#also i know nursery wards arent really a thing anymore but source material has entire made up countries so we're moving on

[pricegouge]

Get Her a Dog (She'll be Happier For It)

Part Three | master list | MDNI

Soap x reader, Price x reader, eventual PriceSoap x reader

series cw: cheating. dubcon. angst. cuckholding. pet play.

chapter cw: angst, extremely vague/brief mentions of injury. talk of wanting a baby

reader is fem and fat

It takes the bouquet a full two weeks to become so withered it's no use trimming the stems or mixing up that special sugar solution which keeps them in bloom longer anymore. Johnny doesn't call. You tell yourself that's standard for middle-of-the-night type missions and keep the twenty four hour news feed on at all times even though all it does is irritate you. You were never much good at reading between the lines of these things anyway, at picking out which bits of the endless scroll of World Gone Wrong News are actually just state fabricated lies to cover the pieces deemed too big and scary for the general public to know the intricacies of. You shut it off after the fourth mass shooting comes and goes with no update.

The flowers were a nice touch. At least more than you expected to get after being woken in the middle of the night to murmured apologies and promises of a big day out when he got back. If he got back. You know it's not a helpful thought, feel terribly selfish that you'd only thought it given the circumstances, but it crosses your mind nonetheless. Digs its fingers between the slots of your ribs.

It takes the bouquet a full two weeks to become so withered it's no use trimming the stems or mixing up that special sugar solution which keeps them in bloom longer anymore. Johnny doesn't call. You tell yourself that's standard for middle-of-the-night type missions and keep the twenty four hour news feed on at all times even though all it does is irritate you. You were never much good at reading between the lines of these things anyway, at picking out which bits of the endless scroll of World Gone Wrong News are actually just state fabricated lies to cover the pieces deemed too big and scary for the general public to know the intricacies of. You shut it off after the fourth mass shooting comes and goes with no update.

After eighteen days away, you finally get a call from an unknown number and nearly drive through a red light when the notification pops up on your car's display. In theory, it could be anyone. But you know.

John's voice is too formal, too stiff. He calls you Mrs. MacTavish and guilt twines itself so thoroughly with your general sense of dread as to become inseparable. The cable cord holding up your life. Your stomach cramps hard enough you think you might be sick. They're at the A&E, John says, and while he may go on to explain there's no reason to panic, you're too busy racing through the streets of York to listen at all. 

Kyle waits for you outside the entrance, escorting you through the labyrinthine halls and (somehow) multiple elevators to a quiet corner of the surgical waiting room. You've been here before, think vaguely that the vinyl seating should be familiar by now. You'd think after so many instances that you'd get used to moments like this, that Johnny's apparent constant death wish would stop weighing so heavily on you. There's part of you that's come to believe your husband is indestructible, a bedtime story you tell yourself when his side of the mattress lays empty and cold: it doesn't matter what befalls him in the dead of night while you lay your head on down pillows he bought, because nothing can ever break Johnny. It always crumbles apart when your phone rings like an alarm clock, John's steady, terribly formal voice there to rip you away from your fantasies. It's another reason you hate him; why you know you couldn't do this without him. When he comes back, clipboard in hand, John explains it was supposed to be a low stakes mission and how quickly it turned for the worst. You let it wash all over you with all the other intricacies of your husband's line of work because if you look at it for too long you start to understand those mums who poison their kids just to keep them home and under control. He returns his clipboard when he's done and Kyle picks up where he left off, voice much more soothing and sympathetic as he details Johnny's wound. Stray bullet, low in the belly where Johnny's vest didn't cover. He'll be right as rain in a few weeks, but they'd needed to re-open it up to get in there and make sure everything will heal up okay. 

They sit with you through the long hours as much as they are able, John occasionally pulled away by a cell phone which will not stop ringing. It bothers you more than it should, but you don't want to analyze that just yet. Best left be until you're holed up in bed alone again. Kyle remains steadfast, a constant supply of bad hospital coffee at hand. You don't know when or how he memorized the way you take it, but you're too distracted to ask now.

