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accidentally-in-fictional-love · 6 months ago

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Breaking The Code - Joshua Whitmore/Reader

Warnings: Gender-neutral reader, no use of Y/N, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, brief canon-related mentions of self-harm and suicide, happy ending.

Wordcount: 9152

Summary: You see him as he's being admitted to the hospital a few streets away from your home, and it would be so easy to just keep walking, but something about his sad eyes and mysterious identity draws you in until you need to see him again.

Notes: So the other night I was talking with Salem about Joshua as they watched Cass for the first time, and we decided that our truth was that he needs a happy ending ;w; so I wrote this instead of sleeping~ Turns out you can hit a pretty bad burnout after writing nearly every day for a month straight, so I wrote this one for myself and Salem to try and get some of my inspo back 😌 It was pretty cathartic, writing him was a lot of fun and helped me get some of my own personal feelings out, so even though the love for him might be smaller than his other roles, I hope those who read this like it 💗

When you first see him, you’re walking home for the day. Your familiar path always takes you past the hospital, it’s the fastest way and you’re in no mood to dawdle after the stress of work making you call it early. Just as you’re about to pass, an ambulance pulls up, siren blaring and making you jump out of your headphones the closer it gets. You turn to watch in morbid curiosity, a little dose of schadenfreude to lift your spirits before the guilt takes you, but everything changes when you see him.

He’s awake on his stretcher as they take him out, his eyes on the sky and looking empty as the EMTs call in for emergency surgery on his ear and a decent amount of blood loss, as well as malnutrition. Your glimpse is brief, they want him inside as fast as possible, but you still notice the way he holds onto an old hardcover book resting against his stomach before he’s out of sight. You follow before you can stop yourself, listening for a name and catching only ‘Whitmore,’ and to keep out cameras if the news comes for him.

A high profile person you’d never heard of, perhaps? You can’t recall any Whitmores in your small celebrity roster, especially not a local one who looked like that. You can’t think about it too long as you get noticed and shooed away, and you do as they say as he’s rolled towards the nearest elevator so he can be prepped for his surgery.

You don’t hear about him until a few days later as you eat your lunch in the breakroom, catching just a glimpse of his face and last name before the channel is changed to something more interesting moments after you notice him. It wasn’t long enough to get any new information, but it is enough to spark your interest again with the confirmation that he was indeed some secret celebrity you hadn’t heard about. You don’t ask for the channel to be changed back, but you do make a mental note to take your shortcut again after work is over.

You figure he mustn’t be too high priority as you reach the hospital, looking as inconspicuous as possible as you sneak past the couple news outlets trying to get inside to interview him, no one major for now, but maybe that was just because no one knew where to actually find him yet. It was only a matter of time, people were nosy like that, yourself included as you strolled inside and pretended like you were there to visit someone you actually knew.

You take a walk, glancing at the names as you pretend to change your song, your head down and pointing at your iPod as you don’t ask for any help or directions, constantly pretending like you were there for a legitimate reason. As you reach the top floor, you start to wonder if maybe he was there under a different name or if he was still there at all when you catch a glimpse of a familiar face as a nurse walks through a door coming up on your left. You see his bandages first, the white so stark against his dark hair, and then you see his eyes, still so empty as he just looks at the food that was presented to him, completely uninterested in eating.

You quickly duck into the bathroom nearby as the nurse heads your way, turning on the light and the sink to make some noise as you listen for her footsteps to fade, and when they do you surround yourself in silence again as you figure out what your plan is here. You found him, room 415, and the name under the number is indeed a fake to throw anyone off, your eyes just barely able to pick out ‘James Robins’ from your distance away, so what now?

Do you really wanna talk to him, or are you there to join in on the spectacle? Did something about him interest you that day, or do you want to be able to say you met a celebrity for the first time in your life, aside from that one time you swore you saw Brad Pitt stopping for gas at the station by your duplex? Are you really going to go over there and hound him for an autograph or something before the bigger news outlets find him and he has to be moved somewhere else?

You peek around your corner and see the closed door, something drawing you to it but not the desire to see fame in its most vulnerable state, not that at all. You let go of the wall and slowly approach, constantly looking back and forth to make sure no one was about to catch you before you’re there, your hand raised to knock. It takes you a minute but you do, your knuckles lightly rapping on the wood as you wait for an answer. Nothing, so you try again, a sigh your reply before you get the okay to enter.

He’s facing the window when you come in, food cooling and that old book waiting over his legs as he just stares at the sky due to you being so high up. He waits for you to do whatever you need to before the silence stretches on for too long, and when he turns his head back to face you he looks surprised, it showing in his eyes as he looks you over. ‘You here for an interview or something?’ he asks in a raspy voice, like he isn’t used to talking, and when you don’t reply right away he gestures to your hand.

‘IPod,’ you tell him as you show him what he thought was a tape recorder, and he gets even more confused.

