Chapter Text
The storm was set to be a rough one, the news warning you a week before it happened. You got the necessary things, brought Johnny’s mother over the night before it was set to hit, charged the kids’ devices, so they could watch movies if the power went out. You had fuel for the generator, the stove was gas, and you had plenty of blankets, candles, and flashlights.
The last thing to do was call John, and tell him to cancel his trip this weekend, in case he hadn’t been watching the news.
“I promised Fillip I’d be there for his match,” John argued. From his quiet tone, you could tell he was still on base, likely in his office, not yet back to his flat. Maybe he hadn’t had a chance to see the news yet.
“There’s not going to be a match, not this week,” you replied, leaning on the kitchen counter. The kids were already asleep, the older Missus MacTavish in the guest room with a book and a cup of tea. You fiddled with the dog tags around your neck, the small vial of ashes you kept. “They’ve rescheduled it for next week, if the rain stops.”
“I might not be here next week,” came Price’s gruff response. “And I got that watch fixed for Rowan. It’s been over a month since I saw you all, I’m coming up there.”
Your late-husband’s captain, your ex-boss, the man who stepped up when you needed things like the fence or roof repaired in the three years since Johnny died, who was now your…something, was stubborn as a mule, and twice as ornery.
“You’re not. I’ll…call in a bomb threat. That’ll keep you busy for a few days.”
Despite himself, Price let out a bark of laughter. “And then I’ll still have to drive up there to detain you. Like it or not, dove, I’m coming.”
Why was it that the men in your life equated you to birds? Johnny had always called you ”hen”, and the rest of the team started calling you “bird” when you were still a secretary on base, Price called you “dove” as your lives got more intertwined. You weren’t some flighty thing. You were the only one of them to settle, stay in one place, create a home for them to come home to. Johnny and Price were the ones who flitted from place to place.
“John, please don’t,” you pleaded, pinching the bridge of your nose. “For your own safety. For my peace of mind, if nothing else. The storm is going to be rough, and I don’t want to worry about you driving through it. I’ve got Johnny’s mom to help with the kids, and the windows are all secure. Stay in London, have a drink with Simon and Kyle, and don’t worry about us. Take a weekend off.”
Silence on the other end of the line, and you prepared your next argument.
“You don’t need me there?” he finally asked.
“We’ll be fine without you,” you assured him. You had never specially said you needed John Price. But you never denied it, either.
When you had opened the door to find Price on your porch three years ago, wringing his hat in his hands, looking like he crawled through hell and back, you had screamed at him, cursed and yelled, hit the poor man, scared the shit out of Rowan and Fillip, who had only been five and three at the time. You had known as soon as you opened the door that your husband was gone, and you took it out on Price. Whatever happened on the mission that stole your Johnny away would never be revealed to you, but the fact that Price felt guilty was clear as day, even now.
You never apologized for that, in words, at least. For blaming him, when it wasn’t really Price’s fault. You and Johnny both knew the dangers of his job, the way it could end. But with his ever-present optimism, Johnny had never really prepared for it, always thinking he would come home okay, never giving you the chance to have a discussion about it.
And then it was too late. And you were left with two small children, an elderly woman who had already lost her husband and the rest of her sons, and a house and land too big for you to manage on your own.
John made up for it in any way he knew how. He helped make the arrangements for the cremation, giving you anything Johnny had left on base, helping you figure out finances. Survivor benefits were nothing to scoff at, and combined with the job you got at the kids’ school, you managed to stay afloat. Over the three years since then, Price’s support never faltered, he never missed a football game or school event unless he was deployed. You constantly told him making a nearly eight hour drive, simply to watch some kids kick a ball around was ridiculous, but he wouldn’t have any of it.
The kids loved him. They knew Price better than they had known Johnny, something you couldn’t help but resent. Not that Price tried to pretend to be their father. He was always the first to tell them how proud Johnny would have been, or to compare the kids to his fallen brother-in-arms.
But it still stung.
Price’s gravelly voice broke you out of your thoughts, turning your mind back to the present. “Fine. Call me, let me know you and the little heathens are safe.” His tone was short, and you knew your dismissal of him had stung. “Give my love to them, and the other Missus MacTavish.”
“Will do. Night, John. Give the boys my best.”
You got a grunt of confirmation, before the call ended. Taking your phone away from your ear, you looked down at the lock screen. Until last year, it had been Johnny and the kids. But that phone had broken, and while you managed to save the photos and old texts off of it, you figured it was a sign to take another step towards moving on. Now it was Rowan and Fillip, and that damn dog Price had gotten for them.
The mastiff, Artemis, served as a guard dog, and she did her job well, though the amount of drool left something to be desired. She was asleep in the hall, right between the kids’ room, always unable to pick one of them to sleep with.
