#I wrote this in the bathtub and I refuse to edit it don’t judge me

[eowynstwin]

Re: this post. Because we all know what Price would do.

cw: Infidelity. Implied rape (coerced sex is rape). Implied murder. Price is Price.

-

The scent of ozone is sharp in your nose. The air around your husband gathers, electricity coalescing, taking on a slow, heavy pulse of its own as he sits there, arms crossed, expression closed. Hard.

John Price is a hard man. You knew this when you married him. Appreciated it, even. He suffers no fools, loathes a point belabored. To him, there is an unbroken, straight line, gloriously clear, between himself and his objective; a simple, beautiful connection between means and motive. Anything inconsequential is merely scenery on a road trip. Meaningless visual noise.

Between you, the wallet sits in the middle of the dinner table like a live grenade. Leather; worn around the edges.

Not his.

“Who,” he says. It is not a question. It is an order.

Your lips are pressed together tightly, so it might keep your chin from trembling. Stray tears are hot down the corners of your nose.

You can’t look him in the eye.

“It was,” you stutter, “the man, the—the man—for the car—”

Suddenly you have to take huge gulps of air. You pull them in raggedly, like they claw at your throat, refusing to go willingly into the cage of your lungs.

“It was only—only for—” you heave past a sob “—for the payment, he said—he said either this or—or—”

You cry out in fear as John stands from the chair, whole body shaking now.

Your husband does not suffer excuses, either.

You’ve never been afraid of him; John keeps his anger away from you, when he can. Takes it outside with a cigar and a bottle of scotch, to the gym and the sparring mats, or all the way out there where inevitably he must kill to keep from being killed.

But now it fills the house like tear gas. Billowing, noxious, whipping against your skin, pressing sharply into your eyes.

You squeeze them shut, tightly. He approaches you. Instinct, something written deep in your bones, seizes up, knows it feels the predator closing in. Resigned, like waiting for the jaws to close will make it hurt less when they snap your neck.

It’s why you flinch when his mouth lands, far too gently, on the crown of your head. His hand cups your nape like a newborn.

“Order some dinner,” he murmurs—not gently, but in memory of gentleness. “Have a bath, with those bombs I got you.”

You choke on your own breath. He withdraws, and finally you look him full in the face—

His brow is low. His gaze is shuttered away from you, fixed on some far point.

“John,” you whisper.

“I’ll be back tonight,” he murmurs.

“John!”

He turns his back on you and walks out the door.

-

You order pad thai for two, jasmine rice, crab kanob jeeb with spicy dipping sauce. You splurge and have fresh cookies delivered, against better judgement—not your own, you demonstrably have none, but certainly someone’s.

When you close your teeth around a dumpling, broth spurts against your tongue, like an artery punctured. The sauce clears your nostrils in a sudden punch, no lead up, no dancing around what it is and what it’s supposed to do. It’s delicious; exonerating.

You would think guilt would close your stomach, but in fact you eat like a man on death row, inhaling every flavor like you can take it with you into your next life. You have to stop yourself from digging into what your ordered for John.

He said he’d be back. He isn’t a liar.

You do have that bath. You pour yourself some of his scotch, light candles, fasten your hair up with a clip and rest the back of your neck against the slanted lip of the bathtub. You and John had bought this house in part because of this tub; you’d fantasized about doing just this as often as you pleased.

He’d joked about its great capacity for draining a body. You’d told him if he ever used your tub for murder, you’d leave him.

The bath bombs fizz next to your thighs, dying the water in pink and gold, bubbling along your skin. Steam rises visibly from the water; tension bleeds from you slowly, like your body is unwilling to give it up just yet.

When it begins to cool, you open the drain and shower off. You wash yourself from top to bottom, lathering soap between the palms of your bare hands, reacquainting your body with your own touch. There, the dips in your pelvis; there, the folds of your stomach; there, the backs of your knees, calves, the knobs of your ankle bones.

Everything as it was before. Clean. Unblemished.

You take your post on the couch in your softest pajamas, pulling a blanket up to your waist. There’s a game on tonight, a Liverpool friendly that you remember John wanted to watch. He should get back soon, then. He wouldn’t want to miss it—

The front door opens.

You whip around. Your gaze locks with your husband’s. You hold together motionless, staring, as if evaluating each other.

You’re not sure how you expected him to arrive but you find yourself surprised that he’s clean. He’s in the same clothes, even, jeans and a T-shirt and a bomber jacket and work boots. The picture of nondescript.

The air he brings in with him is…different. Not miasmic; more refined. Almost satiated. You can’t read his expression, but the line of his brow is softer.

“Alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, and find yourself surprised that you mean it.

Words sit heavy in your stomach. Serious, needful. But you know John; and suddenly you realize if there was a time for them at all, he wouldn’t want them anyway.

He comes over to you, toes off his boots and slings his jacket over the sofa back. Sits, gathers you into his side, bringing your legs over his lap and pulling your head into the crook of his neck. He’s warm; warmer than he should be, having just come in from the cold.

“Needed a walk,” is all he says.

“Sure,” you agree.

He smells like your John. Clean, evergreen body soap and fresh laundry and earthy, like the smell of turned humus. A little thread of gun oil that never goes away—metallic, in a way you’ve grown used to, and couldn’t imagine being without any longer.

He cups your shoulder with one hand, lays the other across your lap. Squeezes your thigh. His knuckles are chapped a deep, bruised red from the cold; you notice a dark spot beneath the nail of his pinky.

“What’s the score?” he asks. His deep voice rumbles in his chest.

“They’re losing,” you say. You inhale his scent, hold it in your lungs, and breathe out slowly, calmly.

“Eh,” he says, giving you a squeeze, kissing your hair. “They’ll get away with it.”

-

You buy a car on a loan from some shady fuck like an idiot and John takes care of it, idk. Don’t worry about watching the news babe he’s a professional