islakaliko

[islakaliko]

pairing: task force 141 | male! reader

warnings: angst, based on this c.ai bot, reader dies, making a bucket list, extra long (<5000 words), i hope you're ready for a heartbreak

They were waiting on him.

They were always waiting on him lately.

(y/n) (l/n) had always been punctual. He showed up early, stayed late, and never once needed a reminder. But these days, there was a hesitation in his step, a delay in his presence that didn’t go unnoticed.

They didn’t talk about it—not openly. Not yet. But the shift had settled in the air like a storm cloud refusing to break.

If you asked anyone in Task Force 141 about (y/n), they’d each have a story. Not just about his skills, though he had those in spades—an all-rounder with surgical precision, a sniper’s calm, and a medic’s steady hands. But it wasn’t his training that made him the heart of the team. It was everything else.

The discipline. The warmth. The humility. The quiet way he made you feel seen, heard, safe.

For Price, it was back on (y/n)’s first op. A high-stakes extraction gone sideways, and while (y/n) had fumbled the initial breach, he’d fixed the mess with swift improvisation and brutal efficiency. What stuck with Price wasn’t the performance under fire—it was the after-action report. (y/n) owned every mistake with no excuses. Not a single finger pointed. Price knew then the kid had something special. He wasn’t just good—he was honest. Solid. Worth betting on.

For Ghost, it was Christmas. The one he hadn’t planned to celebrate. The one where (y/n) invited him home, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Simon Riley didn’t do family, didn’t do warmth. But that night, sitting by a fire with (y/n)’s mum fussing over his plate and a child handing him a badly wrapped candy cane, something in him cracked open. It became tradition. Every year since, he’d gone back with (y/n). For the first time in a long time, he didn’t dread the holidays. He had a place. People.

For Soap, it was personal. A confession, years bottled up, spilling over drinks after a mission. Things he’d never dared to voice out loud. (y/n) didn’t flinch. Just gave him a pat on the back and bought the next round. Weeks later, Johnny found himself in a queer bar, music loud, nerves frayed—and (y/n) there beside him. Solid as ever. He still remembered (y/n)’s grin and the proud thumbs-up across the bar when Johnny kissed a guy under neon lights for the first time.

For Gaz, it was blood and fire. A mission turned nightmare. Pinned down in hostile territory, Kyle thought he was done for. Until (y/n) showed up like a ghost, dragging him out of hell with bullets flying. But it wasn’t the heroics that stuck with Kyle—it was the quiet afterward. (y/n) never left his hospital bedside. Not once. He sat through the pain meds and the nightmares, held his hand during the worst of it. Like he was anchored to Kyle’s heartbeat.

They all had a moment.

But lately, (y/n) had been fading.

He still smiled, still showed up—but something behind his eyes was dimmer. His jokes came slower, and his footsteps had started to drag. Ghost noticed the dark circles first. Soap caught him zoning out. Kyle watched him forget things he never would’ve before.

Price waited. Silent, patient. But watchful.

Then, one evening, (y/n) walked into the common room.

The telly was on, half-volume. Soap was lounging on the couch, Ghost cleaning a sidearm at the table. Gaz leaned against the far wall, texting. Price sat with a whisky, nursing a bad feeling he couldn’t name.

(y/n)’s face was pale, distant. Like he was still somewhere else entirely. He held a folded piece of paper in one hand.

“The results came in,” he said softly.

The room fell still.

No one moved. No one breathed.

(y/n) didn’t sit. He stood in the doorway, looking at them like he didn’t want to say it. Like saying it would make it real.

“It’s… neurological,” he continued. “Degenerative. Some kind of autoimmune thing. They’re still running tests to pin it down. But…” His throat worked, like the words clawed going up. “They said it’s progressive. No cure.”

The silence that followed was shattering.

Soap blinked. “What does that mean? You’re gonna get better, yeah? They’ll sort it—”

“No.” (y/n) cut him off gently, but firmly. “No, it doesn’t get better.”

Ghost’s hand tightened around the gun he was cleaning, knuckles white.

Gaz stared at the floor.

Price stood slowly. “What are the odds?”

“They don’t know. Could be five years. Could be two.” (y/n)’s voice cracked then, just barely. “Could be less.”

Silence again. But now it was heavier. Grief-laced. Shocked.

“You’ve been… carrying this alone?” Ghost asked quietly.

“I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for sure,” (y/n) replied. “Didn’t want to scare anyone.”

“You’re our family,” Soap said, standing up fast. “You don’t get to do this alone. You don’t—fuck, (y/n)—”

“I’m still me,” (y/n) said, trying to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Just… maybe on borrowed time now.”

Price crossed the room and put a hand on his shoulder. “Then we make the most of it. Together.”

Ghost stood next. Then Gaz. Then Soap. No one said a word, but the way they surrounded him said enough.

(y/n), the heart of 141, had given each of them a piece of himself.

Now they were going to hold him up.

As long as he needed.

For as long as they had.

And this time—they’d wait on him.

As long as it took.

—--------------------------

No one left the room that night.

They stayed with (y/n), not because he asked, but because leaving felt wrong. Like the silence would swallow him whole the second they stepped away. The TV played forgotten in the background, some late-night action flick flickering across the screen, but no one watched it.

(y/n) sat between Soap and Gaz, his shoulders tense like he was trying to make himself smaller, like if he curled in far enough, he could vanish from the news he’d just delivered. Ghost stood behind him, a quiet shadow, and Price paced slowly, fingers tapping against his glass in thought.

“What happens now?” Kyle asked after a while, voice low.

“I keep going,” (y/n) said simply. “For as long as I can.”

Ghost’s hand settled on the back of the couch, fingers brushing lightly over (y/n)’s shoulder. A grounding touch. “And when you can’t?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

Johnny leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice was quiet, but firm. “Then we’ll figure it out together. One step at a time.”

(y/n)’s throat tightened, and he nodded, eyes glassy but not falling apart. Not yet.

Price finally stopped pacing. “You’re not out. Don’t even think about hanging up your gear until I say so. You’re still valuable. Still part of this team. If there’s a fight in you, we’ll work around whatever comes.”

(y/n) gave him a small, crooked smile. “Even if I start walking into walls and forgetting my own name?”

“We’ll write it on your vest,” Gaz said, gently teasing.

The laugh that escaped was fragile, but real. It cracked the tension like a beam of light through storm clouds.

“Bet he’ll still outshoot half the bloody unit,” Soap added with a grin.

“I would,” (y/n) said, voice steadying.

And for a moment, they all just were—together, like always. Stronger as one. No mission, no threats, just a team learning how to face the unknown.

Over the following weeks, the shift became subtle but certain.

No one said anything when (y/n) started taking more breaks. Ghost adjusted his pace to match (y/n)’s without a word. Soap quietly started sitting next to him during briefings, taking extra notes, just in case (y/n) needed a reminder later. Gaz double-checked every piece of gear (y/n) touched, looking for signs of tremors or slips before (y/n) could notice himself.

Price made sure no one else in the building treated him any differently. Any sideways glances or pitying expressions were shut down with a glare that could freeze boiling water.

(y/n) tried to act like nothing had changed.

But things had.

His hands shook sometimes. His muscles ached even after light training. There were nights he sat in the dark of the common room alone, a cup of tea forgotten in his hands, eyes unfocused.

One night, Ghost found him there.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of pipes. (y/n) didn’t look up as Ghost approached, but he didn’t flinch either.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Simon asked.

“Didn’t try,” (y/n) murmured.

Ghost slid into the seat across from him. He didn’t push, didn’t pry. Just watched. Waited.

Finally, (y/n) looked up, eyes red-rimmed but dry.

“I’m scared, Simon.”

Ghost nodded. “You’re allowed.”

“I keep wondering what it’ll take from me first. My hands? My mind?” (y/n) let out a shaky breath. “What if I lose me?”

“You won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

Ghost’s voice was steel wrapped in gentleness. “Because we know you. All of you. And whatever this takes, it can’t touch your heart. That’s who you are. That’s what matters.”

(y/n) blinked quickly. His hand drifted across the table, and after a hesitation, Ghost reached out and clasped it in his own.

“You won’t do this alone,” he said again. “Not ever.”

And (y/n) believed him.

Because whatever the future held—however cruel or kind—he wouldn’t face it empty-handed.

He had them.

He had love. Brotherhood. Loyalty carved in bone.

And no disease, no diagnosis, could take that away.

—--------------------------

It started with the little things.

Barely noticeable to most. Things that could easily be brushed off as stress, fatigue, or the result of one too many back-to-back missions. But to the men of Task Force 141—men who had memorized (y/n) (l/n) down to his breath patterns—those little things screamed louder than gunfire.

Soap was the first to spot it.

During a routine gear check before a training op, (y/n) fumbled the strap on his tactical vest. It was quick—he recovered fast—but Johnny caught the twitch in his fingers, the slight hitch in his breath when the buckle didn’t snap the way it should have.

“You alright, sunshine?” Soap asked casually, eyes flicking down to (y/n)’s hands.

“Yeah,” (y/n) replied without pause, smoothing the strap like it hadn’t slipped. “Guess I’m just rusty.”

