#but a Very Grown Up And Respectable Dreamblog

[hausofmamadas]

| In defense of Wonderbread White: Eureka!Character moments |

Aka a sort-of love letter to my fanfic author friends

Because we've all had that moment when we've sat down to write and the way it comes out, you just know, "this blorb is in my bones." And the reader knows it too.

For @narcosfandomdiscordNarcOctober Fanworks collection [October 14]

Prompt: Day of Support - Create a review, response, or analysis of a Narcos or Narcos Mexico fic, in the style of an Amazon review or a NYT book review or something like that.

⁂

In lieu of a traditional screamblog, I thought I'd take this opportunity to expand on the Steve Murphy master's thesis that I brought up in a prior screamblog for @garbinge 's Narcoctober fic, For Old Time's Sake, in order to highlight a common phenomenon that I've noticed as a reader and experienced as a writer - specifically, when the character work in a fic is so seamless, the character is so well-crafted, it's clear not only did the author put a lot of thought into world-building or canon-consistency, their love for the character and attention to detail and observations and extrapolations of that characters' journey manages to take them and elevate them beyond the original portrayal. Colloquially, we might call it, "This one's in the very marrow of my bones."

The most recent experience I had with this was reading this ☝🏽☝🏽 fic (as well as another Steve&Reader fic by @garbinge) and though this idea had been bouncing around in my head for a while, it was solidified specifically because well, let's just say I am not exactly Steve Murphy's Biggest Fan. I'm not even just a Steve Murphy regular fan. And in my original screamblog, I explained that while I don't hate 'ole boy Steve, he frustrates me to no end. Quite frankly, the man makes me crazy.

Why? Oh, I don't know, could it be the gung-ho, frontier lawman attitude? Or the fact that he moves to a whole ass other country, is presumably there for several years and never actually learns the language? Or is it the persistent dismissal of his wife's very valid concerns as the violence of his job escalates significantly and poses a threat to theirs' and their newly acquired child's life? Or maybe just the tale-as-old-as-time, Tennessee, toxic masculinity. And as I type this, I promise it is not lost on me that you can't throw a rock without hitting a male character who doesn't also possess almost every one of these distasteful qualities.

So, why Kay? Why does it bug you so much when Steve Murphy does it? I have no answers other than what I said in my screamblog, wherein I described Steve as being a painfully White American Man, to the point of being Whitebread White. It's not his fault. It's not even within his control, it just ..... bugs me.

And yet, reading this fic, I found my tried-and-true prejudices and criticisms of Steve Murphy falling away enough for me to really see the character. It was like I had my guard up and that guard was a pair of thick-rimmed, 1970s-grandpa-vietnam-vet bifocals, and I needed to view him through a different lens, aka your groovy, pink-tinted, bedazzled, heart-shaped shades, to put that guard (the bifocals) down. And before I knew it, I stopped roasting him in my head for being ridiculous (lest we get it twisted, he still ridiculous but so is every other man), long enough to actually buy into the character and empathize more deeply and profoundly with him and his plight.

And in spite of myself, I was then further re-contextualizing scenes and interactions from a show that I have literally watched more times than I can count, and picking up on aspects of his journey, the space he occupies in his relationships and the bureaucratic, professional law enforcement hierarchy, and his relationship to Javi specifically (who's brand of toxic-manchild I tend to tolerate more as a rule, for no real logical reason except that he’s quieter about it) that I had never considered before, to the point that I felt like I began to understand why this character is loved and stanned by so many. I don't know that Steve will ever be my cup of tea, but I can say with certainty that I finally get it.

But! And this is the crucial part of my whole thesis, in order to get it, it took someone much more fond of him than I could ever be, writing him from a place of love, for me to understand and accept the word of the Good Lordt. And isn't that an incredible thing about fanfic?

So, what specifically in this fic caught my attention and disassembled the metaphorical spitfire that little piggy Stevie comfortably roasts over in my mind, at pretty much all times? There are a few touchpoints, and I'm going to get somewhat meta with it, so bear with me.

