Chapter Text
You couldn’t remember the last time Emma had slept through the night.
She was always a restless little thing, even as a baby. She hardly cried during her first year of life, quiet as a lamb with her wide blue eyes and pursed mouth, squirming out of swaddles and cradles with a single-minded determination. Your wee old man, you used to say, always looking out at the world and finding it lacking.
She didn’t get those blue eyes from you, though you wish she had. It was as if you weren’t allowed to forget him.
Emma was curled around you like a cat, her dark hair sprawled across your pillow. She didn’t like to be alone at night, but that was common for baby wolves, always searching for the closest source of warmth.
You spent half your time researching, reading books like How to Raise a Wolf Pup 101, or Ensuring Your Child Stays Connected to Their Inner Animal and enrolling her into a mixed kindergarten, where pups and children co-mingled (usually) without incident. It helped that you had grown up with a werewolf, you could look at his early life and see the flaws in the way his parents raised him.
You always worried, worried that you weren’t doing as good a job as someone like her would, worried that you weren’t feeding her a proper diet despite the fact that you spent another good chunk of your time preparing raw meat to mix with her school lunch. She was so small for her age, but she had John’s spirit, all wild-hair and quick temper.
Today was going to be a hard day for you both. Today was the day of the funeral.
Emma’s great grandfather took a turn last week and died at a rather impressive age, considering his history. He was a charming old wolf, but back in the day had belonged to the underground fighting rings London used to harbor, where wolves and humans alike ripped each other apart in grimy warehouses and subway tunnels. You had a suspicion that he had involved John in it a handful of times, when Johnny was just a skinny teenager with bruised knuckles.
But Emma loved Grandpa Jack, and the funeral wasn’t going to be easy for her. She understood death in a way you hadn’t when you were six, hearing the old man’s heart stop from across the hospital lobby during your visit last week.
Emma shifted against your neck, breathing in your smell. It was as comforting for you as it was for her , her hair tickling your nose.
“Emma?” You whispered, jostling her. “Emma, it’s time to get up.” It was already eight, and the funeral was going to be at ten. You needed a shower and Emma needed breakfast–nothing put her in a worse mood than skipping breakfast.
Emma grumbled, tucking herself deeper in the blankets. You smiled to yourself, sliding out of the blankets. “Fine, but you’re getting up when I’m out of the shower.”
She nodded, tucking her head under the pillows. In another life, John used to do the same thing, growling whenever you tried to wake him before ten.
You had thought of him often lately. You blamed it on Jack’s death, the scary thought that John might actually turn up at the funeral–but Tom had reassured you that the last he had heard from John was that he was in the Middle East, a half a world away.
You undressed, laying out the neat black dress and ballet flats you had chosen the night before. You kept the door cracked, so you could keep an eye on Emma.
If Jack hadn’t been Emma’s grandfather figure, you would simply not go. John’s mother liked you well enough, at least, more than she liked her son, but you understood why he left.
Not enough to forgive him for it, of course, but that was probably because he spent one night with you, knocked you up, and then disappeared completely for four years. He resurfaced two years ago, reaching out to Tom, your brother and his best friend, by sending an expletive-filled letter about the violent and bloody years he had spent in the military. Tommy came to you first and asked if you wanted him to know about Emma.
That was the kicker. When you learned you were pregnant, you spent months and months trying to reach him, calling whatever high-ranking officer you could find–but they all said the same thing: John Mctavish agreed to have his life before the military erased in the records, therefore he no longer existed.
He had no intention of coming back. And he didn’t even attempt to contact you along with Tommy, the girl that he had grown up with, the girl that used to love him more than anything in the world.
Emma was awake by the time you were out and dressed, her eyes bright at the thought of breakfast.
“Cereal?” She asked hopefully.
You opened your mouth to refuse, thinking of the sugar but then you remembered that she was going to have to see her grandfather’s corpse today. You shrugged, “Sure, Em, as long as you have eggs too.”
Emma nodded eagerly. She had the appetite of a grown man, and wasn’t particularly picky–something you were grateful for every day.
She was quiet as you cooked, her eyes focused on your black dress. “Do you think Grandpa Jack is going to haunt us?”
You paused, halfway through flipping a fried egg. With Emma, it was best to really think about your answer. “Well,” you said, gesturing for her to start on her plate of raw, sliced liver. “Do you want him to?”
“I think so. He could just stay in his armchair like he always used to,” Emma said thoughtfully. “We should leave one of his books out for him, just in case.”
