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themanfromu · 19 days ago

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the bad stuff never stops happening (part six)

summary: After your rained-out picnic date, you and Sy go home to continue to hang out. He stays the night, and then he continues to stay the night.

“The bad stuff never stops happening: it lives in its own dimension, repaying itself over and over.” –Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

words: ~15k

tags: some shmoop, some tears, some smut, some shmoopy smut (handjob, p in v intercourse, oral sex [f and m])

A/N: Heyyyyooo, everyone celebrate with me–I’m done with a fic for once! I’ve gotten used to this having so much angst that this is a little on the sappy side, but it’s fine. They deserve that after everything they’ve been through.

Back in your driveway again, your hands almost shake after you hop out of the truck and walk through the front yard. Sy’s presence is palpable, taking over the entire acreage surrounding the house, taking over the very atmosphere, taking over you–your heart, your breath, your nerves.

You know what could happen tonight. The question is…Will it?

Unlocking the door, you look back at Sy as you shove forward with your shoulder. While he follows you inside, you can't make out his expression.

There's no denying that he’s sensing your racing thoughts. After taking his damp coat off, he helps you out of yours, and his fingers easily find their way back to the small of your back–just a graze. Still, it’s soothing.

You imagine it's more.

You clear your throat as you both begin kicking off your shoes and wet socks, and then you stand there, stalling.

You don’t know. Nothing even has to happen tonight. You’re happy to solely have the sort of intimacy you’ve had together every weekend–just to be with one another.

“I guess I should probably shower,” you murmur directly before your stomach loudly growls.

Sy lifts an ironic eyebrow and glances at your torso. “...Or we could eat first?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I actually am really hungry. I… just gotta change into something dry first.”

You begin walking to your bedroom, and Sy follows. “Right behind you.”

In the bedroom, you and Sy stand in front of your individual closets–yours on the left and his on the right. While picking clothes out, phantom domestic memories pop into the forefront of your mind just like they’d done in the woods earlier, almost as if they’re playing out live in holographs.

Sy in front of the bathroom mirror with a razor in his hand, bending forward to close-shave his neck. Sy at the end of the bed, bending down to tie his boots. Sy in front of his closet just like he is now, staring at his shirt options before asking your opinion on which one you prefer. Sy at your bedside in the morning carrying cups of hot coffee in each of his hands.

Sharing space with him for regular tasks like changing clothes is something you’ve missed more than you were even aware.

In the middle of taking off your clothes, you discreetly glance over at Sy to find him shirtless with his back towards you. His exposed skin has obvious flaws in places, and you pause to observe the different textures. Some scars are inverted, just divots of lightened skin, and some scars are thicker, angry and raised and pink. On the top of his left rear deltoid is a particularly off-color spot alluding to what must’ve been at one time quite a large wound, maybe a burn. Some of them you've seen before, but most of them are new.

They shouldn’t be new to you. None of them should be new to you. You should already be familiar with all of these marks. You’re his wife.

Frowning, you turn your attention back to your own closet and get back to changing clothes, only glancing at your husband through the side of your eyes when his bare ass is briefly displayed—muscled and just as pale as ever.

It’s not until you’re redressed and turning back towards a fully-clothed Sy that you realize what you’ve even put on. Wordlessly, he stares at you, and his eyes are so–different–that you look down at yourself.

You’re just in a shirt and loose athletic shorts. It’s honestly nothing special at all–

Oh. You’re wearing one of his shirts.

“Oh, I…” You shrug. “Guess I'm just used to wearing shirts like this in the evening.”

He takes a step towards you and glances into your closet. “You been keepin’ my clothes in your closet?”

“I mean…Some of your shirts, yeah,” you reply. “They’re comfy. Not your underwear or anything weird like that.”

Sy smiles, and he looks good. He actually looks good, like there’s no grief clouding over his head, no guilt showing in his eyes, no anguish in the faint wrinkles of his face. In a large t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, he looks genuinely comfortable, too.

He turns and begins walking out of the room. “You’ve worn my boxers before,” he teases.

“One time.”

Sy hums. You catch up to him in the narrow hallway and elbow him in the side. In turn, he lightly elbows you back and quickly struts ahead of you so you can’t retaliate.

His behavior is almost boyish, like he could pull your hair and run away cackling or something, and you can’t help but smirk while he slips on an old pair of shoes that've remained unworn for months by the front door. Some of your nerves from earlier begin to leave you as more Hope fills the empty spaces left behind.

While Sy goes out to his truck to get the cooler full of food, instead of setting the table, you find a blanket and lay it out in the middle of the living room floor. Maybe this would align with what Sy had originally planned. Maybe he’ll like it.

“Is this stupid?” you ask uncertainly when Sy walks back in the house. “Should we just eat in the kitchen?”

He kicks off his shoes and sets down the cooler on the edge of the blanket. “I planned a picnic,” he just says, then he sits down and starts emptying the cooler. “And it was supposed to be on a rock, so why not do it on this hard old floor instead?”

He offers you a horrible wink, and you smile before sitting down next to him and pulling out paper plates, napkins, and cutlery from the cooler. Sy removes bread, deli meat, condiments, all different types of fruit, crackers, and cheese.

“Want me to pour us some wine?” you ask. “To go with the cheese and crackers?”

Sy doesn’t answer at first, but he ultimately agrees. You get up to walk into the kitchen, and when you come back with two glasses of white wine, you sit down again.

“You haven’t gone entirely alcohol-free, have you?” you ask. “Am I–Is this okay?”

"No, yeah,” Sy says, scratching his beard. “Just been tryna make new habits. So I’ve cut back to almost nothin’, mostly durin’ weekdays. I, uh. Can’t find it in me to go completely sober.”

“Just this one glass, then,” you say, lifting up the glass by the stem. Sy follows suit. “To us being us.”

Sy’s eyes smile at you. “To us bein’ us,” he repeats, and you both press the tops of your glasses together with a small clink.

You each keep eye contact while taking small sips of wine, then you both focus on your food. Sy has already made a sandwich for you, knowing exactly how you like them prepared. He works on making his own sandwich while you put crackers and fruit on both of your plates. After you quickly cut a few pieces of cheese next, you disperse them between the two of you.

Sy sprawls out on his left side and rests his body weight on his forearm while he starts to eat with just his right hand. You choose to sit cross-legged in front of him.

Back in the day, you’d make a joke about how his old-man joints won’t allow him to sit like you are, but you aren’t sure how that would be received right now. Plus, it’d be a stupid statement, anyway; the way he’s laid out gives you a perfect view of the long expanse of his thick body.

While you eat together, it’s…cute. Sy jokes around with you a lot in that half-teasing, half-flirting way you’ve missed so much that your stomach feels fluttery upon getting the receiving end of it. Maybe you should make that old-man joke, after all. Then Sy would raise his eyebrows with a challenge and say something like, “I’ll show you an old man,” and then you’d lay back on the blanket and–

The doorbell rings as you're finishing eating, and you instantly jostle and furrow your eyebrows. You’re not expecting anyone.

“You gonna get that?” Sy eventually asks when you make no move to get up.

“I didn’t invite anyone over.”

Sy checks his phone and puts it back in his pocket. “Well, see who it is,” he nods towards the door and says, and it’s less of an order as it is a teasing remark.

You hesitate. “I don’t want to.”

“Go on,” he almost chuckles. “Open it.”

“Can’t you?” you whine. “You’re the man of the house.”

His eyes briefly change, but still, he stubbornly replies, “No,” and it’s so out of character that you roll your eyes.

“Fine,” you huff. “Jerk-face.”

You reluctantly stand and slowly walk to the front door, grumbling about how you’re going to be cold in what you’re wearing. The sky is already getting dark. You don’t have a peephole or a nearby window to see who it even is, but Sy’s right behind you if it’s somebody weird. Even if he’s technically still laying down and no help at all if there were danger. Even if he's being strangely and stubbornly motionless.

By the time you open the door, the porch is empty. You look around in confusion and notice a van slowly driving past your mailbox like it’d just backed out of your driveway, and you watch as it drives down the street. While craning your neck to see if you can read anything on the back of the vehicle with the little bit of daylight left, it’s then you see that there’s a vase of flowers next to your front door.

A smile grows on your face as you bend down to pick up the bouquet. This time, Sy’d gone with red roses.

