SANCTUARY — SPENCER REID!
Spencer has a rough night.
spencer reid x gn!reader | 1.7k | hurt/comfort | book fayre !!
WARNINGS | spencer’s drug addiction, withdrawal descriptions, needles, track marks
part one.
masterlist.
a/n — thank you for the love 🫶🫶 (i accidentally deleted the ask but i had it screenshotted thank god)
When you offered Spencer the spare room in your apartment so he wouldn’t have to be alone during the worst of his withdrawals, he was so grateful he cried.
Now though, he was beginning to wonder if it was really all that good of an idea.
Spencer couldn’t help it, really. The drug cravings he was dealing with were intense. He would try and try, but nothing was working— not gum, not candy, not freezing cold showers or sleeping 18 straight hours.
It didn’t help that the withdrawal symptoms were getting worse. He was exhausted, his stomach was in tangles, headaches pounding incessantly behind his eyes.
It was getting harder and harder to resist each passing minute. As he desperately looked around your apartment for something, anything, to get the drug-induced itch out of the back of his mind, he decided he couldn’t do this anymore.
Desperate, Spencer slowly made his way to your room. He knew that you would probably be asleep, but he didn’t care. He slowly pushed open your door and crept into your room, trying not to trip over anything in the shrouded darkness shielding you from a disturbance to your slumber.
He gingerly sat down next to your sleeping form, gently shaking your shoulder to rouse you, and after a few moments, you slowly began to stir, slowly blinking your eyes open and looking up at the shadowed figure by your side.
You take a sharp breath in through your nose as you wake, blinking the sleep harshly from your eyes. “Spencer? Are you okay?”
At the sound of your tired voice, Spencer tensed up slightly. Even in the low light of the room, he could see the sleep-filled haze in your eyes, and a little guilt tugged in the back of his mind. But the need for his drug was too strong to care about minor things like that.
“No,” He whispered back bluntly.
You clear the sleep from your throat as you edge yourself upright, dragging your knuckles over your eyelids. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes traced the tired way you wiped your eyes, only furthering his guilt. But again, the craving and the need for his internal torture to stop overpowered that feeling.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Spencer stated almost desperately, avoiding eye contact with you.
You exhale slowly.
“Spencer,”
He still refused to look at you, staring at his own trembling hands and scratching at the inside of his elbow.
With each second that passed, the need for a needle in his skin only grew stronger, and it was starting to become hard to keep resisting the urge.
“Look at me,” You tapp the side of his chin with your finger, a gentle gesture for him to turn his gaze towards you.
He slowly raised his gaze to your face, and you could clearly see how exhausted he was. Dark bags hung heavily under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his body was wracked with tremors from the withdrawal symptoms.
Seeing your sympathetic expression, his guilt only increased. It was like you knew exactly what he was going to say, and he didn’t know if that scared or embarrassed him more.
“I-,“ He started, his voice wavering. “I need-“
“Spencer,” You shake your head at him softly. “No…”
For a moment, he wanted to be angry, to scream and demand you understand his situation. But as he took in the weary yet sympathetic look on your face, a wave of shame passed over him.
“Please,” He whispered hoarsely, “I can’t do this. It hurts too much.”
“I know it hurts,” You rub your hand carefully down the curve of Spencer’s neck, settling it on his shoulder. “I know,”
He clenched his eyelids shut as your fingers began to massage his shoulders. It was almost enough to make him relax a bit.
Almost.
But that craving, and the pain, still clawed at the back of his mind, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore them.
“I need it,” He choked out, opening his eyes to once again gaze at you pleadingly. “Please, I just- I need it,”
The more he talked, the more desperate he began to sound, and he knew how pathetic he must look.
There’s a small pause as your eyes flicker over his expression.
“You remember why I offered you to stay here don’t you?”
He nodded tiredly, his head hung low in shameful understanding. You were trying to help him, and here he was begging you to let him do the one thing you’ve been trying hard to help him not give in to.
