Corrupt.

Part 3

Rational thinking would tell you the dangers of saying yes to John's question, your relationship still salvageable despite the love you felt for another man, but it's hard to hear your conscience's voice when emotions run so deep. There is a real danger in having John here in your home, every possession housing a lifetime of memories that feel like nothing in comparison to his touch, and just yesterday you would have never considered answering his messages under your husband's roof and yet here you were inviting him to share in the riches of your marriage.

The robe you pull on bares the emblem of the hotel where you and Peter were joined in matrimony, the bridal suite holding onto secrets of what should have been you and John's last encounter as he begged you not to go through with the impending nuptials and it's hard to forget the history you share when he buzzes at the gate. You lift the phone slowly, knowing what you're going to do even as your finger hesitates over the command panel and still it takes John looking to the lens and saying your name for you to press the button allowing him entry to your home.

John's eyes go straight to the gown, not even greeting you as he asks whether the logo is from where he thinks it is, "Arden?"

The kiss that hangs on his lips waiting for your skin dies as you nod, moving back without a word as you allow him entry to the house but John doesn't follow as he stops to remove his boots - still wearing the same outfit that you had helped strip him from earlier even if now he looks older with the weight of the day heavy on his shoulders - and you try to tell him that he doesn't need to worry but the manners engraved in him tell John that he must.

You watch in embarrassment as he places them neatly to one side, eyes trained on his reaction as he takes in the house's interior. Pictures of your wedding, anniversaries and extended family hang in the entry-way and he sees the way your younger brother has grown into his skin, the ears that had earned him unfortunate nicknames now hidden beneath a thick coat of hair and he wonders if he would have still recognised him if he walked past in the street. You offer him a drink, tea or perhaps whiskey? But John refuses, asking instead if it's okay to sit.

Leading him to the living room you don't get to see John's reaction to a photo of your family in uniform, the father who would never approve of his daughter's choice embracing the son-in-law he had always wanted as they toasted to an institution that had taken so much away from his own family. He lets you vanish into the darkness before he gets close enough to turn the frame - wishing nothing but the worst for the former captain and his snide smirk.

"I'm sorry the place is a mess," you apologise beneath the brim of a lampshade, switching on the room's main source of light when he joins you. "I didn't get much of a chance to tidy up after you called..."

Usually, John would make a remark about having two children under the age of five and how your house looks like a show home in comparison to what he is used to but it feels far from appropriate when he's here to make you do something that will only damage your family and your relationships.

"Can I?" he gestures to the sofa and you nod, still standing until he begs you to join him, blaming your stance for the impulses that flood his nervous system. "Please?"

Your body doesn't come close enough for John to touch, the hand that belongs on your thigh forced to settle on a cushion instead, and he wonders if it's deliberate the way that your hair looks so wild and your lips so swollen or whether you just always have looked this beautiful and it pains him that this is for somebody else to see every waking hour and not him.

"Why did you come?" the words are spoken softly, too gentle to carry the weight they really hold when you're still so fragile.

"Arthur," he doesn't want to lie to you the one person who has always seen the heart in him and so the truth comes easier than fiction ever would. "I need to know what they have on him."