Chapter Text
Stratherrick, Inverness-shire — 1:38 AM
The rain hadn’t stopped all night. Low clouds dragged themselves across the hills, too heavy to lift. Street lamps blinked in and out like they’d given up. Johnny MacTavish pulled his hood further down, wind slashing at his face as he limped through the quiet.
His knee was screaming. Cold made it worse. Rain made it worse. Life didn’t help either.
Didn’t matter.
His shift at The Black Thistle was over. A cramped, stinking pub where the only thing cheaper than the beer was the fights. He’d mopped up more blood this week than spilled ale, but the boss didn’t care. Not as long as the regulars kept buying.
The other job—Saturdays and Sundays down at the market—paid pennies. Barely enough for painkillers, groceries, and the bills. But it kept the lights on. Just.
Claire was why he kept going.
When the Army spat him out with a busted knee, when their father disowned him for being trans and queer, when the rest of the family vanished—she stayed. A mess in her own right, but she stayed.
Three or four months clean now. Longest she’d ever gone. He didn’t let himself get hopeful, but he worked like it mattered.
Someone had to.
The tenement came into view—grey stone, soaked and tired, like everything else here. The stairwell light above the door flickered, buzzing faintly.
And then he saw her.
Claire. Hair stuck to her cheeks, arms crossed tight. Standing under the lamp like she didn’t belong anywhere else.
Beside her—
Sammy Gray.
Johnny froze.
His fists clenched in his coat pockets.
Sammy looked different.
Not the kind of different Claire probably meant when she said he’d “changed.” No—he looked new. Fresh shave. Sharp coat. Gold watch. Clean shoes. Everything about him said money.
Which meant trouble.
Johnny stepped into the road, his boots slapping against the wet concrete.
“Claire.”
She turned fast. “Johnny—”
His eyes locked on Sammy. “What the hell is this?”
Sammy smiled like they were old mates catching up. “Just a wee chat. Nice night for it, eh?”
Johnny ignored him. “Claire. What’s he doing here?”
She glanced at the pavement. “We were talkin’. He’s… tryin’, Johnny.”
“Tryin’ what? To drag you back down again?”
Sammy moved forward, all smooth confidence. “Relax, mate. I’ve changed. Got a job now. Real work.”
Johnny didn’t even blink. “That why you’re wearin’ gold like you’re at a wedding?”
Sammy lifted both hands. “Just doin’ alright. Got a place. Good people in my corner.”
Johnny gave him a look. “You mean dealers or debt collectors?”
Claire flinched.
Sammy’s smile sharpened. “Call ’em investors if you want. Point is—I’m clean. Got a home. I’m settling down.”
Johnny’s stare hardened. “A home?”
“Flat next to yours, actually.”
Johnny didn’t move.
“You what?”
Sammy shrugged. “Bought it last week. Thought Claire might like having someone nearby. Y’know—in case she needs support.”
Claire nodded quickly. “It’s not what you think, Johnny. He’s just… tryin’ to be there.”
“He’s not trying to help, Claire. He’s trying to own you. Again.”
“You don’t know that—”
“Aye, I do! I bloody do! You think a guy like him buys a flat in Stratherrick for fun? Look at him!”
Sammy stepped closer, smirking. “Better than you doin’ nothing but pourin’ pints and limping around like a stray dog.”
Johnny almost hit him.
His body tensed. Eyes narrowed. His hands clenched so tight they shook. But Claire got between them.
“Johnny—stop. Please.”
He looked past her. Past the tears building in her eyes. Past Sammy’s smug grin.
And he saw it.
She wasn’t running. Not this time.
“I can make my own choices,” she said, voice small but steady.
And that was what broke him.
Because she could.
And she was choosing wrong.
He stepped back. Then again. Then again. Rain streaked down his face, his breath jagged in the cold.
He didn’t look back.
⸻
2:03 AM — Johnny’s Flat
The door slammed shut behind him with a hollow bang.
He stood still in the dark. His coat dripped onto the old floorboards. The radiator was dead cold. He didn’t bother with the lights.
Claire’s voice echoed in his head.
He kicked off his boots. One landed sideways. The other barely cleared the door.
Tried to take a step—his leg folded. He caught himself on the counter, jaw clenched hard.
The pain in his knee flared. Pure white, sharp as ever.
He dropped into the kitchen chair, gripping its edges.
“I brought that bastard into her life,” he muttered.
He had.
Sammy had been a co-worker once. Fast hands. Smooth talk. They worked nights at the old pub down by the station. One night, Johnny brought him back for a drink.
Claire was nineteen. Bright. Smart. Studying political theory or something clever. Full of plans.
Sammy saw her as an easy target from the start.
And Johnny did nothing.
He watched as the books gathered dust, the grades dropped, the bruises started. Then came the lies. The long silences.
When she finally left Sammy, he thought maybe they had a shot at rebuilding.
But it was too late. She slid into the bottle like it was home.
Johnny ran a hand down his face. Chest heavy.
“Idiot.”
He stood. Limped into the bathroom. Washed his hands like it might help. Glanced up at the mirror.
What stared back looked hollow. Dark rings. Sunken eyes. Hair plastered flat. A jaw clenched to breaking.
“No time for pity,” he whispered.
⸻
6:20 AM — Supermarket Back Storage Room
Fluorescent lights buzzed above. The air reeked of bleach and spoiled fruit.
Johnny hauled crates off the delivery truck. His knee was taped. His back ached. He didn’t complain. He didn’t talk. He just worked.
The lad on the tills—Danny?—offered him a coffee during break. Johnny took it. Nodded once.
Steam curled up from the paper cup. His hands shook slightly.
Claire had been the only one who stayed.
When he came out. When he got kicked out. When there was nowhere else to go. She let him sleep on her floor, brought him tea, and said:
“We’ll figure it out.”
She was the only MacTavish who hadn’t shut the door.
And now she was slipping again.
He couldn’t save her. Not really.
But he’d try.
Even if she hated him for it. Even if she chose Sammy again. Even if it ruined him.
Because she was all he had.
He stared into the coffee like it might offer something back.
It didn’t.
He clocked back in early.
⸻
9:55 PM — The Black Thistle
Back behind the bar. Same grime. Same stink. Same regulars pretending life hadn’t already ended.
Johnny moved on autopilot. Pour. Wipe. Nod. Limp. Repeat.
Don’t think. Don’t feel. Don’t stop.
“Oi, Johnny boy!” one of the usuals called from the corner. “You look like you fought a bin and lost!”
Johnny forced a smile. “Bin fought dirty.”
Laughter. Slaps on the table.
He turned back to the sink. Shoulders tight.
Somewhere down the road, Claire was on Sammy’s couch. Maybe laughing. Maybe crying. Maybe pouring another glass.
He didn’t know.
But he’d be there when she broke again.
Because someone had to.
And no one else ever showed up.