#angsty goodness

[ky-landfill]

[lhaagain]

The Ground of Mercy

Summary: There's more to Julienne than meets the eye, even if she doesn't necessarily understand that herself.

Starts in the 1930s and will run right through the series.

This work is a bit of an epic and is a gift for the legendary @linguini17

Part 1: The New Girl

Chapter 1 - A Long Labour

Evangelina came in the front door, hung up her cape and headed straight for the Clinical Room.

“Where is she?” she asked tersely when she did not find who she was expecting. Their latest arrival in Poplar wasn’t going to last six months if she was any judge and this tendency to vanish into the shadows at the slightest difficulty certainly didn’t help.

“Sister Julienne sorted her bag,” Ada said calmly. “And then I sent her up to her room. What on earth happened?”

Read more on AO3

[yuly]

the level of angst here is simply ✨ top notch✨

where Simon introduces you to Ghost

PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader 

WARNINGS: established situationship (or is it).  angsty.  18+ only.

LENGTH: 5k

Sooner or later, this way or that, the bubble was going to burst, and now that it was happening—just as you’d predicted—you’d both turned out to be responsible for it.

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_____

Sooner or later, the bubble was going to burst.  You knew that, he probably knew that.  Your collective cognisance (and resigned acceptance) of the fact was in sync—so much so that you’d have found it comforting under different circumstances, how in tune with each you were—and you knew you’d collectively be responsible for it.  

Working together towards your relationship’s last hurrah.

You, with your devotion plain on your face, plain for him to see and develop a hostility to.

Him, with the sky-high walls he’d built around himself, only able—or willing—to show you any hint of what he felt towards you when he was inside you.

Sooner or later, this way or that, the bubble was going to burst, and now that it was happening,  just as you’d predicted, you’d both turned out to be responsible for it.

_____

With the benefit of hindsight, something was clearly bothering Simon that night, and you should have clocked his behaviour as odd immediately.  

At least your involvement starts innocently enough.  

You return home from a shit day at work.  A screw up in the orders the night before had led to an ingredient shortage (you’d had to have a commis run down to the shops to grab flour for fucks’ sake), a fussy table had pissed you off, and—today of all days for this shit to happen to you—you’d left your knives home, and had to use the shitty blunt knives at the kitchen.

You’re upset and your exhaustion seeps into your bones.

Under usual circumstances, this wouldn’t prevent you from seeing Simon per se.  Far from it, sometimes a rough pounding scratched the itch, made it easier for you to step away from your thoughts, gave you something else to focus on.

Today, however, was not usual.  Today, you just wanted to go home and sleep off your shit day, fully intending on consuming an inordinate amount of beer and passing out in front of the telly.

But…Simon had been back on leave for 10 days now, and you hadn’t heard from him at all, bar a text.  Landed.  

You knew the series of events that took place when he returned from deployment—he would take a day or two to reset.  Adjust into civilian life, as far as he could.  Then he’d text you.  You’d see each other three or maybe four times over the period of his leave.  Then he’d return to work again.  Rinse and repeat.

So when you walk home from work in the heavy rain—because why not—you’re taken aback to see him leaning against the front door to your flat block, looking broody and sullen as his eyes dart from person to person walking across the small park in front of your block.   

That, by itself, should have been an indication that something was wrong.  You’ve stepped into the outside world with him before and you know he’s always on guard, always switched on, looking for an unknown threat.  But he never makes it obvious, and every time you look up at him, his attention is focused on you.  

So today’s behaviour is an obvious red flag, a slip-up in the facade as he clearly wears his stress in the furrowed lines of his brow, but your elation at seeing him brings his gorgeous mask-covered face to sharp focus, muting all colours at the edges of your vision.

“Simon?” you ask, rummaging through your pockets for your key.

“Who the fuck else?” comes the gruff reply.

Your eyebrows rise as far as they can go on your forehead.  “Okie doke,” you murmur under your breath, but you know he hears you anyway when he scoffs.  Wow.  So it was going to be like that tonight.

You fumble with the key to your flat, but when you finally manage to let yourselves in, he pauses.  “What happened to your alarm?”

It takes you a second, and you grimace.  “Oh yeah, not sure what’s wrong with it.  Haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet.”  You run a quick hand through your drenched hair.  “I need to shower and dry my hair, do you need anything?”

You don’t even know why you ask.  He’s been over enough times to know his way around your flat.

“Gonna fix your alarm,” he mutters under his breath, and you have to force yourself not to roll your eyes at him.

“Look, Simon, it’s fine.  It’s whatever—I’m going for a shower, just order some food,and we can hang out.  Forget the alarm.  I missed you,” you blurt, and immediately regret the words.  

His massive arms cross over his chest immediately in a defensive posture, and you glance away.  “I saw you a month ago.”   

“I know, look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…it doesn’t matter–”

“You can’t say that shit to me,” he interrupts, his eyes dark with sudden ire.  “ I don’t want to hear it, yeah?”

“I just meant–”

“I don’t fuckin’  care what you meant.  Don’t. Say.  That shit to me.”

“Simon!  What is the matter with you? Did…did something happen?”  You take a step toward him and your hand reaches out to touch his forearm, but he backs up.  You’ve never known him to lose his cool like this, not at something so trivial, and certainly not at you.

“This was fucking stupid,” he mutters under his breath, and then turns to you with dark eyes.  “Don’t wanna do this right now, I’ll see you later.”  He turns to leave before you have a chance to say anything, and your broken safety alarm catches his attention again.  “Get this shit fixed.”  

The implied or else suddenly makes you see red.  Your heart thuds in your chest and you’re surprised at the sudden fury you feel right now.  

“Wh-What the fuck is happening right now?  Don’t fucking talk to me like I’m a dog!”

Your caustic words make him freeze with his hand on the door knob, and his shoulders tighten.  You can see how intimidating his enemies must find him in his rage.  He stands unnaturally still, and his back is turned to you, but you’re under no misunderstanding—his anger is both potent and consuming.  His stillness is dangerous.  

You take a deep breath and try to calm your racing heart.  “Look, just…can we talk?  Something’s clearly happened, let’s just calm down and talk about it, alright?”

He scoffs at your words and turns to face you slowly, arms still crossed over his chest.  “You wanna talk, pet? Let’s talk.  What do you wanna talk about?”