‘What do you want, then? Are you also a photographer? Here to take a picture of me to sell to those vultures waiting for me outside?’ He says it all so bluntly, despondently, and you can only shake your head again as you slide your headphones down to your neck, the tech such a contrast to your passable business casual outfit. ‘So it’s art you want, then; sorry to break it to you, it was stolen yesterday, you’ll have to get in line if you want something new while I’m stuck in this cage like sharkbait.’

‘I don’t want anything from you,’ you finally manage to say, shocked by his negativity; how did someone like him ever manage to become a celebrity?

‘You don’t? Find that hard to believe, everyone wants something, don’t they? People, all they want to do is take take take, no one wants to give, let alone create, do they? So when they find someone who gives or creates they just want to take it, make it their own, just paint over it so no one can ever know who it belonged to and what it meant to them and everyone else who just wanted to enjoy it, isn’t that right?’

You don’t know what to say, you’re genuinely stumped for words as he goes on his tangent, and when he sees your face he knows he’s talking to a wall. He turns away from you again, looking at the sky as a bird returns home on the ledge just outside the window, her nest tucked into the corner where her eggs are waiting for her return. She settles back down over them, her body all fluffed out to keep them warm, and you can see him also staring as his fingers curl out towards his book. It’s then you understand, he mentioned art, he’s an artist so this must be his sketchbook, no wonder you hadn’t heard of him. He doesn’t open it however, he wants to draw but he has no pencil, just the book.

‘I… I just-’ you start to say, but he doesn’t respond, probably because his bad ear is the one closest to you at the moment, ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay.’ You say it a little louder so he’ll hear, and again you confuse him as he glances your way. ‘Do you- would you like a pen or something? I might have one in my bag somewhere…’ You start digging around in the messenger bag you carry around with you, it holding whatever you bring home for the day, your old laptop, and an assortment of random things you’ve tossed in there since the last time you cleaned it. You hunt through unorganized papers and folders and a mountain of loose change before you manage to find both a mechanical pencil with its eraser almost completely worn and a company pen you’d stolen, one of many since you never seem to find the last one when you need it.

You hold out both to him and he looks at them as well as you, trying to find any selfish reason why you’d offer these tools to him but there were none, and he seems to get that as he takes both. Instantly his food is handed to you so it’s out of the way as he grabs his sketchbook and opens it to a new page, the bird staring at you as he starts drawing freely. He forgets you’re there in a matter of moments, so focused on capturing the simple beauty outside and distracting himself from his current situation, but you don’t mind. You set the food down on the small cabinet to his left, careful to make sure he could reach it while still avoiding the machines hooked up to him, one of them an IV that dripped endlessly to the clear tube leading to his bandaged hand.

You end up sitting when he continues to ignore you and his dinner, just watching him as he draws shapes until they start to take form, his movements wide and hard to track. He doesn’t work on just one part of what he sees, he does a bit of everything at once until it slowly comes together as one image, the bird watching in interest until sleep takes her and she gets comfy for an early night’s rest. He doesn’t stop even with her pose changed, still seeing her in his mind as he starts to detail her face a little, stopping to add in errant feathers and abstract shapes behind her for the city.

When he finally stops you can’t help but stare, and you stand to get a closer look, your presence making him jump when you get too close, clearly he thought you’d left. It’s beautiful even in its incomplete state, or maybe this is what he wanted, you don’t know, you can’t find the words to ask as you look at the bird in the dimming light outside; when had it become so dark? ‘Is this it? Did you give me these so you could get an original Joshua Whitmore?’ he asks bitterly, your eyes on the page again.

‘Who?’ you say before you can stop yourself, and you blink in embarrassment as you stutter out an apology before the look on his face silences you.

‘You really have no idea who I am, do you?’ he asks softly, and again you shake your head. ‘You just wanted to see if I was okay?’ You nod, your cheeks flushing slightly in a little more than embarrassment. ‘And wha- what do you see when you look at this?’

He holds up his sketchbook for you to look at again, and you reach for it but he pulls away, you can look but not touch, got it. Your eyes scan the paper just like you’d been doing for who knows how long, and you smile as you turn back to him and his almost nervous expression. ‘I see a bird in her nest, I'm sorry, should I be looking for something else? I’m not one for art, I don’t really know what to tell you,’ you admit, but this answer actually pleases him, calms him as his shoulders relax just a little.

‘You just see a bird, yeah, that’s what I drew,’ he repeats to himself as he smiles weakly, and he looks almost relieved in this before the door opens and you’re interrupted. It’s the nurse from before, and she stops in her tracks when she notices that he’s no longer alone.

‘Oh no, do you want me to call security, Mr. Whitmore?’ she asks nervously, and he looks at you before telling her no, he knew you. ‘Oh, okay, but visiting hours are over so you do have to go, I’m afraid,’ she tells you next, and you glance at your watch to see that you’d somehow been there for almost two hours, so lost in him drawing that you didn’t even notice the passing of time. As if on cue, your stomach gives a rumble for its delayed dinner, it spreading to him as the nurse then notices that he hasn’t eaten anything, and you walk out as she places his tray back on the moveable table attached to his bed. ‘We’ll have to put you on another IV if you don’t eat, how many times do I have to tell you?’ she chides him, and he opens his bottle of water to take an experimental sip before the door is shut and you’re left alone in the hallway.

