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[wallwriterstuff]

As a sucker for angst I've loved all 5 parts of this so far and am desperate for more

Can’t stop thinking about poly141 who get so wrapped up in their own bullshit they begin to neglect reader. So you leave 🤷🏼‍♀️

It wasn’t a big deal at first. You understood that their jobs were intense to say the least. You own a bookshop, which in itself was exhausting, but you understood how they could get carried away with work.

You had excused the many delayed returned texts or missed FaceTime dates when they were deployed. When they came home, they almost always made it up to you. Showering you with attention and quality time.

But the past two returns home have been… different.

Usually at least one of them made a beeline to your shop or your loft if it was too late in the evening. You always held your breath when it was just one of them.

“They’re okay.” Was the usual answer. “Everyone made it back okay.” It was only then that you could melt into whoever’s hands you were in.

After one of their recent returns home you had voice to Price that you didn’t appreciate several days passing after they came back and no one had bothered to tell you. He had snapped. Arguing that a mission doesn’t finish just because they land back on soil. There was paperwork and debriefing to be done. If and when they wanted to see you they would.

He didn’t apologize until later. Crawling into your bed, using one of the keys you had given them. Blaming the stress. How they had almost lost Johnny for the reason of his outburst. What else could you do but forgive him?

So you had given them space after that one. Not holding it against them to decompress before seeing you.

The next time was the final straw. Solidifying how little they cared about you and how much power you had given them.

Johnny had come in around 7 one evening. He was dressed nicely, for civilian standards. You were reading a book on the couch when he had let himself in. You were wearing on of Simon’s sweatshirts and panties. He took you in for a moment before scooping you up.

He fucked you absolutely stupid. Adamant on having you cum on his tongue, his fingers and his cock. You were only able to bask in the afterglow of him filling you up before he started pulling his pants back on.

“What are you doing?” There were times that you would practically need a crow bar to get Johnny detached from you just long enough to relieve yourself. You had gotten many a UTI courtesy of Mr. John MacTavish.

“Dinner with my family tonight.” He explained by the time he was already buttoning his shirt. “The youngest just graduated and ma’ feels the need to go all out.” Now came the tie. Johnny was actually wearing a tie. To go to dinner. “A fancy dinner in London.” He huffed. “Meanwhile I’m out scufflin’ with bloody fuckin’ terrorists and I get a pat on the back.” He gave you a peck on the cheek before heading out the door. Promising to call you later.

You just sat in your bed. Still naked. Almost in shocked. He had fucked you and just… left. You were close to a panic attack as you called Simon.

Simon wasn’t the one to cuddle and coddle. But there was something so soothing at the sound of his voice or even how his heavy body felt perfect laying on top of you. Yes. Simon wasn’t the time to lift you up with words, but he was your own security blanket. Just having him close helped.

“Can you come over?” It wasn't unusal for Simon to be the one to come later in the evening. Insomnia was a bitch to deal with and you could sleep through the sounds of whatever he played on the tv. Most of the times you were content laying your head on his lap as he ran his hand along your head as if he were petting you. It was a bit cringe, but it knocked you out every time.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. The low timber of his voice already calming you.

“Johnny came over.” You sniffled. “He just fucked me and left.”

“Not surprised.” He scoffed. You could almost see him rolling those deep brown eyes of his. “If you wanted to cum, I’m happy to come over and help.”

For whatever reason, that only seemed to make you more upset. “You’re not listening.” You said, trying to spell it out for him. “He left. Like didn’t even stay and cuddle just left. Fucked me and left.”

“That’s why you’re calling me crying about?” He almost seemed… annoyed.

“Yes!” You said, nearly snapping. All of the tension from the last several months coming to the surface. “I’m not just a warm body to keep a bed cozy until you assholes decide you need to get one off.” Assholes. You called them assholes. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”

“Johnny is Johnny.” Simon tried to defend, not really caring to continue the conversation now knowing that you weren't in any sort of physical harm. “He wanted his dick wet and from the sound of it, that’s what he did. Don’t hold it against him because he had other things to do.”

“It’s not just Johnny leaving.” Your throat felt like it was tightening. A telltale sign you were close to crying. Whether from sadness or anger you weren't entirely sure. “The only time any of you want anything to do with me anymore is to fuck.” You missed date nights and lunches. You missed texting any and all of them about your day, about theirs. About new books. You had been trying for months to tell them over dinner one of your books got picked up. Yours was being traditionally published.

None of them had bothered to even try penciling you in.

“You got yours.” You heard the popping of a can top. Simon was settling in for the night. Once he popped a top at home there was no getting him out. He wasn't coming for you. “I don’t understand what you’re bitchin’ to me about. Yeah, in the beginning we indulged ya a bit? Dressed you up, took you out. But you should have known spreadin’ them legs of yours wouldn’t end with one of us puttin’ a ring on your finger.”

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? These were the men that pursued you. Initially, individually, but when tensions became to much they offered a solution. All of them. Four times the attention, of the affection.

Four times the love.

But also four time the neglect. Four times the amount of heartbreak and disappointment. Loving all of them meant putting yourself in a position to let each of them hurt you in their own way and they had.

John's constant state of snapping at you as if you were one of his men.

Johnny swinging by as if you were just a fuck buddy. Not even bothering to give a peck before leaving.

Kyle essentially ignoring you for weeks now. Ghosting you for hours or having to cancel on date nights last minute or claiming that he really did forget that the two of you had planned to meet for lunch.

And now there was Simon. Telling you that all you meant to them was what was between your thighs.

Spreadin' them legs of yours wouldn't end with one of us puttin' a ring on your finger.

None of them ever intended on making this into something more. That much was clear now.

You didn't know what to say to Simon. You couldn't think of a witty retort. You couldn't find the proper insult to whirl his way. You couldn't convey just how much his words had hurt.

So you did the only thing you could.

You hung up.

[wallwriterstuff]

Hi, I just wanted to say I really enjoy the FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley series - your Price is so compassionate even though he's clearly more rational than emotional, it was also really nice to get some of Simon's perspective too and I'm curious what the reasons could be for keeping siblings separated in foster care, especially if they want to see each other - anyway, I just wanted to say that your writing is great, thank you for sharing it!

Hey hi hello!

Thank you so much for the lovely compliment! I'm not personally a foster carer or therapist, so a lot of how I write Price is based on the trauma informed training I've done as a teacher and a few accounts I follow that gives tips to foster carers/professional working with children in care. We are absolutely allowed to have emotional responses but children with trauma need you to have predictable responses, hence why he tries to not let Simon see how upset he really is!

Tommy will be coming into the story soon and you'll see why its in Simon's best interest for them to be separated right now. A sad but true case for so.e kids in the system that contact rarely happens as often as they'd like. I'm glad your finding it interesting and hope to have the next part up sometime next week!

[wallwriterstuff]

Paint Over The Cracks ||FosterDad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley|| Part 4

Warnings: A lot of swearing. Implicit mentions of child abuse. Brief description of murder. Descriptions of PTSD and trauma. Discussions of the foster care system. Mentions of sibling separation.

Words: 3383

Summary: Simon is grappling with much more than he lets anyone see, so much so he feels like he's splitting at the seams. John meets him with the same calm kindness he always has, and Simon struggles to figure out his motivations for it.

<-Part 3: Dirty Laundry

Nothing here was right.

The old man was though.

You’re a stain, shitbag that’s exploded and left his stench behind.

No. No? Shut up. God shut up.

If there was a way to turn down the voice in his head Simon would have muted the thing years ago. It’s gruff and cracked from the abuse the vocal chords have suffered, inhaling too much crap and not enough air. It spews poison in his brain and he knows it’s all rubbish, a hallucinogen, a serpent in his Garden, but god if it isn’t convincing. He wants to peel of his skin, drain the blood from his veins, and refill it with someone else’s. It’s got to be genetic right? The black spot of old that got pirates quaking has to be branded into his DNA by cigarette butts the same way the life lessons are beaten into his skin, a colourful array of reminders that blare like sirens when he presses one just right to feel something other than the overwhelming dread of just existing as himself.  He can count each one and he knows the meaning of them all.

Worthless.

Vile.

Stupid.

Disappointing.

Coward.

God it’s hot. It’s boiling in this stupid hoodie. It’s got burn marks for ventilation and the sweat it soaks up only makes it smell worse as he pours himself out just trying to keep it all in. Cover the marks. Keep your voice hidden. Don’t tell a soul. Protect mom. Protect Tommy. Fuck, she looked like his mom. Well, the mom he knew before his old man beat her down anyway. No one deserved to look how she looked at the end. Fuck was that – no, no a splash of paint, it was paint, just paint. That bloody awful portrait in the doctor’s office was too close to her head. He never knew blood could arch that far until he watched his old man pull the hammer back. It’s all so confusing. Simon doesn’t honestly know if he’s here or there or somewhere in-between but there’s sun in his eyes and a paper bag in hand with his name on and an address printed underneath that he doesn’t call his own.

No, that’s the address of the palace. It’s a place where the surfaces always smell of citrus bleach, where the walls are warm and straining to keep the bustle of the world out and the quiet of the house within. There’s no blood staining the bathroom here and there’s no desperate search for food through the haze of a burning joint that makes his head swim more than Michael Phelps ever has. No, no in this palace, there’s always food whenever he wants it. The fridge is a pantry stocked full in preparation for a grand feast three times a day, and there’s always spare food going about. He should throw out the apples he’d never gotten round to eating but the luxury of storing it all away beneath that one loose floorboard still hadn’t worn off because – God, was Tommy as lucky as he was? His stomach’s never been so full and yet so queasy. It’s exhausting keeping an eye on the Bearded Guy. He’ll snap eventually, they always do. He was surprised he hadn’t set him off when he saw the mattress.

The shame is still gnawing in his gut and reminding him what a disgusting stain he is on that palace. His fingerprints leave trails of blood and ichor behind. There were no monsters under the bed before he moved in. Those pristine white walls are tainted with smoke and filth and he’s just never quite clean enough. How much do you have to scrub a soul for the devil to want to barter for it again?

“Simon?”

Should have never fucking had you.

“Simon?”

You can join your fucking mum.

“Simon!”

The touch is light, unintrusive, but the flesh remembers what the mind wishes it could forget. Simon flinches from Price’s tap to his shoulder like the man’s burned him, and he has to give himself a good mental shake before he dares meet Price’s eyes. Shake it off. Head in the game. Protect Mom. Protect Tommy.

“Why the fuck are we at B&Q?” Simon blurts the question before he can stop himself. His thoughts feel a little too lose and it’s unhinged his mouth. He clamps it tightly shut once more and imagines the box; Pandora would be jealous of the horrors he hides in his, but the lock doesn’t feel quite so sturdy today. Price raises a brow at the language but doesn’t comment on it. Simon’s glad. He’s finding it increasingly hard to fight the Bearded Guy on anything when he’s always so calm about things. It’s a beguiling sense of security. They’re trying to coax something out of him but he still can’t tell what.

“Paint.” Price’s reply is simple, and yet it throws him completely for a loop. Paint? Why the hell do they need paint? His palace is glorious and in no need of renovations. It’s got everything he could ever want. Hell, he could die happy in the bathroom just to juxtapose his mum. The old man might call it poetic justice. Simon squints through the windshield, eyeing the bold orange letters with wary confusion. It feels like a trick, but his head’s too scrambled to really figure out the man’s mind games today so he has no choice but to bite the line and let him reel him in.

“Why?” he asks, letting his eyes drift back to Price. The man’s got eyes like ice and Simon isn’t sure he’ll ever know what lies in the murky depths of them, isn’t sure he wants to know. Price pulls up the handbrake and turns off the ignition. The silence in the air is charged and Simon’s muscles ache from all the tension in his body. The morning’s been a lot and he just wants to go to the closest thing he has to home, which is currently the bin liner in his room that’s rapidly losing the smell of Tommy and his Mum and he just…isn’t ready for it to go. He can’t handle the palace becoming his home, for their to be no trace of his mum or Tommy in it, for lemon scented cleaning products to replace stale cigarette fumes and the tang of blood that’s his only real connection to the last of his mother’s warmth as she spilled it onto his hands with her final breath. God he needs therapy, and he hates himself all the more for acknowledging it. 

Uh-oh. That looks never good on an adult. His lips have pursed and his eyes are searching. Simon won’t let him find a thing though, tilting his chin up just a little and narrowing his eyes the way he’s been taught. He’ll bare his teeth before he ever bares his throat.

“There have been certain things that have come to light, things that Mrs Laswell wants to come and talk to you about before she’ll talk to me about them, that mean you’ll be staying with me for a while,” Price is choosing his words as carefully as a bomb disposal expert picks which wires to cut, “So I thought…maybe you could choose a colour or two, make your room your own and decorate it a bit.” His words ricochet around his brain like bullets, but none of it’s a misfire. They hit so many open wounds it makes Simon suck in a sharp breath to keep from screaming out because it’s just not fair. He doesn’t want Price’s room, or his baskets, or his palace but nobody seems to care what he wants right now.

“How long? Is Tommy coming to live with you to?” Simon’s voice is sharp, too sharp, jagged edges bleeding raw and Price is seeing too much again. He can’t help it though and the white hot fury and panic is a deadly combination with the heavy grief that keeps trying to steal his breath. He’s a skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of flesh and there’s not enough room for all these feelings so into Pandora’s box they go to.

“No, Simon, he can’t.” Price is so calm about it all, as if Simon’s sanity isn’t hinging on the decisions these adults are making for him. “I’m sorry. I understand that feels unfair, and you might well be angry, maybe even anxious, sad. It’s okay to feel like that-“

“Fucking hell here we go.” He muttered, eyes rolling and head turning away. He’s agitated by the injustice of it all, a tempest incoming on a tranquil shore. Since when did they get to decide for him? Why do his choices never seem to matter?

“Okay. Okay. I see it’s not something you want to talk about. When you’re ready, I’m here to listen. Do you want to do this? Decorate your room a bit? Or should we go home?” He wants to yell and scream at the old man to get mad, to be mad on his behalf, to rebel against the stupid rules of the world that are keeping his brother away from him and just let him have him anyway. Tommy needs him. He always has. It’s the only thing he has left. But here Price is again, a gentle breeze on a summer’s day that gives fresh air in a humid and cloying place devoid of comfort. He just seems to know how to calm the fiery fury, flips switches in his brain like a train line manager switches tracks, easily diverting disaster because yes – yes, god, finally, something he can control.

“Whatever.” He grumbles, already opening the car door and leaving Prive to follow behind. Maybe he’ll get black. Or neon yellow. His thoughts are already spinning to see what colours might piss off Price the most. His feelings are all spiteful and petty little things that demand retribution for him in all its forms. You’re a stain. Alright then. He’ll taint this palace just as he’s tainted every other place he’s been. Yet, as Price leads him to the paint section and he faces rows and rows of colour swatches, he’s struck dumb by the amount of colour.

It’s the explosive reds that catch his eye first, his rage calling to those colours like their soulmates destined to cross the distance and meet, but then he spots a crimson too close to the shade of his mum on the bathroom floor and he’s forced to look away as grief swells and crushes any fight or resolve his spirit had. Perhaps blue is the better colour for him, but even that looks too happy. The feelings and thoughts battle in his head and Simon pulls the black mask from his pocket instinctively, slipping it over his ears and hearing the whisper of maniacal laughter rumble through his mind before it all falls quiet. Silent as the grave. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

Go on Simon, pick one, as a treat. Don’t tell your dad, okay? He so badly wishes his mother was here and it really was just as simple as picking a sweet treat at the bakery to sneakily share with her on the way home from school. How can he possibly pick a colour for his room in the palace? It’s too big a responsibility for his thin shoulders.

“Have you got a favourite colour?” Price’s question pulls him from the depths of his mind and Simon forces his eyes to move from the shades of red. The question seems innocuous enough that he feels inclined to answer.

“Blue.” Simon’s not really sure it’s the right answer, but he’s got to be the man of the house and blues a boys colour, or so he’s been taught.  He’s not entirely sure he likes any of the blues that Price pulls from the swatches to show him, though he’s sure he should. His brow crinkles slightly.

“You sure?” Price’s voice is gentle, probing. Simon’s eyes roam the swatches of colour and linger on the greens. There’s one like the shade of Tommy’s hoodie, and another like the grass in the field of the old industrial estate he could escape to when the house was too much. Some nice oranges to, like the sunsets that painted his mum in such a lovely light in summer, back when she could wear sundresses without worrying about who saw the bruises or cuts or emaciated bones beneath butterfly-wing flesh. He gravitates to them, craving the joy those memories bring. If he gets to control anything in this shitshow of a life he’s living, if he really gets to choose this, then god fucking dammit he wants to be the one to really choose. He gently slides the two colour strips from their snug spot in the line up and stares them down like the answers might just pop out at him.

“I want these.” The words are out before he can stop them, and his head snaps up because stupid stupid stupid you’re not allowed to want such unnecessary things. Be grateful for what you’ve got you little maggot.

“Well, we’ll need to narrow down a shade a bit more, but green and orange it is.” Price so easily gives in and Simon feels a spark of something warm. It’s the same kind of feeling he got when he saw them take his old man to the ground and cuff him like the criminal he was – satisfaction. It’s a feeling that grows when, between himself, Price, and a store employee, he narrows down the shades of paint he wants. Price loads them and two other cans he insists are necessary to make a proper paint job onto the trolley and they start weaving back through the aisle’s. B&Q isn’t a place Simon’s ever gone to before and for just a little while it’s nice to get lost in the wide and busy aisles, to let his eyes wander and dream of what a real home might look like. He can’t imagine ever really having a proper one, but dreams are nice, comforting, delusional.

With the paint purchased and stored safely in the boot of the car, Simon’s set to return to the palace and tries to steel himself for a torturous evening of stopping his mind from collapsing in on itself again when Price points out the nearby IKEA to.

“What about it? You know the meatballs are all horsemeat right?” Simon says. Price chuckles slightly at that. He’s relaxed back in his seat, making no effort to leave anytime soon. It set’s Simon on edge slightly, and he sits straighter. What sort of favour did he want in return for the paint then?

“I don’t want the meatballs. I wanted to know whether or not you’ve got enough storage for your things? We can get some more furniture if we need to.” Price says. Oh. Simon’s brow furrows, wondering when the other shoe will drop. He’ll surely want him to pay up for it somehow but he just can’t workout how or when or with what. He’s been shown how it works time and again. Maybe it’s a fistful of powder or his own beaten body, but somehow you always have to pay the piper.

“It’s fine.” He won’t get in anymore debt than he already has today. Price nods, takes him at his word, but still drives them there anyway.

“Well, I want to get a new desk chair for my office. We’ll go home after this and sort dinner, okay?” His words are a soothing balm to Simon whose more than ready to be home and out of the public eye. Being under Price’s watchful gaze is draining and he’s ready to hide back in his room again, imagine the paint on his walls, wallow in peace. They walk a good section of the store where Simon can’t stop the way his eyes turn and wheel over the items on display. It’s an abundance of luxury to him. None of this stuff is thrifted or upcycled from his neighbour’s garage, nor a hand-me-down from grandparents he never got to meet. He wonders aimlessly through the aisle’s as Price takes his sweet time choosing a chair.

As they pass through the kids section he gets the feeling he’s been doused by a bucket of cold water. It’s a monstrous thing, long and green with a yellow underbelly and this flicker of red felt for a tongue that’s in no way real but still sends a shiver down his spine.

You scared of Rocco, Simon?

Just having fun.

He can see the things bulbous head, hear the lapping of its tongue as it flicks to search for prey. He can feel the smoothness of scales on his lips still. It takes a lot of willpower to stop his hands from shaking in the pockets of his hoodie as he reminds himself the toys just that, a toy.

“You like snakes?” Price asks with genuine and innocent curiosity. Only Simon see’s the horrors in his head as he replays vivid memories of the nights his old man bought home the deadly beasts. It brings a cold sweat to his palms and his knee-jerk reaction is to keep the weakness hidden.

“No. It’s a stupid toy.” Simon scoffs, moving on quickly from the stuffed animals. He only pauses in his pursuit of an exit when they reach the final section of the store, just before the warehouse. It’s crammed full of portraits and mirrors and candles, house plants and rugs to. His head is buzzing still with the hiss of a snake but it’s slowly being drowned out by the gentle humming of his mum, his feet carrying him naturally to the plant he recalled her tending to so often. It infuriated his old man of course. He’d tossed the thing out of the window after accusing her of nourishing it more than her family. Simon had been the only one to witness her despair that day. He ran his fingers gently along the big leaves covering the soil in the pot, the same way his mum had done once as she hummed.

