe you weren’t as good at hiding as you thought you were. How long had they been playing to turn you in? From the beginning? Or only after you revealed your connection to Phillip? Did that make the betrayal better or worse?

Was it when they realized you couldn’t give them the money and power that your name carried? When you showed them that cursed marriage contract and revealed your connection to Phillip? Were they just using you like everyone else in your life?

Was Price using you?

You want to think he wouldn’t do that to you, that he actually cared for you, but you’d thought the same of Phillip once upon a time.

It had all been real for you, but had it been for him? Did he ever love you? Or were you just some fool looking to grow close to someone after years of mistreatment and—

Oh. You’re crying.

You pull the sweater away from your face, wiping furiously at your cheeks. You don’t know when you started, but you need to stop before your face becomes too red. You fold the sweater, tucking it back into the bottom of the drawer to be forgotten, and grab the first pair of shorts you see.

Once you’re dressed, you fold the blanket and return it to its place on the back of the couch. You glance at your bed, teeth chewing at the insides of your cheeks.

It’s one of your few chances for uninterrupted rest, but…you’re not tired. If you’re honest with yourself, you don’t think lying in bed will do you any good right now. The last thing you need is peace and quiet for your mind to start worrying with thoughts about what could’ve been and what will be.

You need to get out of this room.

You don’t know how well this will work, but the worst that can happen already has, so you might as well try. Pulling open your bedroom doors, you give a small knock and catch the attention of the two guards. The guard to your right glances over at you with a slight turn of his head.

“Not supposed to let you go anywhere,” he says, facing forward again.

“I was going to the kitchen.” You keep your voice soft, eyes shifted down.

They exchange looks, a soft sigh escaping the guard to your left. They each take a step to the side, giving you space to squeeze between them.

“Fifteen minutes,” the one to your right says. You nod, slipping between them with a grateful smile.

“I can bring you back something?” you offer, turning back to them just as you reach the steps. Neither speaks, so you take that as your answer and head downstairs before they change their minds.

You have no plans to go to the kitchen, instead content to wander aimlessly through the maze of halls. You pass a few guards, all Shepherd’s men, who acknowledge you with a short nod and let you on your way.

You let your feet carry you, taking in the familiar halls for what may be one of the last times. You don’t know what will happen after your wedding; will Makarov stay here in the estate with you? Will you be forced to endure more of him and Phillip and now Kira? Or will you be whisked away to live with him in Russia?

Will you be forced to play the dutiful wife, a caged bird trapped so far from your home? How long will that last until he grows bored of you?

What happens when Makarov grows bored of you? You’ll be stuck entirely at his mercy in a foreign country with truly no one by your side to help you.

Maybe you can convince him to stay here or to let you stay here while he travels? If you—

Bile rises in your throat.

If you get pregnant quickly enough, perhaps you can convince him that it’s a tradition for children to be born in the mansion.

You stop in the middle of the hallway, swallowing down your nausea.

How the hell did you end up like this–where that’s your best option?

Maybe—

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

That’s all your life is now. Endless maybes and questions of what to do next—of how to keep yourself alive—and rolling with the literal punches.

Maybe you should’ve let that man kill you in your motel room.

Maybe—

“—we need to take another trip to Manchester?”

You freeze, standing in the middle of the hallway as fear and anxiety creep into your bones.

“I doubt we’ll make any more headway.”

You didn’t realize you were so close to your father’s study, the hall suspiciously absent of its usual guard detail. The door sits partially cracked, enough to give you a glimpse of Shepherd’s profile as he leans against the wall with his arms tightly crossed.

“Las Almas seems like an easier target for us. We’ve made enough progress to squeeze out what’s left of Garza’s people.”

Shepherd nods with a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You shouldn’t be here.

All he needs to do is turn his head an inch to the left, and you’ll be caught. If you can see him, you’re sure he’ll see you. The last thing you need is to be dragged into that study and punished for eavesdropping.

You take a careful step back, eyes on Shepherd, ready to turn tail and run. Decades of training in situational awareness must sink in because that small movement catches his attention immediately. He doesn’t turn his head, eyes sliding to the side to meet yours.

You don’t get the chance to do anything as Shepherd blinks, looking away from you in silence.

Is he…letting you go?

He pushes himself off the wall, taking a half-step closer to the door. Straightening his posture with his hands folded behind his back, he blocks your view inside, but now no one in the study can see out—can see you.

You’re ready to leave, not wanting to press your luck when Shepherd’s hand moves.

Did he—

He does it again, a very clear come here wave behind his back. He shifts on his feet, taking the chance to give you another quick glance before he waves you over again.

Every instinct tells you not to—to turn around and go back to your room—but Shepherd doesn’t seem to be trying to trick you.

When you think back on it, he’s never been outwardly cruel to you; he was more avoidant than anything. There were times when you even thought you caught a glimpse of pity in his face.

You take a step forward, a test of your new theory, and Shepherd shifts again to cover as much of the cracked door as he can.

You tuck yourself against the wall, head tilted toward the open space of the door.

“There hasn’t been any movement in Las Almas since our guys took over,” Phillip says with a sigh.

“That we know of,” Shepherd scoffs.

Las Almas? Mexico?

Your mind flits back to Alejandro bursting through the club doors, storming into the back office in a fury with Valeria and Rudy.

“We’d have better luck getting something out of Karin’s people,” Shepherd adds.

“They’re too loyal,” Phillip spits. “We’d have better luck getting something out of Valeria’s old associates.”

Of course, he’d have a problem with loyalty.

“What about their other contacts? The German and his people?” Kira speaks up.

You roll your eyes, fighting back a scoff and the irritation that bubbles in your veins.

“They‘ve been quiet since our last…incident,” Phillip huffs. Shepherd’s hands tighten into fists, knuckles turning white, and the room lapses into silence.

Incident? With König?

“We could try—“

“Such a rush for results,” Makarov hums. You hear that familiar scrape, that telltale sound of him scratching his shoes across your father’s desk.

Your skin prickles, body tensing in anticipation of a hit that doesn’t come.

“We already have them in the palm of our hands. We have their safehouses, their contacts, their families. On top of the information Price’s guard dog has been giving us.”

Price’s…what?

He can’t mean…

“How do we know they’re not feeding us that info?” Shepherd scoffs, lips curling back in distaste.

“Ghost’s too arrogant,” Phillip says. “Thinks he’s untouchable ever since he took down Roba single-handedly.”

You’ve heard of Manuel Roba and his Zaragoza Cartel. He’d been one of the most prominent figureheads of your childhood education, your father was adamant you learn about every potential enemy and partner in the business. Especially the ones known for their cruelty.

More importantly, you’ve heard of the massacre in Chiapas that resulted in his death.

You remember when your father got the call nearly two weeks before your wedding. It was the first time you’d seen him smile in months, the sheer delight enough to revive him from the husk of sickness and vitriol he’d become.

He gave you the photos as a wedding present, giddy as you looked over the pictures of burnt viscera and ruin. You’d wanted to gag, choking down your nausea and wondering who the hell would be capable of such violence.

Now you know.

You wonder what Roba could’ve done to him for Ghost to topple his entire empire.

“Still, I wouldn’t put it past him or Price to let us have access to their systems,” Shepherd sighs. “This could be a ploy.”

“It’s worked so far,” Phillip counters. “I don’t think Ghost would ever let us get close to his family for some fake info. He’s too—”

“Single-minded,” Kira says with a small, taunting chuckle. “He was too caught up looking for information about the Птичка, I doubt he realized he left himself open for us.”

Ghost was…looking for information about you?

You don’t know if you should feel guilty. It’s not your fault he couldn’t ask you outright, but maybe if you’d been more open, then he wouldn’t have felt the need to search.

“It doesn’t matter,” Makarov sighs. “We just need them to behave until the wedding is over. If that means taking a few drastic measures, then so be it.”

Shepherd bristles, fists clenched so tightly you worry his knuckles may split.

“That’s—”

“Price knows what kind of game this is. If he can’t handle it, then he should bow out.” Makarov snaps.

Shepherd bites back whatever comment he was about to say, swallowing around his next words, “And after the wedding?”

“We take the 141.”

Makarov says it so simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Our combined power and the leverage we have over him, Price will have no choice but to step down,” Phillip explains, more excited than you’ve ever heard him.

“We’ll kill him, of course—make sure there’s no chance of him coming back. Then we go after those most likely to get any wild ideas about revenge; the son, Ghost, Karim and her lover. Once they’re gone, the rest will be ours for the taking,” Makarov laughs.

This is—

Your father tried for years to find common ground with the 141, trying to find that small sliver of opportunity to get his foot in the door.

You’re surprised he hadn’t come up with this idea first. Maybe he had and never told you about it. It wouldn’t have been the first time that happened.

Shepherd moves, taking a small step closer to the door and unclasping his hands. You see the angry, red indents where his fingers were pressed into his palms, but you’re given no time to dwell as he shoos at you through the crack in the door.

You tilt your head, waiting another moment until he does it again, and you catch the scuff of Makarov’s shoes hitting the floor.

You take your leave, hurrying down the hall and back toward your room.

Your mind spins, a confusing swirl of emotions. How are you supposed to feel about this? All of your hard work to escape the nightmare of your marriage undone by one man’s distrust and an accident. Did they know what was happening? Ghost had to have known, on some level. He couldn’t have gotten your wedding picture from anyone else but Phillip.