“Come on,” You let your hand fall from Spencer’s shoulder onto his leg, squeezing at his hand as it lies on top of his thigh. “Come with me,”
You groan tiredly as you climb out of the comfort of your bed, and Spencer hesitantly lets you guide him out of your room.
When it finally registers that you’re taking him to the kitchen, a flicker of pathetic hope blossoms in his chest, only for it to be immediately squashed down under the loss of your contact and the opening of your freezer.
It’s an ice tray that you pull out, cracking the plastic harshly against the edge of your kitchen counter to free the ice cubes from their confines and plucking one between your fingers, gesturing towards him.
He glances down at the ice cube, not really understanding why you’re giving it to him. But when he sees your expression, it clicks for him, and his eyes widen. He knew how withdrawal and drug addiction worked, so this trick wasn’t new to him. He just didn’t think you would be willing to do this for him.
He warily held out his arm to you, and even in the dim light of the moon outside, you could see the faint track marks that scarred his arm.
If you’re deterred by them you don’t show it, and you press the ice cube carefully against the bruises, dragging it over the tender skin.
“Do you want tea?
He winced slightly as the cold ice cube touched his arm, the sensation familiar yet foreign. He slowly shook his head at your question, not trusting his voice to answer you.
He stared down at the ice cube with a mixture of relief and shame. He was so far gone, to the point where the feeling of frozen water on his skin helped to calm the incessant itch of drug withdrawal.
“Hot milk then,”
He glanced up at you from under his flattened curls, slightly confused.
Hot… milk?
He’s confused for a minute, then it clicks. Hot milk. To help him sleep. Like a child.
It was embarrassing, really, but right now he was too tired to care.
So, he slowly nodded to you, watching as you busied yourself making him the warm milk. He was torn between looking ashamed that he’d even considered shooting up to have the easy out, and being grateful that you were willing to help him so calmly.
“Keep the ice going, Spencer,”
He quickly obeyed your instruction, bringing the ice cube back down to his forearm and slowly rubbing it over the faint scarring. It wasn’t the best, but it was better than nothing, and the cold soothed his itchy skin.
He stayed quiet as you made the hot milk, watching you carefully add a little bit of honey to help sweeten the drink. He wasn’t sure why, but something about you being so calm and unbothered by this whole situation felt so… comforting.
After a few minutes, you returned to him, hot cup of honey milk in hand, and held it out to him. He couldn’t help but stare at it for a moment, a swirl of emotions playing through his tired mind. But he quickly squashed the swirling thoughts, taking the milk from your hands and slowly sipping the warm liquid.
“The change in temperature should shock your system,”
He hummed in acknowledgment as he took another sip of the warm milk, letting the heat of the beverage run down his throat.
He’s read about the method before, where suddenly increasing or decreasing the temperature of the body can help with withdrawal symptoms.
It was supposed to be paired with hot showers and ice baths, but he supposed ice cubes and hot milk worked too.
He quickly downed the rest of the milk, watching as you took the now-empty mug from his hands.
As the heat of the milk began to warm up his body, exhaustion really started to wash over him, and he could barely stop a yawn from escaping his lips.
He could see the slight upturn of your lips when you noticed he yawned, and felt the shame hit once again.
Here he was, a 24 year old man, and you were handling this situation like how someone would a child. But the tiredness made it impossible to care very much about how pathetic this all looked.
“Come on Spencer,” You press your hand gently between his shoulder blades, a prompt to get him moving. “Back to bed,”
His movements were sluggish as he let you steer him back towards the bedroom. It was like his body had suddenly hit a wall of exhaustion without warning.
“I’m sorry,” He murmured, stumbling slightly as you guided him into bed.
“Shhh, none of that, lie down,”
He tiredly did as you said, slumping down on the bed and letting his tired body sink into the sheets. As he closed his eyes, a wave of exhaustion washed over him, making it hard for him to think.
“Thank you,” He whispered quietly, his words a bit slurred by the sleep that was quickly catching up on him.
“That’s it, just rest now, Spencer,”
He mumbled incoherently as he nodded, already slipping into the haze of sleep. As he slowly drifted off, he faintly registered the feeling of your hand gently smoothing his hair from his face.