“Simon–”

“I’ll start.  Why the fuck is your flat falling apart, eh?  You need a functioning alarm.”

“Jesus Christ, what is the deal with you and that alarm?  This is ridiculous!” 

“You’re the one s’fucking ridiculous,” he breathes.  “You could get broken into in the middle of the night, and you wouldn’t even know it.”

You drag a hand over tired eyes.  “Oh my god, why do you give a shit?  This has nothing to do with you.”  

Simon exhales.  “It could happen while I'm here.  Then what?” 

“You can take care of yourself, Simon.  Besides,” you can’t hold back a small, bitter laugh “you’re not around enough for there to be a real risk to your safety, alright?”

“Is that what this is about?  How you missed me?”  His voice is mocking, and it’s enough petrol to your fire that your fury rises exponentially. “ I should be around you more?  Quit the army to be your lap dog, s’that it?”

“No.  We are not having this conversation, you’re taking this too far.”

What you don’t tell him is that you can’t have this conversation with him—not now, not ever.  You’re in love with him, you’re so helplessly in love with him, and it will break more than just your heart if he throws it back in your face right now.

“Not fuckin’ far enough,” he mutters.  “Christ, what the fuck am I doin’ here,” he says, running a hand through his hair.  

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?  Aren’t you here to fuck me, then leave, then come right back when you like only to pick back up where you left off, like the convenience that I am to you?”

“You think this s’fuckin convenient for me, pet?  Think anything about being with you is convenient?”

“Being with me?” you snort, your anger making you lash out.  “Please let’s not pretend that this is anything more than somewhere warm and wet for you to stick your dick  in every time that you’re in London, Simon.  I’m not with you, and you’re certainly not with me.” 

You turn away from him quickly, walking into your kitchen without giving him the opportunity to respond.  What you need right now is some space.  You don’t hear him immediately follow you, but you’re far from convinced that this is over.

You grab a glass from the cabinet above you, fill it with water.   Your fingers tremble as you bring it up to your lips, though you convince yourself that it’s because you’re still wet and cold from the rain. 

It’s your nerves that make you grip the edge of the kitchen counter hard, until your knuckles turn white. Fuck, where is this coming from?  What could have happened to him?  

You feel more than hear his presence lurking at the entrance to your kitchen.  You turn to him with a sigh, trying to stay calm and reason with him.  And though his words have been hurtful to this point,  something about the way he just stands there makes you look up at him.  His eyes are hard, an edge to them you haven’t seen before, but they’re also shiny.  Honest.  Wounded.

You sigh again.  “Can we just drop this?  Look I’m sorry I said anything, let’s just–”

“Do whatever the fuck you want to do, I’m out.”  He states, but makes no move to leave.  It’s almost like he’s baiting you to respond, waiting for…something from you.  You see his hands clench and unclench at his sides, see the slight tremble in his fingers.  

So this is how it ends.  This is the culmination of almost a year’s worth of devotion to this man, to making him the centre of your universe.  The fight leaves you almost as quickly as it arrived. 

“If you’re going to leave, then just fucking leave. Do  what you think is right.”

“What I think,” he yells suddenly, “is that you’re fuckin’ messing with my mind.”  His voice breaks and his hands go up to his hair, tugging at the short strands in frustration.  “You—you’re fuckin’ everywhere.  Y-you…SHIT.”  He slams his hand against the kitchen door, the frame rattling with the force.    

Your vision blurs with hot tears, from the hurt you feel and from the pity that takes centre-stage in your chest when you look at him.  He’s clearly wrecked with something you can’t put your finger on.  Something’s happened, something’s gone wrong at some point between the last time you saw him and now, and even Simon—with the world’s indifference he pretends to possess—can’t move forward, can’t look past it. 

Most of all, you resent that he’s making you tense, a natural reaction to a physically larger man looming over you and speaking to you in a raised voice.   

The tears flow freely now.  “What–what’s wrong Simon, please, jus–”

“Fuck,” he breathes, his eyes scrunched closed,  one hand holding his chest.  “I can’t—can’t do this.  Thought I could…forgot…can’t forget.”

“Simon…please.  You’re scaring me.”  You whisper, and it’s like you can’t help yourself.  Your feet take him to you as if it's the most natural thing in the world, and your face crumbles when he makes eye contact with you, and you see his shimmering eyes staring back at you. 

He slowly lowers to his knees and you go down with him.  He’s starting to pant like he’s been running hard, his breaths staccato and loud, and his chest starts to heave violently.  “Can’t–can’t breathe, shit, shit,” he whimpers, and you don’t think there’s much more of your heart left to break.

“Hey, hey, look at me.  It’s alright, I’m here, look at me.  There’s enough air in the room, Simon, listen to my voice.  There’s enough.  Just breathe for me.”  You try to soothe him as much as possible, trying to pitch down your voice, make it soft and lilting.  He grabs your hand in  a death grip, and you gently use your intertwined fingers to guide his face to the crook of your neck.  He comes easily, takes a deep breath, and for some time, this is all he does.  Just breathes in your scent where it’s the strongest, and you both sit there on the floor of your kitchen, shivering.  

Your tears slowly return, and he clutches at you tighter but says nothing.

_____

You don’t know how long you sit there with him.   

You hold him until the muscles in your arm ache and burn, and even then, you don’t let go.  You’ve enough awareness to realise that this wasn’t about you at all—you were just there when the dam burst—but you’d both said some horrible things to each other.  Things you couldn’t take back.

He shudders in your arms, once, twice, kisses your neck, then slowly lifts his head to look up at you.  He doesn’t cry—you’re not sure he even can—but his gorgeous green eyes soften and melt as they look deep into yours.  He’s never been vulnerable with you, this is more emotion than you’ve ever seen him show, and so you don’t say anything.  He keeps looking at you, searching for…something, but you’re not sure what.  

He seems to find whatever he was looking for after a moment, and looks away from you.  “M’sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

You nod and run your fingers gently through his hair.  “Does…does this happen a lot?”    

“Not for a while. Thought–thought they stopped. Sorry,” he says again, and sighs. 

You move your arms so they’re wrapped around him tighter, and lay your head on his shoulder.  “I know we don’t do this, but…do you want to go to bed, Simon?”