When did he get it? How long did he hold onto it before he told everyone? Is this why Price was working with Graves?

Your blood runs cold at the sudden thought.

Were you a trade? The return of Phillip’s lost wife for assurance that his men would back off?

Family comes first, your father always said—an unspoken rule of this world that everyone lived by.

Price would do anything to protect his family, you won’t fault him for that.

You’d just made the mistake of thinking you were a part of that family, too.

An ache blooms in the right side of your skull, spreading across to vibrate across your brain in unwelcome pain.

This is too much for you.

You reach your room in record time, not acknowledging the guards who open the doors for you. You shuffle past them, eyes on the floor, and collapse onto your bed.

You have a week to find a way out, but for now, you’ll settle for a good night’s rest.

Two days later, a box is delivered to your room.

There’s no note attached to it, nothing to identify who it might’ve come from.

It’s simply a sleek, black box.

You sit on your bed, staring down at this box for ten minutes, debating whether or not to open it. It isn’t from Phillip; his gifts always came hand-delivered in white boxes. You doubt it’s anything dangerous; you’re the key to so much success and power that neither Makarov nor Phillip would risk anything too bad happening to you.

Still, you can’t think of why someone would be sending you a gift.

Just open it, you huff at yourself.

You don’t think, pulling off the lid in one swift motion.

Your heart drops.

It’s another dress if you can call it that. Velvet in the shade of deep maroon, with thin, barely-there straps and a neckline that has to reach past your stomach. No, this isn’t from Phillip; he would never show that much of you off to other people.

This is from Makarov.

You want to crawl out of your skin, peel away every part of yourself that he’s touched. You don’t care what this is for, you can’t wear this.

You won’t wear this.

The bedroom door swings open, Phillip waltzing in with a wide smile and something white and fuzzy draped over his arm.

“Oh good, you got it,” he says. You nod, keeping your gaze down on the dress.

Of course, he knew about this.

“Consider it an engagement present,” Phillip laughs, circling the bed to sit next to you. You inch away from him, arms wrapped around yourself. “He had it made just for you.”

There’s that lilt to his voice, that tone that tells you to be grateful. That this is more than your worth.

“What’s the occasion?” you mutter, peering through the corner of your eyes to watch Phillip lay the fuzzy thing down in your lap.

“A celebration—” he tells you, unfolding the garment and letting his hands brush against your legs, “—to finalize our deal with the 141. There’s a dinner for us tonight.”

If he feels you tense, he doesn’t say anything. Your blood runs cold with betrayal, what’s left of your heart lurching in your chest.

“They were kind enough to host, and I figured why not bring you along? Makarov was against it at first, but I convinced him to let you go. What better way to show Price that he’s lost than to show his former hostage off, right?”

He laughs.

You nearly vomit.

“And I found this—” Phillip pats the fuzzy cloth in your lap, giving your thigh a small squeeze through the fabric. “Think of it as my wedding gift.”

You wait until he pulls away to pick up the…

Oh.

It’s a coat. Your coat. The one Phillip had gifted you for your first birthday together. Pristine, white, and made with real lynx fur. You wore it once, for his sake; you hadn’t been as keen on the idea of real fur as a luxury as he was. He showered you with compliments that entire night, but once it was over, you’d hung it up in your shared closet to never wear again.

Why was he giving this to you?

“Thank…you?” you try. Phillip tilts his head, obviously not believing your poor attempt at gratitude. He sighs, and you feel the dread creeping up your spine.

Silence overtakes the room, your fingers curling tightly into the coat. Heart slamming against your ribcage, you don’t know what to do. You don’t know what’s coming, what he’ll say next.

A warm palm gently settles on your left shoulder, sliding back to rest over the raised scar. He must feel you tense then, his hand pulling away the second your muscles contract.

“Canary—”

He says it so softly like he’s surprised to feel you flinch at his touch.

“Did you love him?”

You choke, snapping around to stare at him. He looks back at you with emotions you can’t begin to understand. He’s not angry with you; he’s…

Remorseful. Sorry. A slew of things you’d never thought him capable of feeling.

“Who?” you ask, strained and shaky and scared.

“I—” Phillip sighs in a moment to collect himself, clasping his hands together in his lap. “I know you think otherwise, but I did care for you—do care for you. I don’t agree with what Makarov’s put you through, but—”

“Stop.”

“I never blamed you for running away—”

“Stop, please.”

“I just want what’s best for you. For us. I want you to remember that and know that I’m not doing any of this to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

“Phillip—”

“I know you weren’t held captive by the 141. Not for a year.”

“I—I was—“

“Price doesn’t keep hostages.”

The mention of his name forces a sob from your throat. It’s a ragged, ugly thing, more cough than cry.

He knows.

What’s he going to do to you? He knows.

You’re in d a n g e r.

Run.

You have to run.

Run.

“It’s okay,” he coos, petting a gentle hand down your cheek—over the fading splotches of purple and blue.

You freeze.

”I wasn’t perfect, or even good, really. I didn’t deserve the loyalty you gave me.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, unable to comprehend what he’s telling you.

“Once this is over and the dust is settled, I promise I’ll make sure things are better for you.” He leans forward and presses his lips to the crown of your head. He lingers there for an extra moment, pulling away to wipe his thumb across the silent tears running down your cheeks.

Phillip stares at you with watery eyes and a sad, soft smile, and you hate him.

“The coat’s for tonight,” he explains gently, a vague gesture toward the dress.

Something flashes across his face, then. Some twisted mix of anger and jealousy. “I’m not against showing you off, but…you’re still my wife for a few more days, right?”

He laughs it off, awkward and bitter.

How much of this was his plan, you wonder. Or is he just as much Makarov’s pawn as you are?

“Can you be ready by six?” he asks. You nod as he stands from the bed with a groan. Your eyes follow him the entire way to the door, where he stops with his hand hovering over the handle.

“I know I have no right to say it,” he says, looking over his shoulder to meet your eyes. “But I do love you.”

You let him leave without another word.

You’re left staring after him, clutching the fur coat to your chest.

You’re left alone for the rest of the day, allowed to get ready in relative peace.

It’s hard not to let yourself get distracted. Phillip’s confession had flustered your brain, and learning that you’d be seeing the 141—seeing Price—again only worsened it.

How are you supposed to get through this? How can you handle being face-to-face with him again?

Will she be there, wrapped in his arms and draped in baby blue—

Stop it.

Think of something else. This could be your chance to escape.

You get dressed and ready, focusing only on formulating your escape plan.

Phillip will be busy dealing with business, and the crowd should be enough to slip out unnoticed, you think, pulling the red dress from its box.

You slip on Makarov’s red gown, realizing too late there’s as much skin showing on the back as there is on the front. Your entire back is exposed, and the deep neckline stops mid-stomach.

The bruises may not be as dark, the scars slowly healing, but there’s no way you can hide any of that in this dress.

Your eyes fall on the fur coat lying on your bed.

It’ll hide you well enough, but what about–

Your fingertips graze the bruising around your neck, eyes bouncing the room in search of something to cover it. You land on a scrap of red left lying in the box. You lift it from the box, scoffing when you notice the chain clasp.

Of course, he’d put you in a choker.

At least it’s thick, you think, fixing the velvet choker around your neck. It’s a little tight, but soft enough not to irritate your skin.

You dawn the long coat, posing in the mirror to take in the view of yourself.

You won’t be able to make your escape in such bright white. You don’t feel torn about leaving it behind, but you’ll need another way to cover the bruises if you want to get out of the club unnoticed.

The swelling in your face has gone down almost entirely, so your makeup’s easier to do. Your foundation’s a little thicker than usual to properly cover your injuries; the split on your lip stings when you swipe over it with deep red gloss.

At least the blood will blend in.

You move your hair, trying to decide how to style it.

Will their doors be locked this time?

An updo, then? Or something with a lot of pins?

You settle on something half-up, half-down, adding in a few extra of your sturdier pins.

In the end, you look amazing. Not a shred of evidence of what you’ve gone through in the past five months left to be seen.

Phillip comes to collect you at six o’clock exactly. He steps into your room, stopping mid-stride when he catches you standing in front of your mirror. You see him enter in the reflection, turning to stare at him over your shoulder.

“You look beautiful,” he says, so soft and sweet and—

And, for just a moment, you’re standing in your family’s summer home in your wedding dress with Phillip staring back at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

Kira enters, draped in perfectly-fitted gold, and your fantasy crumbles before your eyes. She steps to Phillip’s side, tucking herself against him as he finally looks away from her and slides an arm around her waist.

She looks at you, a victorious smirk ghosting over her face before it’s schooled into her perfectly practiced smile.

“Shall we go?”

Phillip guides her from the room, with a hand low on her hips and without looking back at you.

In another life, perhaps.

It takes everything you have to quell the panic attack building inside you.

The drive is silent, and you agonize every single minute of it. You try to play it off, picking at the fur on your coat and taking quiet, measured breaths. Phillip and Kira don’t seem to notice, far too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to you.

When you finally arrive, you think you’re going to faint.

Kira exits the car first, the four guards with you gathering around her. Phillip follows, but circles the car to pull your door open for you. He holds his hand out, eyes focused on the club entrance.

You blink at his hand, long enough for him to turn to you expectantly.

“Let’s go,” he presses. Cautiously, you slide your hand into his, stepping out of the car. He doesn’t let go until the door is shut behind you, but when you step away to give yourself space, he follows with an arm around your waist.

