Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bodyguard wasn’t your idea. 

It’s overkill, absolutely, but Kate’s insistent. “After last week, I’m about ready to hire security for the entire staff,” she grumbles, forcing you to match her near breakneck pace through the halls, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the tile. “But we’ll start with just you. I’m not looking for any repeat incidents.”

She’s referring to the man who’d shown up at your townhouse in the middle of the night last week, naked as a jaybird and screaming colorful threats laced with obscenities into your window. Much of his tirade was directed at your boss, Kate herself, though the “inside-information” he’d shrieked and squawked out as he’d been bundled into a police car seemed… well. Not entirely accurate. Or sane, but considering again that he was wandering around naked in D.C. in January, that was maybe a given. It’s not clear how he got your address or what, if anything, he’d planned to do, but the incident had shaken Kate in a way you’ve not seen from her before. 

“He was crazy, ma’am,” you complain. “He’s just another D.C. wingnut who listens to too many conspiracy podcasts, and doesn’t actually know how the government works.” You don’t know how she moves so fast in these heels. You’re getting winded. “It wasn’t that serious.”

“It’s literally my job to assume everything is that serious,” she replies dryly, and you sigh. “At least until the hearing, alright? Better to be safe than sorry.” 

The defense hearing. You’ve only been preparing for it for what feels like your entire adult life. (Two years, but still.) You started accumulating evidence for this with Kate when you worked under her at the C.I.A. Now, with Kate appointed as Secretary of Defense and you as her chief of staff, the inquiry has finally gained enough steam to be brought before the House Judiciary Committee. It’s a massive overhaul of “best practices”, corruption and cover-ups, the likes of which previous Secretaries of Defense have been unwilling to acknowledge. Not Kate Laswell though. 

That being said, the inquiry has made Kate (and her staff) some… well. Not friends, certainly. You’re not dumb enough to pretend that there’s not a handful of folks on the Hill who might resort to some drastic measures to ensure the hearing doesn’t go as planned, but it hasn’t been an issue so far. And if their first line of defense is lunatics they picked up off some soapbox, well. Come on . 

“Fine.” It doesn’t actually matter if you agree or not. Kate is where she is today because she’s very adept at getting her way. She’s already made up her mind, she’s just giving you the courtesy of actually meeting the guy first. “Can you slow down?”

It’s not relevant, because she’s banging open a door to a conference room you’ve never been in before, revealing a man seated at the table, twiddling his thumbs. “John!” she says, sounding both relieved and excited, and when he stands, she throws her arms around him in an embrace. “It’s good to see you.”

Your brow furrows. You’ve known Kate for a while. The only person you’ve ever seen her hug is her wife. Your curiosity abounds, but you keep your mouth tightly shut as you appraise the man who takes a step back from her. 

You don’t recognize him, which isn’t that unusual-- despite working in D.C. for nearly seven years, Kate’s career has spanned a long time and over half the globe; there’s heaps of “old friends” you never met and probably never will. He’s tall, broad, with such ramrod posture that you immediately assume military, though that usually comes with the whole ‘working in the Pentagon’ thing. Oh , you think, almost involuntarily. Handsome . 

“It’s good to see you, too,” he replies warmly, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, and his accent startles you out of your trance. That’s… different. English, maybe? It’s deep and warm, whatever it is, and you’re already beginning to dread the conversation that’s going to follow. Be normal. Be. Normal.

“I’d like to introduce my chief of staff,” Kate beams at you, and you feel almost shy. Shy? Christ, you’re twenty-nine, not twelve. Get it together. “And may I present the one and only Captain John Price.”

“It’s just John,” Price says, sounding something like bashful even as he offers you his hand. It’s large and rough, but warm, and you fight the blush rising to your cheeks. “And it’s my pleasure.” 

“John’ll be taking up the helm of your security detail,” Kate presses on before you have the chance to say anything. “Well. He is the security detail.” 

“I don’t need security,” you manage finally, and Price just arches an eyebrow at you. “Really, I--”

“Kate’s informed me you appear to have garnered the attention of a stalker.” That accent is going to drive you insane, you can already tell. Great. Great! You can feel the spiraling madness beginning already. “That usually warrants security measures.” 

“He wasn’t a--”

Kate cuts you off. “The bulk of the Captain’s duties will be your protection outside of work hours. From the office, to the office, and at your residence, as well as special events and outings as otherwise needed. 

Your residence ? “Kate…” you say slowly, and she shrugs. 

“I’m not willing to make compromises for your safety,” Kate says, and you know that tone. She’s not arguing. “Might I remind you that your would be kidnapper showed up at your house-- not here, not the White House, but your home. You deserve to feel safe too.” 

If you didn’t know Kate, you’d call this almost sentimental. But because you do know Kate, you know any sentimentality comes with it the cold grasp of practicality, and it’s not very practical to let your, in some respects, closest confidant run around by herself so close to the hearing. “He wasn’t going to kidnap me,” you say weakly, and Kate rolls her eyes. 

“I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted. The Captain starts tonight.” 

---

It’s not the most awkward day of your life, but it’s certainly close. 

Price isn’t really interested in getting ‘acquainted’, so to speak, which you understand. Kate isn’t paying him to be your friend. Price wants to know your routines, where in the building you spend the most time, when you get up for work, when you leave, where you stop for coffee… all of it. Every single microscopic detail of your entire life, in all its humiliating, boring glory. 

“All this… can’t be necessary,” you try, and Price fixes you with a hard stare. His eyes are very blue , part of you thinks, pathetically, and you’d love nothing more than to throw yourself into the Potomac. 

“I’m not sure you’re really seeing the full picture here,” Price says slowly. “A stalker’s single most important tool is your routine. The fewer changes you make, the less spontaneous you are, the easier his goals become.”

“But I have those routines for a reason ,” you protest. “For.. for work, for myself--”

“So does everyone else in the world, princess, but your circumstances have changed.” He takes out his phone and types out a quick note. “We’ll have to get cameras for your residence, too. Entrances and windows. And I’ll need your keys.” 

“Keys?”

He blinks at you, and you resent the implication that he thinks you’re an idiot. “Your car?” 

“I don’t drive.” At his nonplussed expression, you feel pressured to continue. “I don’t even have a car. I-- I take the subway.”

Price runs his tongue over his teeth in an exasperated gesture. “Not anymore. Get your things. We’re heading out for the day. I’ll call Kate for a car.” 

“But, I--” 

“But nothing, we’ve got things to do.” He checks his watch and lifts his phone to his ear. When you don’t make a move to leave, he makes a shooing motion. “Today, princess.” 

Princess . You frown at him as you make for your office, stomach twisting uncomfortably. “Stop calling me that.”

“Stop acting like one and maybe I will,” he tosses over his shoulder as you furiously stomp away, the click of your heels sounding nowhere near as threatening as when Kate does it. 

---

Your only consolation in this whole ordeal is that your neighbors already think you’re crazy. They won’t think anything of the giant, unfamiliar man doing… home renovation projects. 

You think he took you to damn near every hardware and home security store in the city, whipping around in a car he’d procured seemingly out of nowhere, which is now parked obnoxiously in front of your townhome. He’s spent the better part of the last few hours installing the cameras and alarms he’d picked up, stripping out of his suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his button down. It’s… distracting, to say the least, so you busy yourself with making dinner. He lifts an eyebrow when you offer the plate of pasta to him, but evidently hunger wins out, because he accepts, and the two of you eat at your counter in relative silence. 

“Do you have a spare room here?” he asks finally, and you nearly choke on your pasta.

“I have a guest bedroom, but I-- well. I wasn’t expecting company, so-- the sheets-- it’s--”

His eyebrows furrow. “To use as an office. I won’t be sleeping when I’m here.” He blinks at you. “That’s… that’s the whole point.” 

Right. Obviously. How could you forget? Kate has employed the services of a wildly attractive, and wildly irritating, gentleman to… watch you sleep. Perfect. “Oh,” you manage. “Um. Yes. It faces the street, so that should be. Good.” 

He nods solemnly. “I’ll have the cameras operational tonight. We’ll do a security run through once I’m finished so you can get a handle on everything.” He stands and sets his dishes in the sink. “Thank you for dinner,” he says, and vanishes back outside again. 

That all makes sense, but you’re not really expecting him to knock on your bathroom door several hours later when you’re getting ready for bed. “Hrgh?” you say intelligently, and he swings the unlocked door open to reveal you standing in front of the sink, mouth full of toothpaste and wearing what may very well be the rattiest t-shirt you own. At least you’re wearing pants. Small blessings. 

His brows draw together, but his expression is otherwise unreadable. “Security run through,” he says shortly. “C’mon.” 

You make a noise of protest before spitting out your toothpaste. “Now?” you say, gesturing to… well. All of you. 

“Yes. Now, princess. C’mon.” He trots down the stairs, and you don’t really have a choice but to follow. 

He points out all the camera’s he’s installed, and it feels… excessive, but you suppose he’s the security expert here. Front entrance, back entrance, living area, stairwell. He explains his logic and reasoning for the placement of each, and it makes sense to you, but it doesn’t stop the cold feeling that settles in your stomach as you watch frames of your house through Price’s elaborate computer setup. Where did these monitors come from? 

“Are you listening to anything I’m trying to tell you?” he asks tersely, and you blink back to focus, meeting his cold blue eyes. He’d been talking about the alarm system, disarming codes, rattling off numbers that went one ear and out the other. “It’s only your life on the line, princess. Pay attention or don’t, but I only get paid if you stay alive.” 

Part of you wants to flinch at that, but the cold feeling in your stomach starts to spread through your body. Kate doesn’t do things for no reason-- you might think she’s paranoid, but like she always tells you, it’s not paranoia if someone’s actually out to get you . It’s basically the credo of the Department of Defense. If she thinks Price is necessary, and if Price thinks this is necessary, it probably is, as much as it might scare you to admit.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says, and his voice almost gentles for half a moment. “It’s a precaution, more than anything. And it’s just until the end of the hearing. What’ll that be, a month?”

You shrug, tilting your hand is a ‘ so-so ’ gesture. “Six weeks, probably.” A little over a week till the opening of the hearing, probably three or four weeks of hearings. A week of deliberation. 

“Six weeks. And then we’re done.” You meet his eyes, and his mouth twitches in an almost smile. “Easy as that.” 

Six weeks. As irritating as he might be, having an attractive man basically live with you for a little over a month is going to be far from the worst six weeks you’ve ever had. 

Everything is going to be fine.

Chapter Text

Everything is terrible. 

“How’s it going with John?” 

Absolutely awful, thanks . 

Kate’s not asking because she’s concerned. Well. She’s concerned for your safety, obviously, that’s the whole reason you’re in this situation in the first place. But the House Judiciary Committee is hearing opening remarks for the hearing next week-- everyone in the office has kicked into a wild frenzy of activity, and Kate herself is no exception. Everything has to be perfect-- they’ve got to be impeccable, insurmountable. Failure of any kind can’t be an option. You know the lawyers made Kate step out to breathe, to eat, to de-stress for half a second. Instead of doing that, she’s found something new to fixate on. You. 

Though it’s only been three days since Price assumed his post, you think you can actively feel yourself going gray. As if working in D.C. wasn’t aging you at twice the natural rate anyway. He seems determined to unseat every routine you’ve ever established, which you know is part of the process, but good grief. You have to get up a full hour earlier just so he can take increasingly complicated routes to the Pentagon when he’s driving you to work. You’ve never been one for car sickness, but with the way Price drives, you’re beginning to think about a dramamine prescription. He’s not a believer in stopping for treats, so you’ve been getting your coffee from the machine in Kate’s office, which feels like cruel and unusual punishment. He’s always underfoot when you’re at home, telling you what you can and can’t do. Don’t sit in front of the window, don’t take your trash out alone, don’t order in, don’t don’t don’t. You’re going insane. He hasn’t gotten more pleasant to deal with in the days since he’s been appointed, and whenever you express any minor displeasure at the situation you’ve found yourself in, he calls you princess , in that stupid, simpering tone that makes you want to set yourself on fire. You ate dinner last night-- instant noodles with peanut butter, because you’d had no food in the house and Price had put the kibosh on ordering out-- quietly fuming in your room, and Price had looked on, somewhat amused. 

You were not amused. 

You don’t want to speak ill of such a close friend of your boss’s. “I’m… adjusting,” you decide finally, and it seems to appease Kate, at any rate. 

“Good. That’s good. Yes.” Kate blinks at you, and you can see her working things over in your head. “Let’s take a walk.” 

You lift an eyebrow at her. Take a walk meant she wanted to discuss something outside of her offices, something she didn’t want the rest of the staff to overhear. You’d chalk it up to nervous energy as the lawyers discuss amongst themselves, but she looks unexpectedly serious. “I could walk,” you say, reaching for your jacket, and she grins at you. 

The courtyard is unexpectedly warm for January, and Kate is quiet for a long minute, thinking. You let her. You could use some peace and quiet. 

“My informant contacted me,” she says finally, and your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. The informant had pointed you toward much of the evidence that lead Kate to press for the inquiry in the first place. You’d figured his usefulness-- or willingness to help, at any rate-- had expired, as he hadn’t contacted Kate in a while. To speak up now, a week before the hearing…

“What’s he got?”

Kate worries at her lip for a moment before shooting a sideways glance to you. “One of the D.C. generals, one of the four stars… they’re in on it.” 

You blink at her. “In on it?” 

“The Urzikstan coverup.” 

Oh . 

