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soapskneebrace · 1 year

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Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Rating: General audiences Word Count: 3.9k Warnings: none Author's Notes: LIKE CHILEAN MINERS (iykyk). I want to express a tidal wave of thanks to everyone for waiting so, so patiently for this chapter. Life got hard and is remaining so, but the kindness I have received has been so incredibly comforting. Please enjoy the longest chapter of Neighbors I have written to date. Also a HUGE shoutout to Lev @yeyinde as ALWAYS for her advice, the pub is a direct result of her guidance. MASTERLIST Now on Ao3!

It’s a cold and windy morning that, as you hover just a little closer to his warmth, you ask him about decent places to eat nearby.

“Fancy pub food?” he asks in response, and it takes you a moment to process what he’s said. Today he’s in a thick, soft-looking knit sweater, which makes it infinitely difficult not to imagine huddling up against him.

You think he’d let you. You’re not sure how you know this. Maybe it’s the way he positions himself next to you, standing at an angle toward you just slight enough to be casual, but open enough to be purposeful. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to warm you up with his eyes alone—he asked you once why you always bundled up to be outside, and you told him you were just sensitive to the cold.

Since then, you’ve often caught him checking on you, surreptitiously. Simple once-overs that you think are searching for evidence of discomfort.

What would he do, you wonder, if he found any? Would he send you inside, as he had the first morning?

Part of you thinks that would be better. It would give you an out, open up a path diverting away from whatever this thing is that hangs in the air between you and John Price, this thing that you pass back and forth between the pages of borrowed books.

It’s a thing that breathes with the both of you into the early morning, and you don’t know how to look at it. You don’t understand its shape. It’s a thing you wish you wanted to walk away from.

“Who doesn’t?” you reply, sipping at the cold dregs in your cup.

“How ‘bout tonight, then?” John says, and you swallow a little too quickly.

“W-what about tonight?”

He smiles at you, as if he’s thrown you off on purpose. “Dinner, on me.”

You blink several times. “You—I—I mean—really?”

He shrugs, easy and casual as you wish you could be. “Could show you what’s best on the menu. And I wouldn’t mind having dinner with someone besides m’self.”

You hesitate, because your gut reaction is to say yes, John, I’d like nothing more, and that is not a reaction you want to satisfy. These past several mornings have been nice—nicer than you could have expected. You’ve stopped interrogating yourself as to why you keep bothering, because each time his smile greets you as you step outside is answer enough. The routine has been easy to settle into, even comforting.

You need to protect that comfort, you know, even from the allure of something more.

John does not press for an answer, seeming content to savor the last few inhales of his cigar. You wonder if he’s guessed at your inner conflict, wonder if the quiet he’s giving you is an intentional moment to sort yourself out.

He never presses for anything, ever.

“I suppose I could meet you after work,” you finally say.

The smile that breaks across his face nearly knocks you off your feet. You’re relieved when he says, “Sounds good to me,” because if he’d said it’s a date you think you might have dissolved on the spot.

John texts you the pub’s address, and it’s close enough to walk to. You arrive that evening, in your usual two coats plus a knitted hat, to find that the place exceeds a set of expectations you didn’t know you had. The patio seating is closed in with a white picket fence and hung with strings of fairy lights, and it flanks a red brick building with a large, friendly lantern hanging over the door.

You might have expected something a little grubbier, if you’d given the place any more thought beyond this is John’s pub and he’s having me for dinner here.

Warm air envelops you as you step inside, and your gaze is drawn as if by a magnet to a table further in—John has already seen you, and beckons you over with a wave.

He’s still in the knit sweater, and his fleece jacket is hanging on the back of the seat across from him. He stands as you approach, rounds the table, and pulls that chair out for you when you join him.

You don’t know why the chivalry makes you falter, makes you want to turn and sprint all the way back home. All you know, as you sit down, is that you can practically feel the aura of his presence behind you as he helps push your chair in, can feel it move as he leaves your side to return to his seat. You feel yourself gravitate into it, leaning a little over the table as if trying to keep it close.

“This place is tidy,” you say earnestly, trying for that morning normalcy, as you begin to shuck your layers.

“It’s alright,” he agrees. He’s smiling gently, the cool blue of his eyes vivid in the contrast of warm lamplight.

“Do you—” and then you can’t help but giggle, because it’s such a cliche question “—do you come here often?”

He grins, huffs that little laugh. “Too often,” he says as he sits back in his chair, putting a hand on his stomach. “It’ll start showing soon, probably.”

You look at the flat of his stomach, the broad paw of his hand. Remember the trim waist of that very first morning. “You know, somehow I doubt that.”

He meets you eyes, laughs again, and it warms you to the bone.

