Pattern Breaker

The Past Will Haunt You When it Releases It's Prisoners

Human beings, as a whole, are set into motion through a series of chain reactions occurring through various points in their lives. Some small, some large. The result of these will differ for many different reasons– significance, time, who was involved. Some manifest into little things that make up a personality. One's favorite color, because a childhood crush said that it looked good on you. A song, one you heard on the radio after you had your first teenage heartbreak. The first time you propped your feet up on your very own coffee table, the cheapest one you could find when you moved out on your own as a young adult.

And others, so undeniably important no matter how much you try to ignore it. Your subconscious will trap it down and pry it back open over, and over, and over. Endlessly. It will shake you and violate you, humor you, pleasure you with each waking moment and every breath exhaled. Until you're left begging for mercy.

The glint of a silver metal chain on the pale of someone's neck.

An awfully specific shade of blue in the sky as it stared down on you, suffocating you.

The bitter smell of alcohol and stale cigarettes.

Nostalgia, however fresh and raw it still remained, was sanguine for Johnny. He was no stranger to the way experiences shaped him to the man he was today. Strong, unwavering.

Helpless. Pitiful.

Being forced to lay bleeding next to Fate in a bed of nails and suffering you made for yourself unknowingly. Angry eyes, closed off and hidden. The tilt of his body away from you, tension coiling so tightly inbetween it could snap like a rope at any moment. You were at his mercy, and will be forever. Every stolen glance, every word spoken emotionlessly.

Every smile you had, turning the corners of your lips up just for him.

Every bullet shot in his direction, sending fear through every one of your nerves.

Every brief moment of physical connection you shared, from his fingers unceremoniously inside your injured body as you writhed in agony– to the soft touch of his gloved hand stroking down the back of your head in a way that made you want to flutter your eyes shut and lean in to the embrace.

Fate had a different name it donned for everyone, and for Johnny, it just so happened to be Simon Riley.

—

There was movement beside him, but he didn't turn to look as Captain Price perched himself on the barstool next to him. Johnny had been there for hours, nursing a scotch. He wasn't sure how long the other man had been there, almost certainly staring at him from across the bar before building the courage to come over. Price sighed, taking a large sip of his own beer, the foam sticking to his mustache briefly before he licked it off. He looked at Johnny before holding his half empty mug up towards him, one elbow propped on the countertop.

Johnny finally looked over, blinking.

"To Scotland," Price said, looking at the other man softly. "Cheers. Because with out them, we wouldn't have this dense mother fucker that saved us from catastrophe, time and time again."

Soap grinned at him, lifting his own glass off the table and nodding his head. "Scotland forever, baby." Both men threw their heads back as they downed their respective drinks. Soap grimaced at the deep burn as it circled its way down his throat.

Price sighed again, cradling the now empty mug in his hands.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked slowly, twitching in his seat.

"Talk about what?" Johnny responded, feigning ignorance.

"You know what." Price looked around before scooting closer. "You and Ghost. Whatever is going on between the two of you."