The Urzikstan cover up was one of the larger incidents that had prompted Kate to pursue the inquiry. It was, by all accounts, a disaster-- needless loss of life on both sides of the aisle. Errant commanders had ordered an unauthorized raid on what they believed to be an Al-Qatala hide out-- when it turned out to be a field hospital for local refugees, they’d razed it to the ground in an effort to hide what they’d already done-- the refugees, however, didn’t go quietly. What resulted was a handful of survivors who were tight lipped about the entire ordeal, nearly all of whom had ended their own lives shortly after returning. (You’re still not sure they were responsible for their own deaths, the deeper you’ve dug, but it’s not something you have to voice-- Kate knows that as well as you do.)  But the truth was covered up for years. You’d pinpointed the lieutenants, the captains, even the field commander responsible. You hadn’t seen that it had gone any further than that, but a four star? A D.C. four star? “Who?” you manage.

Kate sighs. “He didn’t say who, said he’d already said too much. It was a warning, more than anything.” 

Something cold grips your spine. Kate hasn’t expressly said it, but you’ve understood for many years that the informant is one of the few remaining survivors. If he’s scared, you have reason to be scared, too. “He’s desperate,” you say slowly, and if there’s one every member of the Department of Defense understands it’s that a desperate man is like a cornered animal-- unpredictable, savage, and dangerous.

Kate nods grimly. “He can’t stop the hearing. But he can stop those who will testify.” 

“And that’s you.” 

She fixes you with a knowing stare. “And you.” When you don’t say anything, Kate sighs again, scuffing her shoes at some of the pebbles in her way. “We have to be careful about who we trust from now on. Who we confide in.” 

You nod grimly, making mental notes to set up private meetings with your star witnesses. Kate will want to expand security and offer protection to those most likely at risk. But you know the highest risk, the only ones who know everything , is Kate… and you.

Price is never going to let you stop at Starbucks now. 

---

He picks up on your sour mood in the car, because of course he does. “What’s got into you?” he asks gruffly, and you glare at him.

Kate spent much of the afternoon bringing in extra security, both for the rest of the office and for you. You’ll have additional guards introduced into your rotation, mostly for the weekends during the day, but Price will still make up the bulk of your protective services. You can’t say you’re happy about it. He’s at least taking you grocery shopping today. An outing, oh happy day ! you think, sarcastically, and as though he can hear you, he narrows his eyes. 

“Work, y’know,” you say drily, and Price just rolls his eyes.

“Kate told me,” he says, and his voice isn’t gentle, exactly, but it’s softer than usual. 

“Mmm.” You don’t want to talk about it. You want to talk about anything other than work, actually, but so far that hasn’t seemed to be in Price’s repertoire. Instead, you idly scroll the shopping list you’d haphazardly scrawled into your notes app. “How do you feel about tempeh?”

Aside from yesterday, you’ve been making dinner for the two of you. You don’t know why. It seems the decent thing to do, you suppose. You know he’s working, technically, but it feels mean to sit and eat as he watches you and his little screens and not at least offer. He’s accepted everything you give him, at any rate, though you suppose that doesn’t mean much. He’s ex military. You’ve seen ex military men eat far more questionable things than whatever you can produce in your kitchen.

He blinks. “Excuse you?”

“Tempeh. It’s a soy protein. Meat substitute. Whatever you want to call it.” He’s pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store, and you crack your neck as you step out of the car, shivering against the winter chill. You hate this time of year-- it’s already pitch black outside. The cold, of course, does not seem to affect Price, because of course it doesn’t. You hurry inside as he squints at you. 

“Why would you want to substitute meat?” he grumbles, in typical man fashion. You peruse the produce, weighing a cabbage in one hand before tossing it into the basket Price had picked up. 

“Probably because I don’t eat it.”

“You’re a vegetarian?” 

“It seems there’s lots of things we don’t know about each other,” you reply dryly. “How shocking.” 

“You know what they say about being a vegetarian,” he says, and you roll your eyes. If he’s going to give you a lecture about protein and macros and everything else you’ve heard a thousand times before, you’re not in the mood. Before you say anything, he finishes, “it’s a missed-steak .” 

You blink at him. That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. 

You suffer through the rest of his food based puns throughout your shopping and making dinner, and by the time you’re finished, you’re about ready to throw the plate at his head. He accepts it-- garlic herb tempeh with roasted veg-- without compliant, however, and the two of you eat in relative silence. At least, until you finishing cleaning up and go to retrieve your book to read. 

He glances up at you as you walk toward the window. “Not--”

“Not by the window, I know,” you snap. “I’m just drawing the shade.” But as you do, there’s a large, unfamiliar car parked right next to the one Price had procured. The cold feeling starts to wrap around your spine again, dread coiling in your stomach. "Captain, there's-- there's someone outside."

He comes to join you at the window. “Oh. That. He’s supposed to be.” 

“ Supposed to be?”

Price shrugs, reaching over you to the draw the shade-- this close, you can feel the heat of him, smell his cologne. You blink hard, biting down on your tongue. “That’s Johnny. Part of the extra security measures Laswell ordered. Posted surveillance outside your residence.” 

You stare at him as he flops back down in your armchair. “Isn’t that what the cameras are for?” you manage finally, instead of the variety of other curses you consciously swallow down. 

He shrugs. “He can see those too.” 

“So then why do I need you.” 

It’s not a question, not really, but Price lifts an eyebrow anyway. “I wasn’t instructed to leave my post.” 

“Leave your post,” you try, and he smiles, albeit meanly. 

“Nice try, princess, but I don’t answer to you.” 

Damn . Worth a shot. You flop onto the couch opposite him, arms folded over your chest, book forgotten. “What?” he says after a long silence and your heavy, awkward stare. 

You’re not sure you actually had a question. Sometime in the last five minutes, he’d removed his tie and popped the top button of his collar, exposing the hollow of his throat. When had he done that? You hadn’t noticed at the window. “How do you know Laswell, anyway?” you manage finally, hoping it doesn’t sound as if you’re scrambling for words. 

He just looks at you a long moment, eyes cold and piercing. “Most of it’s classified,” he says slowly, and you roll your eyes. 

“I’m chief of staff to the Secretary of Defense. I think my security clearance is high enough.”

He doesn’t smile. “Not for this, princess.” 

Oh. 

You don’t think he’s going to elaborate at all, so you reach for your book, nearly jolting in surprise when he says, “We met during her field agent days.” 

Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. Laswell, in the field? Now there’s something that’s escaped common memory. Before your time in D.C., certainly. “Oh?” 

He only smiles wryly. “It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” 

Interesting. “You were MI6, then,” you say, and it’s his turn for his eyebrows to raise. You suppose you could ask Kate if you really wanted to, but that would tip your hand-- you don’t care about him. 

“No.” Damn . “SAS.” Oh. 

You know Kate had done international work, a large part of it being how she secured the office she currently runs. But you didn’t know details, names, faces-- it wasn’t always relevant. You wish now you’d done some more digging. SAS, though, is interesting-- those guys were tough, ruthlessly efficient, and top secret. They took the worst jobs, in the worst places, to face the worst people. What was something like that doing taking a… personal security post, even as a favor to an old friend?  “But not anymore,” you say, unthinking, and his eyes darken.

“No,” he says through gritted teeth. “Not anymore.” 

Well. If he’s already pissed at you. “What happened?” 

 “Classified,” he says again, and your eye twitches. 

“Oh, come on. ” When he doesn’t say anything, you press on. “Don’t I deserve to know anything about you? What if there’s an emergency and I need to. I don’t know. Call your wife?

His mouth quirks in an almost smile again. “If I had a wife,” he said slowly. “Why in God’s name would I have accepted this post?”

Your eye twitches again. “If it’s not a favor for a friend or my enchanting personality, it must mean that you’ve found nothing better to do with your time now that the SAS doesn’t want you anymore.” 

Christ, that was mean. Even for you. He blinks once, twice, before his eyes harden with a savage glint. “Oh, princess, there are many ways I would rather spend my time than saving the arse of a brat like you.”

Princess or brat? You’re not sure which one ignites the rage hotter within you. “I cannot wait ,” you growl, stomping up the stairs, “for this entire godforsaken trial to be over so I never have to spend another moment with you ever again.” 

His lip curls in a mean snarl. “Likewise, princess,” he crows, and the fury that courses through your veins now could keep the Olympic torch lit for a thousand years.

“Go to hell!” you shout, slamming the door like that will keep him out, like it’s not his job to watch you.

“Already here.” 

---

You wrote a paper once, on psychological warfare. It’s partly why Kate hired you in the first place. You’re not an expert or anything, but you know your stuff. 

This is a full frontal attack from Captain John Price. 

After your argument, he doesn’t ignore you, or leave you alone, as you had hoped, for half a second, that he might. Now, he’s always there.

With your increased security presence, you’d thought maybe you’d see less of him, that you’d have more of a rotating cast of characters acting as your security. Not the case. Now, with someone standing watch outside the house, Price has started sleeping in your spare room. He drives you to work, and then doesn’t. Leave . He’s at your side from practically the moment you wake up to the moment you sleep, and you think maybe this is it. This is you finally losing your mind. If his goal is to drive you mad, he's succeeding.

The proximity is one thing. You’d grown up with enough siblings that the “I’m not touching you” game has minimal effect on you. No. It’s the… well. 

It’s a ridiculous problem to have, but you’ve been single for a while. A long while, if you’re being honest with yourself. And while Captain Price is a great many things-- a brute, an oaf, an asshole, and a pig, in your estimation-- he is also, tragically, a man. He’s a Man . A man who’s taken to wearing less and less clothing within your residence. 

It started small. Ditching the suit jacket once you get home. Rolling up the sleeves of the crisp white button down he wears every day. Then popping the top button. Then another. Until he’d started forgoing the button down altogether and changing into a casual t-shirt and jeans after you retire from the day. Men in suits don’t do it for you-- you work in D.C. It loses its appeal after about 2 years. Casual clothing, however, doesn’t hide Price’s powerful frame like the suit does-- the soft sleeves will bunch and stretch around the bulge of his biceps. When he reaches for things the shirt will ride up, just a hint, to reveal a strip of firm stomach and the suggestion of a treasure trail. It’s madness. Torture. Whorish, if you were pressed for words. 

The final straw had been yesterday morning, when you had trudged downstairs to find Price jogging on a treadmill that you’ve hardly touched in the last year, wedged in a forgotten corner of your living room. He was shirtless, drenched in sweat, breathing hard. You won't say he's built like a Greek god or anything, but Christ if he isn't built. You think you can see every rivulet of sweat beading in the grooves of his muscles, slicking the wide expanse of his back and dripping from the slope of his brow. You’d nearly fallen down the rest of the stairs. 

Your work, despite his nearness, is a blessed respite, most of the time. At work at least he has to wear his full suit. Minimal whorishness.

Today though. Today is not your day. 

When Kate wants to ask you to do something she knows you don’t want to do, she’ll stand by your desk and offer you a creepy half-smile until you ask her what she wants. 

Today, you know exactly what she wants. “No,” you say, rising from your desk. “No, uh-uh. Absolutely not.” 

Before you can make another move. Kate bolts for the door and slams it, cutting off your escape route. That bitch. “Please?” she tries. “I’ll-- I’ll double your bonus?” 

You narrow your eyes. “You think you can bribe me? For that ?”

“It’s one event!”

The event in question is the Defense Department charity gala tonight. Despite your position, ‘gala’s’, in general, are not something you do. You recognize their necessity for D.C. schmoozing, but you didn’t get where you are because of your ability to schmooze-- Kate’s good enough at that on her own. Your talents aren’t really of the face-to-face interaction variety. Kate was supposed to be accompanied tonight by her wife and her communication’s director. The very same communications director who had just left your office the hour previous, violently hurling into a plastic wastebin. (Just because there’s a Taco Bell in the Pentagon, it doesn’t mean you should go there for lunch.) “I have work to do,” you try, and Kate just frowns. 

“Opening remarks are tomorrow. There’s nothing more we can do right now than hurry up and wait.” That’s not strictly true. You have… emails. And stuff. 

“I don’t have a dress,” you try again, and she’s not accepting of that either. 

“You have that green one. From the black tie wedding at the Smithsonian.” 

Damn her. “I don’t have a date,” you offer weakly, finally, pathetically, and Kate’s eyes slide toward where Price stands behind you. “Oh, come on. ”

“He’ll have to be there anyway,” Kate says matter-of-factly, and John makes a noise of protest. “Just because it’s a defense gala doesn’t mean you don’t need security for the evening.”

“Kate--” Price says, eyebrows shooting up his forehead, and your hopes perk up in your chest. Maybe he wasn’t entirely useless if he could get you out of this. Maybe--

“You owe me,” Kate says icily, and Price just sighs, cowed. Dammit . She turns her attention back to you, eyes boring into you. “Well?” 

You don’t have room to argue. Maybe she’ll still double your bonus. “Fine.” 

She claps her hands together, delighted. “Be there at 8.” 

You shoot a look at Price, who appears to be mirroring your expression of dread. Perfect. Just fucking perfect. 

“See you then.” 

Chapter Text

“Are you going to come down any time soon or should I just send an apology to Kate now?” Price calls up the stairs, sounding bored. 

You frown at your reflection in the mirror, taking a step back to see if that improves things at all. Nope. Still you. Still you in this ridiculous dress, with this ridiculous hair, and eyeing those ridiculous, uncomfortable shoes. Damn it all to hell . “I’m coming!” you shout. “Fucking prick.” 

