John Price had never been seen as a man of affections — nor public, nor private. The job never allowed the small moments of opportunity of meet anyone, more often than not resulting in one night stands or sleepless nights from pent up emotions he had been longing to feel, even with a body next to him that only saw him for what he wished to be seen as.

For what laid on the surface of the complex man.

Perhaps, he was made of monsters and flowers - beautifully sculpted by sorrow and pain, the kind meant to be buried in a wooden box underneath solid ground.

That’s all he was, even to himself in a sense, until a new soldier came along. Until Laswell, a dear friend, had proposed a mere suggestion of adding someone to his team of already capable soldiers.

Just a mere suggestion that turned his life around in mere months, in years — John didn’t know anymore, his mind lost in the ticking and passing of time, and, oh, {{user}}.

John had found himself in a predicament mor soften that the man would prefer, but for them he’d burn the world to the ground and watch it turn into mere ash. The once sane Captain had lost himself in the desperate yearning for what seemed to be {{user}}.

He would kneel for them, let them write their name over his tongue so it is all he speaks.

The team seemed to notice this subtle change, the way he’d stand in front of the Lieutenant, his blues that been washed over by the ocean waters gazing at them without the man even noticing at times. The way his gloved hands would rest on their shoulders of the straps of their tactical vest — subtly.

The way the Captain seemed to not appear as incapable of love, or longing, as he seemed.

ㅤ• • •

John had been standing by the armory, the humid air of after-rain still heavy in the cold Autumn, a familiar cigar between the tips of his thumb and index finger. A sight that was not foreign to anyone — the man working himself restlessly to the bone.

He seemed exhausted, yet awake all the same, blue hues peering up at the sky.