Seeing him like this, at night, is an unknown quantity. The John you know how to interact with exists on his front doorstep, painted in the cool palette of sunrise, cold air, cigar smoke. This tableau, composed upon the table between you, might as well turn him into another man entirely. Who is this John, awash in warm light, nearly twelve hours older than the man you spoke to this morning? Who are you, now, seeing him after work and before the end of the night?

You feel a little untethered. Your feet still itch for the door, for the measured, predictable floorboards of your own home.

Maybe John notices, because he takes a menu from the stack of two at the end of the table and offers it to you with a reassuring lift of his brows. “Hungry?”

That question, at least, has an easy answer. You smile a little. “Starving.”

His advice turns out to be necessary—everything looks good, and you both end up ordering too much food. Over a spread of fresh, hot chips, halloumi kebabs, and katsu chicken served liberally with curry sauce, John also has a bottle of scotch brought to the table.

“No, that’s too much!” you protest as the waitress sets the decanter down with two clean glasses. “John, really.”

He sets to pouring, his expression pleased, though you’re not sure what about. “Humor me, love. I don’t get to share very often.”

He hands you a glass, and lifts his own above the food. You acquiesce, and clink the rims.

“Do I take a shot or a sip?” you ask, bringing the glass up to your mouth.

“A sip,” says John, and his expression is genuinely distressed. “Please, don’t ever suggest shooting scotch again. That hurt to hear.”

You smirk, and take a slow drink. It hits your tongue with the prologue to a burn, rolling across your taste buds as the twinge fades and you close your eyes. The flavor opens like smoke exhaled into still air; you purse your lips a little and swirl it in your mouth; nutmeg, vanilla, and even a little apple expand across your palate. When it hits the back of your tongue, a short floral burst surprises you, and you swallow it down eagerly.

You find John watching you when you open your eyes.

“Where did you learn to drink like that?” he asks, and there is a new tone in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

It’s low. Resonant. Almost—purring. The look in his eyes, too, is different, the pale blue sharper somehow. Focused keenly, and with some unknown, honed intent, on you.

It pins you where you sit. John is looking at you. John is seeing you.

“Doesn’t everyone learn to drink at uni?” you reply, trying for airy and light. It doesn’t work. Your voice trembles, just a bit.

He’s still watching you, and you think he sees that. Recognizes, perhaps, a change in your expression, some telltale sign that he has shaken you. He looks away from you, takes a drink of his own scotch, and when his gaze returns the keen edge of it has softened. You breathe, and realize you hadn’t been.

You seek something comfortable, something you can measure and control. “How is Actium treating you, then?”

He smiles, and it’s a little rueful. “Octavian’s being a cunt.”

As talk of the most recent book he’s borrowed carries you into more comfortable territory, the two of you make your way through dinner, which is every bit as delicious as John had promised. The food is hearty, greasy in a way that isn’t too heavy, and pairs perfectly with John’s scotch, which you indulge in liberally.

When the alcohol has outpaced the food that is meant to offset it, you think back to what he’d said earlier, about not often getting to share.

“So am I the first person you’ve brought here?” you ask. “Or do you take every neighbor out to dinner?”

John lifts one dark brow, leans in with a tilt of his head. “Only the pretty ones.”

You give an unladylike snort and swirl a cut of chicken around in curry sauce. “You’re incorrigible, John, really.”

The smile he gives crinkles the laugh lines around his eyes, and you feel yourself want to melt at the sight. It is unfair how handsome he is, in that warm sweater, in that golden light, haloed softly in the haze of your verging intoxication.

“When will you believe me when I compliment you, hmm?” he asks, low and resonant in the depths of his chest.

You shoot the rest of your scotch in answer, stuff the chicken into your mouth, and proffer the empty glass.

John squints at your heresy, but obediently pours.

“I suppose your line of work isn’t really great for your social life, then,” you comment. “Always coming and going.”

“My calendar’s certainly empty,” John agrees. “Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve sat down with someone like this. I suppose I’m out of practice.”

“You’re eating with a fork and knife and not your hands.” You grin. “I’d say that’s pretty good already.”

He smiles back. “Would that chase you off?”

You sip your scotch. “Not if you keep pouring.”

“And she complained when the bottle came out. What about you, then?”

“What ‘bout me?”

“How many blokes have you been to dinner with, lately?”

You scoff at that and wash your food down with a sip. “None. As if they’re throwin’ ‘emselves at me.”

John’s expression changes, and it’s slow grin that spreads across his face, a smile you have never seen on him before. It isn’t the sad smile he’s given you at times, melancholy and resigned; nor is it the one he gives when he sees you in the morning, warm and soft and friendly.

No, this one is—energized. Invigorated. As if someone has given him good news he hadn’t been expecting.

“They’ve got to be,” he says, and his tone is humorous. “You must have your pick of the lot. And none of them have struck your fancy?”

