rozodejanerowrites

[rozodejanerowrites]

Ninety Seconds to Midnight

CWs: Canon typical violence, Medical procedures, Substance abuse, Referenced Suicide

Contains: John-Price POV, Character study, Unresolved romantic tension, Slow burn

Archive of Our Own | Current WIP (9 chapters finished) - ~60-80,000 words

Chapter notes (felt like adding): Gave John a family because my version of him errs on the side of "good man forced to do bad things" and I felt that given that there's a dev that mentioned his grandfather was the OG Price, it would make sense for him to have strong family ties that would motivate this. Also yes, Black is Soap's cousin - which will be relevant when Soap makes an appearance in a flashback chapter.

Thanks for reading <3

Chapter 6

Wendover, United Kingdom. 2008

The air in Wendover is as familiar to John as his own face. He’d never loved it, but it was baked into him - like itchy blisters and early starts, just part of the wiring by now. It carries the damp stillness particular to English autumns. Wet leaves slide underfoot, smoke curls from grey chimneys and the clouds hang low enough to press in on his thoughts.

As it had since he had been a boy, the village church sits perched on a gentle rise, flanked by yew trees and gravestones mottled with moss.

He had been scared of the church as a child. The gravestones had reminded him of old men, hunched over. The yew trees of their gnarly hands, breaking through the earth to grab him and steal him away.

He fears the church now. Not for ghosts or gnarly old men, but for memory. For silence. For the way someone he loved will become a photograph on a wooden table.

The weight of his nan’s coffin catches him off guard as he pauses under the mossy lychgate. It’s not heavy — not for him — but the weight shifts, awkward and uneven between him and the other pallbearers with each step. He keeps his grip firm as the vicar reads a short prayer. When he finishes, he makes eye contact with John for a moment. John remembers him from his childhood, a short, elderly man who had always struck him as too solemn.

John is grateful for it now.

A silent nod passes between them before the vicar leads the funeral procession up the pathway.

John had been halfway through a training cycle at Hereford when the phone call had come through. Lucky, or unlucky, depending on how he looks at it.

His mother hadn’t even needed to finish her first word before he knew exactly what had happened; “John…it’s nan. She’s had a stroke.”

Like in life, in death his Nan does it right.

She lingers in Stoke Mandeville long enough for her 5 children, 24 grandchildren, and 4 great grandchildren to all say their goodbyes. She dies without suffering the indignity she had always feared.

“Let me go, John,” she had said to him the last time he had been back in the UK. She’d said it like she was asking him to turn off the kettle. Calm. Stern. No sentiment, no fuss. It had been her way. Now it was his. “Make sure they do it, eh? Tell your father I’ll haunt him if he doesn’t.”

He had smiled and promised her that.

They had always had a particular type of relationship. John had been the first grandchild, one of only three that had ended up in the military and the only one that had followed in his grandfather’s footsteps and joined SAS. John sometimes thinks it is strange that so few of her brood had followed her and his grandfather’s lead. But given how much his father - the Major - argued with his siblings, it was perhaps not surprising.

The Prices had always been a law unto themselves.

In the end, John hadn’t needed to threaten his father. In perhaps the only time he had ever seen them in agreement, his Father and his siblings had agreed unanimously to honour his nan’s wishes and let her go.

John remembers looking down at her frail body, so small in the huge hospital bed, so at odds with the force of nature she had always been. Unable to speak, unable to do anything.

He’d knelt next to lads while they bled out, sobbing for mums they’d never see again. But nan, in that hospital bed, had hit him harder than any of them. He hated how small she looked. Hated how he felt helpless and not grim acceptance.

He’s not sure what that says about him.

He carries her now on his shoulders, through the open door of the church, wide and yawning, like a mouth threatening to swallow him whole. The air changes as he crosses the threshold. It stills. Their footsteps echo along the grey stone floor. The church has barely changed since he was last there. The smell of old wood and brass polish hits him like muscle memory. Hymns he hadn’t sung since he was ten rise up in the back of his throat.

The church will not be big enough for everyone that has turned up. It seems like the whole shire had been milling about outside - former nurses, local vets, military officials, local villagers.

It is not a surprise to John. His nan was a force of nature.

His hands curl tighter around the polished brass handle, the wood slick beneath from the morning mist. He can smell the flowers - sweet, cloying - too close to his face. Roses, maybe. The kind Nan used to deadhead without gloves, just pinched them off with her fingers. He doesn’t look at them. Can’t. He focuses on the flagstone ahead, worn smooth by centuries of funerals just like this.

They place the coffin down at the front of the church and pause for a moment. His cousin Henry, dressed in his RAF blues like John, nods as they take their seats.

John doesn't focus as the vicar leads the service. He doesn't focus as he recites Abide with Me. He doesn't focus as his Aunt Josephine does the bible reading through teary eyes and a wavering voice. It is only when his father steps up to the lectern, mouth set in a long thin line beneath his grey moustache that it hits him that his Nan is gone.

His father’s blue eyes are downcast as he looks at the papers in front of him. John sees his shoulders inflate and deflate as he takes a breath. He looks up at the congregation.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Friends and family,” he begins, his voice deep and clear. Even in grief, he projects like he’s on the parade ground. “On behalf of myself, my wife, and my siblings, I thank you for being here today with us to honour our mother - Margaret Elizabeth Price, Officer of the Order of the British Empire, nurse, veteran, and, in the truest sense of the word, a matriarch.”

John sits, spine rigid, hands laced together tightly in his lap.

He tries to listen, but the words feel like shadows of the woman he remembers - broad strokes of a life that cannot be captured in neat paragraphs. Nan was more than a war nurse, more than a wife and mother. She was the one that taught him how to mend his pants. Who let him eat ice cream for dinner the week he got suspended for decking a bully in Year 7. Who told his father to back off when John announced he was pursuing infantry.

She was the only person he thinks his father ever listened to.

Now, he watches his unwavering father stand behind the lectern, immaculately dressed, eyes set, and he wonders if his father ever feels anything.

"She taught us to stand up straight. To tell the truth. To serve something greater than ourselves."

Then he catches it.

It is quick, subtle - a brief hitch in his voice when he says, “Her words were not often gentle, but in her final weeks she told me that she was proud.” He takes a breath. “Not of medals, or honours -” then he looks over at John, “- but of us. Of her family. Her legacy."

John looks away.

Swallows hard.

He stares at the brass of the candelabra until the lump in his throat recedes.

His father is a hard man. Always has been. Feelings rationed out like ammunition. But John knows what he’s saying.

And of course it would take a funeral to say it.

He wishes it made him feel better.

Instead, it just makes him miss her more.

———————————

John watches his father’s back - upright, steady despite his bad knee - as they walk the narrow path toward the village centre. His mother flanks his father’s side, her hand hovering just below his shoulder blades.

The burial had been mercifully quick. A brief committal, a lot of tears, and a handful of soil.

“Theres so many people.”

John glances to his left.

Jess is dressed in a simple black dress and clutching an umbrella above her light brown hair. She peers around at the people heading in the same direction as them.

Time passes faster in theater. Out there, his sister grows up in intervals - photographs, letters, a new height marked on the kitchen doorway each time he comes home. She looks so mature in the cold overcast light, older than 14. It’s jarring.

He grunts.

She is right.

Locals have turned out in quiet numbers - faces John doesn’t recognize, but who all seem to know exactly who he is. They wish him condolences as he passes.

He nods automatically, eyes forward. Everyone means well, but they say the same thing. Like a script.

As he turns from her, he sees Black and Kelli, following them close behind. For a moment he is surprised. He had not asked or expected anyone to come.

Part of him had tried to keep it quiet - as if he could keep this one part of his life separate and untouched. But word spreads fast in uniform. His Nan and family were well know enough in military circles for it to quickly become common knowledge. He certainly has a reputation so leave is bound to come with speculation. The thought of hearing the same script - kind, well-meant, and “I’m sorry for your loss” - made him want to poke his eardrums out.

Now, as he nods toward them both, he is grateful for the familiar faces. Of course Kelli would come, she was just like that. Black is more of a surprise. They are good mates, he’s basically become his 2IC - if not in actual rank, at least in spirit - but John had not thought Black considered him this type of friend. It tugs at something deep within him. The sense that there are people who care about him who are not obligated to by blood.

They are both better friends than he deserves.

“Is that Kelli?” Jess asks, following his gaze.

He forcibly turns Jess’s head back along the road. Of course Jess noticed. She notices everything when it comes to his friends, especially Kelli. She wiggles free of his hand and cranes her head to look over at Kelli from beneath her umbrella.

He feels a flush creep up his neck and buries it with a grunt.

“Not the time.”

John sometimes wonders if his parents deliberately had him and Jess so far apart just to test him. For what, he’s not sure. He adores her, but he sometimes feels more like an absent uncle and less of a brother. She was 7 when he enlisted and he’s never lived at home since. Her cheeky innocence plays into his drive to serve. She’s been in the habit of writing to him recently, which he appreciates - more than he would probably ever admit. He sends her gifts, stupid things, like Afghani sweets. His father doesn’t approve.

“Your mother spoils that girl more than enough.”

John thinks his father could afford to spoil Jess at all - but that’s never been his way. Though, John supposes that he never thought he’d ever see his father emote, but that just happened so maybe miracles are possible after all.

Jess turns back to look at him, a sly grin on her face.

“She’s really tall,” she says. “Like you.”

He nearly laughs. His sister may be maturing, but she still possesses the focus of a untrained Jack Russell Terrier.

“Is she your girlfriend yet?”

He shushes her.

“Be respectful Jess,” he says, frowning. “It’s nan’s funeral.”

He almost feels grateful for that, despite it. Jess is like a dog with a bone sometimes and he’s not sure he’s in the right frame of mind to rebuff her fantasies. Jess has never actually met Kelli, but she’s nosy enough to have spotted her in one of his deployment photos -tall, athletic, big blue eyes. Of course Jess pounced. Somehow, without even having the slightest understanding of anything at all, she’s fixated on the idea that Kelli would be perfect for John.

“No, it was nan’s funeral,’ Jess says as if he is the younger sibling. “Now its the wake, so I’m allowed to talk. Mum said so.”

A wind whips up along the road and sends a swirl of chilly air across his face. Yew leaves dance across his black leather shoes.

“I can’t imagine she said that,” John says, trying not to look over at Kelli again, “given your talent for saying stupid things.”

Jess nudges him with her shoulder.

“Don’t be rude,” she says with a pout, “you’re just jealous I can actually talk to people.”

She is not wrong.

John knows he is generally quiet at the best of times. Its not his fault, he thinks, he just doesn’t have much to say unless its giving orders or reports or discussing tactics. He prefers to observe and assess. He feels awkward with words anyway, most of the time he hardly knows the right ones to say.

“I can talk to people,” he says, despite this. The sibling urge to rebuff her will always be pull too strongly to ignore - even if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. He’s only got 2 days before he’s due back on base and he knows he will miss Jess’ inane banter when he’s getting shot at 5000 kilometres away. Besides, she might not be able to read a room to save her life, but she’s making him feel better. Nan probably would have been mortified at the dreary mood - she liked her family lively.

“You cannot.”

“I can.”

“Can’t!”

His mother turns and glares at the both.

“What did I say Jessica?” she says quietly, glancing meaningfully at his father’s back. John can see the muscle locked in his father’s jaw.

Jess pouts and folds her arms across her chest. The action angles her umbrella wildly and she almost hits him in the face. He catches it with one hand.

His mother turns her glare on to him.

“Stop baiting her Jonathan.”

He raises both eyebrows and opens his mouth, but the look on her face is a clear warning against backtalk. Instead he takes the umbrella from Jess’ hands and hold it over them both.

Beside him, Jess grins.

“Jonathan,” she singsongs in their mother’s voice, nudging him with a smirk.

————————————

The rest of the walk to the pub is mercifully short. There had been discussion of having the wake at the local hall, but The Red Lion was always going to win out. John’s not sure how they’re meant to fit everyone in, but that’s never stopped a Wendover event before. He doesn’t have to do anything anyway—his aunts have run this like a bloody military op.

Inside, the pub is already bursting. Chairs dragged in from the garden, coats heaped, pint glasses sweating on every surface, even though it’s barely gone one. The hearth is cold, but someone’s lit a cathedral’s worth of candles around an enormous framed portrait of Nan. It feels less like a wake and more like a shrine.

Jess is pulled away by a handful of younger cousins, and John is grateful for the reprieve.

He makes for the window, hovering like a ghost. He takes a pint from a passing tray and swallows half in one gulp. The noise is bearable, but the attention isn’t. As he hovers, he’s immediately caught in an endless loop of small nods and stiff handshakes, all gratitude and grief and nothing to say that hasn’t already been said. He's tired, deep down, into his bones. He wants to retreat into himself. Into his room back on base and wallow, though he knows it would only make him feel worse.

Black sidles up, his dark hair still damp from the drizzle outside. He holds out a plate of crisps like an offering.

“You alright, mate?” he asks, already halfway through a meat pie.

John doesn’t answer straight away. Just nods. He takes a handful of crisps, and it is only once he starts chewing that he realizes how hungry he is.

“How many bloody people did your gran know?” Black says in his thick Glaswegian accent, settling onto a stool. “Had to tell three different blokes I wasn’t your RAF cousin.”

John glances at him. He and Kelli came in plainclothes, but Black wears a general service tie and a poppy pin.

“Let’s swap,” John mutters. “Old woman near the bar—blue cane—said she remembered me running around in nappies.”

Black looks over at the woman, then grins.

“Remembers?” he says with a wry look, “You still run like you’ve got a full one.”

John shakes his head. Black might be one of the smartest, most socially fluent men John’s ever worked with—but he’s also an Olympic-level piss-taker. Must be genetic. Comes standard with the accent.

“Your sister’s a treat,” he says, nodding over towards where Jess has intercepted Kelli by the bar and is talking her ear off animatedly.

“She’s obsessed with Kelli,” John says, “wouldn’t be shocked if she started saying she wants to be a CMT.”

“Christ, you don’t want that,” Black says, munching on another handful of crisps, “my 12-year-old cousin saw my sidearm once, now he keeps trying to steal my beret.”

John can’t help but huff out a laugh. The idea of Black’s hyperactive cousin running around with his SAS beret is kind of endearing.

“Johnny’s a menace,” he says. “At least Jess is physically harmless.”

Black raises both eyebrows.

“Yeah, well you might want to get her away from Kelli,” he says into his drink, “I think she’s feeling a bit raw on the topic of her personal relationships.”

John looks at Black.

“What do you mean?” he asks, nervous, but trying to appear unbothered.

Black sets his mouth in a line as if he is resisting the urge to laugh at him. John frowns. He’s never felt more pathetic.

“Her leave request to Mullen,” Black says. “It caused a massive fight.”

John nods slowly, still staring as Kelli laughs at something Jess is saying - a good sign at least. “Commands involved now.” He laughs sardonically. “Hard to keep something like that under wraps when Mullen decided to start screaming at her in the medic station.”

John takes a long sip from his pint. Mostly to distract him from crushing the glass into dust with his fist. He can feel Black watching him.

“I know you’re just friends,” he says slowly, “but Mullen clearly thinks something else is going on.”

John grunts.

“Nothing’s going on.”

Black laughs.

“Oh I know, mate,” he says, clapping him on the shoulder. He leaves the hand there for a moment. John refuses to look at him. He knows Black is examining whatever emotion is on his face right now. He won’t find what he’s looking for.

Black sighs. He opens his mouth to say something, but then his gaze is caught by something - someone - behind John’s left shoulder.

“Speak of the devil.”

Kelli appears by his side and grins. She must’ve pried herself away from Jess. John looks over and sees his sister being tugged in another direction by their mother. His attention is brought back as Kelli holds out a beer and John’s traitorous heart jumps. He takes it without meeting her eyes.

“Thanks.”

Her black dress skims her calves, and John—grieving, exhausted—still finds himself wishing she wore dresses more often. Even now, some hopeless part of him wants to reach under the hem and touch her thigh, wants her close.

Wants, full stop.

Honestly, it’s excruciating. He broke up with Veronica half a year ago, and it’s been dry ever since. He had no time to hook up off base. He refuses to cross lines with squadmates - too much drama. But grief chips at boundaries and it’s harder to maintain the partition he has built between what he wants and what he can have.

Kelli doesn’t speak at first. She simply examines him in that way that she does, and he hopes he’s not flushing more than can be explained by the stuffy air.

“You holding up?” she asks quietly.

He nods.

“Just about.”

He knows she means Nan, but it feels like a cruel fucking joke—her being here, still tied to Mullen.

Still tethered to a man who doesn’t respect her. Still wasting time. John wants to haul the prick into a wall. Tell him to stop fucking around. But he can’t. So instead he has to pine like an absolute moron, avoiding Black’s shrewd gaze and his little sister’s nosy fantasies like he has no fucking desire to push Kelli up against the nearest wall and snog her senseless.

He sometimes wishes he was a less honorable man. He’s seen men take whatever they want and just get it. He thinks of Mullen like that - though he has to acknowledge Kelli’s role in the disaster of a relationship. But he knows that his Nan would probably resurrect herself - and his grandfather - just to haunt him if he turned into that kind of man.