You head home now that your curiosity has been sated, but you can’t help but repeat his words in your head all the way there, him saying that he knew you making your chest feel warm even as you heat up some leftovers and watch a movie by yourself.

You don’t go back right away, unsure if he’d appreciate you coming back now that he could draw again, but you still feel that pull follow you over the next few days. You have Sunday off, the one holiday in your busy week, and when you step out to grab a few things for dinner you find your feet carrying you in the opposite direction as you head back to the hospital. The news vans are still outside, cops now stopping them from getting in and disrupting everyone else inside, not just him, and you have to show your work ID in order to prove you’re not with them. It’s almost enough to make you turn around, but you’re moving on autopilot all the way back to the fourth floor, his name still under the number, he hasn’t been moved yet.

You knock on the door and he allows you in, and you could swear his face brightens just a bit when he sees that it’s you. He doesn’t look as terrible as he did the last time you saw him, like being able to draw helped brighten his situation just enough to bring back his appetite based on the empty tray waiting to get taken away. He’s drawing again as you walk in, and the TV is on to a random station, probably the History Channel based on what was currently on screen, sketches of the animals filling the page to create a lively scene.

‘You came back,’ he states more than questions, and you just shrug and hold up your bag of groceries.

‘I needed to grab a few things, it’s my day off so I wanted to actually cook something tonight,’ you tell him like he’d care, and he surprises you this time by nodding towards the bag.

‘Anything good?’ he pries, and you hold the bag open for him to see, showing off the random contents inside that you hoped would turn themselves into something delicious so you could enjoy the spoils. ‘What d’you plan to make with just that?’

‘I had some stuff already at home, this is just what I’m missing,’ you say, and he eyes the bag again before opening his mouth to speak.

‘You think… nevermind,’ he quickly backs out, and you urge him to continue. ‘Y’think I could steal one of those apples? Or do you need them all?’ You don’t, you can still make a damn good apple crumble with the bag minus one, and you tear open the plastic so he can choose his favourite. ‘Thanks, kinda hard to keep fruit fresh when you’re on the road,’ he says as he shines it on his blanket, and when he bites into it he looks like he hasn’t been able to taste anything like it in much too long.

‘You travel a lot?’ you ask as the juice runs down his chin, already grabbing a tissue from the box nearby so he doesn’t make a mess on his sketchbook.

‘You could say that,’ he mutters between bites, and when there’s nothing left but the core you hold the bag open for him to grab a second. ‘No, I couldn’t,’ he refuses, but you just shrug and grab one for yourself, you can always buy more on the way home. He watches you take your bite before indulging, grabbing two and placing one on his moveable table for later, and the feeling that fills you at the sight is sweeter than the fruit. ‘What were you gunna make with these?’

‘Apple crumble, I used to make it all the time with my mom when I was growing up, she’d always put in a ton of cinnamon so it always tasted better than something store bought,’ you say as you can already taste it, and he looks down at his half-eaten apple as something takes over his expression.

‘Haven’t had a chance to cook something in a long time,’ he says, mostly to himself, like this is something he’s been thinking but hasn’t actually said aloud yet. ‘Hard to keep fruit, hard to pack a portable stove, hard to carry around a kitchen on your back when there’s so many better things to bring; need a bed, need paper, so many needs in the face of those wants. It’s easier to pack light in the pockets, find a place with water and refill, harder to keep the smell of cooking food from escaping an empty house.’

You just listen as you eat, he’s on another tangent and you don’t dare interrupt, but this one is sadder than the last, and you notice how tired he looks as he sinks into the bed. It’s then you notice that he has nothing around him in this room, no get well soon cards, no balloons, no sign of anyone visiting him even with the circus outside waiting for a glimpse of him. It’s just him, his sketchbook, and now his single apple waiting for him to eat it tomorrow. You toss your own core into the trash and grab a tissue to wipe up the juices, you made sure to grab your most favourite brand to make your dessert as delicious as it could be, and the bag feels heavy in your hand as the store branded plastic shifts when you do.

‘I just remembered I forgot something, so I need to head back to the store before it closes,’ you suddenly say, and he looks at you with those tired eyes when you speak. ‘So, if you want, you could maybe ask for something for me to get? Since I have to pass by this way again anyways.’ It’s a lie, it’s so out of the way it’ll take you over a half hour to get back home on travel alone, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He thinks about it a while before declining, the apples were enough, but that’s not a good enough answer for you; you reach into the bag and pull out a few more apples, loading up his table with them, and he looks ready to object but they’re already out and it would certainly be a pain to put them all back, wouldn’t it? He looks at the bunch, and there’s way more than he probably wants, but he looks thankful all the same.

‘You won’t have to worry about storing them when you’re here,’ you just say, and he brushes his bangs away from his eye as he tucks his pencil behind his good ear.

‘Not unless I leave here tomorrow,’ he figures, and something pulls at you again.