Johnny smiled, nodded. But he made a mental note of it.

(y/n) never fumbled his kit.

Gaz noticed it a few days later.

They were in the range, burning through rounds. (y/n) was testing a new rifle—one he’d usually be eager to master within a few clips.

But he missed his target. Twice.

Not by much. But (y/n) didn’t miss.

Kyle didn’t say anything then. Just watched the way (y/n) blinked down at the scope like something was off, like the world wasn’t sitting right behind the glass. He chalked it up to exhaustion—until later, when they were walking back and (y/n) stumbled over absolutely nothing.

Gaz reached out without thinking, steadying him.

(y/n) laughed, brushing it off. “Must’ve caught my toe.”

Kyle didn’t believe it.

(y/n) had a dancer’s balance. Controlled, precise. Always.

That night, Gaz pulled Price aside. Just a whisper in the hallway.

“Something’s changing. Quietly.”

Price already knew.

He’d seen it in the way (y/n) paused mid-sentence during briefings, like he lost the thread of his thoughts for a second too long. In the way he took longer to load his mags, how he favored his left hand when no one was watching.

And in the bathroom one morning—early, before the others were awake—Price had walked past the cracked door and heard (y/n) vomiting. Not violently. Not the sudden rush of food poisoning or a bad meal. It was quieter. Controlled. Like he was used to it.

He waited until the noise stopped, then moved on. When they saw each other later, neither spoke of it.

Ghost noticed last. But it hit him hardest.

They were out on a recon job. Nothing too heavy. Civvie clothes. Moving through a crowded market in Syria, watching a suspect. Ghost kept eyes on the target. (y/n) was backup, watching the perimeter.

When it came time to move, Ghost turned—and (y/n) didn’t respond to the first call.

“(y/n). Let’s go.”

Nothing.

Only when Ghost touched his arm did (y/n) flinch, blinking like he’d just woken up. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Got distracted.”

But Ghost had seen it. That wasn’t distraction. That was a blank.

And that night, Ghost found him in the gym. Not working out—just sitting, staring at the dumbbells like he forgot why he came.

“You didn’t hear me earlier,” Ghost said. “In the market.”

(y/n) didn’t answer.

“That’s happening more often, isn’t it?”

Still no answer. Just a slow, heavy nod.

“I thought I’d have more time,” (y/n) admitted quietly. “I thought it would be slower. But it’s creeping in.”

Ghost sat beside him, silent. (y/n)’s breath shuddered in his chest.

“It’s not just memory. It’s like I fade out sometimes. And I don’t even notice until someone brings me back.”

Ghost reached over, placing a gloved hand on (y/n)’s knee. “We’ll keep pulling you back. As many times as it takes.”

But the fear in (y/n)’s eyes wasn’t fading.

Because now he was noticing it too.

The team adapted—quietly.

Soap started double-checking (y/n)’s gear for him. Casually. No fuss.

Gaz ran drills with him more often, “for fun,” but made sure they were short, low-pressure.

Price began leaving notes on briefing packets. Bold, clear, bullet-pointed summaries (y/n) could reread if he got lost.

Ghost stuck closer than ever, a silent guardian. He watched (y/n) the way a wolf watches a wounded packmate—not out of pity, but out of fierce, unrelenting loyalty.

No one said anything directly. Not yet.

They didn’t have to.

Because they were all watching the same slow unravel.

And none of them knew how to stop it.

But they would hold the thread.

And hold him.

For as long as he let them.

—--------------------------

It happened during a training op in the woods outside Hereford. Nothing dangerous—just a hike-and-survive exercise meant to keep them sharp between deployments. Something they could all do blindfolded.

Except this time, (y/n) fell behind.

Not just once. Not in a way he could joke off.

They noticed it in the first hour. The way he stumbled over roots he used to dance over. The way his breaths came faster, sharper, no matter how slowly they walked. Sweat beaded down his neck even in the cool spring air. His eyes kept flicking, confused, toward the compass in his hand, like it was foreign.

Price called a break early. Soap pulled out a ration bar and offered it wordlessly, crouching beside (y/n) while the others pretended not to be watching.

“You good?” Johnny asked softly.

“Yeah,” (y/n) lied, too quickly.

Ghost didn’t speak. Just stood behind him, arms crossed, unreadable behind the mask but not behind the eyes. His stare burned.

The worst part?

(y/n) knew.

He didn’t argue when Price called the op. Didn’t protest when Gaz took his pack and slung it over his own shoulders. Didn’t joke when they loaded into the SUV early and drove back in silence.

When they got back to base, the quiet followed them inside.

No one talked about what had happened.

No one needed to.

Two days later, Price sat (y/n) down in his office. No rank. No mission. Just a mug of tea, the sun through the blinds, and the kind of silence that only came from care.

“We’re taking a break,” Price said, tone gentle but immovable.

(y/n) looked up. “What?”

“No more field ops. No more drills. You’re off the schedule until further notice.”

(y/n) blinked. “You’re benching me.”

“I’m protecting you.”

“I can still—”

“(y/n).” The name alone made him fall quiet.

Price leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes soft but steady. “You’ve carried more than your share. Let us carry you now. Just for a little while.”

(y/n) stared down at his hands. Pale. Trembling faintly.

“What am I supposed to do, John?”

Price smiled, small and sad. “Live.”

That night, the team gathered in the common room. A blank notebook sat in front of (y/n), its pages crisp and untouched.

“What’s this?” he asked, brows drawing together.

“A bucket list,” Gaz said, plopping down beside him.

“You’re going to make me cry before I even open it,” (y/n) muttered, flipping to the first page.

Johnny grinned. “Not ‘cause you’re dying, idiot. Because we’re living. Together. You’ve done more for us than we could ever repay. Now it’s your turn.”

“We’re making it happen,” Ghost added, voice low. “Whatever you want to do. Anywhere you want to go. You just say the word.”

(y/n)’s throat closed. He looked down at the pen in his hand. His fingers twitched.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he whispered.

“Then we’ll help,” Kyle offered, already stealing the pen to jot the first one.

#1 — Ride a horse.

Johnny leaned in. “Wait, you’ve never ridden a horse?”

“I grew up in the city!” (y/n) laughed, genuinely startled. “What do you expect?”

“Perfect,” Price said, already pulling out his phone. “I know a place in Wales. They’ll let you gallop along the cliffs if you want.”

(y/n) shook his head, overwhelmed but smiling. “God, you’re all insane.”

“Keep going,” Ghost murmured, nudging the notebook back to him.

(y/n) took a breath. Then wrote.

#2 — See the Northern Lights.

#3 — Learn to bake something that won’t kill someone.

#4 — Take a dance class.

#5 — Go skydiving.

Each one was met with cheers, laughter, promises to make it happen. Even the dangerous ones. Especially the dangerous ones. Because danger didn’t scare them anymore—not like loss did.

They stayed up late, the list growing by the minute. By the time the page was full, (y/n)’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

For the first time in months, he didn’t feel like a burden.

He felt wanted. Chosen. Carried.

And when they all turned in for the night, Ghost lingered last—standing at the door as (y/n) folded the notebook closed.

“You forgot one,” Simon said.

(y/n) raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Ghost stepped forward. Took the pen. And in the corner of the page, he wrote:

#27 — Let yourself be happy.

He set the pen down and walked away without another word.

(y/n) read it three times before closing the cover.

And for the first time in a long while, he believed it might be possible.

—--------------------------

#1 – Ride a Horse

Soap insisted on cowboy hats.

(y/n) swore he’d never forgive him.

They arrived at a countryside ranch in Wales just past sunrise. Rolling green hills, soft wind, and a row of sturdy, patient horses that immediately made (y/n) nervous. “They’re taller than I thought,” he muttered, eyeing a massive black gelding.

“You’re shorter than I thought,” Soap shot back, slapping a ridiculous hat onto (y/n)’s head and adjusting it with far too much glee.

“Stop flirting with me in front of the horses,” (y/n) muttered.

It wasn’t graceful. His first mount was clumsy, and he gripped the reins like they might attack him, but by the end of the hour, something clicked. The movement, the rhythm—it felt good. Free. His laughter echoed across the field as the horse trotted through the pasture, the team watching from the fence line, clapping like proud parents.

“Alright,” (y/n) called, flushed and beaming. “That was actually incredible.”

“Next time,” Price grinned, “we make you herd sheep.”

(y/n) flipped him off.

#3 – Learn to Bake Something That Won’t Kill Someone

Kyle booked a private baking lesson in London. A sweet older woman named Edna took one look at (y/n) and declared, “You’ve got baker’s hands.”

He was elbow-deep in flour within ten minutes.

Soap dropped an entire egg on the floor. Ghost refused to wear an apron and stood in the corner like a haunted statue while everyone else got dusted in sugar. Price had suspiciously perfect pie technique, which he blamed on an “old girlfriend” and refused to elaborate.

(y/n) ended up baking a raspberry tart that didn’t collapse in on itself. Everyone clapped like he’d landed a plane.

“You’re a domestic menace no longer,” Gaz declared, taking the first bite. “Holy shit, that’s actually good.”