With nothing left to do but wait for the storm to roll in, you made sure all the windows and doors were locked, before checking on the kids. Rowan was sprawled out on her bed, her stuffed animals scattered across the floor. Johnny had slept the same way, taking up the entire bed, and you snuck a photo before going to check on Fillip.
You nearly panicked when the boy wasn't in his bed, before a soft call sounded from down the hall. Peeking in the guest room, you saw Fillip curled up at his grandmother’s side, under the covers. You came into the room, sitting down on the bed, stroking his hair.
“Don’t wake him,” Missus MacTavish whispered.
You glanced up at her. “You sure? He’s not as little as he used to be.”
The look in her eyes was something familiar to you now. Both the kids took after Johnny so much. You hadn’t known him when you were children, but you had seen photos. His mother remembered those days well, though, and never missed a chance to dote on the kids.
“He’s fine,” she assured you, squeezing your hand. You wouldn’t dare to argue with the old woman, not now, not ever. “Off with ye. Get some rest.”
You were surrounded by stubborn people. Even your kids, angelic as they may be in sleep, gave you headaches at every turn. You were a patient woman, but even you had your limits, and between the four of them, you sometimes snapped.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, you relented, kissing Fillip’s forehead, squeezing Missus MacTavish’s hand back, and heading to your own room.
It was different now. You had painted it a sage green(that was supposed to ease anxiety. Or something.), the curtains had been changed, you bought a whole new bed, what used to be Johnny’s half of the closet was taken over. Most of his belongings were in storage bins up in the attic, for when the kids wanted them, or when you were feeling nostalgic. Johnny’s sketchbooks and clothes, the medals. The things that had hurt to look at everyday. Rowan had only recently found his watch, long since broken, and Price had taken it to be repaired on his last visit.
The sheets and bedding had long since lost his scent, even before you had gotten a new bed. Everything had. Time had passed, the wound closing, scar tissue forming over the hole in your heart, making you that much stronger for it. You no longer cried yourself to sleep often, months passing between those hard nights now.
The power wasn’t yet out in the morning, and you managed to put together a breakfast spread before the storm hit, and you lost electricity. With the kids and your mother-in-law, you ate, illuminated by candles. Around what seemed like noon, the doorbell rang, startling you all.
“Who would be out in this weather?” Missus MacTavish wondered, looking up from where she was helping the kids with a puzzle.
“Maybe the sheriff, making sure people are okay,” you replied. You knew of only one person who would turn up in the midst of a storm like this. “Stay here, it’s fine.”
Walking through the front door to the screened-in porch confirmed it. Price’s truck sat in the yard, muddier than all hell, and you wondered how the old thing managed the trip here. Opening the door showed the truck’s owner to be in similar shape, soaked from the short walk from the truck to the front door.
“It’s pourin’ out here,'' John grumbled, as he stood in the doorway, the storm at his back. His broad frame loomed over you, scowling, and with a resigned sigh, you stepped aside to let him in.
You scoffed, helping him out of his coat, wringing out that damn hat he always wore. “Oh, is it? I had no idea,” you replied dryly, hanging up the wet clothes. You turned, your hands on your hips as you took John in. The man looked exhausted, bags under his eyes. He must've been driving since the small hours of the morning. “I told you-”
“I know what you told me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you lot, and what you would do if something happened,” John cut you off. His eyes softened, and his bulky form relaxed a bit, no longer towering over you. “I saw the news, and I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t just stay there, warm but all alone. It’s better if I’m here. Just in case.”
“You can’t protect us from a little rain,” you countered, feeling yourself softening. The look on his face was comparable to a Saint Bernard, sad eyes and all.
But John Price would absolutely try to fight the storm for you and your kids, if he was able to. He wrapped you in an all-consuming hug, water dripping from his lashes, holding you tight. John nuzzled your hair, and he took a breath, before he raised his head, resting his chin on the top of your head.
“You’re going to be stuck here the whole weekend, you know that, right? The kids’ll be bouncing off the walls by the end of it. No relaxing weekend for you.”
“I don’t come here to relax. I come here to spend time with my family.”
Whatever response you tried to form was interrupted by two screaming kids, who immediately were scooped up in John’s strong arms. Damn. Even at 45, John was still easily able to carry both kids. You half considered telling them to get off the poor man. But at six and eight, their years of being carried were waning.
“John, John, there was so much wind and thunder, and the lights all went out-” Rowan rambled her eyes bright, looking more excited than she had in days.
Fillip picked up where his sister left off.“An our playhouse blew reit oan over. An’ then we had a special breakfast, wi’ ice cream, ‘cause Mama didn’t want it to melt when the power goes down.”
“Really now? Sounds like you kids got spoiled this morning.” John carried them into the living room, where he set the kids down, leaving them to hang onto his legs. “Hello, ma’am.” John leaned down, kissing Missus MacTavish’s cheek.
