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eldrith · 2 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ if i believe you ˎˊ˗ jon snow

jon snow x reader words: 2.4k synopsis: "There is a queen in the Red Keep who speaks of liberation with fire upon her tongue and necks beneath her heel. and Jon Snow unravels by the hour." notes: finally posting some jon yaaay <3 lit had no idea what to title this so whatever... but im rly trying to learn to write his character so all feedback is appreciated!! n e ways i think this could be read as reader being a targ, but there is no physical description nor much background at all. so do what you love! dedicating this to @dipperscavern & @systraes words can't describe... but u know warnings: major show spoilers, p light smut, angst, references to danyxjon, canon-divergent; i lit don't know my own timeline here but i hope you guys are willing to overlook that LOL. post battle of winterfell. jon is still in the north & dany just took kl. idk. i dont know im sorry im so sorry please i just wanted to post this masterlist requests for jon snow are open.

WHEN NIGHT FALLS, THE KEEP OF WINTERFELL GROWS QUIET.

These days it is a welcome change; not particularly due to any lack of solitude when sought – but because you, a creature brought forth to the world from a nest of bustling civilization, find yourself rather placated with the silence of Winterfell’s blizzarded walls. You quite enjoy the snow in the North, and all things serene and quiet that it has brought in the days following the fall of Death’s march; but tonight, your heart aches.

Because it is dawn you dread this evening.

The flames before you dance; and you, rooted to the settee, hold your hand over the flames and consider not for the first time what it would be like to never feel the burn of heat licking flesh.

Outside, snow comes in droves of howling wind and tiny icicles pelting the glass and stone; Some part of your heart mends itself at the sound – for you know your solitude will be relieved quite soon.

Because it always snows when he comes.

This evening, it is not the gentle kind; No flurries dance from the heavens to kiss your sleeve, no wayward lace drifting down from far-off peaks like some god’s idle sigh.

No; this snow is heavy. Relentless.

It worms through the stones of the old path, creeps into the marrow of the earth, blankets the frozen bloodstained ground in a thick quiet, numbs the breath before it can even leave your mouth.

He doesn’t knock.

Jon hardly ever does.

And you feel him before you see him; always, with a gust of flurries and a hitch in your breath, his footfalls come with that same strange stillness that has seemed to shadow him ever since his heart began beating again. A stoicism, some odd stutter in the world – as if he’s come from the past.

As if he’s still part of it.

You have always kept your chambers warm – a habit that often drips in tease from Jon’s lips in the light of morning, though he hardly ever makes any effort to quell your quest for warmth in his embrace when the sun has yet to rise.

Snow melts in rivulets down the dark furs clinging to his shoulders, beads into cold stars on his lashes as your eyes find his own. Behind him lingers his Ghost – perhaps the only being in Winterfell more quiet and haunted than he.

He crosses the chamber with a slow pace and you do not so much as rise, far past used to the lack of formalities required between you and Jon.

You know why he is here just as well as he does.

The raven came this morning to the hands of the Direwolves; speaking of victory and scorched earth of a sister – of nobody – roaming ash-whirling roads and blood-slick alleys.

Someone new sits upon the throne of swords as night falls over the smoldering remains of King's Landing.

Jon’s gaze casts down to where you sit upon the settee, back to him, warming your weary bones before the hearth. He admires your frame; though he speaks not of it, still you know – you have never required the pretense of courtesy. He does not hide his admiration of you anymore.

Jon steps just behind you, not daring to disrupt the hazy solitude of you and your blazing hearth.

Now, he has become something of a shadow of your own; with a sturdy chest, burdened shoulders, and a gaze that cuts through any hesitation you’ve ever foolishly entertained. Your head turns once again to take in the dark kiss of fur across his shoulders, the slope of his jaw, the tied gathering of dark hair along his temples.

Jon’s eyes are warm with a tenderness you know as no other has ever known; affection in that spiraling pit of solemnity. Though he does not yet remove his cloak.

It is not long before his voice comes, heavy as the snowfall beyond your door. “I saw your torchlight.”

The doors in this wing of the keep have thin gaps above the warmed stone; your gaze leaves the curve of his shadowed jaw to trace the lines of light stretching their curled talons beneath the oak slab where they fade against the bitter bite of freeze.

“I could not sleep,” you sigh, if only to answer the question he does not ask.

His sigh is gentle, consolatory; and his hand twitches upon his side, as though his fingers yearn to caress the stray tresses that come loose near your neck.

You know he cannot sleep either – and you do not have to say why.

Because the why is here; it is woven into the threads holding the freshly spun Stark banner out in the courtyard, it is leaking through the weakened gasps recovering in the infirmary, it trickles from the very thick flake that falls from high in the gods’ skies and beats the remnants of frozen blood far beneath the earth. It’s in the emptiness in the town and the whistling calls of the hills, in the beat of echoed horses towards the Kingsroad hardly more than a fortnight ago.

The war in the North is over, but peace has not come.

The ravens came this morning. It is ture: There is a queen in the Red Keep who speaks of liberation with fire upon her tongue and necks beneath her heel; there is ash and blood in the streets, howling screams carrying through the wind.

The realm is spun in a thick web, and Jon Snow unravels by the hour.

He stands there, your shadow grown behind the settee; Perhaps he watches the flames, or perhaps he watches you.

The glint of firelight in your hair, upon your cheek. The stillness of your breath, how it rises and curls over the neckline of your dress, how your fingers tug at a thread of upholstery beneath you. The curve of your hips along the fabric of your dress, the slight curve of your neck.

It is a look of love, by any other name. And perhaps, if you were a different person, and he, a different man – you might ask something from him. A promise, perhaps.

But you ask for nothing from him; because you know what Jon Snow is.

He is the man who leaves – who kisses you in the shadows and becomes a pillar of salt in the first shy wink of morning light; and you cannot, for all the spite and selfish hunger in you, bring yourself to blame a frost bitten tree for refusing the hope of spring.

You love him in spite of it. Or, perhaps, because of it.

And so you hardly stir when his palm finds the junction of your neck and shoulder, a creeping and almost apologetic thing.

A calloused palm, one so weary and hardened and yet relentlessly kind; Your jaw tilts in quiet invitation as he stands behind you, letting his thumb soothe over the raised gooseflesh of your skin.

When he says your name, a flood of warmth pools in your stomach; you ease into his touch, sighing when his palm slides away to rest upon the back of your settee – though his warmth remains. It always does.

His voice comes once more, still low, resigned.

“You’ll hate me.”

You don’t speak for fear of the tightening in your throat; for the visions of cloudy skies and floating ash, of sliding breaths and sharp daggers. Of fire, and blood. The thought is bitter and it breaks something far buried within your chest.

A harsh thing, reality has always been.

There is a long road ahead for Jon, and it is not large enough for two. You’ve known this for some time.

His voice is exhausted and it comes in a breath, as though he swallows back the burden of which you both refuse to name outright; and perhaps it is some effort to defend the necessary, to excuse the pain to come.

“She burned them.”

And you know the name which dances upon his tongue, though he does not speak it.