“Shit, I–I can’t.  Baby, I can’t.  Not tonight.”

You swallow at the rejection and your eyes dart away from him quickly.  You know this isn’t about you but you can’t help but feel like all he does is reject you, over and over.

But his hold on your chin is gentle but firm, and he brings your eyes back to his.  “I’ve been—there’s dreams.  Nightmares.  S’bad.”

“Then stay awake with me.  Let’s just stay awake together…in bed?”

You don’t know where you stand with him right now.  You don’t know where you’ll go from here.  But when he whispers a quiet okay, and gathers you to him, you think you understand where you stand, right in that moment, and it’s enough for you. 

You can only hope that it’s enough for him too.

_____

You undress quietly, facing away from him.  He turns the lights off in the room, you hear his mask drop on your bed stand, and then…bliss.  He pulls you to him and his arms wrap around you, legs tangling with yours, your face burrowing in his chest.  You almost can’t believe it—you went from just sex to almost nothing to…this.  

It makes all the soft thoughts you hold for him in your heart bubble up to your throat, and you have to hold back from blurting them out.

He stays silent for a long time, his breathing deep and even, and you wonder if he’s fallen asleep after all.  So when his soft voice pierces the night, you almost jump.  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.  Tha’ was—I’m sorry.”

You sigh.  He’s hurt your feelings, been completely inconsiderate, been downright hateful, and all you feel is fear that he’s going to take it all away.  You hate that the worst possible scenario for you is that he could take himself away from you.

 “I’m sorry, too.  I don’t—I know you don’t think of me as a convenience.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

But his body is taut now, tense.  He reads you well. 

“But.  You need to define what you want here, Simon.  I respect you enough to stick to our original agreement.  But if you want to…pause this, then do it.  It’s fine.  But I won’t be strung along—”

“S’not fine to me.”  It’s all he says.  You’re physically close enough to him to  feel his heartbeat between your bodies, strong and starting to take off in his chest.  Your heart, in turn, thuds painfully in your chest, hands and feet clammy, feeling the adrenaline in his body move into yours.  

“What happened, Simon?”  Your words are soft, but firm.

“No,” he whispers, his grip unyielding on you. “Not tonight, please, pet.  Know I fucked up, Jesus.  Fuckin’ knew I went too far today…just not tonight. Please.”

You pause a moment.  Hear his words.  “Okay,” you agree, and lean your face up to kiss him.  He responds eagerly, clutching you tight.  Far too eagerly,  considering the events of the evening, and you feel him hot and heavy against your thigh.  You’re not surprised.

Pleasure and pain all mixed up in his mind. All paths, you’d once hoped,  leading him to you.  Seems like they finally did.

You continue to kiss him, languid and slow, and at one point you feel his brows tightly furrowed and pressed against yours.  An emotion you can’t name settles deep in your chest, and it makes your heart swell and throb.   

Simon is an enigma to you, a puzzle you can’t solve, a man you thought felt only the bare minimum, just enough to get through his life.  But he proves you wrong, shows you just how little you know the man you’re in love with.  Simon feels.  He feels so much, feels so intensely that he separates his entire person from it—becomes Ghost—and tries to keep your Simon safe.

But you know that right now, in this moment, it’s not Ghost who pulls you over him, hands moving over your back gently, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of your skin.  It’s not Ghost in your bed right now, kissing you like the world is ending around you.  And it’s not Ghost who lets you go for a second only to wipe your tears and press gentle kisses along your jaw and the side of your neck.

“Can I?” he whispers.  “Pl-please let me, fuck, let me—”

“Yes, God, please.”

He wastes no time after that.  You think he’s going to push inside you—you brace for that sweet, first stretch—but you’re quickly flipped around so you’re on your back.  He crawls down your body, pulls your panties off and you’re not prepared,not even close to prepared,for the barrage of sensation his body invites in yours. Warm breath for a sliver of a second, then a hot tongue and a thick finger find you molten and willing for him, and you think that this, right here, like this with you, this is where he belongs.  

He may belong to whatever demons reside in his mind, whatever he does out there when he’s away from you for months on end, but he belongs to you while he’s here like this too. 

You’ll take whatever you’re given and you’ll endure.

He pulls you away from your thoughts just as they descend into forbidden territory, but you don’t care.  He can keep himself locked away from you as much he wants, as much as he feels he needs to, but he can’t stop what’s already taken root in your chest.  That belongs only to you.

“S’this okay, pet?  You alright?” He whispers, then dips his head down to nip at where the evidence of how alright you are paints the insides of your thigh.  “You with me?”

“I’m with you, Simon,” you whisper back, the irony and stark contrast of the words against the ones you’d flung at him earlier not lost on you.

Seems he’s thinking the same thing.

“Won’t happen again, dove.”  The words are promised against your clit, and his fingers don’t stop moving inside you when he speaks.  “Promise, I–fuck–I won’t bring it home again.”

The whispered words don’t give you much solace—you know he can’t help but carry it with him wherever he goes, even if he thinks differently—but his use of the word home lights a warmth in your chest like you haven’t felt before.

Home, yes, this is home, with him, worshipping between your legs and you, hovering on that cliff edge, waiting for that feeling only his touch brings.  Waiting for him to give you something you can’t quantify, waiting for him to release the part of you that he holds so you can run free with it, now it’s been imbued with his essence.

He doesn’t keep you waiting long, gives you exactly what you need to be able to drop off that precipice without anything to catch you—and when your pleasure finally runs in your veins, you know it’s because only he can touch you the way you need to be touched at that moment.   

Your hips arch against his mouth, and you haven’t even fully come down from your high yet before he’s moving away from you, freeing himself from his jeans and pushing inside you to the hilt.  The feeling of sudden fullness is almost overwhelming, and your breath sputters and chokes in your chest, as though he’s lodged himself in your throat instead of your cunt.  You gasp and clutch at him, but he’s not done taking your breath away—he lifts both your legs and effortlessly puts them on one of his shoulders.  

You know you’re the singular object of his focus when you close your eyes and turn your face away so the meagre lights from your window don’t accidentally show you his face, but his hand moves to your jaw and brings it back to him.  “Open your eyes, sweetheart.”  

