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People don’t disappear – they leave traces, clues, marks on the walls, or black scuffs on the floors. Hell, people leave something behind even if you can’t see it.
But the dog tags in your hands give you nothing besides memories, and memories only leave heartbreak; a burning in your lungs like you took a bullet there that digs between the soft tissues, spewing blood over the carpet. Heartbreak can’t help you bring him back.
John Price left you with nothing but his dog tags and try as you might, you can’t help but hate him for it.
No evidence.
No trace.
And no body to be buried.
They couldn’t fucking find him.
“This was all I could find,” Gaz whispered, breathless, when he stood on your doorstep a week and a half ago, watching the smile on your face freeze – as if, at that moment, you were caught in a time-loop of opening that front door over and over again to his pained face. You stared at him like you didn’t know him, and, so, he continued, the dog tags in the small black velvet box shaking in his grip as he opened the top with a muffled clack, “I-I’m so sorry, Love.”
I’m so sorry.
That was all they could say, but it didn’t mean shit. That couldn’t have been all that was left. Pieces of metal on a ball chain? Flecks of blood and dirt over the imprinted words and numbers? No. No. No.
Your eyes had withered as they traveled down Gaz’s ceremonial uniform, the brown color with the various medals glinting in the afternoon light of autumn. But the chill of the air never reached you, and all you could think about as your eyes landed, finally, on those damaged dog tags was that John would have hated all the hassle that Gaz had gone through.
He would have snorted in that way only he could, cheeks jerking up as his eyes slid to the side for a moment; always thinking. John's feet would shuffle, and after a moment, he would cross his arms and say something like, ‘putting on the chest candy for me, Garrick?’
You almost heard him say it, his breath whispering the tendrils of your hair near your ears and his comforting presence – like a large Saint Bernard Dog. You even think you turned around and checked, because one moment you were at the door, and the next Gaz was walking you back into the living room of John’s London home, his arms holding you up. You hadn't noticed, but your legs had given out, possibly even blacking out for a second.
The Captain had always let you stay at his place when he was off on deployment – he said you made it more of a home than he ever could, seeing as he was gone all the time. You had only moved in permanently a month ago.
At the end of it, Gaz had placed the velvet box in your hands as you wailed on the couch, agony bouncing off the walls and ceiling like a bouncy castle; gripping your face so tight the skin broke. The sound of the Tv in the background is playing re-runs of some old black and white film. A western that John loved to watch. You played them so it felt like your boyfriend was still in the house, waiting just behind the thin walls for you to come and annoy him about how you hated those movies.
But you had never hated them more than in that instance.
Gaz utters your name, “...Speak to me, please. Tell me to fuck off or-or something!” All you did was bring the box to your chest and drag Gaz into a tight hug across the cushions, not caring about the uniform or how he shook as he wrapped his hands back around you, rubbing your back.
But you felt the tears on top of your head just as easily as you heard your own stain the fabric of the couch.
The dog tags clinked as they connected, and from under Gaz’s firm grip, you stared down at them before their image got too blurry and you had to blink away the tears again. Damaged metal – that’s all that was left.
You both stayed like that for hours, long after the sun had set, but your eyes never strayed from the tags and in your mind, you told yourself that M.I.A didn’t mean dead. But the sinking feeling in your chest told you it might as well.
Have faith in him, You sniffle, fingering the tags, caressing the imprints of ‘Price, Jonathan’ as your body shakes.
A week and a half had gone by like a nightmare, slow and horrible, and with every second of every minute of every hour, the weight on your chest had gotten worse. It wasn’t like when John lay a top of you, body pressing down in a deep slumber. Most days you didn’t leave the bed – it smelled too much of John you told yourself, but knew it was more than that. You had lost the drive.
Digging your face deeper into the old pillow – John’s pillow that you had begged him to replace as it was as flat as a pancake – your hands clench onto the dog tags from where they lay on the mattress, the cold metal digging into your palm. It was a painful reminder.