It was your attempt at erasing the memory of the day but it was too late. His words echoed in your head. "That was the first person I ever shot, a teenager not even old enough to buy a six-pack." The room was permanently tainted with it. But this time ... it felt lighter, it felt different, like things could be different. -> So, this bit really moved me and it's funny because I don't know if this is something that was actually said in the show at some point, or if it was a bit of backstory that originated in the mind of @garbinge. One might argue that it's more creative if it was an original backstory added by the author, but I'd argue that, if indeed it was a throwaway line in a voiceover or a bit of dialogue, mentioned once and never again, it's equally creative to call back to that as a fic author. Because what that means is (and I know this for a fact because I’ve done it in the process of writing for my own fav characters) you've been paying such close attention, dissecting with such precision each and every frame of each and every episode they’re in, devouring every available bit of canonical detail of this person’s backstory, and turning it over and over and over in your head, thinking about how that event might've affected their actions or influenced their behavior and outlook. That is character work just as much as coming up with original backstory or worldbuilding. You know this person because something about them grabs you. There's an impetus to dig deeper. And while the impetus may not have been—or certainly wasn't, in this case—mine, pointing out these little things that I might otherwise tune out or not give much thought to because I'm not consumed by fascination (lbr, at times, infatuation) with that specific character, the highlighting of these details in more penetrating and thoughtful ways through fanfic, forces me to take them more seriously, reckon with their complexities, and therefore, enhances my enjoyment not just of the fic at hand, but of the character and the show itself.

Folding clothes. Another thing that brought him back to that night. Folding the clothes that used to be soaked in blood, how easy it was to wash away the evidence of it ... If he saw a therapist, they'd likely connect it to how that was the jumping off point to everything he'd gotten himself into since then. Colombia. Escobar. The whole thing. But that was the thing, he didn't see a therapist, the closest he got to it was a bottle of whiskey and a few mumbled words to Javier Peña, his DEA partner. -> This is one of my favorite sections of character work and greatly assisted in my buy-in as a reader because while it's clear Steve was conjured up in the fic with love, it's not an overly idealistic view of him. It's not blind to his faults (which, again, can be admittedly found in any other male character in the franchise) but it also refers to this particular flaw in light of an experience of trauma and that serves to humanize him in my eyes, rather than solidify my personal bias. It's incredibly disarming and in my humble opinion, the mark of a character who's been well-rotisseried in the mind of the author.

Steve had thrown his clothes back on and you were in the process of putting your shirt back on. He was quick to grab the shirt, bringing it down your body and situating it on correctly. He went back to resting his head against yours once you both were settled. -> Okay, this is probably one of the greatest examples of, "this man is in your bones," because the physical portrayal of his mannerisms, the ways in which he expresses affection in intimate moments are things I have never given a single thought to. And yet, when it's presented to me in such a perceptive way and in the context of a relationship with someone who relates to and reflects Steve so proficiently (that is, the capital-r Reader, but who I also can't help but see as an extension of the author because I, too, as a fic writer relate to my favs through other characters in a fic), it reveals new facets that I wouldn't have taken care to look into or uncover for myself. But even though the perspective is new, the light in which I'm seeing him is new, his mannerisms are wholly consistent with what I do know of Steve and what's been demonstrated in the show. It feels wholly authentic in the sense that were this shot and edited as a scene in an episode, an actual part of the show, it would fit flawlessly. I wouldn’t be like “wait, is this still Narcos? what show am I watching?”

"You didn't say you missed me once, until two seconds ago. You said you missed this," you waved your hand around, "that you missed waking up calm, the palm trees, the laundry ... I'm not mad." You added quickly to let him know, taking your hand to move his chin up to look at you. "I get it, I can't even imagine what it's like down there, how the lines blur, how heavy the days must feel, but you're doing the right thing." -> Again, the lack of over-idealization of Steve through the words of Reader, followed up by referencing and emphasizing the difficulty of his job, the fact that he's constantly being put in a position to be traumatized for reasons both in and out of his control is so disarming for me as someone who tends to view Steve solely through a lens of criticism. And the fact that he’s wanting Reader to be Jesus and Take The Wheel and take the power of choice away from him is really heartbreaking when you (and by you, I really mean me) really take a moment to consider what he’s actually going back to. Because it’s also quite clear and well-established contextually in the fic that this is not S1 Steve, all green and eager and fresh-faced and ready to jump right into the work. This is probably a Steve who’s cat’s been mutilated and left at his front door, a Steve who’s already chased sicarios through the streets in dangerous neighborhoods, maybe even seen some of those same sicarios chucked out of helicopters, a Steve who’s literally been snatched off the street, kidnapped in broad daylight and taken to another city by a rival cartel. The guy’s going back to a war zone. Only, he hasn’t been drafted and he must be asking himself, “for what?” a lot by this point.