“Did you know,” Black says, nudging Kelli, “there are people here who remember our esteemed lieutenant in nappies?”

Kelli laughs.

“Remembers?” Kelli says, deadpan. “He still stomps around base like he’s got a full one.”

John throws his hands up.

“What is it about the way I fucking move?”

Kelli and Black dissolve into fits of laughter. John, despite himself, shakes his head and grins.

“Wankers.”

Black snorts and stands. “Right. Off to the little boys’ room. You two try not to elope while I’m gone.”

He disappears back into the pub crowd, crisps in tow. John watches him go, then glances back at Kelli. “Thanks for coming.”

She shrugs, but it’s gentle. “You did the same.”

He nods. “Still. Means a lot.”

They stand awkwardly for a moment.

John shifts his weight. Kelli takes a sip of her beer, watching the movement behind the window. Her presence is steadying, even if she says nothing.

Then she opens her mouth and shuts it several times.

“Your sister is…” she hesitates, like she’s selecting the most diplomatic term, “…insistent.”

“Ignore everything she says,” John says quickly. “She doesn’t know you’ve got a boyfriend.”

Kelli tilts her head, gives him that look—the one that unpicks his armour without even trying.

“I think she does,” she says. “Told me he was a real dickhead. Wonder where she got that from.”

He flushes. Remembers the conversation—late night, too much on his chest, Jess pressing him, and him blurting out that she was taken. That her boyfriend was a feckless dickhead. He stands by the statement. But still.

He opens his mouth to try and reassure her. To try and claw back some semblance of dignity. Anything.

But then a voice cuts through the hum of the pub beside them.

“John!” It’s cousin Henry, already flushed and gesturing broadly from the doorway. “Come say hello to the lads before they nick off!”

John grimaces.

Kelli catches the look.

“Go,” she says gently. “I’ll be here.”

He doesn’t want to. Not really. Henry’s mates are all far too romantic about his work. The kind of blokes that view SAS service as a fantasy and not the grind that it is. But he nods, brushing past her arm as he turns.

“Save my spot,” he mutters.

She doesn’t answer.

But when he glances back from the doorway, she’s still there—watching him go, unreadable.

————————————

The sun is dipping low, casting amber streaks across the back wall of the pub. The beer garden is mostly emptied out - a few half-drunk glasses on the tables, soft conversation from a handful of distant relatives still milling about, muffled music bleeding through the brick.

John is exhausted - hours of small talk and condolences and too many stories. The kind that leave your chest aching in places you didn’t know could bruise. He thinks that Nan would have been happy. She would have despised his aunt’s taste in music, though - too much synth and sentiment. The numbness has faded a little, despite the exhaustion. It’s replaced by something deeper — not peace, exactly. Just the sharp edges of missing her without the shock to blunt it. He feels like maybe Nan is gone, but there is so much of her left behind.

He hears Jess arguing with Black over whether vampires or werewolves make better boyfriends and can’t help smiling.

He is grateful, he thinks.

Combat has a way of slowing time, of narrowing focus, boiling it down to seconds and blood. But this - this reminds him of what it is he is fighting for. The reason he crawls back out every single time.

Family. Laughter. Even the bullshit makes the suffering seem less pointless.

He spots Kelli hunched over a low brick wall, rifling through her bag. She is facing away from him. The amber light brushes across her cheekbone, and her skin glows with a fading Afghani tan. Her cheeks are flushed - not just from the booze he thinks.

It’s the kind of warmth that comes from hours of forced small talk. It’s the kind of warmth that seeps into him as he approaches—subtle, dangerous. The booze has loosened both his tongue and his tie. A dangerous combination.

“Thought I might find you skulking back here,” he says, grinning despite himself.

Kelli turns. There’s a flicker, surprise, maybe guilt, and then it’s gone. She closes a small tin box quickly and slips it into her pocket.

“Sorry,” she says, flashing a white pill and laughing with a strange brightness, “headache, needed paracetamol and air.”

John frowns — small, automatic. Something’s off. She’s playing normal a bit too hard. Then her phone buzzes, and she hurriedly snatches it off the bricks.

He catches a flash of the name: Mullen.

“I heard they’ll start serving some food soon,” she says, too fast. “Your mum told me you hadn’t eaten.”

He steps closer. He doesn’t give a shit about food. He only cares about her.

“I had crisps.”

Kelli arches a brow. “You stole Black’s crisps. That barely counts.”

It’s a little unnerving just how good Kelli is at appearing as if everything’s okay. He knows Mullen’s a problem. But for a moment, he wonders what else she might not be sharing.

“You always take care of everyone else,” he murmurs. “Even here.”

She looks up at him. Her eyes are wide, caught, maybe, by how close he is.

He knows he is standing too close. He should give her space. But she looks so Goddamned beautiful in the sunlight and grief has sanded his restraint down to something thin and cracked.

She shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I learned from the best.”

He doesn’t answer that. Just looks at her a beat too long.

And then—because the words are sitting too close to the surface—he says, “You alright?”

She exhales through her nose. Defensive. Deflecting.

“I’m fine,” she says, almost reflexively.

Then, after a pause, “It’s Mullen.”

John nods once, slow. “I figured.”

“He didn’t like that I put in for leave.”

“He didn’t like that you have a life outside of him.”

Kelli studies his face. He can tell by the look on her face that she’s about to go on the defensive. Like she always does with Mullen and his bullshit.

“He wasn’t always like this,” she says, gesturing with her phone, which is buzzing - again - and John wants to hurl it into the sky and watch it shatter across the tiles. “At the start he was—I don’t know. Steady. Supportive?”

John scoffs.

“Not supportive enough to promote you when he should have.”

Kelli narrows her eyes at him.

“And how would that look, John?”

“I don’t know, Kelli, how would that look?” he says, leaning forward. His focus narrowing. “Is that what he told you? He can’t promote you because it would look bad? Despite the fact that you’ve saved more lives out there than Mullen has fucking hair on his balls. Give me a fucking break!”

He glances over at some distant second cousin, who is peering at them with interest. Kelli smiles at them - that smile that hides everything simmering beneath the surface.

He tugs at her elbow and directs her into a small corner of the service alley behind the pub.

The sun doesn't reach back here. It is dim and cool. John’s chest feels like it’s been scorched from the restraint he’s trying, and failing, to manifest.

Kelli does not shrug off his hand. Just lets it linger there. She hesitates, not meeting his eyes. “Lately it’s just been—everything’s tense. His unit’s rotating out soon, HQ’s breathing down his neck. He’s under a lot of pressure.”

John swallows down a strangled sigh.

“He screamed at you in front of your team.” He says. “That’s not pressure, Kelli, thats a man showing you who he is.”

She doesn’t answer.

He watches her face, the little twitch in her jaw, the way she looks down like she’s searching for a counterargument and can’t find one that doesn’t sound like bullshit.

And then he says, his voice quieter, soft, “I hate watching you try to explain him. Like it’s your fault he’s a prick.”

His hand twitches on her elbow.

“You shouldn’t have to shrink just to keep the peace.”

That hits. Kelli finally looks up at him.

“He doesn’t like that I spend so much time with you.”

John’s jaw clenches.

Something dark clenches in his gut. He wants to say something furious, but it is something he knows he will regret.

Instead he asks, “Do you like spending time with me?”

Kelli scoffs, but there’s a waver behind it.

“Of course I do,” she says. “Do you think I would have put up with your moody shit for three years if I didn’t like you?”

John laughs - a short, joyless breath - but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Kelli looks at him for a long moment, eyes searching. She leans a little closer, as if unable to stop the pull. The same pull that he feels too.

“Don’t act like you don’t know, John.” she whispers.

He breathes in, sharp and quiet. He brushes his thumb against the inside of her elbow. Skin on skin. Scalding.

She stares up at him, her blue eyes wide. Her eyes flicker- for a moment - toward his lips.

From inside, someone calls his name again.

They both start.

Another relative, another obligation.

John wants to stay.

But he doesn’t trust himself to. Not like this. So he sighs and straightens, relieved in some ways for the reprieve.

“Better not keep the aunts waiting.”

Kelli leans back against the wall, watching him. There’s a flicker of something behind her eyes - disappointment.

He knows it’s cowardice, leaving her like this.

But she’s still tethered to that bastard, and if he stays, he’ll say something he can’t take back. He'll do something he can't take back.

Something neither of them is ready to deal with.

“I’ll still be here,” she says quietly.

He nods, but doesn’t look at her when he says it.

“Yeah. I know.”

[rozodejanerowrites]

Is it weird for a fictional man to become your muse?

[rozodejanerowrites]

Jessie Buckley is my visual reference for Kelli (except she has dark hair and is about 5"11)

Wicked Little Letters (2023) Thea Sharrock

[rozodejanerowrites]

I enjoy how dorky he looks in this scene with his little peepers

Captain John Price in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 04/??

[rozodejanerowrites]

Ninety Seconds to Midnight

CWs: Canon typical violence, Medical procedures, Substance abuse, Referenced Suicide

Contains: John-Price POV, Character study, Unresolved romantic tension, Slow burn

Archive of Our Own | Current WIP (8 chapters finished) - ~60-80,000 words

Chapter 5

0241 hours, Al-Hafir, Kharzari. 2023

When they enter the back room, Benoit is standing over Ghost, arms crossed. He looks up as they enter. His face is drawn into an expression of hard intent, and John is immediately alert.

“He’s stable,” Benoit says, before turning to fix John with a sharp look. “He was… asking for you.” He looks at Kelli. “I sent Darya home. He won’t let me give him oxygen.”

He gestures to his chin. The mask.

John strides over and looks down at Ghost. His eyes are half open, and he is pale.

“Took your bloody time, old man. Thought I’d have to start haunting the clinic.”

John purses his lips, but he feels relief.

“If you wanted attention, you could’ve just asked. Bastard.”

Ghost lets out a half-chuckle, but winces at the movement.

“I was about to start seeing Soap. And he’d be pissed you let me go out like that.”

John knows Ghost is joking. That humor is just how he deals with things. But it cuts all the same. It reminds him of the stakes. Kelli has always been so dammed calm that it lulls him into the lie that everything will be okay. The surreal shock of seeing her again is replaced by biting clarity; he has a mission to complete.

He places a hand gently on Ghost’s arm. They make eye contact. Behind the mask, Ghost’s eyes grimace.

“Gaz is taking care of comms,” John says. “We’ll get MEDVAC sorted ASAP, mate.”

Ghost nods very slowly.

“Don’t rush on my account.”

“You’re going to need surgery.” Kelli says, slipping on a fresh pair of gloves, “beyond my pay grade and resources-but we’ll keep you stable here in the meantime.”

“Sounds fun,” Ghost says, examining Kelli from beneath heavy lids. “We can swap stories about the Captain.”

“As much as I’d enjoy that-” Kelli glances up at him with an unreadable expression, “you’re not going to do any talking. You need an O₂ feed to take some pressure off your lungs. The mask has to come off.”

Ghost turns his head to look at her.

“No.”

Kelli cocks her head to the side. “You enjoy being alive?”

Ghost considers this for a moment, as if he is seriously contemplating his identity versus his life. His eyes flicker to John’s.

“Captain can do it.”

Kelli and Benoit both turn to look at him. Kelli looks expectant, Benoit just looks annoyed.

John doesn’t move immediately.

There’s a quiet beat. Not hesitation - not exactly. Just the weight of it.

The mask had always been there. In every op, every briefing. It was Ghost, the symbol, the shield, the myth wrapped in mesh and plastic. Stripping it off felt like stripping him bare.

Kelli examines his reaction. She appears to appreciate the gravity of the situation because, ever professional, she shoots a look at Benoit and says, “we won’t look. But he needs it.”

John nods. He leans down by Ghost’s side, eyes scanning the familiar contours - peeling white paint, the hard plastic skull, tight straps looping behind his ears.

“You sure about this?”

“Don’t be soft. Just do it.” He says, “I ain’t ready to see Johnny just yet.”

John glances up. Benoit is standing by the door now, staring intently into the front room, arms folded. Kelli is still beside him but facing away. She glances at him and nods.

The damn thing is tight, slightly frayed from the makeshift stitching. John finds the edge of the balaclava underneath his chin and pulls slowly. The mask shifts, lifts. Ghost’s face, smeared with black paint and sweat, is pale. His lips are blue.

John settles the mask across Ghost's forehead, just above his eyes. In his peripheral he sees Kelli hold out the O₂ mask - soft silicone, connected to the portable tank line and controller.

“It’s a simple face seal. Set it over the bridge of his nose, cover his mouth, snug the elastic around the back of his head. Not too tight - just enough for a seal.”

“Let him breathe into it first, then I’ll start the flow.”

The mask is like the ones they use for HALO, but John has never fitted one to someone else before. He places it gently over Ghost’s face, adjusting until it fits.

Ghost blinks slowly but he doesn’t move.

Kelli moves beside him. There is a hiss. Oxygen begins to flow and John sees the mask inflate and deflate with each breath.

He watches Ghost’s chest rise, steadier now. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a notch. John thought the O₂ mask wouldn't do much to hide his face, but the smeared paint and gaunt complexion reflect a man that looks nothing like the soldier John knows.

“Now for the second revelation of the day,” Kelli says, carefully adjusting the oxygen feed. “-I’m going to give you something to help you rest Ghost. You’re stable for now, but you need to stay that way.”

John shoots her a sharp glance. He doesn't like the idea of Ghost being put under. The way he’s gone pale and weak, John thinks he might never wake up.

Ghost may well be thinking the same thing. His eyelids flutter beneath the mask. His eyes fix on Kelli’s - alert, mistrustful, afraid.

“You’ll wake up,” she assures him. “But if you keep moving, you’ll undo everything I just did. This is safer.”

She nods at Benoit. “Can you get the midazolam?”

John’s jaw clenches as he realizes she’s not asking. To her, it is a given. Logically, he knows she is the expert; she knows what she is doing. Ultimately, he still trusts her instinct, even after everything. He would have turned the car around as soon as Rains mentioned her name if he didn’t.

But he can’t help the irritation. He can’t help his paranoia, cultivated in the years since they fell out. Tended to by years of missions gone sideways and betrayal.

He trusts Kelli’s hands. He’s not sure about her judgment.

Kelli must see it on his face, because she sighs. “Half-dose first,” she says. “I know what I’m doing.”

He nods.

Kelli holds his gaze for a moment before checking Ghost’s IV. She takes the vial from Benoit and draws it into a syringe, tapping the side with practiced fingers.

“Monitor for hypotension,” she tells Benoit. Then to herself, so quiet he almost doesn’t catch it: “God, don’t bottom out on me.”

She injects the syringe into Ghost’s IV port, pushing the plunger slowly. Ghost flinches. His fingers twitch.

“Deep breath, big boy. Good. That’s it.”

John watches Ghost like a hawk. He’s not sure what he would even look for, but he would know if something was wrong.

Seconds pass.

Ghost’s chest rises and falls, more even now. The tension in his shoulders slackens. Eyes flutter closed.

She exhales - not relief, John thinks, not yet.

There is a pause.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

The words are low and controlled. Benoit doesn't look at Kelli, just adjusts the clamp on the IV line.

John clenches his jaw.

His mind immediately jumps to foul play. His eyes flick between Benoit and Kelli before settling on Ghost, searching for signs. His thoughts race between anger and contingency; anger flares in his chest.

And then Benoit continues: “You’re gambling a civilian clinic on a dying soldier, Kelli.”

It’s not foul play. The doctor is just upset.

John grits his teeth.

Kelli doesn't respond right away. John watches the muscle flex in her jaw.

“I didn’t have a choice, Benoit.”

For a few seconds, the room is quiet. Then Benoît straightens, wipes his gloves off with deliberate slowness, and speaks.

“You had a choice,” he says. “You just didn’t like it.”

Kelli turns slowly. “I stabilized him, that’s all.”

Benoit turns his gaze to John.

“You’ve exposed everyone in this village in the process.”

That gets John’s attention. His jaw tightens. He steps forward, his hand ghosting over his rifle involuntarily.

“She kept him breathing. That’s what matters.” A pause. “If that’s a problem for you - take it up with me.”

Benoit straightens, arms crossed.

“And who are you exactly?” he says, glancing across John’s fatigues. Laswell had wanted the mission dark, and so John wears no flag. John would be impressed by the Frenchman’s gall in questioning him so blatantly, but he supposes anyone crazy enough to work the field with Kelli has the balls to match. “Another mercenary here to pillage a broken country?” He spits. “Men like you are a stain on this earth.”

John takes another step forward.

“You think you know what this is?” His voice drops to something colder. “You have no idea.”

Silence.

Benoît opens his mouth, but John cuts him off.

“You don’t want us here? Fine. Let her work. Then I’m gone. With him.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just lets the quiet stretch.

Kelli steps up beside them both, her hands raised.

“Alright,” she says calmly. “Let’s just all take a breath.”

Benoit takes a step back from John. His eyes are hard, furious, but with an undercurrent of fear. Good.