You glance at Kira, the woman staring ahead at the club. You’re sure this is some kind of play, but there’s a small part of you that hopes she’s bothered by the sudden display of affection.

Your small entourage bypasses the line outside the club, Phillip leading you straight to the front, where Alejandro stands guard.

“Mr. Vargas,” Phillip nods, the smugness clears as day in his voice. Alejandro stares back, bored and bordering on irritation. He takes in your husband, then the group behind you before his eyes finally fall on you. Months of dealing with Makarov have you immediately looking away, eyes falling to the ground.

Alejandro scoffs quietly, moving his gaze back to Phillip.

“There’s a table saved for you,” is all he says as he steps aside to allow you inside.

The club is exactly like you remember it, and you have to swallow down tears as the familiar sound of Farah’s singing greets your ears.

Kira immediately leaves for the bar, two of the guards trailing behind her. The other two follow you and Phillip to your table, standing watch as Phillip’s arm leaves your waist to pull your chair out for you. He takes his seat next to you, attention already captured by something else.

You keep your gaze on the table, trying so hard not to look around, trying not to look for—

“What’re we drinking tonight?”

You look up at the sound of Soap’s voice, finding the Scot standing on the opposite side of Phillip. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even glance in your direction as Phillip gives him his order and yours.

Soap nods, that charming smile on his face, and promises to be back soon as he walks past you.

Your hand reaches out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing against Soap’s arm.

You don’t know what hurts more: the way he snatches his arm away from you or the fact that he doesn’t even look at you when he does, never once breaking his stride back to the bar.

“Everything okay?” Phillip asks. You lower your hands to your lap, turning to Phillip with a clearly forced smile.

“Yeah.” Your voice is an octave too high, nails digging into your palms to keep the tears from building. Phillip watches you, but you maintain your smile until he lets out a disappointed sigh and turns away from you. You deflate the moment he looks away, dropping your gaze to the table.

Don’t let it get to you.

Focus on other things.

How are you going to get out of here?

Kira joins the table, deep red drink in hand, as she sits across from Phillip with a coy smile. They fall into soft conversation, leaving you to entertain yourself. You settle for people-watching, turning your attention to the throngs of people around you.

You’ll have to change, or at least get rid of your coat, but you’ll need something to cover the marks.

If you can find one left at another table, you could take it? Or charm someone into giving you theirs? To do that, you’d have to get away from—

You glance back at Phillip and Kira, their attention anywhere but you.

That should be easy enough, but what about the guards? Your eyes bounce around the four guards spread around your table. They seem far more attentive to Kira than you. Maybe you can use that to your benefit?

Maybe—

Two drinks are set in front of you, liquid sloshing as the glass hits the table a little harsher than normal. Your breath stutters as you try not to flinch when Soap pulls away. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at you before he moves on. The charming smile returns as he serves drinks to Phillip and picks up a small conversation with Kira.

You move your attention to your drinks, heart too hurt to keep watching as Phillip orders food for you.

A tall, thin glass of something gold and bubbly next to a small glass of water.

It’s better to be sober, but it’ll be an insult not to drink when Phillip ordered it for you.

Kira says something, and Soap lets out a boisterous laugh and gives her a sly wink.

Fuck sobriety.

You grab the tall glass without thinking, tipping almost half of the drink into your mouth.

The realization sets in as soon as the drink hits your throat. Somehow too sweet and too bitter and too bubbly and too strong all at the same time. It’s an odd and unpleasant mixture that you have to fight to swallow down. The burn drags down your throat, and you quickly exchange your glass for the water.

The water is no better; too warm, bordering on hot and salted.

You have to choke down the water, careful not to draw attention as you turn to the bar. There had to be some mistake, Alex would never–

It’s easy to spot Alex because he’s staring right at you. Eyes narrowed, a hateful frown plastered on his frown, he glares at you with such rage–such pained betrayal–that you nearly let the glass slip from your fingers.

Maybe he would.

You set the water down, turning your gaze down to your lap to blink away tears. Clasping your hands together, you dig your nails as far into your skin as you can without drawing blood. The scars on your right hand burn like your throat, and you bite into your tongue until you taste iron to keep from crying out.

The music blurs into noise, everything around you melting away into a messy cacophony of static and shrill ringing.

Don’t panic. Not here.

You can’t afford to slip up.

It takes you ten minutes of measured breaths to come back to reality, just in time for your food to arrive. Phillip and Kira seem none the wiser to your anxiety-riddled state, too busy complimenting Soap, who seems all too happy to soak up their praises.

You decide to focus on your food to avoid falling into another spiral. Phillip’s ordered you some kind of lamb dish, smothered in sauce and sprinkled with herbs. It smells good, and you can feel your mouth water at the sight, your stomach clenching tightly.

Your meals had been strictly controlled for the past five months, from the portion size to the times you were allowed to eat. The food wasn’t bad, made by the estate chef, but you would’ve taken being able to tear into the stale motel pretzels at any time over a barely-filled bowl of gourmet soup once a day.

You’ll try to savor this small indulgence.

It only takes you one bit to realize an indulgence this is not. The sauce is tart, bitter on your tongue, and the lamb is almost too undercooked to be deemed safe to eat.

This isn’t an accident, any of it.

The message is loud and clear: you are not welcome here.

You spent so long convincing yourself that Phillip was lying, that the 141 would never turn you in. It was supposed to be another one of his manipulation tactics; they were out there looking for you, trying to save you.

Regret sets in somewhere deep in your soul.

You never should’ve stopped at that motel. You never should’ve taken the job here.

You should’ve kept driving until you ran out of money.

You should’ve let that man kill you in your motel room.

You pick at your food—trying to enjoy the few edible pieces you can find—while Phillip and Kira enjoy their cooked-to-perfection meals with each other. At one point, Kira holds up her fork and feeds Phillip a piece from her plate, and you take another sip of your nauseating cocktail.

You barely feel the burn.

The music picks up toward the end of the meal, a swarm of cheers coming from the crowd around you. Phillip finishes his drink, standing from the table. For a second, he glances at you, and you think he’s going to pay attention to you for the first time tonight. He doesn’t, eyes falling to your still full plate with a small frown.

He shifts to Kira, circling the table to hold his hand out to her in an offer to dance. Kira takes it happily, trailing behind him to the dance floor.

You’re left alone, hungry and tired and numb.

It’s as if the energy has been sucked out of you. You don’t have it in you to try anymore.

Why look for a way out now?

How far can you realistically get if you’ll have every gang this side of the country looking for you?

One of the guards closest to you shifts, adjusting the sidearm hidden beneath his suit jacket.

How would you even make it out of this club?

There’s no way out for you. In a few days, Phillip will have your estate, and Makarov will have you, and there’s nothing you can do. Nothing except—

Your attention falls to the steak knife sitting diagonally across your plate.

You’d have to be quick, aiming high so you don’t catch your choker. The only doctor here is Rudy, and it would take him too long to get here from the kitchen.

You could do it.

You’d finally be free.

Hand moving on autopilot, you reach for the knife.

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

Your hand falls to your lap.

“The invitation was extended to Graves, but I should’ve expected he would bring his wife,” Price bites out, pulling Kira’s chair so he can sit across from you.

Your teeth sink into your already raw tongue, watching Price lean back in the chair to casually survey his club. He sips from his glass, blue gaze slowly coming to stare at you. There’s a frostiness there, like the bitter chill of a winter storm.

You don’t have the energy to be scared.

“How are you liking the club, Mrs. Graves?”

“That’s not my name,” you say, voice unnervingly even. Price raises his brows, just as surprised as you are at your apparent apathy.

“Mrs. Adler, then?”

You don’t respond, blinking at him in indifference. He holds your stare, taking your silence as a victory. He glances past you, just over your shoulder, with a small hum.

“He seems to be enjoying himself.”

You barely turn, already knowing what you’re going to see. Phillip and Kira glide across the dance floor, steps matching perfectly like they were made for each other.

You sigh, turning back to Price with a shrug.

“Will your date be joining us tonight?” you ask, plucking your glass of water from the table to sip it. The salt burns against your sore tongue.

Price tilts his head, eyes narrowing at you in offense. “My date?”

“The woman you brought to Phillip’s…event. The blonde,” you explain.

You thought it would hurt more to bring her up, to confront him about this, but there’s hardly an ache.

“Don’t remember much about that night, if I’m honest,” Price shrugs, taking a swig of his whiskey. “I remember meeting Phillip, though.”

He spits the name at you like an accusation. You take it like you’ve taken everything these past five months: in silence. Your non-answer only serves to make him angry, jaw clenching as he sits up straight.

“I remember the show, too. Quite the performance you put on.”

You nod, eyes fixed straight ahead. Price huffs, glass slamming down on the table. Your eyes squeeze shut to keep yourself from flinching at the swift movement and sudden noise.

Inhale, exhale.

When you open your eyes again, Price is leaning forward, elbows on the table, and glaring at you with more anger and pain than you’ve ever seen on his face. But it’s not the vitriol aimed your way that captures your attention.

He looks tired.

Dark bags under his eyes, deep lines across his forehead, hair greyer than the last time you’d seen him.

Something akin to concern sparks in the pit of your stomach before it’s snuffed out.

“Four months,” Price hisses. “We spent four months looking for you. You have no idea what we went through trying to find you, the resources we wasted, and the whole time you were back with him.”

The anger that surges through you catches you off guard, but you do nothing to calm it.

“What you went through?” you snap.

