Chapter Text
The colours aren’t working.
You lean back, squinting at the half-finished painting in front of you, the light from the window catching on the streaks of oil and acrylic. It’s supposed to be something—something alive, something vivid. But all you can see is how wrong it looks. The greens are too muddy, the yellows too stark, the brushstrokes too clumsy.
Your fingers twitch, stained with flecks of dried paint, as you hover over the canvas. For a moment, you think you can fix it. Just a little more blending here, a softer touch there. But as soon as you touch the brush to the surface again, the frustration boils over.
“God, no,” you mutter under your breath, yanking your hand back.
The brush clatters to the floor as you swipe your palm over the canvas, smearing the paint into an ugly, blurred mess. The motion feels final, decisive, but it doesn’t satisfy you. It just leaves you staring at the ruined painting, your chest tightening.
You push away from the table, pacing the small living room with restless steps. The flat feels smaller than usual, the walls pressing in with their muted colours and the faint hum of the city outside. It’s nothing like home.
Home.
You close your eyes, and for a moment, you can see it—the rolling hills, the way the moors seemed endless, stretching out under a wide, open sky. You think about the mornings spent wandering through quiet streets, the evenings at the pub where everyone knew your name. It wasn’t much, but it was yours.
University was supposed to be the next chapter, the place where you’d figure it all out. But that had slipped through your fingers, too. You hadn’t expected it to be so hard—to feel so out of place, so… small. And then the bills piled up, and the stress of trying to balance it all crushed whatever was left of your confidence.
Now you’re here. In this flat. With its thin walls and its constant hum of the city, where the smell of damp lingers no matter how many candles you light.
Your stomach twists, the weight of everything pressing heavier as you glance back at the canvas. The smear of paint looks like a wound, raw and unfixable.
With a sharp sigh, you grab a rag from the counter, wiping at your hands as you glance at the clock.
You glance at the clock, rubbing your temple with paint-streaked fingers. You’ve got just enough time to clean up before your shift starts at the café—enough time to escape this flat, this mounting frustration.
But then you hear the door to the bedroom creak open behind you, the heavy sound of Adam’s footsteps trailing into the room. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you wipe your hands on the rag.
Finally, he speaks, his voice dry and edged with something sharper than humor. “Another masterpiece, is it?”
You freeze, your fingers tightening around the rag.
He gestures lazily toward the canvas, the smear of ruined paint glaring back at you like an accusation. “Or is that one supposed to be, what, abstract? It’s bold, I’ll give you that.”
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. “I’m just trying to figure it out. It’s not finished.”
He snorts, shaking his head as he moves toward the kitchen. “Right. Well, maybe stick to coffee, love. That’s one thing you don’t manage to cock up.”
The words are said casually, like they’re nothing, just part of his usual rhythm. But they land with a weight you weren’t ready for, burrowing into the pit of your stomach.
Your jaw tightens, but you don’t say anything. You’ve learned not to. The arguments always spiral, and you’re already late.
Adam doesn’t seem to notice your silence, or maybe he just doesn’t care. He grabs his mug from the counter, the one you’d rinsed out earlier, and disappears back into the bedroom without another glance.
You stare at the canvas again, the smear of paint mocking you now. The clock ticks louder in the silence, dragging you back to the present.
There’s no time to fix anything—not the painting, not the words he left hanging in the air. You shove the rag aside, grab your bag, and leave the flat without looking back. The cool air in the hallway is a relief, but it doesn’t quite wash away the weight sitting in your chest. It never does.
The rain in London felt heavier than Price remembered.
Not a downpour, but persistent, a drizzle that settled into the fabric of your clothes and your bones. The city around him was alive in its usual, muted way: the sharp chatter of commuters under umbrellas, the uneven hum of traffic, the occasional wail of a siren cutting through the grey. He pulled his coat tighter around him as he crossed the street, boots clicking against the pavement, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
The apartment was an anonymous thing, tucked into a quiet corner of the city, indistinct and unassuming, just as he preferred it. Price didn’t come here often—there was never much of a reason. It was a place to leave behind, a waypoint between deployments. But for now, it was his. A temporary reprieve.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor, the soles of his boots heavy against the aging steps. The building smelled faintly of damp wood and something faintly metallic, the kind of scent that settled in old places like this. The door to his flat greeted him with a rusty creak as he pushed it open. Everything was as he left it: spare furniture, a fine layer of dust across the shelves, the faint echo of a life barely lived within these walls.
Price set his bag down by the door and shrugged out of his coat, tossing it onto the back of a chair. His first instinct was to put the kettle on—it had been a long flight, and a cup of tea always made things feel a little less foreign.