As you start to descend the stairs, Price’s eyes go wide. Normally so impassive, his eyebrows rise so high so quickly you half expect them to fly off his face. You resist the urge to try and fix your hair-- besides, if you let go of the bannister, you half think you might go tumbling down the stairs. “Not a word,” you threaten. “Don’t you dare laugh, Price, I mean it. Not. A. Word.” 

He blinks at you, and blinks again. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says eventually, and there’s a strangled note to his voice that you assume is his repressed laughter. Asshole . 

It’s raining, because of course it is, but Price holds an umbrella for you to protect your delicately curled updo as you clamber into the car. “That was almost sweet of you,” you remark, fidgeting with the straps of your shoes. You got the goddamn things for the wedding at the Smithsonian-- all your other heels are sexless work pumps. These were fashionable, claimed the teenager at the mall. Also damned uncomfortable. You’d ended that night face down in a bush, and not because you’d drank too much. 

“Don’t worry,” Price says gruffly. “It won’t happen again.” 

“Charmed.” 

It does happen again. It’s still raining by the time you get to the National Archives. He holds the umbrella, looking like he’s swallowed a lemon. You, graciously, don’t say a word. 

It’s packed already, despite the two of you arriving exactly when Kate had requested. “Oh, good, you’re here,” says a voice at your shoulder, and you jerk in surprise. 

“Christ, Kate, don’t do that.” 

Kate only smiles, eyes bright. Her impeccably tailored suit makes her look sharp, dangerous. A keen razor edge. Her scariest face for the worst of the D.C. crowd -- rich, bored socialites who thought they could fix all the world's problems with a drink a thirty second conversation. God , you hate these things. 

“I only need you to come with me to talk to Senator Rakefield, Senator Jackson, and Representative Friday.” Two senators with written statements to be included in the hearing, and Maxine Friday, an intense, severe woman, who serves on the House Judiciary committee. “And then you’re free. But I still need you to stay until the end of the event.” 

You frown. D.C. soiree’s can go all hours of the night. With opening arguments tomorrow…

Kate reads your mind. “The hearing’s not till the afternoon. Take the morning off if you feel like it.” She holds up a sparkling glass with a wedge of lime in it. Christ . “Drink this.” 

You don’t have to be told twice. ‘Chugging’ is considered bad manners in polite D.C. society. But you are not polite D.C. society, and the drink is gone in a matter of seconds. Vodka. You hate vodka. “Shut up,” you say to Price’s eyebrows, which are again trying to escape from his face. 

He puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t say anything.” Bastard . 

Your conversations with the Senators are predictably boring, but necessary-- they don’t seem particularly interested in discussing the hearing again, not at this particular function, anyway, and that’s fine by you. Maxine Friday, however, is a different story altogether. 

“Are you quite sure about this, Madame Secretary?” Friday is a representative of the great midwestern state of Kansas-- you’re not sure where her old money drawl comes from. Before she was elected, she’d been a particularly brutal defense attorney, and since her election to the House, she’d learned to channel that savagery into cross examining witnesses brought before her in the House Judiciary Committee. She’s a powerful ally-- and an even more devastating enemy. 

“Not at all, congresswoman,” Kate says honestly, and you swallow hard to avoid choking on your drink. You didn’t think you were being that honest tonight. “And that’s why it needs to be done.” 

“You’re making enemies for yourself, Madam Secretary,” Friday says evenly. “Not everyone on the committee is eager to see this inquiry through to the finish.” 

“Congresswoman, with respect, I’ve spent much of my career making enemies,” Kate replies, eyes hard and flinty. “If you count yourself among them, I’d be saddened to hear it.”

Friday is silent for a long time, appraising. “On the contrary,” she says finally. “I… admire your dedication, and your earnestness. Integrity. It’s… refreshing to see, in this city.” 

Kate breaks into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and part of you releases a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “That’s good to hear, Congresswoman,” Kate says smoothly. “I look forward to seeing you at the hearing tomorrow. Now-- if you will excuse me, I need to find my wife.” Kate nods at you, your signal to go, and vanishes into the crowd. 

Thank Christ . You look around for Price and lock eyes with him where he stands a few bodies away, jerking your head toward the bar. He nods, and the two of you make your way across the room, where you almost collapse onto the barstool. These damn shoes . 

“Stellar performance,” he says, and you ball up a napkin and throw it at him. He ignores you in favor of ordering a gin and tonic and a seltzer water from the bartender, one of which he slides to you. 

“Oh, shut up.” You take a long drink of your gin and tonic, and then another. “Maxine Friday is the coldest bitch this side of the Potomac. You’d be a dead idiot bastard if you spoke out of turn with her.” 

Price has that amused look in his eye again, and you resist the urge to throw another napkin at him. It’s a black tie event, so of course he’s wearing a tux. You see him in a suit every day, this shouldn’t be different, but he looks like fucking James Bond like this. It’s ridiculous. “I’ll take your word for it, princess.” 

The napkin in your hand crumples of its own accord. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” 

Price’s face does something complicated, but before he can say anything else, the man next to you jostles your arm as he signs his tab-- your drink nearly lurches out of your hand, but you’re able to save it with an involuntary yelp, narrowly avoid wearing the contents of your glass all over your dress. 

“Oh, I’m sorry miss, I didn’t mean to--” the man turns and stops, speechless for a moment, as you make eye contact. “Well,” he says, in a low, rich drawl. “Maybe I did mean to.” 

Oh, Christ . Washington D.C. is a city of tragically beautiful people, but those people do not usually attend the defense charity galas. Not so for the man in front of you. He’s handsome, remarkably solid, with dirty blonde hair that’s graying at the temples and piercing blue eyes. A thin scar slices along his high cheekbone, and you can’t help but just stare dumbly at him for a moment. “It’s alright,” you manage eventually, already cursing yourself. Get. It. Together.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced,” he says, extending a hand smoothly. “Phillip Graves.” 

You know that name. Everyone in the Pentagon knows that name. Phillip Graves is the head of one of the most famous-- or infamous, depending on who you ask-- PMC’s in the business. This guy is the stuff of legend in the circles you run in. He’s one of the favorite’s of General Shepherd, a D.C. four star general who has been in your office a time or two. Graves and his Shadows have toppled despots, dismantles terrorist cells, and completed hostage extractions the general public never even heard about. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Graves,” you say, giving his hand a firm shake. 

He offers you a wink and a brief squeeze of your hand before he releases you. “All good things I hope?”

You don’t know that you would say that, exactly. “It’s certainly a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” 

“Oh, believe me,” he says, and you can feel his gaze run up the length of your body before settling on your face with a crooked smile. “Pleasure’s all mine, honey.” 

You blink. Is he… Was that flirting? Philip Graves, flirting with you? Nevermind his occupation, men who looked like they just fell off of the GQ cover do not hit on you at D.C. galas. You can’t ruminate on it long, though, because his gaze slides past you to land on the man sitting behind you, eyes widening in recognition. “No,” he says, a slow grin splitting his face. “It can’t be. John Price, back from the dead?” 

Next to you, Price offers him a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Graves,” he says shortly, shaking Graves’s proffered hand. 

“What brings you this side of the pond?” Graves’s eyes are bright, but there’s something calculating in them, and he looks at Price like he’s sizing him up for competition. “Heard about your accident. Tough blow, compadre.”

Price runs his tongue over his teeth in a motion you’ve come to recognize as an indication that he’s hanging on to a very thin shred of patience. “Kate cashed in on a favor,” he says, and tips his head toward you. 

Graves makes a noise of assent. “I heard about that little incident. So close to the trial too.” He clucks his tongue, dragging his eyes back to yours. “Must have given you a shock, honey.” 

‘Honey’ is far better than ‘princess’, you decide. “I’ve seen worse on the subway,” you reply honestly, and Graves startles out a surprised laugh, the sound settling pleasantly in your bones. 

“This town isn’t for the faint of heart, is it?” He takes a long drink from his beer, and you can’t help but stare at the way his large hand and long fingers curl around the neck of the bottle. His gaze is heavy, intoxicating. Focus . He tips his head at you and Price, and then gestures with the other drink in his hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a delivery. I hope to run into you again this evening, honey.” With another roguish wink, he vanishes into the throng of D.C. socialites. 

You turn your eyes back to Price, who’s pointedly not looking at you, instead methodically shredding the napkin you’d thrown at him. “What was that?”

“What was what?” 

“Oh, come on .” He’s still not looking at you, so you kick him in the shin with the hard point of your shoe. “You looked like you wanted to launch yourself into the sun.” 

The stare he levels you with is freezing. “Believe it or not, you’re not the only one who hates these kinds of things.” He returns to meticulously shredding the napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. 

You’re not going to get anything out of him like this. You sigh, tossing a glance back over your shoulder to try and find his blonde head in the crowd. “He was hot,” you say matter-of-factly, and Price snorts into his seltzer. “What? He was. In a. Cowboy sort of way.” 

“He’s not a cowboy,” Price says thinly. “He’s an arrogant jackass.” 

You lift your eyebrows. “Tell me how you really feel.” 

He rolls his eyes at you. “That’s it, princess. He’s a greased slimeball merc. What else do you want me to say?” 

“What accident was he talking about?”

His eyes darken again, and you take another long gulp of your gin and tonic. “Classified,” he says tightly, and it’s your turn to roll your eyes. 

“Right. Classified. Like everything interesting about you.” You throw back the rest of your drink and stand, with minimal wobbles. “I have to pee. Don’t--don’t. There’s secret bathrooms over there, I’m not going downstairs, you don’t even have to get up.” You pat his arm like you’d pat a stray puppy, and he doesn’t look amused. “See? Right in your eyeline.” 

He offers only a grunt in reply, and while you weren’t exactly asking for permission, you take that as his approval. Part of you wants to flip him off as you saunter (you try to saunter, anyway, but you imagine the visual is closer to the stumble of a newborn foal) toward the side hallway with the private staff bathrooms. The line at the main bathroom downstairs can get irritatingly long, and you don’t think you’re making it down those stairs with these shoes on. 

Tragically, your plan is foiled by the locked bathroom door. Damn . Someone else has discovered your little secret. You sigh and lean against the wall next to the door. Whatever. You can wait. It’s your first real breather from Price in over a week, even if you can feel his gaze on you even here. Maybe he’ll back down after tonight if he realizes that trying to piss you off will occasionally land him at uncomfortable D.C. fancy events. Serves him right. 

“Now, what’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?” comes a familiar drawl, and you nearly jump out of your skin to see Philip Graves at your elbow. 

“ Christ , you scared me,” you gasp, and Philip laughs again, warm and merry. “Don’t do that!”

“Finally sneak away from your guard dog?” he asks, and the two of you glance at where Price has somehow found an entire lime which he’s slowly peeling as if it’s an orange. You both frown. 

“He’s not a guard dog,” you sigh. “He’s just. Well.” 

“Oh, I know how he can be, sweetheart,” he says knowingly, and you lift an eyebrow at him. “We’ve… worked together before. We have some disagreements in, ah. Leadership styles.”

You can feel the heat of him through the fabric of his suit jacket, acutely aware of how close he is to you from where he leans against the wall next to you. Yours isn’t the most sought after career on the Hill, but people know who you are, and they know who your boss is. That knowledge comes with a level of… you’d like to call it intimidation. You’re not approached like this anymore, not at D.C. functions or even at the handful of bars you frequent, choked with Hill staffers as they are. There’s a certain risk-reward factor in trying to get into the pants of a woman who has the ear of the Secretary of Defense, and most men are, apparently, not up to the challenge.

Philip Graves is not one of them. You swallow hard. “I can see how that may be true.” 

His eyes are such a bright, clear blue, captivating in their intensity. Are you dizzy? Maybe you’re just drunk. “Can’t say I envy his position,” he says, and one hand reaches up to brush some invisible dust off your cheek. 

“Oh?” you squeak in reply. (Squeaking. Squeaking . You’re almost thirty for god’s sake.). “And why’s that?” 

“Think I’d have trouble… concentrating,” he murmurs, and you barely have time to process the way his gaze drops to your mouth before he’s kissing you. 

Merciful heavens. 

Since moving to D.C. you’ve dated around a little bit, had a few semi-serious boyfriends, but they were all the same brand of nerdy and neurotic Hill staffer. You’ve never, ever, kissed someone as smoothly confident as Philip Graves. One large hand cups the nape of your neck, thumb delicately positioning and repositioning your jaw so he can kiss you deeper; the other folds around the curve of your ribcage, pulling you tighter to him. 

“You’re a goddamn knock out, you know that, baby?” he breathes, catching your bottom lip between his teeth and tugging . Your nails involuntarily dig into the firm plane of his chest, and he groans into your mouth. “Christ, I should--”

You’re startled out of your incriminating position when the bathroom door next to you flies open and a waitress with mussed hair stumbles out, frantically buttoning her shirt back up. The two of you blink in surprise, but before anyone can say anything, a harried looking Hill tumbles after her, his glasses crooked and belt undone. 

There’s a long, pregnant silence as you all stare at each other before Graves manages, “Hell of a party, ain’t it?” 

Flustered, the pair stagger back to the floor, piecing themselves back together as you and Graves follow them with your eyes, laughing as they go. Laughing until your gazes simultaneously land on a large, imposing shadow you’ve grown all too familiar with. 

Oh, balls . 

“Captain!” Graves says brightly, taking a slight step back from you as you stand up straighter. Damn. Damn . You can feel the hot flush of embarrassment creep up your neck and chest to color your cheeks. “What a pleasure to run into you again.” 

Price is not amused. He looks pissed, actually, arms folded tightly over his chest and expression schooled into what can only be identified as a glower. “ We are leaving,” he says shortly, eyes never leaving you. “The car’s already out front.” 