His eyes flick to Kelli.

“You’re gambling everyone here on a soldier,” he says tightly. “If Zaman-”

“It won’t come to that,” Kelli says, but John can hear the slight waver in her voice.

Benoit sucks his teeth; his head twitches. He looks at Kelli like he wants to slap some sense into her.

“Operations will have your head if this goes south,” he says, a warning. “Merde, I’ll report you myself. Testify if I have to.”

Kelli crosses her arms. She glances at John, holding his gaze for a long moment.

“I accept that,” she says, looking back at Benoit, and there is a trust in her words. As if she trusts him. It tugs against the tension that John has been feeling in his chest, even since he stepped foot in the clinic.

Even after all this time, she has his back.

The feeling is marred by a tinge of guilt. He’s not sure if she fully appreciates the man he has become.

Would she still have his back if she knew?

Benoit sighs. He raises his hands.

“Your head, Kelli,” he says. “Your conscience.” He glances at John. “I hope he’s worth it. I’m out. I’m done.”

John watches him as he leaves.

Kelli runs a weary hand over her face.

“Christ.”

Already, John considers contingency. Benoit could talk. He should march out that door, grab Benoit, drag him back inside. But he knows that would escalate things further. The best hope they have is to get comms back quickly and pray that Zaman’s goons don’t track them down.

Kelli crosses her arms.

“He’ll keep his mouth shut,” she says, reading his mind. “All he cares about are the people here. Can you blame him, John?” She gestures to Ghost. “You and your boys turn up covered in blood, wearing fucking skull masks, no flags - what do you expect?”

John expects not to be questioned, but he knows that is too much to ask. Civilians are always liabilities. Even Kelli - especially Kelli - is an unknown quantity now.

“I expected a clean mission,” he says darkly.

Kelli huffs out a laugh.

“Doesn’t exist,” she says.

John feels the anger simmering in his chest. This is not Herrick, he’s not a kid leading patrols in Afghanistan anymore. He’s grown since then. Kelli might not have seen him in action recently, but he's only gotten better with age. The mission should be clean, because he is in control.

If it isn’t, then it’s on him.

If Ghost dies, it’s on him.

He grunts.

“Speak for yourself.”

Kelli examines him. Whatever she sees seems to interest her, because she looks thoughtful for a moment.

“Why are you here?”

“Extraction. Ghost got hit.”

Kelli rolls her eyes.

“Why this clinic?”

John shrugs.

“Was closest. Rains said your name. Figured you’d keep him breathing.”

“Quite the gamble,” she muses. “I could have slammed the door in your face.”

He looks up at her from beneath the brim of his hat.

“You’d patch up the devil if he came in bleeding.”

He’d gamble his life on that fact.

Kelli cocks her head to the side and smiles. It sends a jolt straight into his chest.

“I could turn you away,” she says with a raised eyebrow. “Leave you outside to stew.”

He looks at her. It’s a little cute that she thinks she could make him leave the room. Then he notices the gun, holstered under her ratty pajama robe. He wonders how he didn’t notice it before. She must have untied the robe at some point. She’s making a point with the eyes. So is he. She’d have no chance, and she knows it.

“I’m not going anywhere without Ghost.”

He takes a seat in the corner and flips open his cigar case.

Kelli lets out a sigh.

“I swear to fucking God.”

She marches over to him and goes to swipe the lighter from his hand. He catches her wrist. Stands to face her.

He stares down at her.

This close, he can feel the heat from her body. Can smell her hair - something floral and peppery. Time folds. It’s 2010 again. Close air, breath shared. Nothing else.

Before she fucking left without so much as a goodbye.

He frowns.

“This is a doctor’s clinic,” she says, her voice even, but his eyes catch on the flush creeping up her neck. She’s not straining against his grip, but not giving up either. “You can watch your boy or you can take it outside. Choose, John.”

He releases her after a moment, but does not move away. She holds the lighter up. A question in her eyes. A choice. He takes it, his fingers brushing hers as he sits back down.

“I’ll stay.”

He slips the case back into his vest and busies himself with checking the comms again. Still nothing.

Kelli nods and starts quietly cleaning up. She checks Ghost’s vitals, noting down the numbers on a clipboard.

John watches her. She moves with the same confidence that she always has. Every movement purposeful. She’s older, but it has only enhanced her features. Same eyes, same jaw, same athletic build. His eyes flicker toward her arse.

Get a fucking grip.

“Did you hear Emma and Tom are having another kid?”

John blinks at her. It takes him a moment to parse who she is talking about. He was never that close to Ronan and he mostly thinks of Tom by his last name.

He grunts.

“A daughter,” he says. “Yeah, Black mentioned it.”

John doesn’t see his old SAS mates that much these days, but Black had pinned him down the last time he’d been in Birmingham. He thinks back to that night at the pub. Black buying him a round of beers with the daft grin of someone who was outnumbered and thrilled about it. 

Kelli’s question reminds him of Ronan and Black’s wedding. That fucking weekend in Zanzibar. It hits him harder because he knows he still has to face Black again after what happened to Soap. He shakes his head. She’s brought it up deliberately, she must have.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

He would rather silence.

He wants to remain focused on the mission. But he knows Kelli. She’s not going to have changed that much. If he lets her control the conversation, she will ask him increasingly uncomfortable questions.

He knows better than to let her set the tempo.

Kelli tugs on another pair of gloves. She peers at him curiously, as if surprised at his question.

“Kahzari?”

He nods.

She pulls out her stethoscope and listens to Ghost’s chest again. He watches her hands. Every motion. Just in case.

“Well, I joined MSF after a few years in the trauma center at St Mary’s.” She glances at him. “You knew that part, right?”

“You mentioned you were thinking of applying.”

Kelli nods.

“Yeah. I mean, I moved around a lot. Sudan for a bit, Urzikstan for a long time. I guess I just ended up out here. It’s good work.” She scribbles down another note. She pauses for a moment, her hand hovering above the clipboard.

She looks over at him. There is something she wants to say. No, something she’s not sure if she wants to say.

“I missed it,” she says finally.

John gets the impression this is not the only reason. He wants to ask: is it because you realized the civvie fiancé was holding you back? John thinks about that smug prick’s face. The way he acted like he was above them all because he had a practice in the suburbs and played squash every Wednesday. Didn’t get the itch. Didn’t want to. Civvies never do. Never realizing that people like them were the ones that kept the world from falling apart.

Kelli is like him.

She’d tried to play house, pretend she could be normal, and something must’ve gone sideways. That thought stirs a dark little satisfaction he doesn’t examine too closely. He knows it’s petty. He’s not glad she had to suffer - if that’s even what happened. Maybe David dumped her. Maybe she walked. Maybe hes still up in Chelsea, playing squash every Wednesday, waiting for her to return. Either way, the ring was gone. And seeing her back in the shit, doing what she was built for? That hits somewhere deep in his chest.

Regardless of their history, he has always wanted her to be happy.

He doesn't voice any of this.

He's not even sure if Kelli would be honest with him about it. She’s never admitted to the real reason that she left the military, though he knows it must have been his fault.

It's only been 30 minutes since their reunion, after all.

“You missed it,” he repeats, a small smile threatening the corners of his mouth.

Kelli nods, then shakes her head.

“Yeah,” she says. “The rush. That’s crazy, right?”

John shrugs.

“Yeah. But we’re all a little crazy, aren’t we?”

Kelli looks at him thoughtfully.

“You don’t get tired of it?”

He considers the question for a moment.

“I can’t afford to,” he says, before conceding, “but no. It's the purpose, innit.”

Kelli nods.

“Yes!” she says, her eyes bright with that same madness from 15 years ago. “Yes.”

She sighs.

“Purpose,” she says, strangely wistful.

She finishes her vitals check. She is calm. Competent. Still, he watches her like she might vanish again.

After a moment, she peels off the gloves and sits down next to him.

“Tell me about Soap,” she says.

John stills. He grits his teeth. She’s done it again. Gained control of the conversation without him even realizing it.

“Not tonight.”

Kelli leans forward onto her elbows, examining her hands.

They sit in silence for a long moment. The faint beeping of the O2 monitor softly punctuates the heavy air between them.

“That’s okay,” Kelli says. “It took me a year before I could talk about Riggs after he died.”

She reaches out her hand, as if testing his reaction. When he doesn't stop her, slowly, she places her hand over his knee. It burns a hole through his trousers.

John grunts. He stares at the floor.

He wants to tell her that Soap’s death was nothing like Riggs’. Riggs was a cowboy who got himself killed. Soap died because John failed - a leader who could not protect his own. A leader who made the wrong choice. Who should have known when to move the line - for the greater good.

Kelli lets out a breath.

“I blamed myself too, John.”

He looks up at her. He wonders what she means. She had been the attending medic on that mission, but there wasn’t anything she could have done to save him.

Kelli is staring intently at the floor. Her face is thoughtful, but there is no real pain there, simply acceptance.

Her eyes flick to his, and the look in her eyes hits him for a six. He doesn’t know the word for that emotion - it is something unfamiliar to him. But if he had to guess, it feels like grace.

For a moment, he can’t breathe.

The silence breaks.

The back door swings open and Darya rushes in, breathless and flushed.

“Kelli,” she says quickly. Her eyes flit between them, but if she realizes that she interrupted something, she doesn't show it.

John stands quickly, hand readying on his rifle.

“I’m sorry, but it’s my uncle,” she says. Her eyes flit between him and Kelli. “He says he saw someone on the roof. He’s…worried.”

“Who did he see?”

John steps forward.

Darya steps back several paces. She fidgets with the edges of her frayed shayla. Her wide brown eyes are set on him. Fearful.

John imagines he might cut an imposing figure for a young girl, but he doesn't really care.

Suddenly, Darya starts rambling out a long string of words to Kelli in a dialect he doesn't recognize. She gestures at John as she does it, glancing between him and Ghost.

John tightens his grip on his rifle.

The girl is not a threat, not directly. But he's been burned by scouts before. Not being able to understand what she is saying puts him right on the edge of his patience.

Kelli nods. She holds up a hand.

“Yes, yes,” she says, glancing at John. “It’s okay, Darya, I know them.”

She takes a few steps forward and places a hand on the young woman’s shoulder.

She says something softly in the same dialect, and

Darya’s stiff posture relaxes slightly.

“What did your uncle see exactly?”

Darya’s eyes flit across to him.

“I think it was one of them,” she says. “The other soldiers.”

John steps forward.

“Did he see the soldier?” he says. “Did he say soldier?”

Darya shrinks backward.

“No,” she says, and despite the fear in her eyes, her voice is clear. “Just said someone with equipment-” her eyes flit between him and Kelli, “-I thought maybe to say someone was fixing the generator?”

“You told him that?”

Darya startles at his sharp tone.

“No, I didn’t say anything,” she says. “I said I’d ask you first.”

John studies her for a moment. She is scared but defiant. Probably the most dangerous combination.

He nods. Just once. They might be able to play this off.

Kelli shoots him a look from Darya’s shoulder. John knows he is being intimidating. He doesn’t care. This girl helped save Ghost’s life, but she is still a liability. Everyone in this fucking village is a liability. Someone is going to tip Zaman off, he is sure of that.

They need to get comms and get out.

“You did the right thing,” Kelli assures Darya, squeezing her shoulder. “Go tell him power went down and I’ve just got someone working the generator. We’ll handle it.”

Darya hesitates for a moment.

She looks up at him, and the look in her eyes has changed slightly. Anger.

“It’s just…my aunt is jumpy. Risha won’t settle. She asked if we were safe.”

A jolt of guilt cuts through John’s edged focus. He ignores it.

“If anyone’s watching this place, the fewer questions they ask, the better.”

Kelli gives him that look again.

“No one’s watching the place, John,” she snaps. “They’re scared. That’s different.”

Darya’s gaze flits between them again. She seems to sense the tension because she frowns. Her gaze comes to linger on him. He meets it, impassive.

Oddly, she reminds him of Kelli.

“I’ll tell them it’s the generator,” she says, but her tone carries a hint of uncertainty.

John follows her with his eyes as she hurries back outside.

When he turns, Kelli is looking at him.

“She’s trying to help.”

John raises an eyebrow.

“Trying doesn't stop bullets. She’s a liability.”

“Christ.” Kelli shakes her head and turns back to check on Ghost. He watches her for a moment. He can tell by the way her shoulders are hunched that there is a lot more she wants to say.

“Kids like Darya,” Kelli says finally, “they grow up surrounded by soldiers, war, famine, they’re just trying to survive.”

“I know what war does to a country, Kelli.”

“Do you?”

She turns around, her eyes narrowing on him.

“Maybe you do.” She examines him, considering. “But do you care?”

He huffs.

“Of course I fucking care.”

The answer is reflexive more than anything. He does care, at least he did.

He still does, he thinks.

It’s just harder to care when you sacrifice so much and people still treat you as if you’re the fucking bogeyman. Narrowed eyes. Suspicion in every corner. Paranoia follows him across the globe.

He knows this is the job. It’s always been the job. He doesn't want praise. He doesn't want a parade. Hell, he doesn’t fucking know what he wants.

All he knows is that he has a mission, and that’s what he has to care about.

He glances at Ghost.

His men are the only people he can trust. They trust him. That is why he is like this. He can’t afford not to be like this.

Kelli is still looking at him.

“I get it,” she says.

“You don’t.”

The muscle in her jaw tightens.

“I was in Afghanistan too, you know,” she says. “I know what numbness feels like.”

He laughs, bitterly.

“I’m well beyond Afghanistan,” he says.

Kelli cocks her head to the side. She examines him for a moment. Whatever she sees makes her smile grimly, but she doesn’t push. She just watches him, her eyes full of another emotion he can’t name - not pity, but not far off.

It bothers him more than her words.

He turns away.

Ghost lies still on the bench, chest rising slowly. His mask is askew slightly, blood drying at the edges.

He adjusts it without thinking.

[rozodejanerowrites]

[rozodejanerowrites]

a single typo literally has the explosive power of a nuclear bomb like i just read back possibly the most beautiful scene ive ever created feeling so proud of myself ready to start thinking about the nobel prize in literature etc. etc. and then suddenly

“It’s oaky,” he whispered.

it’s oaky. what is this. a wine tasting

[rozodejanerowrites]

y’all ever read a fanfic that you cannot believe an author just wrote for free?? what an honor it is to read a piece of someone’s soul they shared out of nothing but love for a piece of media. what a privilege it is to be allowed their talent because you share an interest!!

[rozodejanerowrites]

Ninety Seconds to Midnight

CWs: Canon typical violence, Medical procedures, Substance abuse, Referenced Suicide

Contains: John-Price POV, Character study, Unresolved romantic tension, Slow burn

Archive of Our Own | Current WIP - ~60-80,000 words

Chapter 4

Camp Redgrave, Helmand Province, Afghanistan. 2007

John watches as Kelli takes a sip of coffee and gags. She mutters something to the woman at her side, Ronan, if he recalls. Ronan laughs. She takes the enamel mug from Kelli’s hands, takes her own sip, and rolls her eyes.

John takes a bite of curry. Even now, there’s still that flicker, quiet, stupid, stubborn, whenever he catches sight of her.

They’ve run into each other many times over the years, but Herrick 5 was the first time they’d been stationed at the same FOB.

Kelli’s unit had been in support since then. She may not be SAS, but the boys like having her around. He likes having her around. She’s a damned good medic. The back-to-back tours have racked up her experience to a point where he’s been trying to push Mullen to recommend her for promotion to Corporal. He has no real control over whether he does or not, but he knows his opinion carries some weight. Not that it should need to. Kelli is calm under fire, skilled, and can handle herself on base. She’s been cycling through rotations while most medics tapped out after a tour. Not her. She seemed hungry for it. Not reckless, not naive. Just wired for the job in a way most aren’t. Especially in her shoes. But John figures she loves it, or at least she loves saving people.

He thinks there are probably easier ways to save lives. But SAS has been kicking his arse ever since the first deployment to Helmand, and he loves it more than he’d admit - so he’s not about to judge another soldier’s crazy.

Besides, he’s glad to see her doing alright.

The Afghan sun beats down on the camo net that the entire base seems to be trying to cram under. He can feel a small sliver of sun burning a path across the back of his neck. The mission briefing had gone long -way long - but that’s not a surprise. Lunch has been shortened, and he needs to run the route review in less than 10 minutes.

Helmand province is a dangerous place these days, and Sangin is especially chaotic. Tight urban clusters, flanked by dense vegetation. It’s a minefield for Taliban activity, IEDs, ambush zones, hideouts. Intel says the region has been in a lull the last few days, but there’s been recent insurgent activity nearby in Kōṯay Zaī, so command is on alert.

John sometimes wonders what Afghanistan was like before the invasion, before the Taliban. Probably still hot enough to cook an egg in the sand. Hopefully less dangerous. He doesn't really think about it too much, but he likes to think that one day things might be better for the people here. They’re good people, for the most part. At least the ones that aren’t trying to blow him or his squad up.

Riggs elbows him in the side.

“Hey Price,” he says, grinning like he’s about to set something on fire. “Why didn’t you tell us your girlfriend’s well fit?”