You feel like you're being strangled, or maybe hanged, that cord of guilt and dread your noose. It pulls tighter with each minute that passes and you spiral deeper into your memories of the last few days, how you moped around in misery, wallowing in self pity while your husband risked his life trying to make the world a better place. Selfishness eats at you like a physical thing, worse so when Gaz asks if you want to go for a walk and you snap at him about wanting to be alone. He holds his hands up at you in mock surrender, a crease forming between his brows. You trip over yourself in apology, but the long days must have weighed on him just as heavily because he only mutters his quiet acceptance and strolls out the door, fishing a cigarette out as he goes. 

John does not follow. You feel his eyes on you, that same steady gaze as always. Usually, it pins you in place just as much as it makes you want to squirm, but today it makes you seethe, temper flaring back red hot now that you have a real target in sight. John's the reason you're here, the reason you give yourself up to self pity every time you think about the shortcomings of your marriage. Because the truth is, Johnny's good when he's home - and that's a farside better than most women in your position get. 

"What?" you snap as you wheel on your companion. 

Though his face crumbles for maybe half a second, John's quick to recover, one bushy brow cocking as if in challenge - though you both know he would let you unload on him without so much as a word of protest. For some reason, the realization only makes you angrier and you stand in a huff, marching off in the general direction of the nearest coffee maker. A rustle of fabric tells you John is following, the distinct texture of your jacket telling you he's collected your things. Your jaw clenches so tight you think you might crack a molar, but you don't stop until he makes you, grabbing you by the elbow the second he finds a relatively inactive corner. You're already spitting when he wheels you around, pushing against his chest for all the good it does you as you rail on about everything being his fault. You think you start somewhere with his stupid taskforce and barrel right on through to his general form of leadership, delighting in the quick look of panic it brings as he drags you through a door, snicking it closed behind you. It's not until you have to take a breath somewhere around Johnny's general inadequacy that you realize he's locked you both in a bathroom, his hand covering your mouth while you pant for breath through the seams of his fingers. 

He still smells like gunpowder, that same metallic quality that clings to your husband, too. You can't tell if your face is hot with anger, embarrassment, or tears.

"You done?"

You'd shake your head no, but he's not actually giving you an option, grip firmly holding you in place as he leans close enough to make your eyes cross. 

"If I take my hand away, you gonna keep yelling about classified information in public?"

It's funny how you barely even register the guilt his words bring; a drop in the bucket. This time he lets you shake your head.

His palm is heavy when it shifts, grip changing so he can cradle your jaw delicately. The soft look from before is back, much as he tries to obscure it behind his stern facade. He's never been as good at maintaining it around you as he has his men. He calls you sweetheart, lets his voice trail off as he thinks of how best to address your laundry list of complaints. It makes you ache, for some reason. Perhaps the contrast to Johnny's quick, impulsive temper. Your husband's never been cruel with you, of course, but the two of you can be like oil and water when you're both worked up, and while you can see John's frustrations in the twitch of his mustache and the set of his brow, he takes his time to consider his words, trying to ensure proper communication. It's more than you deserve.

You'll tell yourself in retrospect that it's not you who leans in, that John's hand on your cheek was more insistent, his face tilted slightly closer. It's a lie, but John accepts the blame so gracefully everywhere else, surely he can shoulder this, too?

Knock, knock.

The speed at which you back away from the man before you nearly makes you stumble. John barks that the room is occupied, face clouded with an anger that doesn't reflect in the way he catches you, ensures you're sturdy on your feet before letting you slip from his grasp. For once, it's him who can't look at you and the thought makes your chest ache, propels you out the door before you have to hear him apologize for another person's shortcomings one more time.