(y/n) grinned through a smear of powdered sugar on his nose. “Eat your heart out, Gordon Ramsay.”

#4 – Take a Dance Class

This one had Soap written all over it.

He picked a Latin fusion class in Manchester—salsa meets swing—and dragged the whole squad along. Ghost stood in the back with arms crossed, absolutely refusing to participate. Price tried to leave. Kyle was surprisingly good. (y/n)?

(y/n) lit up.

He moved awkwardly at first, unsure, but the music helped. The rhythm settled into his bones. Paired with Soap—who could surprisingly lead—he started to sway with confidence. He laughed when he tripped, smiled when the instructor corrected him, and by the end of the class, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were shining.

“You looked happy,” Ghost said later in the car, voice low.

(y/n) turned to him, breathless. “I was.”

#2 – See the Northern Lights

They flew to Norway in February.

It was freezing. (y/n) wore three layers of thermals and still managed to look like a shivering woodland creature. But when the sky began to move—to dance—everything else disappeared.

All five of them stood on a hilltop wrapped in blankets and silence, watching the aurora ripple across the night. Green, violet, blue. Like someone had painted the stars in motion.

(y/n) cried. Quietly. Not from sadness, but from awe.

Ghost noticed and gently bumped their shoulders. “Worth it?”

(y/n) nodded, eyes wide. “More than worth it.”

Price snapped a photo. Just for them. Not for reports, not for the base. Just proof that this moment existed.

#5 – Go Skydiving

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Gaz said when (y/n) handed them all waiver forms.

“Come on,” (y/n) grinned. “What’s life without a little free fall?”

(y/n) screamed the whole way down.

So did Soap.

Ghost didn’t. Ghost just made intense eye contact with the camera like a demon plummeting from heaven.

When they hit the ground, (y/n) collapsed in the grass, adrenaline pumping, heart racing, mouth wide with laughter. “Holy shit, I’m alive.”

Kyle flopped beside him. “I’m never trusting you again.”

“Don’t lie,” (y/n) grinned. “You loved it.”

And so it continued.

#12 – Learn how to paint (Soap painted a horse with abs. Ghost painted a black square. (y/n) painted a field of stars.)

#18 – Get a ridiculous tattoo (They all got tiny ones. (y/n) chose a constellation. Ghost? Only (y/n) saw what he got.)

#8 – Have a proper snowball fight (Gaz had a killer aim. Ghost cheated. (y/n) fell on his ass.)

Weeks turned to months. And every item crossed off the list felt like another heartbeat, another breath, another life that (y/n) had always been too busy or too afraid to live.

He still had bad days. Moments where his thoughts slowed, where his body ached, where the future pressed down too hard on his chest.

But now, those moments didn’t define him.

Because in between them were memories.

(y/n) dancing in the street.

(y/n) riding a horse at full gallop.

(y/n) lying beneath the Northern Lights with four men who would burn the world for him.

And in the back of his notebook, another line had been added:

#28 – Be loved.

No one admitted to writing it.

But everyone believed it.

Because (y/n) wasn’t just the heart of the team.

He was the team.

And now, the team was his heart too.

—--------------------------

It started quietly.

A few more headaches. Slower reflexes. Occasional nosebleeds. (y/n) would brush them off with a smile and a joke—“Guess I’m getting old, lads”—but the jokes didn’t land the same anymore. Not when they came with trembling hands, lost words, and eyes that didn’t always focus.

The team noticed. Of course they did.

Price started carrying an extra water bottle for him without saying a word. Kyle shortened their hikes to “save time,” but everyone knew it was to spare (y/n)’s strength. Ghost took to standing a little closer, hovering more often. And Soap, bless him, stopped joking so much—his playful teasing replaced with lingering glances and quiet concern.

It got harder to ignore when (y/n) started sleeping through alarms.

When they had to cancel a road trip to Scotland because (y/n) couldn’t stop vomiting the morning they were meant to leave.

When he collapsed in the middle of the common room, mid-sentence.

The hospital became familiar. Too familiar.

They started using his name before he even gave it. Doctors whispered in the hallways while the team paced the waiting room like caged animals. One of the nurses eventually learned to bring Ghost a coffee without asking. She never stayed long—Simon’s stare made most people fold—but she didn’t seem afraid.

The results kept coming back with numbers. Bloodwork. Scans. Terms none of them understood until Price asked the doctor to stop softening it.

“Say it plainly.”

The answer came like a hammer: “It’s progressing faster than we hoped.”

(y/n) didn’t cry. He just nodded.

He looked tired—not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the bone-deep, soul-hollowed kind. He kept touching his own arms and legs, like he was trying to feel himself still here.

“We can start another treatment,” the doctor said. “It won’t be easy. But it might give you more time.”

(y/n) looked to his team. Not one of them told him what to do.

So he chose. “I want to keep living. Whatever that means.”

The next few weeks blurred into appointments, IV bags, and too many pills.

He lost weight. The circles under his eyes turned a permanent bruised purple. On bad days, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. On worse ones, he couldn’t walk without help.

But he still tried.

He still crossed items off that list.

#14 – Watch the sunrise from a rooftop — bundled in jackets, all five of them side by side, huddled together like kids.

#9 – Learn how to knit — Price, weirdly enough, was the best teacher. (y/n) made a lopsided scarf that Ghost wore with zero shame.

#23 – Drive a convertible with the top down — even if it meant Johnny holding the wheel when (y/n)’s arms got too tired.

There were good days, too. Sometimes, (y/n) would wake up and feel almost normal.

On one of those days, he stood outside the base, watching the wind stir the trees. Ghost came up beside him.

“Do you ever think about before?” (y/n) asked quietly. “Like…before I got sick.”

Simon didn’t answer at first. Then, softly: “All the time.”

(y/n) looked down. “Do you miss who I was?”

Ghost glanced at him. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

(y/n) frowned, confused.

“You’re still him,” Ghost said. “Still you.”

(y/n) looked like he might cry—but he didn’t. He just smiled.

A week later, (y/n)’s vision went out in one eye.

Then came the seizures.

They started small—twitches in his fingers, a stutter in his step. Then one night, Soap found him on the bathroom floor, muscles locked, jaw clenched. Paramedics came fast, but not faster than the terror that struck through the team like a bullet.

He woke up in a hospital bed with everyone surrounding him.

“You guys didn’t need to stay,” he mumbled, voice hoarse.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Gaz said firmly, gripping his hand.

Price pulled up a chair beside him. “Let’s make a new list,” he said.

(y/n) blinked up at him.

“Not a bucket list. A today list. One thing. Every morning. We do it, no matter what.”

Ghost leaned in. “You pick it. We follow.”

And so the list changed.

No more skydiving. No wild road trips or dance lessons.

Now it was:

#1 – Sit outside and feel the sun on my face

#2 – Hear Johnny sing something stupid

#3 – Tell Simon a joke so bad he groans

#4 – Finish a whole meal without getting sick

#5 – Hug Price until he gives in

Smaller. Softer.

But no less meaningful.

Each day became a victory. Each laugh, a rebellion. Each smile, a miracle.

And they followed him. Every step.

Because no matter what came next, (y/n) was still the heart of Task Force 141.

And they were going to love him for every second they had left.

—--------------------------

Hospice wasn’t a word anyone wanted to say out loud.

It was just a place at first. A private cottage on the outskirts of Hereford, nestled in a quiet valley, surrounded by trees and birdsong. The air was crisp. The rooms were bright. It didn’t smell like bleach and sterility—it smelled like clean linen and freshly brewed tea.

(y/n) called it his last great vacation.

No one laughed, but he smiled enough for all of them.

They moved in shifts. Price handled the medical appointments. Soap cooked (badly), usually burning toast and undercooking pasta. Gaz kept things light—brought movies, music, stories from base. And Ghost? Ghost was the constant. The one who stayed overnight in the recliner by (y/n)’s bed even when (y/n) told him not to.

“You need rest too, Si,” (y/n) whispered once.

“I’ll sleep when you snore,” Ghost muttered.

(y/n) smiled. “Then you’ll never sleep. I’m a delicate sleeper.”

“You snore like a Harley with asthma.”

(y/n)’s soft laugh faded into sleep. And Simon stayed, watching the gentle rise and fall of the chest he loved more than he could ever say.

Some days, (y/n) couldn’t speak. His thoughts came slower, tangled in fatigue and fog. Other days, he was himself again—sharp, sweet, full of quiet mischief. On one of those days, he asked to see the team’s photo album.

Not the official records.

The album.

It was a thick scrapbook Johnny had been adding to since the bucket list began.

(y/n) sat in bed, tucked beneath heavy blankets, flipping through the pages. He lingered on each photo:

—Him riding the black horse, grinning wildly.

—The raspberry tart, half-eaten, Soap giving a thumbs-up in the background.

—Ghost, dancing stiffly in the salsa class, clearly mid-scowl.

—The sky glowing green above all their bundled figures in Norway.

—A shaky selfie in the convertible, wind tangling (y/n)’s hair.

—(y/n) with one eye closed, tongue out, draped in the terrible scarf he knitted himself.

Near the back was a page he hadn’t seen before.