You press your hands to your too-warm face. “John, don’t tease me.”

“Seems I’ve got to count myself lucky tonight, then,” he continues, leaning his elbows on the table. “If you’re as choosy as all that.”

You give him a droll look, and swirl your drink around in your glass. “If you must know, I got out of a relationship not long ago.”

John’s brows lift, and you want to smack yourself for letting that little detail escape you. “Is that so?”

You drink. “That is so.”

“What kind of idiot would let you get away?”

“My head is already spinning, and you’re abusing that,” you protest.

“Sorry, love,” he says, clearly not sorry. “But now you’ve got me curious.”

You sit back in your chair, staring at your plate to avoid his gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not all that dramatic. It just…didn’t feel right. I guess he liked me more than I liked him. We would go out, and I would think, ‘I want to leave him and go home.’”

And you still felt guilty about it. You hadn’t liked him that much in the first place, when he’d asked you out—you’d just said yes, because it seemed like the right moment in your life for something like that to happen. When you’d ended it, your extended social network had scratched its collective head, because there truly hadn’t been any good reason.

You just weren’t happy.

“Suppose I didn’t give it enough of a chance,” you say, downing the last of your glass.

“Hey,” John says, soft and gentle. You look up to meet his eyes—the expression on his face is a mixture of sympathy and resolution. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure, John.”

“Love.” His brow creases, insistent. “You deserve something you want.”

You press your lips together tightly, and suddenly you’re struck again with that sensation from earlier, that feeling that John’s presence is a tangible aura, something that rolls and settles across your awareness like a physical touch. You realize you’ve been leaning into it again, drawn toward him like a comet into the snag of a planet’s gravity.

“I’m definitely drunk now,” you say, because the only other words that want to come out are an emphatic I want you.

John smiles. He doesn’t press the issue. “Will I be carrying you home, then?”

“Oh, John, really!” You give a scoff, surprised at the sudden humor. “You couldn’t carry me all that way.”

One dark brow lifts.

“No,” you say. “You’ll have to put me down. I’m not light.”

The smile remains.

You hold his gaze, suspicious, and finish the last of your glass. It does not take long to polish off the last of dinner, and when the two of you agree that the last chips have finally gotten too cold to eat, John pushes his seat back and stands.

“Done, then? I’ll settle the tab. Love, put that away.”

You sheepishly lower your half-lifted wallet back into your purse.

Accounts settled, you make it outside the pub, and then you have to lean against a wall as John watches you, amused. The world is swaying, its pendulum arcing near-horizontal at the amplitude of each swing.

“I just need a minute,” you whisper.

John does the worst thing he could possibly do—he gives you his back and kneels down, arms a little open. “Come on.”

“Come on? Come off it, John, really, you’ll drop me!” you exclaim.

He looks over his shoulder at you. “I won’t.”

You don’t know what convinces you to do it. Tomorrow, you’ll blame the many glasses of expensive scotch, but in the moment you know it’s the way the hanging lights limn his silhouette in gold. You know it’s the soft expression on his face that you are already too fond of. You know it’s the quiet confidence in his reassurance, and above all those things it’s the familiar comfort of his kind blue eyes.

“All right, John,” you say.

As you wrap your arms around his shoulders, John scoops your knees up into the bend of his arms, and you can add now the feeling of his strength to your mental registry of his body. He is broad against you, the width of him obliging your thighs to part farther than they have in a long, long time.

It brings a heat to your face that dwarfs the low simmer of your inebriation. When he lifts you, straightens up and hoists you a little on his back, like you weigh almost nothing, you are unable now to shove back and contain what he has inspired since that first morning.

“This feels nice,” you murmur, tucking your chin on his shoulder. The scotch has the reins of your tongue now. There is no stopping the words that come out. “I wondered if it would. This morning.”

John’s reply is low, humming in his throat as he begins the trek home. “This morning?”

You breathe. “You always look warm and soft. You’re so handsome every morning. Even the first. I wanted to touch you back then. I wanted you to hold me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s trying to focus on the walk back and not dropping you in the middle of it. He hoists you a little, cupping his hands beneath your knees, squeezing.

His silence prompts more of your honesty. “I don’t want to go to dinner with anyone else, John. Even if someone did ask. You’re the only one.”

“You’re drunk, love,” John says. You don’t recognize the tone of his voice, why it sounds…pleading.

Your face is very close to his, your chin pillowed in the fleece lining of his collar. You resolve fully to blame what you do next on the scotch, and touch the tips of your fingers to the coarse umber on his cheek.

His thumbs press into the divots beneath your kneecaps. John says your name, low and breathy. It must be the strain of carrying you that shows in his voice.

