Work Text:
Graves pushes John away for the third time that day. A weak shove with clammy hands, his shoulders pulled in so tight that a headache burns behind his eyes.
"Stop tryin' to help." His voice is strained, like he's fighting away the tremble that's already consumed his body.
How many times does he have to put up these walls for his point to finally come across?
Stop trying, you can't help me.
It's so easy for him to push and kick further out to sea when it's already pulling him out, wave after wave. It holds onto him, the icy water cradling him in ways he never permitted warm hands to hold him. There's nothing here for him in this house, between this soft colored walls and carpeted flooring.
His brain doesn't want to accept that the deeper he's pulled under, the less he can kick to keep himself afloat. The sooner his legs give in, the sooner he'll drown. No amount of strength can save him from rushing tides and forceful waves. That's not how this works, the body tires eventually, whether he thinks he's able to keep up or not.
Phil's knees wobble as he leans himself against the solid cabinets, deep colors surrounding him. Smooth butcher's block counter tops he remembers briefly being told about by Nik, all of the sanding and sealing it took to get the right finish… The cabinet doors are nearly a darker shade, a little more red to compliment the mismatched tiling.
"You're safe, love." God, those words… The stupid way they make the knot in his throat loosen ever so slightly, the way he can almost pull together something coherent from his fuzzy mind.
"John, I-" He bites at the inside of his cheek, eyes drifting to the floor beneath his bare feet, "You ain't gettin' it…"
Shame burns from his chest down to his fingertips, sizzling away at his nerves. This shouldn't happen. Not to him, to anyone but him. The pain tugs at his chest like it could pull a valve from his heart.
He refuses to meet John's face, the younger—albeit only slightly—man crossing his arms as he watches Phil curl in on himself. That's the whole issue: John being younger and yet so damn insistent on giving him the fucking world.
There's an open space for him here, in this house. There's a whole room that can be just for him, covered in an inviting wallpaper and comforting scents. Phil knows the blankets on that crib-like bed are the softest things in the world, the ones that come on in the winter are even better, if he had to guess.
Part of him knows how dumb this is. Unable to meet the captain's eyes because everything small is biting at him and he won't be able to keep this up if he lets those blue eyes meet his and those arms wrap around him. The mask will fall and that only ever meant danger to him, the fear long embedded in his bones, right at the front of his mind when he catches a glimpse of the others oh so small having the time of their lives. It twists his stomach to worry if they're safe here, if he is safe here.
There's no reason to believe he isn't safe, and yet, he takes a shaking step back and lets his back collide with the corner where the counter meets the wall. It puts a light on just how cornered he feels, like a shelter dog looking for any acceptance but tucking it's head away when someone opens the kennel.
Regression feels like a stupid concept when he's in the presence of someone just that little bit younger than him. Four years? Five? He doesn't remember, not off the top of his head. Letting himself drop feels like adding an entire new burden onto John's shoulders. One he doesn't deserve to deal with when he already has a gaggle of little ones in his care.
He's older, nearing forty-three, he doesn't need this. Any of it. He shouldn't, at least. He shouldn't need Price to look at him like he matters, he shouldn't yearn for John's hands to cradle his face too.
"Can you explain it?" The captain is so damn patient with him, voice like a blanket over cold shoulders. He doesn't step forward, he remains where Phil pushed him away. Graves doesn't see the way his eyebrows furrow ever so slightly at the puzzle that is Phillip Graves.
"'m older, I don't- I don't need it. 'm too old for this." He spits the last word as if it's poison, as if he is the venom making his body hurt.
I'm not supposed to need you.
"Bub…" Price frowns, he can feel it from several feet away, "I'm here to take care of you. You, Simon, Kyle, Johnny… All of you."
"Them. You're supposed to take care of them, you're their captain, that's your job." Phil bites his tongue.
John stills, a beat of time passing as he looks at Graves. Inspects him, like he's some kind of mission. A case to solve.
"How is it any different with you, Phil?"
"It just is." He's not one of them, he isn't on that team. Hell, he wasn't supposed to get fucking near them. 'Til John put a bullet in Shepherd's skull—after getting security in Johnny's hospital room—and swept the office for whatever evidence he could grab, he wasn't supposed to be even close to them. The general's orders, and then Price went through all those files and found him somewhere far, far away from the base he was meant to be in.
The captain was kind enough back then to bring him into their home and clean all of the dirt off of him, fill his empty stomach before more tears could spill down his cheeks. They took care of him because he was small and scared, it wasn't supposed to become this. Phil, here, practically living in their house because he couldn't get himself to leave when they treated him so softly.