John pauses, holding the spoon he was about to shove into his mouth still for a moment.

“Excuse me?”

Riggs grins.

“Your bird, Price,” he lets out a low whistle, leaning in close and glancing around at the other guys. “I saw the photos. Why didn’t you tell us you pulled a fox?”

John purses his lips.

He is immediately on alert for whatever bullshit is about to come out of his mouth next. Riggs is a right dog, and ever since the promotion, he’s acted like John’s stripes don’t mean shit, just because they slogged through selection together.

The rest of the table seems to be observing Riggs with varying degrees of amusement and wariness. Riggs’ mates are holding back thinly veiled smirks. A couple of the quieter guys are looking at him with careful looks on their faces.

John thinks they are right to predict his annoyance on this topic. He’s not above a bit of banter, but John doesn’t really want to hear Veronica talked about like she’s some piece of meat. Knowing her, she’d probably enjoy the attention, but he doesn't. It’s the principle of the thing.

He carefully puts the spoon in his mouth and chews. The beef chews like boot leather, but it buys him a second to think. Small mercies.

He’s 90% sure Riggs is doing some bit because John knows there’s no way he has photos of Veronica - he’s not that much of a sociopath. More likely Riggs is just being Riggs. A button-pusher to the bone. And John’s rep as a hardass doesn’t do much to scare him off.

He swallows down the food.

“Because I knew you’d be a knob about it, Riggs,” he dismisses, “since you’ve never pulled anything but your hamstring.”

There is a soft chorus of oohs.

Riggs is looking at him as if he’s weighing up his options, and at that exact moment, Kelli and Ronan have the distinct misfortune of walking past their table.

“Oi, Purcell,” Riggs calls, craning his head over his shoulder to flag her down. “C’mere.”

Kelli looks like she’d rather chew glass, but she sighs and stops.

“What is it, Riggs?” she says. “You finally figure out the food goes in your mouth and not up your ass?”

There is a smattering of snickers around the table.

“Good one,” Riggs says, unperturbed, before whipping out a digital camera.

Kelli shakes her head, but she stays in place. She knows, just like he does, that Riggs’ blasé attitude is why he’s hard to pin down. Nothing sticks because nothing matters to him. It will get him killed one day, John is sure of that.

“You seen Price’s new girlfriend?”

Kelli glances at him. She looks like she is searching for something - a reaction, probably. But John thinks he’s just going to let whatever is happening play out. Riggs is clearly trying to get a rise out of him. If Riggs crosses the line, he’ll make sure he knows it, but one of the first things he’d learned from his mentor was sometimes you gotta let the boys have their stupid fun.

Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps the cracks from showing.

Kelli peers at the small screen.

“Oh that’s very clever, Riggs,” she says, as if speaking to a particularly slow four-year-old. “You think that one up all by yourself, clever boy?”

Riggs’ expression drops for just a moment.

Ronan leans over to have a look.

“That’s a picture of a dog,” she says.

Riggs and his mates burst into laughter.

John shoves the last spoonful of his curry into his mouth. He raises an eyebrow at Riggs, who cackles.

“Your bird is hot, though,” Riggs says to him after a moment. “Saw that Polaroid of yours,” he lets out a low whistle. “Great tits.”

John drops the spoon into the curry and swallows.

“Alright,” John says, standing. The table goes quiet.

“Review tent in five,” he says flatly. “That includes you and your camera, Riggs.”

The table groans and starts finishing up.

He hops over the bench and tosses his bowl into the mess. He glances back and realizes that Kelli is following him. He knows that look - she’s about to give him grief. Always does.

“Can’t believe you let Riggs spout that disrespectful bullshit right in front of you.”

John shrugs.

“He’s just being a dog,” he says, stopping in front of the review tent.

Kelli turns to him.

“Yeah, I know, Price,” she says. “That’s my point. She’s your girlfriend.”

“He’s not wrong,” John says with a shrug. “Veronica does have great tits.”

She shoots him a look of disgust.

“Gross,” she says.

“Jealous?”

“Of Veronica’s tits?” she scoffs. “Not worth the cost of sucking your tiny cock, thanks very much.”

John huffs out a laugh, tonguing a back molar.

The urge to tell her she’s welcome to suck his cock anytime she likes comes out of nowhere.

He doesn’t. She’d shoot him.

He’d deserve it.

He can dress it up however he wants, but he’s heard the locker room filth about the women on base. The way Riggs really talks, when he thinks John can’t hear him, is disgusting.

Doesn’t change the fact he kinda wants her.

He knows he’s fancied her ever since that disaster of a HALO drop, but he’s almost certain she’s had something unsanctioned going on with her CO, Mullen, for the past year that breaks every fraternization protocol in the books.

It pisses him off, and not just because he fancies her. He’s met men like Mullen before. He’s one of those slick bastards. The ones who don’t need to force someone to do something. They just wait ‘til you convince yourself to do it.

He worries about her.

She’s become a friend since SAS selection, checking up on him every now and then. In her words, ‘making sure he hasn’t fallen out of another airplane’. Herrick’s been the first time they’ve spent so long in the same place together. He knows that she was grateful to see him at her father’s wake. Her mother had hugged him like a vice when Kelli had introduced him. He had felt shit, but also like it meant something - as if he carried some part of Robert that had been left behind. He hadn’t really understood that back then, but as he loses more and more friends, he thinks he understands better now.

John also thinks that anything he might feel would spoil whatever it is that they’ve cultivated over the years.

And so he keeps his mouth shut.

Besides, he and Veronica just became ‘Facebook official’ - whatever the fuck that means. Veronica is nice, and he likes her despite it all. She makes him feel less like a boring wanker when he’s off deployment. She forces him to museums and art galleries, and though he sometimes wants to shoot himself in the head listening to the never-ending stream of inane drama her friends seem to come up with, she looks at him like some kind of knight in shining armor.

And yeah, maybe he’s fancied Kelli for three years, but there’s no way she’d be able to top some of the stuff Veronica can do with her tongue.

“You up to date on the extraction zones?” he asks.

Routine grounds him. It always does, especially around Kelli.

She nods, her eyes glancing around his face for a moment.

“Always,” she says.

“Good,” he says as the rest of the unit starts milling into the review tent. “Right. Let’s get on with it.”

————————

The sun has not yet reached the highest part of the sky, and John feels like his scruff's about to melt clean off. He adjusts the strap under his jaw, the helmet already hot and heavy, the scrim tickling the side of his face. The heat enhances the stink from the canal, choked with algae and water the color of dishwater. It cuts like a scar through the poppy fields, flanked by rough-packed mud-brick embankments that have been widened and reinforced over generations of farming. A swarm of flies buzzes over a goat carcass.

His team moves slowly, methodically, down the narrow footpath, just wide enough for one man at a time. John moves second in the file, glancing between rooftops and doorways like a metronome. Every grinning kid might be a scout. Every grain sack, a trip to goddamn pieces. Sangin’s green zone was notorious for danger - tight alleyways and winding paths, doorways set back and out of sight, rows of poppy stalks up to his shoulder. All prime real estate for an ambush or an IED.

If he misses something, that could be it.

Connors, the point man, suddenly raises his fist.

The squad freezes.

“Movement, rooftop. Ten o’clock,” Connors whispers to him. “One figure, shadow behind the lattice.”

“Weapon?”

“Can’t confirm. Could be optics. Could be nothing.”

John sniffs.

“Eyes up, rooftop, ten o’clock,” he says into the comms. “Hold spread. Black, get eyes on from cover.”

“Copy. Moving.”

John watches the rooftop, his jaw tight. From the corner of his eye, he sees Kelli glance at the compound wall, then across the street. Her voice comes low but sharp.

“Locals pulling back from the road, sir.”

“Confirmed,” he says, a familiar prickle at the base of his neck. “This is smelling wrong. Riggs, left flank overwatch. Everyone else - hard eyes.”

A breath passes. Two.

Then comes the first burst of fire.

The shot tears through Connors, spinning him sideways. He drops, his scream swallowed by the dirt, rifle skidding into the dry canal bed.

“Contact! Rooftop, one o’clock!” John snaps, dropping to a knee, rifle up. “Black, left wall! Riggs, push to flank!”

Connors is writhing near the canal lip. Leg hit, blood jetting fast across the dry dirt. The field goes loud. Controlled bursts thudding from behind cover. Clay spatting off the compound wall in puffs.

In his peripheral, he sees Kelli break cover and make for Connors.

“Purcell - hold position!”

“Femoral might be hit,” she barks back, sliding down next to Connors like a fucking maniac, “he might have minutes.”

That punch-to-the-gut feeling never bloody changes. It doesn't matter if it’s Kelli or one of his unit or some other moron. They run, and his gut drops every time.

He fires off a burst, then ducks below the wall and presses his back into the clay.

Kelli is yanking a tourniquet from her kit. She slaps it high on Connors’ thigh, cinching it tight. Bullets crack overhead. One punches through the clay embankment behind her.

“Black, I need cover on that roof!” John shouts, already moving.

He crosses the canal ditch in three strides and drops beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

Connors is white-lipped and thrashing.

“Hell of a spot for a house call,” he mutters, rifle clearing her shoulder.

Kelli looks up at him.

“I go where the blood is, sir.”

There is a slight madness in her eyes that he recognizes. He sees it in most of his SAS mates. He sees it when he looks in the mirror. Christ, he just prays that it doesn’t get her killed.

He prays it doesn’t get him killed.

The first burst had come from the rooftop. The shooter is gone now, melted back behind the compound wall. Silence follows, for just a second.

Silence here means shit’s about to go sideways.

Then it comes again. From the east, tight three-round bursts thudding into the canal bank, kicking grit into their faces.

“They’re bounding,” he calls, “trying to keep us pinned.”

He raises his rifle, pivots, and feels the pain graze his side before he hears the shot ricochet off the wall next to them.

He grits his teeth, swallowing down a noise. It’s not deep. He hopes. It’s just enough to shift his knees underneath him.

“Black, move north side. Get eyes on that tree line! Riggs with him! Purcell-” he turns, teeth gritted, “-be ready to move him. We’re not holding here if they circle.”

He fires off a burst toward the northern compound. Rounds crack overhead. Short bursts slapping mud from the canal wall and kicking up dust and gravel. He wipes his face with the back of his hand. Someone shouts down the line. Return fire spats out in sharp rhythm. Kelli is moving beside him.

“Down- get down!” she shouts, dragging him below a loose rise in the canal bank. Her gloves slide against where he’s been hit. Blood. Her gloves are covered in blood. Connors’. Now his.

He tries to wave her off, tries to push up on his good elbow.

“Get back behind cover-”

“You’re bleeding, sir,” she snaps, pushing him flat.

He groans, more from the pressure than the pain.

“It’s nothing. Keep on Connors.”

Bullets crack past them again. One strikes the bank, inches from her boot. She doesn’t flinch, neither does he. She is already tearing open his vest, yanking the fabric aside to find the wound.

“Through and through,” she says, “he’s stable for now.”

He grunts as she finds the wound. It is ugly, ragged edge, high on his left flank. It’s not spurting, but it’s bleeding fast.

Kelli’s gloves move fast. Without hesitation.

“Lucky bastard,” Kelli says, looking up at him, “it’s a graze. Stay still.”

“No promises.”

John’s breath comes sharp as she packs the wound, pressing hard with a thick wad of gauze. She pulls a pressure bandage from her med pouch and wraps it around him.

Another burst of gunfire rattles close.

He grunts. He needs to get eyes on the rest of the team.

“Give me ten more seconds, sir,” Kelli says, reading his mind, “then you can be a big man again.”

He looks down at her - mud-smeared, focused, lips pressed in concentration as she works in the middle of hell, like she doesn't even hear the gunfire anymore. Her face is so close. She glances up, just for a moment. Her eyes are still wild, but there is concern there. Concern for him, he thinks, and it messes with him.

She cinches the wrap tightly, fastening it with her teeth.

He hisses as she slaps the plate carrier back into place.

“Done.”

“About time,” he grunts, reaching for his rifle. Before he can, she catches his wrist. Her eyes are so intent, staring at him as they share the same breath huddled against the side of the canal.

“Don’t be stupid, Price.”

He searches her face.

“Rich, coming from you.”

Kelli grins.

A beat passes. She releases his wrist and turns back to assess Connors.

Over comms, Black’s voice crackles: “Targets falling back. We’ve got movement to the north, but nothing pressing.”

The gunfire eases into the distance, not gone, but far enough.

John raises his weapon and scans the area for any signs of movement. The firefights are always chaotic. It’s impossible to have a full handle on everything that’s going on. The rest of his team is alert behind cover. Assessing. He counts. He lets out a breath. Everyone seems intact.

Almost everyone.

He glances back. Kelli is pressing down on Connors’ leg. The kid seems stable for now; pale, drifting in and out, muttering something to Kelli. The field dressing is soaked red, tourniquet cinched tight against his thigh.

He’s a good guy, near the end of his first tour. He’s been reliable, sharp. It would be a shame for him to go this way. John thinks maybe he should feel more about the situation, but right now he needs to focus.

He licks his lips. They are cracked and sandy.

“Nine-liner’s out. MERT inbound, ETA seven minutes,” Black calls from up the trail, eyes still scanning his arcs.

The MEDEVAC Response Team would fly in fast and low. Sometimes it came with a full trauma team, sometimes it was just a winch and a prayer.

“We’ll hold the LZ here,” he says, pointing to a flat patch beside the canal, just past the crumpled goat pen. “Purcell, keep pressure. Riggs, I want security on the north wall. If they’re circling, I want to see them before they see us.”

Riggs nods and gestures for two of the infantrymen to follow him.

The canal bank reeks of algae and his boots are soaked. At least the water is a cool contrast to the beating sun. Flies already swarm the blood-soaked dirt.

He glances at Connors again. Kelli is kneeling beside him, her forearm slick. She doesn’t look up: “He’s circling the drain, sir. If they’re late, we lose him.”

“They won’t be.”

He launches himself up the canal wall and moves to the highest ground he can find - a ruined compound corner. He watches the horizon. He hates the waiting. The fragility of each second. One more ambush. One comms delay. And it could all tip again.

Then: the distant thrum of rotors. Not distant for long.

“Bird’s coming in!” Black shouts.

The dust kicks up like a bomb blast as the Chinook banks hard over the poppy fields, rear ramp already lowering. The whine of the engines bounces off the clay walls.

He hops down off the wall and legs it to the LZ. Kelli shields Connors’ face from the grit as he and Riggs lift him. His leg looks worse in daylight - limp, broken open like peeled fruit. But he is still breathing. Still blinking. Looking up at Kelli like she’s the second coming of Christ, his savior.

They load him onto the bird. The MERT doc barely nods, too fast and focused. Kelli steps back. She squints against the rotor wash.

The Chinook thunders skyward, and as quickly as it came, the noise is gone. The uneasy silence returns.

Kelli stands still for a second. Then she exhales hard and wipes her bloody hands on her trousers.

“That was close.”

“Too close,” he says, glancing at her. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “No.”

He places a hand on her shoulder, reassuring, he hopes. He understands. Too well.

“He’ll make it,” he says. Not a promise. A dare.

———————

Connors makes it, but it was touch and go according to the MERT doctor.

John debriefs with the team before being pulled into a command report with Halford that takes way too long. COs have always been a mixed bag. Halford’s the best of the lot so far. He’s seasoned, pragmatic, and trusts his officers. His only flaw is that while in practice Halford doesn't mind bending the rules, on paper he likes things to be clean.

Which means paperwork. Mountains of the shit. If someone had warned him how much came with stripes, he might’ve told them to shove the promotion.

“This says you were injured,” Halford says, peering at him over the top of his report. His eyes glance between John’s face and his chest, covered by his fatigues but still bulky and bloody from the wrapping Kelli applied earlier.

John nods.

“Get it sorted.”

John nods.

He’s halfway to the medic station when he catches a glimpse of Kelli and Mullen, half-shadowed between the tents.

From the angle, it looks like they are having an argument. Mullen’s ears are red and his shoulders tight. The kind of posture John’s seen in dozens of officer pricks about to throw their weight around. Kelli’s glare would cut through body armour.

John knows it is none of his business. He knows this because he tries to cultivate the cold discipline of a man who keeps his mouth shut unless needed. But his feet angle slightly toward them anyway. Just close enough to catch it.

“-this is why I can’t recommend you for promotion.”

“I’m not asking for a promotion, Ryan,” Kelli snaps. There’s heat in her voice, but something raw beneath it. “I’m asking you to fucking trust me, I’m not a child.”

It lands wrong. Not what she said, how she said it. Like someone just kicked the floor out from under her.

Anger flares - quick and sharp. He’s got no right to it. Doesn’t stop it boiling up anyway.

He tells himself it is because she is his friend.

As he passes, Kelli catches his eye. Her jaw sets like she’s bracing for impact.

Mullen turns too. His expression shifts the second he sees who it is. He nods, terse. Waiting for John to continue on. As if he has any fucking say over where John has a right to be.

John keeps walking. If he doesn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say.