You lean in. You press your cheek against the bristles of his beard, inhale, take in the ever-present Maduro that saturates his skin. The friction is a million little pinpricks of sensation, and you think in that moment that if his beard doesn’t leave hot, welted scratches on your face, you might fall asleep crying.

“Oh,” you murmur, not recognizing the languorous, almost wanton sound of your own voice. “Feels good, John.”

“That’s,” he huffs, and audibly swallows. “That’s good. We’re—ah—we’re almost there.”

“Okay,” you say, sighing against him, settling fully into the expanse of his back.

You doze, unburdened now by what you’ve admitted. He does not waver once on the walk, makes no complaint of your weight as street lights pass and the night moves slowly by. He is as steady, when he makes it to your front door, as he was when he first picked you up.

“Where’s your key, love?” he asks.

“Oh,” you murmur blearily, “um. Let me down.”

Even after your feet are back on the ground, his steadying hand does not leave you, ballasting your elbow as you dig around in your purse. It seems like an embarrassingly long time before you find your keychain, and when you try to unlock your door you miss the slot twice.

John’s big hand wraps around yours then, engulfing it with long fingers and broad palm, and guides the key steadily into the lock. The slide of the deadbolt is loud in the quiet night. You have to lean against the door, suddenly devoid of the strength to turn the knob as you look up at John’s concerned face.

“Let me help you in, love,” he says, brow creased. “Please. I’m worried you’ll fall and hit your head.”

Your entire body feels like it’s sinking into a glass of champagne, his words caressing you like rising bubbles, little pearls of air tickling your face as they touch you. You openly stare at him, watch his throat work as he swallows again, rest your eyes along the broad tendon that flexes as he tilts his head.

“Sure,” you whisper, too out of breath to speak aloud. “If that’s what you want.”

So John turns the knob, loops your arm around his shoulders, and walks you inside.

It is very hard to focus now, as John sits you down on your couch. There isn’t much you can hold in your mind besides the moment his hands leave you, and you inexplicably want to cry at their loss. You don’t see where he goes, vision going dark and blurry around the edges—you think he might have left until he comes back with one of your glasses, filled with clear, cool water.

He kneels in front of you and proffers it, doesn’t let go of the glass until both your hands are wrapped around it. He watches you as you take a sip.

“Drink all of that, alright?” he says. “You had a lot.”

You hold the glass back out to him. “You did too.”

His brows lift, lips parting. Have you surprised him? He pulls the glass closer with a little tug, puts his lips to the rim and tilts it from the bottom as you hold it. His eyes do not leave yours as he drinks, as he takes only a little, and then he pulls away and gently pushes the glass back toward you. Your gaze falls from his eyes, down to the little droplets of water clinging to his mustache, down again to the steady line of his mouth.

You bring the glass back up and take a deep gulp.

“Good girl,” he says, low and rumbling, and heat floods your body.

You realize then that his other hand is on your knee, the weight of his palm heavy and broad, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle into the edge of the cap. You are washed in the blend of his warm comfort and the sudden, almost violent sear of your own desire.

When the glass is empty, he eases it from your hands and sets it aside on your coffee table. When he turns back to you, your hand comes up, unbidden, to curve itself along the angle of his jaw. Umber bristles are coarse beneath the sweep of your thumb.

“Not soft, is it?” John murmurs, and there is something stormy and intense in his gaze.

You take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m okay with that.”

His hand grips your knee suddenly, vicelike, and you know this is pushing too far. He does not lean in to you, makes no move toward you, but his entire body is a bank of energy that he is holding, holding, holding back. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His eyes pin you to the couch as he works the muscles in his jaw.

“You’re drunk, love,” he says. It is not the pleading assertion he’d given earlier. It is a conclusion—fond, but resigned.

The room has begun to gently spin, with John at its axis. “I’m drunk,” you agree, whispering and fragile.

It breaks whatever has been building since you’d left the pub. John draws back. Nods. Gives you a smile—that smile. The one that had taken hold of you the first time you saw it. Trying, with every scrap of willpower it had, to be happy, to be alright with what little it had. Failing to do so.

Unable to hide how much it wanted.

“You got a spare key?” he asks. “I can lock you in.”

“Key hook,” you say.

His hand drags down from your knee to stroke along your shin, and then he’s rocking back on his heels, standing to his full height. He looks at you for a moment longer.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

When you blink, he’s gone, and the deadbolt is sliding home.

Bonus A/N: Some housekeeping. First, if you see your username on this list and it's struck through, it means you did not come up when I tried to @ you. I will try one more time, but if it doesn't work I'm taking your name off the list. Get right with the tumblr gods if you can. Second, a few people have told me that they did not get the tag notification on the last update, so let me know if that's the case for you and I will see about trying a different format. And third, I've been editing the format for neighbors across all chapters, so sorry in advance if you get notified twice. Tumblr knows even less about coding a website than I do.

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