In that state of half-consciousness, you liked to imagine that the plain green comforter around your waist wasn’t fabric at all – that the caressing weight was strong arms instead, dragging you backward until you met a firm chest; you could fall back to sleep with the knowledge that the breath on the back of your neck didn’t belong to the fan across the room but was actually John and his nearly silent snores. He always kept you right by him when he was sleeping; hated when he woke up and you were gone, either finding you in the kitchen making a drink to help you sleep or doing other activities like that. You remember vividly when John had woken from a nightmare and you were making a midnight snack in the kitchen.
His panicked breathing had told you first that something was wrong, and when you turned around – there he was, standing at the entrance to the kitchen with a hand grasping the door frame so tight his knuckles were white and shaking. He looked at you like he had feared for your life, and the toast you were about to bring to your mouth had frozen in your grip, peanut butter dripping off the side.
“John?” You had whispered, placing the carb down with a thunk onto the plate, “are you alright, Love? What happened?”
That was the first time you had seen John cry.
Before you knew it, you were rushing over to him and wrapping him in your hold. He hugged you so tightly that night you were only slightly concerned your ribs might snap. Ever since then, with the reminder of his tears dripping into your hair living in your brain, you made a point to stave off the nighttime adventures, instead listening to John’s heartbeat to put you back to sleep.
You couldn’t sleep without him now; that was a fact. A torturous, downright evil, fact.
John had ruined you for anyone else besides him.
Tears slipped from your half-lidded eyes as the memory slipped away from you; turning your head farther into the pillow, you choked on the sob in your throat as the morning light attacked your eyes. You wonder if anyone has ever died from a broken heart before and if you’ll be the first.
But I can’t die until John’s body’s found, You think with a muffled gasp, body curling into itself, I can’t go without knowing.
The boys had come to visit when they were free, all of them had keys and weren’t afraid to use them. They were worried about you, is all, so you entertained the unannounced visits with the same blank look that now lived on your face constantly. Gaz came the most as you were the closest to him – he meant good, you knew that, and he had cared about his Captain immensely when he was…when he was…
He felt an obligation to you and carried a large amount of guilt with him.
Gaz liked to prod, trying to convince you to get out of bed, promising the weather was nice for a walk, on and on. But the world didn’t smell like John, and the faces you would have looked at wouldn’t have his beard or wear that stupid bucket hat or beanie. You had no drive to leave the house. What was the point?
Soap was next, the jokester trying to lighten the mood at any instance. He tried to make you talk about John, saying little quips, but you never spoke a peep beyond your sniffles. You didn’t want to talk about your boyfriend, the voices in the back of your head talked about him too much already; to the point where it became a chore to think about anything else. At the very least Soap wanted you to smile once every time he visited – he had told you as much. But he left in defeat every time, and although his loyalty was arguably one of his largest qualities, his visits dwindled just like the light in his eyes. He was taking it hard.
Yesterday, though, was different.
Simon had come to the house for the first time. He sat in the plush chair in the corner and read aloud to you from a random book on your bookshelf, not making any comment unless the character's actions were surprisingly dumb or pointless. He never pried like Soap, and never prodded like Gaz. He was just there, and, perhaps, that was what you liked the most about him. When you had asked him to read just one more chapter to you from one of John’s favorite books, Simon had looked up and paused when he caught your eyes, his own minutely widening above the cloth covering the lower half of his face.
It wasn’t so often that eyes like his own were staring back at him.
He had re-opened the book and read until your eyelids had slipped shut, and when you woke up, he was making breakfast in the kitchen.
The smell of burning waffles prompts you to raise your head and look at the ajar door. Burning waffle mix wasn’t a pleasant smell, and your nose twitched in disgust.
You got to your feet and shuffled down the hallways, dragging the comforter with you and listening to it ruffle over the floor as the clanking of pots and pans made your ears perk. Pointedly not looking at the pictures on the walls, you tug the dog tags over your head, caressing the metal before letting the weight hit your chest with a quiet thunk as they connect with your pajama top.