You blink. “But--Kate--”

“The Secretary has already departed,” he grits out. “She thinks it best if we retire early. Due to the hearing.” 

Graves’s eyes dart between the two of you, and you resist the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Well,” he says slowly. “I know when I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He takes your hand in both of his and brings it to his lips in a wildly chivalrous gesture that makes your cheeks flame even further. “It’s been my pleasure,” he says, eyes fixed on yours again, and you can feel him press something into your palm. He tips his head at Price, and without another word, he’s gone.

You whirl on him. “Was that really --” you start, but he’s already grabbed your elbow and begun briskly walking you toward the exit. “Hey!” 

He says nothing, only continues his march with you until you reach the stairs. “Whoa, hey, buckoo, I’d love to continue this Sherman’s March to the Sea, but if you want me to make it down these things in one piece, you’ll have to slow down and let me take off my shoes.” 

He glares at you, and you take that as an assent, grumbling as you bend down to unhook the straps. Blessed freedom . You don’t get hardly a moment to appreciate it though, because as soon as they’re off your feet and in your hands he’s damn near dragging down the stairs and out the door, bustling you into the waiting car and slamming the door behind you. 

As he slides into the drivers side and puts the car in gear, you can only blankly stare at him. “What the fuck was that about?” you demand, bewildered. 

Price doesn’t look at you, keeps his eyes on the darkened street, grip tight on the steering wheel. “You’re drunk,” he says tightly. 

You consider that. You’re not sober, most definitely, but drunk ? Tipsy, if anything. “I am not drunk,” you reply testily, over-enunciating your words. “You’re just a dick .” 

He doesn’t dispute it, and you sigh, casting your eyes out the window, watching as the lights of the mall glitter past. Chalk another disaster gala into the books for you, you suppose, and clench your fist near involuntarily. It’s only then you remember Graves had pressed something into your palm, and you open your fist to get a good look at it. 

It’s a keycard. “Where’s the… which way’s the Hilton from here?” you say, squinting at it. There’s a room number scribbled on the back. 310. Oh.

“You’re the one who lives here.” Price looks like he’s swallowed a lemon again. It’s not a good look for him. “Did he… proposition you?” he says, like the idea is personally offensive to him. 

You frown down at the key card in your hand. “Not in so many words.” 

Price runs his tongue over his teeth. Why this, of all things, has pissed him off, you’re not sure. “He cannot be that bad,” you continue, watching a muscle in Price’s jaw twitch. “Oh, c’mon. He just can’t be.”

“He’s a merc and a jackass, what do you expect.” The car comes to a stop outside your house and he wrenches up the parking brake. “You, of all people, should know better.”

You just blink at him dumbly as he fiddles with the lock on your front door. It’s still raining, a faint, misty drizzle that drenches your dress in seconds and chills you to your bones, and you resist the urge to shiver. “Know better?” you demand, outrage creeping into your tone as he bullies you inside. “ Know better? It was a fucking kiss at a party, Price, not a goddamn proposal.”

“And if you know what’s good for you, that’s all it’ll be,” he grumbles, shaking out his jacket before he hangs it on the hook. He turns back to meet your calculating stare. “What?”

This is… interesting. Maybe you are drunk, because your brain isn’t connecting these dots as quickly as you would have liked, instead slowly piecing together moments from the past several hours. His balled fists, his burning glares, his eye twitches… the strangled note in his voice as you’d tottered down the stairs. You squint at him, a small, shit-eating grin working itself over your face. “You’re jealous .” 

His eyes flash. “Jealous?” he spits, taking a step closer, getting in your face. Your back is pressed to the wall, but you can feel your grin widen, still somehow certain you have the upper hand. “I’m doing my job , princess, and there’s not any fuckin’ reason for me to be jealous of handsy, self-important mercenaries.”

“Nonono,” you crow, delighting in his furious expression. “No, you’re jealous , I know it. You want --” you break off, suddenly acutely aware of exactly how close your faces are. You swallow hard, breathless. “You want me,” you finish, unable to stop the waver in your voice.

“I wanted him to keep his bloody hands off of you,” Price growls, and something flames deep in your gut. You can’t look away from his burning eyes-- you feel hypnotized, trapped, unable to pull away. “I wanted him to back the fuck off.” 

You think he must be able to hear the way your heart clatters against your breastbone. “You’re so full of shit,” you breathe, and his eyes flash again. 

“Do you ever stop talking,” he snarls, and crushes your mouth to his.

It’s a fierce, bruising kiss that leaves you breathless and weak-kneed. Christ , but he’s huge, solid under your palms, burning hot even through the layers of his soaked shirt and vest. He’s confident, domineering, and the only thing that’s keeping you and your jellied knees upright is the wall he’s got you pinned against. The rasp of his facial hair against your chin drives you wild, and when he tangles one hand in your hair to tug, just a little, at the roots, you can’t help the shudder that runs through you. If you thought Graves was good, Price is on another fucking plane entirely.

At your shiver, he jerks back to himself. “You-- no. You’re soaked, you need to.” He shakes his head and takes a step back to pause, collecting himself. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-- I overstepped. Goodnight.” Before you have the chance to react, he’s up the stairs and vanishing into the guest room, leaving you wet and shivering on the landing, blinking up after him in confusion.

What the fuck?

Chapter Text

Each time you drink gin you wake somehow surprised at your pounding headache and vicious dry mouth, as if it is not a direct consequence of your own actions. You stumble from your bed to your bathroom and manage not to vomit as you consult the woman in the mirror. Tangled hair, still half in its curled updo, mascara and eyeliner smeared beneath your eyes. You look only slightly worse than you feel. Spectacular .

You think the last time you’ve kissed two men in one night you were likely in a sticky fraternity basement in undergrad. Certainly wasn’t a laurel you’d expected to crown yourself with last night. God . You’ve cocked up enough of these sorts of things in the past that you didn’t think you could find a new way to do so. Evidently, you were wrong. 

You tumble down the stairs to find Price already awake, fully dressed and sitting at your island, because of course he is. At least you’re wearing pants. He says nothing, only gestures with his mug toward the pot of coffee on the counter. You nod, grateful, and fill your own mug before hopping on the counter, leveling him with a long stare. 

“So.” 

Price blinks at you, silent. Okay. So you’re doing the heavy lifting here. “Are we gonna… talk about it, or…?” you trail off, praying he’ll jump in to save you. 

“There’s nothing to talk about, princess.” He punctuates himself with a long drink of his coffee, staring at you icily over the rim of his mug. 

You blink at him. “Nothing to talk about.” 

“No.” 

“Not… not even one thing.” 

Price closes his eyes, running his tongue over his teeth. That was fast . “Last night, I had a momentary lapse in professional judgment.” When he meets your gaze again, his eyes are cold, hard. “I can assure you, it won’t happen again.”

You should be relieved, but despite yourself, something like hurt lances through your chest. “And your little lapse in judgment has nothing to do with any… what was the word… slimeball merc’s?”

His eyes darken, knuckles flexing around the handle of his mug. “No.” 

The most action you’ve gotten in years, and it’s because you’re caught in the middle of a pissing contest between two dickheaded uber-masculine jerk-offs. Spectacular. “Great,” you manage tightly. “Thanks for clearing that up.” 

“Any time, princess.” He rises, buttoning his suit jacket and checking his phone. “Get dressed. You’ve got to be at the Hill in an hour.” 

---

Kate’s on a razor thin edge by the time you get to the Hill, though you’d hazard a guess that the only people who recognize how wired she is are you and Price. She’s immaculately put together, hair slicked back into a severe bob, heels a deadly stiletto. She looks at the both of you and offers you a tight nod as you move to gather your things from your desk. “Are you ready for this?” she murmurs, out of earshot of the rest of her staff. Are we ready for this?

You think of Maxine Friday’s cold, calculating expression. “As I’ll ever be.” 

Her eyes slide from you to Price, who tips his head in a nod. “Then let’s go.” 

The thing about the vast majority of matters brought before the House Judiciary Committee is this: nobody gives a shit. They’ll give a shit at the end, at the exciting bit, where they either recommend indictments or find no fault. But here? At opening arguments? C-SPAN and the standard Judiciary correspondents are here, but no one else, no one special. You could probably get that to change-- Kate’s not above a tactical press leak. But not yet-- not when there’s no reason to. Patience is the name of the game now. 

The lawyers present the path their argument almost as if they’re staging a play-- setting the scene, identifying the players waiting in the wings, and everything culminating the dramatic final act: the Urzikstan coverup. You can tell already that not every committee member is… enthusiastic about the hearings. You think Congressman Brewer is falling asleep, and that’s on the more favorable end of the spectrum. Congresswoman Bryce, on the other hand, looks like she’s moments away from steam pouring out her ears. She might always look like that though, you’re not sure. You make a quiet note of the committee members you look the most pissed-- maybe you’ll be having some one on ones in the future. 

It’s a solid start. You could do worse than the current handful of people who aren’t on board. Kate seems to agree, because she calls it a night almost as soon as opening arguments are over. “You did good, chief,” she says, clapping you on the shoulder as you file out of the House chamber. “Go home, get some rest. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow?” 

You wave her off with a half smile. “I’ve got some things I’ve got to take care of at the office before I head out.” 

She smiles at you and offers a knowing smile toward Price. “Don’t let her work too hard, John.”

Kate’s office’s are fairly empty by the time you reach the Pentagon-- the rest of the staff must have had the same idea as Kate. Price begs off to the restrooms, and you hurry to your computer, not bothering to sit down-- all you’ve got to do is send some scheduling emails, and print a few things, and then you’re out of here. So you’re surprised when you hear a faint rap against the door frame. “Madam Secretary?”

It’s a young-ish man who you think you recognize, vaguely. He’s a staffer for one of the Judiciary Committee members, a communication officer for one of the Republicans you think. You’ve never possessed Kate’s skill in remembering names, but you paste on a smile anyway as you straighten. “I’m sorry, the Secretary isn’t in just now. Can I help you?”

The man doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t look at you right away, casting his eyes over the walls of the office. The hairs on the back of your neck start to rise the longer he’s quiet, and you remember with a start that this is the first time in nearly three weeks that you’ve truly been alone. “Can I help you?” you say again, and when he meets your eyes, your stomach twists. He doesn’t look like he came here to make friends.

“I have a message for the Secretary,” he says frostily. He’s slowly making his way towards you, picking his way through the desks, and though there’s nothing explicitly threatening about him or his movements, something is wrong. You make a move toward the door, and he subtly side steps, cutting off your escape route. Fuck . “Secretary Laswell would be wise to abjure this inquiry. Congressman Wickfield and others are beginning to feel that that is a waste of both the committee’s and their time, not to mention taxpayer dollars.” 

You set your jaw, drawing your shoulders back to make yourself look more powerful than you feel. “The committee seat is a voluntary position,” you say coolly. “Should the Congressman feel that way, he is free to relinquish his seat. Until then, he’ll have to schedule an appointment if he wishes to meet and discuss with the Secretary.” 

He takes another step closer. And another. Until your spine is flush with the wall, and any means of escape would force you to shove through him. Panic glues your feet to the floor-- you couldn’t run even if you wanted to, and you really want to run. Christ. Christ . “Secretary Laswell is a sham,” he hisses through his teeth, hovering well within your personal space. “And her pathetic, desperate attempts for relevance waste time and resources, and if she won’t see reason , we may be forced--”

You don’t get to find out how the rest of that sentence ends, because he’s yanked back with impressive speed, collar digging into the flesh of his throat as Price hauls him back by the scruff. “I would think very carefully,” he growls out, “about what you say next. We wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re stupid enough to attempt witness intimidation, now would we?” Without waiting for the man to answer, he gives him a shake, nearly knocking the man’s glasses off. “Those contempt of Congress fines can really add up.” 

“Sir--” wheezes the man, but Price isn’t hearing it, dragging him by the collar and all but hurling him through the office door; you hear him hit the ground with a thwunk , and you can’t find it in yourself to feel sorry for him. 

“Get out,” Price says icily. “Before I feel the need to call the Secretary herself.” You can’t see beyond Price’s large frame blocking the doorway, but you can hear the slap of expensive shoes as they sprint along the tiled hallway. He’s hardly out of earshot before Price is rushing over to you, hands making a quick circuit over your neck, arms, hands-- checking for any signs of a fight, you imagine. “Are you alright?”

You blink, struggling to thaw the icy shred of panic still piercing your chest. His eyes are wide, concerned, and his arms squeeze once, gently at your elbows, reassuring. “I’m--I’m okay,” you manage. “I don’t-- I don’t know--” 

“Hey, look at me.” When your eyes focus on him, he’s serious, earnest. “I caught his name and appointment from his badge. When you’re going to threaten someone, it’s poor form to bring your ID.” He smiles like it’s a joke, but all you can manage is a nod, something like a lump forming in your throat. “Are you okay?” he says again. “Talk to me.” 

You don’t know. Nothing happened, and yet… Something inside you feels wild, flighty, unassuaged by Price's calm demeanor and comforting hand on your arm. You’re shaken, undoubtedly, but what comes out of your mouth is far more pathetic than you were anticipating. “John, take me home.” 

His eyes soften as he pulls back, hand squeezing your elbow again. “Okay, princess.” 

---

It’s different after that. You wouldn’t say you’re friends exactly, but you’ve stopped trying to deliberately antagonize him, and he’s stopped trying to get a rise out of you in return. As the hearings drag on, he’s never more than a few steps away from you, and where you might have found it suffocating before, now you’re grateful for his presence. It’s not quite comforting, but you feel a bit like you’ve been gifted a huge, scary dog that doesn’t leave your side. Protected . 