If the plant happened to slip into Price’s trolley then, well, neither of them needed to acknowledge it, did they?

Price let him be once he’d helped him put all the new things they’d bought into his room. Simon couldn’t bear to unwrap or move anything, suffocating in the weight of his own feelings of unworthiness for a while before he finally sucked it up and began to move the new belongings into place. He hurriedly threw the absorbent pad on the mattress atop a waterproof sheet, shame clouding his every thought as he prepares his bed and prays those tablets the doctor prescribed him would work so he wouldn’t have to make his bed like that ever again. Simon sets his plant up next, takes his time with it, ensures it’s in the best spot on his desk where the sunlight can hit it just right. He waters it, adds a little bit of plant food he’d insisted was necessary to buy and sets an alarm on his phone to remind himself to water it some more in a few days time.

He sits back on his bed and glances about the pristine quarters he’s been given in the palace, imagines them green and orange like the paint waiting to be used in the shed, and for the first time in weeks Simon feels a little of the weight ease from his shoulders. Maybe this place could be home; with a splash of orange there to reflect the sunsets and, oh maybe he could go half and half and…Tommy would likely never see it. Simon’s expression sours, bitter rage welling in his chest again until all he can do is bring his fist down on the pillow again and again and again and its never enough to close that raw, throbbing wound in his chest. Panting hard, he squeezes his eyes closed, but nothing helps to quell the rage.

Oh? You do have some balls on you after all!

Simon’s left helpless in the maelstrom of his life once more.

[wallwriterstuff]

Can't quite believe Part 4 is going to drop tomorrow evening. Written from Simon's point of view with a little more fluff than the Part 3 had. Almost. Sort of.

To Soothe A Soul ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child abuse and neglect. All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Implicit talk of death. Mentions of military discharge and injury. This covers many sensitive topics, Minors should not interact with this.

Words: 2679

Summary: Written for @glitterypirateduck O Captain Challenge using a take on the promtps 'An unexpected visitor' and 'A Rescue Takes Place'.

Former Captain John Price can spot a dead man a mile away, and he's known enough of them to know that not every dead man dies. It's in the eyes, that dead-eyed stare that proves the body might work but the tattered soul inside has long since withered away. He's horrified to find those eyes in the gaunt face of his newest foster child. Simon Riley is a dead man walking, and he's barely 14.

“Any medical or dietary requirements? Allergies?”

“None as of yet but a doctor’s appointment will be organised for the near future to craft a more detailed healthcare plan. Kid’s malnourished and deficient in an alphabet of vitamins I’ll wager.”

His pen tapped rhythmically against his notepad, his gut feeling tight with anxiety. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called for an emergency placement and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but the fear of the unknown still prickled at the base of his neck, licked in icy stripes up and down his spine. A career in the military had prepared him for much in life, but even the horrors he’d faced abroad couldn’t have prepared him for some of the kids that came into his care. Fostering had definitely been a good move for him after an honourable discharge due to injury had forced him out of the field. The kids he cared for needed routine and consistency as much as he did, and it filled that aching need to have someone reliant on him being at his best, gave him the motivation to keep up with all those exercises doctors had insisted would help him stay healthy and help him to readjust to civilian life. If he had someone to do it all for it was much, much easier.

“Alright then. Anything else I need to know about him?” Price asked, halting the movements of his pen and poising his hand to note down anything of significance.

“Simon has a younger brother, Tom. He took on a caring role for him and it was his wish for the boys to remain together but…welfare concerns don’t permit it right now. We’ll talk more about a family plan going forward with you to ensure they get time together but for now just expect some backlash from the decision to separate them.” The woman on the phone, Kate Laswell she’d introduced herself as, sighed heavily and added, “Also…Simon found their mother. He’s seen a lot in the past 24 hours alone. Be mindful of his grief.”

Price couldn’t quite force his hand to move for a moment, thickly swallowing at the sympathy that clogged his throat for a second. He’d need to wipe that from his expression by the time they arrived; he doubted the boy would want to see it. Lowering his pen, he nodded slowly.

“Alright. How long?” His mind was already racing with all of the things he needed to get ready, to prepare.

“40 minutes from where we are to your address. We’re moving quickly with this one.” Kate informed him. Price internally groaned at the time limit but kept his tone calm and controlled as he agreed that it was fine and hung up. He took a moment to take a breath and then he placed his notebook away and pushed to his feet. He ran his home with just as much military precision as the barrack’s he’d been used to living in, with not a thing out of place and not a speck of dirt visible. No, no, it was the spare bedrooms that needed attention now. They were cleaned the same as the rest of the house but none were set up to welcome a teenager into. As he walked towards the stairs, he saw the fuzzy black ears perk up before hearing the click of hardwood beneath his claws. The grizzled German Shephard wasn’t the most welcoming looking dog given the scarring on his face, but he had a teddy bear heart and intellect that rivalled any human. His big head tilted in question, knowing that at this time of night Price was more likely to be sitting and nursing a glass of whisky and not traipsing upstairs. Price smiled gently and gave the lean muscles of his flank a firm pat.

“We’ve got a guest coming to stay Riley. You gonna be a good boy when he comes, hm?” he fussed him for a moment longer before gripping the railing and ascending the stairs. For the next forty minutes, the former Captain set towels in his bathroom, placed fresh bed sheets on every single bed in each of the spare rooms, and aerated each room to ensure it was fresh and prepared. In the kitchen, he set his fruit bowl front and centre and he tidied up his coat and shoe rack to ensure there was space for another set of belongings there. He tried to drag all these things out, not wanting to wait in the silence for his new charge to arrive and let the anticipation get to him. Riley settled against his side as he attempted to watch TV to pass the last 15 minutes, some mind-numbing episode of Match of The Day he could really care less about since Liverpool hadn’t been playing that day.

His own doorbell startled him like a gunshot, made Riley perk at his side. With a few firm commands and quick scratch behind the ears, he had Riley settled in his dog bed and was taking that last deep breath behind the door. I’ve met plenty like you, we’ll be fine.

Oh.

Oh no, no he hadn’t.

I’ve never met a kid like you at all.

Simon Riley clutched the bin bag full of his possessions in a white knuckled grip, his fist trembling with the effort as if scared that losing his grip meant losing everything. Every inch of him was locked up tighter than a maximum-security prison, and those eyes…those dead, dead eyes. They didn’t flinch. He’d seen SAS boys focus through glinting scopes with the same sort of resolve, unblinking, unyielding, vigilant in a way they’d been rigorously trained for. This gangly teen in tattered jeans and a baggy hoodie made a bigger impression than any he’d yet met. Dead as those eyes were they were keen, sharp, and Price knew they wouldn’t miss a trick. Overly aware now of his expression and body language, Price stepped aside to leave a nice wide gap, his smile welcoming and face soft, open.

“Hi, Kate right? And you must be Simon. Do you prefer Simon, Si, some other nickname?” he asked, gesturing for them to come in. Kate gave him a slightly strained smile and he guessed the ride over had been rather intense. Simon Riley oozed intensity in waves. When he stepped over the threshold into Price’s home it was like watching the grim reaper himself enter, an oppressive and ominous atmosphere following him, like he’d been trained to make his presence fill a room in a way his physically body couldn’t. Intimidation was something Price had dealt with for years however, gotten good at himself, and so he maintained that soft, open body language and didn’t flinch at that dead-eyed stare. I see you, but you don’t scare me, and nothing here should scare you either.

“Simon.” He grunted finally, fingers flexing around the bin liner. One bin bag. Moderately full but from the bulky way it stretched the bag Price guessed the majority of it was clothes. There was a stink that followed the bag to. Weed, he recognised, smoke, something bitter and tangy…iron-like. He filed that away as a conversation for later. Nodding, Price gestured to the shoe and coat rack.

“Simon, it’s good to meet you, I’m John. I made a space for your shoes and your coat here. House rules are that shoes always come off before we come in, please, or we’ll be forever mopping the hardwood.” He chuckled, maintaining that friendly smile as he waited to see what he’d do. Simon was already testing him clearly, because he let the silence drag out for a long while before he finally toed off his shoes and set them on the rack. His toes curled and uncurled into the hardwood for a moment. Price had seen it before both in soldiers and in previous kids, that fight or flight instinct. It was the scary unknown that did it. For some kids that came in this was the first house they’d been in that was clean and well-lit and warm. For some it was the emptiness of the open space that was unnerving after they got used to cramped bedrooms or bustling, busy living rooms filled with unsavoury visitors or simply one too many family members.

“John has offered to let you stay here for the time being, but I’ll be around still okay?” Kate assures him, “I’ll work on setting up visits with Tommy for you, and you’ve got my number saved in your phone, in case you want to talk to me.” Price knows instinctively that Simon won’t ever use that number. He doesn’t look the type to lean on anyone, least of all a stranger whose separated him from his brother.

“Actually, there’s more than just me in the house,” he pipes up, “Are you alright with dogs, Simon?” The boy doesn’t give him a single twitch of a response, simply looks from one adult to another. Buried deep beneath the layers of forced apathy Price can see exhaustion. “Riley’s an ex-service dog, worked with me on many a mission. He’s got a good temperament and likes a lot of fussing. He’s got a few scars though. You want to meet him?” his questions are met with silence once more, so John simply takes a few steps left to the archway leading into his living room, where Riley sits patiently in his dog bed near the window. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, ears perked and tail flicking in excitement. He doesn’t run, but he does lope forward a bit, curious and wanting to meet new faces, but Price makes him heel.

Simon almost rises on the balls of his feet, like a bird ready to take flight, eyes fixed on the German Shepherd in his eye line. Price takes a second to evaluate him, trying to see if it’s fear or curiosity, but the boy gives so little away. It’s the faintest twitch of his free hand toward Riley that gives Price incentive to motion the dog forward. It’s a gentle and tender display, as if Riley knows how sensitive the wounds Simon’s carrying are, like he can read the neon sign that screams HANDLE WITH CARE emblazoned on the boy’s broken soul. He sniffs gently at his pale hand, and Simon’s nose wrinkles ever so slightly at the cold, wet sensation on his bony knuckles. It doesn’t stop him from reaching to give Riley’s ears a scratch. The German Shepherd sits obediently, pushing his giant head into Simon’s hand for more. Kate gives the faintest smile.

“What’s his name again?” she asks.

“Riley.” Price replies, chuckling slightly as she goes to fuss him to. Her input causes Simon to fall back, eyes snapping to her and away from the dog, moving quickly from one fixation to the next, always hyper-aware and alert. How many times had the hand he’d not been watching for struck him? You can relax here, son, he wanted to say.

“A very good boy.” She coos. Price hums in agreement and steps up beside them.

“Living room has the TV and an old games console. I don’t have many games but if you like we can get some more in eventually. I don’t really use it often. Kitchen’s right through if you want a drink or something to eat?” His offer is met by that dead eyed stare again, but after a moment of consideration Simon gives him another quiet answer.

“Water.” His voice fluctuates with all the tell-tale signs of a boy on the cusp of puberty and Price is again hit by just how young he is for someone so alert and mistrusting. He doesn’t let the way his heart cracks a bit show on his face and simply leads them through to the kitchen, silently showing Simon exactly where the glasses are for him if he ever needs them while offering to make Kate a coffee to. Simon doesn’t contribute much to the conversation at all, just remains this silent and oppressive presence lingering in the corners of the room, anywhere that gives him a good vantage point really. He's a silent spectre, a sentinel, a ghost. Always somewhere just out of sight with everything in his watch and reach. Price lets him stand where he’s comfortable, concedes that little bit of control to him on a night he knows the boy’s had no control of anything.

“I’ve got a few different rooms upstairs, all of them are ready to move in to but I thought you might want to pick one that suits you.” He says, leading the two of them upstairs. Simon hasn’t once let go of his bin-liner and Price suspects getting him to wash anything in that bag is going to take considerable time and effort; this is all Simon has now of home, and however much a hell-hole home might have been he’s seen kids cling to the most disgustingly filthy objects purely because it’s the last vestiges of their old life and family they have left. He’s left all the doors open so Simon can explore each room upstairs at his own pace, and he waits patiently at the end of the hallway to give him time to adjust to the idea that this home is now his to.

Price can sense the overwhelm a mile away as Simon lingers in each doorway, like he’s afraid that to enter a room would be to taint it somehow, the pristine white linen looking to fine for his grubby hands. He can see the dirt under the boys nails, the slight lacquer of grease in his unkempt hair. Moving quickly indeed he thinks grimly as he watches the boy hesitantly test a mattress and peer out a window. That soulless stare focuses back on him when he’s found the room he wants, but the words won’t come. Simon never once asks if the room can be his, he’s never been allowed to want, but he acquires it through presence alone.

Price nods to the chest of drawers, “Bottom one’s got bedding in. We can talk some more tomorrow about how you want to decorate it. Take your time settling in and come down when you’re ready. Lights out at 10:00, alright?” Simon gives him a slow blink, and Price realises that’s all the reaction he’s going to get as he turns and walks to the stairs, Riley on his heels. Laswell waits near the front door, tapping away on her phone to organise the rest of Simon’s life no doubt. He clomps down the steps, absent-mindedly rubbing away the phantom aches in his leg once he hits the bottom.

“Kid doing okay?” Laswell’s question comes with a critical eye of him, and Price knows she’s really asking if he can cope with him more so than if Simon will be alright here. He gives a slight nod, glancing back up the stairs.

“Okay as he can be given the shit he’s gone through…he’ll, er…he’ll take some getting used to.” Price admitted.

“He’s not said more than five words to me since we met hours ago, and that stare…”Laswell shuddered a bit. Price hummed in agreement as he opened his front door to let her out.

“We need anything we’ll let you know, till then best to let him settle.”

“Alright then. You have my number.” Laswell lifts a hand in farewell as she walks down the front path and towards her car. Price watches her go, his mind already back on the teenage boy she’s leaving behind. Deposited in his house with nothing more than a bin-liner to his name, Simon Riley was going to require some serious care, and he felt clueless as to where to start. With a deep sigh, he closed the front door and set off towards the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and a game plan. He was going to make this house a home for the boy, one way or another.

[wallwriterstuff]

The way I YELLED at this cliff hanger made my partner come running from the living room demanding to know what was wrong. This was so good?! The rollercoaster of emotions is written so well you feel it (or maybe its my own sparkling anxiety, oops) just....I love this series

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 17: Alone

Summary: Your pack has left on their first deployment since you joined them, leaving you alone on base.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 6,866

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, ANGST, anxiety, fear, nightmares, PTSD, trauma, just super depressing overall.

A/N: I'm so ready for these next two chapters, you have no idea. Things are happening, things are gonna happen, it's just...so good. You'll see 🤭. They're pretty heavy chapters emotionally, but don't worry fluff will be coming very soon. I won't leave you hanging too much for too long.

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“We'll only be gone for a few days. A week at most. Dr. Keller will take you to and from meals and anywhere else you may need to go. If you need anything, contact Kate. We'll call when we can.” 

He leaves you with a kiss to your forehead. You’re forced to stand there and watch his back as he boards the plane, the ramp closing and sealing you off from them. They all looked guilty, as if it was their fault they had to leave, as if they were suffering as much as you at the idea of parting, even just for a short period of time.

You don't sleep that night. You lay in your bed and stare at the ceiling until far too late when you decide to abandon it for John's room instead. You slip under the covers, disrupting the immaculately made bed as you surround yourself with his scent. You’re on edge, the barracks far too quiet, far too empty. Every little sound has you tensing, holding your breath. The door is locked, yet it’s not the same without your pack there to protect you. If you scream, no one will hear you now. 

You manage to fall asleep at some point in the early hours, your mind plagued with horrible nightmares of monsters devouring and tearing you apart. 

You wake with the sun, dragging your feet back to your room. You miss the quiet sounds of your boys getting ready in the morning after their workouts, taking extra care not to be too loud. Now you wish for it. You want them to be loud and wake you, because then they’d be here with you. The hallway feels too empty, the barracks too large. You’ve spent plenty of time alone in the barracks, but it’s never felt like this. They’re not just across base from you, they’re probably in an entirely different country. 

You stare at their closed doors, all four of them feeling like voids knowing the rooms behind them are empty. Even Ghost’s closed door feels particularly empty. 

You shuffle into your room, locking the door behind you as you get ready for the day. You’re not quite sure what you’re going to do, now that you don’t have them around. You suppose you could just go about your day as you usually do while they’re at training, except you won’t have their inevitable return to fetch you for meals to look forward to. 

It’ll be days before you see them again. 

If you see them again. 

You force that thought back into the recesses of your mind. You won’t entertain it, not now while you’re still trying to process the fact that they’re gone. Even if it is a possibility. 

You’re sitting on your bed when the knock comes, clutching your phone in your hand. You don’t want to be without it, in case they call. You don’t want to miss a chance to talk to them, especially if it’s your only chance. Or a call from Kate telling you something happened.

You open the door, Dr. Keller standing in the hallway with a small smile on her face. It doesn’t feel strange having her in this space, even with the rest of your pack gone. She’s been here before, and you trust her. 

“How are you doing?” She asks as you step out of your room, closing the door behind you. 

“I don’t know.” You say, letting out a sigh. “I couldn’t sleep last night.” 

“I don’t blame you. Feels strange, being alone here, huh?” 

You nod. “Yeah. It’s too quiet. Too empty.” 

“I bet.” You follow her out of the barracks and into the cool morning air. “Let’s get some food in you and then you can take it easy for the rest of the day. I know this is a big adjustment, and it happened rather suddenly.” 

“Was gonna happen eventually, though.” You say. “For the three months I was with the CIA, they drilled it into my head that their job would always take priority over everything else. Still sucks.” 

“It does. Separation is hard for everyone in a pack, even if it’s short term. Add on the stress of their jobs and I can only imagine what it’s like.” 

“I’m trying not to think about that.” You say. 

“I think that’s the best thing you can do right now.” She squeezes your arm. “Come on, we’ll get the food to go and we’ll eat in my office. I usually do that anyway. It’s much quieter than the mess.” 

You get your breakfast, following Dr. Keller to the medical center. You are silently glad you won’t have to eat in the mess without the protection of your pack. The stares from the others might have been your tipping point, and without Ghost to scare them off, you’re sure it would have only been worse.  

“Make yourself at home.” Dr. Keller says, letting you into her office. “You can sit at the desk to eat, if that’s more comfortable. I don’t mind.” 

You take her up on the offer, sitting in the chair across from hers at the desk. She moves some papers out of the way before taking a seat herself. It feels almost strange, being so informal in her office, but then again, she’s always been more laid back with the formality between the two of you. 

“If there’s one thing I miss, it’s good diner food.” Dr. Keller says as the two of you begin to eat. 

You stare down at your porridge for a moment, having gotten used to the change in food over the last almost nine weeks. “I miss a lot of things.” 

“Would you ever want to go back and visit America?” Dr. Keller asks. 

You shrug. “I don’t know.” 

“I’m sure they’d take you, if you asked.” She smiles as you stare up at her in surprise. “I don’t think there’s much they wouldn’t do, if you asked. They care about you a lot.” 

“I’m starting to realize that.” You say. 

“Good. It’s reassuring to see such strong, natural bonds forming between all of you, despite how the situation came about. You’ve made a lot of good progress already, even with the few bumps in the road.” 

It falls silent between the two of you as you eat, finishing your breakfast. Your stomach churns with anxiety, hand closing around the phone in your pocket as if it might ring at any moment. It makes you sick, the thought of what they might be doing, what might be happening right at this very moment. 

“Can I ask you something?” You break the silence, needing to take your mind off your swirling thoughts. 

“Of course.” She says, looking up from the papers she’d been looking through. 

“Since I’m your only patient, what do you do all day?” You ask. 

She smiles. “I do a lot of things. After our sessions I log the notes I take and read over them, I make sure your medical chart is up to date, I read through a lot of studies and journals on new research and methods that may be helpful, I talk to colleagues all over the world, including here on base, and I sometimes go around the medical center and sit in on meetings and classes to keep my skills sharp.” 

“Do you ever feel like you’re wasting your skills here?” 

