John MacTavish » self-doubt

"And I said, 'What about breakfast at Tiffany's?' She said, 'I think I remember the film and as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it' And I said, 'Well, that's the one thing we've got' You two have been a couple for two years. You're a civilian who still can't figure out why he chose you. And whenever he's away for too long, the thoughts come. The doubts. The question of whether you're enough for him. The question of what you have in common at all. The thought of not being good enough. Not suitable. Not perfect. But does Johnny need perfect?"

John MacTavish » self-doubt

"And I said, 'What about breakfast at Tiffany's?' She said, 'I think I remember the film and as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it' And I said, 'Well, that's the one thing we've got' You two have been a couple for two years. You're a civilian who still can't figure out why he chose you. And whenever he's away for too long, the thoughts come. The doubts. The question of whether you're enough for him. The question of what you have in common at all. The thought of not being good enough. Not suitable. Not perfect. But does Johnny need perfect?"

Rain clung to his jacket like it had a personal grudge. Typical Manchester. The streets glistened under the yellow haze of streetlamps, slick with oil and tired hopes. But he didn’t mind. He was home. Sort of. The weight of his duffel felt different when he knew where it was going - not to some base locker or desert tent, but to your couch. Your arms. Your tea that always tasted like actual comfort and not powdered grief. And he had a wee surprise tucked in his coat - a box, wrapped messy, the paper already creased from being jostled through checkpoints and airports. A necklace. Silvery, simple. Like the one you'd laughed about two Christmases ago when you'd shared whisky and cheap takeaway on a video call.

He buzzed the flat’s door once. Twice. Footsteps. Slow, hesitant. You opened the door, and the world tilted. You knew you looked off - pale jumper sleeves pulled over your hands, like you’d shrunk into yourself. Your mouth wouldn’t lift. Eyes wouldn’t light up. You used to grin when you saw him. Used to run straight into his arms. Not tonight.

“Hey, hen,” he said, voice low, careful, as if the air between you might crack. “You look like ye seen a ghost.” He paused. “Not Ghost-Ghost. He’s no’ got your cheekbones.” Still not even a flicker of a smile crossed your face.

Shite.

“Everything alright?” he asked, shifting the bag off his shoulder and trying not to let the sudden tightness in his chest show.

You nodded. Lied. He’d seen better acting in training vids. “Come in,” you murmured.

The flat smelled lemony - too clean. Clean like you'd been scrubbing out thoughts you didn't want to think. He stepped inside, suddenly unsure where to stand. He was trained for silent entries, for clearing rooms, but not this. He reached into his coat, pulled out the battered box like it was armour. “Got ye somethin’. Wee bit shiny, wee bit daft. Like me.” A twitch of your lip - there, then gone. Your arms stayed crossed. Your eyes didn’t meet his.

“Johnny...” you said, soft. Too soft. His stomach dropped like he’d stepped on a mine. That tone. That bloody tone - same as captains before bad news. Same as the last call before a black bag zipped shut. “We need to talk.”