There aren’t incidents like the night of the opening arguments (Kate saw to that with a brutally bureaucratic efficiency), though it sometimes feels as though a fight is minutes away from breaking out on the chamber floor during the hearings. Some of your witnesses endure long, tedious cross examinations by Congressmen and women who either have no idea what’s actually being presented here, or are trying to deliberately derail the hearing entirely. It’s a difficult judgment to make when half the committee seats are filled with people who in all honesty should have retired twenty years ago. Kate’s frustrated, that much you can tell, but so far there hasn’t been cause for any actual concern. But you haven’t brought out the bombshell yet-- Urzikstan will make or break this inquiry, and the knowledge weighs on your entire staff as the hearings progress toward the inevitable. 

You don’t talk about the night of the gala. You’re not sure what you would say if you did. Hey, remember that time you kissed me so hard my knees gave out? You wanna give that another spin? With your tentative truce or budding friendship, whatever it might be, you’re not going to risk being rebuffed again. It’s probably not fair to say he rebuffed you in the first place-- he was right. As much as it practically feels like he’s your roommate now, when he’s with you, he’s working. Kate trusted him, trusted him to protect you and stand guard for you. And, despite everything, it’s not a task he’s taken lightly. 

Still. You’re not above attempting to poke the bear. You dig out all your shortest pajama shorts from a forgotten summer drawer and spend much of your time at home either lounging or sauntering around the house. If he’s going to keep jogging shirtless in the morning, it feels only fair to level the playing field. You catch his eye twitching and jaw working occasionally, but for the most part he remains the same stoic Captain he’s always been. 

It’s not all bad though. He’s begun talking, sometimes, actually talking. About Kate, about his service… everything. You can tell he’s leaving things out, changing names and places to avoid any security clearance issues, but still. He’s talking . He tells you stories as you make dinner most nights, and little by little, Price feels less like a stranger. You try to viciously tamp down the warm feeling that begins to grow somewhere between your ribs the night he asks you to call him John, but you have a sneaking suspicion you may be fighting a losing battle. 

It’s unusually cold in D.C. the day he tells you about his accident. You’ve spent a long day at the office poring over witness statements, ensuring there’s no holes in the narrative, one last ditch effort to ensure everything will go smoothly. Tomorrow you’ll begin presenting the true account of the Urzikstan incident. After that, two more committee sessions until closing arguments. It’s almost over, and you don’t know how to feel. Not sure you will until the committee comes to a verdict. 

It’s well past sunset by the time you and John leave the office, and the chill in the air is biting, even for January. You clench your teeth to keep them from chattering, and you’re about to complain when you notice the faint unevenness in John’s gait. Almost like a limp he’s trying to hide. You frown at him as you walk to the car, deciding not to say anything. 

You abandon this resolution almost immediately once you arrive home and John’s limp is more pronounced as you hurry across the street toward your townhome. Fuck it. “Is everything okay?” 

He frowns at you as he unlocks the door. “Yeah?” 

“It’s just-- you-- you’re limping,” you say, gesturing lamely as you follow him up the steps and inside. “Did you… did you sprain your ankle or something?” 

John just looks at you for a long moment, a complicated expression on his face as you divest yourselves of your coats and scarves. “No,” he says eventually, and you shrug internally. Worth asking, anyway. You make your way to the kitchen to consult the contents of your fridge as John heads upstairs. The fridge offers nothing promising-- frozen pizza it is then. You throw it in the oven, grab two beers from the refrigerator door, and go to hurl yourself on the couch, not even bothering to change. 

When John trots back down the stairs, he’s abandoned his work suit in favor of a t-shirt and a pair of near threadbare grey sweats-- good gracious. You need to consciously refocus your eyes on his face as you offer him a bottle, which he takes, surprisingly. He almost never has a drink with you, especially on a weeknight. You sit in comfortable silence through the evening news and dinner, but when John settles back onto the couch beside you after he cleans up, you can’t help but press the issue again. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

He’s quiet for such a long moment, you think that’s maybe that’s an answer in and of itself. You’ve nearly given up hope for an answer when he says, “I was medically discharged.” 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“I was medically discharged from the SAS. That’s why I’m here now. My men and I drove over an IED that only partially detonated, and I took the brunt of the blow.” His hand, almost unconsciously, goes to rub at his left knee. “Almost lost my leg. I was hospitalized for nearly a year. Had to relearn how to walk. Wasn’t really something the SAS had the patience to wait for, didn’t think I’d ever be who I was again. Laswell reached out. You know the rest.” 

“John…” 

“I’m okay,” he says, and for as bleak as his story sounded, you believe him. You think you’d believe anything he says when he smiles at you like that. “When it gets cold sometimes it just, y’know. Acts up a bit.” When you don’t say anything, he reaches over to squeeze your knee, and the warmth of him burns, even through your pant leg. “I’m okay, I promise,” he says again, and his smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. 

Christ . When he looks at you like this, it feels like something’s trying to jump start your heart. Stay down , you think viciously. “I’m sorry,” you say eventually, and his brows draw together. “For how I was in the beginning. You shouldn’t have had to put up with that.” 

“You were scared.” When you start to protest, he just holds up a hand, lifting one shoulder in an almost shrug. “And you would have been a damn fool not to be scared. You think I’ve never dealt with that before? C’mon, princess.” He rubs the back of his neck, almost sheepishly. “It was half my fault anyway. You just… got under my skin.” 

You offer him a rueful smile. “I have that effect on people.” 

“You learned from Kate, and Kate’s better than anyone at getting under my skin.” He sighs a little when you don’t meet his gaze. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly. 

“I know, I--”

“No, just.” He cuts you off and sighs again. “Sometimes, when I’m around you I just. You drive me crazy, and I. I don’t hate it, honestly.”

A smug smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Oh, I know .” He groans, and you can’t help but laugh a little at his expense. “Lapse of professional judgment in deed .”

He cuffs you lightly on the back of your head, and you laugh harder, delighted again by the way his eyes crinkle-- some silly, foolish part of you wants to reach out and smooth them down. But because you’re you, and you are sometimes silly and foolish, you can’t let the ensuing silent moment stand. “Do you regret it?” 

The question hangs heavy between you, and while you don’t regret asking, part of you does wish the sofa would swallow you whole. When he meets your eyes, you think for half a second that he must be able to hear your heart as it trips against your sternum. “No,” he murmurs, and something behind your ribs burns . “I should, but I don’t.” 

You’re so close. You hadn’t realized, but your faces are inches apart now-- you can feel his warmth, the firm line of his thigh against your leg, his arm braced over the back of the couch. His eyes drop to your mouth, and you decide that maybe, this time, you can do something a little stupid. 

“Stop me,” you murmur, “if you don’t want this.” Don’t want me . 

The kiss after the gala had been rough, bruising, frantic. This is not that. This is slow, molten, burning through your chest and arms and down into your fingers that curl into his shirt. His hand skates along your arm, blazing a path of gooseflesh in his wake to curl around the nape of your neck, pulling you close to kiss you deeper. When his tongue rolls against yours to slip into your mouth, you can’t help your breathy gasp. Fuck , but he’s good at this. Of course he is-- he’s good at everything, why wouldn’t he be just as efficient in turning your knees to jelly for a second time. You want more, you need more, and you can practically feel yourself throw caution out the window as you swing your leg over his lap to straddle him. He groans into your mouth, and it does nothing but stoke the fire burning inside you-- he’s so warm , so firm and solid beneath your wandering palms, that you can’t resist grinding down into his lap. 

He breaks away to breathe out a curse, but you don’t chase him, your thumbs helplessly stroking at his temples. Like this, beneath you and panting, he looks soft, pliant. Christ , you want him. 

“We can’t,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t pull away, keeps his forehead pressed to yours and his hands on your waist. “Princess…”

“It’s over in a week and a half, John,” you whisper. After Urzikstan, after closing arguments, you’ll have a verdict. And that was your agreement, wasn’t it? Just till the hearing was over. John closes his eyes, hands squeezing at your hips. “If you don’t want me, tell me.”

He swears again, quietly, and steals another kiss from your pliant mouth. “I always want you,” he growls, and before you have time to react to that , he’s sliding his hands underneath your knees and lifting as he gets to his feet. “Hang on,” he mumbles against your lips, and some deeply primal part of your brain nearly short circuits when you realize he intends to carry you up the stairs to your room. 

“You-- your leg,” you manage weakly as he crests the landing. “Is-- is that? Are you--?” 

He only lifts an eyebrow as he all but kicks open the door to your room. “I think I’m doing just fine, don’t you?”

All you can manage is a squeak in response as he gently deposits you at the foot of your bed, kneeling over you to kiss you deeply again. “You don’t know what you do to me, princess,” he groans, moving to blaze a burning path down your throat. “Don’t know how crazy you make me.” 

Your hand slides down his firm chest to squeeze the rapidly growing bulge in his sweats. “I think I do,” you rasp, and he shudders, his beard scraping deliciously against your pulse. Your other hand slips under his shirt, and without missing a beat, he sits up to tear it over his head. Christ , he’s beautiful, broad and tanned, chest covered in a fine down of lightly brown hair. You don’t have much time to gawk, because he leans down almost immediately to kiss you deeply again. 

“Fair’s fair,” he murmurs, thumb twitching the hem of your shirt, and you laugh, helping him wiggle it over your head. He swears, eyes blown wide as he drinks you in. You’re not self conscious exactly, but a man as hot as him staring at you like that is. Well. Intoxicating. “So fuckin’ pretty, baby,” he murmurs, and resumes his journey down, down, down , until his mouth is hovering over the button of your pants. “Can I…?”

You can do whatever you want if you keep looking at me like that . “Mhm,” you manage, somehow keeping the frantic note out of your voice, and you’re divested of your pants so quickly it’s a wonder you were ever wearing them at all. “Fair’s fair,” you tease, and the tips of his ears go bright pink. What a wonderful little tidbit of information. 

“Later,” he says softly, dropping a kiss to your inner thigh as he settles between your legs, rearranging your limbs so that your knees drape over his shoulders. “There’s something else I’ve been wanting to do first.” 

“Okay,” you squeak, and immediately curse yourself when his breath ghosts against the already damp fabric of your panties. “ Christ . 

He offers you a wicked grin as he pulls the fabric aside. “Just me, baby,” is all he says before his mouth is on you and you can’t think straight anymore. 

He’s good , because of course he is. You’re soaked already, and when his tongue flattens against your cunt you can’t help but involuntarily grind down against his mouth, fingers twisting into his short hair. “ John ,” you gasp, and he groans into your cunt, palms squeezing the soft flesh of your thighs. 

“Fuck, princess,” he grits out, and you can feel his fingers start to inch toward your core, dragging gooseflesh in their wake. “So wet for me already, aren’t you? So good for me, eh?” 

The fucking mouth on him, God. “John, I-- please, please .” 

You don’t know what you’re begging for until he gives it to you, two fingers sliding deep into you with almost no warning, the stretch burning deliciously as he seals his mouth over your clit. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, and he just holds you down with a firm arm over your hips. “Been wanting to do this for ages, since the gala,” he pants, and you whimper, tugging at his hair again. “That fucking dress, Christ , couldn’t take my eyes off you.” His fingers glance off your g-spot and your thighs start to tremble. It’s been a while , and if he keeps going the way he is, this is going to be over embarrassingly quick. 

“You-- I-- I wanted you to kiss me again,” you manage as his tongue flicks against your clit, sending another jolt along your spine. “You were driving me crazy , J-John, fuck , don’t stop.”

He grins savagely, fingers pumping mercilessly into you, your wetness squelching obscenely. “You gonna come for me, baby?” he asks breathlessly, and you can only pathetically whine your assent. “Let me see it baby, I wanna see you come on my fuckin’ fingers, come on baby, come for me me, come on.” 

When he takes your clit between his lips again and sucks, you don’t really have a choice but to obey-- your thighs shake with tremors as they clamp around his ear, back bowing off the bed as electricity arcs up your spine. He doesn’t stop until you slap weakly at his shoulder, fingers clumsy with static, white spots dancing in front of your vision. “Jesus Christ,” you manage weakly as he crawls back up your body, and John only chuckles. 

“So perfect for me, huh,” he says, smiling gently, but even with the aftershocks trembling through you, you’re far from sated-- you drag him in for another passionate, desperate kiss. He makes a surprised noise against your mouth, and you wrap your jellied legs around his waist, pulling him into you. 

“I want everything ,” you whisper, and you swallow his curse in another deep kiss. 

“Okay, okay, baby, shit. ” He fumbles at the waistband of his sweats to work them down his hips, and when his cock bobs out your eyes nearly pop out of your head. No underwear, part of you thinks, almost deliriously, but then you don’t think of anything much at all as he leans in to kiss you again. “I-- do you-- condoms?” 

You shake your head frantically, and you reach up to drag your nails along his back, reveling in his delightful shudder. “Just fuck me , John,” you hiss, and he’s eyes flash. His savage smile is the only warning you get before he’s reaching down to line himself up, pushing inside in a long low thrust. 

Fuck , the burn makes your toes curls and your fingernails drag lines down his back, but it’s good, it’s so good. You feel drunk, exhilarated by his touch, and when he buries a curse in your throat, some part of you feels wildly victorious-- you make him like this, unsteady and frantic, a fucking sex dream and he’s in your bed. 