She shakes her head. “No. Before I took this job, I was caring for sometimes over one hundred omegas at various institutes. It was a high stress environment with long hours. While it was fulfilling work, there’s a high turnover rate for Omega Specialists in that field for a reason. Being a private doctor is a bit of a relief after that, and truthfully, the pay is considerably better.” She folds her arms on her desk, leaning forward. “It’s no less fulfilling than working at institutes. It’s nice to have the time to put together the best care plan for you and your needs.” 

“It is nice having an Omega Specialist to myself.” You say. “There were several at the institute, a lot of students doing their residency. They weren’t always...good at their jobs. A lot of them were just going through the motions, doing what the more experienced specialists told them to do.” 

“Unfortunately that’s rather common with residents.” She says. “Most of them don’t make it past residency. Like a lot of specialities in medicine, it takes a certain kind of personality to succeed as an Omega Specialist. Not everyone has it in them. I wish more schools and programs would take notice earlier before they get to their residencies and steer them down a different path.” She smiles at you. “Now my question for you. Would you rather hang out in here today, or would you prefer to go back to the barracks? You won’t hurt my feelings either way, nor will you be a bother.” 

You think about it for a moment. While your knee jerk answer is to go back to the barracks, what are you going to do? Sit alone in the silence and worry until it makes you sick? Sit in the rec room and watch TV alone and worry about your boys until the next meal time? As much as you want to be alone, you also don’t want to be alone. 

“I’d...like to stay here, if that’s okay?” You finally say, making your decision. 

“More than okay.” She smiles. “Make yourself at home, do whatever you’d like. Watch YouTube videos, dig into some books, take a nap. You won’t bother me in the slightest. You’re always welcome to hang out in here.” 

You look over the titles on the bookshelf, picking one that looks interesting before settling on the couch. You spend the day with Dr. Keller, relaxing in her office and going to meals with her. It doesn’t calm the anxious thoughts by much, but at least the loneliness is abated a bit. 

You return to the barracks after dinner, debating whether you should sit in the rec room or just go to your room. The rec room feels too open, too exposed without the safety of your pack, so instead you choose to retreat into your room, locking the door behind you. 

You let out a sigh, your shoulders slumping as tears gather in your eyes. Another night without them, another night without the safety and comfort of their presence around you. Another night knowing they’re not on the other side of the wall, a knock or a yell away. 

You fight the panic starting to bubble as you get ready for bed, your mind swirling with thoughts of something happening, someone breaking in, someone taking advantage of their absence to get to you. You know it’s an irrational fear. Most of the alphas on base ignore your existence, aside from the couple incidents you’ve had with them. The most they do is stare, though that’s to be expected as an omega. 

What if they’re holding back something more sinister, though? What if the only thing stopping them is your pack? This would be their opportune moment. 

You’re shaking, eyes wide in fear as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Sure, you’ve learned a few ways to defend yourself, but could you really utilize them? If the moment called for it, could you defend yourself enough to get away? Where would you go? Dr. Keller won’t be in her office all night. Could you run and seek protection from another medical professional that was still working? Could you find a different high ranking official on base and hope they’d help you? Could you go for the guards at the gate and hope they help you? 

Or would it be safer to run for the woods? Try to lose whichever alpha decided to attack you and hope you don’t get lost in the trees? You would just have to survive the night, and Dr. Keller would notice you missing come morning. What would she do, though? Call Kate? It’s not like the guys could just come home and help you. Would Kate even tell them something happened and put them at risk of getting distracted? What if something happened to them because of you? 

You turn the shower on as cold as it will go, stepping under the spray in your pajamas. You sink to the floor of the shower, letting the cold water snap you out of your panic and prevent you from distressing. No one’s coming through the door, no one’s going to try and hurt you. 

Your teeth are chattering by the time you reach up to turn the water off. Violent shivers rock your body, your hands and feet numb. You take deep breaths, feeling more awake and aware than you have since yesterday. 

The panic has dropped to almost nothing, your shaking now due to the fact you’re freezing. You strip out of your wet clothes, leaving them in the tub as you wrap a towel around yourself. You’re still shivering violently as you change into warmer pajamas, opting for one of John’s shirts and sweatpants. 

You slip under the covers of your bed, piling every blanket you own on top of the covers before tucking yourself against your giant bear. You won’t sleep, but at least you’re not panicking anymore. 

The days begin to blend together without the routine of your pack to keep you steady. Dr. Keller comes to get you at the same time as you expect for your breakfast, and then you spend all day with her, sitting in her office, keeping yourself occupied while you wait for an inevitable phone call. It will either be your pack calling to check on you, or it will be Kate with bad news. 

You’re not sure which is worse. The anticipation of a call from your pack letting you know they’re all alright, or the dread that it will be Kate telling you something happened to them. 

You’re still not sleeping well, the anxiety and the worry you might miss their call meshing with the nightmares that were already plaguing you before they left. You’re exhausted and strung out, the worry beginning to eat you alive. You’re constantly on edge, every little sound close to sending you spiraling. 

Your thoughts have slowly shifted from missing your pack to ruminating about the fact they might not be coming back. It’s a risk you’re well aware of. The kinds of things they do put them at risk, every deployment carries the risk of one, or all of them, dying. One thing goes wrong, one small freak accident and your entire pack could be taken from you. 

You’re not sure you’d survive that. 

Most omegas don’t. 

“Still nothing?” Dr. Keller asks as you sit there, staring at your phone for what must have been an hour at least. 

You shake your head. “Nothing.” 

“Sometimes no news is good news.” She says. “I know you’d prefer to have any news at all, though.” 

“I can’t stop thinking...what if something bad has happened?” You say, fingers trembling from gripping your phone so hard. 

“Kate promised she’d call if something happened, right?”

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“She’s a woman of her word, I can say that much. I’m sure they’re fine. They’re very capable soldiers. They wouldn’t be in Spec Ops if they weren’t, much less on a highly specialized team.” Dr. Keller stands up, moving to the closet. “It’s still hard, not knowing where they are or what they’re doing. I remember when my brother told our parents he was enlisting. Our mother cried for a week straight.” She pulls a pillow and a blanket out of the closet. “I still don’t think she’s completely forgiven him. It’s hard for omegas when someone leaves the pack, even temporarily, especially if you can’t have constant reassurance that they’re alright.” 

Your brows pinch in a frown at her words as she kneels on the floor beside the couch. “Your mom was an omega?” 

She nods. “And dad was a beta. Wound up with two beta children, though I don’t think mom complained much about that. We grew up in a big pack with lots of people around us. I think mom would have been worse off if it had just been her and dad.” She sets the pillow on the couch, gently prying the phone from your fingers. “Come on, lay down.” She directs you. 

You do as she says, laying down on the couch, resting your head on the pillow. She covers you with the blanket, tucking it up around your neck. “Is that why you’re so good at this job?” 

She smiles, setting your phone on the arm of the couch above your head. “Maybe. I think it gave me more empathy for omegas and the struggles you face every day.” She gently squeezes your arm. “They’ll be alright. They’re probably just as worried about you, as you are them. But, you need to get some rest. You don’t have to sleep, just laying with your eyes closed will help.” 

You tilt your head, glancing up at your phone. “What if I fall asleep and it rings?” 

“Then I’ll make sure you get a chance to answer it.” She says, squeezing your arm again. “I promise. Get some rest.” 

You let out a breath, not wanting to risk falling asleep, but you close your eyes anyway. It doesn’t stop the thoughts from coming on, the nightmarish images the anxiety feeds your brain flashing before your eyes. What if they’re lying dead somewhere right now? What if something’s happened to Kate and she can’t tell you? Would you ever find out? Would you ever know? 

Despite the anxiety prickling through your body, the warmth of the blanket begins to lull you into a false sense of security. Perhaps it’s the sheer exhaustion from your lack of sleep over the last couple weeks, paired with the exhaustion from your constant worrying, but you find yourself slipping between sleep and consciousness as you lay there on Dr. Keller’s couch. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it as you begin to drift off to sleep. 

Screaming. It’s loud, piercing your ears. Something’s holding you, hands clutching at your form desperately. It hurts, nails biting into your skin, fingers gripping too hard, yet you don’t care. 

“You won’t take her from me! I won’t let you!”

You’re crying, sobs wracking your body as you cling just as tightly to the form holding you. 

Hands grab at you, squeezing and pulling, trying to free you from the constricting grip around you, but it won’t let go. You cling to it just as desperately, afraid of what will happen if you let go. 

You know what will happen if you let go. 

“She’s no daughter of mine.” 

The words bite into you, slicing through your skin straight into your very soul, the prickling pain of your own flesh and blood rejecting you making your skin crawl. How could he just let you go like that? How could he turn against you so easily, over something you have no control over? 

Pain erupts across your entire body. Something snaps, your ears ringing from more screams. You’re being pulled away from the safety of the hold around you, your body going cold as the warmth around you disappears. Hands close around you, fingers ripping into you as you're torn from your mother’s hold and into the unknown. 

“Easy, easy.” 

You’re gasping, breathing wheezing as tears choke you. 

“Deep breaths. In and out, nice and slow.” 

Your breath hitches, catching painfully in your chest. 

“You’re alright, you’re safe.” 

You force your eyes open, blinded by tears as something is tucked into your arms. You squeeze the bear against your chest, hiccuping as you fight for control over your emotions. You’re on the couch in Dr. Keller’s office still. You’re not at what was once your home, not stuck in the nightmare you’ve lived over and over. 

Slowly breathing becomes easier, your sobs quieting to sniffles. The tears still spill down your cheeks, dampening the fur of the bear in your arms. 

“You’re alright,” Dr. Keller says, rubbing your back gently. 

You slowly push yourself up to sit, pulling your knees against your chest. You press your palms into your eyes, trying to get the tears to stop. Dr. Keller shifts her position, sitting next to you on the couch. 

“How long have you been having nightmares?” She asks quietly, watching you as you try to calm yourself. 

“Since my heat.” You say, voice rough from crying. You wrap your arms around the bear again, holding onto it tightly. 

“You haven’t said anything about it.” She says gently, shifting slightly so she’s facing you. 

“I didn’t want to.” You say quietly, shame burning through you. She’s not reprimanding you, yet you can’t help but feel like you’ve done something wrong. “I shouldn’t be having them, I mean...it’s not even that bad compared to...compared to what the others have gone through. The kinds of nightmares they have.” 

“It might seem that way to you, but trauma is still trauma. It might not be the worst thing someone else has gone through, but it is the worst thing you’ve been through.” 

Her words give you pause. You’ve never quite thought of it that way. The kinds of things your pack does, the things they’ve seen, the things they’ve done, are far worse than anything you’ve experienced. The things you’ve experienced may pale in comparison, but they’re your experiences. No one else’s. 

“If you want to talk about them, that’s what I’m here for.” Dr. Keller says, leaving things open for you to decide what to do. 

You don’t have to tell her. She won’t force you to do it. She won’t force you to do anything, to say anything you don’t want to. It might be nice, though, to let someone know, someone neutral, someone who won’t tell anyone else. It might be nice to finally put into words the things that are eating you, have been eating you. 

You lay back down, curling up into a tight ball on the couch. You hug the bear close to your chest, letting it ground you. “My nightmares, they’re always about the day I left for the institute.” You start, taking a shaky breath. “I haven’t had them in years.” 

“You were sent early after your presentation, right?” She asks. 

“The day after.” You answer. 

“Being sent to an institute can be traumatic when done within the normal time after presentation. I can’t even imagine what being sent that soon was like.” She lets out a breath. “Sometimes when we go through something traumatic, the brain and body hold onto it, because we don’t feel safe enough to process it in the moment. The brain can hold onto it for years, until we finally feel safe enough. Then the brain can start to try and heal from that trauma without us even realizing it.” 

“You think that’s what’s happening?” You ask. 

“It’s possible. Going through your heat successfully, being claimed, building close bonds with your pack, all could aid in helping you finally feel safe enough to process that trauma. Things usually feel worse as the brain works through the trauma, which could be why you’re having nightmares about that event suddenly.” 

“Is there anything that will make them stop?” You ask. 

“There’s some things we can do together that might help the process. I’m more than happy to help you with it, if that’s what you’d like to do. If you decide to, I think it will be a good idea to set up appointments at least twice a week, at least at first.” 

“What are we gonna tell John?” 

She gives you a look. “Well, I’d advise telling him the truth. I think you should tell your pack about your nightmares. They can at least offer you some comfort and understanding. Of course, that’s entirely up to you and what you want to do.” 

You let out a sigh, getting comfortable on the couch again. Dr. Keller adjusts the blanket over you, squeezing your arm gently. 

“Think about it.” She says. “We can talk about it more after they get back and things have settled back to normal again.” 

You’re brushing your teeth when the call comes. You quickly spit into the sink, not even bothering to rinse your mouth before you’re answering, anxiety twisting your stomach into knots. You hadn’t even checked the screen to see who was calling. You’re just anxious to hear from someone after days of silence. 

“Hello?” 

There’s a beat of silence before the voice on the other side responds, the audio distant and slightly garbled, but you hardly notice. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” 

You fight back a sob, your inhale shaky as relief floods through you. “Alpha.” The title slips through your lips before you can even catch it, your body nearly vibrating at hearing John’s voice after so many days. 

“I’m here. We’re all here.” He says, distant voices sounding in the background. 

A smile tugs at your lips, happy tears blurring your eyes as you collapse on your bed. “Missed you.” 

“I know, we’ve missed you too.” 

You move to your bed, flopping down on the mattress in relief. “You alright? Is everyone alright?” 

“We’re alright. Few bumps and bruises, but nothing we haven’t had before. How are you holding up?” 

The urge to spill the truth to him is strong. You’ve been depressed and worried and there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that you haven’t panicked about something. You’ve been having horrible nightmares and haven’t been sleeping. There’s an ache in your chest that won’t go away, and you’re afraid it might kill you if you don’t see them soon. 

“I’m alright. Sad cause I miss you a lot.” 

“I know, sweetheart.” There’s a sound on the other end, something you can’t make out and the line buzzes for a second. For a moment you’re worried you were disconnected, but John’s voice cuts through the noise again. “We’re finishing up here soon, and we’ll be home in a couple of days.” 

You can’t help but sigh in relief at his words. They’re alright. They’re all safe, and they’re going to be home soon. You’re going to get to see them soon, touch them again, smell them again. “Hurry back.” You say, your voice shaky with emotion. 

“We’ll try, sweet girl. We have to get going, but we’ll be back before you know it.” 

Saying goodbye doesn't hurt as much as you expect it to. Maybe it’s the relief from hearing their voices, from knowing they’re really alright paired with the knowledge that they’ll be home soon. Two days doesn’t seem so far now that you know that’s all that stands between you and seeing your pack again. 

You roll over in your bed, pressing your face into the pillows. Nothing smells like them anymore. Not their shirts that they scented before they left, not your pillows or stuffed animals. The couch in the rec room, and even John’s bed have started to smell more like you. 

The first thing you’re going to do when they return is get a big whiff of each of them, even if you have to tackle Ghost to do it. You want to refresh their scents all over everything, roll around in them until they’re the only thing you can smell. 

For the first time in days, you manage to sleep that night. It’s not much, but it’s a deep, nightmare-free sleep, aided by the relief from the constant anxiety that has plagued you. 

You update Dr. Keller the next day on the news of your pack’s imminent return. You elect to spend the afternoon in the barracks instead of her office, the building suddenly not seeming quite so empty now that you know they’re coming home soon. You clean up John’s room, making his bed again after you’d made a mess of it trying to sleep. They’re all going to be tired when they return, and you want to help them in any way that you can. You pick up your room as well, even though you know you likely won’t be spending much time in it for a while. You’re going to latch yourself onto them and not let go until the ache in your chest has disappeared. 

You bristle when the knock sounds at your door. You glance up from where you had been sorting the clothes you’d stolen from the guys from your own so you can get them to scent them again. You’re not expecting a knock yet. It’s too early to be Dr. Keller coming to get you for dinner, and she would have announced herself like she has been, if it was her. 

That means someone else is in the barracks. Someone you don’t know. 

Your mind races as you try to think of who it could be. You don’t know many others on base, and certainly no one that would enter the barracks just like that, unless it’s an emergency. Is there an emergency? You’re almost certain if there was an emergency on base, then there would be alarms going off or something. There’d be some sign that something was happening, but it’s quiet outside, or at least, there’s no noises you’re not expecting. 

The knock comes again, louder and sharper. Whoever is on the other side is obviously not going to just go away. You debate calling Dr. Keller, telling her someone is outside your door, getting her to help you on this, but instead you grab your phone, holding it in your hand as you move towards the door. 

You unlock it, holding your hand on the handle in case the person on the other side tries to force their way in. They don’t, so you open it slowly, just enough that you can see out. There’s a soldier outside your door. A woman. You don’t recognize her, but then again you don’t see many women on the base, and you don’t pay much attention to the other soldiers. 

Maybe you need to start paying more attention. 

She’s a beta, you can tell just by looking at her. She’s wearing scent blockers, keeping her scent from projecting into the barracks to erase the fact she was here. 

She says your name, staring at you with hard set eyes. “General Shepherd is waiting for you.” 

It takes you a moment to process what it is she’s saying. You’ve never met any of the higher ups on base. The person with the most authority you’ve met is John, but you know he’s only a Captain. There’s others above him, but you weren’t any concern of theirs, so you have never bothered to meet them. Even in your time with the CIA, the person with the most authority that you met seemed to be Kate. You hadn’t even been given names of anyone higher up than her. 

Apparently something’s changed. 

Something in the back of your mind begins to tingle. Something isn’t right about this. You should have called Dr. Keller, or even Kate. You shouldn’t have opened the door so recklessly. 

“But, I’m not supposed to-” You begin, unsure of what to do now. 

“It’s a direct order from your superior.” The woman cuts you off, her tone sharp and impatient.

You’re not a soldier. The only superior you have is John and he’s certainly not behind this. 

You wouldn’t dare say that out loud. Not right now. 

“Okay, okay.” You say, stepping back slightly from the door. “Let me just get some shoes on.” 

You close the door, staring down at your phone. You debate calling Dr. Keller or even just sending a text, but you don’t put it past the woman outside to barge in if you don’t hurry. You can feel the panic rising, the thought of someone invading your space so carelessly making the back of your neck tingle. So instead you slip on a pair of shoes, shoes you know you can run in, before you open the door again. 

She’s still standing in the hallway, stiffly at attention. Her gaze pierces into you, making your skin crawl. You close your door behind you, slipping your phone into your pocket. She doesn't say anything as she turns on her heel, walking down the hallway towards the door. You follow behind her, having to walk quickly to keep up with her. You’re reminded of your early days on the base when you would be escorted around by Ghost. 

You’d take those times back over this right now. 

Your palms start to sweat as you leave the barracks, dread starting to fill your stomach as you realize how much of a mistake you’ve made, leaving with this stranger. She could be taking you anywhere to see anyone. You’re not even sure General Shepherd is a real person. 

The thought of being led blindly into a room of alphas like a lamb being led into a den of hungry wolves nearly makes you panic, your steps faltering just slightly as you debate running. You could make it to the medical center quickly from here if you sprint the entire way. Would she chase you if you took off running? Would you get in trouble? Would the guys get in trouble if you did? 

You don’t want anyone to get in trouble. 

Especially not with this being the first time you’ve been on your own. They’ve put a lot of trust in both you and Dr. Keller in their absence. If you get into trouble while they’re gone, that might change things. You could ruin everything you’ve built by misbehaving. 

The woman leads you to a building you haven’t been in before, leading you down a clinical-looking hallway to a door. She pauses in front of it, turning to face you. You stare at her, still on edge. What if this is a test? What if they’re testing you to see if you’d just blindly leave with a stranger while they’re not there to protect you. 

You’ve made a big mistake. 

The woman holds out her hand, and you stare down at it dumbly. “Your phone.” 

You continue to stare at her hand for a moment, trying to swallow the nervous panic rising within you. You don’t have much of a choice now but to obey. Your hands are shaking as you pass your phone over, the woman pocketing it before she opens the door. 

It’s bright inside, the LED bulbs burning your eyes. You’re uncomfortable and uneasy, a dangerous mix for an omega, but the person inside doesn’t seem to care. He stands from his seat, towering over you. He screams alpha before his scent even hits you. You’re thrown back into the memories of your father, the way he carried himself, the way he stood. Back straight like a rod, hands clasped behind his back, face pressed into a stern line. 