And just like that, he was asleep. His breath evened out into the deep pattern of his sleeping breaths, and he relaxed, not realising just how tired his body had become from the strain of his withdrawal.
160 notes
·
View notes
One and only — Thomas Shelby x Fem!Reader
SUMMARY: She has been loving Thomas for a while now, and it is heaving on her the fact she thinks he still is in love with Grace — she needs a confession, a affirmation that she is not just filling in a gap. It comes in a unexpected night, followed by an unusual morning, but everything with Thomas was like that.
MUSIC: One and only by Adele
A/N: this is the second fic I am reposting from my old account (I accidentally deleted it) and it was from one of my celebrations (200 followers I think) that consisted of fanfics inspired by Adele’s songs from the album 21, this one was requested by a dear friend and it is very dear to me!! It happens between s1-s2, Thomas meets (Y/N) after grace leaves. Feedback is always welcomed!
WARNINGS: English is not my first language.
WORD COUNT: 5,477
[MASTERLIST] [MOODBOARD]
(divider credit is for @cafekitsune)
“Thomas,” she calls, staring at his back, but he doesn't answer, he continues to look at the field in front of them instead. “Thomas?”
“Hm?” He still doesn't look at her.
(Y/N) decides to finally walk to him, she does not stop in front of him though, sensing something was wrong and not wanting to disturb or annoy him somehow. She stops right behind Thomas, a step of distance between them, from this close she can see the tension in his shoulders better, and as much as she wishes to touch him and try to tranquillise him, she waits. He doesn't do anything, however, not even looks at her, and she sighs.
She looks at the field, too, trying to understand what is possibly happening in his head. But she has a strong guess, one she does not like at all. (Y/N) hates when Thomas lives more in his past than in his present life, for her, it was his biggest flaw; the way he was constantly living for memories and not for life itself. And she feels that now he is probably thinking about what happened two years ago, Grace.
(Y/N) does not care he is thinking of her, that she can understand, after all he did fall in love with her, it would not be easy, especially for Thomas who protected himself with so many walls, to forget the woman. She doesn't expect him to just stop thinking about Grace overnight, but it did hurt, sometimes, how it felt, as if she was living in the shadows of someone bigger than her. It had been Grace's mistake, but she was the one paying for it, paying for the mistakes of a woman she hadn't even met.
She also knew, of course, that it would take Thomas time to trust again, to open himself like he had before. She knew everything that revolved around a broken heart, she did, but knowing did not make anything easier to deal with. It was still hard to face Tommy and see how, even in his most present moments, a piece of him was lost. Sometimes, she would ask herself why she even stayed, when it seemed like Thomas would never love her the same way. But she did, returned to him every single time, hope, maybe, tying her to him.
“Tom, why’d you bring me here?”
Thomas had showed up in her house last night, surprising (Y/N) in the middle of the week. It was not how their encounters usually went, Thomas would see her mostly on weekends. Sometimes he would spend the night, sleep with her to leave only on Sunday morning, sometimes stay up until four pm, these nights they would dance in her kitchen while drinking whiskey. It was all simple, but what mattered was that they talked, that they would sit down to talk and would sooth each other. Everything between them was simple, even love, when it came to their realisations that they were in love. There hadn't been a confession, not from her nor from him, they had just looked at each other differently, held each other for longer, kissed with more passion than ever, and that was enough to understand.
But yesterday was very different. She could not understand what was happening, neither read it on his face. As soon as she opened the door, he was tense, eyes haunted — not like tiredness from work or exhaustion because of all his problems, but as if he had just heard terrible news and saw his world crumbling. When she greeted him with a kiss, he had not held her waist or face, and had returned the kiss distantly. Still, she breathed and let him in, hoping that she might help somehow. He didn't talk much, short answers only, but it was like he needed the attention, needed her to listen to him, so she did. After sometime, she had run out of ideas to console him and offered for them to share a meal together, and for the first time since they had known each other, he ate something. Almost unnerving, but she was so relieved that she chose to see that as a good sign. After that, Thomas just sat in silence while she cleaned the plates.