Her obsession with ghosts started when bloody Tom let her watch one of those cheesy ghost-hunting shows. Instead of being terrified, she found it exciting, the thought that people can remain even in death.
To tell her that Grandpa Jack wasn’t going to prop his ghostly specter up on your ratty armchair and read his ancient western novels would break her heart. So you nodded, scraping two eggs onto her plate with the liver. “Alright. We’ll pick one before the funeral. I’m sure he’ll need a break from your cousins bickering by now.”
She smiled and dove into the liver. It was good for her, of course, the vitamins and the minerals in organ meat, but that didn’t make you any less squeamish watching your child tearing into the raw flesh.
Your own breakfast was a cup of black coffee and nerves, your stomach twisting into knots. He wasn’t going to be there, you told yourself. He had stayed away for this long, your idyllic little life with your daughter and your job at the library wasn’t going to be interrupted by the man that had abandoned you.
You didn’t want things to change. You didn’t want him here, in your space, with your daughter that you raised alone.
Jack and Tom had helped of course. The old man had done his best to teach your little girl to not chew on the furniture or chase the squirrels up the tree, and your parents and Tom spoiled her endlessly.
Emma helped you wash and dry the dishes, nuzzling your hip affectionately. “You smell like you did when you went to work at the book place,” she said, sensing your anxiety. “How come? Do you think Grandpa Jack’s family’ll ruin things?”
Jack’s family, not John’s. You hadn’t told her much about her biological father, and Emma was observant enough to understand that he wasn’t ever going to be around. It didn’t seem to bother her, she had enough males in her life patting her head and teaching her how to play rugby.
“No, of course not, bear,” you said, tweaking one of her dark pigtails. “I’m just…I’m really sad. I’m going to miss your grandfather.”
She nodded, her mouth pursing in that mournful way she did when she was a baby. Back then, you had convinced herself it meant that she somehow knew her father wasn’t there, that you were doing this all alone and she knew you would fuck it up. “I still smell him in the living room.”
You kissed the soft crown of her head. “I know, bear, I’m sorry.”
Together, you picked one of his Louis L’Amour novels off your rickety little bookshelf.
“This was the one he was reading,” Emma said, carefully opening it to the page he had dog-eared. “We’ve got to remember to turn the pages every day, Mommy. He always reads so slow.”
“Once in the morning and once in the evening,” you agreed, patting the worn-down leather. His imprint was still in the cushions, a big, tall man worn down by years of violence.
You were going to miss him. He had come to your door shortly after Emma was born, a suitcase in hand. “I’m moving in, love,” he said. “She’ll need a wolf in her life and I’m all you’ve got.”
You could have cried with relief back then. He had had such a way with her, always shushing her cries by cupping her in his big, callused hands and bringing her to his barrel chest.
“I raised Johnny and fucked it up,” he had said, following the tiny whorl of her ear with the tip of his finger. “I’ll do my best to help you with her, pup, you loved my boy more than he deserved.”
You helped Emma into her frilly black dress, the one Jack had chosen himself. He wanted to buy her something nice, to be his darling little granddaughter for him one last time.
She sat quietly while you braided her hair, uncharacteristically still.
“Ready?” You asked.
She nodded, glancing one last time to the Louis L’Amour on the armchair.
Tom greeted the two of you at the door, a tall, skinny man that still looked like the stubborn big brother you knew. He had retired from the military last year to settle down in the house across from yours and got a job doing the only thing he really liked doing–which was cooking french dishes for eight hours a day and shouting until he was blue in the face.
He smiled sadly, sweeping Emma up in a hug. “Hullo, bear,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You look dashing.”
“Grandpa Jack made me wear it,” she said, frowning disapprovingly at the ruffles on the sleeves.
Tom laughed, but it was hollow, his eyes shifting to you before swiftly flitting away. “Of course he did. Here, I’ll watch Em for a bit if you want to mingle, Johnny’s mother was looking for you.”
Of course she was. Anxiety twisted deeper in your gut, the coffee bubbling up your throat. “Alright,” you said lightly, forcing a nod. “I’ll be inside if you need me, bear.”
She nodded, turning to her uncle with a single minded purpose–to convince him to let her have some of the biscuits in the tin he had brought.
Susan, John’s mum, was sitting in the lobby of the funeral home, sorting the trays of casserole into neat rows. She was a thin, tired woman with the same blue eyes as your daughter.
