keep me breathing - john price x oc

21. confluence

A few weeks had passed since everyone's return from Mexico. Weeks that had stretched into a strange limbo – a confusing mix of relief, exhaustion, and the constant gnawing worry about Soap's fate.

The world might have hailed you as heroes for taking down the biggest threat faced in years. But those in power, those who'd turned a blind eye to the escalating danger, demanded answers, justifications and a detailed accounting of every step taken.

John had been buried in that paperwork - the endless bureaucratic mess that came with operating outside the lines. He was trying to satisfy those officials in their sterile offices, their fingers stained with ink and not blood, officials who demanded accountability and continued to dissect their actions, searching for a narrative that celebrated a victory that hadn't come without cost.

His office, usually a tidy space filled with a few folders and the ever-present aroma of cigars, was now a battlefield of scattered papers and empty coffee mugs. If it hadn't been for Nora curled up at his feet and her soft snores occasionally escaping the silence of the room, you'd have assumed he'd vanished, swallowed by the mountains of files.

He hadn't left the room in days, except for dinner and those precious moments each night when he'd draw you close, seeking comfort, his arm a familiar weight around your waist.

Laswell had kept her promise of pulling strings. She'd managed to spin the narrative surrounding Shepherd's death, painting it as a casualty of Makarov, clearing John of any official blame. But the black ink on government paper couldn't erase the reality of what he'd done, the cold, calculated rage that had driven him to pull that trigger.

He'd killed in cold blood. A darkness he couldn't shake, a shadow that followed him wherever he went.

It was a part of him. He'd accepted that now. The line between soldier and monster, between vengeance and justice, was sometimes as thin as a razor's edge. And despite the weight of that darkness, he'd found solace in the loyalty of those who stood beside him, those who didn't flinch from the shadows that tainted his soul. Because they knew him. Knew what he stood for, what he'd fought for, the sacrifices he'd made.

He was loved, not just by you, but by his team. His family. That was worth more than any darkness that stained him. And if he succumbed to it, if those shadows threatened to pull him under, he knew you'd be there to guide him back. You were his light, his anchor. All he needed to keep breathing.

He'd insisted that Farah and Alex return to Urzikstan, at least for a little while. There had been no change in Soap's behaviour. He'd promised them he'd call the moment there was any news, but he couldn't let them abandon their home, their people, not after everything they'd endured. Farah had ultimately agreed. Their people needed them, needed their Commander, especially now. They deserved a chance to rebuild.

Gaz, ever the loyal son, was helping his mother move across the country. He'd seized the opportunity for a well-deserved reprieve from the intense weeks they'd spent hunting Makarov and the emotional fallout that followed.

Only Ghost remained, a silent shadow, drifting through the house, disappearing for days, reappearing with no explanation. But whenever he returned, it was a comforting reminder of the loyalty that held you all together, even as the world seemed to be fracturing beneath their feet by the feeling of an unknown future.

Makarov was gone, but his shadow stretched, tainting even the hard-won victory with a sense of uncertainty.

You'd taken on the role of "caretaker". It was something you relished, a normalcy that offered a satisfying kind of comfort. You kept the house tidy, cooked meals, and tended the garden. Those everyday tasks were a grounding force, a way to focus your anxieties, to create a haven from the chaos that had become a reality for way too long. And the moments when John emerged from his self-imposed exile in the office – for dinner, for a stolen embrace, for those precious few hours of sleep – were like beacons, reminders of the love that anchored you both, the love that you'd fight for, no matter the cost.