A photo of him, taken when he wasn’t looking. Sitting outside in the morning sun, face turned to the light, eyes closed, smiling faintly. The caption, scribbled in Soap’s handwriting:

“Still our sunshine.”

(y/n)’s fingers trembled on the edge of the page. He didn’t cry. But he closed the album gently and whispered, “Thank you.”

No one asked for what.

They all knew.

Eventually, walking stopped being possible.

Then eating without assistance.

Then speaking at all.

But even in silence, (y/n) found a way to shine.

He’d hold out a hand to Ghost, and Simon would squeeze it without question.

He’d look toward the garden, and Gaz would wheel him out there, letting the breeze kiss his cheeks.

He’d flick his eyes to the old radio, and Price would tune it to his favorite station—always something calm, sometimes jazz.

He couldn’t laugh anymore. But when Johnny told the worst, stupidest jokes imaginable, his shoulders would shake in the blankets. That was enough.

One night, after the others had gone home to sleep, Ghost stayed behind like always.

(y/n) had barely opened his eyes in two days.

His breathing was slower. Shallower.

Ghost sat beside him, silent for hours, holding his hand.

Then, softly—barely more than a breath—(y/n) squeezed.

And in the quiet, Ghost whispered, “I love you.”

There was no reply. No movement.

But he felt it. Deep down.

He knew.

(y/n) (l/n) passed away in the early hours of a spring morning.

The nurse said it was peaceful.

The sun had just begun to rise. Light spilled across the bed like a quiet farewell.

The team was there within the hour.

They didn’t cry loudly. They didn’t scream or break things.

They sat around him, silent, like sentinels keeping watch. Soap held his hand. Gaz brought the photo album. Price leaned in and kissed his forehead like a father would a sleeping child.

And Ghost…

Ghost didn’t move for a long time.

He just stared. Memorizing the shape of (y/n)’s face. The faint crease of his lips, like the start of a smile.

Only when the others stood did he finally lean forward and rest his forehead against (y/n)’s.

“Rest easy, love,” he murmured.

“I’ll see you again.”

At base, a new wall was built.

Not a memorial, exactly—but something better.

It held photos. Quotes. A copy of (y/n)’s bucket list. His dog tags. And right in the center, printed in clean, simple type:

“(y/n) (l/n). The heart of Task Force 141.”

And below that:

“Be loved — √”

They never stopped waiting on him.

But now, they waited with him—in every step forward, every mission completed, every moment they laughed or loved or lived boldly.

Because (y/n) had taught them how.

And they would carry his light, always.

words: 5704

published: 17.may.2025

[islakaliko]

pairing: johnny 'soap' mactavish | male! reader

warnings: angst, soap dies, emotional breakdown, they were gonna get married, funeral instead of wedding

The sun was low on the horizon, casting golden light through the dust-covered windows of the safehouse. Soap leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching (y/n) pace with a barely restrained smile. A laptop sat open between them, displaying pictures of wedding venues from back home—castles in Scotland, cozy stone barns tucked in green valleys, one or two ridiculous cliffside villas they’d laughed about but still secretly considered.

“We need to decide soon,” (y/n) said, flopping down beside him. “We promised we’d pick one before the next op.”

Soap smiled, all soft eyes and crooked teeth. He brushed a strand of messy hair from (y/n)’s forehead. “Aye. You keep sendin’ me the ones with the lakes. You plannin’ on drownin’ me in romance?”

(y/n) chuckled, leaning into his chest. “I just want it to be perfect. For you.”

Soap’s fingers curled around (y/n)’s hand, tracing the edge of the engagement ring he’d slipped on just three weeks ago. “Doesn’t matter where, love. As long as it’s with you.”

(y/n) tilted his head up, nose brushing Soap’s. “After this mission,” he whispered, eyes flickering with that rare, hopeful fire, “we pick a date. We book it. We do it. No more delays.”

Soap kissed him like a promise. “After this mission.”

—--------------------------

The compound was chaos.

It was supposed to be clean—intel in, extract out. No tangos after the breach, no surprises. But Makarov never played by the rules.

(y/n) was moving through the west corridor, heart hammering, ears still ringing from the last detonation. Through the static of the comms, he heard it.

“Ghost—Soap’s down! I repeat, Soap’s—fuck—he’s hit!”

(y/n)’s blood turned to ice. He dropped his current cover, sprinting through the smoke and debris, feet pounding the bloodstained tile. He could hear shouting ahead. A gunshot. Another. And then—

A scream.

No.

He turned the corner just in time to see Soap, collapsed, blood pouring from his gut. Ghost had taken down two enemies nearby, but Makarov—fucking Makarov—stood a few feet away, face unreadable, pistol raised.

“No—!” (y/n) raised his weapon.

But he was too slow.

Makarov pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the air like lightning.

Soap’s head jerked back violently. And then—he dropped. Just dropped. Like a puppet with its strings cut.

(y/n)’s scream tore through the compound, echoing off concrete and steel. He fired blindly, rage and agony propelling him forward, but Makarov was already gone. Ghost lunged to hold him back before he got himself killed chasing shadows.

“Johnny!” (y/n) dropped to his knees beside the body, fingers trembling as he reached for him.

Blood soaked Soap’s mohawk and pooled beneath his skull. His blue eyes—always so full of light and laughter—were wide open, glassy. Empty.

“No, no, no—please, please—” (y/n) was sobbing, his voice broken and raw. “Johnny, come on, baby—wake up—please—”

Ghost’s voice was distant, calling for exfil, calling for backup, calling for anything.

But (y/n) heard none of it.

He gathered Soap’s body into his arms, rocking him like a child, blood smearing over his uniform, on his face, in his hair. “You said—we were gonna get married,” he choked, shaking. “You said—after this mission, remember? You promised.”

He pressed their foreheads together. “You can’t do this, Johnny. You don’t get to fucking leave me. Not like this.”

Soap’s ringed hand was cold in his. (y/n) kissed it. He kissed his fiancé’s lifeless mouth, sobbing into it like he could breathe life back into him. “I love you. I love you. Please come back. Please—”

They had plans. A life. A future.

And now there was just—

Silence.

Ghost put a hand on (y/n)’s shoulder. “(y/n)… we have to move.”

(y/n) flinched. He held Soap tighter. “No.”

“(y/n), we’ll carry him back, I swear it. But we have to go now.”

“I’m not leaving him. He didn’t leave me.” (y/n) looked up, and something in his expression shattered Ghost. Pure, unfiltered grief. “He died in my arms, Ghost. I felt his last breath.”

Ghost crouched beside him, hand squeezing the back of (y/n)’s neck. “We’ll bring him home, mate. But you gotta come with me.”

(y/n)’s hands wouldn’t let go.

Not until Ghost pried him away.

—--------------------------

The plane ride home was silent.

Soap’s body, wrapped and still, lay strapped down beside them. (y/n) didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t eat. He stared at the body bag like his soul was in it too.

They landed in Scotland two days later.

The venue they’d talked about—the one near the loch, with the soft green hills and the tiny white chapel—was booked.

For the funeral.

Not the wedding.

—--------------------------

(y/n) stood in his dress blues, the ring Soap had given him still clutched in his hand, knuckles white. The wind tugged at his coat as the bagpipes began to play. Ghost stood behind him, a steady presence. He’d been there every moment since, quietly grieving in his own way.

But (y/n)—he wasn’t grieving.

He was drowning.

“I should’ve taken the bullet,” he whispered, as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

Ghost touched his shoulder. “He wouldn’t want that.”

“I don’t care what he would’ve wanted,” (y/n) said. His voice cracked. “He should be here. Alive. With me.”

He stepped forward and tossed a single white rose into the grave. Then, after a breath, he added something else.

The ring.

“I’ll marry you in another life,” (y/n) whispered, tears trailing down his face. “I swear it.”

As the earth was shoveled in, (y/n) stayed until the sun went down, kneeling by the headstone until the cold seeped into his bones and his throat burned from screaming.

They’d been so close.

And now—there was only silence.

words: 975

published: 14.may.2025

[islakaliko]

— Bonus: A day just for us

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< epilogue | navigation >

The countryside was quiet that morning, the air painted with the gentle rustle of trees and the sweet hum of birdsong. A pale sun peeked through soft clouds, casting golden light across a clearing wrapped in wildflowers and tall grass. It was the kind of day made just for memories.

John stood beneath the arch, a hand loosely folded over the other in front of him, heart hammering in his chest despite his years of discipline. Dressed in a perfectly tailored navy suit, he looked every bit the soldier he was—until your eyes met his. Then all you saw was the man. A man in love.

Soap leaned toward Ghost in the row beside the arch. “Think he’s nervous?”

Ghost grunted. “He’s terrified.”

Gaz smiled faintly. “He should be. He’s about to marry the best person any of us know.”

And then—

The soft rustle of fabric. A quiet gasp from Soap.

(y/n) stepped into view, walking slowly down the flower-lined path.

Dressed in a flowing cream suit with sheer detailing, he moved like something out of a dream. A sprig of lavender sat in his pocket, simple but meaningful. His hair was gently styled, eyes bright, cheeks already pink as he locked eyes with John and never looked away.

John exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

Every step (y/n) took felt like gravity pulling them together, the whole world shrinking down to the space between them. When he reached the arch, John reached out immediately, unable to help himself.

“You look…” John’s voice caught in his throat. “Beautiful.”

(y/n) laughed softly, tucking his fingers into John’s. “So do you, Captain.”

Soap, dressed up for the rare occasion, sniffled as he stepped forward with a faux-serious expression. “Right then. Seeing as no one objected—thankfully—I guess we’re doin’ this.”

They didn’t follow tradition. No long speeches, no paper vows. Just their hands clasped, the only promise they needed echoing in the silence.

John’s thumb stroked over (y/n)’s knuckles. “From the moment I met you, I knew. I’ve never wanted anything more than this. You. A life together. And I’ll spend every day earning it.”

(y/n)’s voice shook just a little. “You already do. I’ve never felt safer, or more seen. And I want everything with you. Always.”

“Okay, now kiss already,” Soap huffed.

They both laughed, leaning in—and John kissed him like it was the first and last time, gentle and deep, with so much love behind it that even Ghost looked away.

Applause broke out—more of a pack whoop than polite clapping—but (y/n) barely noticed. He only noticed the way John kept holding onto him like he’d never let go.

That night, the five of them gathered around a fire. No loud music. No big party. Just warmth, laughter, teasing from Soap, heartfelt toasts from Gaz, and Ghost sitting in content silence.

(y/n) sat curled against John’s side, their wedding bands glinting in the firelight. A quiet hum of we did it settling in his chest.

And before sleep claimed them that night, John murmured against (y/n)’s temple, “One day, it won’t just be us anymore. I want a big family with you.”

(y/n) smiled, already drifting. “Yeah… me too.”

[islakaliko]

— Epilogue: What I always wanted

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | bonus >

The house was silent.

Not just quiet—truly silent, in the way only a home full of family could be after the whirlwind of a long, joyful day. Leftover pies wrapped in foil. Crumbs and ribbon on the rug. A candle still flickering somewhere.

(y/n) stood at the bottom of the stairs in his softest robe, mug in hand, watching the shadows stretch across the living room. His bones ached in that tender way that came from love spent freely, and he couldn’t stop smiling.

He heard the creak of the floorboard before he felt the arms wrap around his middle.

John.

“Everyone’s finally down,” John murmured against (y/n)’s neck, his beard scratchy and familiar.

“They’ll be up at sunrise,” (y/n) whispered, leaning back into him.

“Let them,” John chuckled, swaying with him a little. “They’ve got their own little chaos to chase now.”

They stood like that for a while—no rush, no words needed. Just breathing, just being. The same way they always had.

“You remember,” (y/n) said quietly, “when it was just you and me?”

“In the coffee shop?” John grinned. “You kept pretending you didn’t notice I was checking on you like clockwork.”

“You were so obvious.”

“I was trying to be subtle.”

“You failed.”

John laughed softly, nose brushing against (y/n)’s cheek. “Didn’t fail too bad. Got you, didn’t I?”

(y/n) hummed. “Yeah. You did.”

He turned in John’s arms, facing him now, hands resting over that strong chest that had carried so many years, so many children, so much love. And it was all still there in his eyes—every bit of it.

“We did it, John,” (y/n) said. “We really… did it.”

John looked at him, brow furrowed just slightly, voice rough with everything he couldn’t quite say. “I never thought I’d have all this. Not until you.”

“You gave me everything I ever wanted,” (y/n) said, voice trembling.

John reached up, cupped his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone like he still couldn’t believe he was real. “You gave me a reason to want it all.”

(y/n) leaned in, pressed their foreheads together.

Breathing the same breath.

Hearts still beating for each other.

“I love you, John,” (y/n) whispered, the words as fresh and sacred as they were the first time they’d ever been spoken.

John smiled, soft and sure.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

And with that, they held each other as the snow fell outside, the home around them quiet, the future theirs forever.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 36: Everything we dreamed of

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged, big time skip

< previous | epilogue >

The living room was glowing with twinkle lights and half-unwrapped gifts. Wrapping paper littered the floor like snowdrifts. The scent of pine, cinnamon, and something sweet still baking filled the air.

And everywhere—voices. Laughter. Footsteps. Music.

Noah was on the floor assembling a dollhouse, with two toddlers crawling over his legs. Isabella was leaning against the arm of the couch, one hand on her slightly rounded belly, her mate resting their chin on her shoulder as they watched their son chase after William’s twins. Mia and Luna were giggling by the fireplace, their mates teasing them gently as they all shared cocoa and exchanged quiet gifts under the low light.

Oliver had a little girl balanced on his shoulders—his daughter, dark curls bouncing as she shrieked with joy, gripping his hair. His mate was nearby, baby in arms, smiling with a kind of softness that made even John misty-eyed.

“Dad,” a voice murmured behind him.

(y/n) turned.

It was Emma—taller now, with a streak of silver in her hair that she wore proudly. She handed him a mug of tea, warm and sweet, then kissed his cheek. “You okay?”

(y/n) nodded. “Just… soaking it all in.”

She gave him a knowing smile, one that reminded him too much of the little girl she once was. Then she turned to help Mia hang more ornaments, and (y/n) leaned back into the armchair, tea balanced on his knee.

John settled in beside him not a minute later, groaning as he sat. “Back’s killing me.”

“You were crawling under the tree with the grandkids for an hour.”

“Worth it,” John grunted, then slid his hand across to (y/n)’s thigh and gave it a squeeze. “You see all this?”

(y/n) looked around slowly.

Nine children—grown, confident, gentle and wild in the best of ways. Loving mates. Their own children. The next generation running around the very halls they once learned to walk in.

And all of it started with a chance meeting in a tiny coffee shop. A big, gruff alpha walking in with steel in his spine and no idea what kind of softness would unravel him. A small, quiet omega with a fire in his heart and dreams too big to say out loud.

Now? They were here.

“I see it,” (y/n) whispered. “And I still can’t believe it.”

John leaned in and pressed a kiss to (y/n)’s temple, staying close as their grandchildren squealed around them, two tiny pairs of feet stomping by with Santa hats slipping over their eyes.

“We did good, love,” John murmured. “We did damn good.”

(y/n) smiled, leaning his head on John’s shoulder.

And as their family gathered around the table for dessert—teasing, hugging, laughing, kissing—(y/n) squeezed John’s hand and let himself feel it all.

The mess.

The love.

The fullness of a life lived exactly the way they dreamed it could be.

This was it.

Everything they ever wanted.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 35: Bringing her home

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | next >

The kitchen was its usual brand of warm chaos.

(y/n) stood at the stove, humming quietly as he stirred something fragrant and creamy, while John was setting plates down at the table with the twins’ help. The air smelled like rosemary and butter, and there was laughter in the air—Will teasing Mia, Benjamin arguing about pasta shapes with Emma, Noah and James throwing side-eye glances like referees waiting to intervene.

And then the front door opened.

It was Oliver who noticed first. He turned his head toward the entryway and called out, “Izzy?”

A pause.

And then Isabella’s voice, soft but clear: “Yeah—it’s me. And I’ve got someone with me.”

Everyone froze for half a second. And then heads turned, curious but not overwhelming. There had been hints for months. Glances at her phone. Soft smiles when no one was looking. The faintest shift in her scent that only John and (y/n) had picked up on and quietly tucked away for when she was ready.

(y/n) wiped his hands on a towel, heart already fluttering, and stepped out from behind the stove just as Isabella appeared in the doorway.

She looked radiant—blushed cheeks, nervous but excited eyes. And beside her stood a woman, tall and sturdy, kind eyes and calloused hands, protective but not possessive. Her fingers were laced with Isabella’s.

John tilted his head ever so slightly, assessing. Not in a threatening way—just the careful calculation of a protective alpha and a father who’d watched his little girl grow into a woman.

“This is Aria,” Isabella said, her voice cracking just a little. “She’s… mine.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Then (y/n) crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Isabella, pulling her in tight, kissing the side of her face with tears already gathering in his eyes. “Hi, Aria,” he said over her shoulder, voice gentle and sincere. “We’re really happy to meet you.”

John followed, slower, more measured. He looked at Aria for a long moment, and then—satisfied—nodded once and offered his hand. “Take care of her, yeah?”

“Always,” Aria replied, voice steady but reverent. “She takes care of me, too.”

John smiled at that. “Good answer.”

It didn’t take long for the rest of the siblings to crowd around—some teasing, some sizing her up, some already pulling her into the rhythm of the family like she’d always been there.

Later that night, when the dishes were done and everyone was sprawled in the living room, (y/n) sat beside Isabella on the couch and reached for her hand.

“She loves you,” he said softly.

Isabella blinked, glancing at him. “You can tell already?”

“I don’t have to smell it. I can see it,” (y/n) said with a warm smile. “It’s in the way she looks at you when you talk. The way she made you tea without asking. The way you lean into her like you’ve found home.”

Isabella swallowed thickly. “You and Dad… set the bar high.”

(y/n) leaned in, kissed her temple, and whispered, “You deserve every bit of it.”

Across the room, Aria was sitting between Noah and Mia, laughing softly at some story about Benjamin setting the garden shed on fire by accident. John watched from the doorway, arms crossed, the edge of a proud smile on his face.