Connors is surprisingly peppy for a kid that lost a full liter and a half of blood.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he apologizes as soon as John enters the tent. He tries to sit up, but the attending medic, Ronan, shoots him a glare. Instead, he falls back onto the bed and frowns up at the roof of the tent. John stops by his bedside. He knows that look. Connors is mortified. Same way he’d felt the first time he got lit up.

“Sometimes the bastards get you,” he reassures him. “You feeling better?”

Connors nods, but his face is forlorn.

“They’re gonna send me home, aren’t they, sir?” he says, turning to look at John.

John glances across at Ronan, who shrugs.

“Maybe, maybe not,” she says. “That’ll be Captain Mullen’s call.”

John stands awkwardly for a moment. He’s still not sure what to say in these situations. He’s still figuring out what kind of man he’s meant to be, what kind of leader. It is hard to deliver wisdom when you’re only three years older than the bloke you’re delivering it to.

He thinks about saying it’s not a bad thing to go home. That recovery matters. That seeing your family, your friends, is a good thing. That staying alive is enough.

But he knows that wouldn’t land. Not for someone like Connors. Not yet.

He was Connors once. In a lot of ways, he still is.

He would be devastated.

The war is shit. The food is shit. The sand, the grime, the politics.

Somehow the shit is shit.

You spend your days walking through someone else’s broken country, trying not to add to the wreckage.

And yet he knows that -for some of them -it makes sense in a way nothing else does. It strips everything back. It gives shape to the chaos.

The fight gives him purpose. He can handle it. So he must. It is a sacrifice that only people like him can make. To keep the world safe.

If that makes him a bastard, fine. He’ll take being a bastard over being useless.

He looks down at Connors.

“If they send you home, that’s not failure. It’s survival,” he says. “But if you’re still trying to prove something - don’t do it for anyone else. Not me. Not the lads. Not the bloody Queen. Make sure it’s something you believe in.”

Connors swallows hard, eyes flicking toward him.

“Do you believe in it, sir?”

John doesn’t flinch. But it’s a question that sticks.

“I believe in the men beside me. That’s enough.”

His answer seems to satisfy Connors, at least for the moment. He sees Ronan raise an eyebrow at him, but she doesn't comment on his little speech. They are not especially familiar, besides the mutual connection and proximity. She has always struck him as shrewd, but he is her superior.

She beckons him over.

“Shirt off,” she says, all business. She points to the gauze. “Kelli warned me. Said you’d rock up playing hero and not to let you weasel out of a checkup.”

John grunts. He was here to get it checked out anyway, and so he acquiesces. Part of him thinks it’s probably better for Ronan to be manhandling him and not Kelli.

He leaves the tent fifteen minutes later, side burning from the antiseptic, ego still a little raw.

He makes his way to the perimeter fence and sits down on a supply crate. The sun sits low on the horizon. Distant pops of gunfire punctuate the low hum of the base. Sangin never sleeps, but he savors the rare moments of rest. He is not due back for briefings until twenty-hundred. He’s still got a few forms to fill, but he needs the moment. He cracks open the little cigar tin Nan gave him when he made sergeant - like he’d earned knighthood.

“It was your grandfather’s,” she had said with a twinkle in her eyes. “We used to smoke the Wintermans together in Monte Cassino.”

John had never really smoked, but the scent reminds him of his grandparents. The first time he had tried, he had almost keeled over, but now he inhales easily. He only has a few left, but he thinks about the day and decides he deserves it.

“Those give you lung cancer, you know.”

He smiles into the cigar as he lights it up.

When he looks up, Kelli is sitting down next to him, looking thoroughly exhausted.

“As opposed to all the other creative ways I could die out here.”

“Touché.”

She sighs and stares out at the sunset.

“Emma said you gave Connors quite the speech,” she says. “Didn’t know the SAS taught that kind of emotional wisdom.”

He grunts. He wants to savor the flavor of the Hamlet, slightly sweet, a little earthy, nice dry aftertaste. He kind of likes something more peppery, but he hasn't had the chance to experiment much yet.

He blows out the smoke. “I improvised.”

Kelli watches as it dissipates.

He looks sideways at her. There is something in her posture that hints at unease.

"You okay?"

Kelli sighs.

“You know,” she says, “for a moment I wished it was me that had been shot.”

John turns to her sharply.

“Jesus, Kelli.”

His stomach drops. He hates that kind of talk, half-joke, half-cry for help.

She holds her hands up.

“Not dead, just like Connors,” she muses. “Easy RTU, back to Birmingham. Excuse to see the family.”

“There are easier ways to see your family,” he says, before pausing, “look Kelli, if you aren’t happy-”

“Jesus. I’m fine,” she insists, gritting her teeth as if regretting every word she just said. Which he thinks she should - what a stupid thing to voice aloud. “Look, I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you think I’m insane.”

He looks at her for a moment, disbelieving.

“I already thought that, but yeah.” He hates himself for it, he should probably ask her if she is okay, but he has to ask, “Are you good for this? I need you locked in, not locked up in your own head.”

Kelli’s face drops slightly. Her shoulders straighten.

“I’m good, I’m good,” she says, waving a hand, forcing a tight smile onto her face. “If I thought it would compromise my abilities, you’d be the first to know.”

He nods.

“Good.” A pause. “I need you focused out there.”

Kelli smiles tightly.

“Always.”

He watches her for another moment.

“Except for the wishing-you-were-shot part.”

Kelli gives him a little punch on the arm.

“Be real. Everyone’s thought that at least once.”

John takes another drag of the cigar. She’s not wrong exactly. But it alarms him all the same. He believes her when she says that she is focused in the field, but he thinks back to her argument with Mullen. That kind of drama, combined with the inherently fucked-up nature of what they have to do day in, day out... well, she’s not wrong that it’s a common sentiment among some of the infantry. It just surprises him to hear her say it.

“For the record,” he says, “I do not want to be shot.”

Kelli laughs.

“Rich coming from you.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Veronica?”

He shrugs. “I was thinking more about my mum, but sure.”

Kelli sits back against the supply crate and crosses her arms. They sit in silence for a moment.

“She good?”

He nods.

“Caring for nan full-time,” he says, “which they both hate, but what are you going to do? She refuses to go to a home.”

Kelli nods.

“And Veronica?” she asks, and something in her tone is careful, searching. But then she looks at him wryly: “Tits still holding up?”

John chuckles. She's such a hypocrite.

“She’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

John turns to look at Kelli. She is staring straight ahead, and something about the focus of her gaze tells him she is trying not to look at him.

He shrugs.

“She spent our last call moaning about bridesmaid drama like I wasn’t calling from a bloody war zone.”

Kelli turns to look at him.

“You should talk to her about that,” she says. “She’d probably appreciate you sharing your feelings.”

John lets out an incredulous huff. “Women don’t want men to share their feelings. Ruins the illusion.”

“The illusion?” Kelli scoffs. “I doubt Veronica has any illusions about what kind of man you are.”

John looks sideways at her. Kelli might as well be one of the boys, but she is still a woman, and women never want to admit that all women do weird, hypocritical shit.

“You’d be surprised,” he says. “I’m pretty sure she thinks I don’t actually kill people for a living.”

“What does she think you do?” Kelli asks.

John shrugs.

“I dunno. Save Afghani kittens.”

He pauses, weighing whether to say the next part. When he looks over, she’s already watching him - eyes sharp. She’s clocked it. Of course she has.

“And yeah... pretty sure she’s seeing someone else.”

He says it flat, like that’ll make it sting less.

Kelli stills.

“What?” she says. “Wait, what? John, are you serious? That’s fucked.”

He shrugs one shoulder before taking a long drag on the cigar.

“One of my mates said he saw her out with another guy,” he says. “Could be nothing, but=” he shrugs again, “-it wouldn’t shock me.”

Kelli tightens her mouth into a grim expression.

“I’m sorry, John,” she says. “That’s fucked.”

John rearranges his weight on the supply crate.

He grunts. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Kelli looks at him with disbelief.

“You are being, like, really calm about this,” she says, waving a hand around. “She’s your girlfriend.”

John knows he is only being calm about this because he always thought that he and Veronica were a temporary thing. She’d always had stars in her eyes. Was too idealistic and attached to the image of him as a soldier. Not him. Not the reality of what he does.

“We’ve only been dating for, like, nine months?” he says. “It’s not like I was married to her.”

Kelli pokes a finger at him.

“It’s still fucked, John.”

He kind of likes that about Kelli. She is so easily indignant about things, so easily on the offensive when she decides there has been some grave injustice committed. It’s a fucking pain in the ass when she directs it at him, but when it’s on his behalf - it feels great. Like someone actually gives a shit.

“Why don’t you just break up?”

He shrugs.

“She’s really, really good at-”

Kelli holds a hand up.

“I swear to God, John-”

“Making breakfast,” he finishes, a small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “And she’s got a nice apartment down in Chiswick.”

“Holy shit,” she says. “And I thought wanting to be shot was bad. At least it makes sense in context. That is fucked up.”

He looks at her for a long moment.

“More or less fucked than sleeping with your CO?”

A muscle in Kelli’s jaw twitches. She doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t deny it either.

The silence stretches.

Then, quietly: “Less, probably,” she says. “But at least I know why I'm doing it.”

“And why are you doing do it?”

Kelli looks up at him. There is something unreadable in her expression. It could be sadness, it could be regret. It could equally be anger.

“Ryan is a good man, John,” she says, defensive.

John tips off some of the cigar ash into the dirt.

“He’s still a man, Kelli,” he points out, “and he’s your CO. You can like him all you want. Doesn’t change what it is. Power’s power. And he’s using it.”

It’s true.

Mullen is ten years her senior and her direct CO. Kelli might have a will of steel. She can choose to do whatever she wants, but even John recognizes that kind of power differential is a recipe for disaster. He should report it. He wants to report it. But Kelli is looking at him desperately, as if he is her lifeline.

She deflates a little.

“I know,” she says, unexpectedly. She opens her mouth again, “but-”

“If you fucking tell me you love him, I swear to God Almighty.”

Kelli snaps her mouth shut.

He sighs, glancing around. Twenty-two years of Keep Calm and Carry On fight against what he knows he should say.

“Look, I’m just worried about you, okay,” he admits. “Riggs might be a dog, but pricks like Mullen are the worst kind of bastard. You deserve better than that, Kelli.”

Kelli stares at him.

“So I should take your approach? Find someone I don’t give a shit about and fuck them for the view?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose.

“That’s not what I mean at all. Kelli-” he tries to stop her from standing. “Kelli.”

She shrugs off his hand and narrows her eyes at him.

“We’ve all got our own version of fucked, John,” she says, brushing dust from her trousers. “Maybe you should look at your own before commenting on mine.”

She’s gone before he can think of something smart that won’t sound like bullshit. Which is probably for the best. He’d probably make it worse by saying something true.

He sits back down, cigar burning down between his fingers, and watches as the sky over Sangin bleeds from orange to gunmetal grey.

[rozodejanerowrites]

Made a new blog so it could be my primary - damn you tumblr!

[rozodejanerowrites]

Ninety Seconds to Midnight

CWs: Canon typical violence, Medical procedures, Substance abuse, Referenced Suicide

Contains: John-Price POV, Character study, Unresolved romantic tension, Slow burn

Archive of Our Own | Current WIP - ~60-70,000 words

Chapter 3

0224 hours, Al-Hafir, Kharzari. 2023

When they reach the clinic, a single halogen lamp glows outside the porch. The building is small, barely bigger than the other concrete boxes lining the streets of Al-Hafir, but well-kept. The red MSF logo has been printed on copy paper and taped to the front door. A list of opening hours sits next to it: 9 a.m.–9 p.m., seven days a week. Ring for after-hours emergency.

John marches up to the door and jabs the ringer so hard he thinks it might break. The slightly muffled sound of a doorbell tinkles inside the building.

It’s just past 2 in the morning, so he half expects no one to answer despite the sign. These kinds of outfits are usually understaffed and overworked. Even if Kelli is involved, there’s no telling how reliable the care will be. MSF are ballsy, but they don’t hesitate to pull their people out or reassign them when needed to avoid critical danger. It doesn’t matter now, though. Ghost is in bad shape, and this place is their only option. Even with Gaz’s monitoring, the chest seal had started leaking, probably due to Rains driving like a fucking maniac. But at least the guy had gotten them to the clinic quickly.

His foot taps as he waits. He notices yellow smiley face stickers tacked to the corners of the left-side window set high in the thick concrete.

"Sir," Gaz points. A light in one of the upstairs windows has turned on, and John can hear someone coming down the stairs. When the door cracks open a few inches, the blue eyes of a woman around his age peer back at him. If the stickers hadn’t confirmed it, it’s now unmistakable.

Kelli stands before him, a look of momentary shock on her face. She’s cut her hair again, chin length, held back by a ratty headband as she peers blearily out at him. She looks older, but he probably does too.

Relief fills his veins, infused with a dash of doubt. She doesn’t look particularly happy to see him - like he’s an omen of misfortune. Which, to be fair, he is.

"John Price," she states, her brow furrowing, but there is no emotion now except a careful assessment of the situation. Her eyes dart to the wheezing body of Ghost being held up by Gaz and Rains behind him.

The deadbolt clicks, and she opens the door wide. "Bring him in," she says without hesitation. "Table in the back room."

The clinic is as small as it looks from the outside. Kelli ushers them all into the back room, separated by a white curtain. When he passes her, she shoves a small pager into his hands.

"First number," she says, "page 3."

He complies immediately, punching the buttons.

"What happened?" she asks, glancing between him, Gaz, and Rains as she pulls on a pair of blue latex gloves. She points at Gaz. "Hold his head still," and starts tearing off Ghost’s shirt.

"RPG caught us in a stairwell down in Al-Quatar," John checks his watch. "25 minutes ago. Ghost got the brunt of it," he says, tossing the pager aside and helping her yank off the rest of Ghost’s gear. "Extraction mission. Got stuck on the evac."

"Medvac?"

He shakes his head. "Red airspace. Comms went dark."

Kelli nods. She looks at Rains and jabs her chin at the door in the back corner.

"There’s an alleyway back there," she says. "Knock on the green door and get Darya in here. She knows you."

Rains nods. John watches him rush out into the alley.

"Can you speak to me, Ghost?" Kelli asks, her voice calm.

"Fuck, doc," he says. "I can’t-" He gasps at empty air.

Kelli places a gentle hand on Ghost’s left shoulder.

Ghost turns his head to look at her. Even through his mask, John sees the wide-eyed fear. It's an emotion he doesn't think he’s ever seen on Ghost’s face. It reminds him too much of that godforsaken subway. The look in Soap’s dead eyes, the last thing he must have ever felt.

John feels like he might throw up.

Kelli’s voice, clear and steady, cuts through his spiraling thoughts. "Ghost," she says. "My name is Dr. Purcell. You’re finding it hard to breathe because something has punctured your left lung cavity. Fortunately, your Captain plugged the hole long enough to get you to me, and luckily for you, I’m going to get you patched right up. But I need you to stay with me and stay calm. I know you can do that, can’t you?"

Ghost’s eyes focus, just slightly.

"Sure thing, Doc," he croaks.

John exhales silently. They’re nowhere near safe, but it’s something.

Kelli will stop this. He’s seen her do it plenty of times before.

She grabs her stethoscope from a drawer by the window. He recognizes it - the same sunflower yellow from Basra, Sangin, and every installation in between.

She presses it to Ghost’s right side. Then the left. Her eyes dart across his chest, sharp and focused.

"No air entry," she says. "Left side’s moving, right’s silent." She moves the stethoscope lower and hums.

John stiffens. He knows that hum. It’s never good.

The alley door swings open. Rains rushes in, followed by a girl, startlingly young, with a hastily tied head covering. Her eyes are wide.

"Vitals, Darya," Kelli says with a nod.

Blinking, Darya nods quickly and hurries to the trolley in the corner. She whips it around, almost hitting Rains in the process.

"Move," Kelli snaps as he jumps aside. John leans over and yanks him aside

"Get the car off the street," he snaps, shoving him toward the door. "Gaz, cover him."

Gaz nods and bolts after Rains.

Kelli grabs Ghost’s wrist, whipping off his glove. A muscle in her jaw hardens as she feels along his pulse. The silence stretches.

Darya clips something to Ghost’s other hand and starts inflating a blood pressure cuff, her hands shaking.

"Pulse is thready - around 130," Kelli says finally. "Respiration’s 28 and shallow."

"Blood pressure is 90 over 60," Darya adds, before peering at the clip she placed. She rattles off the numbers like she’s done this before, but her hands are shaking. "Oxygen is falling. Eighty-four percent."

Kelli tosses John a roll of tape. "Secure the chest seal," then to Darya:"No breath sounds on the right. Left’s clear. We’ve got a pneumothorax. You’re helping me decompress, okay?"

Darya nods, eyes wide.

John rips off pieces of tape and presses them to the chest seal. Ghost’s chest is heavily muscled, but there’s a disturbing tug to the skin just above his sternum.

"I need iodine," Kelli says, "one of the angiocaths, and for Christ's sake, Darya, put on some gloves. In that order, please."