How romantic of him.

You should’ve known that there was a reason Sy wanted you to open the door yourself. Any other time, he’d be the one to handle any sudden issues, no problem.

His note is simple, cliche, and makes your stomach flip: Every day I love you more than the day before.

You walk back inside the house carrying the vase with your cheeks hurting from how large your grin is. And though it’s obvious what the meaning of red roses is, you’ve gotten used to flipping the little note cards around, so you do.

Did You Know? Red roses are a universal symbol of romantic love throughout the world. They also convey feelings of passion, desire, beauty, and courage.

A huge sensation slams into your chest then, or no–it doesn’t slam at all. It’s from the inside trying to push out, like your heart is six times too big and your lungs are too full to breathe and like there’s not enough room to fit everything inside. The smile slightly falls from your face while you try to let everything you’re feeling settle in your body.

You place the vase on the coffee table and gently touch the delicate petals before sitting back down in front of Sy. You can’t look at him yet.

He places a hand on your bare leg. “You good?”

Quickly, you nod. You won’t cry. “It’s really thoughtful,” you quietly murmur, then you lift your head. “You're thoughtful.”

He keeps staring at you, his blue eyes almost iridescent. Carefully, you lean down and kiss him, and when you break away, your lips slowly and audibly smack.

“You already got me flowers earlier,” you murmur, glancing at the yellow flowers on the kitchen table. “Think I’m gonna get spoiled one of these days.”

“Good.”

“You don’t have to keep getting flowers to make up for anything, Sy,” you say. “If that’s what you’re doing.”

“I’m gettin’ ‘em just to see you smile,” he replies, and you roll your eyes at the sap but still can’t help but smile again in response. “Ah, there it is.”

With his hand remaining on your leg, Sy begins to run his thumb absentmindedly against the inner side of your knee. It’s not suggestive, but…it could be. You haven’t had contact on bare skin like this in forever.

You look down at where he’s touching you until he clears his throat.

He sits up. “Wanna put somethin’ on TV?”

“Uhh..I mean, I really should actually shower first,” you murmur. “I feel a little gross.”

“Wonder why,” he grunts while he stands. “Only jumped in ten dozen mud puddles earlier.”

You stick out your tongue, and, with a smirk, Sy holds out his hand to help you up.

He keeps your hand in his as he begins walking to the bedroom. “Need a shower, too,” he mumbles.

It’s been a careful month, a month of reservation, and for him to act like this…for him to take your hand in his and lead you down the hall… It's no small thing. He’s acting like it’s his home again.

Even if he didn’t answer the doorbell just now. But that was for a reason, you remind yourself with an internal giddiness.

In the bedroom, you hesitate in front of the en-suite door. Sy said he wanted a shower, too, and the bathroom is small and far from fancy. The tub is cramped and decades old.

“I can…Want me to go first, then?”

You look up at Sy to see him slightly scratching his beard before briefly looking away with a little light in his eyes. Ultimately, he looks back at you and shrugs one shoulder. “Want you to step in first,” he says.

Oh.

It's daring.

It's a hook.

It's letting you make the decision.

“If you’re okay with that.”

You pause for only a moment, then you nod. You guess you’re doing this. Like you used to do.

Like before.

With your eyes trained on one another, the next minutes are silent as you both lift your t-shirts and let them drop to the floor. Your shorts and his pants go next as your heart begins to race.

And it’s almost silly; you’d stripped next to one another not even an hour ago. But–that was different. That was…that was a practice for this, you guess. It was private. Just hesitant little peeks at exposed skin. This isn’t like that at all.

This room is small and the air is still, the space between your bodies next to nothing. There’s no way to hide and also no use: you don’t want to hide. You only divert your eyes to step out of your underwear and twist around your bra to unclasp it, but it’s momentary, and when you’re fully naked, you look back up and find Sy entirely nude, too.

He’s thick and hairy as ever, chest covered with swirls of dark hair leading downwards as it narrows into a long broad strip over his stomach. Beneath, it’s somewhat bushy yet still trimmed, and as you try not to stare there for too long, you move your eyes lower to rake over the straight hair trailing down his large legs.

Just as you’re taking in Sy’s body, he’s watching yours, and you take a deep breath, briefly feeling self-conscious. It’s been such a long time that you're worried that maybe he won't even be attracted to you anymore.

Sy’s always been this work of art to you–scars and flaws and all–and it's a lot to live up to.

He loosely puts his hands on your hips, staying away enough so that no other parts of his body touch yours. “I’m allowed to look?”

“Of course,” you quietly murmur. “You’re my husband.”

“And you’re my wife,” he replies just as quietly. “So why’re you actin’ shy?”

You whisper your admission. “I’m nervous.”

“About what? Me?”

You inhale deeply.

How do you even explain this?

“We ain’t gotta do anything.”

You start shaking your head. “No, that’s–it’s not anything like that.”

“All I want is for you to…" He sighs. "I just want everything to be alright.”

“It is, it is," you reassure. "I just..."

Sy gives you a second to finish.

Looking and sounding foolishly young, you bite the side of your lip and ask, "Do you...like what you see?"

His fingertips twitch over your hips, and it's just then when you finally make eye-contact with him again that you realize his pupils are blown.

He clears his throat. "Very, very much."

Feeling like this is the first time you've ever been together or something, you smile and reply, "Me, too."

“Why's it look like you’re ‘bout to cry again?"

You try to chuckle. It comes out odd.

“It’s just been a long time…since…and what I feel inside me is–it’s this giant thing,” you try to explain, lifting a hand to the left side of your chest. “So huge it’s like my heart’s pressing against my skin trying to get out. Like it could burst or something. And it’s…it’s just a lot. And I just don’t want to mess anything up…If that makes sense.”

You’ve been looking away, but when Sy’s thumb starts caressing your skin, you meet his eyes again. “Don’t think you have to worry about messin’ anything up, baby,” he says. “That’s my job.”

You immediately want to deny his words and tell him how untrue they are, but at the wry look on his face, you don’t. He’s got his dry military gallows-humor embedded within him, you know, and though his words may be blunt, they come from a place of grim acceptance of his role in what’s been going on these past few months.

You lightly place your hands over Sy’s wrists where they’re still at your hips. “Not anymore.”

His eyes bore into yours. “Not anymore.”

He offers a small and somehow serious smile. “I feel the same way you do. You gotta know that. This is a…huge thing, and I already came so close to fuckin’ it all the way up. And I really couldn’t live with myself if…” He clears his throat. “I mean that.”

“That won’t happen,” you reply, tattooing this moment in memory–Sy talking about feelings. “Because we’re good now.”

He leans in and carefully kisses you, and all those emotions from the forest come back. The emotions from when you’d picked up the roses on the porch come back. The emotions from years past, of being the sole object of his adoration, of marrying him. A giant firecracker going off inside you, a million pop-rocks exploding in your stomach, a warmth that coats your entire body–all of it.

Your fingertips dance over the backs of his hands still holding your hips. You have too much inside and nowhere for it to go except his mouth. It’s easy since his beard isn’t scratchy whatsoever–it’s soft, and his lips are soft, and his tongue is soft, and everything’s tender, and you mentally keep repeating we’re us we’re us we’re us.

Sy breaks away first, and after staring at you for a long moment, he opens the shower curtain and turns on the water. He even holds his hand out to steady you while you step inside.

He enters next, and you’re so close that you can feel his dick brush against your skin as he turns around to slide the curtain closed. You look down and bite your lip. Just from kissing, he’s filled out.

You both have to stand sideways in order to feel the warm water and not block it from one another, and in the narrow bathtub, that leaves hardly any room at all to move. Facing Sy, you lean back against the wall, and he puts his hands on your hips again. He watches your expression before stepping even closer to you.

When he says, “We always used to be good together,” you nod at him.

“We did,” you agree.

He repeats his words from earlier in the woods. “What we had was good.”

“It was.” You nod again.

And then he’s right there again–warm and shamelessly close, everywhere. He’s so close you can feel the coarse flattened hairs underneath his chest pressing wetly against your breasts, the thickness of his feet planted outside your own, the stiffening between his legs poking your lower stomach.

“I’ll make it good again.”