The firelight licks over the chambers – some false illusion of warmth in a room which now drips with solemnity. Your throat is tight with the grip of a fading hand and a thick swallow claws its way down your neck.

“She was a girl once,” you say faintly, biting your lip. “A girl sold. Traded, abused, hunted.” Your heart, a fist beating at your battered rib cage; Your lip does not tremble, though you think it might. “Of course she burned them.”

His breath comes slow and long. “She burned children.”

The words come before you recognize them from your own mind –

“And Stannis did not?”

He flinches.

You feel it rather than witness it, through a still air and a stretched silence in which your heart thuds dully and sings the songs of souls long since burned to the gods you do not know.

“I don’t want to argue.” It’s that tone once more; exhausted, tired – trying. The chambers are warm, and yet somehow his presence is warmer.

“You never do,” you whisper. You never do, and I love you for it.

He comes round to face you, backlit then by the greedy warmth of the hearth; how the flames curl around his frame, melting the last stubborn flakes from his shoulders. His hair curls; tresses tied from his drawn brows, pouted lips defrosted and pink in the firelight.

“I had to see you,” his words come once more, eyes deep and searching your own. “Before–”

You’ve risen to meet him before the fire, and your immediate presence stuns his words.

“You mustn’t do this, Jon.” Your eyes sting with unwanted grief; a hollow thing, to know what fate worse than the worst awaits your love. “You mustn’t say goodbye if you’re not going to die.”

His breath trembles, a ripple of wind in a steady sea of pine; the stubborn shake of a handsome visage as he denies the path of ease for the sake of what is right. You love him for it. You hate him for it.

“I might.”

And this, it seems, is your final straw. “No,” your hands shake with an unknown ache. “You won’t,” your breath hits his lips as you exhale, “that’s always the curse with you.”

Your words are cruel, and their verity cuts as deep into your heart as they do his own. His face, somber and patient, is warm in the firelight. And that’s just it; memories bloom from behind your eyes, bruises unhealed. Visions of frozen lips and lifeless eyes – of a hollowness that, somewhere deep inside, never quite filled again.

You had loved him before those scars.

Before death stitched its silent seams across his soul; before hearths blew out in the far North and shadows crawled across the sun.

And still you love him after, though he came back to you strange and faraway; sometimes angry in a way you will never quite understand, try as you might.

Sometimes you believe there is a part of him that never truly left the snow – some part of him that does not any longer belong to this realm.

You love him for it the same.

Jon’s hands caress the curve of your arms when you plant yours on his chest; a steady heartbeat below your palms, through even the scarred skin and breaths of hunger that grows yet never feeds.

He wants you.

Gods, he does, and he burns for it. You see it in the hitch of his breath, in the way his gaze traces the curved bend of your lips when you let out a small breath. You see it other times, too, in the tracing of your collarbones across halls, in the aching bewilderment of a man who cannot help his hunger. And though his jaw sets and his eyes flick away, though honor sings louder in him than impulse – you know, you know.

There is no shame in it, not anymore; Jon does not know how to lie with his body.

But Jon will not take first. He will not take what he wants until it is surrendered to him with bitten lips and soft sighs and breathy pleads; it is a dance unspoken but entwined in your shared nature more than breathing itself.

And you know; If you asked, he would unmake himself entirely – king, bastard, man – simply to feel your palm in his and your warmth by his side.

A surrender not out of duty, but devotion; a willing unraveling, thread by thread, until all that remains is the man who wants you. Without titles, without name.

With nothing.

Though you do not dare betray him with such a request. Because wanting is the first sin, and what comes after is unspeakable.

Jon was made to lose what he longs for. To hold a knife against his chest and remain unflinching even as the blade pierces through; To blink only when the wound begins to bleed.

And still, you would bleed with him.

Again and again, in that selfish, aching way, you would – if it meant one breath more of his hands in yours, of that tired, torn, unbearably tender gaze; one final glimpse of such warmth before he turns from you once more.

You study his visage; a grim one, swimming in that dark molten hunger that lives unspoken and unsated in his stare. A kind man – a man who once held you so tenderly and spoke with words far too kind for the world which gave him nothing but pain.

A man who keeps burying the ones he loves.

His hands curl at your waist, a reserved thing that still yet coaxes your skin to sing, to crawl in that hungry way toward his warmth even as it slips away.

“You love her,” you say.

The line of his throat is thick in the firelight, and his swallow is heavy. You do not waver in your resolve, and he does not betray you with any feigned sympathy.

“I tried to.”

It does not sting like, perhaps, it should. Your nod is stiff and placated only by memories of ruddy youthful stares, brooding glances secretive and rapt across both torchlit halls and flurried yards.

Outside, the wind howls and pelts snow in thick layers over the rapidly disappearing print of his footfalls. Ghost lies still and solemn, quiet against the pelt upon the stone floor near your door.

And it is a foolish thing to ask, when he is here and holding you; but you say it anyway.

“And me?”

Jon’s glance is one that brings the rush of the deepest warmth to your cheeks. A look as though you are the one preparing to leave and never return; a glance of knowledge, of ghosts over lips and hands over trembling skin.

His heart beats, and its rhythm is your name.

Jon does not blink, nor does he look away. His palm, large and inexplicably warm despite the howling squall outside, cups your jaw – and then he says your name; a whispered secret to his gods who have long since ceased to listen.

“I’ve never had to try.”

His words from minutes ago rebound in your mind; and you, with soft palms and a heavy heart, pull him close. You’re going to hate me.

“I won’t hate you,” you whisper into his palm, lips brushing over the tremors he hides. “Not even then.”

He closes his eyes with a flickering inhale, sharp and thick with unshed emotion. And then, when he returns his stare so devoted to your parted lips – his hand drags lower, trailing from your jaw and down to your throat.

A stray thumb presses gently against your heartbeat, as if assuring some deep worry hidden below furrowed brows and a tremorring heart; breath catches in your throat, that dull hunger rising from your stomach and curling warmly through your very veins. Jon’s stare devours; and your eyes hook a yearning ache over the curve of pink lips, flickered by dark shadows and weak restraint.

You’re eager; an unwitting lean towards him with caught breath, you let his palm trail warmth over your skin and pause at your collarbone – as if he’s unsure he has the permission to touch you at all.

You don’t wait for him to ask, because he never will. You simply give.

“Please, Jon,” you whisper, hardly more than breath and want. “Touch me. Let me feel you.”

And there in the faint flicker of the hearth, the corner of his mouth twitches; the echo of some disbelieving, admiring expression he’s long since forgotten how to wear unless he is with you.

Soon his gaze drops, hazed and sultry, to where his thumb rests just above the hollow of your chest; searching, as if your heartbeat might answer some riddle he’s carried since boyhood.

You wonder if perhaps it does, because he moves.

It comes not with the fevered gasp of relief that falls from your lips but with the gravity of a man laying down his sword; Jon’s hand trails lower still, hands grazing the rise of your breast and flexing against the touch. From his lips falls a desperate sound; something swallowed soon by his mouth upon your own, heavy and hungry and far too much for what the night could be.