A home was all he wanted after Shepherd. All of the remarks and wounds on his skin for "acting out"—being small—could heal in Price's house. Far, far away from the burden of perfection. He doesn't get ordered to let his men die, Price doesn't force him to kneel at his feet with the lingering threat of people knowing how weak he is, he isn't used as a pawn to be kicked aside when the game is over. That bare minimum is so much more than he thought he'd get.
Graves pulls a shuddering breath into his lungs, all of the thoughts in his head crowding into the only space that isn't taken by the fuzziness, the cotton drowning out everything else. There's no train of thought, just a loud buzz of fear.
"You're too old for this, Graves. Wouldn't want anyone to know the leader of a PMC is so little, right?"
If he didn't know better, he'd call it torture. So he calls the files, the videos and recorded cries blackmail instead. Ultimately, that's what John came to find him about… The videos of him crying while Shepherd did whatever he wanted because he couldn't fight.
"You're lucky I'm here, you couldn't find another damn soul who'd let a grown man act like this."
For a long time, he had been lucky. That first few months after Shepherd caught him, that was it. All the peace he got was in those quiet moments before everything got so, so much worse. Of course it did, he was the fool for thinking it wouldn't… And then Price was there, not yelling, but guiding him somewhere safe without laying a single hand on him.
Still, a large part of him takes a lot of the general's words to heart. Why wouldn't he when Shepherd had been right about so many things? He doesn't deserve this, nor did he earn it.
He's too old for this. For comfort, for a mama he never truly had, for a family that didn't raise their voices just to be acknowledged. He's too old to crawl back to the fantasy idea of being held and loved. Especially by John. After everything, after what he did, Price looks at him and understands.
Price takes a step closer, then another when Phil doesn't flinch back.
"I want to, bub, can I?" The captain asks, a hand extended out like he's reaching for a scared pup. That's what Phil is, anyway, a dog trained to react, bark and bite when told. Without those orders, he doesn't know what to do. John's wary of that, his own skin undoubtedly marked by little scars by Phil when he stepped too close too fast—you don't punish the dog that only learned by a cruel hand to begin with.
Like Phil truly is small, he only turns his body ever so slightly. Not permission, not denial. He sniffles, rosy nose wrinkling—That granted him the nickname 'bunny' from Simon not too long ago.
He can't have this, Price can't want to do this. He's too damn old, he's not fun while he's small. It's teary and dramatic. John already has little ones that know they're home, that they're safe
"I don't need it." Graves breathes, shaking and quiet.
John steps closer, a gentle hand grabbing his shoulder and guiding him into his arms. Somewhere warm where his hoodie isn't the only thing protecting him.
Against every better instinct in his body, he falls into the captain's arms. Crashes into them. His nose messily smushes into John's collarbone, his eyebrows pinched as he pulls in air against the t-shirt he let himself fall into.
"I can't-" He chokes, heart thudding against his ribcage. No, no, it's not right. He's taking space he doesn't belong in, these arms aren't supposed to comfort him.
"You can." John sways with him. Side to side, slow, steady movements so unlike the waves threatening to pull him under even further.
Shaking, his hands go to grab at the sides of the captain's shirt, holding and tugging when he presses his reddening face into his chest. Tears start there, when John's hand comes to cup the back of his head and the other wraps around him so gently. He can't help it. It's pathetic, he is too, after all.
"I'll always take care of you… Young or old, doesn't matter to me." Price mutters into the blond hair, where he leaves a soft kiss.
"J-John-" His breath stutters, struggling against everything colliding in his head. Is this safe? Is someone watching? Can Price protect him, or is he going to hurt him too? Or can he actually have this? The softness, the warmth…
"Mama's got you, you can let it out now…" Price promises, keeping that careful swaying motion with the little one in his arms. Tenderness laces his voice, leaving every word coated with comfort. Like blankets fresh out of the dryer for him, whenever Price ran the cycle again just to hand out blankets before bedtime.
Phil nods, ever so lightly, against his chest.
His body melts against John's, surrounded only and completely by the man who brought him here, into his home. The feeling of Price's arms hold him so carefully, holding him like something valuable rather than a toy or a weapon, loosens that knot in his throat breath by breath.
Without so much as hesitating, John so easily lifts Phil up from the tile pressing against his already cold feet—that Price will, of course, remedy with some fluffy socks later—and holds him fully in his arms. The little one lets out gasps and small cries into a shirt already stained by tears long before Phil came around.
"That's it, love." John soothes, a low hum to his voice that has calmed the boys so many times before. Something about the rumble draws them back from those painful, shaking cries.
And as Phillip continues to cry, Price holds him. He always will.