John’s rambling, muttering breathy curses and aborted praises and baby, baby, baby, in your ear, his hands tangled in your hair as he rocks into you in deep, hard thrusts. You can feel the quiet power of his body, the rippling muscles of his back that’s growing slick with sweat as you cling to him-- you think, wildly, that you’re about to float away, and John’s the only thing keeping you pinned to the ground. 

“So fucking tight, baby,” he rasps, teeth scraping against your throat and drawing another low moan from you. “You’re going to come again, aren’t you? You’re gonna come on my cock like a good girl, c’mon.” 

Your eyes nearly roll back in your head as his hand reaches between you and begins to rub tight, fast circles over your clit, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Christ, he’s right, you are going to come again, rapidly and helplessly approaching your peak as his hips work faster. “I-- you--” you manage before cutting yourself off with another moan as he laves his tongue over your pulse. 

“I’m-- fuck -- I’m close too, baby, c’mon, come for me, come on my fuckin’ cock, I’m right behind you, fuck .” His thumb on your clit is near blinding, hips slapping against your thighs, and you can’t help but fly over the cliff again, nails digging so deep into his back you think you may draw blood, but you don’t care, you don’t care about anything but keeping yourself anchored to the ground, anchored to him ever as your heart threatens to soar out of your chest, your body wracked with trembling aftershocks. 

He tumbles over after you, all but collapsing on top of you as he grinds out his release. It’s all you can do to just lay there a moment, trying to catch your breath. You can feel his heart pounding out a frantic rhythm against your own as he presses sweet, closed mouth kisses to your lips. It’s another moment before he rolls off you, fishing on the ground for his abandoned t-shirt before offering it to you to clean up a bit. Both of you lie there, near pathetically, staring up at the ceiling like it can explain what just happened. 

“That was…” you manage, and John agrees with a breathy grunt. 

“C’mere,” he mumbles, and before you can say anything he throws an arm around your waist and drags you back into his chest. “Just… just wanna…” he mumbles, and something deep in your chest glows. 

“Go to sleep, John,” you murmur, and he huffs out an almost laugh, dropping a kiss on your shoulder. You haven’t fallen asleep in the arms of a man in a long time, and sleep comes almost alarmingly quickly in his warm embrace. 

---

You wake warmer than you’ve been in a long time. Very, very warm. Like there’s a massive, sweaty furnace plastered to your back, snoring softly as the early winter sun filters through the curtains. You struggle into a sitting position after trying to gently reposition John’s heavy arm from its near vice grip around your waist. “You sleep like the dead,” you say to his slumped form, and can’t help but burst into laughter when he almost immediately blinks one eye open groggily. 

“Timezit?” he mumbles, and you frown. Good question. Your alarm hasn’t  gone off yet, but it’s not usually this light in your room when you get up in the morning. You fish around for your phone, and the blood drains from both of your faces simultaneously as you look at the time. 

“Oh, fuck me .” 

You’ve never seen a man that big move as fast as John does in that moment, launching himself from your bed as you try to scramble out the tangle of covers to make it to your closet-- it’s a shame , part of you thinks absently as you wrestle your shirt over your head, that you can’t sit back and watch as he hops into his suit pants, hair still a wild mess from your fingers last night. Focus . 

“You didn’t set an alarm?” he manages as he takes the stairs three at a time, holding the door for you as you tumble through in a whirl of chaotic distress toward the car. 

“Neither did you!” 

In the end, you make it to the Hill only a minute later than you normally arrive. Kate only gives you one sidelong glance as you walk into the chamber. “Early for mosquito bites, isn’t it?” she remarks mildly as you take your places, and your stomach drops as you clap a hand to your throat. She grins. “Easy, chief.” 

Despite the mild humiliation of the morning, the beginning of the Urzikstan statements go over well. Very well. The cross examinations fail to get a rise out of any of the preliminary witnesses, and the statements are robust against questioning. You can see the wheels start to turn in some of the Congressmen who had been less than enthused at the beginning of the inquiry.  It’s a start, but you’re beginning to feel more cautiously optimistic about the ruling. 

Kate is too, even if she’s trying not to show it. She’s practically buzzing once the committee ends for the day, dictating a brief to-do list of all your tasks for the day tomorrow-- she gets like when she’s singularly focused on something, meticulously organized to the point of looking almost scatterbrained to the everyday onlooker. She’s so absorbed in your discussion she nearly bowls over some poor unsuspecting wretch as you file out of the chamber. “What the-- Philip?” 

Graves adjusts his jacket as he rights himself, almost sheepishly. “Madam Secretary.” 

You blink dumbly at him, and Kate smoothly offers him a hand to shake as you collect your thoughts.  “What brings you here, Graves?” she says, and you nearly jump out of your skin as John slides a protective hand to the small of your back. Interesting .

“I’ve got a meeting with Shepherd tomorrow for some contract negotiations. And though it’s a pleasure, I was actually looking for your Chief here.” 

“Aren’t we all, Philip.” She claps you on the shoulder and shoots an unreadable expression toward John. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Bright and early tomorrow?”

“Yes ma’am,” you manage, before turning your attention to Graves. “You were looking for me?” 

He looks almost embarrassed, which is an odd look on someone as powerful as you know him to be. “Yeah, I… look. I want to apologize about the gala. I really-- that was unprofessional of me. And I was wondering, if I, uh. If I could buy you a drink?” When you both blink at him, he hastily adds, “Both of you, obviously. I’d like to offer you congratulations on the hearing as well-- this is very well put together, really well done.” 

Your eyes slide to John, who lifts one shoulder in a shrug, though his jaw is clenched. “One drink,” you agree, and Graves breaks into a grin. 

He takes you to some swanky Dupont cocktail bar, where John orders a seltzer water just to be a dick. You can’t really blame him, considering the circumstances, but the first rule of D.C. is that networking is king. You’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if that gift horse puts way too many fuckin’ herbs in a simple gin and tonic. What is that, rosemary? Blegh. 

“Another week of the hearing,” Graves says, stating the obvious. “How’s the Secretary feeling?” 

You shrug, taking another sip of your drink-- god, it’s disgusting. “Trying not to jump to any conclusions,” you say carefully. “But looking forward to the conclusion.” 

He whistles appraisingly, ignoring the frown from the bartender. “Bit of a timesuck, huh?” 

“You can say that again.” 

“What about Congressman Wickfield? I’ve heard he can be a tough nut to crack. What’re y’all going to do about him?”

“She can handle the Congressman,” John says gruffly, and Graves raises a hand in surrender. 

“Never said she couldn’t.” Graves checks his watch, and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Christ, I-- I’ve got dip, sweetheart, but maybe I’ll see you around?” He squeezes your elbow with a smile, and offers a nod to John. “Always a pleasure, Captain.” With an unreadable look, he’s gone, and you frown after him. 

“Fuckin’ d-bag,” John mutters into his drink, and you wave a hand at him, which he catches out of the air. “Are you good? You look…”

Are you good? It feels like they’ve cranked the heat in this bar to a wildly uncomfortable degree, even for January. You’re sweating. You’re sweating a lot .  “Is it hot in here to you?” you mumble, sliding off your stool with a wobble. Did you eat today? You can’t remember, but you feel unsteadier than you should after one drink. “I think-- I think I need some air.” 

John nods his assent, but when he dismounts his own seat, he does so with a wobble as well. You blink, trying to think as John ushers you outside. John didn’t have anything to drink, and he’s not naturally clumsy either-- you can see sweat beginning to bead as his temples too, cheeks as flushed as yours feel. 

Something’s wrong. You know something’s wrong, but you can’t quite put a finger on it-- it keeps slipping away from you as you stagger outside, tugging at the collar of your shirt. “Should we-- uber?” you manage eventually, but when you try to turn to cast a look at John, you nearly lose your balance again, leaning on the wall for support. “John, I don’t-- I don’t feel--”

He’s breathing hard, supported only by the bricks behind him, and you realize with a start that the pupils in John’s eyes are different sizes. That… can’t be good , you think, and reach out with clumsy hands. “John?” you mumble, tongue thick and uncooperative in your mouth. “John!”

The last thing you see before your vision swirls to black is John’s wide, panicked eyes as he reaches for you. 

---

You wake with a pounding headache. Christ, you’re never going to learn the gin lesson, are you? It’s only when you go to tumble out of bed when you realize something is very, very wrong. 

You’re already upright, for one, largely because you’ve been tied to the uncomfortable metal chair you find yourself in-- hands behind your back, ankles bound to the chair legs. The cavernous room you’re in is dimly lit, but you can make out another figure beside you, unconscious and bound in an identical matter to you. John . 

Fuck. Fuck . You try to calm your racing heart, try to think for half a second. The last thing you remember is… is the bar. The bar . Christ. You were roofied, which is explanation enough for your pounding headache-- both you and John were drugged, and brought here, and for what, you can’t possibly know. Fuck . “John,” you whisper, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t even stir. “John, please .” 

Footsteps, behind you, but you can’t crane your head far enough around to see your captor. “Sorry about the accommodations,” comes a deeply resonant voice that echoes around the warehouse. The blood freezes in your veins-- you know that voice. “It was the best I could do on short notice.”

“ You .” 

Philip Graves offers you a wolfish smile as he bends down into your eye line. “Good morning sunshine.”

Chapter Text

Kate Laswell is a dangerous woman. 

It’s one thing for her staff to know, somewhere in the backs of their minds, that their boss climbed the political ladder in a more violent fashion than is typical of other cabinet positions. It’s another thing entirely to see her out for blood. Though her office is a flurry of activity, Kate herself is deadly calm. Each step, each movement, is carefully measured. She’s a coiled viper in the buses, watching and waiting for an opportunity to strike.

“I’ve got a ping on her phone,” an aid says breathlessly, one hand clutching the door frame as he doubles over, as though he’d sprinted here. “A bar in Dupont circle, last night. But her phone is off, or broken now, I can’t get anything else.” 

“Good,” Kate remarks. “And the Captain?” 

The aid winces. “The same.”

They’re together then. Kate marches briskly to her desk and begins to sort through the papers with purpose. “I want MacTavish in my office in five,” she says. “And get me Riley.” 

The aid pales. “But-- ma’am, the Lieutenant is--”

“I know where he is .” Kate’s glare is frigid, terrifying. “Get. Me. Riley.” 

---

Philip Graves reclines back on a chair he’s dragged toward the center of the cavernous warehouse to consider the both of you, idly cleaning under his nails with a switchblade that gleams ominously under the dim lights. 

“You’re a scumbag piece of shit, Graves,” Price grits out. He’s awake now, though still clearly disoriented-- his eyes are still wrong, somehow, and the pit in your stomach continues to grow. “You’ll hang for this.” 

Graves shrugs, not looking up from his task. “Down boy,” he says mildly. “We haven’t even gotten to the main event.” 

You don’t know how you ever found him charming in the first place, not now that he’s shed his skin like the snake he is. You’ve never been a particularly violent person, but when you work in the Pentagon, revenge fantasies can certainly take a darker turn, and as of this moment the only thing that’s keeping you relatively sane is mentally comparing the effectiveness of different pliers for removing each one of Graves’s fingernails when you get out of here. If you get out of here, but you don’t allow yourself to spend much time on that alternative. It doesn’t make any sense anyway. “What do you want, Graves?” You manage, bolder than you feel. 

His eyes slide to you, cold and calculating, and he lifts a condescending eyebrow. “You tell me, sweetheart,” he purrs, and maybe you’re not going to remove his fingernails. Maybe you’re going to systematically shatter his phalanges, one by one. That’s beginning to sound more appealing. 

You try to keep your face schooled into its careful, murderous expression, but you don’t think you’re doing a great job at convincing him you’re not afraid. “If you were going to kill us you would have done it already.” 

It’s the only thing that makes sense. He needs something from you, but what, you can’t know. It’s to do with the hearing, obviously, but that barely makes sense either-- there’s only one more day before closing arguments. All the evidence has already been presented, and killing you now would only convince even the most skeptical Congressmen on the committee of the wrongdoing Kate’s presenting. Nobody would believe it was an accident-- not now. Not like this. 

“Point to you, Chief; no, I’m not going to kill you,” Graves says, offering you a wolfish smile as he gets to his feet. “I’ve been instructed not to play with my food.” 

Cold dread grips the base of your spine, but before you muster a reply, John rumbles to life beside you, eyes looking a little clearer now.  “Who are you working for?” he rasps, and spits at Graves’s feet for good measure. 

His lip curls in an unimpressed sneer, and in a movement quicker than your eyes can follow, his blade is to John’s throat, tipping his chin up to force John to look him in the eye. John, don’t . 

“Right,” Graves says, sounding almost bored. “I’m going to tell you who I’m working for, and then I’m going to let you go and we’ll all be on our merry ways. Shall I also read myself my Miranda rights?” The knife presses in, just a fraction, and you nearly stop breathing at the bead of red that wells up along the blade. “Really, John. Be reasonable.” 

“Leave him alone,” you manage, panic threading your voice. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”

“I know,” Graves says coldly, but the blade remains at John’s throat. “He’s just got such a way of getting under your skin, doesn’t he?” 

“Just-- just tell me what you want,” you plead, and when he looks at you you want nothing more than to break free from your restraints and claw his eyes out. “There isn’t a need for this, just tell me what you want .”

Graves clucks his tongue, and you have half a mind to rip it out. “You’re in luck, Chief, because I only need one thing,” he says in a cloying, sweet voice. “Just one, teensy tiny little name.” 

Your blood runs cold. Tomorrow Kate presents the nail in the coffin-- the informant’s testimony. “The informant,” you whisper, and Graves smiles a slow, cruel smile. 

“Bingo.” 