Your bare feet pad to the kitchen entrance and briefly you remember a tight hug before the memory is shoved down as you shake the glassiness of your eyes away. You blink at the scene in your kitchen and a bit of awareness lights in your orbs.
“Are you trying to burn my house down, Simon,” You croak, no doubt looking like the dead walking, “Or are you just really bad at cooking?”
The man was covered in flour, his black clothes layered in it so much so that your eyebrow raised, amusement nearly making you scoff. You shuffled to the island and pulled out a stool with curiosity and concern for the wellbeing of John’s house. Hopping up, you watched the trained killer as he turned to you, the waffle maker behind him covered in pale dough.
“Never made waffles before,” He has the decency to look embarrassed, at least, “Didn’t bloody think it would be this hard.”
“You’ve never made waffles?” You cross your arms on the island counter, moving to rest your chin on them before closing your eyes for a moment. For a second you had forgotten that John was dead and just like before the weight was back.
“This was the only good one,” Simon’s voice snaps you back, and your open your eyes slowly. A plate slid across the counter, a slightly burnt waffle sitting drowned under syrup with a fork set on the side.
“Would it hurt your feeling if I didn’t eat it?” You mumble, peering up from your makeshift headrest.
Simon’s arms were behind him resting on the back counter as milk dripped to the floor, and a sigh built in his chest, making his sweatshirt rise before his eyes blinked at yours.
“Yes.” He turned his back and began collecting ingredients, trying to clean up – apparently he had accepted defeat. Your eyes shifted to the plate ahead of you.
“Fine,” You sigh, sitting up and dragging the plate closer, and pick up the fork with weak fingers before using the utensil as a knife and dissecting the food.
Your mouth waters as you shove a piece into your mouth, chewing for a little bit before stopping. You look slowly at Simon, cheeks full, and you blank when you find him watching you closely.
“Did you forget the sugar?” You watch the man’s body tense, eyes darting to his phone on the counter where he was most likely using an online recipe before snapping back to you.
Pressure builds in your chest as you swallow the inedible waffle and feel it travel down your throat and a quick moment later you’re slapping a hand over your mouth and stifling the small laugh that echoes through the kitchen. You swore you see Simon’s shoulders jerk proudly for a moment, and he turns his head away to continue cleaning.
Around your neck, the dog tags clink together and with your free hand, you grasp them lightly.
You felt just a little bit better, even if it was at the famous ‘Ghosts’ expense.
—
No one knows who shot down the helicopter – they say it was the Russians, but who could really be sure? Task Force 141 had so many enemies it could practically be anyone on their list and they could be none the wiser until the forensic team got their job done.
All that John knew was that he woke up in the dirt, the press of metal over his chest to the point where he knew some of his ribs were cracked and that the flames were getting closer to the fuel tank. The annoyance at the blurriness of his eyes was thrown to the side.
Throwing his arms out, his muscles straining behind his flame-licked shirt, John’s hands find holds on the beam before throwing all his weight into it, desperation and adrenaline giving him all the strength he needs. Violent coughs fall from his lips as the smoke travels up his nose, making it hard to breathe. The shriek of the shifting metal encompasses John’s ears, so it was only common sense he couldn’t hear the screams on the opposite side of the downed helicopter.
“Captain?!” Gaz’s voice was lost behind the wall of fire and grinding earth, “Price, answer me! John!”
John grits his teeth, a growl flying from his lips as he hucks the beam farther down his body, just enough to shimmy his way out with a groan at the ache of his lower body.
“Fuck,” He grunts.
It was a miracle his spine wasn't broken. John’s blue eyes blink furiously as they try to dispel the ash from the corners, instinctual tears tracking down his face as his hands get skinned on the rocks. The smell of gasoline spurs him on, as well as the visible bodies of the other men in the Helicopter littering the remains of the cockpit.