So yeah, all in all, it really feels like there's Steve, then a massive body of water, then me, and then this fic is A Bridge of Understanding over the body of water. And the bridge can really only be constructed by someone who's just frankly more fair to and forgiving of the man than I. But in light of my criticism, I also think that makes me qualified to say more emphatically than anyone that, this man? This man is in your bones.

Why is this important? Why does any of this matter? Well, besides the massive explosion of dopamine it brings me to commiserate with people over the internet about a show and a community that saved my life at a really hellish, emotional taxing, crucial turning point, it's like paying the love forward! It's like saying, "here's why I love this character," in a really poetic and profound way but without saying that. It's like making me love a character you love but also leaving me with the false impression that it was somehow my idea and that makes me feel Real Fancy and good about myself? It expands the dimensions of my love for A Thing that I didn't think could be expanded because The Thing is over. OH AND, arguably most important, it inspires me immensely and makes me a better writer.

And because this isn't the only instance this kind of character Eureka!moment happening (just the starkest one because of my inexplicably powerful Must-Roast-Steve bias which is mildly reformed but admittedly still present and probably always will be because he just makes it so easy), I feel it a moral imperative to shout out the other writers who've decoded or enhanced my understanding of certain characters because This Blorb Is In Their Bones, as well. For instance, my first Steve Eureka experience was a fic written by @drabbles-mc called Really That Simple, but other Religious Experiences include the following:

Walt Breslin as written by @drabbles-mc in A Good Time and a bunch of others Hector Güero Palma in Taking Damage and Angel Reyes in the When the Crows Come Home series as written by @narcolini Ramón Arellano Félix as written by @rerorero-my-cherry in Sola Con Mi Soledad on AO3 Eduardo Sandoval in Survivor's Forgiveness and in some behind the scenes snippets of An Unpublished Masterpiece and David Barrón in self elegy of the late homecomer as written by @ashlingnarcos Guillermo Calderoni as written by @artemiseamoon in the After This is Over series Gustavo Gaviria as written by @kesskirata in Vengeance for Me Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo as written by @purplesong1028 in The Perfect Storm series Mika Camarena as written by @proceduralpassion in Depth Over Distance Joaquin Chapo Guzmán as written by @cositapreciosa in Juro Que

By no means is that a comprehensive list, but those are the ones that I can think of off the top of my head. There are countless others that I could probably find links for but this is already asslong and it’s getting late. So, that's all my ramblin's for now. I don't even know if this made any sense KEKW but basically, in conclusion, me to you all:

Foldin' Clothes

Steve Murphy x F!Reader For the @narcosfandomdiscord October Prompts. Day 2 - Day of Music: Put your favorite playlist on shuffle and whatever song comes up first, that’s your prompt. Summary: Song Inspo - Foldin Clothes - J.Cole // Steve makes a surprise visit home, but things aren't as picture perfect as either of you would like them to be. Word Count: 3.2k Warnings: All my fics are 18+, regardless of content. Angsty. Mentions of illness, sickle cell disease, blood transfusions, etc. Fighting, arguing, not a happy ending, but not like too too harsh. Slight mentions of smut like blink and you'll miss it type stuff. A/N: First off shout out to Tay's fic inspo playlist for this one!!! Second, it doesn't exactly follow the tone of the song buuuuut it def takes from things said within it!

Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @narcolini

The sun from the window hit Steve’s eyes and stirred him awake. It took him a minute to come to, taking a few seconds to wipe his eyes with his watched hand and sit up to take in where he was. It wasn’t home, he wasn’t really sure if he had a real home these days, he technically lived in Colombia, in a small apartment building that he shared with other DEA agents, it was the furthest thing from home. He sold his house in Miami before leaving for Bogata, but that never felt like home either. This, where he was waking up, wasn’t home, but it was the closest he ever got to it. 

He rolled over to find himself on the edge of the couch. Funny how it was probably the most comfortable night of sleep he had gotten in a while. You were pushed up against the backrest of the couch, looking completely at peace as light snores left your mouth. He smirked as he got up, taking a moment to look at the clock. 6:17AM. There was no way he was going to wake you up this early, no matter how much you would argue his ear off when you did wake up. Every minute was valuable since he was set to go back to Colombia tomorrow. 