He’s in uniform, decorated with more patches and pins than you could put a name to. Army, you think, judging by the color of his jacket. It looks like General Shepherd is a real person after all. 

You try not to flinch as the door clicks closed behind you, sealing you in this room with an unknown alpha. Though it’s only one, you still feel like the helpless lamb standing before a hungry wolf. 

No one will hear you scream. No one will care. 

“My name is General Shepherd.” He says, his voice gruff and laced with authority. “I am the acting commander of Task Force 141.” 

You’re not sure if you should say anything, or even bother introducing yourself. He probably already knows you well, even though you’ve never met him before in your life. 

“I was one of the driving forces behind the omega initiative, and I decided the 141 should be one of the first to participate. I also signed the approval for you to be assigned as their omega, did you know that?” 

You shake your head. “N-No sir, the CIA didn’t give me any names.” 

“Good.” His lips twitch in what you assume was supposed to be a smile. It doesn’t ease your nerves any. “They weren’t supposed to. I’m sure you’ve learned that confidentiality is everything in this line of work.” 

“Yes, sir.” You try not to flinch under his gaze, piercing and probing. The back of your neck is tingling, every single instinct in your body screaming at you to run, to escape, to get somewhere safe. 

“I came here today to ensure your pack was doing as they were instructed. I’m impressed with what I’ve seen so far. You’re getting along well with them?” 

You nod again. “Yes, sir. There were some...bumps along the way, but we all get along fine now.” 

“Good.” He closes the file on the table, taking a step closer to you. You fight the urge to take a step back, not wanting him to invade your space while you’re so vulnerable. “The success of this program is imperative to the future of the military and its functionality. You’re doing important work here with the Task Force.” His hand lifts, slowly pulling the collar of your shirt to the side so he can see your mating mark. 

You fight the urge to lift your hands and wrap them around the back of your neck, the instinctual urge to protect yourself nearly winning out as he stares at your mark. Your heart is pounding in your chest, the fear-driven adrenaline making your fingers tremble. Half a second and he could scruff you, half a second and he could overpower you. 

No one would know. No one would care.  

“I’m satisfied with what I’m seeing so far. Of course, the true measure of success will be their efficiency in their current task.” He steps back away from you, moving back to the table. “How have you been adjusting to them being gone?” 

“It’s been difficult,” You say, breathing for a second to collect yourself. “But I know separation can be a rough adjustment at first.” 

His lips twitch again in a twisted smile. “You’re a smart girl. That’s why I chose you for this position. You’re doing good work. Your efforts will change the course of military history, hopefully for the better.” 

Something about his words don’t sit right with you. 

You’re trembling as you exit the room, led out by the woman that had brought you to the building. Your breaths are heavy as you try to keep a grip on the anxiety threatening to overtake you. Your hand is trembling uncontrollably as she give you your phone back, your knuckles going white as you clutch it to your chest. You’re sweating, the cool air chilling your skin as you step outside. 

You barely remember the walk back to the barracks, numbly following the woman as she leads you back to your safe space. It doesn't feel so safe anymore, now that she’s breached it. She entered without permission, breaking that trust that’s so sacred to packs. 

She doesn't even seem bothered by it. 

She pauses outside the door to the barracks, staring down at you. You fight the urge to race inside and lock yourself in the safety of your room before she can change her mind and enter again, or take you somewhere worse. You stand your ground, meeting her gaze. 

“Thank you for your cooperation.” She says, as monotone as she had been the first time she spoke to you. 

You finally realize what it was that made her seem so off to you as you think over her words. 

She’s American. 

“Thank you for escorting me.” You say politely, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Have a safe trip home.” 

You quickly enter the barracks, speed walking down the hall towards your room. You want to burrow under your covers and hide until the guys return and you can feel safe again. You pause in front of your door, staring down at the handle. The back of your neck is prickling again, anxiety burning hot in your veins. Your hands have begun shaking again, clinging to the phone still pressed against your chest. You fight the urge to hyperventilate as you stare at your door, half of your brain telling you to run and the other half stuck, staring in shock and disbelief. 

Your door is ajar. Open just a crack, just enough to be noticeable by looking at it. 

You always close your door. You always ensure it’s shut every time you leave the barracks, even when the guys are home. You remember shutting it before you followed the woman out of the barracks. You remember distinctly listening to the click of the handle as you pulled it shut behind you in the quiet of the barracks. 

You stare at the gap, the line of the frame visible. It’s open. Your door is open. 

Someone was inside your room. 

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[wallwriterstuff]

Okay but why is this making me cry? ADORABLE. Give me more Simon who surprises himself with the ability to heal

simon riley who ends up back in manchester

simon riley who falls in love with you and raises your kids in his hometown

simon riley whose kid ends up going to the same primary school as he went to

simon riley who shows up at the gates with you and your oldest on their first day, palms sweating because not only is he sending his little girl off for her first day at school but he can also see his old teacher

simon riley who stands straighter when his old teacher approaches

simon riley who blushes when she comes up and pinches his cheeks, turning to you and your little girl and saying he was the best of his class, always listening and paying attention

simon riley whose heart warms because he remembers how she always gave him a little extra of the snack because she knew how things were at home

simon riley who bends down and kisses his daughters head, telling her to be good and use her listening ears as she sets up at her little desk

simon riley who is crouched down as low as he can get when she sits at the tiny table, hands nervously fiddling as you unpack her pencil case and tell her how great she's going to do, how her lunchbox is packed with sandwiches and snacks, and how you and dad will be there to pick her up at the end of the day

simon riley who never really felt like he had a full circle moment until now, standing with you tucked into his side, waving your daughter into her first day, and knowing he will never be like his father when it comes to you or the kids

[wallwriterstuff]

Part 3: Dirty Laundry ||Fosterdad!John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of child neglect and abuse. Mentions of police investigations. Mentions of the foster care system. Explicit description of PTSD and childhood trauma.

Words: 3118

Summary: Sometimes, trauma bleeds through the well crafted exterior of even the toughest souls. It festers and rots a person from the inside out, staining everything it touches, and Simon can't quite clean the stains in time before John finds them.

<- Previous Part: The Yes Basket Part 4: Paint Over The Cracks ->

It’s warm.

Too warm.

Constricting.

An arm around his throat and the cold metal of a barrel pressed to his temple.

The pressure’s what wakes him, and John quietly curses at Riley, who has managed to sneak in and drape himself atop him, creating the pressure that’s disturbed his sleep. The German Shepherd whines and John sighs, scratching behind his ear lightly.

“You to eh boy? Never can shake ‘em…” he murmured. For a moment, John stares at the ceiling, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline of the moment and breathe through the heaviness so many old ghosts leave behind. They put more pressure on his chest than Riley’s furry form ever could. It takes Price a long moment to realise that the rumbling he can hear isn’t actually his mind playing tricks on him. There’s no APC’s here rattling across dessert sands or cargo planes building up to take off. What this quiet suburban neighbourhood does have, though, is a laundry room in each house. A laundry room that sits right beneath his bedroom and vibrates the floorboards.

With a grunt, John heaves himself upright and reaches for his prosthetic. Riley waits patiently, head tilted and tail wagging slowly like a pendulum. With his leg on, John gives it a quick test as he pushes to stand, grunts at the initial phantom pain he can never quite get rid of, and then begins to hobble his way downstairs, clicking on lights as he goes. He hits the bottom step of the stairs, hand running over his face to stifle a yawn as he heads through the kitchen and into the laundry room just behind. The washing machine door is open, the glass is wet, and the smell of soap wafting strongly off of the lingering bubbles suggested that whoever had used it had used one too many pods. It’s the dryer that’s making the rumbling noise as it tumbles about what appears to be a sheet. John frowns, squinting in confusion, and then he sighs.

“You’re not in trouble Simon, come on out.”  He can’t see the boy anywhere and he moves like a ghost, he may have already snuck back to bed for all he knows, but he’s the only other person in the house who could be doing a wash at…

Fucking Christ, it’s 3AM John internally groans at the time and makes sure to take a good look around the laundry room and the kitchen before he slowly ambles back upstairs. Simon’s door is closed, of course and John pauses briefly on the other side of the wood as he tries to figure out what’s happened. Maybe the boys finally decided to wash some of the things in that binbag? John hadn’t pushed it, but he’d been a bit more vocal about good hygiene this week since Simon hadn’t changed his clothes in the 3 weeks he’d been living with him. Had that unnerved him? Pushed him to clean the clothes himself? Was it that whatever fascination with cleaning himself Simon had had now transferred to cleaning his possessions to? John knocked at the sound of shuffling behind the door, his brows furrowed. The shuffling immediately stopped. The only sounds John could hear being the faint rush of traffic along the road as Old Mike came home from a late shift again, the creaking of expanding and contracting pipes of his house, and the loaded silence of a boy who didn’t want to be caught doing what he shouldn’t.

John knocked again.

Simon barely cracked the door the second time, glacial eyes darting rapidly over John’s face, watching even more astutely than usual. They were rough as tree bark as they scraped over his soul and John had to wander what had the boy’s hackles raised.

“You need any help with your laundry, Simon?” he asked. The non-judgemental offer was left hanging in the air between them, and John let the boy scrutinise him and his intentions from head to toe.

“No.” Simon’s answer is as blunt as ever, but there’s a slightly terse edge to his voice that’s new, an underlying tension in his tone that set John’s bullshit buzzer whirring. John sighed, rubbed at his eyes and sniffed a bit to clear the early morning grogginess from his sinuses, then paused. The stench from Simon’s room was near revolting and he couldn’t stop the way his nose wrinkled.

“Jesus kid, let me in.” John said with a frown.

“No!” Simon was adamant now, lips twisting into half a snarl as he bared his teeth and puffed his chest, doing his best impression of a predator even as his eyes showed he was really feeling like prey. John looked him over for a moment, keeping his prosthetic in the doorway so that Simon couldn’t close the door on him, or at least, couldn’t hurt him if he tried to force it shut.

“Simon-“

“I have a right to privacy.” Simon had never spoken so much in all the time he’d been with him. John nodded his head slowly, taking a steadying breath and keeping his expression calm and neutral, even as his heart waged war in his chest.

“You do have a right to privacy, and you have a-“

“Then fuck off old man.” John doesn’t flinch in the face of the acid Simon spits. The boy’s shaking, and it isn’t from rage. He’s seen plenty of angry children, seen plenty of hurt and scared ones to. He won’t meet fire with fire and burn his house down.

“You also have a right to an adequate standard of living and to experience the best possible health,” John continued calmly, “And you have a right to ensure that I, as an adult in your life, makes decisions in your best interest. Now you’re a smart lad; if you were me, smelling what I can smell right now, would you say I’m acting in your best interest if I just go back to bed?” he let’s the question hang in the air for as long as needed, watches Simon grapple with the logic of his answer and his own fear. The smell takes him back to times he’s been stuck behind enemy lines in the black, moving through shantytowns where people don’t have the means to keep clean or rescuing PoWs from dank cells with no drainage or ventilation. It’s the smell of the hopeless and the damned. Except, Simon is neither, not in his house, John won’t let him be.

“I – I can clean it. I’m cleaning it.” He’s still trying to rationalise, still trying to find a way out. John doesn’t want him to feel cornered but for the sake of the boy’s health he can’t let this one go. He knows the smell now, can pick apart what’s the stench of old neglect in the binbag and the odour of current trauma. He understands why Simon’s been showering so much now, realises that this must have been going on for weeks before he noticed. He keeps his voice gentle, not accusing in anyway, doesn’t even force eye contact. He needs to praise the effort, prove he’s working with him, not against him.

“You’re doing a great job, the sheets’ll be dry soon…but maybe I can help you swap the mattress out so they can go back on a clean bed, yeah?” John’s suggestion is met with stone cold silence that drags for an infinite stretch of time. Simon’s not even able to look at him, and John can understand why. The boy prides himself on control so losing control of his bladder is more than embarrassing, and the way he’s acting makes John suspects it was a punishable offence in his former home. He’s never seen the boy be anything other than pale, but his cheeks are burning a fierce shade of pink now as he struggles to breathe properly. John’s not sure if it’s panic, the smell, or a mix of both, but Simon’s so beyond rational thought that he almost falls into a stupor as he stumbles back to let him in.

There’s a wash basin on the floor from the kitchen, Fairy Liquid sitting nearby to and even a bottle of lemon juice. Simon’s got a phone open to a cleaning article and sploshes of soapy water all over the hardwood as he’s desperately tried to scrub his mattress clean. John feels a deep swelling of sympathy, staring in mute horror at the soaked and stained mattress, eyes trailing to the open window fluttering curtains in the breeze like white flags. Simon can’t talk, but his body is coiled to spring like a rattle snake, one wrong move pulling the trigger to a gun he can’t control. They’re at the edge of a precipice now, and one small nudge could rob Simon of all rational thought and send him into a full on meltdown. John’s not just in his space but he’s bearing witness to a weakness, one he could exploit. He needs to prove he won’t. Simon won’t believe any of the evidence he lays out before him for a long time either way, but John knows he has to start somewhere.

“I say we move you into the spare room tonight, get a proper night’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll deal with the mattress.” John’s suggestion is quiet, soft. Simon can’t seem to lift his gaze from the floor, finding the knots in the wood to be the most interesting thing in the room. The smell of stale urine is assaulting John’s nose, burning the nasal cavity, and his stomach twists to know Simon’s been sleeping in all this mess right under his nose for perhaps the entirety of the time he’s lived here. Seeing no response is incoming, John goes to one knee, makes himself small, tries to meet Simon’s gaze from below. The boy doesn’t shut his eyes, no he’d rather have a chance at seeing whatever’s coming John thinks, but he does turn his head immediately to keep avoiding John’s eyes.

“Simon, I’m not angry. Look at my face. Do I look upset? It’s okay, lad. It happens.” John thinks better of reaching for him. Simon still doesn’t respond. “What’s going to happen now, is that we’re going to get you fresh sheets, and move you into the room just across from mine. You can sleep in a clean bed, and tomorrow morning-“

“I’ll just piss it again.” The boy’s voice shakes, as if the confession takes physical effort to squeeze its way out of his throat. John is quiet for a moment, keeps his voice non-judgemental. The atmosphere in the room is charged and he feels like one small spark could ignite the gasoline he’s swimming in. Everything smells and burns and John’s angry, so, so furious, that somebody has broken this boy so badly. He can’t let Simon see that anger though, he’ll think it’s directed at him.

“This happens more than once in a night?” John asks. Simon clenches and unclenches his fists, manages a jerky nod.

“S-sometimes.” He stutters. John gives another slow nod.

“There’s things we can buy to help.” He promises softly.

“I’m not wearing fucking nappies.” Simon wipes furiously at his eyes, the embarrassment and anger leaking through his eyes as it overwhelms him. It’s the proof that’s upset him so much, John thinks. He can no longer hide the physical evidence that things are not okay, were never okay, and he can’t hold the demons at bay all the time, however much he gives the impression he can. The boy with eyes that would make Satan shiver can only do so much, hold on for so long, before he to drowns in the hellfire of his life. Simon likes to make a show of dealing with it, pretending things are fine, but John’s bore witness to the fact it’s not, and that’s set off all of Simon’s alarms. How long had he had to pretend to keep Tommy safe? His mother too maybe. Had Simon always fell into the role of protector perhaps? Keep anyone from suspecting things were going wrong, keep the family together. But they’re already broken up, aren’t they? John shakes the thoughts off, it’s best not to rationalise someone else’s trauma, especially with only half the story.

John shakes his head, “Of course not. There’s pads we can put on top of the mattress, you just throw them away and put a fresh one on if you need to. Some brands do pants and underwear liners. We can buy some waterproof mattress covers to. It’s something we can mention to the doctor, when we go to see them, there’s tablets they can prescribe. We have options to try alright?” John waits with baited breath to see if Simon will take any of the options available, will help him choose, work together with him as opposed to try and go it alone. Simon doesn’t say anything; he’s so busy trying to get a grip of himself and his emotions he can’t form any sort of answer it seems. John can’t imagine being in his shoes, how mortifying it must be for a man whose essentially a stranger to bear witness to this moment, a moment he strongly suspects he’s been punished for a lot which has only contributed to Simon’s desperation to hide this side effect of the trauma he’s experienced.

He seems to work on autopilot when he helps John to make up a fresh bed, flinching from him if he accidentally gets within touching distance. He isn’t surprised when Simon goes back to the binbag, but instead of bringing the whole thing, he rummages through it to find only one item. The hoodie is definitely far too small for him, a horrific bottle green colour that makes his already pale skin look sickly in comparison. It smells of that lingering scent of cigarettes still, even has some burn holes in it. John doesn’t comment on it and lets Simon keep the comfort item close. He gives him one last chance to confide in him before he leaves to go back to his own room.

“You need anything else before you turn in?” his offer is met by an immediate headshake, and John knows instinctually that Simon’s at his limit, that the kindness John has met him with tonight is going to keep the boy awake and shaking until sun rise can chase away the memory of it. “Alright then, try get some sleep yeah?” John gives him a slight nod as he shuts the door behind him and walks back to his room. He shuts the door behind him and goes through the motions of taking off his leg, but he can’t bring himself to get into bed somehow. He rests his head in his hands and takes a deep, steadying breath, finally letting his own tears fall as he grieves on the boy’s behalf.

Nobody ever said his job was easy.

His heart hurts and he’s filled with such a visceral rage it makes his teeth grind. To have traumatised a boy so thoroughly he can’t stop himself from wetting the bed at four-fucking-teen is more than criminal - John’s hunted people down for less before. Simon doesn’t need his anger though. He needs consistency, calm, support, and care. John inhales deeply and exhales in a rush, trying to force out all the negative emotions he’s feeling so that Simon get’s nothing but his best when he sees him tomorrow.

Simon deserves his best.

It only keeps getting worse.

Simon’s throwing a tennis ball for Riley in the backyard. He hasn’t spoken to him since last night and when John answers the phone he’s tired, beyond tired. He doubted either of them slept anymore after their 3AM meet up.  

“Kate…give me good news.” He sighs.

“Alright. We’ve got him signed up at your GP and they’ve given you one of tomorrow’s emergency appointments. 10:20AM.” Kate Laswell delivers the news perfunctorily, with almost too much nonchalance. John knows better than to believe that’s the end of it.

“There’s a but coming, isn’t there?” he asks. Kate is too quiet for a long moment and John readjusts his position, pressing the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can go back to spreading mustard on his sandwich.

“He can’t see Tom.” Kate’s voice feels like a falling gavel in a courtroom. Simon’s not spoken of his brother much, but John gets the impression that it wasn’t his own hoodie he was clutching for comfort last night. He knows deep in his bones that this news won’t go over well with Simon.

“Can I at least give him a reason why? How the fuck do you want me to explain that to him?” John asks finally, voice a little bit clipped.

“You can’t. The thing’s Tom’s disclosed are vile, John. There’s a police investigation and all sorts opening, so right now, no visits. I’ve got to arrange a time and a date with you for the police to come interview Simon. Frankly, if what the kid’s been saying is true, it’ll do Simon better to not have contact with him at all.” Kate sounds just as tired as he feels and he can almost imagine the woman sitting in her office, rubbing her forehead to chase off a pounding headache. John puts down the knife in his hand and shifts it to his phone, gripping it tight and pushing it harder against his ear like he might catch a whisper of better news if he just holds it close enough.

“Kate I need something go off of here. The kids pissing the bed and got more bruises than a prisoner of war. What am I dealing with here?” he asks, frustration colouring his tone.

“Trauma, John. You’re dealing with trauma. It’s nothing new. All the kids coming to you are traumatised. This one just needs to be handled with more care than most. If you can’t handle that let me know and I’ll remove him now.” Her tone rings with finality and John flinches, feeling like he’s been sucker punched.

“No,” he speaks through gritted teeth, “He’s had enough upheaval…I’ll figure out a way to tell him if he asks. Thanks for sorting the doc’s.”

“You’re welcome. Anything else?”

“No.” John grunts out a reply before he can say something he might regret.

“Great. I’ll be in touch to arrange a time to visit Simon.” She hangs up without a goodbye, again, and once more John is left stumbling in the dark for a way to help Simon. He’s starting to feel like the only one in the world who wants to.  