“Hello, dear. Sit down, get warmed up, yer drook.”
Straightening up, John shook his head, glancing at you, knowing you were going to argue with him. “Just gonna check the house, make sure there are no leaks.”
And argue you did. “John, I took care of all that last night. You need to change, before you catch your death.”
“Never hurts to have a second pair of eyes, eh? Would’ve helped when that tree came down this past fall. I coulda told you that it was dead.”
Your eyes narrowed. John had told you the tree was dead. Numerous times. And he never said “I-told-you-so” until now. He never actually said those exact words. Ever. John let things happen, and helped you fix the problem, letting the experience speak for itself.
“Fine. But I’m going with you,” you declared, pulling the kids off of Price, and herding them back towards the puzzles and games.
“Oh, heaven forbid a beautiful woman accompany me,” John laughed, rolling his eyes. The kids giggled, as they saw you blush and sputter. You glanced at Missus MacTavish, worried about what she would think of the flirting, but she gave you a grin, shaking her head.
Last year, she had asked you if you were waiting for Johnny’s ghost to appear, and give you permission to date again. You knew what-or who, rather- she was implying, and you knew you had Missus MacTavish’s blessing, in a way. It started small. Coffee and walks in the park, progressing to dinners, late night calls when he was deployed. A few times, you made the trip up to London, spending the weekend there, the kids with Johnny’s mom.
Never once did you ask John if he was sure about this. You wanted to, plenty of times. You wanted to tell him to find someone who didn’t already have two kids, who didn’t live eight hours away. All that would have come from denying John Price what he had waited so patiently for would be some huffs and puffs, maybe a growly “Don’t be daft”.
Following John, you went up to the attic first, making sure none of the boxes up there were damaged as he checked the window and roof. The storm was louder here, the rain pounding against the roof,
“I probably should get rid of a few things up here. So many kids toys…” you commented, shining your light over the boxes. Everything was dry, just like you knew it would be. The beam of light hit the crib that had been used for both kids. Nope . Not getting rid of that. “How’s it looking?”
“Secure. Good thing we put in a new roof last year,” John replied, sneezing from the dust. “Bedrooms next.”
As if you were one of his soldiers, you followed John obediently through the house, making sure there were no drafts or leaks. Which there weren't. Because not only had you done this yesterday, before the storm rolled in, John had done this every month, if he was able to, saying it rained more in Scotland than it did in England.
It was in your bedroom when you finally noticed he was limping slightly, rubbing at his left knee. “Sit down, let me put some Tiger’s Balm on that.” John hesitated, but didn't argue, and sat on the bed with a groan, pulling his pant leg up enough for you to see his bruised and swollen knee. You sucked in a breath, grabbing the liniment out of the bedside drawer. “Jesus wept, what did you do to yourself?”
“You’re better off not knowing, love. I don’t feel like getting a lecture,” he replied, closing his eyes, leaning back against the bed on his elbows. “Old injury that flares up, knocked it around some this last mission. Cold isn’t helping.”
“I hope this helps.” You patted his hairy calf before pulling his jeans back down, and stood to wash your hands. “I’d offer to kiss it better, but that stuff would burn my lips off.”
“We wouldn’t want that to happen, now would we?” John stood as well, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a quick kiss. You wondered if you would ever get used to the way his bristles tickled your face. He let you go, patting your rear. “Christ, that stuff is burnin’ my eyes.”
Laughing, you pulled away to wash your hands, your fingertips burning from the menthol, and whatever else they put in that stuff. John went through the kids’ rooms next, the guest room, and back downstairs. The kids were playing with their toys, Missus MacTavish wrapped in a blanket with her newest knitting project.
The basement was next, where John prodded every corner. It had actually flooded a few years ago, so you understood his worry about this area of the house, at least. Still didn’t mean that you wanted him to check it over, still limping, looking like he was dead on his feet.
“John, when was the last time you slept? And I’m talking about a proper night’s sleep, not those nights where you get up in the middle of the night to pace or smoke, but a real eight hours of sleep.”
From the way his shoulders tensed at your question, you knew it had been a while. “I rested on the plane home,” he answered, not meeting your eyes as he fiddled with some canned vegetables on the shelf next to him.
“But you didn’t sleep,” you pressed, coming to stand next to him. You pulled his hand down intertwining it with your own, the other going to cup his face. He sighed, leaning into the touch. “After this, I want you to go upstairs and take a nap. You were driving for hours.”
He shook his head. “I’ll be fine until tonight, dove.” John’s hands went to rest on your hips as he looked down at you. A faint blush appeared on his cheeks. “Don’t sleep well without you now anyways,” he confessed sheepishly.