‘Will you still be here tomorrow?’ Your voice comes out small, hopeful yet worried, and he touches his bandage and flinches.

‘Don’t think they’ll let me outta here until I can pay for all this,’ he wonders, his hands going for his book as his eyes lose a little light, ‘everything has a price, even the reason I’m in here.’

You want to ask but you can’t, it’s too soon even though it feels like he wants you to, but he doesn’t bring it up again even as you turn to go. ‘I’d better run or else I’ll be eating this dinner for breakfast, if you’re still here tomorrow I can bring you some, if you’d like?’ That also feels too soon, but the light he lost returns at the offer.

‘You don’t have to,’ is what he actually says, but his small smile gives him away. You nod and turn on your heel towards the door, his voice making you stop before you enter the hallway. ‘And if you have to come back this way, could you… would you mind if I asked for something else? Some charcoals, paints, anything small I can hide from them while I’m here, all my stuff was seized back at the house.’

He doesn’t explain why, you don’t ask what happened.

‘That might require a different trip, but I’ll see what I can do if that’s okay,’ you say instead, and he returns the smile you give him.

Work keeps you away for the next few days, and you’re sure to take the car to work on Wednesday so you can do some proper shopping. It’s cheaper to walk, but the gas expense is worth it as you find the only art shop in town before you hit the grocery store. It’s small, and doesn’t have much, so you have to settle for the cheap stuff for kids as you peruse the aisles in search of what he wants. You end up grabbing a few extra things as well, like different coloured pens, a couple erasers and more graphite to go with the pencil, and another sketchbook with thicker paper for his new supplies; you really don’t know a lot about art, and you don’t correct the employee when he asks if you’re buying for your kid, although you do at least say it’s for a friend’s kid as you hold the supplies a little closer to your chest.

You cash out and make for the grocery store, buying mostly for yourself and wishing you knew what he liked other than apples so you could give him some treats to have between mandated hospital food. You wonder if it’d be too forward to ask again as you check everything off your list, your thoughts only on him as everything is packed tightly into several more plastic bags that you then pile into the cart so you can load them into your car. His art supplies occupy the front seat as everything else is stuffed into the trunk, and when you’re done unloading it at home you add a tupperware case filled with leftover apple crumble to the bag as well, it sealed extra tight to make sure everything stayed safe.

You carry the bag the few blocks to the hospital, noting that the number of vans has increased as more important looking people try to get in. You don’t need to flash your ID this time, the cops from before recognize you and let you by as you’re bribed into finding their media target, but you just ignore them as you cross the threshold. You head straight for his room, knocking again as a courtesy and finding that he already has company; there’s a doctor and a couple nurses already inside and checking him out, his ear exposed as his stitches were examined to see how he was healing.

The bandages cover his table, his sketchbook placed on the cabinet along with his remaining apple, medical supplies decorating a nearby cart as the wound is cleaned. They’re so busy they don’t notice you until after the door’s been opened, and you finally get to see what’s under the bandage as cleaning swabs and lights are shined over the area; the topmost part of his ear is gone, a space the width of your thumb where the curve should be, the doctor asking him if he can hear anything as his other ear is covered.

‘The ringing stopped yesterday,’ he answers, a nurse snapping her fingers directly beside him, and he flinches away from the sound, the test positive.

‘You’re lucky the gun didn’t rupture your eardrum with how close it was,’ she says as she goes back to cleaning, the other nurse already getting out a new bandage, ‘if you hadn’t been found, you might’ve bled out.’

‘Wasn’t aiming for my ear,’ he says like it was the most normal and unconcerning statement in the world, and you nearly drop your bag at that. The sound gets everyone’s attention, including his, as they all turn to see you, his eyes meeting yours before the door is shut in your face. You almost leave but you decide to wait it out, finding a spot against the wall and getting comfortable. The next time the door opens you get an apology for the slam, but it’s fine, you were intruding, after all. You’re about to go in when the doctor sees your bag and stops you, his hand on your arm and holding you there with just enough force that you know to listen very carefully to what he’s about to say.

‘He’s reassured us that he knows you, but please try to refrain from mentioning he’s here to anyone else,’ he says, already looking tired even though it was far from sunset. ‘It’s just a rumour for now, but people have been bribed recently to find out if he really is here; the people outside aren’t what he needs right now, not after what he’s been through, and I fear what going back out there will do to him before he’s ready.’

What happened to him?

You want to ask it so badly but you can’t, it’s not for this doctor to say, and you both know it. He releases your arm after a quick look in your bag, so much for hiding his supplies, but it seems to be approved as he heads down the hall to meet his next patient. You straighten yourself up and knock, and it takes him a while but eventually he answers, already knowing it’s you. He looks tired again, not even seeing you approach him as he plays with the edge of the new bandage.

‘How much did you hear?’ he just asks, not even looking your way.

‘More than you,’ you reply bluntly, and it catches him so off guard that he can’t help but look at you. You both stare at each other as you flounder out an apology, but the lights return as he chokes back a laugh, the first you’ve heard since you’ve met.