“Are you fucking dumb?” John spits even as your stomach sinks to the floor. “They already have the testimony you fucking ingrate. Killing the poor fuck isn’t going to do anything but make you look more guilty.”

But Graves isn’t looking at John. He’s looking at you, delight plain on his face as he watches you piece it together. “You wanna tell him, or should I, sweetheart?” he simpers, and John’s eyes dart to you in a panic. What?

“Kate’s going to name the witness tomorrow; she thought it would make the testimony more… more robust,” you manage, barely containing your rage. “He doesn’t care if Kate presents the testimony. He’s trying to discredit the witness.” 

“Maybe she is as clever as I gave her credit for,” Graves muses, tilting your chin up with his pointer finger-- you briefly fantasize about biting it off. “And when the newspapers and the Congressmen and whoever else finds your precious witness dead in his apartment with a needle in his arm, who will believe you then, huh?” He taps your chin again and you jerk away from him, chest heaving. “Your entire inquiry, built on a lie of a guilt ridden, drug-addled ghost of a man. Sad, isn’t it?” 

John laughs, high pitched and incredulous. “You think that’s going to work ? She’s the Secretary of Defense-- ”

“Investigating her own department.” You’d rather die than admit it, but Graves has a point. Laswell burned bridges to get this far-- a fair number of important, powerful bridges. Bridges that won’t back her up if push comes to shove and the entire inquiry is called into question. “The call is coming from inside the House, Captain. And she’s going to tell me the one, teensy little name, so I can burn that fucking house to the ground. Capisce ?” 

“I can’t.” You can’t. You really, really can’t. Kate hasn’t told anyone the identity of the informant. For apparently this exact reason. Not that you’d actually expected it to go this far. Christ . 

Graves sucks his teeth in an exasperated motion. “Oh, but I think you can.” 

"I really can't." Your eye twitches. “Even if I did know-- which I don’t-- you’re not going to kill me. You can’t. That’s the only thing that would fuck your story. Law enforcement might not believe me when I tell them you’re a fucking psycho, but killing me? No one would ever believe that it was an accident.” 

When Graves smiles at you, it’s all sharp canines. “Who said anything about killing you .” He gestures with his knife at Price, and your heart sinks. 

“He’s got nothing to do with this,” you protest, but can’t keep the tremble out of your voice. John just shakes his head minutely, trying to calm you, maybe, but it’s not working, it’s not going to work. “Please, I-- leave him out of this.” 

Graves ignores you in favor of stepping a slow circle around John’s chair, flipping his knife again before settling to squat by John’s side, maintaining eye contact with you as he begins to drag the tip of the blade up John’s leg. “Do you know how long it takes a man to die after he’s been stabbed?” Fuck. Fuck . The blade continues from his thigh to his hip, teasing over where Jon’s belt digs into his side. John’s jaw is clenched, eyes fixed on you with an expression you can’t take the time to decipher right now.   “Obviously, it depends, doesn’t it? Depends on the weapon, the depth of the wound, and of course--” higher now, coming to a stop at his ribs, tapping once for emphasis  “--location, location, location. Isn’t that right, Captain?” 

“Go to hell, Graves,” John grits out, and Graves just frowns, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. 

“Please-- please, Graves--” you try but he ignores you in favor of tapping the blade against John’s ribs again. You’ve never felt this pathetic, this wildly helpless in your entire life, can’t do anything but strain against your bonds and beg and plead to deaf ears, knowing it doesn’t matter at all, not really. 

“The liver is one of those funny little organs that a human doesn’t really need,” Graves continues over your desperate cries. “Not all of it, anyway. Gives a man a fairly decent chance of survival, if he gets treatment within a certain time frame.” The point digs in, just a bit, and John tries to mask his wince but he doesn’t quite manage it. “Five hours, give or take.  With the medical care available in the great District of Colombia, hell. A man could bounce back like nothing ever happened if he got there in under five hours.” He sighs. “‘Course, we could avoid all this entirely if you just told me what I need to know.” 

“Chief, don’t--” John starts, but Graves cuts him off with a crisp backhand. 

“I don’t know ,” you sob, wrenching against your bonds again. “Don’t do this, Philip, please , I-- I can’t--”

“A name. Just the name. That’s all I need.” 

He doesn’t believe you. Of course he doesn’t believe you. He’s in too deep now anyway. “Please,” is all you can manage. “ Please .” 

“Suit yourself,” Graves says with a shrug, and slips the blade between John’s ribs, smooth as butter. 

The nature of your job deals with the bureaucracy of planned violence. Some part of you understand the consequences of the decisions made in your office. It doesn’t mean you’re prepared for the way John’s shirt immediately begins to bloom red, the way his chest heaves with a stuttered breath, eyes wide with something like fear. Someone screams. It might be you. 

Graves braces himself on the arms of your chair to look you right in the eye, cold and clear. “You have five hours,” he says. “I suggest you start talking.” 

---

“Talk to me, Soap,” Laswell says, all but slamming the conference room door in the face of the wheezing aid trying desperately to match the brutal pace of Laswell’s heels. 

John “Soap” MacTavish stands from his seat and offers a brisk salute that Kate ignores entirely in favor of grabbing the file in front of him and beginning to flip through its pages.

“The cocktail bar doesn’t have any CCTV footage, but red light cameras at this southern intersection show this vehicle departing the scene five minutes after the last hit on Price and the Chief’s phones.” He takes the file back for a moment to flip to a grainy picture of an SUV in the darkened D.C. street. “Ran the plates-- it’s a rental, checked out to Tanner Renwick. Former Army Ranger, current employee of one Shadow Company.” 

“Graves.” 

Soap offers a thin smile. “Yep. He could be working alone, but I don’t really believe in coincidences.”

“Get me everything on this fuckin’ guy. Every step he’s taken for the last ten years-- I wanna know where’s he’s been, what he’s done, who he’s talked to, his commanding officer--”

“It’s Shepherd.”

It’s a wonder Kate’s neck doesn’t snap at the speed it swivels her head round to stare at the newcomer in the door. “Riley,” she says, unable to mask the relief in her voice. 

The masked man keeps his arms folded over his chest, eyes unreadable. “Most of Graves’s Shadows are ex-military, and they all reported to Shepherd at one point or another. Whatever this guy’s doing, he’s working for Graves, and Graves is absolutely working for Shepherd.”

“Contract negotiations,” Kate breathes, and Soap frowns. 

“There’s a Shadow building in Anacostia, but Graves isn’t an idiot-- he’d never take them there.” Ghost reaches into his vest pocket to withdraw a file of his own, which he throws onto the table with a smack. “This is a warehouse in Columbia Heights owned by a shell, which is managed by Shepherd’s lawyers.” He looks between Soap and Laswell, and shrugs. 

Kate nods grimly. “I don’t care what you have to do to get them back. Take any means necessary. And I do mean any .”  

Soap breaks into a wide, savage smile.  “It’ll be our pleasure, ma’am.” 

--

It’s been two and a half hours. You haven’t given him anything. You can’t. The only thing he wants is a name that you don’t know. All you can only watch as the life slowly seeps from John’s side, dripping ominously from the hem of his shirt to pool under his chair. He’s still conscious, but barely-- skin a sickly pallor, sweat beading at his temples. “Philip, please .”

A muscle in Graves’s jaw twitches. “Y’know, most people in D.C. would have sold out a hundred times over by now. It’d almost be impressive, if it wasn’t pissing me off.” 

“I told you, I don’t know ,” you all but sob. You’re starting to lose the feeling in your hands, the smell of copper overwhelming, and you don’t see any way out but begging. “I can’t give you what you want , you have to see that.” 

“And here I thought you cared about him,” he sneers, but leans back with a sigh, wiping his hand over his face. “ Christ .” 

“Just let him go,” you beg as Graves gets to his feet. He walks past you to rummage for something behind you, ignoring your pleas. “Let him go, and I’ll-- I don’t know--we can figure it out, please.” 

“You know, I’ve never been a great believer in ‘enhanced interrogation’,” he drawls slowly from somewhere behind you, and your blood runs cold. “Studies show the subjects will say anything to end the interrogation, and I prefer the information I gather to be… well. Correct, for one.” He sits back in his chair across from you, carrying a large duffle bag which he unzips slowly, ominously. 

“You’re a fuckin’ animal, Graves,” John grits out, and Graves just rolls his eyes. 

“Pot, meet kettle.” He reaches into the bag and withdraws a tattered looking washcloth, and ice splinters through your veins-- he smiles, all teeth. “You know what this is for, don’t you?” 

“Please,” you whisper, fighting against the tears welling in your eyes as he withdraws a gallon jug of water, then a second and third. “I don’t know, I don’t know .” 

“I swear to God, Graves,” John pants, eyes glazed, and chest heaving. “I swear to fucking God, I’ll kill you for this.” 

Graves offers him an unimpressed look. “Not sure you’ll have time for that, old man, not with the schedule you’re on. Besides--”

He cuts himself off, suddenly going very still, head tilted as if listening for something that you can’t hear. It’s uncannily quiet for a long moment, the only sound John’s labored breathing, before Graves snaps his head to glare at you, eyes burning. “You dumb fucking bitch,” he hisses, and before you can say anything he’s crossed the distance between you, arm tight around your throat as he drags you in front of him like a human shield, the cool barrel of the weapon you didn’t see him draw pressed to your temple. 

You’re trembling, too terrified to manage words to ask what the fuck is going on, but John wrenches desperately against his bonds, eyes wide with panic. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he bellows, but Graves ignores him as his eyes dart around the cavernous chamber.

“Show yourselves!” he shouts, arm tightening around your throat. “Show yourselves or I blow her fucking head off right now.” 

There’s a long, tense moment before you decide that this is it. Graves has cracked, and he’s going to shoot you, right here in this dark, cold warehouse, where no one can hear you scream. You close your eyes, trying to brace yourself against the final blow. 

And then you hear footsteps. 

Your eyes fly open to see a man inching steadily toward you, rifle raised and trained on Graves. “Now, Philip,” coos the man in a low, rough accent. “Is that any way to speak to your guests?” 

“Should have known Laswell would send her fucking lap dogs,” he snarls, and the man only offers a crooked smile in response. “Put your weapon down, Soap.” The barrel digs into your temple and you wince. 

“You first,” The man, ‘Soap’, challenges, and Graves scoffs. 

“Don’t fucking play like you’ve got the upper hand here,” he sneers, and Soap just lifts an eyebrow. “I’m not the one backed into a corner here. You are.” Your skin stings as he whips his weapon away to level it at Soap. “You think I’m alone in here? You think this place isn’t crawling with Shadows? You think I didn’t think to set up the bare minimum of security measures?” He laughs, a high, derisive sound. “That’s the thing with your fucking 141. You can never see the bigger picture-- just jumping on whatever fucking opportunity you think you find and walking right into the fucking shit storm. You dumb fuckin’ animal.”

You know he’s not bluffing-- a handful of black clad masked men have been in and out intermittently, speaking with Graves in low tones. All armed to the fucking teeth, gone almost as quickly as they’d arrived. But Soap doesn’t seem surprised by this news. If anything, he seems… smug? 

Soap tilts his head as if considering something. “I’ve never been afraid of Shadows,” he says slowly, and Graves laughs that deranged laugh again. “Ghosts, though, scare the fuckin’ shite out of me.” 

Several things happen very fast in the time it takes you to wonder if you’re having a stroke. Graves’s arm around your throat releases as his foot, planted square in the middle of your back, sends you flying across the concrete toward Soap, tipping violently sideways in the process. Price shouts something as your head tracks a collision course with the ground, though it’s lost in a crack of thunder that rolls deafeningly through the warehouse. On instinct, you attempt to hurl your body weight backward to avoid landing full on your face; when you crash to the ground, you’re met with the blank, staring eyes of the corpse of Philip Graves.

It takes a moment for you to realize the panicked screams are coming from you. You try frantically to inch backward, away from him, away from the blood pooling from the ragged gash in his throat-- but you still bound, still can’t feel your hands, and it’s over, it’s over it’s over--

You’re bodily lifted upright as someone gently rights your chair, immediately beginning to work at freeing you. You struggle to get your bearings, but are somehow less than surprised to see the Grim Reaper kneeling at your feet, steadily sawing at the zip ties that bind you to the chair. 

“Are we dead?” you manage faintly, and the man at your feet blinks at you. His eyes are black, bottomless pits, face obscured by his black hood and skull mask, which are spattered with red. He frees your wrists, and before you can move, he’s scooped you into his (massive) arms and lifted , like you weigh nothing at all. 

“Not yet,” is all he says in reply. 

“Oh. Okay.” You nod, faintly, dimly aware of Soap shouting orders into a cell phone as he saws at John’s bonds. Your head is spinning, your ears ringing, and you do the only thing you’re capable of at the moment.

You pass out.

Chapter Text

It’s nearly a week before you see him again. 

You’d woken, confused and trembling, in the back of a van streaking through the streets of D.C., gloved fingers bandaging your limp and bleeding wrists. You’d blinked up at the masked man, and though part of you knew you should be afraid, all you’d felt was an eerie sense of calm. “You’re okay,” he’d said simply, and you’d slipped helplessly into unconsciousness again. 

When you’d come to again, your rescuers-- John “Soap” MacTavish and Simon “Ghost” Riley-- calmly explained that they were working under Kate’s orders, that they were keeping you in a safe house until the commotion in D.C. died down. That John was in intensive care at Walter Reed. That no one knew when-- or if--he’d wake up.