One would think at the only thing on his mind was survival – getting out of this metal oven before it blew to find his men and regroup, asses the damage before calling Laswell for an Evac – but John was haunted by only one thought as his fingertips were skinned over the rough ground.
I have to get home to her.
His body twists, and in his haste, the glinting dog tags on the ground are missed because of a wave of smoke as they sit, waiting, with their clasp noticeably broken.
John’s shoulder forces away a large sheet of metal, ribs screaming inside of him, but the pain had never stopped him before and it wouldn’t now. The light of the sun greets him, and he only manages to drag himself a few feet away before the entire helicopter explodes in a flash of fire and death, throwing his body forward until it careens over the edge of a large hill, dirt and dust spraying where his body rolls down. At the bottom, John feels himself connect with something solid, and everything goes black in a savage wave of agony.
His last thoughts are of you. They always would be.
—
“I need you to come with me,” Gaz’s voice greets you when you open the front door, your hoodie and jeans not helping keep out the chill of the air as a breeze flows through the door.
“Huh?” You frown, itching at your neck and unintentionally jingling John’s dog tags, “You show up for the first time in a month and that’s the first thing out of your mouth? How about a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’”
Gaz’s face tightens, and his face turns to the side for a moment. You sigh deeply.
“I’m not angry, just sad you didn’t tell me you and the others were going on another deployment. I would have given you all send-offs if you’d just told me.”
“We weren't on another deployment,” Gaz admits, shaking his head. You blink before looking him over.
“Then why are you in your work uniform?” The combat vest and other gear were cause for confusion, and you briefly wonder what Gaz and the boys are up to if not a quick stop by the house.
“When I found out I came here as quickly as possible. But you have to come with me, right now.”
“I-” You sputter, not used to seeing the man ahead of you so serious, “Alright…Let me just get my shoes.”
“Make it quick. For your own sake.”
Tugging on your boots, on the way out you grab your purse and one of John’s black beanies, tugging it over your head before you lock the front door and jog your way to Gaz’s car in the street. You see the man tapping the steering wheel through the window, shadow vibrating with untamed energy.
What the hell is up with him?
The last month has been horrible, especially with radio silence from the boys. You had assumed they were off somewhere doing a mission, but to hear they had been in London the entire time? That just rubbed you the wrong way. Fortunately, though, things had gradually turned around after Simon’s visit and waffle fiasco a while ago, so their constant check-ups weren’t needed so much as they were wanted.
You don’t even exactly know what happened, but even on your worst days, you had promised yourself not to fall back into the deep pit you were in before. Though, most of the time you never left the house and woke up crying in the middle of the night; gasping for breath, there were good times too. Even if most of them involved remembering activities you used to do with John.
You open the passenger door and slip inside Gaz’s car, clicking the seatbelt over yourself and sending a glance to the man beside you. Gaz doesn’t comment if he feels you staring, just puts his foot on the gas and begins driving down the quiet street. Sensing you wouldn’t get any answers, your body twists so you can look out the window, gazing out and watching houses and people fly past. Your eyes linger on the happy couples in their hats and scarves for longer than normal, and you only rip your eyes away when they become dots in the side mirror.
Feeling Gaz’s gaze on you makes it worse.
Your heart hardens, and you suck in a deep breath, leaning back to rest on the chair. With your eyes drifting shut, you let the bumpiness of the road lull you into a thin slumber. Naps are really all you’ve been able to take lately, and you fall into one quickly as the bags under your eyes burn.
A hand shaking your shoulder wakes you, and a quiet, “Sorry, but you’re gonna wanna see this, Love,” makes its way into your ear. You groan, unclipping the buckle before rubbing your eyes.
“Gaz, I hope you know what you’re doing,” You grumble, looking out and blinking to focus your gaze, “Where are we?” You set out of the car, stumbling before Gaz steadies you with a firm hand on your arm.
“Base,” The man says simply. That wakes you up.