[wallwriterstuff]

Part 3 dropping tomorrow!

The Yes Basket ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child neglect, explicit mentions of physical injury and abuse (1 sentence mentioning bruises and being underweight). All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Mentions of military discharge and injury. Minors should not interact with this.

Words: 2236

Summary: John Price has had plenty of foster children before him and knows how to support most of the behaviour he sees. A simple trip to the supermarket unveils a deeper need for understanding than he originally thought, and John is left scrambling for answers Laswell won't give him.

Chapter 1: To Soothe A Soul

Simon Riley is a ghost in his home.

He’s barely seen the boy since Laswell dropped him off last week. The lack of weight on him clearly works to his advantage for sneaking about the place because Price has been startled by his sudden appearance at least twice, and his instincts are usually pretty good at detecting anyone in his general vicinity. Either that, or Simon must have gotten good at creeping around. Perhaps it was safer that way in his former home, less noise less attention. All Price knows is that he only sees the boy when he’s eating his food or using his shower. He uses the shower a lot. He can’t tell if it’s a novelty thing that he never really had before or if it’s perhaps a psychological thing that needs a little more investigating, but the boy spends at least an hour a day scrubbing his skin raw in the tub, only to appear in the kitchen afterwards with a pink face and hands and stinking clothes that undo most of the work he’s just done.

He still won’t let Price wash anything in the bin bag.

Simon’s living out of it, he thinks. Not that he has any access to that room now. Simon barely cracks the door when he knocks on it to inform him dinner is ready or to ask if he wants to join him in watching a movie or something with Riley. He’s been gentle about his approach on it to, not outright disregarding his belongings as a filthy nuisance in his home but rather asking him how he can help him look after them. He’s been stealing food to. Light-fingered little bugger got away with it for almost 48 hours before Price realised his fruit bowl was suspiciously low on fruit. He’s had children in his care hoard food before, knows how to deal with it, so today, he’s dragging Simon out into the big wide world whether he likes it or not to solve the problem. The echo of his knock on the wood is met by complete silence behind the door, and Price still feels that prickle of dread when Simon cracks the door open just enough to stare him down as if he’s the intruder, somehow.

The whites of his eyes are only just whiter than the pallor of his skin.

“We’re going to head to the shops together, get some groceries in. Since I’ll be cooking for both of us I want you to give me an idea of what sort of things you like to eat. You’ve got 10 minutes to get yourself ready, alright?” Price doesn’t phrase it like a question, knowing the answer would absolutely be no if he asked. Simon barely blinks, a minor twitch of his brows showing his displeasure through a frown. Price waits him out, watch’s carefully for any sign of resistance. Seeing no way out, Simon finally acquiesces with a short nod, slamming the door shut between them both. Price let’s out a quiet breath and turns to head back downstairs, sure he’s going to have to come and get him when the 10 minutes he’s given him to get ready is up. It’ll serve two purposes, he thinks. If Simon takes a walk with him today then the boy will get a better lay of the land, have a bit more freedom to walk himself to the park maybe or walk himself to school, when the time comes for that, but it also means getting in food Simon can have control over. Speak of the devil.

Riley perks at his feet and trots happily to the boy as he stamps his feet into beat up trainers at the bottom of the stairs. The laces are threadbare at best and there’s holes in the outer skin that let Price know they’re no longer waterproof. Maybe when they have to tackle the issue of school uniform he can broach the topic of new shoes. Forcing himself up, Price moves to the coat rack and takes down Riley’s leash and harness, the German Shepherd waiting patiently to be belted up. Simon says nothing, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and eyes cast downward towards his feet. He doesn’t force the boy to break the silence, wondering if Simon is just a bit stunted in his social development or if there’s something greater at play. He never can tell, still doesn’t know him quite well enough.

He offers Simon the lead anyhow, and the boy takes it wordlessly, walking out alongside him and not waiting for him to lock the door behind them. Price has to catch up, and just about catches a glimpse of Simon slipping a black surgical mask over his face. Price’s brow furrows, a shudder rolling down his spine when he gets closer and sees the shoddily painted skeleton jaw painted on the front of the mask. It doesn’t feel like a fashion choice.

God kid, what the hell happened to you?

It’s like walking with the angel of death, even the breeze in the trees seem to fall silent in Simon’s presence. Price isn’t one to easily be unnerved, hell his job demanded he have nerves of steel, but something about Simon’s silent and foreboding presence makes him feel the need to fill the quiet space with noise.

“I’ve got a basic list, bread, milk, all that stuff, but once we’re in the shop you can give me an idea of what sort of dinner you like.” He said. Simon says nothing, of course. He gets a handful of looks from neighbourhood gossips but ignores them steadfastly. He’s like an omen of death, dressed in all black, hidden under baggy clothes, and…not reaching for a single bit of food. Price realises quickly that this is going to be harder than he originally thought. He feels like a phony Santa with the fake jolly attitude as he tries to suggest different things and is met by a shrug each time. He’s lost track of the amount of products he’s picked up in an attempt to sway him when Simon finally speaks ups.

“I don’t care.” The blunt and abrupt sentence is punctuated with a voice crack that makes the boy visibly cringe, as if the visible evidence of his youth is somehow a weakness he’s unwittingly shown. Price watches him for a long moment, head tilted and eyes squinting slightly.

“I do.” It’s a simply sentence, not one he packs a lot of emotion into, but it garners him the biggest reaction he’s had so far. Simon narrows his eyes. That eerie presence he exudes magnifies ten fold and almost tries to envelop Price, like a shadow has oozed from the boy and tried to poke and prod it’s way into Price’s very soul to examine the contents. He holds his gaze with the most neutral expression he can and pulls out his wallet to hold out a crisp ten pound note to the boy.

“This here is for you to go and get snacks with. We're going to make a yes basket. Anything you put in the basket, you can eat at any time. No permission needed, it's your food to eat as you please. The only rules for the basket are that whatever you buy fits within your budget, you need to buy a mix of junk food and healthy stuff, and it's only refilled when we go shopping on Saturday. If you eat it all by Wednesday there's no adding extra's too it until Saturday. If you do find it's empty and your still hungry, you can still eat the snacks in the kitchen cupboards, but we share those, so you need to ask permission before taking them. Understand?” his explanation is met with a further narrowing of the boys eyes, but Simon isn’t fool enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever life he’s been raised in, Price gets the impression that reading and playing people, having street smarts, is something the boy prides himself on, and that’s what makes him snatch the money from his hand and stalk for the fruit aisle first.

Price doesn’t see that basket once it’s taken into his room, but his fruit bowl remains full. Whether or not he paces himself is beyond Price’s knowledge to, but he’s set the boundary and he’ll see soon enough if Simon’s pushed it. If the way he eats his dinner is any indication then he reckons the basket was empty on day one. He scarfs down anything in front of him like he’s a black hole gorging on any and all matter, regardless of whether he finds it pleasant or not.

The subtleties in Simon’s expression is what helps him tailor his shopping lists going forward. His nose wrinkles ever so slightly when he eats anything he doesn’t like, and the missing nutrition in his previous diet is quick to make itself known when just a fortnight of eating a more varied and rich diet makes the boy sick to his stomach. He tries to hide it of course, but Riley’s compassion doesn’t let the boy suffer alone for long. The scuffling at his door is what wakes Price, and he forces his prosthetic back into place with a grunt, thumping with groggy eyes towards the bedroom door. He hears Simon heaving the minute he opens up,  giving Riley a scratch behind the ears before he heads for the bathroom. He pauses just briefly before knocking on the door and waiting to see if Simon will invite him in. He doesn’t, of course, so Price pushes the door open, and tries not to heave himself.

Simon’s always hidden beneath his clothes and now he knows why. Pale skin is mottled by severe but aging bruises. The poor boys black blue and yellow, a tapestry of violence inked into his skin that he’s still recovering from, may never recover from. There’s bones where he’d expected at least some muscles. He wonders if the skeleton painted on his face mask is supposed to represent the skeletal structure he’s somehow kept upright and ticking over in whatever horrific circumstances Simon has had to call his life up until this point. Price wipes any trace of his horror from his face as he grabs a wash cloth and dampens it, placing the cool cloth on the back of the boys neck as he awkwardly kneels beside him.

“Easy Simon, breathe.” He murmurs. Simon flinches form his hands, from his help, too used to doing things alone, but he’s just a child and he wants the one thing any child demands when they feel so awful nothing else helps.

“Mum.”

It’s a quiet croak, but it’s enough to shatter Price’s heart. He swallows thickly to get a grip on the lump in his throat before he pats the boys shoulder.

“Just me…have you had a sip of water?” he asks softly. Simon doesn’t turn his head, just leaves his head resting along his arm so Price doesn’t see the weakness seeping from his eyes. He shakes his head. Price gets him a glass of water, and they sit in silence until Simon’s ready to stumble back to bed again.

It’s the first time the silence doesn’t feel oppressive.

Price lets him sleep in the next day for as long as he needs, doesn’t ensure he eats breakfast as he’s now ensure just what to feed a stomach he guesses was previously empty most of the time, and instead calls up Laswell.

“John. How’s things?” her voice is tired and it sets his alarm bells ringing.

“Alright. Better, sort of. We’ve made a bit of progress, I think. How’s things on your end?” Price leans against the kitchen counter, watching Riley do his business in the back garden as he reads the pregnant pause before she spoke again. Not good then, he thinks.

“We’re alright,” She lied, “How can I help you today?” Price decides to let it go. Simon is his priority.

“Was wondering if we were any further forward with getting a doctor’s appointment for the lad, or even sibling visits. He mentioned his mum the other night, might do him some good to see his brother.” Price suggested.

Kate sighed, “Don’t push it John…Tom’s not good. Kid’s disclosed a lot since they were separated…Simon won’t be seeing him for a while yet. Doctor’s not called back yet, I’ll push it from my end. Is he well enough to wait?” Price’s head span for a second. Just what had the younger boy disclosed that had Kate so uptight? What had he seen? What had Simon seen? Or...is it something Simon had done? No, no that didn’t feel right. Simon was like a pitbull, preferring to puff up and look domineering but, under the right care at least, completely harmless. His burning curiosity might never be satiated. His job was to help the child, not investigate the case. No, no he had to leave that to Kate.

“I’d rather he was seen sooner over later. Could do with some help from a dietitian maybe. He was more undernourished than we originally thought and I don’t want to give him too much to soon.” Price relayed his concern neutrally, even as his mind raced ahead. “I’ll call today then and call you back when I have an answer.” Kate didn’t bother with a goodbye before she hung up. Price sighed, stared at his phone for a moment, and placed it on the side.

One thing at a time John, he thought, One thing at a time.

[wallwriterstuff]

Part 2: The Yes Basket ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child neglect, explicit mentions of physical injury and abuse (1 sentence mentioning bruises and being underweight). All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Mentions of military discharge and injury. Minors should not interact with this.

Words: 2236

Summary: John Price has had plenty of foster children before him and knows how to support most of the behaviour he sees. A simple trip to the supermarket unveils a deeper need for understanding than he originally thought, and John is left scrambling for answers Laswell won't give him.

Chapter 1: To Soothe A Soul Next Part (3): Dirty Laundry ->

Simon Riley is a ghost in his home.

He’s barely seen the boy since Laswell dropped him off last week. The lack of weight on him clearly works to his advantage for sneaking about the place because Price has been startled by his sudden appearance at least twice, and his instincts are usually pretty good at detecting anyone in his general vicinity. Either that, or Simon must have gotten good at creeping around. Perhaps it was safer that way in his former home, less noise less attention. All Price knows is that he only sees the boy when he’s eating his food or using his shower. He uses the shower a lot. He can’t tell if it’s a novelty thing that he never really had before or if it’s perhaps a psychological thing that needs a little more investigating, but the boy spends at least an hour a day scrubbing his skin raw in the tub, only to appear in the kitchen afterwards with a pink face and hands and stinking clothes that undo most of the work he’s just done.

He still won’t let Price wash anything in the bin bag.

Simon’s living out of it, he thinks. Not that he has any access to that room now. Simon barely cracks the door when he knocks on it to inform him dinner is ready or to ask if he wants to join him in watching a movie or something with Riley. He’s been gentle about his approach on it to, not outright disregarding his belongings as a filthy nuisance in his home but rather asking him how he can help him look after them. He’s been stealing food to. Light-fingered little bugger got away with it for almost 48 hours before Price realised his fruit bowl was suspiciously low on fruit. He’s had children in his care hoard food before, knows how to deal with it, so today, he’s dragging Simon out into the big wide world whether he likes it or not to solve the problem. The echo of his knock on the wood is met by complete silence behind the door, and Price still feels that prickle of dread when Simon cracks the door open just enough to stare him down as if he’s the intruder, somehow.

The whites of his eyes are only just whiter than the pallor of his skin.

“We’re going to head to the shops together, get some groceries in. Since I’ll be cooking for both of us I want you to give me an idea of what sort of things you like to eat. You’ve got 10 minutes to get yourself ready, alright?” Price doesn’t phrase it like a question, knowing the answer would absolutely be no if he asked. Simon barely blinks, a minor twitch of his brows showing his displeasure through a frown. Price waits him out, watch’s carefully for any sign of resistance. Seeing no way out, Simon finally acquiesces with a short nod, slamming the door shut between them both. Price let’s out a quiet breath and turns to head back downstairs, sure he’s going to have to come and get him when the 10 minutes he’s given him to get ready is up. It’ll serve two purposes, he thinks. If Simon takes a walk with him today then the boy will get a better lay of the land, have a bit more freedom to walk himself to the park maybe or walk himself to school, when the time comes for that, but it also means getting in food Simon can have control over. Speak of the devil.

Riley perks at his feet and trots happily to the boy as he stamps his feet into beat up trainers at the bottom of the stairs. The laces are threadbare at best and there’s holes in the outer skin that let Price know they’re no longer waterproof. Maybe when they have to tackle the issue of school uniform he can broach the topic of new shoes. Forcing himself up, Price moves to the coat rack and takes down Riley’s leash and harness, the German Shepherd waiting patiently to be belted up. Simon says nothing, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and eyes cast downward towards his feet. He doesn’t force the boy to break the silence, wondering if Simon is just a bit stunted in his social development or if there’s something greater at play. He never can tell, still doesn’t know him quite well enough.

He offers Simon the lead anyhow, and the boy takes it wordlessly, walking out alongside him and not waiting for him to lock the door behind them. Price has to catch up, and just about catches a glimpse of Simon slipping a black surgical mask over his face. Price’s brow furrows, a shudder rolling down his spine when he gets closer and sees the shoddily painted skeleton jaw painted on the front of the mask. It doesn’t feel like a fashion choice.

God kid, what the hell happened to you?

It’s like walking with the angel of death, even the breeze in the trees seem to fall silent in Simon’s presence. Price isn’t one to easily be unnerved, hell his job demanded he have nerves of steel, but something about Simon’s silent and foreboding presence makes him feel the need to fill the quiet space with noise.

“I’ve got a basic list, bread, milk, all that stuff, but once we’re in the shop you can give me an idea of what sort of dinner you like.” He said. Simon says nothing, of course. He gets a handful of looks from neighbourhood gossips but ignores them steadfastly. He’s like an omen of death, dressed in all black, hidden under baggy clothes, and…not reaching for a single bit of food. Price realises quickly that this is going to be harder than he originally thought. He feels like a phony Santa with the fake jolly attitude as he tries to suggest different things and is met by a shrug each time. He’s lost track of the amount of products he’s picked up in an attempt to sway him when Simon finally speaks ups.

“I don’t care.” The blunt and abrupt sentence is punctuated with a voice crack that makes the boy visibly cringe, as if the visible evidence of his youth is somehow a weakness he’s unwittingly shown. Price watches him for a long moment, head tilted and eyes squinting slightly.

“I do.” It’s a simply sentence, not one he packs a lot of emotion into, but it garners him the biggest reaction he’s had so far. Simon narrows his eyes. That eerie presence he exudes magnifies ten fold and almost tries to envelop Price, like a shadow has oozed from the boy and tried to poke and prod it’s way into Price’s very soul to examine the contents. He holds his gaze with the most neutral expression he can and pulls out his wallet to hold out a crisp ten pound note to the boy.

“This here is for you to go and get snacks with. We're going to make a yes basket. Anything you put in the basket, you can eat at any time. No permission needed, it's your food to eat as you please. The only rules for the basket are that whatever you buy fits within your budget, you need to buy a mix of junk food and healthy stuff, and it's only refilled when we go shopping on Saturday. If you eat it all by Wednesday there's no adding extra's too it until Saturday. If you do find it's empty and your still hungry, you can still eat the snacks in the kitchen cupboards, but we share those, so you need to ask permission before taking them. Understand?” his explanation is met with a further narrowing of the boys eyes, but Simon isn’t fool enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever life he’s been raised in, Price gets the impression that reading and playing people, having street smarts, is something the boy prides himself on, and that’s what makes him snatch the money from his hand and stalk for the fruit aisle first.

Price doesn’t see that basket once it’s taken into his room, but his fruit bowl remains full. Whether or not he paces himself is beyond Price’s knowledge to, but he’s set the boundary and he’ll see soon enough if Simon’s pushed it. If the way he eats his dinner is any indication then he reckons the basket was empty on day one. He scarfs down anything in front of him like he’s a black hole gorging on any and all matter, regardless of whether he finds it pleasant or not.

The subtleties in Simon’s expression is what helps him tailor his shopping lists going forward. His nose wrinkles ever so slightly when he eats anything he doesn’t like, and the missing nutrition in his previous diet is quick to make itself known when just a fortnight of eating a more varied and rich diet makes the boy sick to his stomach. He tries to hide it of course, but Riley’s compassion doesn’t let the boy suffer alone for long. The scuffling at his door is what wakes Price, and he forces his prosthetic back into place with a grunt, thumping with groggy eyes towards the bedroom door. He hears Simon heaving the minute he opens up,  giving Riley a scratch behind the ears before he heads for the bathroom. He pauses just briefly before knocking on the door and waiting to see if Simon will invite him in. He doesn’t, of course, so Price pushes the door open, and tries not to heave himself.

Simon’s always hidden beneath his clothes and now he knows why. Pale skin is mottled by severe but aging bruises. The poor boys black blue and yellow, a tapestry of violence inked into his skin that he’s still recovering from, may never recover from. There’s bones where he’d expected at least some muscles. He wonders if the skeleton painted on his face mask is supposed to represent the skeletal structure he’s somehow kept upright and ticking over in whatever horrific circumstances Simon has had to call his life up until this point. Price wipes any trace of his horror from his face as he grabs a wash cloth and dampens it, placing the cool cloth on the back of the boys neck as he awkwardly kneels beside him.

“Easy Simon, breathe.” He murmurs. Simon flinches form his hands, from his help, too used to doing things alone, but he’s just a child and he wants the one thing any child demands when they feel so awful nothing else helps.

“Mum.”

It’s a quiet croak, but it’s enough to shatter Price’s heart. He swallows thickly to get a grip on the lump in his throat before he pats the boys shoulder.

“Just me…have you had a sip of water?” he asks softly. Simon doesn’t turn his head, just leaves his head resting along his arm so Price doesn’t see the weakness seeping from his eyes. He shakes his head. Price gets him a glass of water, and they sit in silence until Simon’s ready to stumble back to bed again.

It’s the first time the silence doesn’t feel oppressive.

Price lets him sleep in the next day for as long as he needs, doesn’t ensure he eats breakfast as he’s now ensure just what to feed a stomach he guesses was previously empty most of the time, and instead calls up Laswell.

“John. How’s things?” her voice is tired and it sets his alarm bells ringing.

“Alright. Better, sort of. We’ve made a bit of progress, I think. How’s things on your end?” Price leans against the kitchen counter, watching Riley do his business in the back garden as he reads the pregnant pause before she spoke again. Not good then, he thinks.

“We’re alright,” She lied, “How can I help you today?” Price decides to let it go. Simon is his priority.

“Was wondering if we were any further forward with getting a doctor’s appointment for the lad, or even sibling visits. He mentioned his mum the other night, might do him some good to see his brother.” Price suggested.