‘I guess you did, yeah,’ he says, and then the air is lighter as you approach and show him what you’ve brought; you worry it might not be good enough but he seems pleased with your finds, especially with the second book. ‘Did you go to the place down by the lights? I stopped by when I first got here, there isn’t much, thank you for this,’ he says as he spreads everything out, looking ready to tear it all open and get started.

‘I also brought you this,’ you tell him as you then pull out the tupperware and a fork, and he looks at it before taking off the lid and breathing in the scent of apples and cinnamon. ‘Sorry I couldn’t bring it sooner, it’s been a nightmare at work, I haven’t been able to have a minute to myself lately.’

‘And yet you choose to come here when you do have a minute, your life must be very unexciting if this is the preferable option,’ he figures as he takes a bite, not even bothered by his words to the point where you couldn’t take any offense to it. Something like euphoria flashes across his face as he eats, and your cheeks heat up as he tries to control himself from eating too fast but fails, all of it gone before you know it. ‘Wow, uh… I see you kept up the tradition of loading on the cinnamon,’ he thinks aloud with a lick of his lips, the floor suddenly very interesting as you feel a need to look away.

‘Yeah, it really brings out the apples,’ is all you can say to that, and then you’re taking the dishes back and placing them in the bag. ‘I can make more, if you want? Or I can find something else to make, if you have any requests?’

‘Are you some kinda pâtissière?’

‘What? Oh, no, I just think… people are at their happiest when they’re sharing the fruits of their labour, and in my family, that labour was always food, so I find comfort in that now, as an adult. Does that make sense?’ You’ve made things for others before, family dinners, potlucks, celebrations at work, but never have you felt more scrutinized until now as he licks his lips again, already ready for seconds even though you have nothing left to give.

‘It makes perfect sense, what good is there to make something without having someone to share it with? What use is a feast without it spread over a table set for family and friends, or music without an audience to get lost in the sound, or-’

‘Or a painting without anyone to appreciate the vision and share their own, right?’ He looks up at you, something in his eyes that screams yes, that you got it, but also something sad, like he didn’t believe it was true at the same time. ‘Did you share your art, before you came here?’

You know you shouldn’t ask, but you can’t stop yourself.

He slowly stacks everything up and places it out of the way, his old book back on his lap and his fingers playing with the rough edges of the cover as he goes over your question in his head. ‘I did, for a few years,’ he starts carefully, eyes on you as he watches for your reactions. ‘Outta college, I got spotted by a few potential dealers, got a contract with one, started selling my work while I got a job to pay the bills. One painting sold, then another, then five, then I didn’t need to work anymore. Suddenly what I loved to do was my job, and it wasn’t what I loved to do anymore.’ He slides his fingers under the cover strap, holds on tight as the lights leave him again, he doesn’t like to talk about it but he doesn’t stop. ‘All those eyes on my work, on myself, everything torn apart by people who didn’t get it and distributed via cameras for free to those who didn’t appreciate it.

‘Deadlines were forced on me, I was pushed to sell whatever I made, it was no longer about me or how I felt anymore, it was all about the money, who could bid the highest on a piece of me that I’d so painstakingly torn off and decorated for the world to see, all sealed up in a shiny new frame. So-called experts who defined their own meaning over mine, collectors who just wanted to fill a space in their third home, people who didn’t even look at what was inside the frame only because my name was on it and they’d heard I was the talk of the town.

‘And then it happened, someone claimed to see a miracle hidden amongst the brushstrokes but I hadn’t painted any miracle, something so beautiful and abstract can’t be confined to canvas and paint, not by me. Suddenly, everyone was seeing them, everyone wanted to bring the angels home with them and were desperate to do so, and I lost my name under the title of Prophet or Saint or, god forbid, an Angel myself. I am none of those things, and they stole- they stole myself from me, my passion, everything I was so they could keep seeing what they wanted to see, all everyone does is take take take.’

You don’t know when you’d sat down but you blink and find yourself in the chair nearby him, his eyes no longer on you as he lets it all out, his hands waving and lip quivering; he’s crying, this is his barest self, and you wonder if any of what he’s saying has to do with the bandage that washes out all the other colour in the room as you hear him say in your head that he wasn’t aiming for his ear.

‘Did you stop, after all that?’ you ask, and at first he doesn’t hear you, the bandage really muffles your small voice from this side, so you get up and move to the right side of his bed instead. You sit down and he tries to hide his tears from you, but there’s no pity here, you didn’t come for an interview to market and sell to the masses, you came to talk to your friend. You repeat yourself and this time he hears you, his eyes glancing up to meet yours before he’s looking at his book again.

‘I tried, but the demand was too much, they wouldn’t let me get myself back.’

‘What did you do then?’

