4.09 gapfiller ficlet. Need to lay down now. Writing hard.



The Follow-Through

When there was Cody and nights on patrol and Hobbs on his knees, you thought you knew what hate was.

You hadn't met cancer yet.

And now you have a tight knot that used to be your stomach and this feeling, this God-awful feeling, of helplessness. You thought you'd finally left that behind.

Eyes closed, Brian winces as he slowly adjusts a pillow behind his back. He hasn't said anything since coming up here and you wish he would. At the same time you want him to sit there and shut up and just do what you say.

With almost no hesitation, you lay your left palm against his cheek. Your fingers are warm from holding the soup bowl on your lap, but he's warmer. It's the first time you've been allowed to touch him in days. You decide trying to shove you out the door minutes ago doesn't count.

When he leans into your touch, eyes still closed, you swallow. This. Just sitting with him, supporting, this is what you've wanted to do for days. And you're forcing him and he's letting you and, suddenly, you see so much of his courage in that. It fuels your own.

And the anger, that helpless fear, drains away like water.

Apart, you both can survive. Together, you can live.

Your thumb strokes his cheek as you watch. His eyelashes flutter, but he still hasn't looked at you. It's okay. You have time now.

You lean to the side a little and set the bowl aside, its landing against the floor a faint clink-tap. When you sit back up, your other palm covers Brian's bare cheek and you curl forward enough to rest your foreheads together.

Coming home.

Pull back just enough to kiss him there, once. The second time you linger. The third time you know.

You can do this.

You both can do this.

***

The smell of dead chicken is going to make you puke.

You want to tell Justin to take it away, to throw it out the window, to fucking flush it, for Christ's sake. But every one of those glorious options would require he get up and leave you and, yeah, fuck that.

You don't want to deal right now. You've been dealing with too much already, for too long, and you're tired. Tired of feeling like shit and being a shit.

So you swallow and brace yourself and...

Focus on how Justin's hair smells like Daphne's shampoo (coconut ginger) and not on how it was you who sent him there (scared idiot).

Catalog with almost amusement that you are going to bruise; you can feel your arm and side ache where you crash landed. So going to sympathy-milk that later.

Wonder when it was exactly that Justin started to sound so much like Debbie and why that doesn't bother you in the least.

At that, you actually smirk.

Justin, still holding your face and reading you like Braille, feels it. He pulls back and you slit your eyes open. They're heavy and fighting you, but there is Justin, not even an inch away from your nose, staring intently.

Men have looked at you your whole life.

None of them see you like Justin does.

And next to how much that scares the shit out of you, fuck, the C word is tame.

When the mattress shifts and Justin is there, easing you out of your clothes and under the duvet, you realize somewhere along the way, you closed your eyes again.

When you hear him take away the soup, you consider proposing.

When you hear him put it away in the fridge for later, you plan the divorce.

And when you feel him join you under the covers in the middle of the day, something inside you releases, relaxes, lets go.

He curls up around you like a nude John Lennon-Yoko Ono print and tells you that if you ever do something like this again, he'll personally remove your remaining ball.

"Yes, dear," you answer. In your head, it's sarcastic and high pitched. You're too tired to care it comes out whispered and real.

When there was broken promises and thrown fists and having only yourself to depend on, you thought you knew what love was.

You hadn't met Justin yet.



***

madeofgold has Randy in Wicked pics! *squee*