The shrill ring of his phone interrupted the quiet before the water had even begun to boil. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, and answered with a low, familiar grumble.
“Laswell.”
Her voice was clear and no-nonsense as always, cutting through the haze of jet lag. “Back in London, I see.”
“Aye. Touchdown a couple of hours ago,” Price replied, leaning against the counter. “Got your lot watching me that close?”
Laswell chuckled, though the sound was faintly distracted. “Always. You settle in, then?”
“For now. Nothing much to settle into,” he said. “Place’s as bare as I left it. You know the drill.”
“I do,” she said, a hint of warmth softening her tone. There was a pause, just long enough for him to catch the weight behind it. “Take the time, John. You need it.”
Price exhaled, dragging a hand through his beard. He’d heard it before, from her and others. Rest, recover. Let the weight fall away for a while. As if it was ever that simple.
“You know where to find me,” he said instead, his voice steady but noncommittal. “Call when you need me.”
Laswell sighed, but didn’t push. “I will. Take care of yourself, Price.”
The line went dead with a faint click. Price stared at the screen for a moment before slipping the phone back into his pocket.
He turned back to the kettle, watching as steam began to curl from its spout. Outside, the rain continued its steady rhythm, a low patter against the windows. He could hear the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the walls, a reminder that life went on, indifferent and relentless.
And somewhere beneath him, faint and distant, came the sound of voices—muffled, raised in agitation. Price frowned, his head tilting slightly as he listened. It wasn’t unusual for the building to carry noise like that, but something about it stuck, gnawing at the edge of his awareness.
He sank into the old armchair by the window some time later, tea cradled in one hand, a faint frown etched across his features.
The room around him was dim, lit only by the pale grey light filtering through the rain-streaked window. Outside, the city continued its relentless hum, muted by the downpour. From here, it felt far away, distant enough to let him pretend, at least for a moment, that the world was as simple as it appeared.
He rested the steaming mug against his thigh, its warmth seeping through the fabric of his trousers. The tea was strong—just the way he liked it—and the first sip carried a familiar bitterness that settled him more than the armchair ever could. The flat was still, but not silent. It creaked and sighed, the way old places do, the rain tapping faintly against the glass like an insistent visitor.
His eyes drifted to the window, watching the water stream down in uneven rivulets, refracting the faint glow of a streetlamp below. There was something comforting about the rain, its persistent rhythm a steady backdrop to his thoughts. But Price was never one to let his guard slip entirely, even in moments like this.
With a deliberate ease, he let his eyes scan the room. Sparse, but not unprepared. The duffel bag by the door was already unzipped, its contents carefully placed where they could be reached without fuss. A sidearm was tucked under the cushion of the armchair, its weight a familiar reassurance against the ache of memory. By the door, a secondary deadbolt glinted faintly, newly installed and sturdy. He’d tested it himself after arriving, pulling hard against it to ensure it wouldn’t budge.
The windows were another matter. Not ideal, though the third floor offered a certain layer of security. Still, Price had taken a moment earlier to examine the latches, double-checking their sturdiness. The kitchen window was a weak point—too easily opened if someone was determined enough—but it was narrow, and the fire escape outside his bedroom would make for a more obvious entry.
Obvious meant predictable. And predictable was manageable.
Price sipped his tea again, his other hand idly tracing the curve of his phone where it rested on the arm of the chair. Laswell’s words lingered in his mind, though he tried to brush them aside. Take the time, John. You need it. As if time alone could scrape away the edges of what had been carved so deeply into him.
He shifted slightly, his focus sharpening as the faint voices from below filtered into the room again. They were indistinct, muffled by the layers of wood and plaster, but there was a tone to them that prickled at him. Raised, sharp, carrying an edge that couldn’t be ignored.
Price set his mug down on the windowsill and leaned back in his chair, his head tilting slightly as he listened. A man’s voice, rough and clipped. A woman’s, quieter, barely audible beneath his. It wasn’t his business—not yet, at least—but it sparked the same unease that had carried him through a lifetime of missions.
The building creaked again, settling around him as if in quiet protest. He straightened and glanced back toward the door, his eyes narrowing. It was probably nothing. Probably.
But Price didn’t believe in leaving threads like that untouched.
For now, though, the tea had grown cold, and the rain showed no signs of letting up. He rose, moving with quiet purpose to the window, where he reached out and flipped the latch. Locked it, just in case. His reflection stared back at him from the glass—weathered, familiar, and faintly resigned. He stood there for a moment longer, watching the rain fall.