“Simon—”

“Open them,” he insists.  “I want to see your gorgeous eyes, sweet girl.  L-let me see them.”

You open your eyes.  

You can’t see him clearly—of course not, it’s close to pitch black in the room—only the outlines of his features, but you understand what he means.  You want to see his gorgeous eyes when he pounds into you with no abandon, showing you he cares for you in the only way he thinks he’s allowed to.  It’s dark but you can see pieces of him.  A mosaic.  You can draw your own conclusions from the pieces of the puzzle you’ve been handed.

Your eyes trace the crooked length of his nose—how many times has it been broken?  You bring your hand up to trace a single finger over his tight jaw and move up to gently run your hand over his hair—how long can it grow?  Does he cut it himself?  You can’t imagine him allowing someone else to do it, touch him like that, he wouldn’t allow that level of intimacy.   

“I want to get on top,” you breathe.  He starts to shake his head, but you cup his face in your palm.  It makes him pause, then nod.  With a grace you think someone of his size and build shouldn’t possess, he helps you up without slipping out of you, and sits up while you straddle him.

You start to ride him,  but hug him close to your chest—the coalescence of a thousand galaxies in a universe-shattering type of violence could not pull you away from this moment with him—and he groans against your skin.  His mouth moves to your throat, and you swear, you swear, he whispers into the crook of your neck before he kisses it, but you’re so far gone that you don’t hear and you can’t think to ask him.  You’re safe like this, with his arms wrapped around you and with the knowledge that he cares—just doesn’t know how to show it.

Home in the truest sense of the word.

His hands move to your back, supporting you, even as you rise and fall steadily on his cock.  For as desperate as he was railing into you before, he seems perfectly content for you to take your time now, reach the pinnacle of your bodies’ connection, but not sprint towards it and end it too soon.  One of his arms moves to cradle the back of your head and the small shift causes your clit to grind against the coarse hair on the base of his cock.  Your throaty moan doesn’t go unnoticed—nothing ever slips past him unnoticed—and he jerks his hips up, over and over so the sensation never stops, and you feel closer than ever to your peak.

You’re panting now too, the strain on your muscles making you slick with sweat, and you can tell he’s close too.  His jaw is clenched and his eyes stare intensely into yours, but you feel the tightening of the muscles in his thighs and his hips never cease their insistent pistoning motion into yours.  

You’re so close, so close to coming and his hand disappears just briefly between the two of you where you’re joined, rubs at your clit, gathering the slick and bringing it up to your mouth.  You exhale at the filthy action—even after all this time he finds new ways to surprise you—but you grab his fingers before they reach you and push them into his mouth instead.  You catch the widening of his bright eyes and his sharp hiss, but he keeps them on you as he sucks on his fingers.  You grab his face and kiss him then, and the movement of his tongue inside your mouth mimics that of his cock—it’s deep and thorough, leaving no stone unturned in absolutely undoing you. 

You pull back for a moment, and you’re both suspended as though in space—nothing between you but darkness, but you’re wrapped in it too, so are you really apart?  

You suppose you are and you aren’t.

The only two people in the universe.  

He thrusts up into you a few more times, his rhythm broken and stuttering, but his eyes never leave you.  You come just like that, your eyes screwed shut tight and your body burning up with molten heat.  It licks down your spine, and you feel tingles running down the length of your body, from your fingertips all the way down to your toes.  

Your world goes bright then dark, a supernova behind your eyes from the orgasm he gives you, but a black hole where you feel his arms wrapped around you—opposite but sister forces, blinding you when you try to look at him but pulling you into him anyway.

The only two people in a universe that is kind enough to let you pass through it together, that lets you exist at the same time as this man, gives you the privilege to love a man who is so clearly deserving of it, unashamedly craves for it, has been denied it at every turn in his life.

While you come down, you dread the conversation you still need to have with him.  His behaviour is not on but you can’t help but focus on the fixation with your alarm.  That singular thing could not have set him off.  Unless—

Well.  You can’t even start to guess.  The life he leads when he’s away is so far removed from yours, you can’t even begin to imagine what he’s seen, the things he’s done in his line of work.  Fuck, you don’t even know what his line of work is.

“Can hear your mind workin, pet,” he murmurs to you.  “You gonna tell me?”  He moves his face so he can kiss your neck, then decides to stay there.

“Just—just thinking about you.”

“Not thinkin’ about much then?”

“Plenty,” you insist with a small smile.  “Actually, I was thinking about how you must hate how much I reek.  Just came home from an extra-sweaty shift and you fucked me before I even showered.  Disgusting.”

“Quite the opposite, pet.  Ain’t tasted anything sweeter,” he murmurs.  He even makes a point of it by licking his favourite spot on your neck. 

“Dirty flatterer,” you whisper.  His face lifts up to you, and he slowly lifts your hand up and brings it to his face.  You can feel the beginnings of a smile on his lips, and it tells you what you need to know for now.  “Shower, then take out?”

“Yeah, pet.”

“Then maybe we can look online, find a replacement for my alarm?”

You hear him swallow, then nod and lean in to kiss you.  He kisses you for what feels like a lifetime, pouring a profound sadness and longing into it.  You’re scared of it, as much as you hurt for him.  You still don’t understand it, you don’t get why this situation made him so upset to begin with, but you’re willing to work with him on it.  You’re willing to—

“Need you safe, pet.  Can’t—won’t compromise on that.  Need you to be safe while I’m away, yeah?”

“Okay, Simon.”

“Mean it.  Was a proper dick to you today, it won’t happen again.  We’ll…talk about it,” he mumbles.  “But you need to stay safe, I won’t—you can’t get hurt.”

“I won’t, Simon.  I won’t get hurt.  This is a safe neighb—”

“No.  Things can happen, dove.  Trust me.”  He exhales heavily.  “Fuck, trust me, I know.  Just need to know you’re safe when I ain’t here.”

You acquiesce slowly, nodding and laying your head on his shoulder, your heart full with his words.  

How is it that every time you think you figure out one part of the puzzle, it expands, as though no amount of individual pieces of him could ever hold him, could ever hope to draw a full picture.  It’s like he exists outside of the plane you reside in, too big, too complex to be deciphered by using small pieces of him.   

No, he only unravels when he hands you the string and tells you to pull.   He’s only ever yours when he chooses to come to you himself.  