Dexterous fingers spread, cupping just below the swell of your breast as your own slip under the fur-lined cloak still hung round his thick shoulders. Rough linen lies underneath – cold with the remnants of the snow yet warm with the body he tried for so long to keep away from you.

Your fingers slip beneath the fur draped over his shoulders, and he shudders – shudders – like it’s the first time he’s been touched since his gods forgot him.

“Jon,” you whisper against his lips; needy, wrecked – and that alone breaks the dam already so brittle and wanting; his arms come to pull you tight against the firm heat of his chest. “You’re trembling,” you murmur.

His lips find your throat; open-mouthed, reverent and hungry, teeth grazing and tongue soothing. The tug of his tresses between your fingers kicks his shaky moan against the hollow of your throat and a warmth spreads heady through your trembling body.

“Aye. It’s you,” he breathes with honesty, lips brushing your pulse. “I always do.”

The words send a tremor down your spine, a flush pooling between your thighs as his mouth descends, grazing the dip of your collarbone. Teeth catch slightly on your skin, not rough enough to mark, but just enough to make you gasp; just enough to make your hips tilt toward him, hungry and unsatisfied.

The wind howls, wails. The snow swallows the horizon in a dark smother. Your knees back into the mattress; the weather beyond the castle is wild and sharp in its longing, and with you Jon is no different.

You reach for him and he follows you down, a storm dragged from the mountains and rolling over the hills of sheets. The furs kiss your dress beneath you as Jon takes you into his arms, heavy with heat and muscle and hunger; pressing you into the feathered mattress.

Hands tug at the laces of your bodice; breath harsh against your throat and words murmured into the damp skin of your throat. Your thighs, then, parting with the shared tremors of fevered desire; a sudden steadiness of hands whose muscles remember the shape of you.

His mouth hovers just above yours, breath shared, noses brushing.

Jon takes you with a low and slow groan pressed into your hair; and you with trembling thighs and nails embedded into thick-corded shoulders, head thrown against downy pillows.

The window flickers with the swallowing blanket of the flurry; the hearth’s light spills over the hardened planes of Jon’s body, softened under your fingertips and coaxing raised bumps of desire.

And when he moves inside you – slow, aching, right – you wonder if perhaps the world might end this very night.

And if it does, you think as lips press to the corner of your mouth, as a moan strangles his breath, as your body takes him in, if it does, let it end here. Beneath him. Around him.

Here, with the snow pelting outside, with the fire licking shadows of your entwined bodies upon the wall, licking warmth over his back, up the curve of his jaw, into the wrecked chasm of hunger pooling in his eyes when he looks down at you and thinks, I was never meant to have this.

You pour your love into each kiss he steals; Hands finds your thighs, pushing higher, gripping your heady skin like something already lost. Every inch of him is warm, heavy, solid – and you, reveling in the weight of a man who has only ever known how to carry things that break him.

When all that’s left is heaving, sweat-kissed chests and intermingled breaths – when your fingers soothe over his cheeks, trace the furrow of his brow, press to his temples; when his calloused palms rove over your hip, tugging you by the neck into his chest, tangled in furs and heat and silence – then, then you allow yourself the heartbreak.

“I love you,” you whisper into the night air, into the slinking shadows with webbed wings and smoking breath – into the unfurling frost around the casements, into the chest of the man you have known and lost more times than you can recount.

He says nothing for some time; a shaky inhale as your hands trace over the jagged scars which litter his torso, as his own fingertips idly swirl over your own marks.

And Jon tells you he loves you with his eyes closed, with his lips pressed to your own. You drink in his words and you do not wish for anything else.

He says it again, and again, until his voice cracks and his lips dry the tears you swore would not fall.

You do not sleep much that night.

Lied beside him, you trace the curve of his spine, follow the silky webs of scars above his ribs, across his abdomen and up to the hollow of his throat, where a dagger once claimed him.

Your hands will remember him.

Slowly, you memorize how his breath deepens in the soft surrender of sleep. You memorize the twitch of unconscious fingers slung across your own bare hip. You memorize the beat of his heart against your palm.

You memorize the shape of him as though you’ll be asked to describe it to the gods.

And when dawn comes and you stir from the rest that’d claimed you, he is already dressed.

Ghost waits at your door.

Jon does not say goodbye, and you do not torture him with words that you both are thinking.

He says nothing; just presses a kiss to your forehead, cupping your neck, thumb caressing that cherished beat of your pulse – and leaves with a curls of snow brushing into the entryway of your chambers.

And you stay.

You stay in the room where his warmth once brought you over the edge of sanity; you remain beneath furs once shared, listening to the swirling silence he left behind. You drown in sheets and pretend they are arms.

You stay – undaunted by snowflurries and howling winds, by hard men and hard women and hard weather. A blue moon waxes and wanes for the first time in seven years.

The war ends; the queen falls.

The North remembers.

The seat beside the Queen in the North is worn and a welcome warmth beneath you. The hearths remain bright each nightfall.

But you remember him.

And the snow still falls, even now.

tagging some mutuals since this is a new character :') @dipperscavern @dr9carys @inkandarsenic @systraes @swordgrace @kenna-the-cosmic @snow-blower @cregan-starks

#jon snow x reader #jon snow smut #jon x reader #how the fuck do you use tags omg #why am i nervous #game of thrones x reader #got x reader #jon snow fanfic #im sick #jon snow save me #jon snow x you #jon snow imagine

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freyito · 6 months ago

Note

I need more Gallagher, I think I’ve read everything x reader about him

So here are some ideas, you can also do other characters with this of course

Gallagher x reader he’s had a long day and accidentally snaps at you. hurt/comfort

Gallagher x reader you accidentally fall asleep at the bar while he’s closing up. Fluff

Gallagher x reader the once married got divorced years past you meet again and realize your still in love trope…

Gallagher x reader close proximity. Smut/fluff

Gallagher x reader he’s the first person to buy you flowers. Fluff/comfort

Gallagher x reader after an argument you go missing… perhaps on your own terms out of anger or your actually kidnapped, either way soft fluffy ending

Gallagher x reader comforting after a nightmare, could go either way or could be both

That is all, 👋👋👋👋

✭ pairing(s): gallagher x gn reader

✧ a/n: URGH ANON YOU GAVE ME. SO MUCH INGREDIENTS. I HOPE YOU KNOW IM THANKFUL. while i love EVERYTHING YOU'VE GIVEN ME :3... i've chosen the first three ehe :3... this one will be based off the third one YAAAY. ALSO HAPPYYYYY NEW YEAR!!! kinda happy this one will be my first post! i had a lot of fun with it if we couldnt tell ^^

✦ taglist: @fffrost, @shinysora

🗒 cw: gn reader, previous relationship, so much yearning (but like. not enough.), fear of commitment, mention of weight loss, depression, SIOBAHN THE GOAT, little bit of lore-building (he has a dog.), not proofread

✎ wc: 8k

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴅɢᴇ

He was never like this. He had never lingered on his past for too long, an irrational fear of having it chain him down. After all, today’s Gallagher could be different from yesterday’s. No matter how well crafted the lie was, there were always some sort of leaks through the cracks, like just how much he loved you.