When (Y/N) finished, she turned around to see he was sitting still at the table, eyes closed, breathing like he was trying to control himself. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to hold back tears or a scream, whatever it was, it was consuming him, drowning him in anguish. (Y/N) moved slowly, getting closer to him and delicately grabbing his hand. Then she whispered his name like a secret, like she was afraid of being caught saying that, because, in truth, she wasn’t sure if she wanted Tommy to hear it or not.
But Thomas did, and he squeezed her hand like his life depended on it, returning the touch with such a force it took her aback. It was not like he never touched her, or that he didn’t show any sign of affection such as holding her hand, but that touch was different. It was acid, burning (Y/N)'s skin in seconds and leaving a million scars behind. Thomas touched her like she was the only one capable of saving him.
It was scary. It was exhilarating. It was a breath of heaven’s pure oxygen. It was suffocating as the smoke on a fire. And it was only a touch of hand.
But it said so many things, it said that he wanted her there, that he actually needed her there. And she was happy with being wanted, but being needed was something she could not even describe, it was overwhelming. It took (Y/N)’s breath away. It made her forget everything else she needed to do, because Thomas was there, all of him, in her kitchen, holding her hand and asking her to be there for him.
With care, she walked until she was behind him, her arms adjusting perfectly in his neck, allowing his head to find a rest in her belly, it was not often Thomas would let her be the one embracing him. Usually, he would be more vulnerable after they would have an entire night together, and he would lay down between her legs and relax on her chest while she caressed him. (Y/N) started to caress his hair, gently as she could, and she noticed that with time, Thomas was melting to her touch, a small smile grew on her lips, but she kept quiet. It was the first time she felt like she could have every single piece of him with her. He sighed as she took some strands of his face, inclining his head even more.
Thomas opened his eyes suddenly, and because of his moving, they were now staring right at each other. Her heart sank with what she could see, his eyes were dark and tired, hurt. Still, she didn't say anything, knowing it had to be him the one to initiate any type of conversation about what was happening, she only kept caressing his hair. After some seconds, he reached for her left hand and kissed it, making her smile again, he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, and she understood that it was his way of saying thank you. And, in a way, showing that he liked being near her like that. Although he seemed more calm, it didn't look like he would talk, and it was obvious how tired he was, so instead of asking anything, (Y/N) offered for them to sleep. He nodded, and they were quick to go to bed, a simple, but genuine kiss as a good night.
In the morning, he had all of a sudden woken her up with kisses on her neck — like last night hadn’t been so different, saying he wanted to take her somewhere. And yet, even though it was his idea to bring her, he hadn’t spoken since they got in here.
“I haven't come here in a long time.” He finally says something, making (Y/N) stare at him again. “My father…” Thomas takes a time to complete his sentence, “my father used to bring us here, sometimes, I hunted with him one day.”
“Hunted what?”
“A deer,” Thomas smirks, finally directing his look at her.
“You still didn’t answer me.” Thomas smirks only grows bigger at her words. “Why did you bring me here, Thomas?”
He keeps staring at her, she can’t tell everything he is thinking, but that he wants to say something and the words are hard to say, she is sure.
“I don’t know.” He confesses, and (Y/N) could have believed it if it wasn't for the hint of doubt in his tone, as if he didn't want to tell all the truth, but at the same time, didn't know all of it too.
She breathes deeply, she is trying really hard to understand him, she has been for quite some time, but he never truly gives her the chance. “It's that so?”
Thomas and her stare at each other for long seconds, it's not a battle this time, it's not her trying to reach him and him running away, (Y/N) feels as if she is already inside, but can't see what it is, and how could she? When he showed nothing before. She is not sure how to navigate this, what to search, what to ask, not this time, and that scares and frustrates her in equal amounts.