Simon, Ghost, you don’t care. 

You love the version of him that does. 

[lejoursobre]

Global warming is wild isn't it? I mean? Warm and salty raindrops 24/7? specifically in Soho???

(I physically can't draw angst sorry I did my best here)

[perpetualcontrolleddrowning]

Something something the way that Crowley introduced himself to Aziraphale the first time they met in the garden and reacted as if they had never met before. Something about him later behaving as if he did actually have those memories of their time in Heaven together and trying to pass it off as being someone different now. Something about Heaven's way of punishing angels that go against the plan by erasing their memories. Something about Crowley seeing Gabriel without his memory and saying "ask him properly." Something about "remember it now" "it hurts, to remember. my head isn't built for that" "I know. Do it anyway"

Something about "I know. Looking at where the furniture isn't"

Something about I know

[wilderbas]

got hooked on dbd didn’t i

[bradshawburner]

I am too tender for this! I am so soft and teary-eyed. This was perfectly and wonderfully and heartbreakingly painful in the best way.

I ACHE.

Bradley is eleven, will turn twelve in five months, his mom has been dead for over a year, and his dad for over nine.

His homeroom teacher gives him a permission slip for a school trip to some dumb museum Bradley’s probably already been to and says, “Your dad needs to sign it before next Monday.”

It’s Mav picking him up from school today — it’s Ice, usually, but he is supervising night-time flight maneuvers tonight — so Bradley gets in the car and they go over the normal, how was school today, any new grades, any homework to do, do you need to bring anything for class tomorrow.

They’ve stopped at a light and Bradley takes out the permission slip and says, “Mrs. Sanchez said my dad needs to sign it before Monday or I won’t go.”

Mav—Mav freezes. His hand grips the shift gear and he clenches his jaw, not looking at Bradley. The car behind them has to honk for him to snap out of it.

“I’m—I’m not your dad, Bradley,” he finally says.

“It’s just what Mrs. Sanchez said,” he points out. He doesn’t think it’s such a big deal — Mav’s been doing everything a dad would for years now, for Bradley, and Ice has been helping him the last couple of years. It’s a conclusion that many come to and it seems logical. Bradley is sure half of his teachers thought that even back when his mom was alive, Mav had certainly been to enough PTA meetings with her that it’d be an easy mistake.

“You can correct her, buddy, no one is going to be mad if you correct her, okay?”

They arrive at the house and Mav still hasn’t added anything. Bradley shrugs it off — Mav has these moments, sometimes, when he gets all quiet and unresponsive. Ice usually tells him to leave him alone or wait a couple of hours and try to cuddle with him. Bradley is kind of too big for that now, but it seems to help sometimes.

So Bradley asks if Mav needs help with dinner and after hearing no, goes back to his room.

Out of all that mess, he forgets about the permission slip.

He sits down and fills out all the empty lines so Mav just has to sign it — in capital letters, his handwriting isn’t that readable yet — and leaves just that last line with the date and signature empty.

He thinks, once again, about what Mrs. Sanchez said.

He doesn’t feel the need to correct her, still. He barely remembers his dad — he knows he loved them and he’ll never forget all the stories he heard from everyone but they’re, well, just stories. Mav is the one who taught him how to ride a bike and helped him make stupid macaroni projects for art classes, taught him how to count to a hundred, and how to tie his shoelaces and who would notice when Bradley was outgrowing his clothes or needed a new shoe size. Mav is there, every memory he has. Mav loves him like his mom and dad did.

Mav is his dad.

If Bradley’d really think about it, Ice is getting really close to being his dad, too. He’s making Bradley’s school lunches and helping him with his English homework from time to time, and he comes to Bradley’s matches and, even if Mav will never admit it, he’s the one who choses Bradley’s Christmas and birthday presents. He makes him hot chocolate when he has nightmares and stays with him for hours in the living room, reading plane manuals out loud, in the same tone his mom used to use to read his bedtime stories.

Bradley calling Mav his dad is as logical as people assuming he is his dad. And maybe it can be the same with Ice, in the near future, or maybe even now, if he agrees.

Bradley wants to call Mav dad.

So he grabs the permission slip and goes to the kitchen to tell him that.

“I don’t know, Ice, I just don’t know.”

He doesn’t notice Bradley there, standing with the piece of paper in his hand in the doorway. The phone’s cord is stretched across the kitchen, almost completely straight, as he talks with the handle between his ear and shoulder, slicing an onion at the same time.

“I’ve always wanted to have kids, as unrealistic as it seemed, but not like this,” he continues. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I’m not his dad, he’s not my son, it’s just wrong to think that, I’m not—He can’t think that.”

Bradley blinks. Once, twice, a third time. Takes a quiet step back behind the doorframe, flattens his back on the cold wall. Holds his breath.

“I mean, you’ve always said you don’t want kids,” Mav says, the knife clanking on the cutting board as he changes the hand holding the phone. “We made do with the situation, obviously, but we’re not his parents—”

Bradley doesn’t want to hear more.

*

Bradley was right — he’s already been to the Castle Air Museum. More than once, with his mom, with Mav and Ice, and with Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah.

His dad didn’t sign the permission slip but Mav did.

It’s sunny so they’re left to wander around the outside display. The tour was boring — their tour guide couldn’t even answer the questions about engines and wingspans and takeoff capacity and it was so disappointing to know more than the adult that was supposed to teach them, again.

The rest of his class went with the tour guide, to see the open cockpit of the Mentor but Bradley just turned around to the F-4 that was on the edge of the display, old and partially reconstructed with cheap metal and plastic. He sits down on the grass in front of it and lets the sun shine at the modern paint that should not belong on the fuselage of a Phantom.

Mrs. Sanchez comes over, standing above him, looking at the Phantom with an appreciation that is clearly less understanding and more awe at the sight. She hums before asking Bradley, “You don’t want to see the cockpit with everyone? Maybe they’ll let you sit in the pilot seat, today. Our group is small.”

The open cockpit belongs to T-34, a piston-driven one they stopped using in the fifties. “I flew one of those, but it was a T-34C, powered by a turboprop.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at him, tilting her head a bit, not really understanding what Bradley said, like most people don’t when he talks about planes. ”I suppose it’s not that impressive of a place when your dad is a naval aviator, is it?”