“We lost a lot of people—good people, loyal people—looking for you.”

“Yes, you seemed very concerned about finding me while you were laughing with Phillip and had another woman in your arms,” you spit, planting your hands atop the table to lean in.

“I agonized over you,” Price bites through clenched teeth. “I didn’t believe Graves when he said you’d gone back to him. I thought it was a lie or that he’d been keeping you prisoner, only to find you performing on stage for him like the past year never mattered.”

“That’s not—”

“Were you working with him the whole time? We bleed information the entire time you’re there, and as soon as you leave, it stops, and we’re offered a truce by the man who has us backed into a corner. Hell of a coincidence.”

That…doesn’t sound right.

Phillip didn’t have the manpower to blackmail the 141. It was Makarov’s men doing the heavy lifting.

“And you…played me for a lovesick fool. Getting close to my family, luring me in with some bullshit sob story about an abusive ex-husband—”

Your jaw drops, breath catching as the sting of fresh betrayal races from the scar on your shoulder straight to your heart.

Your reaction gives him pause, eyes welling with tears that you try to blink away.

“I loved you, John.”

It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, and it nearly kills you to get the words out.

Price’s brows knit together as a few tears slip down your cheeks. You scramble to pat them away with your napkin, careful not to smudge your makeup.

The wince is sharp when you feel his fingertips graze your wrist. Price hesitates, hand hovering before you. He moves again, slower this time, fingers lightly grazing across the back of your right hand. His eyes follow along as he traces the deep grooves of scar tissue down your hand until he reaches your wrist.

His fingers dip beneath the sleeve of your coat, threatening to push it up.

You don’t let him, left hand grabbing onto his wrist before he can continue.

He pushes, trying to get under your sleeve. You dig your nails into his skin, and he withdraws entirely.

You watch him watch you, slowly putting the pieces together as you pull your sleeve down over your hand and wipe away the rest of your tears. The anger doesn’t disappear, but it morphs into something far more dangerous.

Price’s hands tighten into fists, jaw flexing as he swallows.

“Canary—”

“Enjoying yourself, darlin’?” A hand dips beneath the collar of your coat to rest on the back of your neck.

Inhale, exhale.

You plaster on a bright smile, looking up at Phillip with the flutter of your lashes.

“More now that you’re back,” you smile. Phillip hums, leaning down to lay a kiss on your head before turning to Price.

“Hope she didn’t talk your ear off,” he chuckles.

Price scoffs out a laugh, hands unclenching as he schools his face into a sly grin.

“Spent most of the time singing your praises, actually,” Price says, lifting his glass to his lips to finish off his drink.

“Did she?” Phillip gives a surprised laugh, but you feel his hand squeeze against the back of your neck. “I’m flattered.”

“I look forward to speaking with you later,” Price says, standing from the table to hold the chair out for Kira. Phillip nods, waiting until Price is halfway across the club to release your neck.

You grab your cocktail and down the rest of it.

You don’t feel the burn at all.

Phillip returns to his seat and his conversations with Kira just as the alcohol hits your system.

How could Price so easily believe you’d betray him, so easily dismiss the years of torment you went through? That almost feels worse than if he were to have given you over to Graves willingly.

How do you know he didn’t?

Why would it have taken them four months and an invitation to find you?

If they were looking for you, then the motel had to have been one of the first places they checked. Surely, they would’ve found your car. The shattered windows should’ve raised suspicions.

There are too many questions, and you’re too exhausted to try and sort them out.

“I’d like another drink.” You catch the end of Kira’s giggles as she and Phillip stand. He walks around the table to lay an arm across her waist before leading her to the bar.

You’re amazed at how easily they can make you feel invisible.

You finish off your salted water and decide this is too much for you.

You get up, not sure where you’re going or what you’re about to do. All you know is you need to be somewhere that’s not here.

Two steps from the table, and someone collides with you in a flurry of red fabric and gasps. You stumble backward, looking up to find Valeria staring back at you with a taunting smile.

“Should watch where you’re going, avecita,” she hisses the nickname, waving her empty glass at you.

Oh no.

You can feel the wetness sliding down your face, dripping from your chin. You look down at your coat, the red wine already soaking into the fur.

No, no, no.

You don’t bother with Valeria, shoving past her and into the crowd. You dodge and weave through the dancers and club-goers, making your way to the bathrooms.

There’s someone in one of the stalls, but you pay them no mind as you head straight to the sinks. You turn on the water, waiting for it to get as hot as possible while you gather as many paper towels as you can.

You’re frantic, bordering on hysterical, trying to salvage what you can of your makeup with one hand and testing the heat of the water with the other.

The stall behind you opens, but the person leaves in a flurry of purple and teal fabric.

There’s not much you can do, half of your blush gone and mascara streaking down your cheeks. Any efforts to fix it only result in wiping away more and more of your makeup until you’re left with angry bare splotches and patches of purple bruises peeking through.

You can’t fix this, but—

The coat.

You turn all of your focus to the coat, soaking the paper towels in the scalding water—not caring about the way it burns your skin—and lightly dabbing against the red wine.

Please work. It has to work.

Please, please, please.

Hands shaking too badly, you let out a cry as your gentle pats turn to frantic rubbing.

When that doesn’t work, you yank the coat from your shoulders and hold it under the water, scrubbing at the fur with violent desperation.

Come on, work.

The stain doesn’t lift, even with the mix of boiling water and your tears.

Come on, come on, come on.

“Canary?” You barely hear Ghost’s voice over the rushing water and your thoughts.

Why isn’t it coming out?

Phillip can’t see this.

You have to f i x t h i s.

“Canary.”

Have to keep trying. Can’t stop until it’s gone.

Phillip’s going to be furious.

A gloved hand grabs onto your wrists. The sob that falls out of you breaks the damn, wave after wave of uncontrollable emotion flooding over you.

Your knees buckle under you, the coat sliding to the floor next to you in a heap of wet, red-stained fur. Hands planted on the bathroom floor, you heave out sobs—painful, howling cries that tear from the back of your throat.

Something soft grazes your shoulder, a featherlight touch that pulls a half-scream from your lips as you shrink and curl in on yourself.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” the deep timbre of Ghost’s voice calmly says. He lays a hand on your back, large palm splayed over your black and purple painted skin. He sets his other hand on your shoulder, carefully pushing you to sit up straight and face him.

You can hardly see through the tears, your hands clawing at your chest as you try and fail to get air into your lungs—long, angry scratches tearing into your skin.

Ghost’s hand leaves your back to grab onto yours, pulling them down into your lap.

“Look at me,” he says, soft but stern.

You don’t turn, but your eyes wander up to meet his.

“You need to breathe.”

You barely get the words out, struggling through sharp staccato gasps, “I—I can’t—it won’t—I—”

“Breathe, Canary. Inhale—”

Ghost takes a deep inhale, eyes glued to yours. You follow along, forcing air into your lungs in a long inhale.

“Now, exhale.”

Ghost coaches you through this six more times before you’re able to get control over your breathing, still uneven but calm enough not to send your heart into overdrive.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

You’ve never heard this tone from Ghost. His quiet concern sets you on edge, heightening your already overdriven sense of fight or flight.

He must sense your hesitation, bracing his hands against your shoulders with a small, grounding squeeze.

“Canary,” he addresses you firmly. “What happened?”

“I–”

Get a hold of yourself.

“I’m fine,” you choke out, scrubbing furiously at your cheeks. You pull away from him, turning to gather your stained coat in your arms.

Using the counter, you pull yourself to your feet with shaking limbs. Ghost hovers next to you, silently watching as you hold the fur under the sink. The heated water soaks your already tender skin, steam rising from the impending burns. You grimace through the tears and the pain, continuing to scrub at the stubborn stain.

Ghost takes a small step toward you, hands up in front of him like he’s approaching a wild animal. “I don’t think–”

“I have to get this out,” you hiccup, not once tearing your eyes away from the red fur.

“It’s just a coat,” he reasons, unusually hesitant.

“It was a gift,” you cry. The tears ramp up again, your hands scrubbing harder and harder. The stain never lifts, but the fur starts to clump and wear. “He’s going to–”

The burn on your hands becomes too much, and you drop the coat into the sink as you wrench out another sob.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t stop the onslaught of tears. You can’t seem to pull yourself together, the emotions you’ve been shoving down for months spiraling out of your control.

Ghost murmurs something, shuffling next to you while you weep into your hands.

You wince at the sudden glide of fabric over your trembling shoulders, peeking through your fingers to look at Ghost. His jacket is gone, the smooth black garment now draped over your shoulders. He doesn’t look at you, turning the sink off and folding your coat.

“What–” you swallow tightly, wiping at your sore, swollen eyes. “What are you–”

The bathroom door slams open, a fresh wave of panic shooting through your veins at the sudden noise. The echo of a furious click of heels, and Valeria appears before you, staring down at her phone.

She looks up at Ghost first, mouth opening to speak before her eyes land on you. Valeria stops in her tracks, and it’s the first time you think you’ve ever seen her surprised.

She recovers quickly, pressing her lips together in a firm line. She appears calm, but there’s no mistaking the fury simmering beneath her surface.

“The office,” is all Ghost says, handing her the coat. Valeria nods, draping the coat across her forearm and turning on her heel. She heads to the door, holding it open as she looks out at the rest of the club.

Ghost takes a cautious step toward you, reaching out to adjust the jacket on your shoulders, making sure you’re covered. He moves slowly, carefully, trying not to startle you.