He smiles bitterly, his right hand moving from his book to rub at his left wrist, and from this angle you can see the scars peeking out from behind his thumb. ‘I made a miracle,’ he murmurs softly, ‘I made Joshua Whitmore disappear.’ You reach out and take his hand, holding it tightly over his book and surprising him yet again, although he doesn’t pull away from you. ‘I didn’t do it to kill myself, I had a friend help me get out of there safely after I trashed my studio, but it was still enough to make everyone think I was dead, and in that I was reborn, free to take myself back again. I couldn’t touch the money I’d made from my work anymore, couldn’t go back home, so I packed up whatever I needed and hit the road after my scars had healed.’

‘And you’ve been traveling ever since,’ you finish for him, now understanding what he’d meant before about wants versus needs. ‘So everyone thought you were dead, and that’s why they’re trying so hard to get in downstairs, they wanna see the miracle,’ you put together, and he nods, his hand limp in your own. ‘If you can escape them, will you run again?’

He chuckles but there’s no joy in it, he looks more tired than you’ve ever seen him. ‘Does it matter? They’ll know I’m out there, they’ll know it’s me the moment this happens again, I couldn’t break the code and now they’ll take me away again.’

‘And if you found somewhere to hide?’ You hold him a little tighter, his eyes shutting at the thought of already trying that and failing, it evident as another tear creeps down his cheek. ‘Somewhere permanent, where they’d never find you, I mean.’

‘Where could I find someplace like that? I was careful, I was sososo careful this time, and I still-’ His hand grips yours for just a moment as he tenses, angry at himself and how it all turned out.

‘You could-’ You stop yourself from telling him he could stay with you, it’s too much, you’re still strangers even though you knew this much about him now, how could he ever find solace with you after three days spread out over less than two weeks? He couldn’t, and you know it. ‘There has to be somewhere, I could help you.’

‘Help me?’ He looks at you again, doubt and unparalleled cynicism on his face, but you don’t back down.

‘I won’t take from you, Joshua,’ you tell him firmly, and he holds your hand for real this time, weakly, but still on purpose. ‘I’ll find you somewhere you can sketch and paint and take yourself back from them again, and you can hide there for so long you won’t have to run again, do you trust me to do that for you?’

Something different flashes across his face then, something in between his cynicism for his life and hope for what you’re promising. ‘If you can find it, then I’ll go,’ he agrees, his body deflating as he sinks into the pillows, ‘I’m so tired of running, it’s almost as bad as the lying.’

‘About what?’

‘Everything, I couldn’t do it anymore.’

You feel too far from him as he closes his eyes, your body moving on its own as you climb up further onto the bed and get in close, his eyes opening as he tries to see what you’re doing. You wait for his okay, your hand still holding his as he shifts to his left, freeing up enough space for you to lay yourself next to him, your shoulder pressed tight against his. He’s stiff beside you, clearly it’s been a long time since he’s been this close to another person, but you need him to know you’ll come through on your promise, that you truly aren’t there to take from him as you share your warmth and your company.

You don’t know when it happens, but you end up falling asleep like that, only waking up when the nurse comes in to check on him and sees you in bed with him. She comes over to your side and gently shakes you awake, whispering that visiting hours were over as quietly as she can with you still being able to hear her. You blink yourself awake, your arm completely numb as you roll onto your back and attempt to sit, and you see why she was being so quiet; he’s asleep beside you, his book open to a new sketch you couldn’t decipher quite yet, his pencil still in his left hand and telling you he must be ambidextrous considering his right one was still clasped in your own.

You let go, the nurse helping you get up without disturbing him, and he looks so peaceful as he stretches out and tries to find your warmth in his sleep. You wish you could stay, and you wish he could go with you, but those are things you can’t say to him, not yet. You gather up your bag with the dishes inside as quietly as you can before sneaking out, the nurse checking him over as you leave, and when you get home you make another big batch of apple crumble for him to enjoy the next time you visit.

Now that he’s shared so much with you, you make up your mind to share as much as you can with him until he’s ready to leave, making him treats and dinner foods since it was the only time you could visit, each one bringing the light back to his eyes even as the vultures gathered outside to peck him apart again until there was nothing left. You start bringing work to the hospital so you don’t fall behind, the two of you peacefully existing around each other as he draws and you do your job in a chair nearby. When he stops to eat you pull out a bagged dinner, and the two of you sit there and talk while the History Channel silently shows off beautiful scenery and animals in the background. You share your life the way he did his own, the two of you getting closer as his ear heals, his hearing returns, and he gets his strength back.

You bringing him so much food helps his malnutrition, and sometimes you climb onto the bed with him and pull up classic art on your laptop so you can hear what he has to say about it, and he has so much to say. He’s fascinating to listen to, he really knows his stuff, and when you joke about taking lessons from him he just brushes it aside and says that he could never be a teacher even as he tells you all about the random painting you think looks cool as you scroll together. You enjoy your time with him as the world continues on outside those four walls and the windows, the only reminder of the passage of time being the sun as it sets once again.

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday, want me to make you breakfast this time?’ you ask as you stretch, his bed much comfier than the chair but you can’t keep stealing the space, not without an excuse.

