#dalisays | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sentientcave · 2 months

Text

Retirement Party

Chapter 7 - Like Water

Read on AO3

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter -

Contains: No Y/N (2nd POV but Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, Everyone learns new things about each other, Manipulation, PTSD, Doll has a tragic backstory, Lots more introspection

~4.3k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above but honestly nothing particularly bad happens this chapter either. Maybe we're rounding the corner on that.

John’s hand closes around yours, and he lets you draw him out into the rain.

He’s likely no stranger to getting rained on— It’s not hard to imagine him and his boys trudging through all manner of inhospitable climates, carrying heavy gear, on high alert for danger. But this is different. This is not about survival, not a mission with objectives to fulfill. It’s just the two of you.

John looks at you like you’re the moon and all the stars in the sky, like you can’t possibly be real. Every time he thinks he has a handle on you, you surprise him. You surprise yourself too.

You spin across the lawn until you’re dizzy and nearly stagger over. John catches you, steadies you, smiles back when you give him an unfocused grin. “Your turn,” you suggest. It would be good for him to shed his own burdens, let himself be childish, remind him that the world doesn’t have to weigh so heavy on his shoulders.

It can all be so much lighter together, somehow.

He spins twice, water sluicing off the brim of his hat, and then wraps himself around you, hoisting you into his arms to spin again, and again. You both laugh, clinging to each other tightly, and something in your chest unlocks, lets go for the first time in days. Maybe the first time in years.

You’re not afraid of him anymore.

John spins one too many times and overbalances, the two of you tipping over onto the wet grass, John uttering a soft “Fuck!” as he folds so that you land on top of him. You look down as he looks up, both of you still laughing, water dripping down your faces, catching in his eyelashes, the hat no protection at this angle. His eyes reflect back the stormy skies, turned almost gray in the early twilight.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he asks, pushing your wet hair back from your face. “I l— I like having you around.”

“I’m starting to like being around,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You lean down and kiss him, no more that a peck, tasting rainwater on his lips. “Lets go inside.”

It takes him a moment to register what you’ve said. The kiss, no more than the barest press of lips, has him stunned. There’s a part of you that’s stunned too, even at your own actions, even though it shouldn’t come as any surprise. You’ve known you would kiss him since the first time he kissed you, maybe since the moment that Ghost dumped you in his lap, you only thought it would take more time.

You thought everything would take more time, but John has his own gravity, a way of stretching moments into little eternities. It’s only been a few days really, but you feel like you know him. Like maybe you can trust him too.

He helps you to your feet, and you walk back to the shelter of the porch hand in hand. It feels like a new beginning for you both, something giving way between you. John has breached your once impenetrable walls, and you aren’t afraid, despite the imbalance. For all his overtures, it will be a long time before he offers himself up to you the way you must for him. John only wants to show you the best parts of his heart, but you’ll show him how to bleed, how to hold the shadows up to the light, how to hold space for all the things that make him who he is. He doesn’t have to chain up his demons like dogs out in the yard. All that hungers is starved for something denied it.

You will love all of him, or none of him. What hungers in you will settle for nothing less.

There has never been any room in your heart for settling for only parts of someone. The home you grew up in was filled with love and acceptance. Your parents loved each other, loved you unconditionally, respected each other, held space for the good and the bad, settled every argument with calm discussion. If you build a home with someone, it will be following that blueprint. If you ever do have children, you want to give them what you had.

Before you go inside, you scrub one of the towels over your head and toe off your shoes. John follows close on your heels.

“I’m going to get changed,” you say. “And then we can have tea, and talk? I think we might have some things to discuss.”

“Could run you a bath to warm up,” he offers. “Don’t want you getting sick.”

“Maybe later. Tea for now.” You move out of range before he can reach out for you, and hurry up the stairs. He wants to kiss you again— You can feel his want like the scorch of a wildfire, the heat of his eyes following you up the stairs. Only once you’ve closed the door to your room do you hear him on the stairs, his weighted footsteps just audible above the drumming of rain on the roof.