“Keep your head down, yeah?” he says quietly.

Don’t do it, something inside you screams. This is all his fault.

You pull the jacket tight around you, glancing over at the mirror that stretches across the length of the bathroom wall.

You’re certainly a sight. Eyes red and swollen, makeup smeared and gone, black and blue spread across your face.

You can’t trust him, but…you can’t go back looking like this.

“Canary…?”

You look back to Ghost, nodding as you let your gaze drop to the floor. He sets a gentle hand on your shoulder as you take a careful step forward. Your body trembles, legs unsteady as you slowly make your way to Valeria.

She doesn’t waste a second, waving you forward before heading straight for the back office. Ghost’s hand moves to rest in the center of your back, giving you a small push to follow after her. His hand doesn’t move, and he doesn’t leave your side, keeping in step with you the entire way, blocking any view of you with his massive stature.

Valeria lets you both into the office, handing the coat off to Ghost before disappearing into the mass of dancers.

Ghost eases up on you, guiding you toward the sofas. You pull away from his hold, moving to the chairs in front of the desk instead. Ghost lays your coat over the back of the sofa while you slump into the chair, pulling Ghost’s jacket off of your shoulders to fold it and set it across your lap. You shut your eyes, concentrating on taking slow, methodical breaths.

“Ghost, what’s going–Jesus fucking Christ.”

You open your eyes just in time to see Kyle crouch down in front of you, eyes wide with worry. Tabby, and Soap trail in behind him, Valeria and Nik not far behind.

Kyle sets a gentle hand on your cheek, turning your face so he can look at the bruising around your eye.

“Graves did this?” he asks, looking over his shoulder to Ghost.

“No,” you rasp, leaning away from Kyle’s touch.

“You don’t have to lie to us, Птичка,” Nikolai says. Your body reacts before your brain does, muscles tensing as you physically recoil from a nonexistent slap.

The words rush out of your mouth, a hushed exhale, “Please don’t call me that.”

Kyle is quick to help, taking one of your hands in his and squeezing softly. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s alright.”

Tabby is at your side in seconds, taking the chair next to you to rub a comforting hand over your shoulder. Soap walks behind you, rifling through the office as Nikolai makes himself comfortable on one of the couches. He returns minutes later, holding out an old-fashioned glass filled with water.

Soap behind you, Tabby and Kyle on your sides, Valeria and Ghost all standing before you, you feel the clutches of claustrophobia curling around your heart.

Too many people.

You need space. You need air. You need–

The office doors open, and Price steps inside.

He stops the moment he sees you, his sharp inhale the only sound in the uncomfortably silent room. Price clenches and unclenches his hands as he takes in the scene before him. You don’t notice the others moving away from you–unable to move your eyes away from Price–until Kyle lets go of your hand.

What do you say in this situation? You never thought this was how your night was going to go.

Do you apologize? You hadn’t meant to cause trouble.

Do you yell? It’s just as much their fault you’re in this mess.

Do you leave? If Phillip hasn’t noticed your absence yet, you’re sure he will soon.

Do you–

Price crosses the room with long, sure steps until he’s standing in front of you. You’re the first to break eye contact, shame burning through you as you drop your gaze to your lap.

No one moves. No one dares to breathe and risk breaking the thick quiet.

Is he going to turn you in? March you out into the club and throw you back to the wolves? Will he kill you here and use your corpse as a message?

You’d prefer that over this torturous silence.

Price doesn’t crouch, no. He kneels before you, warm hands coming up to caress your face. He tenderly lifts your head until you meet his eyes.

“Give me a name.”

There’s no anger in his voice, no burning rage written across his features, no impending wrath behind those blue eyes.

You swallow tightly, the last of your tears sliding down your cheek. Price brushes it away with his thumb, careful not to press into your delicate skin.

“Give me a name,” he whispers, thick and pleading, as wetness builds in his eyes. “I’ll handle the rest, alright?”

You thought you’d be cried-out by now, but something in the tone of his voice–that calm, unwavering protectiveness you’ve yearned for–tugs at your heart, and the tears threaten to start again.

“I–” The words get stuck in your throat, and Price leans up, pressing his forehead against yours.

“One name, Dove. Just one name, and I’ll find everyone that dared touch you and cut their hands off at the fucking wrists.”

There it is. That simmering fury, hidden beneath his pleading. Fiery rage that promises to lay waste to anything in its path, leaving not even ashes.

And in that moment, you’ve felt the safest you’ve been in five months.

Eyes sliding shut, your fingers curl into the jacket lying in your lap. You steel yourself against him, the single name escaping you in a whisper that echoes over the entire room.

“Makarov.”

You feel the tension rise in the room, panic quickly rising inside you.

Price moves with a swiftness, arms winding around you to pull you forward. You collapse into him, burying your face into his neck. He doesn’t hesitate, wrapping himself around you as much as physically possible.

“Ghost, find Alejandro and König,” Price says, a soothing hand running up and down the bare skin of your back. “Tell them we’re closing early.”

“I’ll let Farah and Roach know,” Kyle speaks up softly.

“Rudy will want to look at her,” Valeria adds. You feel Price give a short nod against your head, followed by the rushed footsteps of the three leaving the room.

“Here,” Soap murmurs, and Price shifts against you. You detach yourself from him, giving him room to move. Soap hands him the glass of water, which Price then holds out for you. You take it with a soft thanks, wiping the back of your hand across your cheeks before taking a small sip.

The water soothes your throat, helping to ground you just a bit more. You take a deep breath, setting a hand on the chair next to you to push yourself up to your feet.

Price stands beside you, he and Soap keeping watchful eyes over you, ready to help at a moment’s notice as you sit back down in the chair.

“I’m fine,” you sigh, more a reassurance to yourself than to them.

The doors burst open, and you do your best not to flinch, but the glass slips from your fingers before you can stop it. Price is quick to catch it, tossing it back to Soap before he turns and levels whoever’s walked in with a sharp glare.

“Gaz said we’re closing?” Alex asks, stepping inside with Farah beside him. Rudy catches the door before it closes, holding it open for Valeria as she carries his medical bag.

There’s a pause when they notice you, taking in your appearance and the protective hand Price lays on your shoulder.

Rudy is the first to react, taking his bag from Valeria and moving to your side. Alex lets out a low whistle, Farah and Valeria quick to smack him on each arm.

“Do we know who did this?” Farah asks quietly, and Price gives a firm nod.

“Anyone we know?” Alex asks.

“We’ll talk about it when everyone’s here.” Price gives no room for further questions, but Alex nods as he and Farah join Nik on the couches. Valeria opts to stand behind Rudy, leaning back against the desk while she watches him examine the bruises on your arm.

You let Rudy poke and prod at your skin, listening to the quiet murmuring from the couches where Nik and Tabby fill the others in on what’s happened. Price doesn’t leave your side, not even as the rest of the club trickles into the office. You can hear the music die down before Roach walks in a minute later, the second-to-last person you’re waiting for.

“König’s staying outside with Graves, but he can hear us through his earpiece,” Roach signs, posting up against the wall next to Ghost.

The room lapses into silence, and Alex is the first to break it. “Is Graves really working with Makarov?”

All attention turns to you; even Rudy pauses to wait for your response.

You nod, overwhelmed by the sudden number of eyes on you. “And Shepherd,” you add quietly.

“Of course,” Kyle scoffs, the angriest you’ve ever heard him. Tabby sets a calming hand on his arm, but it does little to soothe him.

“It explains the Russian interference we’ve been having,” Soap sighs.

“And why it suddenly stopped once Graves offered to work with us,” Rudy huffs, going back to his work with a frown on his face.

“Doesn’t explain how they got information on us,” Valeria cuts in. “They’ve been cutting into business only people in this room should’ve known about.”

The attention falls back on you, the unspoken question left hanging in the air. You pull your arm out of Rudy’s grip, wringing your hands together to let your nails pick at the scars on your right palm.

“I didn’t tell them anything.” You hate the way your voice wavers, the way you easily fall into feeling so small and scared. “Makarov tried to–they wanted–”

You feel your heart rate rising, your nails digging further into your skin.

“Did they say where they were getting their information from?” Farah asks, calm and even and reassuring.

You can’t help the way your eyes flick up to Ghost, sinking your teeth into your cheek while you gather your thoughts. “They…said someone was trying to hack into their systems or get into their information somehow. I guess they returned the favor and started watching whoever was trying to watch them?”

You glance over to Ghost again, catching the moment it clicks in his mind. He stays quiet, but his eyes squeeze shut as he takes a deep breath.

“What’s their endgame here?” Alex speaks up, thankfully pulling your attention away from Ghost. “They did enough damage going after our other charters and contacts. Why go after our families too?”

“Does Makarov need a reason?” Kyle scoffs.

“Shepherd’s been dying to take us down for years. I’m surprised it took him so long to stoop this low,” Alejandro spits so viciously you can feel the anger radiating from him.

“It’s not about the business,” you say, turning to look up at Price. “They want you dead.”

The room erupts into exclamations of disbelief and anger.

“This isn’t new information,” Price speaks up over the rising discontent. It quiets down for a brief moment, but you can feel the agitation, the readiness to defend their boss. Price looks back down at you, another gentle squeeze to your shoulder as he asks, “What else did they say?”

You do your best to remember what you can from their meeting in your father’s study, trying not to focus on the instant anxiety any thoughts of that room brings. “After you’re gone, they’ll go after whoever they think won’t fall in line, then divide up what’s left between them so there’ll only be one family in charge of everything.”