Kate sighed, “Don’t push it John…Tom’s not good. Kid’s disclosed a lot since they were separated…Simon won’t be seeing him for a while yet. Doctor’s not called back yet, I’ll push it from my end. Is he well enough to wait?” Price’s head span for a second. Just what had the younger boy disclosed that had Kate so uptight? What had he seen? What had Simon seen? Or...is it something Simon had done? No, no that didn’t feel right. Simon was like a pitbull, preferring to puff up and look domineering but, under the right care at least, completely harmless. His burning curiosity might never be satiated. His job was to help the child, not investigate the case. No, no he had to leave that to Kate.

“I’d rather he was seen sooner over later. Could do with some help from a dietitian maybe. He was more undernourished than we originally thought and I don’t want to give him too much to soon.” Price relayed his concern neutrally, even as his mind raced ahead. “I’ll call today then and call you back when I have an answer.” Kate didn’t bother with a goodbye before she hung up. Price sighed, stared at his phone for a moment, and placed it on the side.

One thing at a time John, he thought, One thing at a time.

[wallwriterstuff]

Part 2 coming tomorrow...

To Soothe A Soul ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child abuse and neglect. All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Implicit talk of death. Mentions of military discharge and injury. This covers many sensitive topics, Minors should not interact with this.

Words: 2679

Summary: Written for @glitterypirateduck O Captain Challenge using a take on the promtps 'An unexpected visitor' and 'A Rescue Takes Place'.

Former Captain John Price can spot a dead man a mile away, and he's known enough of them to know that not every dead man dies. It's in the eyes, that dead-eyed stare that proves the body might work but the tattered soul inside has long since withered away. He's horrified to find those eyes in the gaunt face of his newest foster child. Simon Riley is a dead man walking, and he's barely 14.

“Any medical or dietary requirements? Allergies?”

“None as of yet but a doctor’s appointment will be organised for the near future to craft a more detailed healthcare plan. Kid’s malnourished and deficient in an alphabet of vitamins I’ll wager.”

His pen tapped rhythmically against his notepad, his gut feeling tight with anxiety. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called for an emergency placement and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but the fear of the unknown still prickled at the base of his neck, licked in icy stripes up and down his spine. A career in the military had prepared him for much in life, but even the horrors he’d faced abroad couldn’t have prepared him for some of the kids that came into his care. Fostering had definitely been a good move for him after an honourable discharge due to injury had forced him out of the field. The kids he cared for needed routine and consistency as much as he did, and it filled that aching need to have someone reliant on him being at his best, gave him the motivation to keep up with all those exercises doctors had insisted would help him stay healthy and help him to readjust to civilian life. If he had someone to do it all for it was much, much easier.

“Alright then. Anything else I need to know about him?” Price asked, halting the movements of his pen and poising his hand to note down anything of significance.

“Simon has a younger brother, Tom. He took on a caring role for him and it was his wish for the boys to remain together but…welfare concerns don’t permit it right now. We’ll talk more about a family plan going forward with you to ensure they get time together but for now just expect some backlash from the decision to separate them.” The woman on the phone, Kate Laswell she’d introduced herself as, sighed heavily and added, “Also…Simon found their mother. He’s seen a lot in the past 24 hours alone. Be mindful of his grief.”

Price couldn’t quite force his hand to move for a moment, thickly swallowing at the sympathy that clogged his throat for a second. He’d need to wipe that from his expression by the time they arrived; he doubted the boy would want to see it. Lowering his pen, he nodded slowly.

“Alright. How long?” His mind was already racing with all of the things he needed to get ready, to prepare.

“40 minutes from where we are to your address. We’re moving quickly with this one.” Kate informed him. Price internally groaned at the time limit but kept his tone calm and controlled as he agreed that it was fine and hung up. He took a moment to take a breath and then he placed his notebook away and pushed to his feet. He ran his home with just as much military precision as the barrack’s he’d been used to living in, with not a thing out of place and not a speck of dirt visible. No, no, it was the spare bedrooms that needed attention now. They were cleaned the same as the rest of the house but none were set up to welcome a teenager into. As he walked towards the stairs, he saw the fuzzy black ears perk up before hearing the click of hardwood beneath his claws. The grizzled German Shephard wasn’t the most welcoming looking dog given the scarring on his face, but he had a teddy bear heart and intellect that rivalled any human. His big head tilted in question, knowing that at this time of night Price was more likely to be sitting and nursing a glass of whisky and not traipsing upstairs. Price smiled gently and gave the lean muscles of his flank a firm pat.

“We’ve got a guest coming to stay Riley. You gonna be a good boy when he comes, hm?” he fussed him for a moment longer before gripping the railing and ascending the stairs. For the next forty minutes, the former Captain set towels in his bathroom, placed fresh bed sheets on every single bed in each of the spare rooms, and aerated each room to ensure it was fresh and prepared. In the kitchen, he set his fruit bowl front and centre and he tidied up his coat and shoe rack to ensure there was space for another set of belongings there. He tried to drag all these things out, not wanting to wait in the silence for his new charge to arrive and let the anticipation get to him. Riley settled against his side as he attempted to watch TV to pass the last 15 minutes, some mind-numbing episode of Match of The Day he could really care less about since Liverpool hadn’t been playing that day.

His own doorbell startled him like a gunshot, made Riley perk at his side. With a few firm commands and quick scratch behind the ears, he had Riley settled in his dog bed and was taking that last deep breath behind the door. I’ve met plenty like you, we’ll be fine.

Oh.

Oh no, no he hadn’t.

I’ve never met a kid like you at all.

Simon Riley clutched the bin bag full of his possessions in a white knuckled grip, his fist trembling with the effort as if scared that losing his grip meant losing everything. Every inch of him was locked up tighter than a maximum-security prison, and those eyes…those dead, dead eyes. They didn’t flinch. He’d seen SAS boys focus through glinting scopes with the same sort of resolve, unblinking, unyielding, vigilant in a way they’d been rigorously trained for. This gangly teen in tattered jeans and a baggy hoodie made a bigger impression than any he’d yet met. Dead as those eyes were they were keen, sharp, and Price knew they wouldn’t miss a trick. Overly aware now of his expression and body language, Price stepped aside to leave a nice wide gap, his smile welcoming and face soft, open.

“Hi, Kate right? And you must be Simon. Do you prefer Simon, Si, some other nickname?” he asked, gesturing for them to come in. Kate gave him a slightly strained smile and he guessed the ride over had been rather intense. Simon Riley oozed intensity in waves. When he stepped over the threshold into Price’s home it was like watching the grim reaper himself enter, an oppressive and ominous atmosphere following him, like he’d been trained to make his presence fill a room in a way his physically body couldn’t. Intimidation was something Price had dealt with for years however, gotten good at himself, and so he maintained that soft, open body language and didn’t flinch at that dead-eyed stare. I see you, but you don’t scare me, and nothing here should scare you either.

“Simon.” He grunted finally, fingers flexing around the bin liner. One bin bag. Moderately full but from the bulky way it stretched the bag Price guessed the majority of it was clothes. There was a stink that followed the bag to. Weed, he recognised, smoke, something bitter and tangy…iron-like. He filed that away as a conversation for later. Nodding, Price gestured to the shoe and coat rack.

“Simon, it’s good to meet you, I’m John. I made a space for your shoes and your coat here. House rules are that shoes always come off before we come in, please, or we’ll be forever mopping the hardwood.” He chuckled, maintaining that friendly smile as he waited to see what he’d do. Simon was already testing him clearly, because he let the silence drag out for a long while before he finally toed off his shoes and set them on the rack. His toes curled and uncurled into the hardwood for a moment. Price had seen it before both in soldiers and in previous kids, that fight or flight instinct. It was the scary unknown that did it. For some kids that came in this was the first house they’d been in that was clean and well-lit and warm. For some it was the emptiness of the open space that was unnerving after they got used to cramped bedrooms or bustling, busy living rooms filled with unsavoury visitors or simply one too many family members.

“John has offered to let you stay here for the time being, but I’ll be around still okay?” Kate assures him, “I’ll work on setting up visits with Tommy for you, and you’ve got my number saved in your phone, in case you want to talk to me.” Price knows instinctively that Simon won’t ever use that number. He doesn’t look the type to lean on anyone, least of all a stranger whose separated him from his brother.

“Actually, there’s more than just me in the house,” he pipes up, “Are you alright with dogs, Simon?” The boy doesn’t give him a single twitch of a response, simply looks from one adult to another. Buried deep beneath the layers of forced apathy Price can see exhaustion. “Riley’s an ex-service dog, worked with me on many a mission. He’s got a good temperament and likes a lot of fussing. He’s got a few scars though. You want to meet him?” his questions are met with silence once more, so John simply takes a few steps left to the archway leading into his living room, where Riley sits patiently in his dog bed near the window. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, ears perked and tail flicking in excitement. He doesn’t run, but he does lope forward a bit, curious and wanting to meet new faces, but Price makes him heel.

Simon almost rises on the balls of his feet, like a bird ready to take flight, eyes fixed on the German Shepherd in his eye line. Price takes a second to evaluate him, trying to see if it’s fear or curiosity, but the boy gives so little away. It’s the faintest twitch of his free hand toward Riley that gives Price incentive to motion the dog forward. It’s a gentle and tender display, as if Riley knows how sensitive the wounds Simon’s carrying are, like he can read the neon sign that screams HANDLE WITH CARE emblazoned on the boy’s broken soul. He sniffs gently at his pale hand, and Simon’s nose wrinkles ever so slightly at the cold, wet sensation on his bony knuckles. It doesn’t stop him from reaching to give Riley’s ears a scratch. The German Shepherd sits obediently, pushing his giant head into Simon’s hand for more. Kate gives the faintest smile.

“What’s his name again?” she asks.

“Riley.” Price replies, chuckling slightly as she goes to fuss him to. Her input causes Simon to fall back, eyes snapping to her and away from the dog, moving quickly from one fixation to the next, always hyper-aware and alert. How many times had the hand he’d not been watching for struck him? You can relax here, son, he wanted to say.

“A very good boy.” She coos. Price hums in agreement and steps up beside them.

“Living room has the TV and an old games console. I don’t have many games but if you like we can get some more in eventually. I don’t really use it often. Kitchen’s right through if you want a drink or something to eat?” His offer is met by that dead eyed stare again, but after a moment of consideration Simon gives him another quiet answer.

“Water.” His voice fluctuates with all the tell-tale signs of a boy on the cusp of puberty and Price is again hit by just how young he is for someone so alert and mistrusting. He doesn’t let the way his heart cracks a bit show on his face and simply leads them through to the kitchen, silently showing Simon exactly where the glasses are for him if he ever needs them while offering to make Kate a coffee to. Simon doesn’t contribute much to the conversation at all, just remains this silent and oppressive presence lingering in the corners of the room, anywhere that gives him a good vantage point really. He's a silent spectre, a sentinel, a ghost. Always somewhere just out of sight with everything in his watch and reach. Price lets him stand where he’s comfortable, concedes that little bit of control to him on a night he knows the boy’s had no control of anything.

“I’ve got a few different rooms upstairs, all of them are ready to move in to but I thought you might want to pick one that suits you.” He says, leading the two of them upstairs. Simon hasn’t once let go of his bin-liner and Price suspects getting him to wash anything in that bag is going to take considerable time and effort; this is all Simon has now of home, and however much a hell-hole home might have been he’s seen kids cling to the most disgustingly filthy objects purely because it’s the last vestiges of their old life and family they have left. He’s left all the doors open so Simon can explore each room upstairs at his own pace, and he waits patiently at the end of the hallway to give him time to adjust to the idea that this home is now his to.

Price can sense the overwhelm a mile away as Simon lingers in each doorway, like he’s afraid that to enter a room would be to taint it somehow, the pristine white linen looking to fine for his grubby hands. He can see the dirt under the boys nails, the slight lacquer of grease in his unkempt hair. Moving quickly indeed he thinks grimly as he watches the boy hesitantly test a mattress and peer out a window. That soulless stare focuses back on him when he’s found the room he wants, but the words won’t come. Simon never once asks if the room can be his, he’s never been allowed to want, but he acquires it through presence alone.

Price nods to the chest of drawers, “Bottom one’s got bedding in. We can talk some more tomorrow about how you want to decorate it. Take your time settling in and come down when you’re ready. Lights out at 10:00, alright?” Simon gives him a slow blink, and Price realises that’s all the reaction he’s going to get as he turns and walks to the stairs, Riley on his heels. Laswell waits near the front door, tapping away on her phone to organise the rest of Simon’s life no doubt. He clomps down the steps, absent-mindedly rubbing away the phantom aches in his leg once he hits the bottom.

“Kid doing okay?” Laswell’s question comes with a critical eye of him, and Price knows she’s really asking if he can cope with him more so than if Simon will be alright here. He gives a slight nod, glancing back up the stairs.

“Okay as he can be given the shit he’s gone through…he’ll, er…he’ll take some getting used to.” Price admitted.

“He’s not said more than five words to me since we met hours ago, and that stare…”Laswell shuddered a bit. Price hummed in agreement as he opened his front door to let her out.

“We need anything we’ll let you know, till then best to let him settle.”

“Alright then. You have my number.” Laswell lifts a hand in farewell as she walks down the front path and towards her car. Price watches her go, his mind already back on the teenage boy she’s leaving behind. Deposited in his house with nothing more than a bin-liner to his name, Simon Riley was going to require some serious care, and he felt clueless as to where to start. With a deep sigh, he closed the front door and set off towards the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and a game plan. He was going to make this house a home for the boy, one way or another.

[wallwriterstuff]

To Soothe A Soul ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child abuse and neglect. All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Implicit talk of death. Mentions of military discharge and injury. This covers many sensitive topics, Minors should not interact with this.

Words: 2679

Summary: Written for @glitterypirateduck O Captain Challenge using a take on the promtps 'An unexpected visitor' and 'A Rescue Takes Place'.

Former Captain John Price can spot a dead man a mile away, and he's known enough of them to know that not every dead man dies. It's in the eyes, that dead-eyed stare that proves the body might work but the tattered soul inside has long since withered away. He's horrified to find those eyes in the gaunt face of his newest foster child. Simon Riley is a dead man walking, and he's barely 14.

Part 2: The Yes Basket

“Any medical or dietary requirements? Allergies?”

“None as of yet but a doctor’s appointment will be organised for the near future to craft a more detailed healthcare plan. Kid’s malnourished and deficient in an alphabet of vitamins I’ll wager.”

His pen tapped rhythmically against his notepad, his gut feeling tight with anxiety. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called for an emergency placement and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but the fear of the unknown still prickled at the base of his neck, licked in icy stripes up and down his spine. A career in the military had prepared him for much in life, but even the horrors he’d faced abroad couldn’t have prepared him for some of the kids that came into his care. Fostering had definitely been a good move for him after an honourable discharge due to injury had forced him out of the field. The kids he cared for needed routine and consistency as much as he did, and it filled that aching need to have someone reliant on him being at his best, gave him the motivation to keep up with all those exercises doctors had insisted would help him stay healthy and help him to readjust to civilian life. If he had someone to do it all for it was much, much easier.

“Alright then. Anything else I need to know about him?” Price asked, halting the movements of his pen and poising his hand to note down anything of significance.

“Simon has a younger brother, Tom. He took on a caring role for him and it was his wish for the boys to remain together but…welfare concerns don’t permit it right now. We’ll talk more about a family plan going forward with you to ensure they get time together but for now just expect some backlash from the decision to separate them.” The woman on the phone, Kate Laswell she’d introduced herself as, sighed heavily and added, “Also…Simon found their mother. He’s seen a lot in the past 24 hours alone. Be mindful of his grief.”

Price couldn’t quite force his hand to move for a moment, thickly swallowing at the sympathy that clogged his throat for a second. He’d need to wipe that from his expression by the time they arrived; he doubted the boy would want to see it. Lowering his pen, he nodded slowly.

“Alright. How long?” His mind was already racing with all of the things he needed to get ready, to prepare.

“40 minutes from where we are to your address. We’re moving quickly with this one.” Kate informed him. Price internally groaned at the time limit but kept his tone calm and controlled as he agreed that it was fine and hung up. He took a moment to take a breath and then he placed his notebook away and pushed to his feet. He ran his home with just as much military precision as the barrack’s he’d been used to living in, with not a thing out of place and not a speck of dirt visible. No, no, it was the spare bedrooms that needed attention now. They were cleaned the same as the rest of the house but none were set up to welcome a teenager into. As he walked towards the stairs, he saw the fuzzy black ears perk up before hearing the click of hardwood beneath his claws. The grizzled German Shephard wasn’t the most welcoming looking dog given the scarring on his face, but he had a teddy bear heart and intellect that rivalled any human. His big head tilted in question, knowing that at this time of night Price was more likely to be sitting and nursing a glass of whisky and not traipsing upstairs. Price smiled gently and gave the lean muscles of his flank a firm pat.

“We’ve got a guest coming to stay Riley. You gonna be a good boy when he comes, hm?” he fussed him for a moment longer before gripping the railing and ascending the stairs. For the next forty minutes, the former Captain set towels in his bathroom, placed fresh bed sheets on every single bed in each of the spare rooms, and aerated each room to ensure it was fresh and prepared. In the kitchen, he set his fruit bowl front and centre and he tidied up his coat and shoe rack to ensure there was space for another set of belongings there. He tried to drag all these things out, not wanting to wait in the silence for his new charge to arrive and let the anticipation get to him. Riley settled against his side as he attempted to watch TV to pass the last 15 minutes, some mind-numbing episode of Match of The Day he could really care less about since Liverpool hadn’t been playing that day.

His own doorbell startled him like a gunshot, made Riley perk at his side. With a few firm commands and quick scratch behind the ears, he had Riley settled in his dog bed and was taking that last deep breath behind the door. I’ve met plenty like you, we’ll be fine.

Oh.

Oh no, no he hadn’t.

I’ve never met a kid like you at all.

Simon Riley clutched the bin bag full of his possessions in a white knuckled grip, his fist trembling with the effort as if scared that losing his grip meant losing everything. Every inch of him was locked up tighter than a maximum-security prison, and those eyes…those dead, dead eyes. They didn’t flinch. He’d seen SAS boys focus through glinting scopes with the same sort of resolve, unblinking, unyielding, vigilant in a way they’d been rigorously trained for. This gangly teen in tattered jeans and a baggy hoodie made a bigger impression than any he’d yet met. Dead as those eyes were they were keen, sharp, and Price knew they wouldn’t miss a trick. Overly aware now of his expression and body language, Price stepped aside to leave a nice wide gap, his smile welcoming and face soft, open.

“Hi, Kate right? And you must be Simon. Do you prefer Simon, Si, some other nickname?” he asked, gesturing for them to come in. Kate gave him a slightly strained smile and he guessed the ride over had been rather intense. Simon Riley oozed intensity in waves. When he stepped over the threshold into Price’s home it was like watching the grim reaper himself enter, an oppressive and ominous atmosphere following him, like he’d been trained to make his presence fill a room in a way his physically body couldn’t. Intimidation was something Price had dealt with for years however, gotten good at himself, and so he maintained that soft, open body language and didn’t flinch at that dead-eyed stare. I see you, but you don’t scare me, and nothing here should scare you either.

“Simon.” He grunted finally, fingers flexing around the bin liner. One bin bag. Moderately full but from the bulky way it stretched the bag Price guessed the majority of it was clothes. There was a stink that followed the bag to. Weed, he recognised, smoke, something bitter and tangy…iron-like. He filed that away as a conversation for later. Nodding, Price gestured to the shoe and coat rack.

“Simon, it’s good to meet you, I’m John. I made a space for your shoes and your coat here. House rules are that shoes always come off before we come in, please, or we’ll be forever mopping the hardwood.” He chuckled, maintaining that friendly smile as he waited to see what he’d do. Simon was already testing him clearly, because he let the silence drag out for a long while before he finally toed off his shoes and set them on the rack. His toes curled and uncurled into the hardwood for a moment. Price had seen it before both in soldiers and in previous kids, that fight or flight instinct. It was the scary unknown that did it. For some kids that came in this was the first house they’d been in that was clean and well-lit and warm. For some it was the emptiness of the open space that was unnerving after they got used to cramped bedrooms or bustling, busy living rooms filled with unsavoury visitors or simply one too many family members.

“John has offered to let you stay here for the time being, but I’ll be around still okay?” Kate assures him, “I’ll work on setting up visits with Tommy for you, and you’ve got my number saved in your phone, in case you want to talk to me.” Price knows instinctively that Simon won’t ever use that number. He doesn’t look the type to lean on anyone, least of all a stranger whose separated him from his brother.