He was never made to be loved and love. He was simply a lie, and he knew that. He perpetuated this lie to you for all those years, simply because he was too greedy to admit his own nature (or perhaps, creation). Because, like the selfish creature he truly is, he did not want to let go of you. Most people seek out love, and he was no different, meme or not. He was created with the heart of a human, so who would fault him for making such an error? He lived and loved like any human would, no?

He wanted to be stubborn, by god, he wanted to be stubborn. And he truly was, right up unto the end. He held onto you like a man starved, only a step away from getting on his knees and begging you. But in the end, his love won out. You wanted the divorce, and he didn’t want to hurt you more than he apparently was, so he went through with it.

It hurt. It truly did, it hurt so much he still feels the sting after years. He tried to rationalize it every day he could, tell himself that you would’ve found out eventually, and he would’ve ceased to exist. But that made it even worse, it made him curl up on himself on those lonely nights in the room that was supposed to be yours, it made his throat tighten and his hands shake and he felt like such a goddamn fool. Someone like him shouldn’t be crying. There was no room in his facade to cry. So why did you make him feel this way? By now it had been several years. He should be over it. But he isn’t. And he resents himself for that.

You had moved on by now. A nice quiet life away from the heart of Penacony, a promotion, and an absolutely positive attitude once you weren’t weighed down by the ring. It’s not like you disliked Gallagher. There were never any fights, no contempt for one another, no reason to think he didn’t love you. But you were scared of the commitment. It only took you two years to realize. How did you stay with your job so long, but not Gallagher? You didn’t know. And it only served to make you feel even worse about the divorce.

You always find yourself thinking of him now and then, his face never truly leaves your mind. You couldn’t keep a partner for long at all, always searching for some little piece of him in them. While you didn’t want to, your subconscious was just as stubborn as the man himself. The two of you didn’t text anymore, and you assumed he had your number blocked. So, you yourself had assumed he moved on, and in the silliest, saddest part of your mind, you chose to accept that. Perhaps he got a new partner, maybe he’s even married again by now. He deserves it, you think. He was one of, if not the kindest souls you had the pleasure of meeting, let alone sharing a few years of your life with. So, you hoped he was happy.

Which couldn’t be farther from the truth. His days had become so monotonous that they started to blur together. Wake up bright and early, get some breakfast (which consist of the most mediocre meals, cereal and/or poptarts. Milk if he’s lucky enough), rush to work, patrol, break, patrol, home, and back to sleep he goes. He barely takes much care of himself anymore, his stubble much more of a mess than when you left him, hair still untamed. He’s done his best to watch himself and keep up, but in the end, the most he can do after work is drag himself to bed.

He’s missed your face oh so terribly, missed your laughter and humming and simply your voice. What a treat it would be to come home to that once more, sweep you up off your feet after you’ve had such a long day and pamper you in bed. He’d go on and on about how you need to eat properly, get enough sleep, and take care of yourself. Even if he’s had a stressful day, even when it is so very apparent by the way he dragged his feet when he came through the door, the way his voice was low and groggy and he could only get a few words out like he didn’t want to speak, the way his eyebags had gotten deeper, he still had his priority; to care for you. Now, he’s met with no one to care for, refusing to acknowledge himself without you.

Days off for him are a rare occurrence, and when he does get one, he chooses to sleep most of the day. He’d do it every day, if he could. He’ll get up and allow himself a shower, perhaps order some food if he really feels like it. But going out now, even to just treat himself, it’s impossible. Gallagher doesn’t want to bear facing the world without you. Even if it has been three years.

It’s obsession, he tells himself, though it is not. He loved like a dog, and had convinced himself since the moment you two started dating that there would never be a rift or a tear between you two. Years later he still grapples with the truth. He understands that perhaps there will never be a second chance, given how long it has been, especially without so much as a text from you. But, he wants one. So badly. He’d do anything, as he’s repeated to himself so many times, to have you back. To love you once more, to truly love you. And he hates himself for it.

Lately, his schedule has changed. He gave his supervisors full control over his schedule, choosing to open up his availability when you left. Only now had they taken full advantage of that, with the vacancies the Bloodhounds had after the Charmony festival. Despite being Head of the Bloodhounds, a different team handled the schedules, and completely disregarded the years of his life he gave to the Bloodhounds and flip-flopped his schedule around. He was pulling more doubles than ever, night shifts that turned into day shifts, his days off dwindled to one, and ultimately his health was thrown into limbo. Due to the changes, he was unable to sleep properly, at most, he got three hours.

Because of this, he didn’t have time to go to the Dreamjolt Holstery, choosing to put his job over his hobby. Which ultimately made him feel worse. While he tried to protest the changes to his schedule and the fact that it’s been stressful on him, his superiors ignore this, continuing on with the rough and unpredictable schedule. It takes a while for him to break, as strong as he is, he can only take so much.

Time blurs together for Gallagher, what felt like years could be just months, weeks, or days. Everything felt the same to him, even with his skewed schedule. Somehow, in between his shifts, he finds himself at the Holstery, hazy and tired out of his mind. Thankfully, there weren’t many patrons tonight, a few vagrants like himself spread out within the corners. Siobhan was surprised to see him, schooling her expression into neutrality when she saw his state.

Disheveled, tired, near half-dead. He greeted her with an unintelligible mumble, slumping down into a chair. He passes out right then and there, ultimately succumbing to the stress that had fallen on him over the years. Siobahn stares for a moment, unsure of what to do. When Gallagher had stopped showing up at the Holstery without a word, she was worried. The hound always found his way back, but he had been gone for months. And now here he was, in arguably worse shape then he had been for several years.

Coincidentally, you had a week off because of the Charmony Festival (and the subsequent tragedy that happened after), and you found yourself quite bored. It had been quite a while since you drank, seeing as you really only trusted one bar. You chose to leave it be after the divorce, not wanting to disturb Gallagher at all. But you can’t help but miss it. Surely it’s been a long enough time by now, so why not go pay the bar a visit? Surely Gallagher has moved up.

After a couple moments of debating, pacing around your apartment and thinking out a very overcomplicated plan of action if he were to be there. You’d leave immediately of course, avoid any of the awkward conversation, or perhaps any spite he had towards you. What if he came in while you were mid-drink? Then it feels like it’d be unavoidable… Still, you muster up your courage and walk out of your apartment. There shouldn’t be any hard feelings, anyways, right? It had been quite some time, and you two must have moved on by now. Surely you two would be okay if you were to meet again…

The cool(ish) night air calms your nerves, though. You can’t remember the last time you had a nice night stroll like this, even in the buzzing streets of Penacony. The city never truly slept, no matter what had transpired even seconds before. The dead of night could be just noon for people, or even morning. As such, most businesses kept running 24/7. It was always odd to you, even as a Penacony native, but you got used to it eventually. Bright flashing lights in your face at almost all times when you were out, endless ads about random things you’d never need for your daily life, and salesmen trying to corral you into their stores, to get you to buy luxuries even you can’t afford. Such was life, there was no tranquility in most Hours, anyways.