“One family?”

“The woman that’s with him, Kira? She’s a marriage lawyer, and Makarov’s daughter. Phillip gave her our marriage contract to edit it so he can marry her and still keep my family’s estate.”

Price’s hand squeezes a little tighter, his free hand balling into a fist.

“But–” Kyle clears his throat, worry crossing over the anger on his face, “–what would happen to you?”

You turn away from Price, a sharp inhale as your nails break skin and small beads of blood bubble up over the scar tissue.

“It’s a trade; Phillip gets Kira, and Makarov…gets me,” you murmur. “Wedding’s supposed to be in a few days.”

No one speaks. Instead, you’re met with quick expressions of surprise and disbelief before the attention shifts over to Price. He slides his hand from your shoulder, cradling the back of your head as he leans over and lays a kiss on the crown of your head.

He steps back, hands already working to roll up the sleeves of his dark blue button-up.

“Rudy,” Price speaks, a tone of authority and command you’ve never heard from him before. “Take her and Tabby to the back. They do not leave your sight, you understand?”

Rudy nods, already packing up his bag. The others move with him, preparing for a fight without question. Kyle kisses Tabby on the cheek, and she pulls away to help you to your feet.

“What are you doing?” you ask Price while watching Nik pick through the bookshelf and pull a gun from one of the thicker books. Price turns to you, eerily calm and completely at peace with what he’s decided must happen.

“Sending a message–” Price speaks, eyes boring directly into yours. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”

Price storms out of the office, the rest of the 141 following with that same determination.

You hear Phillip speak as they file out, an uneasy pit growing in your stomach.

“Come on,” Rudy says, softly grabbing onto your elbow. He leads you to the door, Tabby following swiftly behind, pulling you close as you walk out of the office.

“There’s the woman of the hour!” Phillip calls the moment you step foot out of the office. You don’t get the chance to turn to him as a swarm of bodies immediately step between you and him.

“You don’t get to talk to her,” Price seethes as Rudy tugs on your arm in an attempt to lead you to the kitchen. You pull out of his grip, stepping around him before he can stop you.

“And you don’t get to dictate when and how I speak to my wife,” Phillip scoffs, mouth slotting into a one-sided smirk. Kira bristles next to him but keeps her face neutral. You maneuver your way next to Price, only stopping when Ghost holds his arm out in front of you and takes a half step forward to block half of your body with his. Kyle quickly moves to your side, and when you feel someone pressed up against your back, you look over your shoulder to find König looming behind you.

“Your wife, eh?” Price laughs, cold and bitter. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

Phillip purses his lips, sucking air through his teeth. He shakes his head before his eyes slide over to yours.

“I told you I’d make sure things would be better, that you’d be safe–”

“Does she look safe to you?!” Soap yells, disbelief blatant in his voice.

Phillip raises a finger, disappointment turning into irritation. “Don’t do that. Don’t…do that.”

Kira steps forward, squaring her shoulders with a coy smile. “Our business and our deal have nothing to do with Ms. Adler–”

“You mean your father’s business?” Valeria hums. Kira’s smile tightens, and Valeria matches it with a smirk of her own.

“We had a deal,” Phillip insists, gaze moving back to Price.

“I don’t work with traitors,” Price states.

Phillip chuckles–a quick glance between you and Ghost–but he doesn’t say anything more.

Price takes a small step forward, “I’m giving you one chance, Graves–”

“Canary,” Phillip calls, the three men around you moving an inch closer. “Is this what you want?”

That…wasn’t what you were expecting.

You can see Price tense, and reach out to lay a hand on his arm. He pauses, looking back at you in question.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, stepping out from behind Ghost. You take careful steps forward, eyes focused on Phillip as you move to stand at Price’s side. Phillip tilts his head, brows raised expectantly.

“I’m not going back there,” you tell him. It’s the first time in decades you’ve denied him something, and to say it doesn’t strike fear in your heart would be false. He’s never gone out of his way to hurt you himself, but he’s also never heard the word no fall from your lips.

Phillip’s eyes narrow, bouncing back and forth between you and Price.

It must only be a few seconds of silence stretching over the room, but it feels like an eternity. You don’t know what he’s going to say, what he might do. He’s outnumbered, though you don’t know much about Kira’s abilities; there’s no way he can take you back.

“If that’s what you want,” Phillip shrugs.

Wait, what?

It can’t be that easy.

“I meant it when I said I cared about you,” Phillip sighs, a softer approach this time, and you almost fall for it–letting yourself relax just a bit at the familiar tone.

Price sees right through it, reaching around your waist and pulling you into his side. It snaps you out of your momentary daze, and you lean into him in thanks.

Phillip nods, jaw flexing before he opens his mouth again, “Though with you gone, Makarov will want something equally as valuable instead. Maybe we’ll finish buying up those properties in Manchester? Demolish that little graveyard, and build something useful over it. Or we could visit a few of our old friends in the Middle East? I hear Urzikstan is lovely this time of year.”

“Phillip–”

“We could try talking to that agent, too,” Phillip says to a smirking Kira. “What was his name again? Hong-jin?”

“Horangi,” Kira nods.

“Right, that’s it. And if he’s not in the mood to talk, maybe the little one again? The MacTavish girl?”

“You’ve made your point,” you grind out.

“Have I? Because you seem to think this is some kind of negotiation. It’s not.”

“Th’ hell it isn’t,” Soap snaps.

“You think you can just threaten us? In our club? It doesn’t work like that,” Alejandro seethes.

Phillip hums, looking over the group surrounding you.

Just leave, you silently plead. If you cared for me, you’d let me go.

“Fair enough,” Phillip relents, to everyone’s surprise. He moves to the table, turning his back to the entirety of the 141 to pick up his glass and finish his drink. You’d think it was a play, but even Kira seems shocked, the smirk gone from her face as she watches him.

“One last thing, though,” Phillip says, stepping next to one of his guards.

Time slows down around you as he moves, your senses running on overdrive.

You see Phillip pull the gun.

You hear the shot go off.

You feel the bullet hit your stomach, all strength leaving your legs as you crumble to the floor.

And, for one blissful second, you smell the faint scent of bergamot and vanilla incense–your mother’s favorite perfume.

It leaves you all at once, and you’re left with nothing but black.

translations:

Птичка - little bird

Птичка, ты меня любишь? - little bird, do you love me?

taglist: @sleepyendymion, @blazedprince, @blueoorchid, @ohgodthebogisback, @melancholyy-hill, @wasteland-babe, @meepetteoneonly, @anitaebee, @honeyr4ven, @curasimp, @jxvipike, @frazie99, @reiya-djarin, @urfavsunkissedleo, @hauntingtherosebush, @aerangi, @ofmenanduhhhwellmen, @warners-wife, @xx4rcticxx, @mundane-frogola, @marytvirgin, @nyooom, @gogh-with-the-flow, @arctic-writes, @thriving-n-jiving, @deadpoetsandhoney, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @blurpleuni-squid, @dead-noodles, @urfavsunkissedleo, @tapioca-marzipan, @averyyreads, @sourire-acide, @plutorice, @ray-rook

@nivalis-dies, @froggi-mushroom, @carla019083-blog, @urlovecarla,@fvfvxcvfxcvf, @digitalsins, @dectectivejjbittenbinder, @330bpm-whiplash, @warners-wife, @das-conk-creet-baybee, @dudewithastick, @x-jeff-johansen-x, @calypsoonn, @octopiys, @pssytrux, @pastelpixies, @bloodyfoxes12, @emma342561, @scatter-mind001, @kereseth, @iwaszoomingg, @schlafenderbruder, @solidly-indulgent, @oastertoaster,@whovianwar, @kateanacali, @tbrfic, @gh0st-r1der, @certainlynotasimp, @pheobees, @fivedicksinatrenchcoat, @sarapaprikas-blog, @moriflos, @laeilaps, @furiousshepherdclambailiff, @manicdepressive-dreamgirl, @tactical-shrimp, @rosesgaylol, @marvelranger, @thelyingpierrot, @msdrpreist, @riverrka, @beesucculent, @anasta-sis, @celestialaccords, @luvmariax0, @sanfransolomitatm, @itsryuken, @drink-of-paradise, @zerocable, @drearnyalien, @banduhbununuh, @siliconebones, @hawkscanendme, @argella1300, @xxven, @cruelevans, @digitalsins

#I’m like actually physically unwell #I can’t stop crying??#holy fucking shit this is the pinnacle of writing I think #good fucking god

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fwibblefwobble · 10 months

Text

Breaking and Entering

(John Price x F! Reader)

(Call of Duty Masterlist)

Rating: M Wordcount: 4.2k Tags: Girl Dad Price, Wife Reader, Angst, Fluff, Feral John Price, Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, TF141, (Unrealistic interpretations of UK gun laws) Warnings: Home invasions, Deadly use of firearms A/N: AKA the home invasion fic nobody asked for

When your number lights up his phone, Price knows it by heart.

There’s just one problem.

You aren’t supposed to call this one.

He’s in the middle of a briefing when it happens, discussing relevant intel ahead of a mission happening in the imminent future. Arms folded, beside the projector screen, voice taking on his gruff, clipped tone used only to convey orders, information, commands. It’s a late workday, but the intelligence that has just come in is valuable, extremely relevant to the team’s next hunt. As much as Price would like to be home, he can’t be. Duty comes first, and you’ve learned to accept that in him.