And Isabella—wrapped in her father’s love, with her mate only a few feet away—felt like the world had finally opened into something new.

Something hers.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 34: Something to want

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | next >

Isabella padded quietly down the hall, barefoot, a mug of cocoa warming her hands. The house was unusually still—everyone either asleep or tucked away in corners of their lives. The kind of calm that used to be impossible when they were kids.

But now? The house breathed softer. The chaos had settled into something peaceful.

She passed the window overlooking the garden—and paused.

Down below, in the soft glow of the string lights, she saw them.

Her parents.

Dad sitting on the bench, wrapped in a blanket, John’s large arm curled around him, their foreheads pressed together. They weren’t talking. Just being.

(y/n) looked so small next to him, delicate even, and yet somehow… stronger than anyone Isabella had ever known. And John—gruff, worn, impossibly steady—looked at him like he was the center of the universe.

The sight hit Isabella in the chest like a wave.

She sank to the floor, tucking her knees up, the cocoa forgotten in her hands.

She’d seen their love her whole life. The forehead kisses. The scent exchanges. The way John always knew when (y/n) needed a break and the way (y/n) always knew how to bring John back from whatever shadows clung to him.

But something about this—this quiet intimacy, this stillness, this wordless everything—felt different now that she was older.

She wanted that.

Not just a mate.

She wanted a partner who’d sit outside with her at the end of the day, hands warm, shoulders touching, the whole world fading into the background.

Someone who wouldn’t need to fill the silence.

Someone who would love her exactly as she was.

Isabella blinked away the sting in her eyes and smiled softly, heart full and aching all at once.

Down below, her dads stood and wandered slowly back toward the house, arms around each other, still silhouetted against the moonlight.

And as they disappeared from view, Isabella whispered to herself:

“…one day.”

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 33: Still yours

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | next >

The garden had gone still, the kind of quiet that only came after laughter had finally melted into sleep.

(y/n) lingered a little longer on the bench, still wrapped in the blanket the girls had left behind. The tea mugs were empty. The stars had started to come out. But his heart? It was so full it hurt a little.

He didn’t hear John approach—he never did when the man didn’t want to be heard. But he felt him.

A soft press of lips to the top of his head. A large, calloused hand on his shoulder.

“They okay?” John asked gently, his voice thick with affection.

(y/n) smiled up at him, nodding. “They’re more than okay. Just a little overwhelmed. I remember what that felt like.”

John moved to sit beside him, thigh pressing warm against his. “I remember that too.”

There was no teasing in his voice—just quiet awe.

(y/n) looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. “They said they’re glad they’re like me.”

John turned to look at him, brows raised.

“They said I’m strong and soft.” (y/n) let out a soft laugh. “Said no one else’s dad knows how to make tea and shoot a rifle.”

John’s mouth twitched into a grin, eyes softening as he studied the man beside him. “They’re not wrong.”

(y/n)’s voice dropped a little. “You think I did okay with them?”

John reached out and took his hand—firm, grounding, no hesitation.

“(y/n). You’ve raised ten of the most kind, capable, ridiculous, wonderful humans I’ve ever seen. You held this pack together when I was gone, when I came home half-broken, when the world made it harder than it had any right to be.”

(y/n)’s breath hitched.

John leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, his hand slipping around the back of (y/n)’s neck.

“You’re the heart of this family. You always have been.”

(y/n) exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut. “I just… I didn’t know what kind of omega I’d be. When we first started all of this.”

“And now you’re the kind everyone else wishes they could be,” John said with quiet reverence. “You’ve made a life out of love. You’ve made me better.”

(y/n) opened his eyes, voice trembling but sure. “I’d do it all again.”

John smiled. “So would I.”

They sat there, hands entwined, surrounded by the echoes of their grown-up children, the scent of blooming flowers, the distant sounds of their legacy breathing inside the walls of their home.

No need for big declarations anymore.

Just this.

Still yours. Always.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 32: Just like you, dad

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | next >

The sun was low on the horizon, casting long golden beams over the garden. The chatter from the rest of the house had faded into the background, muffled through half-closed windows.

(y/n) sat on the cushioned bench outside, blanket over his lap, two steaming mugs in hand. He didn’t have to wait long.

Mia and Luna came out together, still inseparable even after sixteen years. Their steps were quieter than usual. They didn’t say anything at first—just curled up on either side of him, letting out mirrored sighs that made (y/n) smile to himself.

He handed each of them a mug and waited.

It took a moment, but eventually, Mia broke the silence. “Everything feels louder now.”

Luna nodded. “Like my skin doesn’t fit right some days.”

“I keep crying at commercials,” Mia muttered, clearly horrified.

“And I almost bit Noah’s head off because he didn’t knock before entering my room,” Luna added, frowning into her tea.

(y/n) chuckled softly. “Yeah. That all sounds familiar.”

Both girls looked at him—curious, cautious, and a little surprised.

“You felt like this?” Mia asked.

(y/n) nodded. “I still remember the week I presented. It felt like the world tilted on its axis. I was angry one minute, crying the next, and then starving. All while being terrified someone would treat me differently because I was an omega and a boy.”

The twins went quiet.

“But,” (y/n) continued gently, “that fear didn’t last forever. I figured myself out. I found my rhythm. And then I met your dad. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to hide any part of myself. He saw me for me—not just my designation, not just my gender.”

Luna leaned her head on his shoulder. “Did people… say things to you? About being an omega dad?”

“Sometimes,” (y/n) admitted. “But I stopped listening. Because none of them had what I had. A partner who loves me. A pack who respects me. Kids I’d move the world for.”

Mia smiled, a little shy. “I’m glad we’re like you.”

“Me too,” Luna added, hugging his arm. “We always thought it was cool that you were different.”

(y/n) blinked, throat tight. “You did?”

Mia nodded. “You’re strong and soft. And no one else’s dad knows how to make the perfect tea and shoot a rifle like it’s nothing.”

(y/n) laughed through the emotion, arms wrapping around both of them. “You two are going to be amazing. I already see it. Even if you feel a little untethered right now—it’s part of growing into who you are.”

Luna’s voice was small. “It’s just hard sometimes.”

“I know, sweetheart. But you’re not alone,” (y/n) said gently. “You have me. You have each other. And you have an entire pack behind you.”

They sat in silence for a while after that—mugs empty, nightfall creeping in, the garden quiet around them.

Mia reached over, brushing her thumb gently over the scent gland on (y/n)’s neck. “I want a bond like yours and Dad’s someday.”

(y/n) smiled, leaning into the touch. “You will. But don’t rush it. The right bond will feel like peace.”

Luna kissed his cheek. “You always know what to say.”

“It’s a dad thing,” he teased softly, holding them close. “And an omega thing.”

And beneath the starlight, wrapped in their father’s arms, Luna and Mia felt a little less alone. A little more seen. A little more themselves.

[islakaliko]

Give the Alpha John and Omega MR family one more baby 🥹

i'm gonna disappoint you there.

i wrote this story a few months ago. everything is already written till the epilogue.

i just now got the guts to post it.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 31: Everything we built

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged, time skip

< previous | next >

( Oliver, alpha, 29 years old. Noah, beta, and James, alpha, 27 years old. Emma, alpha, 26 years old. Isabella, omega, 24 years old. Benjamin, beta, 21 years old. William, beta, 18 years old. Luna, omega, and Mia, omega, 16 years old. )

The house wasn’t quiet—it never really would be, not with a pack this big—but it had changed.

The mess of toys had long since been traded in for college textbooks, laptops, job offers pinned on corkboards, and half-unpacked suitcases from recent visits home. The halls were filled with older voices now, deeper laughs, more mature rhythms of life… but the warmth? The love?

Still the same.

(y/n) stood by the kitchen window, wiping his hands on a towel, smiling faintly as he watched Luna and Mia out on the back patio with Emma and Isabella. The twins, sixteen and full of emotion after just recently presenting, were curled up between their sisters—both overwhelmed and radiant, finally stepping into who they were.

“I remember when they were still crawling into our bed at night,” he murmured with a soft, fond laugh.

Arms circled his waist from behind. John pressed a kiss to (y/n)’s neck, beard scratchy but warm.

“They still would if we let ’em,” John grinned into his skin. “Especially after presenting. They’ve been scenting you every chance they get.”

“Can you blame them?” (y/n) chuckled, leaning back into him. “It’s a lot, being sixteen and an omega.”

“Was a lot for me just being around sixteen-year-old omegas,” John quipped, and (y/n) elbowed him gently with a mock-scowl.

Across the lawn, Oliver sat on the porch steps with James and Noah, the three of them nursing drinks and catching up about work—Oliver had taken on a leadership role in private security, James was working on opening his own training academy, and Noah had become the calm, steady beta everyone leaned on in emergencies. (y/n) could still hear their laughter from inside the house.

Emma had just been accepted into a research fellowship abroad. Isabella was about to move in with her mate, the first of the pack to leave home for good. Benjamin was exploring careers in film. And William—sweet, thoughtful Will—was still figuring it out, but he had time.

They all did.