‘Sunday breakfast, been a long time,’ he muses as he also stretches, sick of being in bed after so many years of doing nothing but moving. ‘Maybe if we sneak out the back tonight you can take me to your place, that way you don’t have to keep bringing me food here like some kinda delivery person,’ he jokes, and you pray that he can’t see how red your cheeks are becoming at the thought. ‘And… have you found a place for me to hide yet?’

You freeze, wanting to say yes more than anything, and when you look into his eyes you swear that he wants to hear it just as much. ‘Actually, I-’

The door swings open as the doctor walks in with a policeman, the two of you staring in apprehension as the door is closed again behind them; it’s late now, much too late for this to be a simple chat, and you start to move towards him protectively even as the cop stares you down. ‘Mr. Whitmore, after these past two weeks going back between statements from Ms. Skinner and Mr. Morris, as well as the children present, mainly Mr. Walker, we’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t a suicide attempt, although the breaking and entering needs to be addressed,’ the cop says calmly, and Joshua shuts his eyes tight in what doesn’t look like relief. ‘We’ve already contacted your bank back in New York where your funds have been frozen, and we’ve worked out a way for your remaining money to pay for your stay here, but the matter of the fine still needs to be taken care of.’

‘How much is it?’ you ask without hesitation, your hand already going for your messenger bag, and the cop looks you over before turning back to him.

‘And who’s this?’ he asks, Joshua looking at you before calling you his friend. ‘Well, since he technically did stay under supervision here while he healed, and the money is being transferred to the hospital for his stay, his fine still comes to $1000; abandoned or not, it’s still private property.’

‘I’ll pay it,’ you announce, Joshua already trying to talk you out of it but it’s useless, your checkbook held out as you write down the amount using one of his pens since you once again couldn’t find your own. The cop allows you to, the matter now settled as you hand over the thin strip of paper, Joshua not meeting your eye as he stares at his book with an unreadable expression. The cop tucks the paper into his pocket and tips his hat to the two of you, wishing you both a good night now that he was free to go again, the doctor staying behind to finish the conversation.

‘You can continue seeing us if anything changes, but you can be discharged as soon as tonight,’ he explains, Joshua still not looking up. ‘If you have somewhere to go, I suggest you do so, save yourself another day of billing; just be sure to keep from sleeping on your left, let it finish healing.’

‘All my things were seized, might as well sleep in a warm bed one last time before I pick them up and find a new bridge to sleep under tomorrow,’ he mutters to himself, the doctor shooting you a concerned glance as you try to force the words to come out. The doctor sees you struggling and gives you a moment to speak even though visiting hours were once again over, the sun set outside and the lights inside making the windows turn to mirrors. ‘You can go now, I won’t have you trying to buy more of me,’ he suddenly says like he believes it, and it shocks you so much that you can no longer stay silent.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I see it now, the supplies, the food, now the fine, all handouts for the poor, struggling artist, can’t even keep an apple fresh on the road, that’s right, isn’t it?’ He’s gathering up his stuff, no longer interested in spending the night and looking ready to run again.

‘Wha- none of that was a handout, I was sharing with you, I thought you got that?’ you try to tell him but he’s inconsolable, his legs swinging over the side of the bed as he gathers everything up in his arms.

‘Yeah, everyone takes, what were you going to take from me when all this was over, huh? Did you want to be the one to nurse me back to health and carry me out the doors for everyone to gawk at? The hero who saved Joshua Whitmore, brought him back from the dead? I bet that would lead to a few good interviews, maybe some TV time, can’t forget about the flash of the cameras even now; I wonder if they’re waiting for us, can’t keep them waiting, can we?’

He was on another one of his tangents, saying everything that came to mind without pause as he overloaded with too much all at once, and you race around to his side as he stands and heads for the door, ready to step in front of the vultures to be willingly devoured. You hold out your arms to stop him before looking up, he’s much taller than you thought after seeing him only sit or lay for two weeks, briefly distracted by it before he’s trying to push past you to get to the hallway. ‘No! I’m not letting them have you,’ you insist, not wanting to grab him and force him to stay, but when he shoves you a little too hard and you stumble you can’t help but cling to his arm in an attempt to steady yourself. He stumbles with you, everything falling to the floor and scattering, and you both forget your fight as his sketchbook opens to the page you’d seen before, the one you couldn’t decipher.

You stoop down to pick it up as he runs his hand through his hair and tries to take it away, your eyes on the page as you see yourself, presumably from his perspective as you slept on his shoulder. You flip through the pages after that, seeing yourself again and again before he grabs his book and holds it to his chest, his eyes on his remaining things on the floor, all gifts from you. ‘I thought you were different,’ he mumbles, and you feel your lip quiver before you’re closing the gap and hugging him, trapping him in place.

He tries to shift free but you won’t let him, mindful of his ear as you tuck yourself into his right side, your hands clasping behind his back instead of holding him, something in you telling you that you wouldn’t be able to let go if you grabbed onto him instead. ‘They weren’t handouts,’ you tell him again, his hands and book pressed tightly between you, ‘I wanted to help you…’

‘What person drops $1000 on someone they barely know?’ he says into your hair, and you pray he doesn’t feel you shaking.