Thomas has these eyes that always make her feel naked, confused and alive. He sometimes looks at her like she is precious, like he cannot go a second without touching her, and she believes it, because his eyes are true, raw even. And then, he could look at her the way he is doing now, like she has just stabbed him, as if she has his heart in her hands to do whatever she wanted, and she decided to make him suffer. It wasn’t true, and it wasn’t fair, she didn’t have him like that, so why would he stare at her with all that devotion and agony?
She chuckles, lowly and dryly, and starts to walk, leaving him behind. (Y/N) doesn't know exactly what she is feeling at the moment, but everything is a little too much. She doesn't want to have to guess, it would be nice, for once, if he could finally say it out loud.
Stopping a few steps away from him, she finally takes a better look at everything in front of her, how beautiful that field is, how breathtaking the view of the sky is with no pollution from the city. The sun hadn’t completely risen yet, some shades of purple, pink, and orange decorated the sky. It looks just like a painting, she thinks, and it hurts a bit to realise that it would be a pretty day to feel good, for her and Tommy to be doing something enjoyable.
What bothers most is that it feels like there is just one last wall between them, and she had thought she would finally have him — but it's not simple, it never is. Thomas has to be the one to take that last step, he has to be the one to, at last, face what he is feeling. If she is the one to do it, to once again try to put pieces together to understand him, it will never change, he will only come home broken and expects mending. She wants more than that, she wants genuine words being said, wants to feel more than… a fragment.
She was afraid sometimes, what if the problem was not his past love, but her? Understanding that old feelings were hard to get rid of was easy, but to which point was Thomas protecting himself from any new feelings? Did it ever become a protection against her? (Y/N) would ask herself, what was he so afraid of? Afraid of having feelings for someone again? Or was he just afraid of… her? It scared her that maybe it wasn’t love and it’s disappointments that kept them apart, maybe it was her. And that she couldn’t fix.
She kicks some rocks by her feet and holds back another frustrated sigh, feeling like maybe she wasn't being fair, that her previous insecurities and frustrations might be influencing her. (Y/N) was trying so hard, to be seen, to be heard, to be loved. Because she loved him, honestly and easily, but had she not done this before? Tried to communicate, to understand? With others that now seem pale in comparison with Thomas, but still, love was a complicated thing. For her, it had always been, since the very beginning, since she had known what love was. It was not just Thomas, no, it would be unfair to say it was only him, perhaps she also needed time to deal with what was inside her. Yet she can't help to think it is different with him, there were others before, but he is the one that matters, he is the one she wants close at all times, the one she still stays close to even with all the hurt and words unsaid, waiting, wishing.
It was Tommy, after all, making her heart feel full and empty at the same time, occupying her thoughts, making her feel like things could get better someday.
If she just had the chance to properly talk to him… to cross all the bridges and understand, maybe then a conclusion would be made, one not based on assumptions she could not fully trust.
Nevertheless, here they are, turbulent thoughts clouding each one's mind. The surroundings are beautiful, the wind making leaves float in the air, both of them with their mouths clasped shut and minds running wild.
She can't see it, Thomas thinks, this time she doesn't seem to see the truth in his eyes. He notices the way she is shrinking inside herself, body almost crumbling, and he walks to her, he is tense when he hugs her from behind, arms keeping her in a tight embrace. Thomas knows she is fighting back tears by the way she lets herself go and relaxes her head against his chest as soon as he pulls her in. He can feel the way her body is fighting, half of her not willing to rest completely.
He never truly knows what to say, he did when he was with Grace, or almost always did, a clarity coming to him when he was about to do something stupid. With (Y/N) it is different, he knows how he feels, and she says the right thing, and he lets her read him, and they go on. Sometimes he has to say it, because she is tired, because she needs him to, or simply because he feels the urge to. But now it feels like they have reached a point that if Thomas keeps being silent, things will end.
Still, for a while they just stay in silence. Thomas keeps his touch steady, not entirely conscious that he is drawing patterns on her waist until she lets out a sigh that he recognises quickly by now, contentment, he can feel her relaxing a bit more. His hands wander a bit further, tracing her belly and up her chest, and as he remembers the night they met, his touch becomes heavier. For what felt like an eternity, he had wished to touch her. It was quick, she'd always say, how they met and how they ended up in a private room. She was not aware that for him, it had felt like a long waiting.