He didn’t think he was going to come visit you, but the minute he landed in Miami he was telling the taxi driver your address. 

“Hey, can I use your phone? I need to tell my parents I won’t be able to come visit them on my break.” 

Those were his first words to you. Of course you let him in, and he did just what he asked. Said something came up and that he wasn’t able to come home. And then ensued your night of catching up. You did what two people who were stupidly in love with each other would do, you had sex, you talked, you ate copious amounts of food, from all of Steve’s favorite Miami spots, you watched movies, but to say you really watched them was a stretch. Most of the time you were doing the previously mentioned items. You drank a lot of wine, Steve mentioned how it felt like forever since he had a glass of wine, his thirst was generally quenched by some sort of amber alcohol that was hidden in someone's drawer. 

It was a great night, but a late one, which is why Steve was going to let you rest. He moved over to the pile of discarded clothes from the both of you and scooped them into his arms. His head moved back to make sure he didn’t miss anything before making his way to your laundry room. He knew his way around here, it helped that he stayed here pretty much daily for a year before he got pulled away to Colombia. Each room had a memory, some good, some bad. The laundry room’s memory wasn’t the best, the first thought that came to his head was his first kill on the job. It was a kid. He came home, and you were quick to meet him at the garage door and grab his things, tell him to disrobe and throw his dirty, bloody, clothes into the washing machine. It was your attempt at erasing every memory of the day that you could but it was too late. His words echoed in his head.

“That was the first person I ever shot, a teenager not even old enough to buy a 6-pack.” 

This room was permanently tainted with it. But this time, after the initial thought, it felt lighter, it felt different, like things could be different. 

Steve was tossing the clothes in the wash, grabbing the detergent and putting the machine to the right setting and then making his way back out to the kitchen. He saw you still on the couch, but now you were sprawled out completely taking up the entire space. It made him smile to himself, waking up with you, to the sight of you, it was something he’d never take advantage of again. As he entered the kitchen, he began to put together something for breakfast. He was careful in what he chose, wanting to keep the noise level low so as not to wake you. As he opened the cabinet above the fridge, he was met with an array of cereals, he laughed as the memory of you begging him to eat the raisin bran for once over the honeycomb came to his head. Something about the sugar. 

As he looked around the rest of the kitchen, he noticed the slight mess of things, dishes in the sink, pots and pans uncleaned on the stove, bags of groceries still on the counter not put away. It would have been nothing if he didn’t know you, how you normally kept things around the house, but the real telling factor was the calendar on the fridge. It was filled with tasks and meetings, but what caught his eye was the amount of doctors appointments. It was constant, phlebotomy appointments, nutritionists, general practitioners, the list went on and on. 

The bowl was now empty, just a little bit of milk and the remnants of honey comb still floating in the liquid. It was his third bowl, between the first and second he had made his way back into the wash room so he could switch over the laundry, it’s what caused him to stop focusing on the calendar on the wall trying to figure out what was happening. Now he was sitting there, windows open, looking out the backyard, seeing the palm trees sway from the wind, the clouds were rolling in, which meant there was a likely chance for a drizzle later, typical for Florida. To be honest he missed it, not the rain, or the palm trees, or even Miami even, but this yard, this house. Waking up like this, calm, being able to enjoy these mundane tasks, that was what he missed. 

The ding from the dryer had brought him out of his thoughts, he was making his way to the wash room, taking a quick peak at you still to make sure the dryer bell didn’t wake you. You were back squished up against the backrest of the couch, the sight of it made him smile. 

Folding clothes. Another thing that brought him back to that night. Folding the clothes that used to be soaked in blood, how easy it was to wash away the evidence of it, but yet somehow the memory was still so permanently in his mind. If he saw a therapist, they’d likely connect it to how that was the jumping off point to everything he’d gotten himself into since then. Colombia. Escobar. The whole thing. But that was the thing he didn’t see a therapist, the closest he got to it was a bottle of whiskey and a few mumbled words to Javier Peña, his DEA partner. 

“My dad volunteered to fight in World War 2 because of Pearl Harbor. He laced up his army boots and went to fight. It was his duty. Cocaine in Miami? Kilos in Colombia? This is my war. This is my duty.” 

Those were the words he spoke to you when he told you his assignment, where he was going. Before he could think of your response, your voice said something else, but this time in the present moment. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” The sound of your groggy voice brought Steve’s attention onto you as you leaned on the frame of the doorway. 