You strip off your wet clothes and stare into the closet with a grimace. You’d been wearing jeans and pullovers for the last few days, but you don’t want to pull denim on over your clammy thighs, and your only pair of sweatpants were in need of a wash even before you were taken here. Rude of the boys not to wait until after laundry day to kidnap you and upend your life. You’re not certain that wearing a cute, brightly coloured dress will be constructive, but it’s the majority of your wardrobe. The Kinsey kids had loved all your bright, swishy skirts, and it had made it easy for them to spot you when you went to pick them up from school, despite the fact that you’re so short. At least everything has a conservative hemline, coming down to mid-calf or to the ankle.

You find a blue t-shirt, a mustard coloured skirt and some tall socks that tie with a silky ribbon above the knee (and out of sight), and throw a cardigan over top of everything. It’s comfortable. You hope that John doesn’t read into it.

He steps out of his room the same time you open your door, and you meet in the narrow landing, looking at each other. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that clings to his still damp skin, his eyes warm as they travel down and back up to your face. Heat prickles over skin that was chilled just a moment ago. “You look nice,” he says. “You always do, but this is— I mean— You just look beautiful.” He rubs the back of his neck, boyish smile sheepish.

You feel like a teenager with her first crush. Without fear to hold you back, it’s so much harder to ignore the desire that burns the tips of your ears and drips like melted sugar into the pit of your stomach. “Thank you. You look, um. Fit.”

Both of you laugh, and the tensions breaks some, enough to get you both moving again. He heads back to the kitchen, reaching it just at the kettle starts to whistle. He busies himself making tea. “I’ll get started on dinner in a minute too— Figure tomorrow we can go to the shops, get your paints, get groceries. I won’t ask you to cook, but you might like different things than I usually get.” There’s an ease to his movements now, like he’s finally relaxing too. He’s been careful not to show it, but he’s been having a hard time getting used to this new reality, same as you.

When he sets the tea to the side to steep, you touch his arm gently. “Hey, John,” you say. He turns toward you, and you wrap your arms around his middle and hug him.

He curls around you instantly, pressing his face to the top of your head. “What’s this for?”

“Do I need a reason?”

His laugh reverberates through you. “S’pose not, Doll. I just want to know what I’m doin’ right so I can keep doin’ it.”

“Don’t worry so much. I know how hard you’re trying to make this easy.” You hum, breathing in the smell of laundry detergent and rainwater and John. “Well. Easier.”

“I want to keep you,” he mumbles against your hair. “Want you to want to stay.” The shiver of raw emotion surprises you. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” There’s an edge to his voice, desperation that cuts him to the bone. He’s been alone and lonely for a long time. Longer than he’s been here, certainly.

There’s slight resistance when you pull back, like he’s reluctant to let you out of his arms now that you’ve placed yourself in them, but he doesn’t hold on. You look up at him. “You don’t have to do anything, John. We’re just getting to know each other. Most people have the luxury of taking their time. We’ve kind of been thrown together, instead of, you know, going on dates like normal people.”

“Would you let me take you out? You already look so good, we could go somewhere nice.”

“What, right now? John, it’s pouring out there.”

He looked out the window, like he had forgotten the weather entirely. “It’s always raining. We don’t have to let that stop us.”

“Actually, I think we should,” you say firmly. “We can go out another night.”

His shoulders droop slightly as he pours two mugs of tea. “I know. It’s just— Today has been good. Really good. Don’t want that to stop.”

“We don’t need to go anywhere to make it a date. We can have dinner and a movie right here.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, accepting the mug of tea he offers you. “Sure. I’d like that. Let’s get started on dinner. What can I do to help?”

He doesn’t let you help much (something you’ll have to address at some point. He’s not a bad cook per-say, but you know you’re better), so you putter around and clean up your art supplies, arranging some candles on the table. You can feel his eyes on you, and when you turn he looks away, never fast enough to hide that ridiculous, hopeful smile, his blue eyes bright. Bad beginnings be damned. Maybe you can forget how it all started— It’s not like it’s his fault, is it? He didn’t ask for his former subordinates to kidnap him a companion. All he’s done is like you, and ask you to stay.