Like he's giving you time to come to terms with all of this, or say no, or say not yet, he stands unmoving and just holds you until the tension drains from your shoulders, until your heartrate settles, until you can lift your arms and wrap them up around his neck.

“It’s not just a one-person job, honey,” you say, turning to rest your face atop his chest. “Not everything’s always on you.”

In turn, his hands slide around from your hips to your back, pulling you in closer, and he hugs you back. You close your eyes.

For long moments, things are quiet but for the water spraying on your bodies and falling to the floor. When Sy breaks the silence, it’s to say, “We’re still us.”

You look up and meet his eyes, then his mouth. Saying those words like a mantra makes this reality believable, both for him and for you. Despite all the challenges from the past and the ones inevitably to come in the future, you’re more or less the same. You're still yourselves at the core.

Both you and Sy smile simultaneously. “You’re sayin’ all the same things you said in the woods.”

“‘Cept this time you ain’t against a tree,” he replies while inching forward, “and we don’t gotta stop.”

You soon find yourself being carefully pressed against the shower tiles, one of Sy’s large hands cradling the back of your head while the other grasps your waist, and when he kisses you, there’s a desperation that doesn’t necessarily match the tenderness of his touch, but a vulnerability that definitely does.

He kisses you like he needs you to breathe, jaw working intently and mouth working strongly, and you want him back just as much, but it's just–it’s a lot all at once.

Over his beard, your hands move to hold him in place while his pursed lips open and close, partly as a way to try to tame the kiss, and partly as a way to simply steady yourself. When everything gets more urgent and deep, your lungs protest, and you need to break away. Your hands find Sy’s pecs and softly push there, but it’s no use; he’s all muscle.

Instantly, he’s panting in your face, mouth dislocated from yours. His eyes move quickly all over your face. “Too much?”

“No, it’s–I can’t breathe, is all,” you explain while gasping for air.

“Shit,” he says, panting, too. “I–Damn it, I just wanna–”

“Me too, me too,” you reassure. “Just–Maybe let’s slow down a little. We have…we have time.”

He listens. After putting both of his hands on the tiles on either side of your head, he leans down and kisses you again, and it’s shorter, shallower. It gives you time to relax and lower your hands to his waist. It gives you time for your fingers to start twitching before they grip too intently.

Sy starts carefully, and you follow his lead, just exchanging little sipping kisses–wet and soft and adoring, precious little things that you both want to covet.

When your tongue slips out to lick Sy's upper lip, he copies your action, and after you break away to look at one another in a bit of a daze, he goes back in and starts slowly massaging your tongue with his, now having the green-light for more.

Everything grows heady, your tongues and mouths working almost to the power of before, but you can tell Sy’s keeping himself and his speed in control. Still, making out like this has you gripping his skin, squeezing and trying not to pinch.

You feel like your knees could buckle and give out.

Sy’s grown entirely hard, and his cock starts to press against your stomach every time he moves.

“This okay?” he checks in.

Your voice comes out shaky. “Yeah.”

With another kiss, Sy runs a hand up your stomach until he reaches your chest, and he squeezes over the mound there before brushing his thumb over your nipple.

“Still okay?”

Quickly nodding, you hum.

“You can say no,” he says into your mouth. “You can say no to anything.”

“I don’t want to,” you slur into his. “Say no.”

With a smack, he moves his mouth to your chin, then your cheek, then your jaw. He follows the line of your throat as you tilt your head to the side, his mouth open and sloppy.

“Beautiful,” Sy murmurs against your skin.

You’ve forgotten this. You’ve forgotten how–much–he can be when he wants to be. The way he’s treating you, it almost makes you want to fly into the clouds, to melt entirely, to crawl into his body and stay. With how steamy the room has gotten, it’s easy to imagine yourself simply evaporating away.

Your hands travel up his stomach to his pecs where you grip at his chest hair. When he lowers his mouth to one of your nipples, your arms fall down, and you let out a shuddery breath as you feel Sy’s tongue start to move in circles.

“God,” you murmur, finding the back of his head and pulling him in. The urgency from before is coming back.

Sy stands up again, and his face is entirely wet, his beard dripping. There’s almost a look of pain across his features.

You finally look down at what you’ve been feeling against you for so long, and with your mouth open, you stare. Sy’s so hard it feels and looks like it hurts.

The next quick kiss has the desperation from before, needy and deep, and he begins making little inadvertent movements forward to slide his cock against your slick skin.

With a gasp, you tear your mouth away and lower your hands. You–you guess this is happening. You glance around at what you can brace yourself on.

“Hang on, hang on,” you rush out, “let me turn around real quick.”

Sy doesn’t move, and he stares at you for a second, just panting. “I–” He presses his forehead against yours and shakes his head. “Not like this.”

Still, your hand reaches down to wrap around the top of his cock, and with the first touch you’ve had like this in forever, you slide the hot skin all the way down to the root before pulling your hand back up. There’s hardly any give.

“Fuck,” he lets out, squeezing your arm, then shakes his head again. “Not like this, baby.”

“You sure?” you ask, stroking him again and feeling a smug satisfaction that you’re affecting him. “Just to take the edge off?”

“I–” He lets out a little chuckle-groan.

You find his frenulum and begin to rub tiny circles atop it with your thumb, causing him to curse. “Yeah?”

When he groans in a certain tone, you know that’s him consenting.

“Kiss me again,” you whisper over the running water, and Sy instantly does.

Everything comes back to you second-nature. You know Sy's body, you know what he likes. You know how to tease him and draw it out, and you know how to get him there quick.

Trying not to slip down the shower wall, you move your wrist slow and loose, not trying to be slow on purpose but simply trying to make him enjoy the next few moments before they’re over.

There’s only the feel of his cock in your hand and his tongue in your mouth, the sensation of his heartbeat inside your palm, his impending orgasm taking up the shower.

Eventually, Sy can’t kiss you anymore, and he presses his forehead onto yours again. Together, you share the same hot air while looking down between your bodies. You pick up speed then, able to focus better without his tongue in your mouth taking you away someplace else. Staying mainly at the top of his cock, you twist and pull and tighten your hand, and… it’s not long after that.

Sy firmly squeezes both of your arms right before groaning, “Oh, fu-uck,” and you keep gripping his cock while watching him desperately jackhammer himself into your hand.

When he starts rhythmically squeezing your upper arms and releasing, you feel a similar rhythmic pulsing underneath your fingers, and then you watch everything come out–first a few spurts upwards onto your abdomen, then a creamy collection that slides down atop your circled index finger and thumb.

Your hand stops moving, but you keep it where it is while waiting for Sy to come down.

“Fuck,” he repeats breathlessly, and he slides his wet forehead sideways against yours before he stands upright. He lets out a deep breath and a sideways smile, and when you rub your thumb over the head of his softening dick, he jerks forward and hisses.

When you finally let go of him entirely, he stands unmoving.

“God damn,” he just says, then he travels his hand down your sticky-wet stomach and pauses, looking for your reaction before going lower.

You put a hand on top of his and gently shake your head. You then look to the right to blatantly signal to the bedroom. “Maybe we should get out. We’re gettin’ pruney.”

Sy nods. “Gimme just a minute.”

He grabs the washrag hanging on the shower caddy and pours a fair bit of soap onto it before reaching out and literally beginning to wash you.

Starting with your stomach and then moving up to your chest where he spends much of his focus, he then washes your neck and your arms. With a little smirk, he leaves the rest for you, so when you’re done with your legs and feet, you rinse off the rag and put some of his own soap on it.

You wash him just as intently as he’d done to you, running over his shoulders and arms and chest and stomach, even his pubic hair and dick. You keep the washrag there for a moment.

“You good?” you ask.

He nods.

He’s being quiet. Too quiet.

“Are you–” You briefly look down. “Are you sure?”

Sy raises an eyebrow. “My dick still works, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“You know–Obviously I know that,” you drop the washrag and say. “That’s not what I was gettin’ at.” In a gentle voice, you ask, “Are you okay?”

Finally realizing what you’re wanting to know, he smiles. “You fishin’ for compliments, baby?”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “I just wanted to make s–”

“‘M better than I’ve been in a long fuckin’ time,” he interrupts you.

A smile blooms across your face, a big smile, and Sy returns it, crooked and almost radiant. You haven’t seen him so carefree like this in so long.