His phone rings in his pocket, and he catches Gaz’s face just in time to see the expression of ‘Really, Cap?’ Before he excuses himself, looks at the screen.

It’s you.

Normally he’d have his phone on silent for briefings, but now he’s glad he’s forgotten. He’s told you explicitly that this number is for emergencies, and emergencies only. Short of life or death scenarios, this number is exclusively off limits.

Which means when he sees the number, his heart sinks below his stomach.

He’s answering and moving before your voice even comes through, wordlessly striding from the briefing room and ignoring the questioning calls from his team after him. There’s no preamble to your conversation, and he tries to remove the anger, the fear from his voice when he speaks.

“Where are you?”

“In the bedroom.” You whisper back urgently, and he can hear the tremble in your voice, can practically feel you shaking through the phone. There’s a pause on the other end of the line as he shoves open the doors to the command center towards the direction of the parking lot.

“John.” You whisper again, voice very small, hushed and quiet. “John, there’s someone in the house.”

Price doesn’t freeze despite the cold wash of dread in his veins. There’s only motion under his feet, heart pumping full of adrenaline in his chest, where something fearful, furious, brutal coils in a low growl.

Before he can respond, however, there’s the sudden crash of something on the other line and you whimper.

“Where are the girls?” He demands as he waves off an officer who salutes him as he walks by, swinging his hand so hard the other man flinches.

“In the bathroom. I locked them in, they’re being quiet like their mummy told them.” You reply, and he can hear the growing sob in your throat. You’re terrified, beside yourself, but you don’t say it, don’t tell him how worried you are, how you want him to come home. You know he’s already on his way, you know to be brave, and for a moment Price’s heart swells with the tender affection of pride before it quells when there’s another clatter in the background.

“Hang up and call the police.” He tells you on no uncertain terms, pulling his keys from his jacket and all but racing towards his car.

“I already did. Told them where we are but-”

You pause then, release a low, shuddering exhale that crackles through the phone.

“John, I just wanted to say I love you.”

“Don’t.” He snaps before he can stop himself, gripping the steering wheel with a white-knuckle grip. “You are going to be fine, you understand me? You and the girls. I’m on my way, the police will get there before I do.”

And if they don’t, there will be hell to pay. He adds silently.

He can hear you suck in a breath to say something next, only to pause.

The stairs creak in the background.

Price floors the gas.

“Get the gun.” Price tells you gravely, flashing his credentials at the gate operator without looking at him. “Can you get to the safe?”

It had become necessary due to the nature of his work to ensure you had a certain level of self-defense for your safety when he wasn’t home. Price had more enemies than he could count, and while he had made every precaution to ensure nobody, not even his team, knew of your existence, he had placed a certain level of insurance with you just in case. The paperwork had been a nightmare to get through, but with the mention of his specific job description, the powers that be had allowed an exception to the laws on weapons, leaving you with a short revolver hidden in a safe in the bedroom.

You don’t answer his query, but Price can hear a rustle, the sound of you moving across the room to the top of the dresser.

Moments tick by, and Price doesn’t speak in the silence, not wanting to offer a single sound that may alert the intruder to where you are. You remain just as quiet, but Price can hear the low, slow click of the safe’s lock as you twist the code into place.

April 22nd. Your eldest’s birthday.

“I’ve got it.” You whisper, barely audible through the phone.

Price sighs in relief, the smoky breath of him curling across the dashboard as he weaves through traffic, speeding tickets be damned.

“Good girl.” He rumbles, trying to keep his voice low, even, reassuring. “Is the door locked?”

“...Yes. Yes.” You reply back, and he swears he can hear the sound of the gun shaking in your hand as you hold it.

“Loaded?” He asks again. There’s a click that is too loud when you open the chamber to check.

“Six bullets.” You murmur, voice a little more even, more level now in a way that makes his heart ease, makes the commanding, logical instinct of his military training activate.

“I want you by the door.” He orders you as if you’re one of his own. “Both hands on the gun, just as I showed you. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” You answer, and that alone, the wry humor you give him nearly has him smile, chuff with affectionate laughter. Yet whatever humor he possesses is terrifyingly absent in this scenario, the one that could very well end with both you and his daughters dead by the time he gets home.

Bloody fucking hell. Where are the bloody cops?

“John…” You whisper then, just a touch louder so he hears you better over the thrum of the engine. “I can’t hear him. I think he’s gone.”

Price allows his eyes to flutter shut for all of a moment, clamping down on the premature relief that rises in his chest.

“Are you sure?” He asks, softer, trying to ease your frayed, tender nerves.

He can hear you swallow over the line, trying to wet your dry throat. “I…I think so.” You tell him at last. “I don’t-”

BANG-!

The sound of the bedroom door being kicked in.

He can hear you scream from the other end of the line, voice rising sharply in panic and terror as another, deeper voice echoes in the background, rising even louder with words he can’t hear. The sound is garbled, unintelligible as your phone drops to the floor. Price can barely hear the sound of his own voice when he shouts for you, words cracking in his throat. The road around him blurs, and he looks to the display on the dashboard to gauge the time until his arrival.

Two minutes.

Two minutes for you to die, for his two beautiful daughters to be killed as they scream for you, two minutes for the undeserved happiness of his life to be stolen from him.

Price yells again, voice desperate, calling your name. There’s the sound of struggle in the background, and you curse at your attacker- feral, untamed, terrified. Like a wild, injured mother animal defending her young from a predator.

Yet before Price can call out for you again, there’s a crunch, another, and the line goes dead.

The world drops out from under him.

The tires of Price’s car screech as he takes the turn into the neighborhood far too quickly, leaning with the inertia of the vehicle as he races down the street towards the house where his whole life is falling apart.

The car lurches to a stop in the middle of the street, Price not bothering to park properly as he tumbles out of the driver’s side door and towards the front step of the townhouse.

BANG-!!

A gunshot.

Price sees the image of your smiling face in a beautiful white dress flash behind his eyes.

The house goes silent.

Price used to be a religious man. His father would drag him to church on Sundays, would insist on his boys dressing proper and maintaining the appearance of good, devout, obedient children. He tried very hard to make himself believe through his adulthood, but in the years spent toiling in the dusty, blood-soaked underbelly of the world, Price has long since convinced himself there is no God left for ruined men like him.

Even so, in this moment, he prays.

The front door is locked, latched tight. The burglar must have come through the back door into the garden. Price calls for you, and it’s a stupid move on his part, alerting the enemy to his position, perhaps startling them enough to give them an opportunity to escape. Yet the silence that greets him has his blood thrumming, deafening in his ears and he kicks, once, twice at the center of the door before the latch buckles and the thing swings open on its hinges.

There’s crying from the bedroom.

There’s no gun on him, too frantic to grab a side-arm before he sped off base. So instead Price reaches for a knife hidden in his pocket, holding it ready in front of him as he slowly ascends the stairs. The crying is louder now, and he can tell it’s younger voices. Whimpers, tearful whispers from his two beautiful girls still locked in the bathroom. Yet the bedroom where you are remains silent, and as Price reaches the top of the stairs he tries to remember whatever saint offers the blessing of protection, safety.

He rounds the corner, and instantly his toes bump against a limp, dead body sprawled on the floor of the bedroom. Price doesn’t look down immediately, trying to steady himself, preparing himself for the sight of his beautiful wife dead at his feet.

A dark hoodie. A surgical mask. A pool of red soaking into the carpet.

It isn’t you.

“John.”

Price looks up, and in the darkness of the bedroom he finds you with your back against the dresser, several drawers half open and spilling their contents onto the floor. You sit, holding the revolver, legs askew on the floor, hands trembling fiercely, shoulders shaking-

Alive.

Price collapses to his knees in front of you, and you whimper into him as he hauls you into his arms. You nearly push at him, still caught the shock of being ambushed, attacked, touched by a man that wasn’t him. When you squirm, Price merely holds you fast against his chest, murmuring low, raspy reassurances until you still.

“Shh, it’s me. It’s me, love. You’re safe. It’s over.”

With one hand, he tucks his blade into his jacket, with the other he slowly removes the weapon from your grip, clicks the safety on, and tucks it to the side, well out of the way. No doubt the presence of the weapon will be a nightmare to deal with when the police arrive, but that’s not his concern right now.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, turning you face up to him in his palms, and he can feel the wetness on your cheeks, can see the liquid stare of you in the darkness of the bedroom. You shake your head, lip trembling but trying not to cry, and it aches at him like nothing else. The hurt is only soothed by the taste of your lips, a desperate kiss, wet with the taste of your tears as you instinctively part for him, allowing a shuddering little gasp to break through. You whimper again, something that sounds like ‘John’, grasp at him a little harder until he tucks you back into his chest.

“T-the girls-” You try, voice cracking, and Price hushes you, rocking just a touch as you try to calm down.

“They’re in the bathroom.” He tells you quietly. “They’re safe.”

You hiccup at that, finally allowing a sob to break free as you cling to him, bury your face into his chest so his shirt stains with tears.

“I-I was so afraid.” You confess, and Price merely tucks you closer to him, hauls you into his arms with the promise of safety.

“I know, love. I know.” He tells you. “You’re safe. You’re alright. You did well, my brave girl.”

You cry a little harder at that, and at last Price hears the sound of sirens at the edge of the neighborhood, racing far too late to where the two of you sit in the darkened bedroom.