“Think we did alright?” John asked, his voice quiet now, serious in the way only John Price could be when his heart was full.

(y/n) turned, looked up into that weathered, loyal face. “We did more than alright.”

They walked out together, slipping into the sunlit backyard, where their children—grown, grown so well—had gathered around the outdoor table. Someone was putting on music. Mia was laughing at something James said. Benjamin tossed a snack to Luna, who caught it mid-air like a pro.

And just beyond that, Gaz and Soap were showing up with bags of food, while Ghost, quiet and ever-watchful, brought up the rear with chairs in either hand.

The pack. Still whole. Still family.

John tugged (y/n) closer, hand finding his.

“Think we’ll ever have the house to ourselves again?” (y/n) teased, leaning into him.

“Hope not,” John said softly. “I like the noise.”

(y/n) looked out over their children—grown alphas, betas, omegas. Each one unique. Each one strong.

“You happy, Alpha?” he asked playfully, glancing sideways at him.

John turned, eyes warm and full.

“More than I ever thought I’d be.”

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 30: The weight you carry

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

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The house was still, finally. The chaos of the day had melted into soft breathing, little footsteps tucked into beds, and the occasional creak of settling wood.

Oliver sat on the back porch, hoodie pulled tight around his frame, eyes on the stars.

He didn’t hear John approach, just felt the shift in air and presence. His dad always moved quiet when he wanted to.

John sat beside him without a word, handing over a warm mug of tea. Not too sweet—just the way Oliver liked it.

They sipped in silence for a few moments, both staring out into the night.

Then John spoke, low and even. “You alright?”

Oliver nodded. Then hesitated. “Yeah. I mean… mostly.”

John didn’t push. Just waited.

After a beat, Oliver sighed. “It’s weird. Everything feels different. Like… louder. And I keep catching myself reacting to things before I think about it. The kids, especially. I knew they were mine to protect before, but now it’s like my whole body knows it.”

John hummed. “It’s instinct. You’re wired for it now.”

Oliver turned to look at him. “Did you feel like this, when you first presented?”

John let out a soft chuckle. “Worse. I was all pride and impulse. Got into more fights than I care to admit. But I learned—being an alpha isn’t about being in charge. It’s about carrying the weight for the ones who can’t.”

Oliver went quiet.

John reached over, rested a strong, calloused hand on the back of his son’s neck. “You’ve always been good at that. Taking care of the others. You’ve got a calm heart, Oliver. That’s rare.”

There was a tightness in Oliver’s chest, one he hadn’t known he was holding.

“You’re proud of me?” he asked, voice smaller than he meant it to be.

John looked at him—really looked at him.

“Son,” he said, his voice warm and sure, “I’ve been proud of you every day since you were born. But now? Watching you grow into this—watching you become your own man? That’s a kind of proud I don’t have words for.”

Oliver swallowed hard. “What if I mess it up?”

“You will.” John smiled softly. “That’s part of it. But you’ve got your mom’s heart and my spine. You’ll learn. And we’ll be here—every step.”

Oliver nodded, throat tight.

After a moment, John reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. A chain. A simple pendant—a tiny wolf carved in brushed metal.

“I wore this when I first took command,” John said, placing it in Oliver’s hand. “Now it’s yours.”

Oliver’s breath caught.

“It’s not just about leading,” John added. “It’s about knowing who you’re leading for.”

Oliver stared at the pendant, then slipped it around his neck without a word.

They sat there a while longer—father and son, alpha and alpha—beneath the stars, steady as the ground beneath them.

And in that stillness, something unspoken passed between them.

A torch, quietly handed over.

A new weight. A new strength.

A legacy.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 29: The scent of a big brother

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | next >

It had been three days since Oliver presented.

Three days since the subtle changes turned into something real. The scent, the way he held himself, the quiet confidence that settled into his bones—still new, still raw, but undeniably there.

And now?

His siblings would not. Leave. Him. Alone.

“Emma,” Oliver groaned, shifting on the couch as his ten-year-old sister leaned against his side for the fourth time that hour, nose scrunched, clearly trying to be subtle about sniffing him again.

“What?” she asked innocently. “You just smell nice now.”

“That’s weird,” Oliver muttered, trying (and failing) to scoot further away without disturbing the literal pile of younger siblings now gathered on and around him like puppies.

“Not weird,” Isabella chimed in from where she was sprawled over his legs. “You smell like Dad now. Kinda.”

“Do not.”

“Do too!”

Benjamin was sitting on his lap, clutching a stuffed animal and looking up at him with sparkling eyes. “You smell warm. Like—like cinnamon. And outside.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

Little William climbed onto the arm of the couch and immediately threw himself onto Oliver’s chest with a dramatic sigh. “I like you better now.”

“Gee, thanks,” Oliver deadpanned, though his arms instinctively wrapped around the two-year-old anyway.

From the kitchen, John leaned against the doorway, watching with a raised brow and a hidden smile. “Starting to regret presenting yet, son?”

Oliver shot him a look, face half-buried under a sibling dogpile. “They’ve been following me all day. Even the babies. Luna tried to sit on me.”

“She did sit on you,” Gaz called out from across the room, snorting into his tea. “I saw it.”

(y/n) peeked in, drying his hands with a dish towel, his smile unapologetically proud.

“They’re responding to your scent,” he said gently. “You’re shifting into your alpha instincts. They’re just… drawn to it.”

Oliver blinked. “Like I’m some kind of comfort blanket?”

“Exactly,” (y/n) said sweetly, crossing over to ruffle his hair. “You’re their big brother. Their alpha big brother now. They feel safer around you.”

Oliver flushed slightly but didn’t move away.

He may have grumbled about his personal space, but his arms were still holding Benjamin. William was still dozing on his chest. Emma was humming softly beside him, fingers wrapped around the hem of his hoodie.

John crossed the room, dropped a hand onto Oliver’s shoulder, and squeezed gently.

“Get used to it,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ve stepped up. It’s a good thing.”

Oliver looked up at him—older now, even if still just a teen—and there was something steady behind his eyes. A quiet kind of pride.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It kinda is.”

(y/n) smiled at the sight—his firstborn, finally growing into the role they all knew he’d one day hold.

Wrapped in love. Weighted with responsibility.

But never, ever alone.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 28: In the moment it matters

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

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The rain drizzled soft against the windows, the whole house tucked into that cozy hush that came with gray skies and warm socks.

The younger kids were playing in the living room—blocks, books, and bickering. Emma sat at the kitchen table with homework spread out in front of her, brow furrowed hard.

Oliver passed by and paused.

“You good?”

“No,” she grumbled, erasing something so hard she almost tore the page. “I can’t figure this out, and it’s due tomorrow, and the twins won’t stop yelling, and—ugh!”

Oliver slid into the seat beside her. “What are you working on?”

“Math. Ratios. My brain’s mush.”

Oliver leaned over, careful not to crowd her, and gently pulled the notebook closer. “Alright. Show me the part that’s messing you up.”

Emma sighed dramatically but started pointing, and together they began working through it. One step at a time. Oliver didn’t take over, just talked it out with her, patient and calm even when she groaned and scribbled nonsense in frustration.

Behind them, a sudden wail cracked through the air.

Luna.

Oliver stood instantly.

He rounded the corner into the living room to find Mia standing over her twin, eyes wide with guilt. A toppled block tower lay at their feet.

“I didn’t mean to!” Mia cried. “It just fell!”

Luna wailed louder, frustration and tears bubbling out fast and wild.

Before anyone else could even stand, Oliver was already down on the floor between them. He scooped Luna into his lap, arms wrapping around her tiny, shaking form. He looked up at Mia, who was wringing her hands, on the edge of tears herself.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “Accidents happen. She’s just scared.”

Luna curled into him like instinct. Mia hovered uncertainly.

Oliver reached one arm out. “C’mere, bug.”

Mia crawled into his side. And there they were—two messy little girls in footie pajamas, one crying, one sniffling, both huddled against their big brother like he was gravity itself.

“It’s okay now,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

And then it happened.

Right there, on the floor, in the middle of the soft rain and scattered toys—his body shifted.

Heat bloomed in his chest. His heart beat faster, but steady. His scent rolled outward in a wave of warm, rich grounding—amber and cedar, soft pine and something golden, like a safe place after a long day.

It flooded the room.

Emma looked up from the table in awe.

(y/n) paused in the hallway, breath catching in his throat.

John, already halfway down the stairs, froze mid-step, eyes widening. He knew that scent. It was new—but true. Settled. Final.

Oliver didn’t realize at first.

He was too busy smoothing Luna’s hair, tucking a curl behind Mia’s ear, whispering, “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

But when he looked up—

Everyone was staring.

“…What?” he blinked. “What’s wrong?”

(y/n) stepped closer, a hand to his heart. “You presented.”

Oliver blinked once. Twice. “I—wait. Now?”

John grinned, wide and warm, voice low with pride. “Couldn’t have picked a better moment, son.”

And suddenly Oliver felt it.

The difference.

Not something chaotic or dramatic—but something settled. Like a piece of him had finally clicked into place. No fear. No doubt. Just a quiet knowing:

This is who I am.

The girls looked up at him, safe and soothed in his arms.