You step out of the shower and shiver at the temperature difference, instantly toweling yourself off and then wrapping yourself up. After turning off the shower, Sy does the same, and then you slowly walk back into the bedroom.

You’re nervous again.

The early-setting winter sun has long left, and you don’t turn on the light in the bedroom, so the room’s only illumination comes from the bathroom. At the foot of your bed, you stop and look up at Sy, and he steps closer until his toes touch yours.

Then he reaches out.

Like he’s touching something precious, Sy loosens your towel where it’s secured over your breasts. He's seen literally all of you just moments ago in the shower, but when he opens the towel, he stares at your bare skin like it's a brand new treasure he's discovering. His expression is vaguely awestruck.

You look at him with wide, open eyes as you reach out and push his own towel to the floor.

He watches you for long, tender moments, then he mutters, “Get on the bed.”

Heart thumping, you walk around the mattress and climb onto the middle. Once you’re laying back on top of the duvet, Sy takes a second to stare at you some more, then he gets in bed and matches his body atop yours. You're chilly and gladly welcome the heat.

You open your legs for him, but he doesn’t give you his body weight yet. Instead, he trails his fingers up and down your sides, so light it’s almost ticklish, then he leans in, puts his weight on his forearms above your head, and kisses you.

You fall naturally into the rhythm of kissing again. It’s like you both don’t tire of it at all–you just want the connection. Sy makes love to your mouth, and it was good in the shower with water cascading around everything, but it’s even better like this–with him on top of you like you’re his, like he’s pouring himself down on you, like you're just a vessel.

Sy reaches down to take your wrist and lead your hand to the back of his neck. When it’s there, he runs his hand down the length of your arm and then underneath it where he holds your hip for a little bit. Ultimately, he just trails back up your abdomen to cup one of your breasts, and he holds there while his tongue swirls against yours.

All of the kissing has you squirming underneath him, and your movements become so insistent that he backs away and looks down at your body. Your half-lidded eyes watch his hand as he slides low low low to finally touch your pussy for the first time, and you gasp.

After he whispers, “You’re wet,” you breathe more heavily. Audibly.

Yeah, you're wet. You've been wet.

“You want this?” he asks.

You nod.

“You really want this?”

“Yeah,” you answer, moving and angling your hips upwards until you make contact with the dripping head of his dick. “I really do.”

He props himself up on one hand and looks down between your bodies to watch what you’re doing.

“We’re still us, Sy,” you remind him in a whisper.

“Yeah.”

He continues looking down as he takes hold of his cock and leads himself to where you're the wettest, and you break your attention from his slack-jawed face to momentarily glance in between your bodies, too.

When you start to feel pressure and then the absence of his knuckles against your skin, you suck in a gasp. It’s been so long that the piercing hardness almost feels foreign, and as Sy gives you more of his body weight, you squeeze his shoulders while inadvertently clenching your legs.

Slowly, just barely, Sy pulls out and pushes his hips downwards again, sending himself only a fraction deeper inside you, but already, you feel like you’re being stretched and filled to the absolute limit. With your lips clamped shut, you press your forehead up into his neck while you hold your breath and keep your noises inside. It’s just been so long.

“Fuck,” Sy lets out on an exhale, and you just dig your nails into his shoulders more firmly to keep him from moving any more.

He still tries to. Finding you unwilling to yield just yet, he seeks out your face, your eyes, panting in mid-air before pushing up his upper body to actually look down at you. Now unable to keep your face burrowed into his neck, you squeeze your eyes shut. It's just so–much.

“Baby. Hey. Look at me,” he says, breathless, so you do. You know your face is slightly twisted up.

The room is dark, but you can see all of Sy’s features. His dark eyes look almost pained in restraint and concern, all of his muscles tight.

“I’m okay,” you promise, quickly nodding in reassurance. Even just that comes out strangled. You can barely speak. “Just–gimme a second.”

“Fuck,” he mutters again, lowering his upper body and putting his forehead on yours, and you know he’s straining himself to keep still.

You’ve got to get used to each other again.

Breathing tightly, you nod at Sy a few moments later, and you’re wet enough that when you relax your legs, it’s easier for you to take more. Sy still holds back as he withdraws, though, forearms almost shaking against your own arms, and his lips quiver against yours while he slowly starts carving a place of his own again.

At one time, he’d already completely had you. Now, he’s returning to you.

And he’s not going to leave again. You're not going to give up again.

Reading when you widen your legs even more, Sy bottoms out with the next careful thrust. Unable to help it, as your body hitches up the bed a bit, a loud moan escapes your mouth. The noise Sy makes in return is similar to a gut-punch.

He must want to make sure your noise was a good one. “Tell me you’re okay. Tell me this’s–”

“I’m good,” you let out shakily while you grip the back of his neck with both hands. “I’m really good.”

Everything is humid between your faces. Sy kisses over your cheek while he remains entirely still, and after you tilt your hips up and start the momentum, he finally starts to genuinely move.

He starts slowly, just rocking his hips in tiny little circles without withdrawing at all, and it makes his pelvis continuously grind against your clit so that you’re starting to light up both inside and out. Quietly moaning with every breath now, you press the heels of your feet against Sy’s ass and push him even closer into you.

Sy slots his mouth against yours to kiss you just as deeply as he’s rocking into you, and you both tell each other with your little groans and whimpers how much you’re liking everything.

That’s when he pulls back a little. Slow at first, he’s deliberate with each thrust, but he works up a quicker rhythm within moments, spurred on by your sounds. Closing your eyes, you throw your head back and open yourself to him. You feel every bit of him against your skin. You feel every bit of him inside you.

With how quiet the room is, every noise is accented and obvious–the mattress moving, your mutually heavy breathing, the soft sound of skin meeting skin.

With a vulnerability you haven’t seen on his face since the first time you ever had sex together, he hasn’t looked away from you once. The way his eyes keep taking you in like he’s recording the sight of you to memory, it sincerely is almost like your first time together.

You stare right back at him, but–you can’t think. You can hardly speak at all. All you can focus on are the sensations overwhelming your body, and all you can do is whimper and gasp through it all.

You crane your neck upwards to kiss whatever bit of skin you can get your mouth on, and Sy twists his face over to meet your lips with his own. Under your fingertips, his skin feels different in places, and you memorize each spot.

You inadvertently turn slightly rough before long, scratching him while moving your hands constantly up and down his arms, but you’re just so pent up with the gravity of all of this that you don’t know any other way to let it out. Thankfully, he’s not overly gentle with you either, and his thrusts quickly turn merciless as your hips start grinding upwards to meet him.

With your mouth dropped open and unable to close, you can’t kiss him anymore.

If he keeps moving like this, you’re going to come.

Your eyes grow wide. “Please.”

“I’ve gotchu.”

Your whimpers and heavy breathing graduate to non-stop quiet moaning, and what brings out an actual high-pitch sound is when Sy pushes himself up on his hands, rakes his eyes all over your body, settles his gaze at your swaying breasts and mutters, “Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” almost as if to himself.

His knees dig into the mattress while your feet dig even more into his ass, and then there’s the rhythmic swaying of his balls slamming against you while both of you grow more vocal. Just as Sy’s face pinches and turns intense, he slows down, almost stopping entirely. Then, in an easy display of his strength, he suddenly leans down again, wraps his arms around you, and flips over.

Taking you with him, you’re entirely on top of him within seconds. “Ah!” you let out as your center of gravity teeters.

Suddenly Sy’s no longer inside you, and you’re too uncoordinated to fix it; your hips just rock against his pelvis while you try to get positioned again in any way that’ll give you the friction from before back.

It was good, it was so good, it felt so good, and you want it back, and why had he stopped?

“Go back in,” you hurry out, “go back in.”

Sy hurriedly pushes himself backwards on the mattress until he’s leaning against the pillows by the headboard, and he pulls you with him. It's then you realize how sweaty you both are.

Still breathing heavily, you stare at each other for a second, and Sy’s expression is almost a dazed look of wonder. He takes your ass in one hand and holds his cock in the other, trying to align with you again. You lift yourself up a little to help him out and ultimately take over impatiently, holding him and lowering down just the right way.

After he’s entirely spearing you, you both inhale sharply.