A party that he meant to go for business only, not even much interested in said business, at least not enough to try to do it in person, he had sent John to do it, but he got sick. Never before had Thomas been so happy with his brother being ill. Had he never gone to that party, he would not have met her. And it was a truth, even though he did not say it much, but a truth nonetheless, that since they met, she was constantly taking him out of his stupor. Since he had laid his eyes on her, he felt it, hands pulling him up, making him finally blink and wake up.
It was simple between them, it had been since the beginning, he had wanted her and there was no room for questioning if he would follow her, she had corresponded in the same intensity. Slowly their lives came in between, the days apart, the reality of each one, but even then, she only told Thomas she would be waiting, and there was no room for questioning if he would come back.
On the weeks with fewer visits from him, nothing changed, on the weeks he could see her more frequently, everything did.
Although his ghosts still haunted him, it was not the same as before, he could breathe now, push them away easier. But he had never been good with words when it came to this. To confess, he used words to get what he wanted, to conquer, long gone was the time words served as a way to connect and open himself. Grace had started to change that, easily as if she was a childhood love, she had picked up his heart on her hands. Thomas had not expected it, and when it hit him, he realised how truly in love he had been. For once his intuition had left him, after such a long time creating walls upon walls, they crumbled only to have to be raised again. He had also not expected it to change, to meet someone else, and yet, he did.
“What are you thinking?” She asks, head still resting against him.
“You.”
“You are thinking about me?” He can hear the small smile on her lips.
“Yes.”
“What about me?”
“The night we met.”
“Oh.” She chuckles, as if something suddenly made sense to her. “You were so pretty that night.”
Thomas holds back a smile, like he usually does when she says something like this. “I’d say you were more.”
(Y/N) laughs and turns to look at him, distancing herself enough so they could stare, he is relieved to see there are no tears in her eyes. “I was, but it didn’t last long after I met you.”
Her arms find a place on his shoulders as she hugs him, hiding her face on the crock of his neck. She radiates warmth, and Thomas welcomes it eagerly.
“It wasn’t all my fault.” Thomas says, dead serious, because sometimes she seems to forget they burn together, and she laughs again.
He feels when her body changes after a few moments, her breathing getting erratic, he prepares himself.
“Tom?” It's nothing more than a whisper.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking, and…” something in him is begging for him to interrupt her, he knows what is coming, he can feel it. “I think we should, you know, stop seeing each other.”
He stays quiet, his arms never leave her body.
“Why?”
She takes a long time to answer, and Thomas starts to look for words he can say, things he can do to fix whatever needs to be fixed. He knows what it is, but as her silence stretches so much, he wonders if there is something more, if there is more he did and was unaware of it, that isn't hard to imagine. He feels, somehow, the moment she shivers, her arms seem to lose strength, her embrace weakening.
(Y/N) takes a deep breath before speaking,“because… because I feel like I’m Grace’s shadow. I feel like you met me when you were desperately needing someone to replace the emptiness that she left at your heart. It’s not that I’m the same as her, no…” she hides her face even more in his body, “it’s just you wanted someone to make you forget all the pain. And it happened that I was there to be your distraction. And at the beginning, I didn't care. But now, I do.”
She stops, Thomas knows she is fighting back tears, knows that she hates having to say all of this. Then she whispers, “I care because I’m in love with you, and being someone’s shadow for the man I love isn’t my biggest wish.”
What a treacherous path Thomas had walked them into. He could not deny it what he felt in the past was real, what he and Grace had shared was still haunting him, as his deceptions and frustrations always did. He never admitted, but for him, things like that never left his mind, he just pushed them away, kept them hidden. And still, things did not need to be like this, he did not have to act like that. He did… he liked (Y/N), not just that, he loved her even. A small and fragile thing at first, threatening to hurt him, not because it hurt, but because it made him finally move on. But now, a year later, it was not that small any more, he knew what he felt, knew that he searched for her when they were apart. And Thomas had no necessity in comparing what he felt before with what he felt now, he knew it would take time for something like that to happen again — to be true, he had not even thought it would happen again, but it did, it is happening.