And Lola likes him. That has to count for something.

You sit next to him at dinner rather than all the way at the other end of the table. His knee rests against yours, and his eyes flicker in the candlelight as he watches you, satisfied by your nearness.

After dinner, he washes the dishes and you dry them and put them away, your arms brushing each other occasionally. It’s nice— Domestic and cozy, so easy to fall into a rhythm with him. You catch yourself daydreaming about making it work, wondering what that could look like, and his words from the first night come back to you in a rush. We’ll have to come up with a better story for our kids.

It had horrified you only a few days ago.

Now you’re not sure how you feel.

It’s so hard to keep your head on straight with this man. You almost miss the fear, it kept you smart, kept you wary, and now you’re considering throwing caution to the wind after one good day, thinking about how it might not be so bad to give him anything and everything he wants. To trust him blindly, implicitly, and hope for the best.

You pick some movie to watch, and sit on your little red couch with your legs stretched out instead of the big one where he could sit beside you. A little distance might help you clear your head some. He doesn’t say anything, but he moves closer before the movie is even halfway through, sitting on the floor next to you with his back against the couch. You shift a little closer and drape your arm over his shoulder, and try not to giggle when he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

The rest of the movie become background noise. You’re aware only of every point of contact along your arm, the way he holds your palm over his heart and rubs his thumb across your knuckles, the prickle of his beard through your sweater, the way he feels warm and solid when you shift closer still.

When the movie ends, neither one of you moves, until a question slips out of your mouth. “Have you ever been married, John?”

His head tilts back to look at you. The room is dark, barely illuminated by the scroll of white letters over a dark screen. He hesitates a moment before speaking. “Yeah. Once.”

“What happened?”

John sighs, his thumb tapping now. “We met at some party in London when we were teens. I had just turned eighteen, just graduated from the academy to the regular service, and we had this spark— I was head over heels for her so quickly. Always thought you could only fall in love like that when you’re eighteen. We got married when I was twenty but I wasn’t home much, got deployed just about right away. I don’t think she took things as seriously as I did. Can’t blame her, we were young, she was still getting her degree. I just didn’t realize how much we weren’t on the same page until she got pregnant.” His mouth set in a hard line under his moustache for a moment. “She didn’t want to be a mother, had bigger ambitions for herself. So I took a bit of leave, brought her to the clinic. It was what was best, probably for both of us, but I felt like the whole world had just fallen out from under me.”

“Oh.” You weren’t exactly sure what you had expected him to say. You bring your hand up to his opposite shoulder, half of a hug.

“I couldn’t blame her. Wanted to, but she had the right. I wasn’t home enough. Wouldn’t’ve been right for me to beg her to change her mind. But that was the end. We both walked out of that clinic knowin’ it.” He tucks his chin into the crook of your elbow for a moment, breathing raggedly. It’s not until you feel the hot splash of tears on your arm that you realize that he’s crying, and trying very hard not to.

“Oh. Oh, John, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” You swing your legs down and kneel beside him, pulling him into your arms. “It’s so hard to do the right thing sometimes, isn’t it?”

John wrangles you into his lap like it’s nothing and presses his face to your shoulder, just breathing. You stroke his hair, making soothing sounds while he gets himself centred again. “Fuck. ‘M sorry, Doll. Didn’t want you to see me like this.” His arms loosen enough for you to pull away and look at him in the darkness.

“You’re not a fortress, John. You’re just a man. It’s okay to cry.”

“Haven’t seen you cry,” he says. “Even after everything. You’ve kept it all together.”

“No I haven’t. I just cry in the shower so you won’t hear me.” You pat his cheek, wiping away an errant tear with your thumb. “Didn’t want to break down in front of you, knew you’d fix me up. Wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”

“Wasn’t?” he asks hopefully. “Do you trust me now?”