Though you still feel impatient, things lose their frenzy from before. You wonder if that was Sy's goal in flipping you over–to have this go on longer–because he wraps his arms entirely around you in the largest bear-hug ever and no longer sounds like he’s about to come.

You try dragging yourself up the length of Sy’s cock and then back to the bottom again, but with the position of your bodies, it’s shallow and only at the tip. When Sy stops hugging you to hold you at the hips, you’re able to move more freely, and while you start taking more of him inside you, you slot your open mouth to his and lick into his mouth.

His hands can’t keep still. He squeezes one of your breasts while lowering his face to lick around and suck, then he does the same with the other. Then his mouth is all over your chest, then the side of your neck, then your earlobe then your jaw then your mouth. You hold onto his head the whole time.

When your legs start to burn, you forgo riding him to switch to grinding against him, and that’s somehow even better. It keeps near-constant contact to a spot deep inside you, keeps you entirely stretched and full, and keeps constant friction on your clit against him, everything sticky-wet and slidey.

You lean your forehead onto Sy's, grip his slippery neck, and start breathing in his air. Your noses touch, and you purse your lips in an attempt to kiss, but you're uncoordinated and end up just barely touching his upper lip.

“Feel good?” he asks, barely audible over how heavy he’s breathing.

It feels so good. So good you can barely talk. “You don’t know how good,” you whisper.

He squeezes your ass and groans. “Yeah, I do.”

Spurred on by Sy’s hands on your ass pulling you in every other second, you rock together shamelessly. The rough calluses on his thumbs are as familiar as they used to be.

You’re so wet that it squelches when you rut together desperately, and those lit-up nerve endings multiply to the hundreds and then the thousands while building up stronger and louder and more and more, and both of you start moving together erraticly.

You feel so good you can’t stand it, and it only gets better with each second. You're sweaty and exerted but you just don’t want it to stop, you never want it to stop, and all you want is more–forever.

“I want this forever,” you slur, and that’s when things get urgent.

With force, Sy grabs the back of your head to smash your mouth against his. You’re still unable to kiss, and all you can do is moan into his mouth as you heavily breathe against it, your fingers holding onto him like a lifeline.

“Fuck, I can feel you,” Sy groans against your lips just as you rush out in a whisper-moan, “I’m gonna come.”

You couldn’t control it if you tried. As your climax entirely takes over, you don’t recognize how high-pitch your voice is when you whimper again, “Sy, I’m gonna–Sy.”

“Do it, baby,” he whispers. “Take everything.”

Sy’s wide-blown eyes stare intensely into yours until your mouth falls obscenely open on top of his own and your eyes squeeze shut, and with a loud cry, your legs lock and your pussy starts to convulse around on his dick.

The pulses take over entirely until they leave you quivery and overwhelmed. While your noises lessen from loud moans to tiny gasps, your chest rapidly rises and falls and your legs tremble against Sy’s skin.

“Oh, my God,” you say, and then again: “Oh, my God,” like it’s your new mantra, like Sy has to know everything you just felt. “Oh, my God, Sy.”

With Sy still rock hard inside you, sparks continue to pass through you like little jolts of electricity causing you to jut your hips forward from time to time, and it’s then that you feel Sy’s hands tightly gripping your hips to slightly lift you up and keep you in place. He holds your ass before quickly snapping his hips up, and, totally useless to do anything else, you clench around him as tightly as possible, staring ahead at his pleasure-drunk expression.

Soon, you lower your face into the damp crook between Sy’s neck and shoulder, and you suck a kiss there. Like he’s been holding back to wait on you, within moments, you hear him let out a few curses before starting to deeply groan from within his chest. It’s a coveted sound–your name a frantic whisper before a few desperate-sounding grunts, then groaning while he empties himself inside you. You feel it fill you up.

While Sy’s fingers remain gripping you so hard it’s though he’s worried you’ll leave, you keep your face planted into his neck, heavily panting. His rapid pulse thumps against your lips.

Sy’s hold on you eventually softens, and your breathing eventually grows lighter together. Nothing feels finished, though; besides wrapping his arms around you again, he doesn’t move at all, and you don't make any effort to get off him, either. You keep your head resting on his shoulder, keep your eyes closed, and keep trying to settle your breathing.

For a brief moment, you oddly feel like crying.

All your crazy emotions merge into one–grief, and arousal, and want, and hurt, and need, a yarn-ball of colossal fervor. This is the reunion you should’ve had when he came home all those months ago, the one you’d envisioned. The safety of having him back. The mutual love. The desire. Just the fucking comfort of someone knowing you.

God, you’ve missed him. So much you don’t even see how it’s possible, so much that you can’t even comprehend it.

Soon, Sy softens inside you to the point where you feel like you should disconnect, but even then, you barely move. You just don’t want to. Holding one another during the come-down feels like falling asleep while basking in the sun, like being shot with a tranquilizer.

Eventually, your body sadly protests the position. "My hips are gonna be sore like this," you mumble, still making no effort to dismount.

Sy slowly lays back, taking you with him. "Then move," he says, also making no effort to drop his hands from you.

You grumble, “You move.”

Chuckling, Sy juts his hips upwards, and you have a brief idea that maybe you should try to go again, but instead, you decide to lift your leg up and roll over. In the messy afterglow, you and Sy both stretch.

Your mind runs wild while his cum leaks out of you–Was that as good for him as it was for you? Is everything okay? Is everything still okay?

Thankfully, he doesn’t give you time to over-think, and he pulls you against his side when he realizes you’re no longer touching. Immediately, he reaches out to cradle your face, and he kisses you.

You kiss and kiss and kiss some more, and though they’re kisses without purpose, a thought enters your mind that maybe Sy does want more. When he detaches from your mouth and lowers himself down the bed, it certainly seems that he’s after more, and while you're questioning what he’s doing given the fact that your inner thighs are still sticky with him, he stops halfway down your body.

Seemingly overcome all of a sudden, he presses his cheek to your stomach, squeezing his eyes shut. He clutches you to him, an arm encircling your waist, another arm fully holding your still-sweaty lower back.

While you reach out to touch his closely-shaved head, raw grief for what you’d once had together rolls over you. You wonder if it does Sy, as well. You stare at the ceiling.

How had you drifted so apart in the first place? How’d you ever get to such a painful place where you both lived parallel lives without any intersection, without any sort of communication, without any sort of touch at all? How did it go on for so long? How did you go without this for so long?

It hurts–the despair of time lost–and yet you lay with it, making yourself really feel it. If you let it consume you this one last time, you'll know how you never, ever want to feel again.

Sy’s voice is quiet when he speaks his first real words since—before. “I never stopped, you know.”

Quietly, you ask, “Never stopped what?”

“Thinkin’ aboutchu. I thought aboutchu–I think aboutchu all the time.”

“Me, too, Sy,” you softly tell him, and you wish he’d come back up the bed so you could just hold each other properly.

Instead, surprisingly sudden, Sy’s shoulders begin to shake like they’re literally jumping. You instantly push yourself up on your elbows. He won’t let you see his face.

“Sy…Baby…”

Sy abruptly lets go of your body and sits up, turning away from you to go to the end of the bed where he places his feet on the carpet and his elbows on his legs. Quickly and roughly, he digs his fingers into his eye sockets. Even when you’re able to fully sit up to comfort him, he still won’t let you look at him, instead letting out an involuntary sound from deep in his chest before ending it with some sort of a snort and a cough.

Behind him, you put your forehead against the middle of his back and place a hand on the large scar atop his shoulder. Ultimately, you decide to wrap both of your arms around his torso, and even though your hands can’t meet together over his stomach, you hug him all the same. You’re both quiet for a long, long time.

“I know I ain’t exactly the same, and maybe I won’t ever get there,” he lets out with a gravelly voice, then he snorts again, “but I won’t go back to before. I’ve been workin’ hard. I won’t go back to before. I just. I want you to know that. I want you to see.”

“I do, baby. I do see it,” you respond, and you tighten your arms the best that you can to hug him tighter.

It’s when he puts his hands on top of yours and squeezes you back that suddenly the emotional release you haven’t been aware you’ve even been suppressing happens for you, too, and without warning, you find yourself outrightly sobbing against his spine.

You aren’t sad. You’re happier than you’ve been in forever. It’s just so much, you love him so much, and he’d hurt you so much, and you missed him so much. Your eyes well up and burn and leak while you’re overcome with jerky, snotty cries.