Emma laughed from the kitchen. “You really are the glue holding this circus together.”

Oliver smiled.

Not because of the moment.

But because they were his.

His family.

His place.

And he’d just grown into it without even trying.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 27: Exactly who you are

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | next >

The house was quiet again.

The good kind of quiet—the kind that only came after a long day of laughter and chaos, when everyone was tucked in safe, the lights dimmed low, and the world finally let you breathe.

John was already in the kitchen when Oliver padded downstairs, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, bare feet silent on the tile.

(y/n) looked up from the mug he was holding, smiling softly. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Oliver shook his head and sat down at the table without a word. John slid a mug of warm tea in front of him without asking.

No one rushed him. They never did.

He stared at the mug for a few seconds, then finally said, “Mia had a nightmare last night.”

(y/n) nodded. “I know. I saw you with her.”

“I didn’t mean to do the scent thing. It just… happened.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to happen,” John said, voice low and steady. “It’s instinct. It means you’re in tune with the people you care about.”

Oliver looked down. “I didn’t think I’d be that kind of alpha.”

(y/n) leaned forward slightly. “What kind?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged, fidgeting with the mug. “Not loud. Not bossy. Not… like in the movies. I’m not trying to be in charge all the time. I just wanted her to feel safe.”

John smiled, slow and proud. “Son, that’s the kind of alpha people follow without needing to be told.”

Oliver’s brow furrowed. “But I’m not even fully—presented yet. What if it doesn’t stick? What if I’m just pretending?”

“You’re not pretending,” (y/n) said gently. “You’re showing us exactly who you are. Day by day.”

“You comforted your sister with nothing but presence,” John added. “You didn’t need to dominate or control. You soothed. That’s not weakness. That’s power used gently. That’s strength.”

Oliver didn’t answer right away. But his shoulders relaxed, just a little.

(y/n) got up and walked around the table, resting his hands on Oliver’s shoulders from behind and leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “We’re proud of you, sweetheart. Always.”

John reached over and ruffled his hair gently. “You’re already a better alpha than half the ones I served with.”

Oliver huffed a laugh through his nose, cheeks pink. “Yeah, right.”

“Dead serious.”

(y/n) sat back down, smiling behind his mug. “I always knew you’d grow into exactly who you were meant to be.”

Oliver looked at both of them—his calm, warm omega father, his steady, protective alpha dad—and then down at his own hands.

Big, growing hands.

He didn’t feel like a kid anymore. But maybe he didn’t have to be completely grown to be enough.

“…Thanks,” he murmured, and meant it more than he could say.

They stayed like that for a little while longer, just sipping tea in the low glow of the kitchen light, the house silent around them.

And when Oliver went back upstairs, he left with something unshakable in his chest:

He was becoming.

And he wasn’t doing it alone.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 26: The kind you want to be

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | next >

It was late.

The kind of quiet that only settled in the Price household after bedtime battles had been won, teeth brushed (mostly), toys tucked away, and stories read with sleepy voices.

But that night, a soft cry broke through the silence.

(y/n) was already halfway to the hallway when Oliver stepped out of his room, blinking, hair messy from sleep.

“That’s Mia,” (y/n) said quietly.

“I got her,” Oliver offered, already turning toward the twins’ room.

(y/n) paused, then smiled softly and nodded. “Alright, love. Call if you need me.”

Oliver slipped into the girls’ room, where the night light cast a soft pink glow across the walls. Mia was sitting up in bed, her cheeks damp, clinging to her stuffed bunny. Her chest hitched with tiny, hiccuping sobs.

“Hey, hey,” Oliver murmured, kneeling beside her bed. “What’s wrong, bug?”

Mia couldn’t find the words—too worked up, still tangled in the aftermath of a nightmare. She reached out blindly, fists tight with panic.

Without thinking, Oliver scooped her up into his arms.

He sat with her in the rocking chair by the window, holding her close, his cheek resting against the top of her head. Her small fingers curled into his shirt.

And that’s when it happened.

His scent.

It was still fresh—still shaping itself—but it unfurled like instinct: a warm, earthy calm, something grounding and gentle. Not sharp or commanding, not aggressive. Safe.

Mia sighed against his chest. Her little body relaxed. Her tears stopped.

Oliver froze for a moment, barely breathing, stunned by the feeling that bloomed in his chest—not pride, not power, but peace.

He hadn’t tried to make her feel better. He’d just been there.

And somehow, that had been enough.

He gently rocked her until her breathing evened out again, her bunny slipping from her hands to the floor.

(y/n) peeked in later and paused in the doorway.

There was his son—barefoot, sleepy-eyed, bigger than he used to be—but with the same quiet heart that had always set him apart. Holding his baby sister like the world had slowed just for them.

(y/n) said nothing.

He just mouthed thank you, and backed away quietly.

————————————

The next morning, over pancakes and scrambled eggs, Mia climbed into Oliver’s lap without a word and leaned her head against his chest. She didn’t say why. She didn’t need to.

And Oliver wrapped his arms around her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

John caught (y/n)’s eye from across the table, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

And in that little moment, surrounded by family noise and morning light, Oliver realized—

This was the kind of alpha he wanted to be.

And maybe, just maybe, he was already becoming him.

[islakaliko]

— Chapter 25: When it happens

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged, time skip, oliver is 16 and presenting for the first time

< previous | next >

The thing was—Oliver had always been the steady one.

The big brother. The helper. The calm in the storm of his younger siblings’ chaos. He always remembered birthdays, picked up socks no one else would, and made sure Mia didn’t eat glitter (again).

Which is why it was impossible not to notice when he started to shift.

It started small.

Snappy responses at breakfast. Long, quiet stares out the window. A short fuse with the twins, who usually looked up to him like a hero. He started eating more—way more—and staying up later, often tossing and turning in his bed or pacing in the hallway when he thought no one would notice.

(y/n) noticed first.

He didn’t say anything at first, but he kept an eye on his eldest. Offered more hugs, more quiet presence. Made tea in the evening instead of just coffee, just in case Oliver felt like talking. He never did.

John noticed a few weeks later when he walked into the garage and found Oliver mid-workout, breathing hard, sweat soaking through his shirt—and eyes burning with a frustration he couldn’t name.

“You alright, son?”

“Fine.”

But his hands trembled. His voice cracked. His scent had changed—still faint, still unformed, but stirring. And John, alpha that he was, felt it. The way something ancient was beginning to wake in his boy’s body.

They didn’t push.

Not at first.

But (y/n) and John shared more glances. Had quiet talks behind closed doors. They both knew it was coming.

And then, it did.

————————————

It was a Sunday.

The younger kids were outside with Soap, who’d come by for an afternoon visit and was letting them decorate him like a snowman. The house was unusually quiet. (y/n) was folding laundry, John chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

And then came the sound.

A thud. Something breaking upstairs.

Followed by Oliver’s voice—frustrated, choked, hurting.

John was up the stairs before (y/n) could even call his name.

He found Oliver in his room, crouched in the corner by his bed. His bookshelf had toppled. His desk chair lay on its side. His breath came in shallow bursts, and his whole body trembled, caught in the tug-of-war between then and now.

“Don’t,” Oliver rasped when John stepped in. “Don’t come near me. I don’t— I can’t—”

(y/n) appeared behind John, quietly slipping into the room. “Baby,” he said, voice calm, gentle. “You’re okay.”

“I’m not. I’m—” Oliver clutched his head. “Everything’s loud. Everything smells wrong. I keep wanting to fight everything and I don’t even know why!”

John knelt slowly, keeping his voice even, low. “You’re presenting.”

Oliver froze. “W-what?”

John’s eyes softened. “Alpha. It’s starting.”

Oliver’s face crumpled, overwhelmed. “I didn’t— I don’t feel like me anymore.”

“You’re still you,” (y/n) promised, moving to sit beside him, rubbing his back. “But your body’s figuring itself out. That storm? It’s part of becoming who you’re meant to be. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Oliver’s chin quivered. “What if I mess it up? What if I’m—not the kind of alpha you are?”

John reached over, hand landing firm on his son’s shoulder. “You’re not supposed to be me, Oliver. You’re supposed to be you. And you’re doing a damn good job already.”

Slowly, Oliver’s breathing evened out. (y/n) wrapped an arm around his back, letting him lean in without pressure.

“You don’t have to hold it all together all the time,” (y/n) whispered. “We’ve got you. Every step.”

And Oliver, sixteen and scared and overwhelmed, finally let go.

He cried. Not just from the shift, but from the weight he’d carried—the pressure, the expectations, the confusion. And his parents held him the whole time, anchoring him in something stronger than instinct.

Love.

————————————

Later that night, John brought Oliver a mug of herbal tea and a heating pad—muscles still aching from the surge of energy and the crash that followed.

(y/n) tucked him in like he was still a little boy, brushing hair from his forehead, kissing his temple.

“You don’t need to be perfect,” he said softly.

“I just want to be good.”

“You are,” John said from the doorway. “You’re already everything you need to be.”

And as Oliver fell asleep, calm and comforted, the house quieted again—at peace.

Their boy was growing up. Becoming. And they’d be there for all of it.