However, it all goes silent the minute you enter the elevator in the Reverie. The idle chatter from the lobby is shut away by the metal doors and a ‘clink’, as the elevator starts its ascent. You stand square in the middle, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you wait for the elevator to reach the floor. You can’t help but grow nervous with each second, all those silly, impossible events happening in your head again. What if you did see him? What would you do? It’d be hard to act normal after all these years.

Before you can answer your question, the elevator doors slide open, and your legs carry you through the hallway without hesitance. It’s much more quiet here, a light, jazzy tune playing in the Holstery. There’s no chatter, barely any clatter of the shaker or glasses, if any, and you know you’ve found an opportune time to show up. It had been so long since you’ve even visited the Holstery, your irrational fear holding you back. The amount of dates you and Gallagher had together here, impromptu or planned, was innumerable. You always loved watching him work, and sometimes he allowed you to get behind the bar yourself, teach you how to make certain drinks. Those moments were always special, as were most in the relationship.

When you step into the bar proper, Siobahn looks at you, then smiles gently. She had been the first to know about the divorce, from both you and Gallagher. Given how she was the only coworker Gallagher had liked, and how close you two were when you started dating him, it was only fair she knew. Not that there were many people you two talked to much. But she was supportive of both sides, never taking one or the other.

In front of her, a drunkard with brown hair is passed out on the counter, head in his arms as he snores. You shrug and walk around him silently, a few more chairs down, before sitting down. Siobahn raises an eyebrow and looks between the two of you, before taking a step over so she is standing in front of you. She opens her mouth to say something, pauses, then shakes her head and smiles even wider. Her eyes dart once more to the drunkard, and you turn to look out of curiosity.

He was wearing a white dress shirt and a vest, sleeves rolled up. The scars on his arms were impressive–

Ah.

It clicks only then, the man is Gallagher. You feel your stomach flip-flop, but your expression remains neutral. You don’t know whether you should just walk out now, reach out and tap his shoulder, or just talk with Siobahn. You want to do all three. So badly. You want to leave and avoid this awkward situation before it happens, but at the same time you want to see his face again. You also would love to catch up with Siobahn, seeing as you haven’t seen her in quite a while. But your focus is drawn to Gallagher.

He looks a bit thinner than you remember, more ragged even though you can’t see his face, and suddenly your nerves turn into concern. He never drank alcohol, as far as you knew. He despised the stuff, and really only enjoyed mocktails and virgin drinks. So, why did he decide to drink himself to this point…? In the end, your curiosity wins out, and you lean over, before standing up and sitting closer to him, just one stool between you. He doesn’t smell of alcohol, which soothes your nerves a bit, so you reach out and tap on his shoulder.

He flinches harshly, jerking up with a sharp breath and a cough, before looking down at you. His eyebags are heavy, eyes having a hard time staying open. His stubble is more of a scruff, one that looks quite itchy.

“Oh,” His eyes light up just a smidge when he realizes it’s you, a big, dopey smile spreading across his lips. “It’s you.”

The words are spoken with no ire, like you expected. Instead, he looked like some lovesick puppy, all smiles and sighs as he stared at you. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make your heart flutter. It’s been far too long since someone’s talked to you like that, let alone looked at you like that, and you are glad it is Gallagher himself.

He does his best to blink the sleep from his eyes, before reaching up and rubbing at them. He takes a deep breath, a sound you fondly remember, one he made in the morning when he didn’t want to go to work but had to. And you find yourself pining for him. You turn your head away quickly, gathering your thoughts and looking to Siobahn for help. What could she do? You don’t know, but you sincerely hoped she could come up with something.

“Ah, well, it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen you,” She smiles gently, clearly holding back the word ‘two’. She herself doesn’t know exactly who she’s addressing, seeing as Gallagher’s finally awake.

“Yes, I didn’t expect to see you… or Gallagher here tonight,” You do your best to smile through it, but you can feel Gallagher’s hazel eyes burning into the back of your head. You are at war with yourself, telling yourself you can’t be feeling this way for Gallagher, just because of one look. Yet at the same time, you’ve missed him so dearly, it’s hard not to fall. Even with how ragged he looks at the moment.

Behind you, Gallagher sighs, yet you don’t turn to look at him, too afraid that if you were to catch another glimpse, you’d do something that would be contrary to the divorce and what you had told him. Siobahn shoots a quick glance to him as if now asking him to help, but when you don’t turn around to look at him, his shoulders slump. While what you said held no venom, it didn’t hold the fondness he was hoping for, either.

With a grunt, he pushes the stool out and stands up, shaking his head. You finally turn around, but he doesn’t look back, his footsteps slow and sluggish as he finally exits the Holstery. You turn back to Siobahn and the two of you share a look, falling silent for another minute. Perhaps Gallagher didn’t want to see you at all, and his smile was more out of formality and politeness than anything. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt, but you did your best to shrug it off. There was no real reason to feel like he truly wanted you back, anyways. It’d be selfish to think so.

“I guess he’s clocking out, then…” You mumble, an attempt at a weak joke.

“He had to quit about a month ago, actually,” Siobahn shakes her head, wiping down a glass quickly, before setting it down and leaning on the bar. “That’s the first I’ve seen of him since he told me.”

“I see,” You nod, looking down on the counter. You assumed Siobahn wouldn’t let him sleep on the job, anyways, so it made some sense. But why? As far as you remembered, he quite loved this job. “May I ask why?”

“Well, he said it was because of the Bloodhounds changing his schedule,” She shrugs, “So I took his word for it. He didn’t tell me much, though. And we haven’t really talked much since then. What about you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s been… a long while. Since I’ve even texted him,” Saying that makes you feel… horrible. You’ve barely talked to him, and yet he gives you one silly little smile and suddenly your heart is singing for him. “I didn’t expect to see him tonight. Well, I did, but I also didn’t.”

“Y’know, since that was the first time I’ve seen him in a bit… he also looked kinda rough. Real rough. But I mean the way he smiled at you…”

“I know. I know, I noticed it too. Both things. But I don’t think his smile means anything with the way he walked away,”

“He seemed more hurt than anything. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like that, aside from when you two were married. Not that I’m saying you should get back together, but, he seemed quite–”

“I knowww…” You groan, lowering your head. “I’m starting to regret my decision, not like I can change it now, but the way he looked all sad and like a goddamn puppy, ugh.”

Siobahn chuckles, raising an eyebrow. She allows you to wallow in the silence for a while, before nudging you. “Perhaps it’s time to make up? Only if you want to. But I mean, if you’re feeling this way after, what, two years? Then, maybe…”

There’s a teasing lilt towards the end of her words, and when you look up at her she tilts her head with a small smirk. You hate to admit that she’s right, but also a part of you truly wants to. You’ve missed the intimacy he provided, the way his heart would skip a beat whenever you cuddled up to his chest, even after a couple of years, the way he’d fidget with your fingers when you held hands, or simply the way he’d look at you, how reminiscent his gaze was earlier of you’re previous days of love. Ugh, the more you thought the more you made up your mind.