Gaz is not yet back in the waiting room and you don't trust yourself to be alone with John again so you take the suggested walk around the hospital, letting yourself get lost in the long circuitous routes of wards that set you ill at ease. You do not linger, feet just as busy as your mind - just as directionless. You retrace the events of your morning like a skipping record, an endless revolution, getting lost in the panic of the phone call and the relief you'd felt in John's firm grasp before tracing the roots of your guilt deeper, the old growth spreading back years. These paths are worn, the familiarity almost comforting insofar as you've tread them enough times to know they do not end with you pressed against your husband's captain in a hospital bathroom while he gets his intestines sewn up mere yards away. Except, they do now, if you follow them long enough, and you spend some time trying to find the source of it, the tributary from which it branched. You worry maybe it was the day you met him, the day he waltzed into your life and you mistook his job title to mean he was a man who could help you wrangle the force of nature that was John MacTavish. Probably, it was earlier, when you'd decided to tie yourself to a man you thought needed wrangling. 

You don't pay much thought to where your feet take you until you're staring uncomprehendingly into the face of a rather stern, if concerned staff member. When she cocks her brow at you expectantly, you shake yourself out of your reverie and ask her to repeat herself. 

"I asked who you're here to see."

Blinking, your eyes slide past her, take in your surroundings properly for the first time. A glass panel backdrops her, separating you from a well-lit room, sparsely decorated with pastel tones. You think you spot the head of a baby giraffe mural over her shoulder and feel your face heat at being caught out, although logistically you know she's probably more concerned about the random distraught woman hovering around the newborns. 

"S-sorry. I'm not -. I guess I just didn't realize where I was," you admit. 

The woman - registered nurse Rita, by the ID clipped to her hip pocket - eyes you suspiciously for a beat longer, but whatever she sees in you softens her edges, brings her guard down. "Can't be here," she tells you, voice unyielding but far less harsh than it had been mere moments before. 

"Right," you agree, glancing around as if looking for the way you came. "Uh…"

"Do you know what room your… loved one is in?" She sounds slightly patronizing, but you can't force your eyes to focus on her for long enough to confirm. You think maybe all the coffee is catching up with you, know it's more likely the combined effects of your embarrassment and guilt making it hard to maintain eye contact.

"My husband's in surgery," you blurt. "Gunshot wound."

Nurse Rita balks, takes a minute to look around herself. "C'mere," she mutters, fingers surprisingly strong when she wraps them around the soft flesh of your arm and steers you toward a proper waiting area. You stumble after her, trying to avoid the gazes of the anxious pack of new parents she leaves in your wake. 

You're babbling when she comes to a stop. "It's okay, he's a soldier. He'll be fine. They just had to re-open it because they needed to tie up some loose ends."

There's a pause. Somewhere, a monitor sounds off. "Was that a joke?"

"Well, not a good one."

But despite your assertions, Rita does laugh. It's a good one, too, sets her heavy chest jiggling. She's got a nice smile, infectious. You're glad she works in the natal ward. You ease down with her, the deep breaths she pulls to catch her breath serving to calm you both. "Is it bad I like the repeat customers best?" She asks, conspiratorial. 

You grin, thinking you know what she means. You can't spend so much time around soldiers without developing an appreciation for gallows humor, after all. "Gotten about as good at dealing with it as can be expected, I guess."

Rita hums, her eyes darting down the hall. You imagine she's busy but you're too greedy to assure her you'll be okay without her company so you don't. "Except this time, it seems."

"There's been… a complication."

"Oh, honey," Rita coos.

"Not with my husband," you clarify, "Sorry. Poor choice of words. Um. I mean - his captain's here and I don't want to… I can't sit next to him any longer without going insane. You know?"

You can almost see Rita mapping the points of information she has, assess the mire between them. "And what brings you here?"

It's hard not to blubber, though you're unsure why exactly. "I think I want a baby," you whisper instead, the secret pulled from you easy pie once someone actually asks despite the shame you feel about it, the words catching like barbs in your throat.

"And Mr. Tin Soldier doesn't?"

You offer her a forced smile. "Johnny. And I don't know. He used to. I think his captain wants one more," you confess, gaze slipping away from her again. You feel her rock back away from you momentarily, her breath puffing out in one great gust. "I haven't -. We've never…"

"Okay," she asserts. You don't think she believes you, but if the roles were reversed you suppose you wouldn't either. "But you'd like to?"

The yawning chasm of loneliness in your chest tells you one thing, but your pride can only muster a 'sometimes.'

"So not limited to when your husband is under the knife?"