“Mo mhathan milis,” you cooed, relishing in the way John’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to figure out your words. Your knowledge of Gaelic was elementary, as you were learning as you helped the kids with their homework, but John’s was completely nonexistent. “You’ll understand one day.”
He let out a huff, shutting you up with a quick kiss. “Come on. It’s about lunchtime, innit?”
After a simple lunch, which John and the kids devoured like it was their last meal, you managed to wrangle John into an armchair. Your plan to get him to rest succeeded when Fillip crawled into his lap with a book, insisting he read to John. It wasn’t long before both boys were asleep, John’s snoring competing with the thunder and rain for what made the loudest noise. Missus MacTavish had retired to her room, and Rowan was curled up next to you, your hands running through her hair.
“John brought you something, sweetheart,” you mentioned, remembering the watch that was upstairs in his duffel bag. “Want me to go grab it?”
She shook her head. “Too warm. He can give it to me later.”
Resigning yourself to being used as a pillow for the foreseeable future, you settled in, your hands braiding Rowan’s hair as she napped. Despite the rain that pounded on the walls, the wind that threatened every tree in the yard, there was an undeniable sense of warmth and coziness as you watched your family napping.
John was the first to wake up, sounding like he was hacking up a lung.
“Christ almighty, man, we have to get you to stop smoking,” you joked, knowing he’d never fully give it up, even for his own health.
Waving a hand dismissively, John got up, doing his best not to jostle Fillip who was still curled into his side. He gazed down affectionately at the boy, before his eyes shifted to Rowan. John cleared his throat, rubbing at his knee again. “They look like him, don't they?” he said softly.
“I carried the little bastards for nine months, and they don’t even have the decency to inherit my eyes,” you replied, moving Rowan’s head off your lap. John added a few more logs to the fireplace, before going to the window. You followed him, wrapping your arms around him from behind, resting your head on his back. “I see Johnny in them all the time. Their little accents, the way they scowl when I say no. It’s hard, sometimes. I've already known Rowan longer than I got to know Johnny.”
Normally, you wouldn't speak so candidly in front of the kids. But they were still asleep, and you felt as though John needed to hear it. He stood still, a little tense
“I’ll have to remember him longer than I knew him,” you finished, recalling some quote you saw online when in the first weeks of grieving. “Johnny was my first true love, the father of my children, and I’ll always love him. But …life goes on. It has to, or I would still be too wrapped up in grief to function.”
John’s big hand wrapped around yours, squeezing it. “You never stopped functioning, dove. You pulled yourself up, got back to work, did what needed to be done.”
“Only with your help.”
“If I hadn’t been there, you would have managed anyway. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, always have been.”
You had your doubts about that, but kept them quiet. Placing a soft kiss on John’s shoulder, the moment was over when the kids got up, already fighting over something silly. You rolled your eyes, trying to pull them apart before they started swinging.
“Enough, you two,” John barked, his gruff voice making the kids step away from one another immediately. “We buy two of everything, there’s no need to bicker. Rowan, maybe if you cleaned up your room, you could find your Nintendo. Fillip, you know better than to yell. Why don’t you both go clean up Ro’s room a bit, see if you can find it. Then you both can play Animal Street, or whatever the hell it's called together.”
You nearly laughed. The way he handled arguments between the kids never failed to impress you. There was something refreshing about it, that there were no good cops or bad cops, just two people attempting to parent the kids. Honestly, that wasn’t how it was with Johnny. He had always been the “fun” parent, since he wasn't around as often, and when he was, he saw no point in disciplining the kids.
“Impressive. That has to be a record of some sort,” you remarked as both kids ran upstairs, wanting to play on their game together. “I’m going to check on Missus MacTavish.”
The rest of the day was hectic. The storm still hadn’t let up, the wind making the trees look like they were about to fall. The kids were already feeling the effects of being pent-up all day, their Nintendos only keeping them busy for so long. By the time they got into bed, you felt as exhausted as John looked.
“Never thought they’d go down,” he remarked when he finally allowed you to pull him into the bedroom, and down into bed. John groaned, pulling you to him, your head resting on his broad chest.
“You didn’t have to read to them, John. I could have handled that.”
“We only get a few chances to read Charlotte’s Web together. It’ll take us all year to get through this book at the rate we’re going,” he replied. John let out a sigh, his hand resting on your lower back, his thumb rubbing up and down. “I missed them. Missed you.”
“We missed you too.” You moved enough to place a kiss on his shoulder, admiring the faint spray of freckles. “I know I said yesterday I didn’t want you to come up here, but I’m glad you did. It would’ve been dull without you.”
“I am too.” John was silent for a moment, and you hoped he would just stop being stubborn and go to sleep. He yawned again. “I love you.”
“Love you more.”
“Doubt that.”