loving John MacTavish is a primarily sensory experience
sure, you don’t have to have him around to feel your chest blissfully full of him, ballooning with affection at the mere sight of his clothes in your closet. but what sticks the most in your mind is the way he feels, his rough hands on your skin, between your breasts, cupping your cheek
his voice when your name is the first thing on his lips waking up, his accent when he gets excited and the rumble low in his throat that precedes every kiss
you love the iron band of his arm around your waist, the prickle of his stubble on your neck, his laughter shaking his whole body and yours with it. even when he’s on the opposite corner of this fucked up, beautiful world, Johnny lives in your space in such a physical way that you don’t ever think to imagine a day when he won’t.
he’s Johnny, he’s here, always
so when there’s a gruff man on the other side of the line —and he sounds exhausted, like he’s run for miles, for years—, and he tells you that it’s about John, because he’s listed you as his next of kin, it chills your bones, sucks the air out of the room
this is the storm you were convinced you could weather, that you promised wouldn’t shake you, so you get in the car and you drive for hours to London because you can’t bear the thought of sitting on your ass on a train doing nothing
and you crash through the reception at the hospital in a daze, mumbling out the name of the man you love, launching into the familiar spiel of ‘m-a-c’ not ‘m-c’ before you get approached by an impressive beard and the man attached.
John —Price, this one—, is a balm. steady and sparse, he leads you with very little fanfare to the bed of a Johnny that’s half gauze, wrapped up like a mummy from those old films he likes. only one visible, bright blue eye that softens at your less than stellar appearance by the doorway
“don’t kill me, right darling? i’ve had enough of that for the week”
you stand there, quite silent, because it aches. as if he's carving open your chest to set your heart back where it belongs, where he last left it
"no, come on, sweet girl," Johnny pleads with you, reaching across what seems like the distance between life and death, so close, "don't cry, doctor says there wont be permanent damage to the eye, i'll be able to see your beautiful face just fine—"
he's right, you realize, you're crying. and then you're pretty much falling forward, moving into him until you bump into his open hands, kissing wherever you can reach so you can taste the salt of his skin, laughing and sobbing all the same when he chants your name in a voice that's worse for wear but still his, still alive
he's here, your Johnny, like always
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