Thomas blinks, watching as flowers and leaves were stirred by the wind, a hollow sound surrounding them. There is so much more he probably doesn't know, more things she thinks and has kept to herself.
“You’re not Grace’s shadow.” He says in a whisper, his voice betraying him. It sounds weak, and he wanted to convey how strong his affection is. Nonetheless, he hears her sighing in relief, distancing herself from him a bit, but still not looking at his eyes.
“You love her Tom,” (Y/N) states, “you’re still deeply in love with her and all you lived by her side. If I’m not her shadow, then I’m a mere ghost of what she was.” She raises her eyes to his face, he is already staring, always staring at her.
She looks at him with so much resignation that Thomas is almost convinced he cannot change her mind.
“I’m not angry or mad or upset about this. I’m just sad.” She says it then, voice low, Thomas knows it is because she is holding tears back. “And it doesn’t matter how much I love you, I don’t want to be sad, to feel miserable every time I don’t act like someone I don't even know. I just don’t want that life for me, even if that means losing you.”
He looks away, not being able to stare at her eyes at the moment, not when he doesn't have the right words to say. It was not his intention for it to reach this point, for her to think he wants a copy of Grace. He knows he has to say it, explain himself, but it is like being paralysed. It's the kiss on his cheek that makes him finally blink, it is the way her lips are so delicate against his skin, a goodbye. She leaves his arms, turning around to go back to the car, but he holds her wrist immediately, (Y/N) stops, looking at him with knitted eyebrows.
Thomas takes in all of her at that moment, the determination clear in her eyes, eyes he has grown so accustomed to, that do not search him unless he opens himself, eyes that love him, tender him. Eyes that he cannot forget even when she is not with him. He looks at her lips, lips that have said the words he needed to hear, the ones he did not want to hear, lips that have kissed him with so much passion that he was able to forget the world for some hours. She has, slowly, found a place inside of him, roots with her name overtaking his chest. Her hair flutters around her face, she seems tired, (Y/N) offers no more resistance on her face, only resignation, but she does not pull away either. He engraves every single detail of her in his mind.
The words are not helping him, he cannot think of anything good enough to say, it is like she wiped his mind, leaving nothing but thousands of pictures of her behind. Of every moment she has used her words not to pry him open, but to convince him to do so, every moment she has held him in place instead of insisting on dragging him somewhere else.
It was at the moment, the sun shining brightly, orange light taking over the sky, making her skin seem warm to the touch, that he finally realised. It had always been simple between them, he did not need to complicate it right now, there was no need for elaborate words, only the truth. She wanted something straight-forward, (Y/N) was just asking for it to be real.
“I don’t want her,” Thomas says, words finally appearing. “I don’t want her like I want you. Not any more.”
And it was true, he had loved Grace, had felt something he thought himself incapable of after the war, and yet, it passed. She had betrayed him, and he still felt it then, sometimes still feels it now, but it passed.
She gives a step forward, “but you still love her, right?”
He allows himself to remember Grace's face, her tender touch, it was involuntary, the care that comes with it. But there is also the pang of heartbreak, the understanding and the sense of finality, there is nothing he can do to go back in time, and now, he does not want it any more. He has (Y/N), she mended what was broken. He takes a step towards her as well, hand tightening even more around her wrist, he wants her now more than he ever did.
“Yes.” he admits, because it is also true that (Y/N) can wring secrets from him. “But she’s past.”
“Is she, Tom?” She gives in a deep breath, “if that’s so, you’re a man living your days in the past. You’re always with her, even when you try to be here with me.”
“No.” he denies, low and firm, “It’s not me living in the past, (Y/N).”
“What is it then?”
He wants to say it at that moment, to confess she haunts him, that his past always does — who he was before war, who he became during it. It is a part of him now. But that is not his nature any more, to confess this easily, it takes time, and he has said more today than he ever did before. Instead, he looks at her, knowing that when nothing comes out of his mouth, that it's what denounces him, his eyes.