“Actually, there’s more than just me in the house,” he pipes up, “Are you alright with dogs, Simon?” The boy doesn’t give him a single twitch of a response, simply looks from one adult to another. Buried deep beneath the layers of forced apathy Price can see exhaustion. “Riley’s an ex-service dog, worked with me on many a mission. He’s got a good temperament and likes a lot of fussing. He’s got a few scars though. You want to meet him?” his questions are met with silence once more, so John simply takes a few steps left to the archway leading into his living room, where Riley sits patiently in his dog bed near the window. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, ears perked and tail flicking in excitement. He doesn’t run, but he does lope forward a bit, curious and wanting to meet new faces, but Price makes him heel.

Simon almost rises on the balls of his feet, like a bird ready to take flight, eyes fixed on the German Shepherd in his eye line. Price takes a second to evaluate him, trying to see if it’s fear or curiosity, but the boy gives so little away. It’s the faintest twitch of his free hand toward Riley that gives Price incentive to motion the dog forward. It’s a gentle and tender display, as if Riley knows how sensitive the wounds Simon’s carrying are, like he can read the neon sign that screams HANDLE WITH CARE emblazoned on the boy’s broken soul. He sniffs gently at his pale hand, and Simon’s nose wrinkles ever so slightly at the cold, wet sensation on his bony knuckles. It doesn’t stop him from reaching to give Riley’s ears a scratch. The German Shepherd sits obediently, pushing his giant head into Simon’s hand for more. Kate gives the faintest smile.

“What’s his name again?” she asks.

“Riley.” Price replies, chuckling slightly as she goes to fuss him to. Her input causes Simon to fall back, eyes snapping to her and away from the dog, moving quickly from one fixation to the next, always hyper-aware and alert. How many times had the hand he’d not been watching for struck him? You can relax here, son, he wanted to say.

“A very good boy.” She coos. Price hums in agreement and steps up beside them.

“Living room has the TV and an old games console. I don’t have many games but if you like we can get some more in eventually. I don’t really use it often. Kitchen’s right through if you want a drink or something to eat?” His offer is met by that dead eyed stare again, but after a moment of consideration Simon gives him another quiet answer.

“Water.” His voice fluctuates with all the tell-tale signs of a boy on the cusp of puberty and Price is again hit by just how young he is for someone so alert and mistrusting. He doesn’t let the way his heart cracks a bit show on his face and simply leads them through to the kitchen, silently showing Simon exactly where the glasses are for him if he ever needs them while offering to make Kate a coffee to. Simon doesn’t contribute much to the conversation at all, just remains this silent and oppressive presence lingering in the corners of the room, anywhere that gives him a good vantage point really. He's a silent spectre, a sentinel, a ghost. Always somewhere just out of sight with everything in his watch and reach. Price lets him stand where he’s comfortable, concedes that little bit of control to him on a night he knows the boy’s had no control of anything.

“I’ve got a few different rooms upstairs, all of them are ready to move in to but I thought you might want to pick one that suits you.” He says, leading the two of them upstairs. Simon hasn’t once let go of his bin-liner and Price suspects getting him to wash anything in that bag is going to take considerable time and effort; this is all Simon has now of home, and however much a hell-hole home might have been he’s seen kids cling to the most disgustingly filthy objects purely because it’s the last vestiges of their old life and family they have left. He’s left all the doors open so Simon can explore each room upstairs at his own pace, and he waits patiently at the end of the hallway to give him time to adjust to the idea that this home is now his to.

Price can sense the overwhelm a mile away as Simon lingers in each doorway, like he’s afraid that to enter a room would be to taint it somehow, the pristine white linen looking to fine for his grubby hands. He can see the dirt under the boys nails, the slight lacquer of grease in his unkempt hair. Moving quickly indeed he thinks grimly as he watches the boy hesitantly test a mattress and peer out a window. That soulless stare focuses back on him when he’s found the room he wants, but the words won’t come. Simon never once asks if the room can be his, he’s never been allowed to want, but he acquires it through presence alone.

Price nods to the chest of drawers, “Bottom one’s got bedding in. We can talk some more tomorrow about how you want to decorate it. Take your time settling in and come down when you’re ready. Lights out at 10:00, alright?” Simon gives him a slow blink, and Price realises that’s all the reaction he’s going to get as he turns and walks to the stairs, Riley on his heels. Laswell waits near the front door, tapping away on her phone to organise the rest of Simon’s life no doubt. He clomps down the steps, absent-mindedly rubbing away the phantom aches in his leg once he hits the bottom.

“Kid doing okay?” Laswell’s question comes with a critical eye of him, and Price knows she’s really asking if he can cope with him more so than if Simon will be alright here. He gives a slight nod, glancing back up the stairs.

“Okay as he can be given the shit he’s gone through…he’ll, er…he’ll take some getting used to.” Price admitted.

“He’s not said more than five words to me since we met hours ago, and that stare…”Laswell shuddered a bit. Price hummed in agreement as he opened his front door to let her out.

“We need anything we’ll let you know, till then best to let him settle.”

“Alright then. You have my number.” Laswell lifts a hand in farewell as she walks down the front path and towards her car. Price watches her go, his mind already back on the teenage boy she’s leaving behind. Deposited in his house with nothing more than a bin-liner to his name, Simon Riley was going to require some serious care, and he felt clueless as to where to start. With a deep sigh, he closed the front door and set off towards the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and a game plan. He was going to make this house a home for the boy, one way or another.

[wallwriterstuff]

Hey, so, everyone needs to read this. The incredible world-building, the amazing chemistry between characters...if you want a new addiction I happily present you this

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood Masterlist

Summary: Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it.

It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks. 

As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives.

Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all. 

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, Price x Gaz, Ghost x Soap

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, NSFW content, explicit smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), knotting, biting, claiming, mating cycles, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, age differences, military inaccuracies, canon typical violence, blood, weapons, language, no use of Y/N, brief torture, hurt/comfort, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Chapters containing smut are marked with a *

Updates are posted on the weekends, either Saturday or Sunday PST

This fic can also be found on my Ao3 -> HERE

NAVIGATION PAGE Lore and world building masterlist CRCB Barracks Sims 4 Build Masterlist Support me on Patreon for more bonus content

Divider by: samspenandsword

Part 1 - The Omega

Chapter 1 - The Introduction Chapter 2 - Adjustments Chapter 3 - Speak Their Language Chapter 4 - You Can Be Useful Chapter 5 - What I Want *

Part 2 - The Bond

Chapter 6 - One Step Closer * Chapter 7 - Sweet Strawberry Chapter 8 - The Thing About Ghost Chapter 9 - Save Me Chapter 10 - Treat Me Gently*

Part 3 - The First Heat

It's Coming

[wallwriterstuff]

The top 5 right now on my spotfiy playstist as tagged by @kpopgirlbtssvt

The ask was "✨️when u get this u have to put 5 songs u actually listen to, publish. Then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool)🎶✨️"

No pressure tags for @dracoslittlepet @raindancer2004 @glitterypirateduck (because you spend so long curating fanfics I need to know if you have inspirational music for this task 😅) and anyone else who'd like to help someone expand their playlists!

✨️when u get this u have to put 5 songs u actually listen to, publish. Then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool)🎶✨️

1. “World of Your Own” Wonka 2023

2. “Drama” by Aespa

3. “Permission to Dance” by BTS

4. “Feather” by Sabrina Carpenter

5. “Super Shy” by NewJeans

What about you? @beautifulfigment

No pressure tags:

@wallwriterstuff @gh0stsp1d34r @thebearer @little-miss-dilf-lover @bunniesbearsandhobbitadventures @sunflowersteves @mrsmaeharrington

[wallwriterstuff]

The Night Before Christmas ||John Price x Wife!Reader||

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, suggestive themes, John Price is his own damn warning. Christmas Eve preparation by parents.

Words: 2601

Taglist: For @glitterypirateduck 's CODHOLIDAY2023 challenge. Inspired by the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" after a lifetime of watching my parents make Christmas magical for me...and annoyingly kissing every time they hear this song at Christmas. Thanks for that Mom and Dad.

Summary: On the night before Christmas, in John Price's house, a strange thumping is heard that is caused by his spouse. Or, when John finds out just how much of the magic in Christmas is created by his wife.

There’s a rumbling of jet engines plaguing his mind in the enveloping heat of a dry dessert. It’s almost suffocating, the way it presses on his chest, but there’s something mildly comforting about the familiarity of it. There’s a lull in the rhythm, a crack in the foundation. Soap’s laughter’s muffled but his smile’s bright, and the way Gaz’s eyes are twinkling makes him wonder what terrible joke Ghost has told now that he’s missed. Has he missed it? It’s difficult to tell here in the heat haze. He’s everywhere and nowhere, halfway between this world and somewhere new, somewhere undefined that his body knows but his mind hasn’t identified. It’s difficult to take a deep breath to try clear his head. He’s weighed down and weightless. He’s here and he’s gone. He’s lost and he’s found here among the family he’s chosen as the Earth shakes.

The boom is as garbled as trying to hear TV through static. The mortar strikes should be roaring, shattering his eardrums as much as the Earth but they’re not. He frowns, looking around. Why is no one running? Panicking? Another dull thud of what must be an enemy missile of some sort drowned out by the rumbling of those jet engines. He looks around in a daze. He can’t bring himself to feel even a twinge of fear. He just knows, instinctually, that there’s no danger here. The ground’s splitting and quaking beneath his feet but the smell of the Earth weeping for mercy through the fissures doesn’t come. Instead, it’s strong and clinical, almost like menthol. He inhales deeply, frown deepening as he gets closer to the crack in the Earth. Yeah…menthol. Another muffled thud and the gap is swallowing him whole, his team and the dessert all swirling away in a vortex of sand that the sandman retracts. He cannot sleep just yet. There’s work to be done.

Inhaling deeply, his nose stings at the strong smell of Vapo-rub. The tub still sits in his left hand while his right lingers on a small, rattling chest. Long lashes brush the apples of rosy red cheeks and his heart aches at the sight of his youngest, curled into his side in an effort to find respite from the flu that’s plagued him all week. Quietly, John clears his throat, lips smacking a bit to moisten his dry mouth. He gives himself a mental shake, removing his hand and carefully shifting himself off of the bed, old injuries aching and creaking as they always do when he’s given a moment of respite. He was barely home all of two days and he’s had the bedtime shift both nights, his children craving his attention now he’s finally, finally home. With a slight grimace, he cleans off the remnants of the foul smelling substance with a tissue from the nightstand, ensures that the nightlights are all turned on and slinks out of the room to let his son sleep.

He should find his own bed, he thinks. He can feel his own exhaustion in the marrow of his bones, a deep-seated kind of tiredness that robs him of more than just energy, but then he hears it again. The dull thud that roused him from his almost sleep is coming from downstairs, and adrenaline shoots through his veins like wildfire. It burns through that tiredness with whispers of ‘once more’, a drive to push through, fight back, obey every instinct hard-wired into his DNA that places survival above all else. He knows he locked the doors. Triple checked them like he does every night he’s home right before he put the kids to bed. Kids. You. Where are you? It’s automatic, no longer training or instinct but something more ingrained even than that, the way he searches room to room. Two fragments of his soul sleep soundly in their beds but you’re nowhere to be seen.

He's greased every hinge and secured every floorboard in this house. John knows exactly where to put his feet and how much weight to place on every individual board as he eases himself into the shadows. He greets every dark crevice like an old friend, one he knows intimately and has a depth of knowledge of that is unrivalled by any intruder in his home. The front door is closed, but the chain is off. His ears strain, that rhythmic clomping of clumsy boots making his brow furrow. Whoever it is is damn noisy, untrained even, perhaps even –

“What the bloody hell are you doin’?” he can’t help but snort, every muscles unwinding and the alarm bells in his mind fading in the face of his amusement. He settles it in his mind then and there. There’s no intruder, my wife’s just lost her marbles.

“Don’t, do that!” you hiss, hand clutched over your chest and foot raised, his boot dangling and far too big, in danger of falling onto the floorboards if you don’t take a step soon. John’s head tilts, a smirk twitching up his lips as he takes in the fake snow on the floor, the boot prints leading from the door into the living room.

“Since when did Santa wear combat boots?” he asks.

You scowl. “Since Mrs Clause had to throw her Doc’s away back in November...that’s why they’re on her Christmas list.”

He barely stifles his laughter, shoulders shaking as he rubs his finger under his nose. He knows better than to laugh at you right now as you continue to clomp towards the Christmas tree. He leans against the door frame, watching you navigate the sofa with keen eyes and folded arms. He can’t quite keep the grin from twitching his lips upwards as he drinks in the sight of you in his too big boots, Christmas pyjamas on and hair tied up, looking determined. There’s a peek of pink at the corner of your lips where your tongue pokes out in concentration as you try to keep your steps evenly spaced. That suffocating warmth is back and he recognises it for what it is now as he simply basks in the love you’ve woven into every inch of the house. It seeps into every grain of wood and is the stain lacquer finish of the laminate, holding the whole home together for him to return to. You’ve done it alone again, everything from presents to decorations and Grotto Visits. He can’t help his schedule but he wishes he’d been in on more of the magic you’ve woven that kept your little angels up until 10PM with unparalleled excitement.

“You could have asked for me to do that bit. Save you near breakin’ your neck in my boots.” He said. You sprinkle the last bit of fake snow down onto the floorboards and take a step, turning to look at him. John chuckles, crossing the room in three quick strides and scooping you up and away to the sofa. You grip him tight, the momentary shock of being airborne fading as you relax into his grip; trusting, always trusting. John won’t let you fall. He never has.

“I came up to, but you were asleep.” You teased. John huffed, kneeling before you and lifting your foot to his knee. His fingers made nimble work of the laces as he glanced up at you.

“Wasn’t,” his denial his half-hearted at best, “Was just restin’ my eyes.” He delicately slides his boot off your foot, setting it aside with much less reverence than he does your leg as he brings the other one up to untie next.

“Sure thing, cowboy.” You grin slyly. John looks up at you from under his brows, his focus half on the triple knot you’ve had to use to keep his work boots from sleeping off your feet. He chuckles a little as he picks it apart.

“Callin’ me a liar?” his query holds no bite to it. He slips the other boot free and lifts your leg, placing a delicate kiss to your calf. He feels the way your muscles tighten in response and he can’t help but smirk a little, does it again just to feel you respond to the touch of his lips on your skin.

“Liar? No. Big foot? Yes. How you walk in those things is beyond me.” You let your leg drop and shuffle forward. John’s left kneeling between your knees, his hands automatically finding purchase on your thighs, calloused thumbs caressing the smooth skin like it’s the safety on his rifle with a knowing, firm touch. A small smile creeps it’s way onto your lips, and John thinks that he could die happy this way, surrounded by you, kneeling at your altar. Hands cupping his cheeks, you gently rub your knuckles over the whiskers of his beard before leaning in to grant him the swiftest, sweetest of kisses.

Your eyes are bright, but there’s a small crease between them he smooths away with his thumb. John Price is nothing if not vigilant, and the only thing he knows better than the parts of his rifle are the planes of your body. Every minute twitch of a muscle and miniscule expression on your face is a well-read verse in the story of you. Your poetry in motion, and he won’t stand for your beauty being creased by worry and doubt.

“Stop worryin’ so much. Kids’ll be ecstatic to see Santa’s broken in.” He says.

“Broken in? John!”

“What? We don’t have a chimney so only logical explanation is that he’s shimmied the lock.” He grins up at you, letting you pull him to his feet with the most aghast expression on your face he thinks he’s ever seen. He swallows down his laughter because gods, you’re adorable and instead chooses to transfer his grip from your hands to your waist. “Joking, love, joking.” He assures you, stepping into your space and tilting your head up with his thumb and index finger. John doesn’t need to hear your forgiveness. He feels it in the way you let him chastely chase your lips until you push him back.

“We still have work to do cowboy.” You pat his chest and John huffs a bit, looking around the room. For the life of him he can’t fathom what else you could do to the place. Your shared house is cosy, decorated, loved. Fill it with anything else and he’s sure it’ll burst at the seams.

“Love, what could you possibly still have to do?” he looks down at you. You’ve got eyes like Christmas lights and are awash with the colours of them glittering on the tree, painted in stained glass colour like some Saint he knows he’s blessed to worship. The smell of fresh baked cookies and vanilla frosting is etched into your skin from your baking escapades with the kids today, soft and warm and inviting him to take a bite out of you.

“Presents. Had to hide them in the attic from certain sticky fingers. Can you get them down?” you ask.

John nods. “Alright. Anymore to be wrapped?”

“Ye of little faith. They’ve been wrapped since mid-November.” You scoff, crossing to the cookie plate and placing one in your mouth. As it melts on your tongue you hum in delight, and John frowns.

“Save one for me?”

“Sorry, Santa’s sent me for cookie quality control. Missed your chance.” There’s mirth shimmering in your eyes and cookie crumbs resting at the corner of your lips. John shakes his head as he slinks back upstairs, checking in habitually on his still sleeping angels before he pulls down the ladder to the attic. He’s got to admit he’s impressed at your tenacity. The bags are stuffed full. You’ve spoiled the little ones rotten. How you’ve done so much shopping and wrapping is beyond him, and he can’t quite figure out how you’ve managed to hide two very full bags in the attic on your own with two small children hanging off you while he was away. The Santa hat sitting nearby gives him pause. John knows he’s been a bit of a Grinch in the two days he’s been home. Something about coming home to a poorly babe and an overly prepared wife left little room for him to really get into the swing of the Christmas spirit. He endeavours to make a change.

Present bags retrieved, he slips back downstairs and pauses only to pluck a small sprig of mistletoe from the wreath at your front door. He triple checks he’s locked and chained the door once more. Force of habit. With your present bags resting in front of the tree he tugs on the Santa hat and waits patiently for you to return. There’s cookies missing and carrots with chunks eaten out of them in your efforts to make the children believe Santa really did come to see them, but he knows you can’t stand milk. He smiles slightly, knowing full well you’ll be pouring the milk back into the carton right about now.

When you return with the empty glass, you pause at the sight of him. John gives you a grin, lifting the sprig of mistletoe over his head.

“Someone’s on the nice list this year, deserved a special visit from the big man himself.” He offers you his free hand and you snicker slightly, eyes adoring and hand slipping into his. You let him pull you closer, and nothing feels better than his arm sliding around your waist. Now he’s really home. John leans in, eyes closing, and to his surprise there’s a strong smell of vanilla as you smear Christmas cookie onto his waiting lips with a giggle.

John blinks his eyes open in surprise, huffing a surprised laugh through his nose before he leans down and catches your mouth with his. He gives you no time to escape him or to clean off his mouth. It’s messy and it makes you squirm in his grip, but neither of you complain as you kiss and lick frosting away between you. His grip on you tightens, safe, inviting, hands sliding over the curves of you just to reassure himself your still here, still his. The best damn gift he ever did receive.  

When you pull back for air, John’s thumb swipes away the last little bit of frosting with a chuckle.

“Where did your mistletoe go?” you tilt your head at him and he unfurls his palm to show you. You take it from him with a hum, mischief dancing in your eyes.

“And just what are you planning on doing with that then?” He queries. Your eyebrows lift a bit.

“Think I know a better place for it.” You shrug. He feels your hands tugging at his belt, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment even as a smile twitches up his lips.

“I thought we only opened presents on Christmas morning?” he glances down to see the mistletoe hanging from his belt buckle. You giggle a bit, reaching into the bag just behind the sofa that has all your wrapping bits and pieces in . You place a sticky bow on your head and wiggle your eyebrows at him.

“I thought you were an advocate for bending the rules on occasion?” You teased, hips swaying as you slowly walk backwards towards the stairs. John chuckles, taking three quick strides towards you before he hoists you up and onto his hips. You don’t squeal. You know he won’t let you fall.

“Quick, before the kids catch Mommy kissing Santa Clause.”

“Underneath the mistletoe?”

“I believe that’s how the song goes.”

[wallwriterstuff]

A Little Blood Never Scared Me ||Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Female!Reader||

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol consumption/drunkenness. Descriptions of injury, blood and violence. Descriptions of the disconnect between being home and being out in the field. A few swear words and so much fluff near the end your teeth will rot.