Kate herself had appeared at the remote cabin some hours later, haggard and exhausted, hair unkempt and eyes wild. She’d all but tackled you once she’d caught sight of you, taking a flying leap to wrap you in a tight hug. “Thank God you’re okay,” she’d managed breathlessly, and before you could even attempt to choke down the tears that had been wobbling in the corners of your eyes all day, she’d said, “He’s alive .” 

She’d held you as you’d cried, the two of you sinking to your knees in the kitchen as your wracking sobs shuddered through you. 

You’re alive. He’s alive. And for the time being, it’s all you can ask for. 

As it turns out, it’s all you are allowed to ask for. Kate’s on edge-- it would be paranoia if not for the tiny detail of you getting literally kidnapped. You’re not allowed a phone, a computer, anything-- the only speck of technology in the entire safe house is a television that you swear only plays Bonanza reruns and a Nokia flip phone that Ghost is using as a burner. You pass the time doing ancient puzzles that Soap dug out of some dust ridden cupboard. Most of the pieces are missing, and the picture has nearly faded away, but it’s something to do.

Kate visits occasionally, dropping fragments of information each time she appears, and you slowly begin to piece everything together. Graves working for Shepherd, the Shadows working under the table in effort to bury the coverup. How you, apparently, were a last ditch attempt to foil the inquiry, after everything else failed. How the inquiry had ended with a recommendation for prosecution and criminal charges of government conspiracy for the named officials in whistleblowers testimony. How Shepherd will now stand trial for treason, along with the Shadows that Ghost and Soap had left standing. (Admittedly, a very small number.) How the President sent you a letter, commending your bravery. 

You don’t feel very brave. If you had known what Graves demanded of you, you’re not sure what you would have done, what you would have said. There’s a part of you that observes the entire situation with a clinical realism that assures you that it wouldn’t have mattered, that Graves was a sadistic sociopath who would have found a reason to kill both you and Price anyway, but. 

But. 

It doesn’t bear thinking about, at any rate. You try to keep your frayed nerves on an even keel, but it’s like Soap can see right into your goddamn soul, which you don’t really appreciate. His eyes soften when he finds you compulsively sorting and re-sorting the meager contents of the kitchen cupboard at 3 in the morning one night. 

“He’s alright, bonnie,” he tries to reassure you, and to your own credit you don’t send a fist into his teeth. 

“What if he’s not?” It’s barely a whisper, the possibility too morbid to consider. Sure, he’s alive, but what if Graves did something irreparable, what if there’s something wrong , deep inside, that the doctors missed and he’s dying, slowly, and it’s your fault, your fault, your fault --

“You know how hard it is to kill that man?” Soap interjects, bringing your train of thought to a screeching halt. You blink at him, and he almost smiles. “It’s one of his more redeeming qualities, how stubborn he is. It would take more than a knife in the gut to bring him down, I promise you, bonnie.” 

You think of the scars that littered his torso, proof of a life clawing back Death and fates much worse than death. You think, maybe, that Soap’s right. The thought nearly brings tears to your eyes, but you can’t for the life of you explain why. 

“You should get some sleep,” Soap says gently, and you can’t help but follow his advice, collapsing into your bed as a deep, dreamless sleep pulls you down, down, down.

---

Kate arrives at the asscrack of dawn with a wicked grin and a case of beer, which feels a bit full on for this early in the morning. “I come bearing gifts,” she crows, and you frown, folding your over your chest as you level an unimpressed look at your boss. 

“What could possibly have to celebrate? The sun is barely up, Kate.” 

She shrugs, but her eyes slide past you to fix on something-- someone-- behind you in the doorway. “You tell me.” 

You whirl around so quickly you nearly lose your balance, Kate laughing a high, raucous laugh that you haven’t heard for a very long time. 

“Hi.”

John . 

He’s okay. He’s here, he’s alive, he’s upright , miracle of all miracles, and you’re breathless with the relief of it. Your feet are frozen to the floor-- you couldn’t take a step forward even if you wanted to, and God, God , all you want to do is throw yourself at him, tackle him to the ground and make sure he never leaves your sight again. All you can do is drink him in helplessly-- his tired eyes, mussed hair, sheepish smile. 

“Hi,” you manage, and if it comes out as a squeak, well. That’s your business. 

The tension in the air is thick, palpable--Soap, Ghost, and Kate watch for a long, awkward moment as the two of you gape at each other. “We’ll… give you to a minute,” Ghost gravels out eventually, grabbing both Kate and Soap by the elbows and physically dragging them from the room to leave the two of you alone. 

You have to say something. Something to break the silence that stretches between you, growing more awkward and insurmountable with each passing second. Fuck. Fuck . This is not how this was supposed to go. You’re supposed to be calm, collected, unflappable, not this pathetic mute creature you’ve become.  Your mouth works, looking for something, anything to say. “I--”

You don’t get a chance to try to finish your thought. 

He’s across the room in a moment, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and crushing you to him in an embrace that leaves you breathless. He’s warm, solid underneath your palms, and you hadn’t even realized how on one edge you actually were until the wave of relief that rushes through you brings tears to your eyes. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple as he holds you closer, your chest shuddering with an almost sob. “It’s okay, we’re okay.”

“John, I--” you start to stammer, but one hand sweeps up to curl possessively around the nape of your neck, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. They’re blown wide, dark, and you’re tumbling down, down, down, the wind rushing past your ears and you don’t think you could stop if you tried. 

(You don’t want to stop.)

“I know, baby,” he soothes, and you feel something in your chest still at the low rumble of his voice, his thumbs brushing a tear off your cheek. “I know.” He hauls you in by your nape for a deep, burning kiss that scorches down your spine and tingles into your fingers-- alive, alive, alive . 

It’s frenzied, desperate, and you’re not really able (or willing) to slow down-- your mind is a blur of sensation, of hands and teeth and tongue pressing closer, begging for more . His hand folded around your waist-- his beard scratching down your throat-- the way he guides you blindly toward the bedroom, unwilling to look away for even a moment, like if either of you stopped looking it would be over. 

The backs of your knees hit the bed spread, and he guides you down gently, his big body looming over you. “Please,” you manage, and you don’t even know what you’re asking for, not really, but John knows, he always knows. He presses a kiss to your forehead, sweet and chaste, before sitting back on his heels to pull off his shirt. 

The frantic atmosphere nearly evaporates as you drink in his heaving torso. A line of neat, even stitches marches a path over his ribs, and before you can stop yourself, your trembling hand reaches out to touch.

There’s seventeen stitches. Seventeen small, neat lines that saved his life. Something dark and unidentifiable begins to brew in the space beneath your heart-- there had been so much blood, so much blood, and the only evidence that he’d nearly died are seventeen steady stitches--

His hand folds over your shaking fingers and brings them to his mouth, forcing you to look in his eyes. “I’m alright,” he murmurs, gaze dark and liquid, lips brushing your knuckles. “I promise. I’m alright.” 

You don’t know how he can be. His blood soaked form is burned into your memory, and you’re supposed to, what. Take his word for it? “John, I--” 

He leans down to swallow your words in a slow, deep kiss that rolls through you like the tide. “I won’t go down that easy,” he says, and his voice is low and insistent, like he’s stating an undeniable fact, like his fate hangs in his own hands and nobody else's. It’s not true, you know it’s not, you nearly killed him, but with that look on his face you think you might believe anything he tells you. 

It’s enough. It has to be enough. 

John’s palms burn, wide and hot, up your torso under your shirt, pulling it over your head in a fluid movement and sending it to join his own. Your pants are next, wiggled down your hips as you fumble for his belt, sent to the edge of the bed in a heap. You barely get a minute to marvel at his naked form before he works an arm underneath you and rolls so that he’s underneath you, your legs straddling his hips. 

“Your stitches--” you stammer, trying desperately to retain your composure, and he grins devilishly at you. 

“I’ve had worse,” he says, and while you don’t appreciate the cheek, you can’t be bothered to scold him, not when he touches you like that. His hands glide up your body, dragging gooseflesh in their wake, and pull your face back down for another deep, scorching kiss. You reflexively grind down into the cradle of his hips, brushing deliciously across where he lies, hot and hard, against you. “I want you to ride me,” he breathes in your ear, and your arms nearly give out where they’re braced on either side of his head. You feel his grin against your cheek, and you wish it didn’t turn you on the way that it does.  “ Please , baby.” 

(What the fuck. What the fuck . How he knows exactly what to say to drive you crazy, you won’t ever know.) 

You grind down against him again, and he throws back his head with a groan, folding his hands around your hips to squeeze-- some quiet, insistent part of you hopes his fingerprints leave bruises. “Don’t make me ask again, baby,” he gravels out, and Christ, that voice . 

He’s big, and you knew that, in some remote corner of your mind, but like this it’s different-- the fullness is breathtaking, overwhelming as you sink down on him, your palms braced against his chest. “That’s it, love,” he gasps, and you swallow hard, letting your body adjust to the size of him. “That’s it.”

His hands flex around your hips, guiding you as you begin to move, a slow, filthy grind that gradually builds in pace, reaching so deep you can practically feel it in your throat. It wasn’t like this before-- you’ve never had post-near-death-experience sex, so maybe you should credit it to endorphins or something. But maybe it’s just John, maybe it’s just the way his eyes never leave you, the way he drinks you in like you’re a goddess, some ethereal being that he can’t believe he’s got his hands on. He’s so real, so solid beneath you, grounding you in a way you haven’t been since that day in the warehouse. You can’t get enough, your hips chasing the slowly building tension that’s building within you, your nails clawing into the meat of his pecs as you grind faster and faster. 

“ Fuck , baby,” he groans, squeezing your hips again as one hand slides over your belly to reach your clit. “So bloody beautiful like this, c’mon, keep going, fuck .” His broad thumb, rubbing steady circles over you, your wetness squelching obscene as your hips move at a near blinding pace. Your thighs burn with the effort but you can’t stop, not like this, not when you’re so close already. “Are you gonna come for me? Are you almost there?” When all you can muster is a half shake of your head-- is it a nod? Is it a no? You don’t even really know-- he grabs your hips and drags you down to meet his vicious upward thrust. 

He’s deep , so deep, and you’ve never felt like this before, fuck . “ John ,” you gasp, your elbows giving out, sending your face into his broad chest. He wheezes out a low almost-laugh, and you feel his arms circle around you as he drops a kiss on your forehead. 

“I know, love.” His arms tighten around your back and you can feel him readjust beneath so that his feet are planted on the bed. “Hang on, sweetheart, we’ll get there.” 

It’s all the warning you get before he thrusts up again leaves you panting, breathless with how full you are. It’s all you can do to hang on as John pounds into you, quick and dirty and oh so good . You’re overwhelmed with sensation-- his hands on your back, the rasp of his body hair, the nonsensical filthy things he murmurs into your ear--but John holds you tight through it all, like he’s afraid you might fly away. It feels like you might, honestly, every thrust sending you higher and higher, but you’re not quite there, there’s something else, something you need . 

“Kiss me,” you plead, and John’s eyes blow wide and dark, surging forward to claim your mouth as his own. That’s it-- you go flying over the edge in shuddering, trembling glory, your thoughts so light and floaty you barely register as John tumbles as after you, gasping against your mouth. 

You take a long moment to float back down to earth, blinking stars out of your vision as you half-heartedly roll off of John. He makes a small, mournful noise, dragging you back close to his side before you have a chance to get up and make any effort to clean off. It makes something in your heart soften even as the dark guilt begins to surge up your spine, making your hands damp and your blood cold. John’s oblivious to your internal battle, eyes closed and chest rising and falling peacefully as he holds you close. It’s too much. You don’t deserve it. 

“I’m sorry,” you manage eventually, and John blinks one eye open to offer you a lethal side eye. 

“I hope not for that ,” he says, and his tone is light, joking, but you can’t laugh, not really. He was going to die , and no matter what anyone said, it would have been your fault. Your fault. 

“You were right,” you carry on, unable to help the small quality of your voice, unable to stop yourself from listing every single reason why that shouldn’t have happened, why you don’t deserve his affection and never should. “You were right about Graves, and I-- I didn’t listen, I thought--”

“Whoa, hey, slow down.” Both eyes open now, concerned, though bleary, and you just charge right past him. 

“It’s my fault,” you sputter, tears pooling in the corner of your eyes. “I thought he was harmless--If I hadn’t-- If we hadn’t gotten drinks with him--”

“He would have killed me anyway.” He takes your face in your hands, tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet his eyes. They’re so blue like this, so close. If you were sappy, you’d say they reminded you of the sea after a storm, or the sky in the morning, or a thousand other things, but you’re not, so you don’t. They just remind you of John. “Graves has wanted me dead for a long time, princess. The fact that I was working for you was just… convenient. He knew I--” his mouth twists for a second, but he continues. “He could see how much I cared for you. Even though he thought you knew what he wanted, he only took me too because he found a better way to hurt me than he’d ever had before.” 

The magnitude of what he’s implying doesn’t escape you. It’s been a long time since anyone has seen you in the way that John does. But because you’re you, and the events of the of the past week have left you… insecure, at best, you can’t resist the urge to ruin it, to ruin everything, to point out that he has no obligation to you any more, no obligation to you or your feelings or anything at all. “The inquiry’s over,” you manage. “I doubt they’ll find room in the budget for a bodyguard again.” 

John blinks at you. Then blinks again. A slow, sly grin creeps over his face as he pulls you still closer to him, palm bracketed against your ribs to feel your rabbit-quick heart pounding out its frantic rhythm.  

“Princess,” he says slowly, eyes twinkling.  “What in God’s name makes you think I’m ever going to let you out of my sight now?”