Mav told him to correct her so he does, “He’s not my dad.”

He brings his knees closer, wishing she’d go away. Instead, she sits down next to him, her white pants smudged green by the grass in seconds.

“Is something wrong at home, Bradley? Is your—Is everything okay with Pete?”

“Yeah,” he says because he doesn't want to be whiney. He’s already been enough trouble. “His dad flew one of those.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at the plague in front of them to remind herself of the plane’s name. “A Phantom?”

“Yeah, during Vietnam War.”

“He must be really proud of Pete then.”

Bradley supposes he’d be. “He didn’t come back.”

Mav lost his dad, too, and then his mom. He met Bradley’s mom in the foster system and she became like a sister to him. Bradley probably wouldn’t even know Mav if Duke Mitchell was alive.

Bradley was in the foster system for three weeks when his mom died, before Mav and his case worker had filed all the appropriate paperwork. He was placed in a foster family in the neighboring town — the wife, Sandie, didn’t work and would take him to school every morning, and the husband, Robert, was a corporate lawyer, bent from six to five. They would take Bradley to church every Sunday with the rest of the kids even though Sundays were the only days Mav had enough time to drive out of Fresno and visit him while the paperwork was still in progress,

They were nice, he supposes, and some of the kids called them mom and dad, so they couldn’t be too bad.

“Is there a way I could go back to the foster system?” 

Mrs. Sanchez looks away from the plane, clears her throat, and asks gently, “Why would you go back there?”

“I dunno, just—Is there a way to put me back there?”

“I don’t think so, no, Bradley, not unless—” she breaks off, taking a deep breath, and says softly, “I’m sure Pete wouldn’t like that.”

Maybe he wouldn’t like that but it’d make everything easier for everyone.

*

It’s a few weeks later. Mrs. Sanchez hasn’t mentioned anything to Bradley even if she keeps on looking out for him during recess so he doesn’t think she’ll drill the topic.

Mav and Ice have both gone to the PTA meeting which Bradley finds odd. They’ve always been very careful about their relationship — his mom had given him a talk about how he couldn’t call Ice Mav’s boyfriend when he was six, well, Bradley had called him his husband because he didn’t really know the difference back then, and he had been instructed to keep it a secret.

He’s never mentioned it to anyone, since then, especially not to Mrs. Sanchez. He used to think it was stupid because they were both his parents and they should both be allowed to come to his plays and career days and charity fairs, but now he supposes it was convenient since Ice didn’t want a kid and probably didn’t want to be included in all those parental stuff anyway.

They pick him up from Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah’s place but they don’t say anything. Usually, they at least mention that Bradley has good grades.

Maybe he’s doing something wrong, again. He got into one fight a couple of weeks ago but Mav said it was alright as long as it didn’t happen again.

“Can you come up to the living room once you unpack?”

Bradley takes his time. He unpacks his English homework, the only one he couldn’t do but also one Uncle Slider couldn’t really help him with — Aunt Sarah probably could but she’s been sleeping the whole time because apparently being six months pregnant is making her super sleepy. Contemplates asking Ice for help with it but decides it’s probably better he doesn’t.

He needs to start doing these things alone. He can’t bother them forever.

In six years, he’s going to be in college, and he holds onto that thought.

“So, your grades are perfect and we’re really proud of how well you’re doing in school, but—But Mrs. Sanchez mentioned a couple of things about your behavior,” Mav says.

Bradley doesn’t sit down with them on the couch even though they left space for him in the middle. He also doesn’t reply anything.

They both look at Bradley for a long moment and he fidgets under their gazes.

“Mrs. Sanchez said you asked her whether we—whether we can give you back for adoption,” Mav begins. “We’re just worried about where that question came from, Bradley, we aren’t going to—”

He said we like Ice actually wants anything to do with Bradley’s guardianship.

“We love you, Bradley, we promised your mom we’d take care of you and—”

He isn’t their son. He’s a promise they’re keeping and nothing else.

“Can I go back to my room?”

“Buddy—” Mav begins again.

Bradley doesn’t want to hear whatever he has to say. He already knows everything he needs to know.

“I know you love me, I know you won’t give me back. It was just a stupid question, is all,” he says because that was the truth — they promised his mom they would love him and here they were, trying very hard to do that.

They don’t need to pretend it’s anything else.

“Okay,” Ice says, carefully. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate and we can talk some more—”

“I just want to go to sleep.”

There’s a moment of silence and they give each other a meaningful look before turning back to Bradley.

Ice notes, “It’s not even seven.”

“We painted the whole nursery with Uncle Slider, I’m just tired. Can I go?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Mav says.

“I know,” Bradley tells him even if he isn’t so sure about it. “Can I go? I still have some homework to do.”

part two/Slider POV now here

[lorehappy83]

"Grant me your wrath, my dear. For I've become unworthy of your forgiveness"

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[galaghiel]

Both Jack and Maddie stared at him, speechless. Silence blanketed the lab, everything but Danny’s strangled crying, his hand pressed over the muzzle as if to hide it. No- to hold it still, to still the dozen wicked barbs that were digging into his tongue, probably ripping it with each sob.

a little sketch of @liketolaugh-writes amazing one-shot fanfic that you can read here

[bradshawburner]

You felt important, but he couldn’t figure out why. And he couldn’t think of your name, either. It’s that feeling of being right there on the tip of his tongue, but it just wouldn’t come out. 

“I can’t remember. I’m sorry. Should I?” 

You gasped lightly and he doesn’t like that sound, either.

Remember You Even When I Don't (1)

Summary: A training accident, the doctor had told him. A nasty one that led him here, laying in a hospital bed with a splitting headache and an inability to remember the woman sitting beside him. What he did know, though, was that you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and you felt important to him. That, as it turns out, would become an understatement.

Words: 2.7K

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw/Reader (no use of y/n, so can be read as unnamed oc)

Warnings: angst, hospitals, memory loss, language.

Notes: I'm so excited and so nervous to be posting this. It was originally going to be a one shot, but it got a little out of control and so I've decided to try and split it up into multiple parts.

This was inspired by a one shot by the lovely @roosterforme and would not exist without her assistance. If you haven't read any of her stuff, please check out her masterlist - you won't be disappointed!