“Susan,” you said, “I heard you were looking for me.”
You opened your arms as she came in for a hug, her body brittle against yours. She had been sober for a few years now, mostly because you had refused to let her near Emma while she was drinking–which used to be every day.
“I need to tell you something,” Susan said, gripping your palms in a hard grip. “I just…I don’t know with Daddy gone now…” her eyes welled up.
You hugged her again, shushing her gently. “It’s alright, Susan,” you said, “Whatever it is can’t be that bad.”
Looking back, you were a right bloody idiot. Susan pulled away from you, joy sparking her face as she smiled. “Honey, he’s home.”
Stupidly, you thought she was talking about Jack.
She wasn’t.
The hair prickled at the back of your neck, your body aware before your brain could catch up. Your stomach twisted, dread spilling down your spine like ice.
He was behind you.
You refused to look, your eyes still locked with Susan’s teary gaze. “No,” you said quietly. “No, tell me you didn’t just let me walk into this.”
She had understood when you asked her not to tell John. She understood that her son had chosen war over you once again and that he didn’t deserve to be in your life.
“I’m sorry,” Susan said, squeezing your arm apologetically.
A hand brushed against your shoulder, big and warm and so familiar it hurt.
“Hey, bonnie,” John said roughly, his voice deeper than it used to be.
You couldn’t help yourself, you had to see.
You pushed away from Susan, looking up into the familiar face of John Mctavish.
He looked ten years older, but no less handsome, scars turning his face into something you didn’t recognize, something like a predator. He was still keeping his hair in that stupid fucking mowhawk, but he had gained an impressive amount of mass, so tall and thick he looked like a stranger.
You couldn’t breathe.
Johnny. The only man you’ve ever loved. The father of your child.
The man that took your virginity and abandoned you, all in one night.
“It’s been awhile,” he said, his accent twisting up his words.
You blinked.
Emma.
Emma was outside and he had no idea. You had to leave, take her away from him.
“It could have been longer, John,” you said, your voice so cold it stung your tongue as you spoke. The ache in your chest was overtaken by rage, pure and hot. “Excuse me.”
You pushed past him, suddenly grateful you hadn’t worn the heels when your knees gave a funny little tremble.
He moved, as if to catch you, as if to hold you still while he came up with whatever bullshit excuse he could think of–but you were faster, putting the crowd and tables between the two of you as you made a break for the door.
Emma, Emma, Emma.
Tom was with her, her skinny knees in his lap as they split a delicate almond biscuit.
“Mum?” Her head went up, sniffing the air. “Mum, what’s wrong?”
Tom knew. He looked at you, guilty as sin. “Love,” he began, but you were already ripping her out of his arms, her arms and legs flailing as you made a break for the parking lot.
The funeral home’s door burst open, slamming against the wall with a crash that had you shoving your daughter into the back of your car, utterly deaf to her squawking.
But John had already seen her. Smelled her. He stood in front of you, frozen in place.
“How old is she?” He asked, deadly calm. His blue eyes burned, like they used to when he was a teen, hormonal and angry. Always so angry.
“Go fuck yourself, Mctavish,” you snapped, reaching for your door.
He was already there, hand slamming against your car door with a crack that split the air. Johnny really was different now, confidence stiffening his spine, his sheer size making you take a step back.
What did they do to him overseas? He looked like he was about to eat you alive.
“No,” John said, sounding like a wounded animal. “Ye wouldn’t keep something like this from me.”
“You’re right,” you said coldly. “I wouldn’t have. Then I spent three years of her life waiting for you to get your head out of your fucking arse. I called. I emailed. I sent a hundred fucking letters.”
He made a noise like you gutted him, his eyes going to Emma.
She was curled up in the back of your car, wide-eyed and staring at John. Her father.
Of course she would know. She could smell it on him, her own flesh and blood.
“I…I didn’t know,” John said, “Hen, look at me-”
“I don’t care.” You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to dig your nails into his skin and hurt him like he hurt you. “We don’t need you, we never needed you. I loved you, and you left for years . Deal with the consequences.”
Johnny Mctavish, a wolf, a soldier, flinched from you.
It wasn’t the victory you thought it would be.
You ripped your door open, and he let you. You put the car in reverse and sped out of the parking lot, and he let you.
“Mum?” Emma said cautiously. “Mum was that…”
“We’ll never see him again, Em,” you said, utterly sure of that fact. “Forget him. John always runs.”