Nightmares.

Ghosts that clung to the clearest of memories and hid in the recesses of consciousness to strike when a person least expected it. They arrived on schedule and without, took over when they wanted, and then left, leaving behind a battlefield, as if after a meat grinder.

Price had a long history with nightmares. He accepted them like family, coping with them alone. Always alone, he had no one else to tell about memories of soldiers, his ex-subordinates, who went on their last missions without knowing it. They hauted him in his dreams, even if he was already a fourty-four-year-old man. And he was the only one who always came back alive. Tenacious asshole.

Would anyone understand? Would anyone care?

But you did. Only you.

He opened the door to your barracks with a shaking hand. His whole body was shaking with tears, trembling with fear, with an unceasing sense of impending danger.

"John?" You whispered in disbelief, slightly sleepy and not understanding what he was doing on your doorstep at three in the morning.

"They..."

As soon as he said, – no, sobbed, – the word, you understood everything. You jumped out of bed, still in your pajamas, and reached for him. As soon as your hands touched him, he clung to you, shaking in your arms.

"They... T-they're here, and I'm... I couldn't, I h-had to... They had to live, I s-should've..."

He continued to tremble in your arms, pressing his whole body against you, seeking peace and solace.

You were the only one who could help him in those moments. You were the only one whom he trusted to see that – broken – part of himself.