“We’re getting there. It takes time, John.”

He huffs, a rueful smile taking over. “I know it does. Guess I’m still impatient. Want to kiss you for bein’ so sweet, makin’ everything so much better. But I won’t rush you along.”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Every minute since I met you. Haven’t I been obvious about that?”

You shake your head, laughing. “No, I mean right now. I would like to, if you’re—” You don’t get a chance to finish your sentence, because he cuts you off with a kiss, your request breaking through his restraint like water through a dam. He starts soft, cupping your face delicately, and when you kiss him back it turns languid, possessive, his tongue sliding against yours, head tipped to the side so he can get even closer.

He breaks the kiss to rearrange you in his lap so that you’re straddling his hips, legs spread wide to accommodate the size of him. Now you really wish that you’d worn jeans, just to have an extra layer of fabric separating you. This feels dangerous, like playing with fire, but you ignore the warning and let him pull you back in again, threading your fingers into his thick, soft hair.

His hands are everywhere now, sliding under your cardigan and feeling out all your softest places, the rolls above your hips, your plush thighs, gripping the curve of your ass to notch your hips closer together. He steals your breath when you let out a shuddering gasp, licking into your mouth. His want makes you dizzy— You’re not sure if anyone has kissed you like John does, like he needs you more than air. It’s frightening, but it sets a fire in your blood that could consume you in a moment if you let it. You want to burn up, let go, watch all the things that hold you back blow away like ashes on the wind.

But you’ve always been more like water.

John kisses down your throat, but he surfaces a moment later when you freeze in his arms. He sighs, thumb brushing across your jaw. “You’re not ready for this.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Don’t be. I don’t want you to push yourself, not when it comes to this. Don’t let me get ahead of myself, Doll.”

You nod. “I’ll try.”

He kisses you again, just softly, sweetly, slowly. And then he lets you go.

John’s hand rests on your thigh as he drives down the road. The countryside that passes by is muted, brown and gold fields, farm houses, fence posts, animals, and you see it without really paying it much mind, half focused on the texture of John’s hand under your own, the rough scars on his knuckles, the dusting of hair, the way his musculature fits together, the crooked fingers that didn’t quite set right. You can feel him smiling— He hasn’t stopped since you asked if it would be alright to go to Aberdeen, to an art store you used to go to with your mum. It’s further away, a long enough drive that you felt silly for asking, but John insisted that he didn’t mind.

Maybe he means it when he says he’ll do anything to make you happy. It’s strange, and you feel like you haven’t earned that, but it’s nice too.

Part of you is still thinking about last night, about kissing him. You feel the imprints of his hands everywhere he touched you, as though branded onto your skin. There’s a tension, although you’re not certain if it’s real, or if it’s just the slight burn of shame for the way you touched yourself after, once you’d said goodnight, one hand clamped over your mouth to keep yourself silent and the other between your legs. You haven’t been to church in a long time, but it’s hard to shake Catholic guilt even now.

You press your thighs together at the memory, and very pointedly don’t look at John. It’s better if you can believe that he doesn’t notice the effect he has on you. It saves you a little embarrassment.

Although there’s really nothing to be embarrassed about, is there? He’s not very good at hiding his own attraction, if he’s even trying. You both know it’s mutual now. It is what it is.

Once you reach the outskirts of Aberdeen, you give him directions on how to get to the art story. It looks exactly the same as you remember, even though it’s been at least a decade since you’ve been there. It’s like walking into a memory, the smell of paper and paint and the slight dusty smell of a shop with slow turnover tickling your nose. If you close your eyes, you can slip back in time, to when you came here with both your parents. You hadn’t lived far off, so you walked there on nice days, and your dad would sit on the bench outside with Rob Roy, the big dog flopped over on his feet. Sometimes you’d sit with him, when your mother got talking to the woman that worked there, but you always looked at everything first, from the shelves of ink bottles that shone like precious gems, the copic markers, every colour imaginable laid out in neat rows, the tubes and bottles of paints. You loved to touch the brushes, feel the different types of bristles. Back then the softest, swishiest brushes were your favourites, but you’d grown to prefer a hard flat brush once you’d started developing your own style.