“Oh, hell,” Sy utters, turning around and looking at you with wide eyes.

“I just want our life back,” you cry.

He easily takes hold of your waist and helps you slide back up the bed until you’re resting on a pillow, and he tugs at the blanket to secure it over the both of you. Settling his head on the same pillow you’re on, he looks at you with red-rimmed eyes and puts his hand on the side of your face. There are millimeters between your faces.

“Shh,” is all he says while you let everything out. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I could be normal about this. I’ve just m-missed you for so long,” you wetly say. “When you were gone and when you were back, and now it–now it feels like you’re really back, and I’ve just missed you.”

“I never stopped thinkin’ aboutchu,” he repeats quietly.

Against the pillow, you nod. The sheets beneath you are dirty, and both of your bodies are sticky with sweat, and you’re crying, and he just got done crying and is trying to hide it, and you snuggle closer to him and place one of your legs in between both of his. You’re together as physically close as you can literally be.

“I never meant to bring you any of this pain.”

You wetly chuckle. “Sy, you’ve been through hell. I just–It’s okay now. You’re…You’ve let your walls down. That’s all I’ve wanted. And I know how hard it’s been.”

“For you, too,” he mumbles.

“Yeah. For both of us in its own way.” Sniffing, you just hold his forearm closer to your body, which is hardly at all. “But we’re okay.”

“Still us.”

Sofly, you smile. “Yeah. That’s our new sayin’.”

Just like earlier, you both hesitate to let one another go. You really ought to go to the bathroom, though, and you need to get dressed and change out the sheets where there are…remnants.

After laying together for a long, ling time, Sy is ultimately the first to get out of the bed. Naked, he walks to collect his clothes from the bathroom, and when he returns fully dressed again, you sit up and uselessly cover your chest with the blanket.

"...You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

Sy puts his hands in his pockets. “That’s up to you.”

“I want you to stay,” you say. “For good.”

He gives you a look that you interpret as…a lot of things. I’m sorry. I love you. I shouldn’t’ve ever made you cry.

“Then it’s settled.”

Feeling slightly nervous again, you smile without showing your teeth. “Okay, well…I’m gonna put some clothes on and start gettin’ something ready for supper, then.”

Sy walks to your side of the bed and leans down to kiss your head. His thumb slides along the puffy skin underneath one of your eyes before he straightens all the way up.

“I’ll go clean up from lunch,” he says, and you nod.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and stare at your reflection. Your hair is disheveled and your eyes are pink, but you don't care.

You clean yourself up before getting re-dressed, and you stay in the room by yourself for a minute, just looking around. Things feel utterly surreal.

It takes time for you and Sy to get in calmer headspaces together after the intensity from before. You both sit on the couch and start watching the middle of some movie that’s playing on cable, and later on when it’s done, you work together side-by-side in the kitchen–Sy chopping up food and you actually cooking it all.

“We gonna cook supper together every evenin’ now?” you ask.

He smirks. "If I move back in, then yeah."

"You said it was settled."

"Thought that was just for tonight," he says lightly.

"No, you're moving back in for good," you comment before pointing at him with the spatula. “But I still want our weekend dates.”

He smiles down at the cutting board. “Yes ma’am.”

You eat dinner together on the couch with glasses of water, and you watch football until you feel like going to sleep.

Everything has been purposefully lazy and easy between you after such a cathartic release, but it’s there in bed after your respective nighttime routines where it gets heavy for you again. You’re going to be sleeping beside one another.

There still feels like so much guilt between the two of you, regret of time missed. You’re married, and this is the first time you’re happy to go to bed next to Sy in…forever.

There’s Hope now, and it’s filled the entire house, and it’s on your side.

Also on your side is Sy himself. Because his body simply radiates heat, you can’t truly cuddle or anything, but you’re closer than you’ve been in months while you both drift off to sleep. The fingers of his outstretched arm touch the side of your leg all night.

________________

The next morning, you wake up to Sy spooning you from behind, and with the morning chill in the room, you’re actually grateful that his body’s like a furnace.

Under the covers, you’re sleepy and lazy and warm. You’re caught in that hazy post-waking-up window where you’re too comfortable to actually get out of bed but not sleepy enough to fall back asleep, and there’s a conscious buzz in the air that’s palpable. You know from Sy’s breathing that he’s awake behind you.

When Sy slots his large leg in between both of yours and wraps his arms around you a little tighter, he lets you know that he’s aware you’re awake, too.

Your body tightens in a stretch. “Mornin’.”

In response, he just grunts a little. One of his hands reaches underneath your shirt to start caressing your bare stomach.

“Sleep good?”

The next grunt is more happy. Affirmative, then.

You chuckle. “Me, too.”

You’re both quiet after that, but before too long, you feel Sy’s dick literally twitching through his boxers as it starts to press against your ass.

You twist around slightly to look at him, but you can barely see his face. “Really?”

He leans into the back of your neck and breathes in your scent. “You feel good.”

You let out a smile despite him not being able to see. When his hand starts exploring more suggestively, tracing along the top of your sleep pants, you hum.

“This okay?”

“Mmm.”

Together, you both shift so instead of laying entirely on your sides, you’re both halfway on your backs. With your right leg draped over his, it’s easier for Sy to continue touching your navel and then above, just feeling your skin underneath your shirt. He trails his hand lower, but he stays atop your pajamas while touching the tops of your legs and then, finally, the spot where they join.

You remain quiet while his hand starts a slow, circular rhythm, but your breath hitches, and you just let the sensation wash over you.

It’d be nice to turn your head to kiss him right now, you think, but it’s the first thing in the morning, and even this is nice–being so so close and so so comfortable.

Blindly, you reach behind you to slide your hand either into or above Sy’s boxers, but he doesn’t let you. “This’s just for you.”

You move your hand away. “Why,” you start to tease, thinking of last night’s shower, “‘cause you have to be even with me?”

At the nape of your neck, you feel a huff of air exit his nostrils, followed by the press of his lips. “‘Cause I didn’t have any manners last night,” he says lowly while pushing down your pants, and you know what he’s talking about. Normally he’d try to make you come first. Normally he’d do more.

Under the covers, you kick off your pajamas and your underwear together. “But, Sy, everything was–”

“Relax,” he interrupts. “Just enjoy it.”

You roll your eyes, but they just end up closing as his fingers slide down your slit and just barely find slight wetness below. It’s not much, but when he slides his fingers around and goes back up to rub your clit with what he’s collected on his fingertips, it’s enough lubrication for everything to feel soft.

Taking off your pants messed up the angle you had just a minute ago. “Open up for me,” Sy says.

Instead of complying, you squirm and lift your leg entirely off of his. Laying flat on the mattress beside him, you widen your legs and finally look at his face. His eyes are puffy with that just-awoken sleepiness, and his lips are a little dry, but he’s just as handsome as ever. His eyes are dark, but they’re bright, and he gives you a little side-smile that you instantly return.

As he changes the movement of his fingers from circles to little left-and-right motions, you start breathing quicker. It’s insane how good he is with just one hand, but then again, it shouldn’t be. He’s always known your body.

Soon his fingertips dip lower where you’re wet enough now that he entirely coats the tips of his fingers. After doing so, he slides his hand upwards then downwards again, then again, and again, repeatedly gathering slickness and spreading it all over. It’s indulgent enough that you have to close your eyes.

Sy focuses on just your clit after that, going back to larger circles and then finally to tight, quick ones that have your hips jumping up and your breath gasping and ultimately, your body crashing. Everything locks up for one long moment, and you’re washed in the feeling of being known and being loved and being wanted.

Even with your entire body buzzing and a dopey smile on your face, you can’t help yourself from reaching down to trail your thumb over the tip of Sy’s dick over top of his boxers. That was so nice.

“Was supposed to be just for you,” Sy utters, but he still moves to lay on his back when you sit up and start to slide down his boxers.

“And this is gonna be just for you,” you tell him, moving in between his thick legs to pull his underwear all the way down. Your head rings with the sudden shift in position so soon after coming, and it also rings with the view you’re presented with.

You keep the blanket around your shoulders and Sy’s legs. After running your hands up and down his thighs and taking in your share of him, you lean down, take his cock in one hand, and slowly lower your mouth. While you swirl your tongue around and suckle just a little, you look up through your lashes to find him already staring down at you, his eyes droopy.