Darya fetches a dark brown bottle and hands it to Kelli.

"John, I need you to hold his arm back," she says, swabbing Ghost’s chest with iodine. The use of his name jolts him. He grabs Ghost’s arm and holds it steady.

Kelli places her fingers on Ghost’s clavicle and moves downward with careful precision. She takes the catheter from Darya’s now-gloved hands, uncaps it, and breathes deeply. In and out, just like she always has before something serious. Then she slides the needle perpendicular into Ghost’s chest.

There’s a beat of silence - then a faint hiss.

Darya lets out a breath. "Stats are climbing, Doctor. Ninety-one percent. Blood pressure is up a little."

Kelli nods. "Good. That’s the first fire out, but he’s still hypotensive."

She presses the stethoscope to the right side of Ghost’s chest.

"How we feeling, Ghost?"

"You need breathing to live, right?" Ghost says slowly, his voice tight.

"Hang in there, mate," Price says, leaning forward to grasp Ghost’s hand. "You’re gonna be fine."

Kelli looks over at him. He can’t tell whether the pinch in her brow is sympathy or determination.

She looks up at Darya, just as the back door swings open and a tall, blonde-haired man bursts into the room.

His eyes go wide as he looks about and John thinks he was probably not expecting soldiers.

"Heart sounds are dull," Kelli says to him, barely missing a beat. "He’s tamponading."

The man’s eyes focus in on Ghost’s body. "You sure?" he says in a thick French accent.

Kelli glares. "I’m not guessing, Benoît, am I? This isn’t fucking Jeopardy. Jesus fucking Christ. Pericardiocentesis. Now."

"Okay, okay," Benoît says, hands up in apology. He ducks around the table, tugs on gloves, and tears open a sterile syringe. "Merde."

"How is he?" Gaz asks from behind. John blinks - he hadn’t even heard them come back in.

"Not good," John says, folding his arms. "What’s happening, Kelli?"

Kelli glances up. "Internal bleeding into his heart cavity. I need to drain it before it stops beating."

"Jesus," breathes Gaz.

"He was fine on the way over."

John snaps his head toward Rains. The blasé attitude is really starting to piss him off.

"Fine?" he snaps. "You call a collapsed lung fine?"

"You know what I mean," Rains mutters, raising his hands in a half shrug and backing into a corner.

John isn’t sure he does. He isn’t sure he understands anything right now, except that he’s about to lose another soldier, and Rains still can’t say anything useful.

"It doesn't matter what he was like on the ride over," Kelli says, calm but firm, taping a gauze square across Ghost’s chest. "Whatever caused the bleed was likely small, it’s just now presenting. Not uncommon. But deadly without surgery."

She directs the last part at John.

He turns to Gaz.

“We need comms back. Now.”

He and Gaz had tried to fix the issue in the car. Nothing worked. John suspects jamming - probably Zaman’s crew. GPS was spotty, satcom dead. He glances at Rains again.

It’s a lot of trouble for one runner. Too much heat for too little. Either the lad’s got something stitched into his DNA, or someone upstairs is playing chess with live pieces again.

Gaz nods. “Maybe they have some antenna tech in this village,” he says.

John nods.

Darya looks up at him from where she’s been fetching needles. “My uncle,” she says quickly, “he owns a television shop. Just down the road.”

John nods at her.

“Locals might tip Zaman off,” Gaz murmurs. They share a glance at Rains, who is staring at Ghost’s pale body.

“It’s either that or Ghost is done,” John mutters.

“I need some hands!” Kelli snaps, beckoning him and Gaz over.

“Gently, lift his chest so I can get this under,” she waves a blue hospital pillow. “Gently, gently.”

John and Gaz carefully lift Ghost forward. Kelli slides the pillow under his shoulder blades.

“Don’t mind me, boys,” Ghost grits out. “Just bleeding internally. Take your time.”

Despite everything, John cracks a crooked smile. If Ghost’s still making jokes, thats something.

“You know I always thought your Captain was my most dramatic patient.” Kelli nods at John as she attaches a long needle to a syringe. “Turns out he was the warm-up act.”

“Funny,” Ghost mutters. “That’s what my last girlfriend said.”

Gaz swears under his breath. Benoît mutters something incredulously in French. Kelli shakes her head and laughs.

For a second, John feels like he’s back in Afghanistan. 24, tired, and young enough to still feel invincible. Joking with the lads. Trading stories about girlfriends while tracking targets through streets too dangerous to sneeze in.

He wouldn’t call them the good old days, because really, he quite likes being more mature and less stupid, but the feeling tugs at a point just above his sternum.

Kelli snaps him back.

“Hold him steady,” she says, serious. “I need the sternum exposed. If he flinches, I could hit his heart.”

Benoît swabs the center of Ghost’s chest with iodine.

“This’ll sting, Ghost,” Kelli warns. “Then you’ll feel pressure.”

Ghost grunts.

Kelli angles the needle upward, to the left.

A deep breath. Then, with slow, deliberate precision, she inserts it.

“Needle in,” she says. “Advancing, aspirating.”

Silence.

John forgets to breathe.

Then, dark blood fills the syringe.

Kelli grins. “There you are, bastard. Alright. Drain’s working.” She continues aspirating, then looks over at Benoît and Darya. “We’re leaving the line in.” She disconnects the syringe and attaches tubing. “Aspiration every ten minutes. Ghost?” She places a hand on his shoulder. “You move and you’re dead.”

“Fun,” he says weakly.

“Life and death,” Kelli says. “The best kind.”

She and Benoît finish setting up the aspiration system, taping the tubing to Ghost’s skin. Kelli takes out a sharpie and makes a few marks on his chest.

“Can you monitor for a moment, I’ll be back,” she says, placing a hand on Benoît’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming. Do you want coffee?”

Benoît shakes his head and mutters something in French that John doesn't catch.

A muscle tightens in Kelli’s jaw.

Benoît is staring at her with a hard look, and John just knows he’s going to be a problem. John glances at Rains, who is also watching Benoît and Darya work.

Another one.

Kelli gestures for him and Gaz to follow her into the front room, peeling off her gloves and tossing them in the bin as she walks. Rains follows after them.

“It’s a Band-Aid on a bullet wound,” she says quietly. “This’ll buy us an hour, maybe two - if he stays still and nothing goes wrong.”

She fixes him with a hard look. “And something always goes wrong.”

He nods. “Gaz,” he says, “we need those comms back up. Now.”

Gaz nods. “On it, sir.” He glances at Kelli. “You’ve got an antenna on the roof. I can try patching the radio through it.”

Kelli rubs her jaw, eyes tired. She looks older, but not changed. Same eyes. Same crooked smile. Same goddamn look that cuts like a field knife.

Even dressed in a ratty pajama robe and a pair of neon green Crocs, she’s as beautiful as the day she first told him he was a dumbass.

“It doesn’t work,” she says. “You’ll need power.”

“MSF not have enough budget for comms?” Gaz asks, skeptical.

“There’s a lot of wars,” Kelli says grimly, “and not a lot of charity these days.”

John clears his throat. “Make do.”

“Darya’s uncle might have parts,” Kelli says. “Try the abandoned buildings first. The village is mostly neutral, but if word spreads… well, it spreads.” She looks between them. “You can have the antenna if you get it working. But hands off anything in the clinic. I’m already down to my bones, and people need this place.”

"Take Rains." 

Gaz nods. He gesture at Rains to follow him and they slip out the front door.

Kelli turns and fixes John with a careful gaze. “Zaman’s got a strong influence in the outskirts,” she says. “He’ll want Nico back, John. You can’t stay here. Not for long.”

John grits his teeth. “That kid is more than just a runner, isn’t he?”

Now that there is no immediate threat of Ghost dying, the anger returns - hot and potent.

Kelli sucks her teeth. “Truthfully? I don’t know,” she says, glancing toward the back. “But it’s not the first time I’ve seen him. And the fact you were sent to extract him…” She raises a brow and leads him into a side room with a stove and kettle. “Come on, John. You and I both know that means something. Especially now you’ve got this fancy task force. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”

“You know about that,” he says.

“You’re not the only one with friends in secret places,” she says with a raised eyebrow, lighting the stove.

Now that there’s a moment to breathe, John suddenly feels awkward. Even though he thinks about her sometimes - a lot, really - he hasn’t seen her in five years. Not since Zanzibar, and that was a fucking disaster. Now he’s turned up on her doorstep with a medical emergency, and he hasn’t even said hello.

They left on shit terms, and while he was technically not in the wrong, he said a lot of things he regretted. He wonders if she feels the same.

She’s looking at him like maybe she does, brows drawn and careful.

“Kelli, about what I said-” he starts, and immediately runs out of words.

Kelli, like she always has, understands.

“John,” she says, placing two mugs down on the bench, “your boy’s got a syringe stuck in his heart. What you said was five years ago. It’s in the past.”

“No,” he insists. “I shouldn’t have-”

“John. It’s fine.”

He steps forward and ducks his head. Having to say this feels so embarrassing right now - he can barely look at her. But he’s spent the last five years regretting that conversation, and now she’s here in front of him again, like some gift from the Almighty. He thinks of Soap. how quickly he was gone. Of Ghost, hanging by a thread.

There might not be another chance.

“Kelli,” he grinds out. “Let me apologize. Please.”

Kelli considers him for a moment. She pokes her chin at him. “Alright,” she says. “Say your piece.”

Once again, he’s started something he doesn’t know how to finish. He clears his throat. “That was it.”

Kelli sucks at her teeth as if she's holding back a laugh. She looks at him and shakes her head.

“It’s fine, John,” she says, her voice kinder than he deserves. “I’m sorry too, you know. I shouldn’t have broken your nose. It was uncalled for.”

John smiles grimly. “I deserved it,“ he says. “Did a right number on it too - never been the same since.” He gives a sniff for good measure.

Kelli chuckles. She looks at him for a long moment. “Are you okay, John?” she says.

It hits him like a freight train.

“My guy’s bleeding out in your back room, Kelli. What do you think?”

She has the gall to laugh and it pisses him off. He always thought soldiers had the worst gallows humor, but medics are even worse. It’s like emotional whiplash.

“Thats not what I meant,” she says before fixing him with a long hard look. “You look like shit.”

He scowls.

Kelli’s tone reminds him so much of his saint of a grandmother - down to the kind, soft stress on the word ‘shit’. Nan would never had told him he looked like shit, but she had always known when he was hurting. It had killed John when she died, and now it’s like she’s been reincarnated into this torturous creature who looks at him like she already knows the truth. Five years apart, and five before that, and she still reads him like a book.

"I'm fine," he lies.

He knows that if he voices the truth, then it will make it the truth, and he won't be able to hide behind denial. He's already falling apart at the seams, barreling toward the kind of give-no-fucks attitude that turns good soldiers into rampaging liabilities. He can see the abyss before him. So close he might be able to reach out and touch what he sees staring back. It pulls at him like a riptide, and he is helpless to resist.

He has always anchored himself in moral certainty, in his instinct about what was right, about what he had to do because it kept the world clean.

Now? He doesn’t know what to be certain about.

He meant what he said to Shepherd before he placed that bullet between his eyes; he used to be a better man.

But he’s redrawn the line so many times, he doesn’t know which side he’s standing on.

And worse - after Soap - he’s not sure he cares.

The better John Price would care. This one doesn’t. He got his revenge and felt nothing. The fury stayed. Now, he’s a man with no compass and no target.

He thought he had felt his worst, but now, standing in front of the one person who truly sees him for who he is, the one person who will not hesitate to challenge him on his bullshit-

He’s terrified.

“I lost someone recently,” he admits. “One of my men.”

Kelli pauses mid pour. She glances at him. “I’m sorry, John,” she says, turning to give him her full attention. “Did I know him?”

John nods. “Met him. Zanzibar. Soap.”

She nods slowly. "Black's cousin,” she says, and sets a mug of steaming tea in front of him. “Brought it from home,” she says in response to his look, “its not a beer but it’ll warm you up.”

He’s not in the mood for tea - he needs to get eyes back on Ghost - but it smells like home. Nostalgic. The exact right shade of brown.

He’s always been unsettled by Kelli’s ability to move from crisis to blase normalcy back to crisis in the blink of an eye. Soldiers have their own version, but he's seen this specific compartmentalization many times before.

Its a medic thing, not just a Kelli thing.

It would be easy to think things were okay, just for a second.

They never are.

Kelli takes a sip of her coffee and makes a face.

“I hate Kharzari coffee,” she says. “But its better than the mud they gave us in Afghanistan.”

“Not a hard bar to beat,” John says, taking a sip from his mug. Its perfect, exactly the way he likes it.

He’s grateful she’s not pressing - yet. But part of him aches when the moment slips by so fast. He was never meant for a normal life, but slivers like this feel like crumbs tossed to a starving man.

He wants to ask her everything.

Wants to ask if she ever missed him.

If she’s happy.

Why she’s not wearing a wedding ring.

But the moment is not right. He has a job to do. He needs to keep focus. So, all he manages is:

“Thanks for the tea.”

And Kelli just nods.

“Lets go check on your guy.”

[rozodejanerowrites]

Ninety Seconds to Midnight

CWs: Canon typical violence, Medical procedures, Substance abuse, Referenced Suicide

Contains: John-Price POV, Character study, Unresolved romantic tension, Slow burn

Archive of Our Own | Current WIP - ~60-70,000 words

Chapter 2

RAF Brize Norton, Oxfordshire. United Kingdom. 2005

The hangar is freezing his balls off, but John refuses to shiver. He quietly readjusts his mask. It's only been 10 minutes on the O2, but he already feels the double-edged clarity that comes with it. The air is dry and cool as he breathes evenly. He counts the breaths as they come.

He is a little nervous, and the pure oxygen heightens both his anxiety and his senses.

The tight rubber of the mask feels claustrophobic. The stillness of the hangar oppresses him as everyone sits quietly, unable to talk with the masks on. The glare of the red countdown clock as it ticks steadily toward to launch.

It's his second training HALO. The first had gone textbook - 15,000 feet of pure perfection- but there's something about the air this time that puts him ill at ease. Call it an instinct.

The briefing had been business as usual, though the Captain, Whitaker, had seemed a bit off. A bit jumpy. A bit impatient. He's not John’s typical CO, but things had been rearranged recently. From what John knows, he’s not Special Forces-trained, but got seconded to an airborne command position to tick a box for promotion. A real careerist and a hard-ass: anal about metrics, thinks he’s top-shit, little experience in the field. John might only be 19, but he’s been serving for 3 years and he thinks that he probably has more field experience than the 32-year-old Captain.

Another gust of wind buffets the hangar. Strong crosswinds had been forecast, and John doesn't need to be Jumpmaster to know that complicates things. Despite the forecast, Whitaker seems insistent they proceed. John’s not about to question a CO directly, but it tips off his anxiety in a way that he knows he had to get under control.

If he can’t trust Whitaker, he has to at least be able to trust himself.

Beside him, Lewis fidgets with the valve on his altimeter.

They make eye contact through the masks, and John gives him a questioning thumbs up.

Lewis nods, returning the gesture.

Even after 3 years, John’s still not made his mind up about Lewis.

They enlisted at the same time, but Lewis is jumpier than John would prefer in a buddy. He knows that the mental game is what really matters for advancement. Anyone can lift weights and do weighted marches. Lewis is strong, but in the past 3 years, he has demonstrated consistently that he does not quite have that game. Still, he's a nice guy and doesn't try to get John to talk too much - not like some of the others - so John appreciates the company. He knows that eventually they will part ways. Until then, at least he has someone to go to the pub with and ogle girls.

Across from them, the second drop starts filing into the hangar.

John frowns beneath the mask.

Whitaker’s assignment brought along a selection of commissioned officers, private school kids like him who think they’re hot shit. John's commissioned but he spent more time on the field than in the classroom at John Colet - much to his mother's dismay - and so the only school he's really been hot shit at is Sandhurst. Suits him fine. Military's in his blood. It's where he's meant to be.

Whitaker's kids are mostly in the second drop, so he's not overly concerned, but one of them has been on his radar all night. The loudest, of course. John thinks his name is something like Morris, or Milton. Some Eton-adjacent name to match the toff accent. Prick suits him just fine in John’s mind. He’s been eying any woman - uniformed or not - that has the misfortune to cross his path for the entire day. Right from the briefing and now during set-up. John thinks his own appetite for women is pretty typical, but that level of randiness just seems exhausting. John would wonder if he just has zero social skills, but realistically it's most likely that he has zero respect.

The Prick saunters past, making a beeline for the female CMT who is prepping the new O2 lines. John’s been vaguely aware of her too. Not because he thinks she's hot, though he does - she's got these huge blue eyes and thick powerful thighs. No, it’s because she looks so fucking familiar, and he can’t quite place her.

John can see her lips purse as the Prick stops next to her.

“You sure you can handle a drop zone, love?” The Prick asks, leaning over her, a lecherous pull to the corner of his mouth.

She looks up at him and raises an eyebrow. Her eyes are blue, cold, and sharp.

“I don’t know,” she says, in a lilting Welsh accent. “Are you sure you can handle the drop?”