“Are you alright?” John asks, touching your shoulder, dragging you back to the present.

You must look so foolish, standing just inside the door with your eyes closed. “I’m fine,” you say quickly. “Just remembering.”

“You know, if you ever want to talk—”

“Oh, good morning. Was thinkin’ I imagined the bell.” A friendly, round-faced woman comes bustling out from between the narrow shelves. She looks at you for a long moment, running her hand through her short-cropped grey hair. “You’re Angie’s girl.”

You nod. “Um. Yes.” You hadn’t expected to be recognized.

She steps forward and hugs you tight. “Christ almighty, s’good ta see you. Back in town ta see your gran, are you?”

“Not today. I recently moved back to the area. Not in town. Out a ways. Just wanted to come out here.”

“She’s getting back into painting, but she needs some supplies,” John chimes in.

The woman— Faye, if you remember right— studies John briefly, and then looks back at you, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “Found yourself a big, handsome fellow, did you?”

“I needed one that could get things off the top shelf for me,” you joke. “He has his uses.”

Faye chuckles. “I’m sure he does. D’you just need paint, sunshine? Or brushes, supports— Your mam like gesso boards, are you the same? We still carry the brand of oil paints she liked. Know you used acrylic when you were a girl, but…”

You start talking, and John wanders off through the store, looking around at everything. Can he feel the ghosts here too? You hope that if souls do cling to the earth, that they haunt the places that they loved, and not the ones where they died. You’d hate to think of you mother trapped amongst the flux of strangers traveling through Piccadilly Circus, or your father in some London hospital. You’d rather think of them together, here, or in the little house they’d moved to in Manchester, or on some beach in Barcelona, where they met.

“You’re a lot like her, you know,” Faye says when she rings it all up, tucking everything into the box that sits on the counter between you. John’s in the middle of carrying some canvas and boards out to the truck, already tallied up.

The observation surprises you. You’ve always seen more of your father in you. “You think so?”

Faye nods, smiling warmly. “It’s the way you talk. Some of your mannerisms. Even the way you dress, all those bright, beautiful dresses. Angie’s definitely your mam, and she’d be so proud of who you’re becomin’.” She winks as John re-enters the shop. “She might not have loved your Englishman, though. Doesna seem a bad sort, but he’s still English.”

You laugh, but it’s a bit watery. John wraps a comforting arm around your shoulders while he pays, a funny smile on his face. When the two of you settle back into the truck, he watches you for a long moment as you run your fingers over the business card Faye gave you. “What?” you ask, sneaking a glance back.

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

“You took me here.”

“No, I mean— This place means a lot to you. I’m glad you asked. It was well worth the trip to see you smile like that, talkin’ about things I don’t understand in the least.” He reaches over and squeezes your knee. “I don’t mean to pry, Doll, but what happened to your parents?”

“I don’t want to ruin the rest of the day. Let’s not talk about that right now.” You tuck the card into your pocket and buckle your seat belt. “It’s still hard to talk about.”

He nods and backs out of the tight parking lot carefully, his hand leaving your knee to brace against the back of your seat when he turns to look. “In your own time, Doll. It just clearly hurts you and I— Well, I guess I can’t help, but I can at least listen, when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, John,” you say. “We’ll get there.”

There’s a lightness in you now, like you pulled open the curtains and opened the windows in a room long left dark and closed off. It feels good to open up. It feels good to look back, for the first time in ages, like you’re returning to some vital part of yourself, an oxbow lake reconnecting to the river, sediment washing away what kept you apart.

And it’s different— You aren’t the same person you were a week ago, let alone a decade, but that’s a good thing too. You’ve been afraid to change, worried that the years would turn you into someone that your parents wouldn’t recognize.

But you carry them with you. And you aren’t afraid to change anymore.