With the salty-skin taste of him covering your tongue, you start moving your mouth. Sy reaches down and traces your lips with one of his fingers, then he puts his hand on the back of your head. He keeps it there without pressure as you use your mouth and your hand in tandem to get him off, and the sun shines in the room and the blankets are bunched around your bodies and nothing feels gross and everything feels right.

You’d been shaky and desperate after coming under Sy’s fingers, but now, with him staring down at you with a lazy desire you can feel through whatever invisible string it is that connects you both, a brand new intimacy rushes over you.

Everything is safe.

The days go on. Sy officially moves back in. Things continue to evolve into a semblance of normality again.

You go to work, Sy goes to the VA. You begin joining some of his therapy sessions with him, and you learn how to support him in the way he actually needs, not just in the way you think he needs.

He begins taking medicine at night to help him get to sleep and to keep night terrors away. He buys you flowers every week. He makes contact with his old friends again. You even go on double-dates with some of them. Poker continues, but not as much as before. He grows his hair out a little.

You have a sex life again. Still, there are times when he doesn’t want sex, and there are also times when you don’t. There are times that you catch him staring at a television set that’s turned off. There are times that his eyes look like he’s watching something far, far away. There are days where he doesn’t leave the house, and there are days where he doesn’t want to be home at all.

When the weather gets nicer, he goes back to his old pastime of fishing. You join him on the lake sometimes, but he enjoys the alone-time on the boat so much that it’s not very often. He never goes to a spot without cell reception.

Most especially, you still go out on dates every Saturday, and they no longer feel like small apologies. Instead, they’re just moments of togethernes– sometimes just fast food and the movies, sometimes long strolls and picnics, sometimes fancy restaurants.

You know it’s not easy for him–that civilian life in general isn’t easy for him. You know that what he’s been through has changed the wiring of his brain. You know that he has to actively put effort every single day into forming new habits and erasing the bad ones, into compartmentalizing memories in his head to cope with them better. Into remembering that who he is inside isn't just what the military built him to be.

On the way home from one Saturday night date–a suit-and-tie and cocktail-dress place–it really hits you how far he’s come. You keep staring at him in the truck as you unbuckle your seatbelt, and again when you make your way to the front door together.

You love him.

Sy pauses with his keys still inside the handle of the door. “What’s this look for?”

“Hm? What look?”

“You keep lookin’ at me like I’m a prize or somethin’.”

“Well, you are,” you murmur with a little smirk, stepping ahead of him into the living room. “Just..I’m proud of you.”

Sy follows and shuts the door. “Proud’a me, huh?”

“Mmhm. You’ve been workin’ really hard these past few months.”

He slightly chuckles, but you can tell he really appreciates the praise and recognition.

“Maybe I can make somethin’ else hard, myself,” you murmur, and it’s more of a joke than anything else.

Still, Sy’s nostrils flare when you finish your sentence, and with a small smirk, you quickly turn around to kick off your heels. Just as quickly, Sy reaches out and firmly touches your chin, making you look over at him again. “Don’t look away after sayin’ somethin’ like that–Christ.”

You innocently blink. “What?”

In a confident move you relish in, he takes hold of your shoulders, turns you around, and presses you against the door at the same time he lowers his mouth to yours. On your tip-toes, you make yourself taller, and while Sy lowers a hand to grasp your waist, his other wraps around your neck to cradle your head.

“What?” he mocks, then he kisses you like it’s been on his mind all night.

While you lift your hands to grasp his shoulders, your lips fall into cadence naturally–though it takes a few seconds to match his specific speed. It’s heavy, but it’s not rushed, so you’re still able to breathe and keep it going. He kisses so well that your legs clench together, and that only makes you slide down the door.

Sy kisses along your jaw and behind your ear before lowering his mouth to your neck and paying close attention to your pulse-point. Your mouth drops in arousal, but as a certain image enters your head, you let out a little laugh.

He detaches from your neck before dropping his forehead to yours. "What’s so funny?"

"Just something I remembered,” you tell him.

“What?”

“When you came back from bein’ stationed in Germany.”

Sy pauses, and as the memory washes over him, too, you watch as his eyes soften in recollection. He chuckles against your mouth while putting a knee in between your legs, widening them to press his leg against your pussy. “Had us a good reunion that time, didn’t we?”

Looking up at him while biting your bottom lip, you just nod.

“Those days when we couldn’t wait none and did it right against the door,” he chuckles, moving his hands to your hips and then widely splaying his fingers out as he trails both of them down your thighs and then around to cup your ass.

“All our clothes still on,” you add.

Sy grins. “Pulled your panties to the side, got my pants down to my knees. Didn’t even take my boots off.”

You accept another kiss from Sy and then say against his mouth, “You tripped 'cause it was so dark."

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” You can’t help but smile while he keeps trying to kiss you. “Knocked your big head right into my face."

Sy squeezes your ass cheeks. “Still ended up findin’ the right hole, didn't I?” he challenges.

You're smiling too largely to continue to kiss again, but Sy finds a way to steal another one from you anyway. "You're good at that."

He laughs, and you feel his smile against your mouth, too. "I sure as hell’d like to think I am."

“Let’s go find out,” you say, and as you playfully escape his hold and scurry ahead of him to get to the bedroom, he easily catches up to you and smacks your ass.

Cackling, you jump on the bed and lay on your back, casually bending your knees and leaving them slightly open so that when Sy instantly settles directly in between them, he’s easily able to push your dress up to your stomach and slide your underwear down your legs.

The next thing you feel is his hot mouth and tongue all over your inner thighs and then your pussy, laving lazily before flicking and sucking at the top where you’re most sensitive. When two of his big fingers easily dip into your wetness and start smoothly pumping in rhythm with his mouth, you bite your lip and undulate your hips upwards.

Sy looks up at you and reaches out his free hand, and you entwine your fingers with his before running your fingers through his hair. With his mouth never pausing, you stare at one another for a few heavy moments until he starts crooking his fingertips upwards against your inside walls, and you gasp and throw back your head.

You have to close your eyes, but when Sy squeezes your hand, you squeeze back. You’re in the middle of what should be a crass act–Sy’s mouth is insane–but all you can think right now is how right you feel, how good you feel, how at home you feel.

Mainly, how loved you feel.

You’ve got your husband back.

#The bad stuff never stops happening #Captain Syverson #Sy #Sy x reader #Captain Syverson x reader #Just-chirpin #Henry Cavil #Henry Cavil x reader #Reblog

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themanfromu · 1 year ago

Text

I love this 🥺❤️

Summary: You witness Sy having a night terror for the first time, and together, you deal with the aftermath.

Words: 14k Pairing: Syverson x Reader, ETS Universe Tags: Nightmares/Night Terrors, PTSD, Anxiety, Angst, and then my all-time favorite trope Hurt/Comfort

Notes: This happens directly after ETS so maybe there are spoilers I guess?

It's the middle of the night when you're awoken from your sleep by a faint and distant noise.

Since moving in with Sy, you’ve discovered many strange noises belonging to this old house. Though admittedly a little unnerving at first, it wasn’t long for you to figure out which sounds were the floorboards creaking due to temperature changes, which were just the old windows rattling from the wind, and which soundswere the fireplace popping. Combined with all the other background noises that naturally come with living out in the country, by now you’ve gotten used to all the small sounds, and typically, they don’t even bother you at all anymore.

So, with this particular noise being nondisruptive enough for you to keep your eyes closed, you scoot your ass backwards towards Sy, fluff up the pillow underneath your face, and wait for sleep to take you under again like usual.

The background sound only increases in volume, however, somehow rhythmic yet spotty, and it just–won’t go away. The steady whirring of the floor fan in the corner of the room does nothing to even cover it.

For a moment, you think it’s just a residual part of your dream, but that can’t be right. It’s getting louder, so it's definitely not in your head. And it’s definitely not a regular “old house” sound, either.

Using the dim light from Sy’s bedside alarm clock, you roll over and slowly open your eyes to look around the room. Next to you, Sy is fast asleep on his back, shirtless with the bed’s thin blanket resting just below his chest. Because he sleeps in all different types of positions depending on how he feels on any given night, it’s not odd at all that he's flat on his back like this. What is definitely odd is how stiff he appears. Instead of being relaxed in sleep, all of his muscles are visibly taut.