“Fiiine,” You huff, as if you truly didn’t want to. But the way you get up hastily says otherwise.

“Oh, you’re really gonna try? You’re going to show up at his door?”

“Yeah. I am. I think it’ll be more… I dunno. It just makes more sense.”

“I’m cheering you on,” She chuckles once more, “Text me about the results once you're done. I know it isn’t my place to know, but… well, I’m pretty curious.”

“I will, I will,” You sigh, giving her one last wave before you head out of the Holstery all too quickly. It’s not that you didn’t want to continue talking with Siobahn; you truly did. But if you stayed any longer, you’d convince yourself to leave Gallagher be. And maybe that would be a good thing, but you already made up your mind. You could be chasing after a ghost for all you cared, but you figured you had to try.

The walk to his apartment was full of doubts. The night felt colder than ever, and you did your best to tell yourself to keep going. Perhaps you should’ve stayed at the Holstery and at least taken a shot for confidence. Every single part of you, even your heart, told you to just leave it be and go back to your own apartment. You see him once after a couple years and you decide to make everything right, now? But your legs keep walking, and you can’t tell if you hate it, or love it.

Before you can reach a definitive conclusion on whether to just give it up or go through it, you’re at his door. Suddenly it’s a lot more intimidating than you hoped, almost comically eerie, and you haven’t even knocked yet. Sure, it could seem all sorts of wrong for you to show up at his door, for you to even remember where he lived. But there’s no use worrying about that now, you’re stuck here whether you like it or not, and the only way through is, well, through.

You raise your hand and knock, once, twice– and the door opens. Gallagher stands in front of you, barely registering that you even knocked, looking just about as miserable as he did when you saw him at the Holstery. He blinks, trying to wash away his fatigue, before your presence finally registers.

“Mh, sorry, I can’t listen to your sales pitch,” He mumbles, as you take a couple steps back and he closes the door behind him.

“Gallagher.” That’s all you have to say, and he practically flinches, eyes widening for a second.

“A-Ah, sorry, I didn’t– I have work,” He stumbles over his words for a moment like he had on your first date, then immediately schools his expression back into something more neutral, locking the door quickly, before trying to walk past.

Against your better judgement, you reach out and grab his wrist. He pauses and looks back at you, and you swear you see a twinkle in his eye. Though, aside from that, you can feel the worry fester in your gut. If he has work, it’s so very selfish of you to pull him back. But you do.

“I’m sorry, I just,” You don’t know what to say, but neither of you pull away. Your hand loosens around his wrist, and it takes every bit of self control to not reach down and grab his hand. He’s still so warm, as warm as you remembered, and even though he looks quite beat, he still looks like the man you loved.

The silence stretches on for an unbearable amount of time. Gallagher doesn’t pry his wrist from your hand, despite how late he was for work already. He can’t find the strength to do it. He’s longed for something like this moment for quite some time, and now that he has it, employment be damned. His supervisors couldn’t give a damn about him, so why should he have to feel bad for being late? Plus, he had wanted this. So goddamn badly. If he pulled away now, all those nights hugging pillows and ‘i’m sorry’s didn’t mean much anymore. Perhaps they’d mean he had moved on. And he should be okay with that. But he wasn’t.

“I missed you,” He finally manages to speak, turning his entire body towards you. Once more, he looks like some lost puppy, and by the Aeons do you want to reach out and pet him.

“I’m sorry.” Is all you can get out in your fluster. You missed him, yes, and seeing him was only such a painful reminder of that. But at the same time, seeing his state, and remembering the piss poor excuse you left him with, how could you not apologize? ‘I’m just not ready’, what a joke that was. You loved him, dammit, and you weren’t ready? He gave you everything, he was ready. He was more than ready. And somehow, after three years of him cuddling up to you every night, cooking for you, making special drinks, all those sweet nicknames and the way he softened up after an especially rough nights, it took you a year of being in a relationship and two years of being married for you to tell him you weren’t ready?

Not only that, but he had given you no pushback. He didn’t beg you to stay or try to talk some sense into you, he just nodded and let the process start. That was it. You don’t know what impression it gave you, whether he wanted you to be happy or if he didn’t care for it at all. But hearing his words now made you realize what a fool you had been.

“Don’t– Don’t apologize. It’s my fault,” Gallagher finally wrenches his wrist free from your hand, only to put his own on your shoulders. “I wasn’t enough, so I oughta apologize.”

“No, no! That’s not what it was,” You place your hands on his biceps instinctively, and– Aeons, they’re still big– squeeze. “It was me being stupid. That’s all.”

“You’re not stupid,”

“Well I was for the way I left you,”

“No, don’t talk about yourself like that,” He finally lets go, hands falling to his sides with a huff. “I wasn’t enough, I get it. There’s no reason to apologize to me–”

“There is! You were more than enough–” You find yourself getting angry at his words. You pause, taking a deep breath and calming yourself. “I just… This isn’t about that. Maybe it is. I don’t know. You look like– You don’t look well. And I’m worried.”

Another silence falls between you two, making your stomach flip-flop. You can’t push away the previous exchange, and no doubt you’ll need to return to it later, but at the same time you didn’t want to keep him.

All you can do is nod fervently, because you worried that if you opened your mouth, you wouldn’t shut up. You didn’t want to make him late for work, but at the same time you wanted to tell him to just stay home and talk now. There was no way he could get work done in that state, especially at his rank. Before you can speak your mind, he’s halfway down the hall. However, he stands up a little taller, rather than dragging his feet as he walks away, and you can’t help but feel a surge of pride along with butterflies in your stomach.

. * 　　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

Eight hours feel like twelve hours while you wait. You decided you’d busy yourself with some chores at home to clear your head, but it ultimately made the day feel even longer. For the last couple of hours, all you could do was sit on your couch and fidget. It felt like you HAD to wait for this moment. If you started something now, you would be betraying a part of yourself.

All you had to wait for was a notification. Part of you wanted to just go over to his apartment and wait out the rest of the time. You felt an overwhelming need to apologize, your nerves eating at you all day. Seeing the shape he was in, the melancholy that lingered in the air no matter his sappy smile or his posture, you wanted to take it all away. You wanted to say it was some sort of savior complex, but to tell the truth, it was your feelings. Your silly, pathetic feelings. One little look and suddenly you were rethinking everything that had led to this point.

You could worry about it all day, but you could never reach a conclusion on whether you should give it up or push through to have this talk with him. All you could do was hope that something positive comes out from this. At worst, nothing would truly change in your life. You’d carry on as you have been, one step at a time. At best… perhaps you’d get a second shot. If you did, you promised yourself you wouldn’t let it go so easily. You wouldn’t let him go.

Just before you lose your mind, your phone vibrates. You’re way too quick to check the notification, like a lovestruck highschooler. It’s been quite some time since you’ve seen his name pop up on your phone, and just that causes butterflies to flutter in your stomach, despite your nerves.