“It was a late night, figured you needed rest.” Steve smiled at you as he was folding the last of the clothes. 

“So this is what you came here for? To do my laundry.” You crossed your arms and got comfortable in the standing position you were in. 

“Was trying to keep busy.” Steve chuckled as he tossed the last of the clothes in the basket above the dryer. 

“Yea, you should have woke me up.” You kicked off the doorway and approached him, wrapping your arms around his middle and bringing him closer to you. 

Steve fell into the embrace easily, his arms encasing you, his head resting on yours. 

“When’s your flight?” You mumbled, not ready to break the embrace. 

“8AM tomorrow.” His mouth was speaking just over your head before he placed a quick kiss there. 

“24 hours.” You inhaled deeply as you accepted the fact. You pulled away from him, took a few seconds to look into his eyes, try and puzzle together what he was thinking that he wasn’t telling you. 

“A lot can happen in 24 hours.” Steve spoke up, the comment was meant as a tease, as a flirtatious comment, and that’s how you took it, at first. 

He leaned down to kiss you, his lips touched yours and his hands moved to cup your face. It was an attempt to bring you closer to him, for him to soak in every kiss, every touch, every feeling. You smelled the honeycomb on his breath and it made you laugh into the kiss. 

“If you’re gonna sneak the sugary cereal you should learn how to hide the evidence.” You whispered to him in between kisses.  

“Hey, you’re the one who keeps them in the house. Can’t blame me there.” He spoke back to you, his head resting on your forehead. 

“Maybe I kept them there for you, you ever think of that?.” Your eyebrows raised and you could see his face change. It was slight, but you picked up on it immediately. 

Steve however, pushed right by it and was immediately kissing you. You were propped up on top of the dryer and he was starting to move his hands under your clothes. 

Before you even could realize it, he was inside you. Your hand was gripping the back tuff of his hair as he entered in and out of you, your head fell back as you felt every emotion ever get sent into overdrive. This was Steve, your Steve, he was back, he was here, and he was inside you and nothing could beat that emotion right now. Both of you didn’t last long, despite the countless times you went at it the night before, but it had been a long time for the both of you. 

Steve had thrown his clothes back on and you were in the process of putting your shirt back on. He was quick to grab the shirt, bringing it down your body and situating it on correctly. He went back to resting his head against yours once you both were settled. You closed your eyes, feeling exhaustion come back over you.

“Tell me not to go.” Between Steve’s voice and what he said, it jolted you awake. 

“What?” You didn’t need the clarification, but you did need another couple seconds to get your thoughts together. 

“Tell me not to go.” He repeated himself, same tone, same voice. 

“Steve.” You slipped by him now, breaking the closeness you had and made your way to the kitchen to grab breakfast for yourself. 

He was behind you immediately. 

“I’m being serious. Tell me not to go. I won’t go.” He said now with more firmness in his voice, putting that pressure on you. 

“You know I can’t do that.” You said as you reached in the cabinet for a bowl. 

“You can, just say it and I won’t leave for my flight tomorrow.” Steve was practically begging now. “I’ll stay here and we can eat take out from wherever, and I’ll do the laundry, fold the clothes for you, I’ll eat the fuckin’ raisin bran like you want me to.” His voice was pleading now. 

“Steve. You can’t come here, unexpected, and then just throw this decision on me.” The sentence was true, but harsh, which is why you spoke it in a way that didn’t come out mean or strong. 

“I’m not an idiot. I see what’s happening around here.” Steve raised his voice now. Your face twisted up and that was just more fuel for him. “You’re fucking sick. You told me that shit wasn’t serious, you let me leave when you knew what it was, you lied to me.” 

You didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t wrong. You were sick, you did tell him it wasn’t serious. But you did that for his own good, he needed to go to Colombia, staying back to take care of you would have meant resentment and stress, and fighting. You were never the couple that fought, you didn’t want to become that. The irony. 

“But whatever, I don’t care about that. It’s clear you have a lot on your plate and I wanna help. I miss this. I miss waking up calm, I miss the fuckin’ palm trees, doing laundry.” In a quick instant he was back to pleading.

“Steve.” It was the only thing you could think to say at this moment. 

“I wanna do the right thing.” His voice was soft and he had tears building up in his eyes.

You approached him, taking his head to rest on your shoulder as he cried. Standing there together you rubbed your hand up and down Steve’s back. 