Suddenly, John realizes who she is.

She turns away from the Prick to haul the oxygen tank over to the hangar wall. The tank is massive, but she hauls it along with little trouble, the muscles in her forearm flexing. She might be a medic, but he can tell that the field-work has left her no slouch. It helps that she’s tall for a woman, only a few inches shorter than the Prick.

The Prick follows her like a cat stalking its prey.

It crosses John’s mind to intervene; the Prick isn’t in his squad, but the CMT is Kelli Purcell.

The same Kelli Purcell whose father shot himself in the head 2 weeks ago.

Rumor is Kelli was the one to find him.

But that’s not why John knows who she is.

He knows who she is because her father, Warrant Officer Robert Purcell, had offered to recommend him for an early SAS application. Almost unheard of for a 19-year-old, and John was still unconvinced about it, but Purcell had insisted he consider it. During training, he had mentioned several times that he had a daughter, the same age, in training over at Harrogate. John had never met her, but the resemblance is uncanny.

The same blue eyes, the same nose, the same sheep-shagging accent.

John is struck by a sudden wave of sadness. Robert was a tough but fair man, and he didn’t deserve to blow his own head off.

He had been so clearly proud of his daughter too.

John remembers envying Kelli for that. His own father was fine, the typical military father, and not as bad as some of his peers, but he’d never said anything close to ‘I’m proud of you.’ Seeing the stars in Purcell’s eyes the day Kelli had passed her first phase had hit John in a way that had surprised him.

He wonders how Kelli is able to stand and look someone like this Prick in the eyes 2 weeks after what happened.

“I got something you could handle,” the Prick says in a low voice.

It's as impressive as it is fucking bullshit.

He cracks a gap in his O2 mask.

“Oi Milton,” John calls from across the bay.

Kelli and the Prick turn to look at him. She looks somewhere between disgusted and sad, and he kind of wants to kick the Prick in the balls for that. He can’t do that though, so he just says, “Let the medic do her job, yeah? You want her distracted while she’s checking your oxygen?”

The Prick turns to face him with the typical bravado of a green Rupert with less sense than ego.

“My name’s Morris,” he says, incredulously.

John stays seated as Morris waltzes over to him, sizing him up. John reckons they are about the same height, but he’s not about to try and size himself up against the guy. He finds it pathetic, really. He may not have said he was proud of him, but if there was one thing his father had instilled in him, it was a healthy disdain for peacocks.

“Confidence is quiet, Jonathan. Let the cock crow.”

“Close enough,” John says, before readjusting his mask back into place. He raises his brows at Morris, who is still staring down at him. He opens his mouth once or twice as if he can’t quite believe it.

“Who the fuck-” he starts.

“If I hear one more sound that’s not you morons breathing in your O2, I’m going to kick you off the ramp,” barks the Jumpmaster, marching into the hangar. Whitaker is in close step behind him.

Morris jumps and quickly takes his seat over near where Kelli had been setting up the next tank. John makes eye contact with her for a short moment. Her eyes are unreadable, but there is something grateful in them he thinks. She nods just slightly, a silent acknowledgment that bolsters John’s sense that he made the right decision.

-----------------------------

The drop goes badly, and John knows the second he hears the pop that his arm is fucked.

The turbulence at 15,000 had been unreal. The air was freezing. The crosswinds were strong enough that even the Jumpmaster had seemed unsettled. Whitaker had insisted though, like all good morons do. On the ascent, John had decided that, at the very least, missions in real life were never going to be perfect, so he resolves to treat it as a challenge.

Lewis is not convinced of his reasoning at all.

“What’s Whitaker thinking,” he mutters in John’s earpiece. John isn’t sure if he remembers that everyone else can hear him.

“Breathe, Lewis,” he says. “You know your training, just follow it.”

The Jumpmaster nods at him appreciatively. He fixes Lewis with a steady stare.

“No room for nerves up here, son,” he says. “Just the jump. You’re ready.”

Lewis stares at them both.

It doesn't seem to help.

By the time they reach 15,000, Lewis’ knee has been bouncing non-stop for 5 minutes. John is 3rd in the order, right before Lewis.

The first two jump, then it’s his turn.

“Price! You’re up!” barks the Jumpmaster. “Kit check’s good, go on green!”

John breathes in deeply, hyper-aware of the fluorescent red light just above the exit.

In his ear, the Jumpmaster says, “Keep an eye on Lewis out there.”

John nods; he resists the urge to glance back at the guy.

“Yes, Sir.”

The red light switches to green, and he moves his weight forward.

“Green! Move, move, move!”

John falls. He arches his back and holds his arms out. His body tenses as he hits the open air, and he has to force himself to relax.

Head up.

Eyes forward.

Belly to earth.

The roar of the air is loud, but it's like static in his ears. His muscles work overtime to stabilize his position.

It is so dark, but the stars are bright.

He kind of loves it.

Then the crosswind hits.

He instinctively reaches out to steady himself, but the force hyperextends his shoulder. A sharp, searing pain shoots through his arm. There is a pop, and he knows it’s fucked.

He fights to keep control. He doesn't really fancy dying tonight. Certainly not in such a stupid way. He grits his teeth and keeps falling. The pain is a searing, contrasting with the freezing air. He wants to glance at his wrist, to check the altimeter, but he knows he needs that arm to remain stable. He’s got at most 2 minutes to get this sorted. Plenty of time. If he has to abort, he has to abort, he doesn’t give a shit what Whitaker might think. The AAD will deploy regardless - he just needs to get stable.

Through the pain and the roaring wind, movement catches his attention. About 20 meters to his left, Lewis is in free-fall, cartwheeling like a clown at a kid’s fucking birthday party. John grits his teeth and maneuvers towards him. As he gets closer, he tries to find an opening. The last thing he needs is Lewis kicking him into free-fall too.

1 minute.

He takes a deep breath.

He reaches out with his bad arm and grabs Lewis’ harness. His shoulder screams at him. The pain is so intense that the edges of his vision go dark. He holds on and pulls Lewis into a safer body position. Lewis’ eyes are wide as he stares at John like he is God. John tries to gesture for Lewis to arch his back. For a moment, Lewis is too much in shock or just too stupid to understand. Then, after a second, something switches in his eyes, and he spreads his arms wide. The turbulence lessens.

John lets out a breath.

His shoulder grinds against his clavicle with nausea-inducing pain. John peers at the altimeter on Lewis’ wrist.

3,000 AGL.

They need to deploy now.

He catches Lewis’ gaze and glances pointedly at his ripcord. He hopes he gets the message.

Lewis nods.

Price releases his arm and maneuvers sideways. There is a rush of the chute, and Lewis deploys, the ram-air exploding above him. John reaches down with his good hand and fumbles with his ripcord.

The altimeter vibrates on his wrist.

Deploy. Now.

He pulls the cord. The harness yanks against his legs and shoulders, pulling against his shoulder again. John is pretty sure he blacks out for a moment because when he comes to, it is to stillness. Darkness stretches out beneath him, save for the lights of the airstrip in the distance and the drop zone to the west. He tries to steer toward it with just one arm, but he knows he’s going to be off course.

Floating high in the sky, he laughs.

He can just imagine the look on Whitaker's face.

The landing is rough. He lands hard and fast, which is not a shock. But he had thought he had felt all the pain his shoulder had to offer him. The impact he makes with the ground puts all of these to shame as he stumbles and falls onto his bad side. He hisses out a breath and swallows down the nausea.

The wind is still buffeting.

He can feel it drag the canopy behind him. He needs to stabilize and secure, then orient and regroup.

He rolls onto his good side and searches around for the collapse line. The pressure pulling him along jolts as soon as he releases the canopy.

Detaching from his harness proves almost impossible with one hand. He has to use his teeth to hold the straps taut before he can release them.

Standing, he regains a sense of where he is. He needs to regroup. The drop was only the first part of the mission. They still need to infiltrate. He scans the immediate terrain. He’s landed on the edge of the tree line. A detached canopy flutters in the distance, about 50 meters away. He can see the dark figure of one of his team staggering parallel to him, heading towards the recon point. He’s not sure who it is, but John estimates they’re both about 400 meters off. Better than he expected given the circumstances.

He was lucky.

He scans the sky for any signs of Lewis.

He’ll be landing soon. He might have already.

John half-wishes he didn’t have to see his face again so soon. The tension of the situation had diffused any other emotions, but now he just feels angry. Lewis just couldn’t get himself under control. The shoulder hadn’t been his fault, but the dangerously low deployment had.

John scowls to himself and checks for his canopy. It is stuck against one of the trees. He stashes it, one-handed, behind the undergrowth. By the time he is done, he spots what he thinks could be Lewis landing about 100 meters away. He breathes in deeply and sighs.

Mission always.

His instinct is correct, and the jumper is Lewis.

He is dazed and struggling to untangle himself from his chute.

“I really fucked this one up,” he says desperately, as John kneels to help detach his harness.

"You broken?” John says, ignoring his statement.

Lewis shakes his head, shaky.

“Good,” John says, “on your feet. We’ve got ground to cover.”

He hauls Lewis up, trying not to let the pain show on his face. He wonders if Lewis even realizes. It is unimportant.

They start heading west to catch up with the team.

By the time he starts hearing hushed voices, the chill of the morning has reduced his shoulder to a dull ache. He is grateful for that.

The others are milling around the recon point. A quick head count tells him that they are not all there. His gaze is immediately drawn to the medics on the left. The senior CMT is examining another soldier, a lieutenant named Riggs, who appears to be bleeding from a gash on his forehead.

John’s eyes catch on Kelli, who is standing on alert. She takes one look at his shoulder, and instantly he knows she’s clocked him. He shoves Lewis forward, trying to put him in between her and him. Trying to get away from the others. He knows the smart thing is to get treatment, but it’s so fucking embarrassing.

Written off on his second drop. He needs to complete the mission. He thinks of that letter of recommendation. If he did want to get into SAS, a failed drop would look bad.

Maybe he cares about metrics after all.

“Stop hiding,” he hears her call as she pushes Lewis out of the way. “I can see you’re injured, Lieutenant Price.”

He grunts and waves his good hand.

“I’m fine.”

Kelli gives him a look that would wither most men.

John is not most men.

She grasps his good arm and drags him to the side. He tries not to resist. Mostly because even the grip on his good side seems to hurt the other. For a CMT she’s a lot more forceful than he expected, but then he remembers what happened and wonders if she’s usually this harsh or if it’s just because of circumstance.

“My name is Kelli Purcell -” she starts, reading off the script that all the medics use.

“I know who you are,” he snaps, cutting her off, a little breathless because of the pain.

“- and I am here to help you, Lieutenant Price,” she continues, hardly missing a beat.

John is impressed by just how little she reacts to his rudeness. Her eyes are as hard as they had been when she glared at Milton, but she looks for the most part unbothered. Focused. Like she’s not about to suffer his bullshit.

A flush of embarrassment creeps up his neck for just a second, but then she places a sturdy hand on his elbow and the pain shoots up his elbow.

He grits his teeth and grunts.

“How did you do this?” she asks, her eyes intent and searching across his shoulder.

John decides it is easier to comply. She’s clocked him, which means she’s not going to let up. If she did, she wouldn't be doing her job. And from everything he’s heard, Kelli is considered a highly promising CMT. Still, he might be able to convince her with enough stubbornness.

“Crosswinds,” he says, “used my arm to brace.”

Kelli hums, examining the angle of his arm.

“I’m going to need to get you to take off that vest,” she says, kneeling down on one knee to fetch a pair of latex gloves from her pack.

“I’m fine,” he says, “it’s just sprained.”

He tries to appear casual but when he tries moving his arm, the pain shoots down his arm again and he can’t help but grunt.

Kelli does not look amused.

“Yeah? And what,” she says. “Planning to shoot with your teeth?”

John sucks at his teeth.

“Off,” she orders.

He sighs and unbuckles his vest with one hand. When he tries to shrug it off, it gets caught on the odd angle of his shoulder.

“Here,” Kelli says, carefully extracting the garment from his body. He lets out a hiss as she drags it over the shoulder. She glances up at his face but doesn't pause.

John gets the impression that she’s well-versed in interacting with stubborn soldiers.

He blinks as she starts unbuttoning his fatigues. Partly because it does something to his lizard brain, but also because it’s still fucking cold and he doesn't really want to stand around without a shirt. Luckily, she stops just short of the bottom edge of his pecs and peers under the material around his shoulder.

“That is not a strain,” she says, clearly already knowing this. “Looks like an anterior dislocation,” she says, pulling back from her examination. “That means the top of your humerus, this bone-” she gestures along his bicep, “- has shifted forward out of the socket. Can you wiggle your fingers for me, please?”

He obliges her.

“Good.”

She places a finger against the blood vessel in his wrist and pauses for a moment.

“Can you feel my fingers?”

Her face is close to his now, and just for a moment, John wonders what it might be like if she was a regular woman touching his wrist, smiling up at him. He wonders if the pain from his shoulder has made him go a bit loopy.

Yeah, that's it.

“Yeah,” he says, aware that he has paused for a noticeably long time.

“That’s good,” she said, her gaze lingering on his for another moment, “I was beginning to worry your hesitation meant the opposite.”

“I didn’t hesitate,” he insists, reflexively, stupidly.

Kelli huffs out a dry laugh.

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” she says. “Any pins and needles?”

He shakes his head.

“Good,” she says before stepping away. “Okay, so looks like your nerve function and circulation are okay. Shoulder’s out, but we’ll keep it stable till I can get you somewhere with X-ray.”

She kneels down again and fetches what looks like a sling from her pack.

It’s the words he’s been dreading.

“You can’t just do it here?” he asks down at her. “I'm fine, just set it back and I'm good to go."

Kelli smiles, a patronizing edge to the corner of her lips. It pisses him off. She might have his best interests in mind, but she doesn't have to be such an ass about it.

“If I had a pound for every time a soldier told me that,” she says, standing up.

“I can keep going,” he insists.

“I know you could,” Kelli says, cutting off his protests. “But that’s not the point, Price.”

This comment surprises him. It's an acknowledgment of his capabilities at least, but there is something soft in her voice that tells him that she is not completely devoid of compassion.

“From what I've heard, you’ve got a long career ahead,” she says, raising an eyebrow, “do you really want a badly healed shoulder injury to be the reason you can’t graduate SAS?”

John stares at her. It had not occurred to him that she might know who he is.

“I’m not enrolled in SAS,” he says a bit dumbly.

“I know,” Kelli says slowly. “We’re talking hypotheticals here,” she waves a hand, “you know, use your imagination. Think of a world where you’re not a dumbass.”

A playfulness has appeared in the conversation, just for a moment, and he gets the feeling that this is what the real Kelli Purcell would be like if she wasn’t currently mourning the death of her father.

He levels a dry look at her.

“I’m not sure that exists,” he says.

A small smile appears on Kelli’s face.

“What have we got here, Purcell?” The senior CMT, Sergeant Mullen, appears behind Kelli’s shoulder. He is maybe 30, with dark brown hair and a cheerful demeanor that seems completely out of place at 2 in the morning.

He peers at John before staring expectantly at Kelli.

Kelli looks at Mullen. Her spine sets into a hard line. The smile is gone, in its place, the professional.

"Lieutenant Price has sustained a likely anterior dislocation of the right shoulder, Sir,” she says, “suspected due to crosswind during HALO insertion. Presenting with limited range of motion, visible deformity, and guarding. Neurovascular function intact.” She glances sideways at him. "He's trying to push through, Sir, but he’s non-operational until it's reduced and stabilized. Recommending immediate withdrawal from mission set and medevac if feasible."

Mullen nods.

“Good,” he says, “not for you Price though, obviously. Ha. Whitaker’s going to love this.” He barks out a laugh. “Just crosswinds, my arse.”

He glances at John.

“Don’t worry, Price,” he says, patting him on his good shoulder, “I’m sure everyone knows you’re very brave, but Purcell’s right on this one - you're done.”

John knows there is exactly zero chance that Mullen would let him keep going. He looks back at Kelli, defeated. She raises her eyebrows and does not appear apologetic.

-----------------------

John leans back against the low stone wall, clutching an ice pack to his shoulder. He watches as the sky begins to turn morning blue over the airfield. The wind has calmed down, and a thin fog has descended. His balls are still freezing off, but he’s grateful for it now, the chill helps dull the pain in his shoulder.

The more he reflects, the more he knows it was the right call to pull him out. The scan was clear, but he’s apparently sustained enough soft tissue damage to put him on light duty for at least six weeks.

It’s a pain in the ass, but as he thinks about Kelli’s comments, he knows he’d be a dumbass to let an injury like that follow him.

Whitaker had been furious, the prick. As if John had intentionally dislocated his own arm just to spite his chances of promotion. He’d dressed him down for several minutes, right in the middle of the med bay. Right up until the point that Mullen and the Jumpmaster had stepped in to defend him. John hopes he never has to see that dickhead ever again, but he’s not going to hold his breath.

Yet another reason to pursue SAS.