------

He woke up feeling like his mouth had been stuffed with cotton balls and an ice pick had been taken to his head over and over and over again. The pain was blinding. The grimace on his face must show, because suddenly there was a squeeze to his hand and a soft voice by his ear. 

“Bradley?”

That’s him, he recognized, maybe taking a little bit longer than he should have to realize that fact.  

“Oh, Bradley. Can you open your eyes for me, honey?” 

His movements felt slow to him, delayed and lethargic and like he’s fighting against more g-forces than he ever has. It takes him a moment to pry his eyes open, but when he does, he immediately flinches and squeezes them shut again. 

“Shit, oh my god I’m sorry,” that voice speaks again. The pressure on his hand is released and he hears what must be the squeak of a chair being pushed back. A soft click sounds through the room, but it felt like another clink of the ice pick on his skull. It’s a little less bright beyond his eyelids now, though. In another moment, his hand is warm as it’s encased in another again. “Lights are off now.”  

It felt like a tremendous effort to open his eyes again, and the process is slow. As he came into consciousness a little more fully, he registered the pain in more than just his head. And oh, there was a lot of it. He tried to shift just the slightest bit and immediately regretted it. It felt like every centimeter of him hurt. God, even blinking hurts.

The room comes in and out of focus, and even when it mostly clears, there was a slight blur around the edges of his vision. He recognized enough to know he was in a hospital. The white walls, the iv running through the crook of his elbow, the continuous beep beep beep of the monitor on one side of the bed are a giveaway to that. 

“Baby, baby, hey, don’t try and move, okay?”

The voice on the other side of the bed must belong to whoever is holding his hand. Despite the request, he couldn’t help but slowly, slowly turn his head in that direction. The voice was captivating, melodic, almost, and he wanted to see who it belonged to. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus on you, but when they do, he’s blown away. 

“Wow,” he breathed out in awe, his voice scratchy and sore, “you’re beautiful.” 

The breathtaking woman holding his hand laughs, and the sound is beautiful, but then tears well in your eyes. He doesn’t like that, he decided. He’s confused as to why he cares as much as he does about that fact. “Please don’t cry.” 

“I’m sorry,” you responded as you wiped under your eyes, “it’s just so good to hear your voice and see those eyes, baby.” 

There’s something he’s missing. The nagging feeling in the back of his head tells him that it’s something important, vital, imperative to his very survival. He racked his brain to try and find what it was, but the pain was so severe and his vision was starting to go in and out again the more he tried to figure it out. God, what happened to him? 

“Let me call your doctor,” you insist, and you’re standing to press the button on his bed when he tries to speak through the pain again. 

“Are you…not my doctor?” 

His voice was low, but he knew you heard him by how your entire body froze and your watery eyes snapped to him. Tears were welling again, he noticed in his blurred vision, but the look you have in your eyes was different this time. 

He felt like he did something wrong. 

You pressed the call button over and over again, more times than is probably necessary, before sinking back into the chair that he was starting to think you’ve been in for a long time. It felt like your hand was holding onto his a little bit harder now. 

“Bradley…do you know who I am? Do you know my name?” 

The pain in his body was ricocheting through him so viciously that he felt he may throw up, but he tried to push through it and think anyway. It felt important. You felt important, but he couldn’t figure out why. And he couldn’t think of your name, either. It’s that feeling of being right there on the tip of his tongue, but it just wouldn’t come out. 

“I can’t remember. I’m sorry. Should I?” 

You gasped lightly and he doesn’t like that sound, either. Before he could try and apologize, for something he wasn’t completely clear on, the door to his room opened and suddenly there were way more than the two of you in the room. He’s surrounded by white coats and navy blue scrubs and your hand wasn’t in his anymore and he missed the feel of it. He flailed slightly, trying to find it once more, but you were being ushered to the back of the small hospital room and that doesn’t feel right, either. 

“No,” he muttered, not listening to any of the medical personnel asking him questions and poking and prodding at him. He just knew that he wanted you back beside him, looking like you did when he first woke up, not sad like you did now. 

Everything hurt. 

Someone was shining a light in his eyes and he was so overcome with it that he at first didn’t notice how everyone in the room stopped moving when he had been asked what year it is and he had said 2018. He answered again when they asked who the current President was and his date of birth. 

By the collective intake of breath throughout the room, it seemed the last one was the only one he got right. 

“Lieutenant Commander -”

“It’s just Lieutenant.” 

The doctor clicked his flashlight off and took a small step back, clearing his throat and contemplating his words before he spoke. “According to your official Navy file, you were promoted to Lieutenant Commander two years ago. And unfortunately, Lieutenant Commander, it’s no longer 2018. It’s 2022, sir.”

The beeping of his heart monitor was starting to quicken, and his own breathing was loud in his ears. 

The doctor started speaking again, but Bradley couldn’t hear him. There was a consistent buzzing in his head. He was starting to get unbelievably dizzy. He felt like he was going to be sick. Throughout it, his eyes were still on you. The tears were streaming freely now, no longer being pushed away in defiance, with your hands covering your mouth as you stared back at him like you were having a hard time seeing him. 

A shimmering caught his attention and for the first time, he noticed the ring on your left finger. The edges on his vision started to go dark, and as the possibility of what that meant hit him, he no longer felt or saw anything at all. 

_________

He had been unconscious for three days. 

A training accident, the doctor had told him, and a nasty ejection that involved not only slamming into the canopy, but into the plane itself. He was unconscious before he ever hit the ground, but his parachute had done its job on at least getting him there. More broken ribs than intact ones, a collapsed lung, more cuts and bruises to add to the regular collection, and a skull fracture and swelling on his brain that explained his massive headache and his apparent lack of memory. 

Four years of his life. 

Four. Years. 

Somehow, though, that wasn’t the most shocking thing he had heard since regaining consciousness. 

The woman in the room was his wife. You were his wife and he didn’t remember you. But he knew you. He knew that he knew you. He could feel it in his aching bones when he looked at you. 

It took a long time for the two of you to be alone again. A nurse had been in the room when he next woke up and the doctors quickly followed to explain all that had happened to him. He had almost immediately been rolled away for a variety of testing, poking and prodding. He wasn’t sure how long it took, but by the time he made it back to his room, there was no natural light filtering in through the windows anymore, and the ward itself was a little bit quieter. It must have been late.