After a few moments of standing there in eachothers arms, you spoke up. 

“You are doing the right thing.” 

Steve didn’t speak, although you knew if he was going to say anything he was going to argue with you or deflect. 

“I miss you.” Deflection. 

You weren’t sure which was better of the two, at least with arguing there was a chance of getting down to an agreement or to some type of closure, deflection just buried things deeper. But instead of trying to pull at deeply rooted weeds, you decided to bring a new argument to him. For his own good. 

“Can I be blunt?” You asked him, hand still tangled in his hair as you pulled away to look at him. 

Steve just gave you a look, one that meant, ‘even if I say no you’re still going to say whatever it is.’ It made you smile, but you didn’t want to chuckle too much because you knew the next statement was going to sting. 

“You don’t miss me. You miss normalcy. You miss home.” It was now that you fully pulled away and crossed your arms. There wasn’t anything angry about what you did, because you weren’t angry, you were just being honest. It didn’t hurt you, whatever Steve had going on in Colombia was bigger than anything you could understand. The things he’d probably seen, the things he’d probably done, it made this situation entirely different. 

Before Steve got the chance to open his mouth, likely to now argue, you cut him off. 

“You didn’t say you missed me once, until two seconds ago. You said you missed this,” you waved your hand around, “that you missed waking up calm, the palm trees, laundry.”  Your head dipped to look directly into Steve’s eyes which were now staring at the floor as he knew you had made your point. “I’m not mad.” You added quickly to let him know, taking your hand to move his chin up to look at you. “I get it, I can’t even imagine what it’s like down there, how the lines blur, how heavy the days must feel, but you’re doing the right thing.” 

There was something in Steve’s eyes, maybe it was sadness, maybe it was desperation, maybe it was a mix of both. But regardless you knew the question out of his mouth was coming sooner or later. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick?” His hand was coming up to caress your face now. 

“You wouldn’t have gone. I can’t be the reason you stay behind.” It was a easy answer, as hard as it was to get out. 

“I would’ve wanted to stay.” He argued. 

“You would have resented me, even if it wasn’t obvious.” You were doing a good job avoiding talking about being sick. 

Steve scoffed and lowered his head before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “How bad is it?” 

“It looks worse on paper than it is.” You turned around now, filling up a glass of water. “I’m at the doctor a lot to monitor my reactions to some new pain meds, sometimes I need the occasional blood transfusion, it’s normal for someone with sickle cell disease. But I haven’t needed one in a while.” You explained. 

“You lying to me?” Steve asked, knowing this wasn’t a topic you wanted to stay on much longer. 

“Through my teeth.” You smiled and caved. “I’m a part of a clinical study for sickle cell disease, it’s a genetic therapy thing. I know you hated the trials mentioned back–”

“No, no, it’s a good thing. I’m glad.” He was also lying through his teeth, you knew he hated the unsureness of a trial, but you also knew that he was aware he wasn’t in the position to make judgments on your choices. 

“I’m okay, Steve.” 

He nodded at that. “Can we just forget about the last 30 minutes and just enjoy the time we got?” He said, clearly trying hard to swallow the pain of the last half an hour. 

“I’d love nothing more.” You agreed with him. 

The next day was like nothing happened, like those 30 minutes of tension and arguing never existed, you weren’t sure if it was a good or bad thing in the long run, but for both of your mental states in this moment, you were glad it happened that way. You spent the day dancing around the house to music, going to the beach for a bit, walking the boardwalk, but your favorite part of the night was the couch cushion fort you two created. You christened the fort, multiple times, before the night was over, you shared laughs, you shared kisses, new memories and old ones until the both of you fell asleep. 

Steve woke up, like clockwork at 6AM, and in typical Steve fashion, he didn’t wake you up to say goodbye. He didn’t want a repeat of the morning prior, which he knew it would be. He would have asked you to tell him to stay and you would have said no. He would have said that you needed his help since you were sick, and you wouldn’t have been as nice as the day prior. It wasn’t the way he wanted to leave things, so even if this was a dick move, it was the better move. 

He gathered his belongings, and was out the front door, looking back once through the blinds, he saw you still asleep through the front of the couch fort. He smiled and took one deep sigh before stepping towards the taxi waiting for him on the road. Maybe one day he could come back here and fold laundry with you, but he knew today wasn’t that day.