“I’m on my way home now, if you’d like to meet up at my place”

It’s so oddly formal, coming from him. But you suppose you aren’t any better, your own texts coming off just as awkward, a simple ‘omw’ sent back. You didn’t mean to be so curt, but if you hadn’t been, you would’ve started to overthink your answer, even to just a simple text.

With a deep sigh, you get up off your couch and grab your keys and wallet, shoving them into your pockets. You take another moment at your door, trying to compose yourself. It feels quite right to see him again, to talk with him again, and you can’t stop the guilt from creeping into your veins. You are hoping for… more, again. After you left him for something so very selfish. You had stopped talking to him about three months or so after the divorce went through, rationalizing it as the fact that you and him needed to move on. You couldn’t just stay friends, and you didn’t want to impede on his own life. You made up all sorts of scenarios to keep your mind at ease, and for all you knew, you lied to yourself so that you wouldn’t look like a fool running back.

Yet, here you are. Yearning for more, more, more. You wanted to apologize– you did apologize. But you felt the need to do more. You didn’t know what was going on in his head, you barely understood why he looked like such a mess, and you, for the most part, wanted to somehow swoop in and save him. Like a hug and a kiss would fix all that was wrong. Maybe it would, but usually, that wasn’t how the world works.

Before you make your anxiety worse, you open the door and decide to push through. It’s all for clarity, at the very least. You aren’t doing this to possibly get back together with him, it’s to provide you, yourself, and Gallagher clarity. Clarity. All you can do is repeat that word to yourself as you lock your door and make your way down the hallway.

Each step makes you feel heavier, as you dread what’s to come. Every possible outcome starts to scare you, good and bad. You shouldn’t be that scared, with the way Gallagher acted around you, even if it was just a few minutes in total. But you can’t help it, the sudden wave of guilt twists at your gut and claws at your mind, and it takes all your strength to not turn on your heels and high tail it back to your apartment. You don’t know how many more times you will fight with yourself over this, but you can only hope this will be the last.

. * 　　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

Gallagher’s apartment isn’t necessarily as well-kept as it was when you two lived together. It isn’t exactly messy, you can tell he tried to clean it up in the few minutes he had from getting back from work and you coming over. But overall, there was a certain air of… melancholy. Bitter and thick, reflecting Gallagher’s state.

He himself seemed too nervous to sit down, choosing to stand by the couch and mess with his tie. He looked even more tired than before, voice rough with exhaustion. You had asked multiple times when you entered his apartment if he’d like you to come back after a later time, and he said it was fine each and every time.

“Would you like something to drink?” His voice comes out a tad weak, looking down at you with an oddly sheepish smile.

“I– No, I can get something myself… if that’s okay,” The last thing you’d want to do is make him work more.

“No, I’d really like to. Please? I promise I want to,” He gives you the look, soft eyes, sheepish smile, once again, like a lost puppy. “Please.”

You can’t help but sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. It’s the kind of look he used when he wanted you to stay a little longer in bed when you two woke up (despite the fact that you both had work most of the time), and you cannot find the strength to say ‘no’ a second time. You give him a pitiful nod, and off he goes to the kitchen.

While he busies himself with the drink, you look around the living room. Not much has changed, save for your own items that were missing. Dog fur clung to nearly everything, as was the norm. He had brought his Doberman into the relationship, the sweetest pup you’ve met (aside from maybe Gallagher himself), who had endless amounts of energy. He had named the dog ‘Whiskey’, which… didn’t fit the dog at all. But who were you to judge? You had a puppy and a boyfriend at the time, so you were happy. You did kind of miss the dog, seeing as your apartment didn’t allow pets of any kind.

You wanted to ask where the dog was, looking over the back of the couch and into the kitchen. Gallagher was completely zoned in, a couple of different bottles of drinks and syrups on the counter, a couple ice cubes in a rather fancy whiskey glass, all while he was mixing the drinks. It is a sight for sore eyes, the tranquility of it all. There had been quite a lot of nights where you had sat exactly where you are now, and watched him work. He always loved mixing drinks, on the clock or off the clock. And you were more than happy to try most of them. His concentration softens his features, and for a spell he looks younger, more energetic, and not as weak as he has been.

You catch yourself blushing, and quickly turn your head away, turning your focus down to your hands, fidgeting nervously. What were you going to ask? Right, ask about Whiskey. Instead, you keep your mouth shut and force your mind to keep quiet. You can’t help the influx of memories that wash over you, especially in this space. Being not only close to Gallagher, but your old home, there’s a warmth that burns in your heart, one that can be extinguished all too quickly.

Before you can fluster (or perhaps hurt) yourself more, he’s placing the whiskey glass in front of you. It’s a nice, vibrant red, no doubt something fruity. A mocktail he made you quite a lot, one that you were always worried he would get sick of making. But, apparently not.

“So, uhm,” He starts, taking a seat on the couch as well. He leaves one cushion between you two, unable to allow himself to get closer. “I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” You didn’t expect him to start with that of all things. What did he have to apologize for? “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. I feel I have to. I don’t think I was…” He trails off, a note of sorrow in his voice.

Two years, he reminds himself. Two years, and he still felt this way. He wallowed every night, begged whatever force was out there for it to be different. Once again, he knew it was dangerous. There was no love for something such as him in this world, and yet he held onto the thought of you every waking day. For all he knew, you could be his undoing. If you were to find out the “Gallagher” you knew was not the Gallagher he was… it scared him. Yet, it scared him even more to be without you. Is it truly so bad to look for a warm hand when the clock stops ticking? Would it be wrong for you to be his final memory?

“I don’t think I was enough.” He says in an infinitely weaker and mournful tone. He looks away from you, shrinking in on himself.

The words themselves stun you. Suddenly, your throat feels tight and tears prick at your eyes. You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You stare for a moment, taking in the way he finally seems smaller. A man you’ve always known to be strong, who you swore you’ve never seen be emotional aside from the day of your wedding, curled up in on himself, vulnerable. Somehow, hearing them now, it hurts even more than it did earlier. And you realize you have to prove him wrong, to tell him it was you, not him, wasn’t enough.

In a moment of selfish action, you scoot over next to him and reach for his hand. It is warm, and it trembles. But he doesn’t swat your hand away, nor does he look at you. After a beat, you grab his other hand, squeezing both.

“Oh, Gallagher…” You mutter, looking into his eyes even though they avoid yours. “That’s not it. You were more than enough, I promise you. You really were.” You squeeze his hands once more, to prove your point. “Somehow, I got it in my head that.. that I wasn’t ready. Even after all the time we spent together. And that’s on me– It really is.”

Finally, he looks up at you, his eyes glossy, mirroring your own. He squeezes your hands back, and relaxes just a little.

“I didn’t mean to rush you…” He responds, voice slightly shaky. He forces a small smile onto his lips however, and it makes your heart stutter.

“No, no, it wasn’t that. I was ready. I swear. I just– I should’ve talked to you, instead of doing what I did,” You huff, shaking your head. “It was unfair of me to come to that conclusion just because of some anxiety.”