She reads him again. Thomas knows, he always knows when she understands. Maybe it is the look on her face, he has never been able to identify what it was, but something changed when she could get him.
“I know it ain't easy,” (Y/N) says, getting closer to him, she puts a hand on his face, “it seems to haunt you, Thomas.”
She is close now, enough that he can feel the warmth of her body again. Thomas lets himself relax against her, his hand still on her wrist, he can feel her pulse now, slightly accelerated.
“I feel left out sometimes,” she whispers, “as if she is right behind me, and I am echoing her words, or at least the words you wanted her to say.”
Thomas nods, “you are not like her.”
(Y/N) seems surprised at that, “what was she like?”
But that is too much. “You are different,” he establishes, firm enough for her to understand he does not want to talk about Grace like that. It's easier to just forget, sharing this feels strange, describing how he loved her — because it would not be just an impartial view of how she was. “And your words too, you do not echo her in my mind.”
You fixed it. Erased what hurt was left on the surface.
(Y/N) squint her eyes at him, he lets her stare into his eyes, lets her understand.
“If we…” she cleans her throat, “if you try, could this work?”
He bites his tongue to say that is already working, because yes, for him, it is, but she is opening herself to him and saying she is hurting.
“What do you want?” He asks, instead.
“You.” (Y/N) shrugs, “I know we can't be each other one and only. But it would be good if you opened yourself more, I cannot always read your mind.”
He must've frowned at that, because she immediately completes, “I know it's different for you, how you open up. I sometimes wish for words, it's true, but it is not what you can give me and I know that.” And although she understood it wrong — he was just surprised when she said she could not always read him —, he was happy to hear that.
Thomas puts a hand on her waist, pulling her and closing the distance that was left, he can feel her now, that smell that calms him every time they sleep together, he tightens his grip. There is not a world where he would refuse this, it is surprising, sometimes even slightly scary and annoying, how she managed to awaken him when he fought so much to numb himself. But he always comes back to her, always knocks on her door, because it is stupidity to refuse her, push her away, only a mad man would do that. He consumes her instead, goes to her house, drinks from her lips with such thirst it is as if he is famished, and it is never enough. Whatever she wants, he thinks, whatever she wants to stay.
She is looking at him with an indecipherable expression, but he cares not at the moment, he will have plenty of time to reflect on everything she said today, to understand her even more. Now, he searches for her lips, brushing his own against her, wanting to feel her before making the real move. He is not one for teasing, every time he does this, it is because the waiting feel as good as the actual kiss, the way he can feel her skin shivering, the way she whimpers slightly — because they are the same when it comes to this, she also has an insatiable hunger. They finally kiss, then, desperate to feel each other, it always feels like they are one at this moment, and nothing else matters.
She is the one to break the kiss, only to look at him and whisper, “I love you.”
Before Thomas can think of answering, her lips are crashing against his again, demanding, taking, and he answers it. He almost chuckles when one of her hands find her way to get under his shirt, but his own body leans into it in such a fast manner he knows he would be laughing at himself too.
Since the first time she touched him like this, he knew he had cursed himself. He knew he would be damned, growing hunger for that, fonder for her. She had scared him, and yet, proved herself to be exactly what he needed.
He broke the kiss this time, not being able to contain the smirk when he saw her drunk eyes, even though he was for sure laughing at himself too.
“I love you.”
She melts against him, smiles brightly. He does not know why he waited so long to say it, but he is usually like this, takes too long to say something important.
“You’re not her.” He finds himself saying, surprising the both of them, “you’re not her shadow.”
She nods, Thomas sees her blooming right in front of him. He feels something settling in his chest, his mind getting quieter, a miracle for its own, but even more special when he feels it because of her.
Please. He thinks as he gives a peck on her lips. Don’t ever say you’re a mere ghost, when I love you this much.
The wind was still stirring the flowers and leaves of the field, and the field was still the same, same as the sun shining in the sky. But somehow, everything seemed more right.
24 notes
·
View notes