‘A friend does, I thought we were friends…’

‘You don’t wanna be my friend, no matter how many times you visit, you still barely know me.’

‘I do, I wanna know so much more, I want…’ You swallow, your hands letting go of yourself so you can grab onto his shirt instead. ‘I want so much more…’

You’ve surprised him again and you know it as his breath hitches, and he tries one last time to be cynical, to run. ‘What’ll you take from me if I let you?’

‘I won’t take anything, I told you already; I just wanna be able to share more with you, I don’t need a miracle, I don’t want you to disappear again.’

‘...Don’t lie to me.’ He tries to sound confident in his despair, but there’s hope in there as well.

‘I don’t think I can lie to you, not after this,’ you admit, and he laughs in a way that isn’t entirely bitter.

‘Good, I don’t think I can handle you lying to me.’ He backs away but not to run, and you allow him to look down at you; he’s crying, but so are you, and you hope that he can tell that you’re telling the truth when he looks from your pink cheeks to your eyes until finally settling on your lips. You think for a moment he might kiss you but he doesn’t, just sniffs and kneels down to pick up everything he dropped. You help him, and he’s about to climb back into bed for that final night’s sleep when you grab onto the back of his shirt and stop him.

‘What happened to sneaking out the back?’ you ask softly, and the lights return to his eyes as he follows you out into the hall.

The front desk is in perfect view of the doors where you still see people waiting on the other side, so you flag down a nurse to get him checked out from afar as you casually walk by them and hurry home. You return less than 15 minutes later with your car, parking it just out of sight in the back where he can’t be seen no matter how hard any paparazzi try, and when he comes out dressed in scrubs you eagerly unlock the door and bolt before anyone can look too hard.

You park your car in the garage and lead him into your home, and at first you feel self-conscious about it because he used to be the high profile celebrity you originally thought he was, but as he looks around he doesn’t look bothered, and when he sees the painting on your wall he stops and stares. ‘Who did this?’ he asks as he examines it, and you smile faintly as you remember the day you got it.

‘My grandfather, back before he passed,’ you tell him, and he looks at you instead. ‘I was too young to understand what he felt when he painted it, but I think being around you might’ve helped me understand a little bit better now.’

‘What did he feel, then?’

‘Love.’ You look up at him, your shoulders touching as he turns back to it and nods.

‘I think so, too.’

You sleep in the next morning, your arm numb again as you navigate the tangle of blankets you’ve trapped yourself in in the night. It took some convincing but you managed to get him to take your bed, needing to insist it wasn’t a handout after so many years of sleeping on cold floors, and when you peek in on him you can see how much he needed it as he covers as much of the queen mattress as he can. You grin and start on breakfast, wanting to let him get some proper rest for as long as he can until the smell of food awakens him and pulls him to you. You’re still no chef, but you can also make some damn good scrambled eggs, and he looks way too hungry to criticize you.

‘Need any help?’ he offers, but you’re pretty much done so you direct him to the cupboards to set the table instead. You both move in a comfortable silence until you’re sat together, and you smile into your coffee when you see how he finally looks like himself again.

‘Sleep well?’ you ask as you hand him the jam without him needing to ask just based on how he watched you cover your toast, and your fingers brush as he takes the jar from you. He stares a moment before spreading it liberally over his own toast, and his eyes don’t leave you as he takes a big bite.

‘I think I finally broke the code,’ he suddenly says as you wait for his answer, your head cocking to the side in confusion at the second mention of this code. ‘I think I know why so many people saw miracles in my paintings, no matter what I drew.’

‘Why’s that?’ you ask around a mouthful of eggs and potatoes, and he draws something in the air that you can’t see, although you know that he can.

‘People see what they wanna see, they’d rather put meaning into their own truths than face the reality staring right at them,’ he muses, still drawing.

‘And what does your reality say?’

His hand lowers back to his fork but he doesn’t look away from you, and you eventually have to look away under his warm but steady gaze. ‘It says I don’t have to lie anymore, that this might be…’ He just looks at your painting without finishing his sentence, but you already know what he wanted to say, your own confession of this being where you wanted him to stay going unsaid but accepted all the same the moment he crawled into your bed. Outside the window behind him, a bird similar to the one outside his hospital room lands on your sil, and she stares at you before chirping out a quick song and flying away; the light coming in from the window covers him in a faint halo but it holds nothing miraculous in it as he looks at you, the man before you just that, a man.

‘I think so, too,’ you reply, his smile matching your own as you share your life with him, Joshua ready now to do the same with you.

#Ray's Readers #david dastmalchian #joshua whitmore #joshua whitmore x reader #this might actually get a small sequel in the future since I wanna see him be happy #listened to The Light From One by Ane Brun this time and my god it set the mood so perfectly I need more songs by her #totally stole some art related stuff from my Addy/Abner fic since it fit so well with him and I got to switch it around this time uwu #don't like to write in present tense outside of my rough notes but for some reason it felt right for this one #I keep putting my own comfort foods into these fics to share with them and it makes me crave them 😩

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