“Well, I don’t think you should blame yourself like that,” Even his voice softens as he straightens up, turning his entire body towards you. “I really do wish you would’ve talked to me, but… if you were anxious… I mean, I get it. But don’t talk about it like that.”

You open your mouth to say something, but words fail you. All you can do is nod and meet his gaze, unable to tear yours away from those hazel eyes.

“... I mean, it was pretty expensive for something as simple as that, but– Sorry, bad joke,” He chuckles sheepishly, “But it’s okay. If anything, I’m glad we’re talking about it now, instead of never…”

His eyes rake over your face, down to your hands. He takes another breath like he’s about to say something, then pauses, shakes his head, and chuckles once more.

“I’m sorry,” Is all you can choke out, your hold on his hands loosening.

“It’s okay, there’s no need to apologize. I get it, I really do,”

Gallagher lets go of your hands as well, turning his hands over and presenting his palms to you. It’s a gesture that is so small and from the outside would seem meaningless, but something you always quite loved– as were most things you have seen tonight. You had a habit of playing with his hands whenever you could, running your thumb over the back of his hand when you two were holding hands, messing with his fingers to annoy him when you were watching a movie, and tracing over the creases in his palms to calm yourself down if your mind wouldn’t shut up. It helped when you were anxious, or when you couldn’t fall asleep.

Without thinking, you use your thumbs to trace over the creases in his palms, hands still rough and calloused as you remembered. For a moment, it helps calm your nerves, allowing you to think clearly. Yet, despite that, you can’t form any proper words. You untense and allow yourself to really, truly breathe. After a beat, he drops his hands into his lap, eyes searching your face for any sort of hesitance. You find yourself chasing after your hands for a moment, catching yourself and clearing your throat as you pull away.

“... I have a question. That you can say no to, okay?” He leans back, trying to seem more confident, but he wears an unsure smile on his lips.

“Okay,” You nod, your stomach, once again, flip-flopping.

“I… want to try again. If you feel the same, of course. I just…” There’s a subtle blush that dusts his cheeks as he looks around the room, reaching up and scratching at his stubble. “I meant what I said earlier today. I missed you.”

Your mouth goes dry. It isn’t something you expected– though, it is quite welcome. But you can’t help but hesitate, it sounds a little too good to be true. You bite your lip and allow the question to hang in the air for a second longer, still unable to conjure up a response. You’d tell him you’d love to, but–

“Just– Just a few dates, here and there. We don’t have to pick up where we left off,” Gallagher chimes in at your hesitation, before shrinking away, worried that he’s being too invasive.

You look down to your lap, trying to string your thoughts together and form a coherent response. This was the best possible scenario you had hoped for, so why do you feel so unsure? You fidget with your fingers, all sorts of ‘what if’s popping up in your head. What if it ends up like last time? What if this isn’t just a case of ‘right person, wrong time’, what if it always had been ‘wrong person, wrong time’? You loved Gallagher when you first started dating, you loved him when you married him, and evidently, you loved him even after the divorce. And yet… it was hard to say yes. But you couldn’t let your anxiety eat away at you this time, you promised that to yourself at that moment.

“I’d like that,” You finally speak, voice quieter than you anticipated, and shy.

When you look up at Gallagher, you can tell he’s trying to hold back his own little celebration. He opens his mouth to say something, moves a little in his seat, then closes it. His hand raises from his lap for a second, before he places it back down. Eventually, he figures out what to do. He flashes you a simple grin, the kind that made the corners of his eyes and his nose crinkle.

“Great. Yes. Totally. Okay, I’ll uhm– well, my schedule isn’t the best anymore, so… I don’t know. I mean, this can be a date, right?” He stumbles and trips over his words, unsure if he should let his excitement be visible or not. You haven’t seen him this flustered in a long, long time. And it warms your heart.

“It can,” You chuckle, tilting your head. “I mean, I did kinda miss our movie nights.”

“Perfect! I’ll, uh, well,” He moves to grab the remote off the coffee table, eyes flickering over to you in a bout of nervousness. “Guess I’ll get it started. Ah, wait– do you want some popcorn, or anything…?”

“Ah, actually… Can I ask where Whiskey is?” You can’t help but go back to the dog, as if having a movie night without the pup felt wrong.

“Oh, I-I left him in my room. Didn’t want him to annoy you or anything… uhm, did you want me to go get him?”

“Yes. Please.”

At your eager response, Gallagher practically scrambles to get up. You listen to him pad down the hallway to his room, before he opens the door. The minute that door opens, you hear Whiskey’s claws scratching at the hardwood floor as he runs to the living room to check out the new smells. He wasn’t much of a pup anymore, around 3 years old now. His floppy ears bounce up and down as he runs to you, and he practically crashes into you when he jumps up onto the couch (and ultimately into your chest). You can’t help but laugh as his entire body wiggles in excitement, licking at your face and sticking his nose into it every time you turn your head to avoid his barrage.

Gallagher can’t help but chuckle as he watches, taking his seat back, betraying you and leaving you to fend for yourself against Whiskey’s storm of kisses. Gallagher can’t help but ‘subtly’ reach over and wrap his arm around your shoulders. He figured since you were just soooo defenseless, why not sneak in? Despite the awkward, childish anxiety, like you two had just started dating from earlier, this feels so very… normal. Regardless, you didn’t have time to react either way. Whiskey was relentless with his kisses, determined to make up for the several years he didn’t see you.

Eventually, you are able to pry the dog off of you, and the space calms down for a moment, despite the excited wagging and half-lunging at you. Considering how much he has grown, it’s kind of hard to pull him back. But within a minute or two, he finally calms down, finding his peace on your lap, laying his head on your leg and staring up at you with big ol’ eyes, begging for attention every time you stop petting him.

“Let’s see…” Gallagher hums, finally turning on the tv and figuring out which streaming service to use. “What are you feeling? Horror? Classic? I’m game for whatever.”

“Hmm,” You tilt your head, scratching behind Whiskey’s ear. “I dunno. You pick.”

With a huff of approval, Gallagher chooses a streaming service, quickly scrolling through a couple of movies, before choosing a thriller. Why not be a little cliche? Even if you were used to this stuff by now, he can’t help himself. You can’t help but chuckle and smile at his choice, looking up at him through your lashes quickly. In a moment of selfishness (or perhaps lovestruck idiocy), you lean up and press a kiss to his cheek, before leaning your head onto his shoulder fully.

Gallagher can’t help but smile like a fool, hand squeezing your shoulder. He dares not to look down at you, as if he was afraid this wasn’t real. Ironic, coming from him. But, he couldn’t help it. Something he yearned for after so long, finally in his hands… Someone he had yearned for. Whiskey, however, is quite displeased with this show of affection, giving you a lethal side-eye, as if to say ‘how dare you show him love and not me.’ Such betrayal that you have shown Whiskey, choosing Gallagher over him.

#⁺◟freyito #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #gallagher x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x you #gallagher x you #gallagher hsr x you

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