“What?” You gasp, looking around a parking garage where multiple other cars are parked, concrete pillars, and a descending slipe up to large doors showing you that you were underground. You had never been inside the base before – sure you had been in specific areas where you could greet John when he returned to London, but you were never allowed in the main building before, “Why are we here?”
You turn to Gaz, but find the man already pulling your arm forward towards the glass entrance doors, fiddling with his front vest pocket.
When he takes out his name card and places it on the door reader, he turns and faces you, the beeping behind him telling you the door was now open.
“I need you to just follow me as closely as you can,” Gaz mutters, gripping both of your shoulders and giving you a hesitant but soft smile, “Alright? I promise all of this is important.”
“Well,” You snort, raising an eyebrow, “I’d hope it would be important, you just dragged me halfway through the city. You owe me supper for all of this, man.”
Gaz laughs, turning and opening the door, keeping it ajar for you to slip through.
“You’ll have to put a raincheck on that – you’re not going to want supper with me tonight.”
You make a questioning noise in the back of your throat, but Gaz just looks at you over his shoulder and shakes his head.
“You’ll see. I can’t tell you all of my secrets.” The smirk on his face makes you roll your eyes, following after him like a lost puppy as you take corner after corner.
People watch you as you walk past, and the widening of their eyes gives you an idea of how much they know about you and your deceased boyfriend.
John Price left behind quite the impression, you think to yourself as a group of people coming your way turn in and begin to whisper amongst themselves, side-eyeing you, but I wish he hadn’t had to leave anything behind. Least of all me.
The door catches your attention first, and Gaz hesitates outside of it as the sounds of arguing echo out from under the crack. He holds a finger to his lips and keeps a hand on the doorknob. His brown eyes stay on your face.
“You can’t leave Base, alright!” That was Soap’s voice, sounding much more serious than you were used to, “You need to stay here until you get cleared by--”
“You tell me one more time that I can’t leave until I’m cleared by the Doctor,” Wait a second, “I’ll ring your Muppet neck. I’m going to see her, let the whole bloody base try and stop me.”
The deep voice had a growl staining the words, agitation so familiar it drips off the tone like water.
“John,” You mutter, heart beginning to beat faster in your chest. Without a second thought, you shove Gaz’s arm aside and barge your way into the room, ignoring Gaz’s playful, ‘hey, careful now.’
The door slams against the wall and your feet skid into a white-floored room, the bright fluorescent lights ahead buzzing. Soap and Ghost are both there, the latter trying to force the man you thought was dead back into the hospital bed while the other leans back against the far wall.
Everyone freezes and Soap looks like a deer in headlights with his hand wrapped around John's upper arm, straining to hold the once rampaging man back. But it’s not like you notice, you’re only looking at the man who ruined your life.
John Price looks worse for wear. Even with the hospital gown over his body, you can see the bulge of tightly wrapped bandages around his torso and legs – his arms are connected to medical machines, a needle in his right palm giving him fluids from a drip IV. Oh, but it’s him. That’s your John.
Ruin my life, You think to yourself, Ruin it over and over again if it means you’ll always be able to come back into my arms.
He looks at you with such surprised softness, his blue eyes never wavering from your body as he takes you in. The brown beard on his face is longer than you remember, as well as his hair, and the red marks over the left side of his face say that many of his wounds are old, but have not healed fully. Where had he been? Gone for more than a month and labeled missing in action and he just shows up, black and blue and wrapped like a mummy?
Your thoughts were running even faster than your heart and all you do is stand there and stare at John like he was a specter as the others watched with bated breath. You could hear Gaz in the doorway shuffle on his feet. But you weren't the only person shellshocked – John still stared at you as well, his eyes running wildly until they land on the dog tags around your neck.
The great Captain’s shoulders deflate, and his eyebrows draw in as blue flickers back to your face. “Oh, Sweetheart…”
That was all it took for you to launch yourself into his arms, jerking forward into his chest with sobs leaving your lips like you had lost him again and not just gained him back by some miracle. John grunts under you, and Soap releases his shoulder with a huff.