The city outside blurred into abstraction, its edges soft and distant, but Price’s thoughts were as sharp as ever.
The rain shifted, becoming heavier, its rhythm softening into a muffled roar against the glass. Price stood by the window, one hand resting lightly on the sill, the other brushing over the back of his neck as if to smooth out the tension settling there.
The flat was quiet in its way, but not silent. He could hear the faint thud of hurried footsteps above him, the unmistakable chaos of children—running, jumping, the occasional squeal. Price had caught a glimpse of them earlier when he arrived, a harried mother juggling grocery bags while two kids tore past her, their laughter echoing down the hall.
He hated it. Thin walls.
Every scrape of furniture, every burst of laughter, every clatter of toy wheels against a hardwood floor traveled down to him. Price didn’t miss how sound carried in places like this—too clearly for comfort. It set his teeth on edge, an unwanted reminder of how close everyone was, how little separated him from the lives above, below, and across the hall.
And yet, he was glad for it in the same breath. Thin walls meant you heard things, whether you wanted to or not. It wasn’t the children that held his attention, though—they were noisy but innocent. It was the low hum of voices from downstairs that occasionally broke the rhythm of the rain. They were too muffled to make sense of, more tone than words, but they were there.
He dismissed it for now, waving the thought away like smoke from a cigarette. People argued. People fought. People made up. That was city life, wasn’t it? Nothing worth troubling himself over.
Still, his gaze drifted to the floor for a moment before he turned back to his tea. It had grown lukewarm, but he drank it anyway, his jaw tightening at the slight bitterness. The room seemed to shift around him as he sank back into the armchair, his body folding into its worn cushions with a heaviness he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.
The rain filled the silence again, covering the edges of the noise above and below like a thin blanket. Price tilted his head back, letting his eyes close for a moment. The flat wasn’t much—no more than four walls and a roof—but it was his, and it was quiet enough, most of the time. A place to retreat to when the world became too loud, even if he never quite allowed himself to let his guard down.
He let his hand drift to the side of the armchair, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the sidearm tucked beneath the cushion. Not paranoia—just preparation. It wasn’t his first time living in tight quarters, but habits like that died hard.
The children upstairs started up again, their footsteps thundering back and forth, chasing one another in what sounded like an endless loop. Price huffed quietly to himself, shaking his head. At least someone still had that much energy.
The voices below were silent now, or drowned out by the rain. Either way, he let it slip from his mind. There was nothing there for him yet.
For now, there was only the faint warmth of tea, the steady thrum of rain against the glass, and the fleeting thought that, despite the thin walls, the flat wasn’t the worst place he’d ever been. It was a low bar, but it was enough.
Price had barely set his empty mug down on the coffee table when the weight of the last few days crept up and dragged him under.
He hadn’t planned to sleep. Not yet. There was still the matter of unpacking, a shower, maybe even another round of tea before he even thought about laying down. But the long haul from Jakarta had taken its toll—sleepless flights, stiff seats, and endless hours of stale cabin air—and now, in the dim quiet of his flat, it finally demanded its due.
He leaned back into the couch, intending only to rest his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. His head tipped against the worn fabric, his body sinking into the cushions with a sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The faint murmur of life beyond the walls dulled into background noise: the upstairs children still chasing each other in uneven bursts, the rain lashing at the window, the faint creak of floorboards below. All of it blended together, softened by the fatigue pressing against him like a tide.
He thought briefly of the lads—Soap and Gaz especially—and the endless ribbing he’d get if they saw him now. “Old man,” they’d call him, with their grins just wide enough to show teeth. “Need your beauty sleep, Cap?” He could hear Soap’s laugh in his head, that cackling, good-natured bark, and felt the corner of his mouth tug upwards faintly in response.
Price shifted, his hand brushing instinctively toward the sidearm under the cushion. It was muscle memory—habitual and automatic, even in sleep—but it settled him somehow. Just enough. His breathing slowed, deepened, the tension in his shoulders easing into something closer to surrender.
The rain kept falling, its rhythm steady and hypnotic, lulling him deeper with every passing minute. Somewhere outside, a car alarm trilled faintly before cutting off, a momentary flare of noise that barely stirred him. The upstairs neighbors quieted, their footsteps growing softer as the children were wrangled into stillness. Even the voices below seemed to have given up, leaving the building in a kind of reluctant peace.
The flat was small, barely lived in, and carried none of the warmth of a home. But as he sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling lazily over the side, it held him like an old companion. And for the first time since stepping off the plane, Price stopped thinking.
The exhaustion claimed him whole, and for a while, the world could wait.