Tags: Written (very late, sorry!) for @glitterypirateduck 's October 141 writing challenge because I currently have an unhealthy obsession with Modern Warfare. Prompts used include 2 characters (Gaz and Price), Damsel in Distress, and Taking Care of Each other.

Words: 4091

Summary: It can be difficult to readjust to civilian life without appropriate distractions. Or - the story of how Gaz can't help but play the role of knight in shining armor despite being on leave and meets the best distraction yet.

It’s never easy to come home and rejoin the real world.

Out in the middle of some war-torn territory it’s easy to forget how…mundane, it all is. When he exchanges the hard smoothness of his rifle for the hard smoothness of a whisky tumbler at the local pub it all feels very surreal. There’s nothing more foreign than the flimsy weight of a kitchen knife when your used to a combat blade. Hell, even his nose keeps twitching because the shower gel he uses at home isn’t the same as the standard issue soaps he’s used to at the barracks. He’s gone from scentless to being a human Yankee candle and it’s making his skin crawl almost as much as the clattering of pool balls, pinging in his ears like the deafening roar of a mortar strike. That being said, the burn in his throat is a welcome distraction, as is the company. Price has a way of putting it all into perspective he’s just yet to master and if Kyle has chosen him as his own personal Obi-wan, well, Price doesn’t need to know.

“You called your mum yet?” He asks him, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smirks a bit at Kyle’s obvious wince. Shaking his head, the younger man taps his fingers against the side of his tumbler before lifting it to his lips. He pauses, briefly, eyes lifting to meet piercing, amused blue.

“Will when I’m ready, you know what she’s like.” He sips, savouring the grounding burn in the back of his throat. With his glass safely back on the table he lifts his cap, running a hand over his hair. It’s grown uncomfortable long, definitely not as short as he usually has it, but maybe that’s just him being overly aware of the regulations he doesn’t need to adhere to as much on leave. Price grunts a bit in acknowledgement, watching his sergeant carefully, and Kyle hates the feeling that somehow, he’s being looked through instead of at. Price has always been good at that to, the man’s instincts borderline supernatural, at least in Kyle’s opinion.

“Worrying about her son? How dare she.” There’s not a hint of mockery in Price’s voice but the underlying message is clear to Kyle. Get your head right and call your mother, you prick.

“Think she’s more worried about my sister at this point, what with her due and all.” Kyle deflects him from the crux of the matter with practiced ease, but he knows he only gets away with it because Price lets him. He’s not really sure he wants to delve too deeply into the idea that home feels like coarse sand in his boots and the smell of gunpowder instead of the plush carpets and excessive luxury of a 60-inch TV screen in his apartment.

“Due already? Thought she’d only just got knocked up?” Price’s eyes flicker about, tracking something over his shoulder. Kyle immediately feels his hackles raise but the subtle stiffening of his muscles is something he just about manages to push away with another admittedly large sip of his drink. It’s only someone exiting the bathroom.

“Watch it, might be my Captain but that’s my sister you’re talking about.” He warns lightly. Price grins a bit. Kyle let’s his eyes slide over the pub. They’ve chosen a table off to the side, tucked out of the way of prying eyes in such a position that let’s them see the entire room – not even Price can kick that instinct. There’s a middle-aged couple that appear to be on a date in the corner booth, smiling and ignorant of the world around them. A few rowdy regulars that the bartender dotes on at the dartboard let out another cheer as someone hits something remarkably close to a bullseye. It’s a bog-standard pub all in all, from the exposed wooden beams to the threadbare carpet that reeks of long-spilled booze and something that attempted to clean the spill. Nothing here to fear.

“She ready for the little one to arrive?” Price asks the question as if he has any way of knowing the answer. The disconnect between him and his family after months away is just as surreal to him as the prospect of cooking his own meals again rather than ripping open an MRE and praying it was somewhat edible this time. Price leads the conversation with the mastery of knowing the steps to the dance. It’s an easy routine, a simple one, and it brings him more comfort than he dares say. There’s aimless chatter and there’s noise but not too much noise, a good drink, and a warm atmosphere that almost, almost, mimics the heat of whatever godforsaken dessert he’s traipsed through this time. It’s grounding and mundane and a slow ease back into the reality of what everyday life tends to be when you aren’t being shot at or hanging from helicopters. By the time their three drinks in, Kyle feels less like a rattle snake coiled to strike and a little more human again.

The group at the dartboard have only gotten rowdier, and they’ve stumbled their way back over to the bar for another round. A shared glance is all it takes for Kyle to know this will be their last drink tonight, better to leave before anything kicks off amongst the herd of drunken fools and sets them back into fight or flight mode.

“I’ll call my Mum tomorrow.” Kyle relents finally, meeting Price’s eyes for a tad longer than necessary just to show he means it.

Price gives an approving nod, “Good lad.”

He glances over at the group at the bar, the boisterous laughter turning his head as he watches a woman gingerly skirt her way around them to head for the bathrooms. His eyes narrow in distaste as a particularly loud wolf-whistle makes your head duck and your pace increase. He understands their attraction, you’re easy on the eyes, but you clearly don’t want to be bothered either and he can see the flush on your cheeks is just as much down to embarrassment as it is alcohol consumption.

“Alright, who’s paying then?” He asks, tearing his eyes from your figure once he knows your safely tucked in the ladies out of their eyesight. Price tips his head, reaching for his wallet and producing a coin.

“Call it.”

“Tails.” Kyle’s response is immediate, eyes keenly tracking the coin as Price flips it. Judging by the disapproving grunt and the mild annoyance in his eyes, Price has lost this round, and he can’t stop the smug grin twitching his lips upwards. It falls quickly as he hears the hollering from the crowd at the bar.

“Go on son!”

“Get some!”

“Don’t fumble it mate!”

From the corner of his eye he sees a tall brunette man stumbling his way from the bar, and something about the look in his eyes sets him on edge. It’s almost predatory in nature, the kind of look that you see in nature documents as predators stalk their prey, and he twists his body instinctually to face the oncoming threat before he even fully comprehends what the threat is. He’s not sure what about this drunk buffoon sets him so on edge but he learned early on in his career that trusting your gut was usually the safest option. That and the idiot does look like a bit of a dick.

“Might come up with you to the bar anyway.” He says.

“Suit yourself.” Price’s voice is calm, unbothered, but it’s as natural and easy as breathing to Kyle to put himself as one more barrier between a potential threat and a friend. Neither of them even has a chance to get up from their seats before three things seem to happen at once.

1, you emerge from the bathroom.

2, the brunette man from the bar trips over his own feet.

3, the pair of you collide and create some cosmic chain of knock-on collisions that Kyle has only half a second to decide whether or not he can stop or if he just has to embrace it.

If he doesn’t want a broken wrist, embracing it seems to be his best option.

Fate deposits you in his lap not a second later, ribs cracking painfully against the tabletop and your hand slapping into his glass, even as he tries his best to steady you. You’re both covered in beer from the brunette guy’s drink as it sloshes from the pint glass and onto your clothes, and Kyle wrinkles his nose a bit against the sudden yeasty smell. There’s a sharp cry from both fallen parties and a soft grunt from him as your arse lands not so gently on more delicate areas of his body, but despite the jolt of pain in his thigh and wrists he’s otherwise doing far better than you, though he thinks you’re a bit too shell-shocked from the fall to recognise there’s blood dripping from your hand.

“Way to go Mark!”

“Fumbled it mate!”

The rowdy bar crew irk him more than he lets on as Price hauls up the idiot, Mark. His face is red from a mixture of alcohol, embarrassment, and anger, anger he swiftly lets loose on the three people in front of him. Price holds his hands up in surrender as Mark shirks him off rather violently, almost falling again when he twists too hard and quick in his uncoordinated state.

“Ge’off! You! You made me spill my beer!” The accusing finger pointed your way seems to snap you from your stupor and you wriggle out of Kyle’s gentle grip with wide eyes.

“I didn’t – what?” Your voice is a pitched squeak of disbelief and shock. Kyle stands, grabbing a wad of napkins to press it against your wound. “Ow! Hey! What the – oh my god…” You stare wide-eyed at the rivulet of blood rolling down your arm. It’s soaking through the napkins quicker than Kyle would like.

“Keep your arm up, above your heart. You won’t have hit anything major, it’s just the alcohol thinning your blood.” He reassures you, keeping his touch light and unintrusive. You could easily push his hand away but you don’t, surprised Y/E/C eyes flickering up meet his own.

“You even listenin’ to me you little bitch? I said you owe me another drink!” Mark’s words are so slurred that another drink is clearly a terrible decision for him.

“Oi, leave the lady in peace.” Price suggests. Knowing his Captain has him handled Kyle focuses his attention on you, gently moving the bloodied napkin from your palm. It sticks a bit, and you wince as the coarse material comes free of your broken skin.

“Sorry, sorry…you’re going to need stitches.” He informs you. There’s a jagged line that won’t stop pumping red, the flesh torn open with a glint of glass inside.

“Stitches? Oh no, not needles. I – shit I feel dizzy.” You turn whiter than a sheet at the thought and Kyle’s quick to adjust his grip on you to help you sit, keeping your arm elevated while you put your head between your knees.

“Easy, deep breaths, you’re going to be alright,” he crouches beside you, hearing Price and Mark squaring off behind him, “I’m Kyle. Can you tell me your name?”

“I’m Y/N.” your voice is a little weak. “Sorry for, you know, sitting on you.” Kyle chuckles a little at that, glancing up as Price hands him a towel. Price has angled himself between you two and the drunken fool as his friends come to collect him.

“Don’t worry about it, glad you landed on me and not the table.” He focuses on wrapping the towel around your hand, apologising quietly when the pressure makes you wince.

“Oh no, I landed on that to. I landed on all the things.” You groan a bit, good hand massaging your ribs. Kyle grimaces slightly.

“Can I check nothings broken?” he offers. You look up at him, search his gaze for any ill-intent, and then you nod. He makes sure to give you a reassuring smile as his hand finds your side, fingers gently applying pressure and watching your face for any signs of discomfort. It feels more intimate than is appropriate for a first meeting but your nerves bottle before his does and you look away with pink cheeks, which is a feat in itself because Kyle had been sure you’d lost a bit too much blood to blush like that.

“But she owes me a beer!” Mark is still insistent, even as his friends try to drag him away. Kyle huffs, annoyed now as he glances back at him over his shoulder.

“She owes you about as much as any other woman on the planet. Nothing. Now piss off and sober up mate.” There’s enough warning in his voice that Mark’s more sober friends hurry to comply with the thinly veiled threat.

“You got anyone who can get you to hospital love?” Price asks, standing as still as stone until he’s sure there’s no chance of Mark making his way back to you. Kyle keeps the pressure on your hand, seeing a bit more alertness to your eyes now.

“No, no we’ve both had something to drink.” You grimace, looking at Kyle with big doe eyes he finds more endearing than he’d care to admit. “Do I really need stitches?”

“Yeah, you do, and for someone to pick the glass out the wound,” Kyle’s smile is a tad sympathetic now, “But the good news is your ribs aren’t broken. You may have landed on all the things but you’re not too bad off for it.” His light teasing brings a twitch of a smile to your lips, a smile that quickly falls as Price questions if you have friends or a partner here to go with you. Though your eyes search the pub thoroughly, they fill with frustration and regret when you see no familiar face in sight.

“No…I was on a date,” you look a bit embarrassed to admit it, “Guess he snuck out while I was in the bathroom.” Kyle tilts his head slightly, carefully helping you to stand when you attempt it.

“More fool him, look at all the fun he could be having.” He says it just to see you smile, enjoying the tinkling of your laughter in his ears.

“Oh, bucket loads right? Christ…that stings.” Your smile falls away into a wince again, and though he knows he’ll get shit for it later from Soap when Price inevitably tells him, he can’t stop the offer from tumbling out of his mouth.

“I’ll go with you then.”

You sigh, “It’s okay, really, no need to ruin your night any more than I have.”

“Who said you’d ruined my night? Come on, let’s get you seen to.” He’s already gently guiding you out of the pub with Price on your other side, knowing you’re likely to protest anyway from the look on your face. You pause only to grab a jacket from your table before the cold night air envelopes you, Kyle keeping your arm up and sticking close to ensure your warm enough – the last thing he wants is you going into shock on him.

“Are you sure?” you ask for the hundredth time. Kyle silences you with a single look that has a shudder crawling up your spine, one he can feel ripple into him since you’re standing so close, and he feels a little smug at the reaction he gets from you. He’s seen your eyes lingering once or twice to, and he’s starting to thank whatever’s watching over him the evening took this turn.

“Gaz!” Price calls his name and Kyle turns to see him standing, holding open the door of a cab not 50 yards down the road. Bundled in the back of a cab that’s probably breaking a few speeding laws to get you both to a nearby hospital, he feels those instincts tugging at the back of his mind, trying to claw him back into work mode. There’s blood, there was the threat of violence, and it’s got all of his hackles raised a bit, even though he’s trying to be soft with you. You’re clearly in pain and still a little shocked by the nights events and he doesn’t want to be too stoic or too harsh and make it worse, so he focuses on the gentle smell of your perfume and the softness of your hair tickling the side of his face. It crosses his mind then you might be uncomfortable with his proximity, and he subtly tries to shift away only to find you follow him, naturally wanting more of his warmth as the blood loss and shock make you feel cold.

“Just to be clear, I don’t usually do this.” You say softly. Kyle glances at you with a raised eyebrow, your voice and the rumbling purr of the engine is all quiet and helps soothe some of his louder thoughts right now.

“You don’t usually bleed all over strangers at the pub? A shame, I was looking for someone who shared my hobby.” He tries to joke, feeling a bit rusty and out of practice, and realises too late how goddamn creepy that probably sounded. He’s thankful to hear your quiet laughter.

“No, well, yes, I don’t do that either, but I meant hopping into cabs with strangers.” You nudge his side lightly with your elbow and he relaxes a little more.

“We exchanged names and I’m covered in your blood, not sure we can call ourselves strangers anymore, more like…strange acquaintances.” He suggests. You hum in agreement at that, and you lapse back into silence with him once more. It’s a strangely comfortable one, but then again Kyle’s never really been a man of many words. He keeps half an eye on the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the pallor of your skin. Your bathed intermittently in warm orange light from the street-lights outside, and his breath hitches a little in his chest. Maybe it’s been a little too long since he was allowed to think of anything other than what the next target is, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take the opportunity to admire the way your long lashes brush your cheeks, or the perfectly shaped outline of full, painted lips.

“Thank you, for coming with me.” You look up at him, your smile so sweet it makes his stomach flip. It really isn’t the best of circumstances, he knows so, but he rarely gets the chance to charm a pretty woman and, well, your night’s been a bit shit, so he feels obligated to cheer you up some.

“When a pretty woman falls into your lap, you’d be amiss to pass up the opportunity to play knight in beer-stained armour.” He chuckles. He’s taking most of the weight of your arm but he ignores the discomfort in his own. Your eyes are pinched with pain, and he can only imagine how badly your sliced palm must be throbbing, knowing from his own encounters with combat knives how deeply the sting of a cut can run.

“Bold of you to assume I’m a damsel in distress. I sliced open my hand perfectly well without your help.” You quip back. Kyle grins. You’ve got a wicked tongue and the wit of the devil. As the cab pulls up, he tips the driver an extra £20 before helping you into the accident and emergency ward. It’s crammed wall to wall, every chair full and an excess of patients standing around, and the strong burn of disinfectant in his nose has him taking slightly shallower breaths to avoid the smell as best he can. You look even paler under the fluorescent lighting and he’s determined to get you seen to quickly, the bright red of the blood-soaked towel on your hand standing out starkly in this pristine white place.

You give your name and details, checking in with the receptionist who looks at your hand like she wishes it would disappear from her line of sight, and then your led to an over-flow waiting room where there’s a chair hurriedly snapped open for you and the promise of a nurse seeing you quickly. Kyle crouches beside you again, looking over the mess of blood and beer on the pretty dress you’d been wearing that night, and quietly wonders how your date found enough faults in you to run out. For the five minutes he’s known you Kyle’s found you to be attractive and quick-witted, a good sense of humour, so he can’t imagine the conversation was that bad.

“Do you want some water?” he offers, thumb jerking to the water cooler not too far away. You nod a bit and leaves you with your hand raised to go fetch you both a cup. He watches you sip it slowly and he does the same, eyes flickering to find all the nearest exits out of habit. You’re like a magnet though, a beacon burning brightly in the night, and he finds his gaze quickly drawn back to you. The bubble you two have created is one of quiet comfort, the kind that warm blankets on cold days provides and is found in the deep hearts of forests or the embers of dying fires.

“This really doesn’t bother you, does it?” you question, pulling him from his thoughts. He glances up at you from his spot crouched beside you, head cocking. “This. Blood, hospital trips, confrontation. You’ve been completely unphased by this from the start.” You elaborate on your thoughts and Kyle finds himself blinking in surprise, adding the word observant into the file with your name on that he’s starting to compile in his mind. He’s almost reluctant to say what he knows is the answer to your unspoken question, knowing it’s often a crossroads for all relationships waiting to form in his life. He doesn’t want to give up the soothing balm that is you just yet. There’s just enough intrigue to make him want to know more, and yet he braces himself for the rejection he’s sure is inevitable from such a sweet thing as you.

“I’m a soldier.” He almost holds his breath once the truths out. The rest of the sentence can remain unspoken, you don’t need him to tell you of the horrors and misery he’s seen, everyone knows what soldiers see even if they don’t talk about it. You surprise him once more.

“Ah, I see.” The quiet acknowledgement is just that, a statement of fact that promises he’s been heard without delivering judgement, and he feels there’s hope he might still have a chance at knowing you.

“That bother you?” he just has to be sure.

You smile a bit, “Depends, are you here because you’re duty bound to protect innocent civilians?”

His head tilts a bit; he sees that inquisitive little gleam in your eyes, a spark of interest, and he catches it quick with the intent of nurturing that spark into roaring flame. His head’s completely quiet now. He feels like he can go back to the silence at home and survive it if only your voice fills the empty space instead.

“No…here because I think that what tonight’s shown me, is your hand fits nicely in mine.” The line is absolutely terrible and he knows it, but the way you fluster and smile at the ground has his own grin widening. When the nurse calls your name, you look up to her, then back at him, biting your lip. For the first time that night, you don’t try to be brave, you let him see your apprehension and offer him your good hand, wanting him to come with you.

“Prove it.” You say.

Kyle does, and when he returns to his apartment in the early hours of the morning, he can still feel the warm imprint of your lips on his cheek. Your perfume has stale beer has cloyed in his nose and the imprint of you is behind his eyelids when he closes them to try and sleep. The echo of your laughter rings in his ears and the reminder of your smile as he’d suggested late night waffles at a dessert place nearby your apartment. The phone on his nightstand seemed to hum with anticipation of using your now saved number tomorrow.

It's never easy coming back to the real world, but the real world certainly has it's perks.

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Both parts to this are beautifully written masterclasses in tearing open my heart and letting it bleed into the floor

Breaking and Entering

(John Price x F! Reader)

(Call of Duty Masterlist)

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

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

There’s just one problem.

You aren’t supposed to call this one.

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

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

It’s you.

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

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

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

“Where are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stairs creak in the background.

Price floors the gas.

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

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

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

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

April 22nd. Your eldest’s birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bloody fucking hell. Where are the bloody cops?

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

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

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

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

BANG-!

The sound of the bedroom door being kicked in.

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

Two minutes.

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

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

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

The world drops out from under him. 

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

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

BANG-!!

A gunshot.

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

The house goes silent.

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

Even so, in this moment, he prays.

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

There’s crying from the bedroom.

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

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

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

It isn’t you. 

“John.”

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

Alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has a lot of explaining to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taglist:

@guyfieriii @zwiiicnziiix @writeforfandoms

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Oh this is GOOD

Cult of Vagabonds MasterList

MAIN MASTERLIST

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

OVERALL WARNINGS:Familial trauma, PTSD, anxiety, trauma responses, angst, character deaths, gore & violence, kidnappings, interrogations, self-deprecating thoughts and actions, addictions, eventual smut, etc. (More specific warnings will be listed in every chapter)(18+).

DISCLAIMER: While not an OC, the Reader will be given a backstory that will be seen throughout the fic and intertwine with the plot. Taglist is full. All images found on Pinterest.

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