No one had even mentioned Lewis. John wonders if that’s just going to be something that happened. He wonders if Lewis has even told anyone. In the back of his mind, John wishes he could get the credit. Logical or not, having to be withdrawn is a fucking embarrassment. The least Lewis could do was give him recognition for saving his ass.

His attention is caught by movement to his left, and he turns his head.

Kelli is passing by, heading back from the medical tent. Her posture is tired and she drags her feel slightly.

He nods at her.

She pauses as she gets nearer and gestures at his arm.

“You’ll heal up fine,” she says. “But you should work on that landing.”

John adjusts the ice on his shoulder.

“Didn’t know medics were so cheeky,” he says, smiling crookedly up at her.

“Only with the clumsy ones,” she says. “It’s like making sure a toddler doesn't fall down the stairs.”

John grins.

“I’m insulted,” he says. “I’m at least a pre-schooler.”

Kelli nods.

“Sure Start it is, then,” she says.

Kelli’s eyes are unreadable, but she’s smiling at him. He wishes he could know what she’s thinking - what she thinks about him.

“I must say, I didn’t expect you to be this breakable,” she says a little wryly, her eyes sizing him up. “Not after all the praise Dad used to lavish on you over dinner.”

She makes a face.

“‘That boy, Kelli,’” she says in a mock version of her father. “‘Mark my words: he’s gonna go far. And then one day I’ll be the guy that trained Johnathan Price.’”

As soon as she finishes the pantomime, Kelli grins. Then, almost instantly, her face drops, and she looks like she’s about to cry.

The hands by her side curl into a fists

It’s as if she just reminded herself that her father is gone. Dead.

John’s stomach twists. He’s not sure how to respond to what just happened. He doesn’t know if he should try and comfort her. He looks away for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he doesn’t really know what else there is to say. “I heard you...”

He trails off.

Kelli shrugs. She seems to understand his unspoken question better than he does.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m okay.”

“Are you?” he says incredulously. It kind of just comes out, and he immediately regrets it.

What a stupid fucking thing to ask.

Kelli’s eyes snap to his, and she looks angry for a second.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, and he knows she’s lying. “And it’s not really your business.”

He’s not about to challenge her on either of those points, so he just nods as if he understands at all what it must be like for her. One of his mates had killed himself years back, but John reckons it must cut a lot deeper when it’s your own father.

It must cut real deep when you’re the one that finds them.

Kelli starts to walk away, and he knows he’s cocked it up. But then she pauses and turns back to him.

“You should apply for SAS,” she says after a moment.

He raises an eyebrow.

“After that disaster?”

Kelli looks down and smiles.

“Everyone fucks up,” she says, sounding exactly like her father. “But not everyone gets back up.”

Her smile fades, and she looks back up. She fixes him with a serious look.

“Besides, I talked to Lewis,” she says. “You saved his fuckin’ life, Price. And you did it with a dislocated shoulder - I hope you understand how ridiculously heroic that is.”

He stares at her for a moment. A flush creeps up his neck, and he’s grateful that the sun hasn’t yet broken the horizon.

“Lewis would’ve sorted himself out,” he dismisses.

Kelli rolls her eyes.

“Sure,” she says. “Just think about it, okay?”

She looks at him like she wants to say something else, but she doesn’t.

“I’ll think about it,” he acquiesces.

Kelli nods. She turns and walks back down toward the medical tent.

John watches her leave. He wonders if Kelli’s advice about getting back up is directed more at herself than it is at him. He hopes she’ll be okay, but he knows she will.

Call it instinct.

[rozodejanerowrites]

Ninety Seconds to Midnight

CWs: Canon typical violence, Medical procedures, Substance abuse, Referenced Suicide

Contains: John-Price POV, Character study, Unresolved romantic tension, Slow burn

Archive of Our Own | Current WIP - ~60-70,000 words

Chapter 1

0201 hours, Al Quatar District, Kharzari. Present day, 2023

When the dust clears, the blood starts to pulse from Ghost’s chest and all John can think is “not again.”

“Fuck me,” Ghost groans, writhing against the stairs that are no longer stairs.

To his left, Gaz staggers to his feet and shakes the debris from his head.

“You wish,” he says, then, “oh shit.”

It is enough to snap John from the momentary panic that grips him. Panic is a foreign feeling to him, one that he rarely parses, one that never lasts long enough for him to even register it as a blip on his internal radar, but after Soap- well John feels like a different man after Soap.

He is untethered, like a boat with no anchor. Steadily becoming more and more adrift in a sea of unfocused emotions that all seem to center on a whirlpool of anger that just wont seem to quit. He has been able to keep it under control so far, but he find himself more jumpy, less patient and fundamentally changed in some way that he hesitates to name.

To acknowledge it would to be to speak it’s truth.

He exercised earned vengeance in killing Shepherd, but he’s not quite ready to see the abyss staring back at him.

Ghost wheezes out a breath.

“I can’t fuckin’ breath.”

The stairwell is all but destroyed. John can hear shouting somewhere to the south. They need to move. He staggers over to Ghost. A dark bloody stain is growing on the left side of his chest.

It was a simple mission; find and extract the NATO asset from the safehouse. An intel runner with confirmed eyes on a chemical weapons transfer between the Barkov Group and a rogue General, Farouk Zaman. Simple. Easy. Even one man down. Honestly, John could have switched out the names and it wouldn’t have made a difference. Governments collapsed and corrupt men tried to fill the vacuum left behind. Things never changed. It seems surreal when he thinks about it for too long - especially after Soap, which is why he usually doesn’t think about it at all - but the world continues to turn and nothing ever changes. The world tries its best to sink itself into shit over and over, and men like him have to reach in and pull it out.

Every. Fucking. Time.

And the mission had been simple, right up until the point when the RPG had hit in the stairwell. Laswell had warned him the General was well supplied, but the intelligence hadn’t mentioned anti-armour or that they knew they were coming. Ghost had been first order so had borne the brunt of it. John bites down his anger. He focuses his attention on stabilizing Ghost instead.

“Hes been hit through the chest,” says Rains, unhelpfully. He is the asset they’d been sent to retrieve. A 20-something smuggler with deep set eyes and an vaguely eastern European accent. He is wounded too but the hard look in his eyes speaks of a man familiar with the varied sensations of warfare.

“Here,” John kneels down by Ghost’s side. He rips open his jacket to find the wound. The hole is jagged, barely a centimeter, just below his left nipple. The bleeding is not strong enough for Ghost to be in immediate danger of bleeding out, but John has heard enough collapsing lungs to know Ghost will be dead if they can’t get a Medvac. He reaches into his med pack as Ghost struggles to take in air. His breaths become more labored with every passing second. John rips the adhesive backing from the chest seal. He presses it to Ghost’s chest. His breath hitches and then relaxes ever so slightly.

“This will get bad quickly if we don’t get him help,” Rains says, his eyes hard and worried.

John wants to tell him to shut the fuck up.

Gaz is scouting what remains of the stairwell. He gestures toward the southern hallway, where they had just come from.

“Enemies approaching from the south side, sir,” he says, “sounds like multiple footsteps, maybe a squad. Sounds like they're on the street, about 200 meters, maybe closer."

John presses his push-to-talk.

"Command, this is Bravo-0-1. One urgent casualty - shrapnel to chest, compromised lung. Requesting MEDEVAC at grid two-five-niner, echo-november. Marking LZ with smoke. How copy?”

The radio crackles for half a second before Command responds.

"Bravo-0-1, this is Overwatch. Negative on MEDEVAC - airspace is red. Enemy AA active, no safe route inbound. Recommend ground evac or stabilize on-site. Say again, no bird inbound."

“Fuck.” Gaz kicks a pane of glass and it shatters over his boot.

“Steady,” John warns, he presses his push-to-talk. "Copy that. We'll stabilize and move on foot. Inform -”

The radio goes static and then silent. John switches channels but there is nothing.

“Comms are dead,” he says, “no MEDVAC, we’re on our own.”

Anger flares up again from a point deep in his chest.

“I have a car,” Rains says quickly, and its the first helpful thing he’s said since John met him. “Its in the alley out back.”

John nods. He kneels down beside Ghost. He will work out where to go once they get to the car.

"Ghost, you with me?” he says, “Stay with me, mate. We’re getting you out."

Ghost grits his teeth. He nods weakly.

"Next time, I want a heads-up before the fireworks sir,” he croaks out.

“Command must be having a bad day,” Gaz replies. He peers cautiously toward the stairwell entrance and glances at John. "Enemies closing fast Sir - multiple hostiles moving in from the south side. They sound about one minute out, maybe less."

Rains leans against the cracked concrete wall, eyes sharp, weapon raised.

"We need to move,” he says, ”that RPG blast probably gave our position away."

John stares at him for a moment, then he looks over toward the exit.

"Alright. Gaz, you cover the rear -” he says, “I want eyes on the south side. Rains, help me lift Ghost. We move fast, no stops."

Gaz nods grimly, taking position near the stairwell mouth, scanning the shadows.

"Got it. I’ll hold them off if they push."

John ducks underneath Ghost’s arm and carefully lifts him onto his feet. Even with Rain’s help it is an effort after the impact of the RPG. Ghost’s breaths come harsh and ragged.

“Can you take him,” John asks, holding Rain’s gaze. The man nods and there is certainty in his eyes. John nods back and transfers Ghost’s full weight to him. Rains lets out a low huff, knees bending as he hitches up Ghost’s mass, but he does not waver. John readies his rifle and takes the lead down the stairwell.

Kharzari is a small city state on the northern Urzikstan border. Teetering on the knife edge of outright civil war, it is hardly influential. But it is strategically placed along the Caspian sea. The safehouse is an old warehouse, down near the docks. Not particularly safe in John’s opinion but Rains had apparently been hiding out successfully for months. Given the number of warren-like hallways he’s beginning to understand how.

“To the left,” Rains huffs from behind him.

John presses his back to the corner wall, his rifle tight against his chest. The shouts are steadily getting louder, echoing down the corridors behind them. He raises his clenched fist.

He waits half a second, dips low, quick and precise, muzzle leading. He steps forward and sweep the angle with a fluid half-step scanning tight - high, mid, low. Nothing.

“Clear left,” he says, just loud enough for the others to hear. “Stack right.”

The three men fall in behind him.

He turns to Ghost. His face is pale, his eyes drawn but he is still breathing. Barely.

"Almost there mate, just a few more steps to the alley.” He nods at Rains to move forward. “We’re getting you out."

The hallway tightens as they round the corner, boots brushing against the concrete in a careful rhythm. At the end is a heavy metal door, half-shadowed by a flickering ceiling light.

He raises his fist again.

The team halts instantly, weapons raised. There is no sound except for the shouts behind them and the faint creak of settling walls.

He angles his head, studying the door. No movement, no light. He creeps forward, a gloved hand settling on the peeling handle. Gently, he tests it. Unlocked. The latch gives way with a quiet click as he eases it open, just enough to peek through. Cool, sea air whispers in from the early morning outside. The alley is narrow, trash lining the cobble and dirt. He opens it the rest of the way, smooth and slow. No noise.

“Clear,” he says, “move.”

They file out one by one. Price first, then Rains and Ghost, finally Gaz pulling rear. The alley is dark, boxed in by brick walls, a busted sodium lamp casts a sick yellow glow.

10 meters to the north sits a white Toyota Corolla. Rains nods in its direction. They move low and fast, weapons close, boots silent over cobble. Somewhere to the north a dog starks barking. "Keep your eyes up.” He says. “They’ll be sniffin’ this way soon."

Rains passes Ghost to him before fumbling around with the door locks. Ghosts skin is clammy and pale, John can feel his thready, elevated pulse though the vein on his wrist.

“Captain,” Ghost murmurs, “I can’t-.”

“We’ve got you mate,” John says, “just hang on alright.”

He glances over at Gaz who is covering their exit. He looks worried, but focused on his task. Rains finally yanks the back car door open and rushes forward to help John set Ghost down on the back seat.

Ghost coughs as he hits the peeling vinyl, his eyes clamped shut in pain.

He moves to take the driver side seat but Rains is already half in it.

“I know a place we can go,” he says before slamming the door in John’s face. John scowls for half a second. He doesn’t trust the man, but the shouts are getting louder and louder and the hostiles are closing in. Rains revs the car to life and the voices pause for a moment before John can hear the telltale clatter of hostiles moving toward a now-known target.

“We gotta go Sir,” Gaz says, glancing at him with a question in his eyes.

John nods and hops over to the passenger side. He slides in just as Gaz closes the backseat door.

Rains barely waits for the doors to close before he accelerates forward, past the warehouse exit and speeds toward the end of the alleyway.

“You sure about this place?” John asks.

“Its a clinic,” Rains says breathless as he yanks the jeep out into the street with a sharp screech, “north-northwest, outskirts of a village called Al-Hafir. About 15 minutes if we keep moving.”

He glances back at Ghost in the backseat.

“Hes got about that by the looks of him.”

John gives him a dubious look as they race through the streets. Rains is a chaotic driver but he appears to be putting ample space between them and the hostiles.

“Gaz, keep an eye out the rear. “ John says, scanning the streets ahead. “They might come hunting.”

He turns to Rains.

“I doubt some village clinic can help him,” he says. He starts shuffling through channels on his comms. It’s still dark. He give the black plastic a frustrated whack which does nothing and just make him angrier.

Ghost wheezes.

“Its MSF,” Rains insists, “one of their primary health clinics, couple of doctors, I’ve went there when I had this.”

He takes one hand off the steering wheel and pulls up the bottom edge of his t-shit to reveal a gnarly looking scar. A knife wound by the looks of it and a fresh one. The car veers to the right nearly hitting a parked pickup as Rains fumbles to pull his shirt back down.

John steadies it with a sharp yank on the steering wheel.

“Focus,” he grinds out.

“It might be the only option,” Gaz chimes in from the back seat.

John glances back. Gaz is pressing down on Ghost’s unnaturally pale chest with one hand. The other hand is white-knuckled gripped around his rifle.

“We’re not typically welcome at not-for-profit outfits,” John says, running through other possible options. Any Medvac is uncertain if the airspace is hot, besides the comms are still down. Laswell had warned him about this happening. The situation in Kharzari had been deteriorating quickly. Zaman‘s loyalists were unorganized, but Barkov would sell weaponry to whoever could pay. He is still annoyed about the surprise RPG, but in retrospect it’s not that much of a surprise. He glances to the side as they speed under a bridge. He doesn’t think they’re being pursued, but he also didn’t think the were about to get blown up.

“They’re doctors without borders,” Rains continues, as if using English will convince him, “medical neutrality. Besides, if we go in quiet less chance of Zaman retaliating.”

It crosses John’s mind that Rains’ motivation may be less about saving Ghost’s life and more about saving his own hind. He turns sharply to catch the man’s gaze.

“Besides Doc Purcell’s ex-military, she won’t turn you away.”

John’s brain blanks for just a moment. It is as rare an occurrence as the sensation of panic, but the name seems so improbable in that particular moment. Yet, its attached to both the words ‘doctors without borders’ and ‘ex-military’ so its too much of a coincidence for it not to be who he thinks it is. He wonders for a moment how in hell she ended up out here, smack bang in the middle of a semi-active warzone, but then he remembers it’s Kelli Purcell he’s thinking about and it just kind of makes sense.

“Kelli Purcell?” Gaz says behind them.

Rains nods.

“You know her,” he says, surprised, glancing back and looking hopeful, as if this is a good thing, which really, it is because Ghost is sounding more dead by the moment.

“The one that got away.”

Ghost’s laugh is wet and wheezing and John wants to smack him over the head.

“Save your breath,” he snaps before turning back to peer out at the road ahead of them. They are still under active threat and he doesn't need the distractions. He can feel Rains glancing at him.

When he says nothing Gaz fills the silence.

“An old colleague of the Captains,” he explains.

Rains is wise enough to simply nod and not ask the questions that John knows for certain he wants to ask. Gaz is mercifully too professional to say anything else and Ghost is still recovering from his earlier quote-unquote joke.

Ghost is wrong anyway.

Kelli Purcell is certainly not the one that got away. That would imply there was something there to begin with, but he knows the lads have always been curious about that particular relationship, ever since Soap spilled the beans on Zanzibar, and Ghost is dying so he gives him a pass.

It crosses his mind that she might not want to see him again, but its the only option he's got, and if anyone can save Ghost’s life it’s her.

He turns to looks at Rains again.

“You get us there, we’ll owe you one. Screw it up, we’ll all go under.”

[rozodejanerowrites]

Ninety seconds to midnight

Ghost is bleeding out in a civilian clinic. Comms are down. The asset refuses to tell the whole story.

John should be focused on extraction - but instead, he’s stuck in a room with a woman he never thought he'd see again. With adrenaline running high and time running out, memories start creeping in - of losses, shifting lines, and everything they left unsaid.

Told in flashbacks and present-day crisis, this is a slow-burn story set post MW-III about loyalty, fallout, and the people you can’t leave behind.

Chapter Index Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Archive of Our Own

-------

Trying my hand at this tumblr thing. Please feel free to check out my latest WIP. If your a COD fan who likes romantic dramas about imperfect people wielding guns you may enjoy :)

Note: This story has many OCs and is not reader-insert