“I damn well told you ya’ couldn’t leave. You listen to me as well as Ghost does, Sir.”
Ghost huffs, shoving himself off the wall and taking a few steps forward, “Shut your trap, Johnny.”
Price never responded, because the second he was able his arms wrapped around your body, and as your own hands latch onto the back of his gown, his grip the back of your head; cradling it like a precious object. His other wraps around your waist.
“John,” You whimpered into his chest, hearing his breath hitch as another sob rips from your throat, “What the fuck?” Wet tears stain his garment.
John utters your name as he begins running his hands through your hair, turning his head down and pressing his nose to the top of your head as he lightly moves from side to side. Your legs almost collapse when you inhale his scent – gunpowder, leather, and spruce trees. That was him. That was John.
“Muppets!” John suddenly calls out, though his voice is noticeably shaky. You manage to pull him impossibly closer, “Get the fuck out, now.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” Soap mutters, sending soft glances your way that you missed in your state, “good to have you back.” You don't know if he's talking to you or John, but you like to imagine that it's both.
Ghost whispers past, grasping Soap's shoulder and lightly shoving him faster toward the door as Gaz happily sighs.
“We’ll be in the Barracks, Sir. Take your time.” The door closes. Immediately John starts talking.
“Love, I’m so sorry. The Helo went down and I–”
“It doesn’t matter,” You gasp, pulling back to grab at his cheeks, feeling his beard tickle your fingers just like it always did, “It doesn't matter,” you repeat, “You’re here – you came back.” A strangled laugh tumbles from your lips as John's fingers begin to clear the tears off of your face so gently, “You came back to me, John.”
He gazes into your eyes so softly you feel like dying – such love leaking from his hold that you finally understand why you were so broken by his disappearance.
You were always searching for him, whether that was in his scent or the faces of strangers – in his books or his favorite films. John was your other half, and having him die was like having half of yourself die with him.
“What have I done to you?” John whispers, fingers grazing the deep purple under your eyes, taking in the lost weight as he grips your waist tighter. He swallows, eyes flicking away, “I should have tried to get back to you sooner.”
Your eyebrows pull up, eyes widening at the genuine pain on John’s face. Knowing that words won't sway his hard-headedness, you blink away the tears and sniffle, moving your hands to your neck. With a swift motion of your arm, you tug the dog tags from your chest and press them between your bodies, your eyes impossibly warm as John tilts his head to gaze at them silently.
Keeping a handle on your tears, you bring your other hand up, grasping and taking off his beanie on your head. Carefully, and with all the love you could muster, you place it on top of John’s hair, whispering for only him to hear, “You were always with me.”
His kiss had never felt quite as good as at that moment.
That night the entire Task Force went out to celebrate – some bar with a classic atmosphere that John was sure to love after his official discharge from the medical ward. And he did, because as long as you were right beside him, and vice-versa, the lights always seemed a bit brighter, the music just a tad livelier.
He kept you in the crook of his arm the entire night, and, in the morning he would tell you he was taking two months off as the light streamed through the curtains; your naked bodies pressed tightly as he leaves trailing kisses down your neck and between your breasts. Soft sighs and gentle caresses you had wanted for over a month that you would never lack again.
But for now, in the soft yellow light, he watched you as you laughed at one of Soap’s horrible jokes, moving to shoulder Ghost to get a reaction out of him before John drags you back into his hold. You go willingly, wrapping your own arm around his tapered waist; snuggling into his chest with a genuine smile. You sneak a glance up at your boyfriend only to find him already looking at you. A small smile rises on his lips before he leans down and kisses your head, your face heating as Soap makes a fake gagging sound before you laugh once more.
Gaz watched the both of you, relief bleeding from his eyes as he brings his drink to his lips. Pointedly, he turns his gaze to the dog tags around your neck, seeing the glinting metal with a flash of surprise.
He smiles. He’d have to remember to tell his Captain to order a new pair tomorrow.