"Christ," you hiss, crumpling in on yourself. "I'm a monster."

To your surprise, you feel Rita's warm palm on your back, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. Her voice is strained when she speaks, like she's not sure she believes what she's saying, but her caregiving instincts must win out because she speaks anyway. "I don't think so. Think you're probably just lonely, honey."

You know why she says it, know only someone desperate te be understood would reach out to her so eagerly like this. Still, it hurts to be seen. Maybe worse than not being seen at all. But it's the good ache, the kind you get from John. You have a brief, wild notion of kissing Rita, and have to suppress a bitter huff of laughter. "Johnny's not… here, even when he's here, you know?" You snivel, knowing full well how unsympathetic you probably sound.

"And the captain is?" Rita prompts. You think it's probably meant to clarify, but it sounds more like a challenge.

"Believe it or not, yes. John's very attentive. And nurturing. And he's always around more often than Johnny."

Rita's hand stops. "Wait, they're both named John?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," you gripe goodnaturedly, but Rita's not giving in.

"Well at least you don't have to worry about calling out the wrong name."

The snort you emit is terribly embarrassing, snot breaking loose after all your moping. Rita procures a tissue from some scrub pocket, makes a comment about tools of the trade. You sit silently for a moment as you dab your nose, for the first time taking note of the area she's sequestered you in. You're surprised to find the street outside getting darker, lamps glowing in the rain-slick parking lot. Inside, the hospital has begun to adopt a low, gentle glow - so far removed from the sterile, cold cold lighting you're used to seeing on hospital procedurals. The recesses and corners lie dim and dormant, the one you've been tucked into only kept lively by your company's presence. Without her, you fear you'd slink back into the darkness as well, become just another shadow on the wall. For a moment, you think you want that, and then your phone rings, the same unknown number from before illuminating your screen.

John doesn't wait for you to answer properly before asking where you are, but his voice is much softer than you'd expected, a pleasant drawl you're not sure is meant to lure you in but does all the same.

You sniffle, suppress a laugh. You don't see much use in lying to him. "The natal ward."

Silence stretches from the other end, the sound of a passing gurney all that your phone transmits. "Soap's out." 

"I'll be right down." 

"I can come -." 

"I'll be right down, John." Next to you, Rita arcs a sparse, shapeless brow. You decide you love her, even if she has every reason to believe you're a bad person.

"Right. They're bringing him to room two seventy eight." 

"Thanks. Bye." 

Your departure from Rita is brief. She wishes you good luck and you tell her to swaddle some babies tight for you. You stand awkwardly for a moment, willing further conversation to come, but there's ultimately not much more to say to someone after baring your deepest shame to them basically unprompted, especially when they've so easily seen through you. So you wave in parting and beat a hasty retreat, trying not to think about how you'll forever be the cheating wife in her eyes, probably.

For as long as your meandering journey upstairs had taken, you find your way back quick enough. Still, it's Gaz who sits beside your husband's bed, Gaz who tells you the captain had to head back to base. "Just missed him," he sympathizes, nodding at a vase of familiar-looking flowers. "Left that for the happy couple, though."

You bypass them entirely, a sense of dread filling you when you spot the note tucked in among the buds. Instead, you fold yourself over Johnny's sleeping body, press kisses to his forehead. There's no faking the genuine relief you feel seeing him so you let it carry you through the motions, fuss about with his blankets and squeeze his hand. You fall asleep in the recliner next to him, waking some hours later to find your company gone, though an orderly tells you your handsome guest said he'd return in the morning. You suppress the urge to ask which one. 

***

The flowers eventually make it home with you, the vase carried in Johnny's big fist. You wait until he's been tucked into bed before getting around to pruning them, the majority of the heads having wilted after too many days in stagnant water and poor quality hospital lighting. You toss the note away with them, unread, though you can't help telling Johnny they remind you of the flowers he sent. 

"What flowers, hen?" He grumbles, still sleepy from the pain meds. 

"Nevermind, baby," you assure him, chest too tight to trust your voice anymore than a whisper. "Go back to bed." 

***

When he's feeling better, you tell Johnny you want a baby.

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