He hauls you up into his arms when they arrive, helps you down the stairs and presses you into the arms of a kindly police woman before returning into the house. An officer in a yellow jacket urges him to stay put, but Price snarls in his face, startles him so badly the man takes a step back and pales.

It’s easy to climb the stairs now, to come to the locked bathroom door that shelters his children from the horror they did not witness. As soon as he opens the door they spill into his arms, his two beautiful daughters, weeping against him in wordless blubbers of terror and relief. Yet the first question they ask isn’t about where he was, what has happened, why the police are there. Instead his eldest, at the age of six, her gorgeous eyes the same color as her mother's, stares tearfully up at him and asks: “Where’s mummy?”

“Outside.” He tells her with a gentleness he had forgotten he possessed, hauling her younger sister up into his embrace as she sniffles into his shoulder. “Let’s go see her.”

Yet before he steps back into the bedroom, he kneels down and stares at his brave, eldest girl and tells her: “We’re going downstairs. Don’t open your eyes until you’re outside, understand?”

She does, of course she does. He’s never given her a reason to doubt him, so the both of them squeeze their eyes shut, don’t open them even as Price lifts them over the dead man still laying oozing on the floor.

When they get outside they rush towards you, fresh bouts of tears in their eyes, asking about the blood splattered on your nightgown, staining it crimson. He can see you panic, nearly explaining the truth, before you shakily smile, hold them both in your arms and tell them: “It’s strawberry jam, my loves. Mummy is very silly and spilled jam all over herself.”

It takes the better part of an hour to explain to the police what has happened, to have you checked over by a paramedic, one who offers peppermints to your two girls as they balance at the back of the ambulance. Price entrusts you to them, discussing the situation in low, grave tones with the officers over why they were not as quick to respond as he had hoped. The officer from earlier is defensive at first, tries to puff his chest and explain to Price the logistics of the response, and Price levels him with a mere look of stony, violent anger that instead has the man fumbling for an apology.

It’s that alone that has the man dismiss any possible charges for you, takes one glance at the weapons permit and tips his hat at the captain with a small ‘Sir.’

At long last, after the crime scene tape has been rolled out and the house cordoned off, does Price return to you and the girls, who have calmed down considerably and now doze drowsily on either side of you, still dressed in their pajamas. You lean up into the tender kiss he bestows upon your forehead, murmurs another reassurance there before tilting you into his palms.

“We can’t stay here tonight.” He tells you gently, and you sag in relief.

“A hotel?” You ask, and Price only shakes his head at you, watching your brow wrinkle in confusion.

“I’m taking you to base.” He replies softly, firmly. “No place safer in the world than with me.”

You know it’s true, he can see it in your smile as you gaze up at him, adoring, with a trust he still struggles to tell himself he’s earned.

So you’re bundled into his car alongside your two young girls, the three of you in the backseat as he retraces his path back in the direction of the base. It’s only once you also begin to doze off in the back seat that he hazards a glance at his phone.

Five missed calls, three from Gaz alone, one from Soap, and one from Laswell that’s followed with a text saying “Call me. ASAP.”

He has a lot of explaining to do.

Somehow he manages to talk his way past the gate guard, who looks puzzled at the woman and two girls sleeping in his backseat. Yet he waves Price through, and eventually the four of you arrive at the officer’s quarters. Price manages to hold both of his daughters, one in each arm, with you clinging to his side, hiding your face in his sleeve as you pass the soldiers who pause with long, drawn out stares at the sight before them. It’s an unusual circumstance to say at best, and Price knows he’ll have to corner more than one man tomorrow to ensure their silence on the whole affair. All that matters right now is getting you and the girls to safety, to somewhere the three of you can bunk down and sleep this dreaded evening off.

What Price doesn’t expect to find, however, is three younger SAS agents awaiting him in front of his bunk, leaning against the wall and talking quietly amongst themselves. Gaz, Soap, and Ghost startle at the sight of their captain holding two young girls in their nighties, and a woman at his side with blood not entirely scrubbed from her nightgown.

“...Sir?” Gaz manages tightly after Price silently brushes him aside with little regard, unlocking his door. Yet when Gaz tries to assist the captain shoots him a look. The expression that flits across his sergeant’s face has him regretting it almost instantly, but apologies will have to wait as he ushers you inside. It takes a moment for Price to carefully deposit his sleeping daughters into the neatly made military cot, and when he does he catches your eyes just as you nod to the three men still hovering in the doorway.

It’s with a sigh that Price rubs the back of his neck and turns towards his concerned and puzzled team, clicking the door shut behind him so the conversation does not disturb his family.

“Introductions will have to wait until the morning.” He announces quietly, hearing the fatigue in his own voice. “They’ve had quite the night.”

“You never said you were married.” Soaps blurts out before he can stop himself, and at the look Price gives him in regards to his volume he mildly tacks on a little “...Sir.”

Price allows himself a moment to knead the bridge of his nose, huffing a suffering sigh as he decides what to say next.

“There’s a reason I haven’t told you boys.” He explains at last, looking up. “You know our work. You know the enemies we’ve made, myself more than the rest of you. You know they will exploit every opportunity of ours that they can.”

He levels his team with a severe, grim stare. “I will never allow my family to become one of those opportunities. Understood?”

The silent, unspoken words there ring loudly in the silence that follows.

This is a secret. For the four of us. Do not ever speak of it to anyone else.

He can see them trade glances, still confused, apprehensive, but at least agreeable to Price’s explanation.

“Copy.” Gaz offers quietly at last, and both Ghost and Soap nod as well. Price manages to catch his lieutenant’s stare for a moment, and Simon darts his gaze to the door behind his captain, and then to Price meaningfully, nodding.

Of course Simon would understand the gravity of secrecy that comes with this, Price thinks, and for a moment he regrets not telling his second in command sooner.

“Good.” Price announces summarily after a beat, and the clipped tone of him has the team straighten on instinct. “We can talk more in the morning. Dismissed.”

Ghost nods, about to stride away when he catches Soap about to make further comments, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and tugging him away. Price can hear the Scot grumble in irritation, but obediently follows behind his LT. Gaz stays a little longer, shifting uneasily on his feet.

“Sargeant?” Price asks, and the tone isn’t unkind, still regretting the venom he shot the man earlier.

“Sir.” Gaz begins, eyes cast down to his feet. “...Are they alright?”

It’s that question, the soft, uncertain concern of his sergeant that makes Price’s shoulder go lax, has his breath exit him in a soft, steady sigh. His broad, calloused palm settles on Gaz’s shoulder, making the man look up with a worried, grimaced expression.

“They’ll be fine.” Price tells him, voice dipping low as it does for his own daughters. “They’ve had a bit of a shock, lad. They need to sleep it off, know that they’re safe now. You can help me with that come morning. Understand?”

Gaz brightens at that, always wanting to be useful, to prove himself to the man who has taken him under his wing.

“Of course, Sir.” He offers, reassured, and Price nods.

“Good. Get some sleep. The girls will be a handful tomorrow, I have a feeling I’ll be needing assistance.”

Gaz nods, makes finally to leave, when Price calls him once more.

“Gaz?” He asks, making the man pause. “Call Laswell. Tell her I’ve got three VIPs I’m dealing with. She’ll understand.”

Gaz’s gaze brightens, and Price inwardly cringes, recognizing the error he’s committed. No doubt Gaz and Laswell will be having an extended conversation in his absence about the things he’s failed to mention. Yet Gaz chirps an affirmative and vanishes down the hall before Price can stop him.

When Price returns to his room, the door clicking behind him softly, he admires the sight before him. His two daughters splay across the bed, clinging to your form tucked between them as you hush a lullaby to ease their dreams. Thankfully, they both have managed to fall asleep quickly, likely exhausted by earlier events. The sight of his girls soft, sleepy, blessedly safe in his quarters is nearly enough to bring him to his knees.

You look up at him as he leans on the door, beckoning him into bed. It takes a moment to divest himself of all but his shirt and pants, but eventually Price manages to scoot his way into the narrow cot, hauling his youngest atop his chest to make room. She curls there with a whining, sleepy murmur before falling still once more. A hand settles in her hair, idly stroking as Price coaxes her further into dreams.

Against his side, you scoot so your head lays against his bicep, your eldest daughter now tucked safely between you. It’s a bit awkward, the four of you trying to scrunch together on such a narrow cot, and Price doesn’t doubt that by morning he’ll be sleeping in his desk chair. Yet now, in the soft lull of evening, in the absence of gunshots and dead phone lines, he allows himself to be at peace.

“I nearly lost you.” He finds himself rasping quietly, as if he can still barely understand the thought. You make a sound of dissatisfaction at that, nudging him in disapproval.

“None of that.” You scold quietly, and Price holds his tongue about the fears he wants to say, the pleas for forgiveness he wants to ask of you for not being there when you needed him the most.

“I love you.” He says instead, and despite not being an emotional man, he finds the hollow of his heart aching, empty with regret.

You’re silent for a moment, and there’s a part of him that wonders if you’ll return it, if you’ll suddenly realize how selfish he’s been in allowing himself to love you despite his duty.

Instead you turn, grasp at his hand, bring it to your lips in a firm, tender kiss.

“I love you too, Captain Johnathan Price.” You whisper, and Price’s eyes close, chest aching, the world quiet around him, and yet full. When he breathes, it releases as a sighed prayer to the heavens, a plea for mercy for your safety, for his own forgiveness, for the promise of another day, another hour with his family in his arms.

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