You gave him the smallest of smiles from the chair next to his bed as the nurse who brought him back made sure all of his monitors were hooked up properly. She explained a few things to the both of you, seemingly unfazed to be sharing his medical information with someone he didn’t know. He supposed it didn’t matter, though. Because you’re his wife, and it’s your legal right to have this information. 

When Nurse Anne finally left, the two of you simply stared at one another. The air felt awkward, taught with unfamiliar tension. It settled over the room for a moment before you cleared your throat. He tried not to focus on how you were playing with the ring on your finger, twisting it around with your thumb.

“How are you -“

“I don’t know your name.” 

He didn’t mean to blurt out the words, especially when it cut off whatever you were about to ask him. But the thought has been going through his mind since you had asked him when he first woke up what must be hours ago now.

He had hoped for a revelation when you told him. Your name bounced around in his head, searching for something. But the only thing he found was disappointment when nothing hit him. 

He was tired and wanted to go to sleep. Even with the pain medication continuously dripping through the IV, his whole body hurt, but he couldn’t, now. He was desperate to speak to you. He wanted to make some sort of sense of this mess, but part of him, some part he was no longer familiar with, also just wanted to hear your voice again. 

“How…how long have we been married?”

“Three years,” you sighed, rubbing your eyes. It seemed that all he’d made you do since he woke up was cry. Bradley could tell that you were holding yourself together with all the strength you could muster. He admired you for that. You must have realized quickly that he was distracted or that the math was hurting his still aching head, so you followed up by explaining you had only been dating for four months before he proposed, and had been married by month six. 

Despite all the confusion and both the physical and mental hurt, he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. “You were crazy enough to say yes after four months?” 

You laughed, and oh, he thought, that’s a beautiful sound. 

“You definitely aren’t the first person to accuse me of that,” you revealed, though it didn’t come as much of a surprise because it made sense. Meeting and marrying in half a year was intimidating, and a bit insane in his eyes. He had always been slow to trust and even slower to love. He wondered about those first four months and what they must have been like to inspire him to propose, but instead of asking, he took the quiet that came over the room as an opportunity to just…look at you. There was an ache in his chest that he couldn’t quite explain as he does. 

Your hair was pulled back loosely at the base of your neck, more than a few pieces falling out of the hold the band had on it. You were in plain black leggings and an oversized Eagles sweatshirt that threatened to swallow you. In the back of his muddled mind, he questions if it was his, or if you maybe shared his enjoyment for the sport and team. Your skin was blotchy and your eyes were puffy from all the tears. 

You looked as exhausted as he felt, but you were still so, so beautiful. He doesn’t know if he’d ever seen anyone so beautiful, in fact. It was the first thing he had thought when he woke up the first time, and his opinion hadn’t changed. 

“This must be really overwhelming for you,” you said after a few minutes of silence. He could sense your nervousness rising and noticed how you were rubbing your rings again - he wondered if it was a tell of yours all the time. “I don’t - I don’t want to make that worse, so I - I can go, if you’d like me to.” 

“Go?” he questioned. Something that felt like panic flickered inside of him. He doesn’t think he likes that idea. 

“Yes. If you wanted to be alone. Or I could - I guess I could have someone else come stay with you?” You looked like you dreaded the idea of it, but he knew you would do it if it was what he wanted, and wasn’t that something? He had never had someone who would willingly put themselves through hurt if it made him feel better. Your last question raised one of his own, though, and he couldn’t help but ask. 

“Have you…been here the whole time?” 

“Of course,” you whispered with a nod. You leant forward in your chair like you were going to grab his hand but stopped yourself at the last second. You were still rubbing the rings on your left hand as you considered the words you were going to say. 

“I had to have my gallbladder removed last year,” you spoke again after a moment. His eyebrows furrowed, searching for a memory and coming up short. He didn’t know where you were going with this. “I was at home when I started getting these really bad pains. I would have thought it was my appendix, but I had that removed when I was a kid. After the pain didn’t go away I decided I should probably go to the hospital. I knew you were in the air that day so I left you a voicemail and sent you a text about what was happening. They had just put me in a room after running a few tests to figure out what was wrong when you came crashing in, demanding to talk to a doctor about what was wrong with me and then demanding to know why I wasn’t already in surgery if my gallbladder was so inflamed and infected that it was causing me as much pain as it was. I was in the hospital for less than 24 hours but you were there the whole time, holding my hand. Then you took time off work so that you could stay at home with me. For the first few days, if I did anything more than lift the tv remote or turn the page in my book, you were stopping me so that you could do it yourself. You were so worried about me.” 

He could feel it then. It was a strange sensation, really. He didn’t know you. His mind couldn’t produce any memories of you, but the thought of something happening to you, of something having happened to you, made him worry. He felt protective of you and you weren’t more than a stranger to him right now. 

“I say all this to say, Bradley, that if the roles were reversed, if I were the one in that hospital bed, I know exactly where you’d be, too. Because you have been. It doesn’t matter how big or small. I know you don’t remember but…that’s…that’s who we are, okay? There’s nowhere else I’d have been but right here by your side.” 

Your words hit him harder than he expected them to. He didn’t really know how to respond. He couldn’t make sense of all of this.  

“I think I want you to stay,” he whispered, almost afraid of the words. 

This time, you didn’t stop yourself from reaching out to him. You settled your hand over his and squeezed gently. And though you didn’t let your touch remain for more than a moment, the brief interaction spread warmth through the area. 

“Get some rest, sweetheart. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” 

-------------

Notes: Thank you for reading! Your feedback is so important to me. Please let me know your thoughts and if you're interested in more of this being posted :)

[mcducky1356]

Firefight by @remedyturtles is all wrapped up! If you haven’t read it check it out! It is so good!

[ninjasmudge]

something abt the horrors of godhood

[kringle-c]

"It's only-"

[bradshawburner]

I live for the pain. Gimme all the angstttt.

Me whispering “my sweet poor baby” about the full grown men I call babygirl having a fic author put them through an angst woodchipper for the billionth time again

[hitwiththetmnt]

Just a Number P1 P2

@butterfilledpockets bent boys have a good spread of ages between them to talk about