You push yourself up on your elbow and stare at him. His mouth is entirely closed, his jaw tightly clenched and his lips pulled downwards in a deep frown, and that’s when you realize that the strange sound isn’t coming from the house at all. It’s coming from him.

Like a deep, muffled hum forming in his chest and trying to push its way up his throat and out his mouth, the sound is…it's weird. There’s no other word for it. It's weird.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever heard before, actually, and as it grows louder, it only grows weirder–like Sy’s trying to bellow with a hand held over his mouth. Never able to truly escape, the shattered sound forms in his chest and gets caught in his throat. Every single time.

As your sleepy brain finally gets your body to fully register the situation, you sit up all the way in bed. You know Sy has bad dreams sometimes because he’s told you he does, but you’ve never been awoken by him actually having one–not ever. He's been doing much better, he said. He told you recently that he hardly has nightmares at all anymore.

The next series of events happens so quickly that it’s hard for your still-groggy brain to make sense of what you’re even witnessing. Despite the darkness, you see sweat visibly begin to coat Sy’s hairline and even start beading up on his forehead, and his tensed-up arms start to twitch by his sides like he's seizing. The entire time, the awful noises from his throat continue trying to escape.

With your mouth suddenly dropped open, you watch in shock while Sy’s head then turns side to side on the pillow and his arms start stiffly jerking so much that they get caught up in the blanket covering his waist. The entire time, the noises he emits are just horrific, more high-pitched and desperate than you’ve ever heard Sy’s voice sound before, all with his mouth entirely shut.

When Sy's chest starts to jerkily rise and fall, you throw the covers off yourself and hop out of bed, helplessly staring at him violently moving.

Shit.

This isn’t a bad dream. Hell, this isn’t even a nightmare. This is a full-on night terror like he's said sometimes happens, and you don’t even begin to know what to do. All of this has happened in the course of a minute.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, walking around the bed so you’re directly next to him. Within a second, the sound of your beating heart starts to join the room’s panicked noises from Sy.

The sounds are starting to scare you; they seem so urgent that you feel like you’re in the middle of a battle or something, like there must be danger right around the corner that you need to brace yourself for, and you’re not prepared for this, you’re not–you’re not ready to handle something like this–you don’t know what to do. If Sy’s showing this immense amount of fear, then surely you have a reason to be afraid, too.

But then you remind yourself that this isn’t real. None of it is real. And even if you aren’t prepared for this whatsoever and have absolutely no clue what you’re gonna do right now, and even if you’re still shaking off sleep yourself, there’s no other option besides helping.

You’re gonna step up and do whatever it is that you can for Sy. Just like he always does for you. You have to act. You have to. You must.

You take a shaky breath. “Okay, uh–Wake him up,” you mumble to yourself. “He said to wake him up if this happens.”

By Sy's nightstand, you reach out to touch his tense shoulder. Feeling its sticky sheen barely give under your fingers, you try to shake it.

“Sy,” you call out, shaking his shoulder again amidst his unpredictable movements. “Sy, baby—wake up.”

He responds by growling at you, and–Oh, God, this is so different than just a nightmare. This is–This is scary. Sy is scared.

You take a deep breath and try to get a handle on your nerves. You can do this. This shit happens to you, too. You get scared at things that aren’t real. You can do this. He’s safe. You’re safe. And you’ve got to make him feel like he’s safe again. You've got to wake him up.

“Sy!” you call out again, bending over him and shaking his shoulders with both of your hands now.

You try to apply more strength in your attempt to wake him up, but a second later, one of his hands–no, one of his fists–quickly comes barreling upwards from underneath the covers. Gasping, you quickly move away as fast as you can while his arm rises upwards in the air, but his knuckles still end up briefly making contact with your left earlobe before you fully get out of the way.

The contact is slight yet unexpected, and it leaves a residual sting that’s sharp enough for you to lift your hand up to alleviate. Instantly, your earring–one of the tiny studs you typically don't even remove for bed anymore–falls to the floor.

“Okay,” you tell yourself shakily, taking another deep breath as the stinging by your ear dissipates. “Okay. You’re fine, it’s fine, it’s okay.”

You don’t care about your earring. Well, you do because Sy gave it to you for Christmas, but–You don’t care at all. You’ll get it later.

Let’s try this again.

Being more careful this time but also somehow more forceful, you shake just Sy’s left arm, staying away from actually bending over his body since that obviously wasn't a good idea.

When you get both of your hands around his bicep, you move his arm side-to side as strongly as you can, calling out louder than before over his muffled shouts. “SY! It’s me! SY!”

Continuously, you shake his arm, feeling as if you’re trying to yank dead-weight off the bed, and all the while, his noises grow absolutely haunting. Some of them are long and harrowing, but most of them are quick and urgent. All of them are loud.

“Wake up!” you urgently plea. "It's okay, Sy, you're okay, but you gotta wake up. Please. You gotta…you gotta wake up."

As you begin losing strength and getting tired, you let go of Sy and let out a dry, desperate sob to match the next hauntingly tortured scream he lets out.

“Please, babe, just wake up,” you beg. “Just wake up. I’m right here. Come on, Sy.”

In a flash, Sy’s eyes open wide, startling you enough to gasp. With eyes big enough to match his, you wipe off your cheeks and just stare at him. Though he’s blinking, he doesn’t seem awake at all.

Because he’s not. He can’t be. Looking trapped in his body, his breathing is still rapid and panicked. Worse, the bellows from deep in his chest go on and on, making you feel like you’re doing nothing to help.

“You’re okay, Sy,” you say in the gentlest, most confident voice you can, despite it shaking. “You’re–You're safe. I promise. Everything’s okay.”

Suddenly, Sy bolts upright and gasps like he's emerging from water, and with huge eyes, he stares outward at nothing. Even in moments of vulnerability, you’ve never seen Sy appear anything but confident and strong, and upon witnessing the most helpless expression in existence spread over his face, you cover your mouth with your hand.

In the next second, the noises Sy’s been making finally stop, and his shoulders seem to slump a bit. With your own shoulders still up by your ears, you take a small step forward and slowly lower the hand that’s been resting over your dry, shocked lips.

You don't know if you should try to touch him again. You don’t know if it’s too soon…if he’ll feel threatened by you like he probably did just a few moments ago when you were leaning over his body… You still don’t know what to do.

“Sy?”

Sy falls back onto the mattress in one fast movement and looks to the side of the bed where you were laying just a few minutes ago. Quickly pushing himself up on his elbows, he then begins to look around the room in a rush, only stopping when he sees you standing next to him.

"Get down!”

Gasping again at the volume of his voice, you stay frozen. “I–”

“Get down!" he orders again.

Your hands stay useless and shaky by your sides.

"You let her go!” Sy urges forcefully, and you step to the side so he’ll be able to see you clearer. “You let her fuckin’ go right fuckin’ now!”

“Sy, I–I’m here,” you tell him, getting whiplash from how quickly he’s gone from hauntingly groaning to outrightly shouting. He sounds so convincing that you have to force yourself to be rational about this; even though it sounds like these words are directed towards you, obviously they’re not.

He bolts upright again, and you step back with another gasp. “Get in position! Now!” he orders. “I got front.”

You swallow, watching him in an agony all your own. “Sy, you’re h-home,” you say, your mouth twisting down. “No one’s comin’. You don’t–It’s just me.”

"You–said–she–was–free!"

As your stomach hurts from anxiety, your heart positively aches, and you fight the urge to cry. “You’re having a–you’re havin' a... You’re in bed right now, Sy. You’re in your bed in Georgia. Everything’s okay. You’re safe.”

Sy's shouts incomprehensibly get lower in volume, ultimately turning to mumbles. Resolutely, you take another deep breath.

“I promise you’re safe, Sy. I promise. You just gotta–You just gotta wake up and see. Everything’s fine."

You heave in another lungful of air.

"Everything’s completely fine," you repeat, clutching your hands together. "You're okay. You’re okay. And–And so am I. Wake up and come back. Come–Come back to me."

Like a gloss has been lifted from them, Sy’s steely eyes change in the darkness, a shift that you can acutely sense. The second he finally focuses on your face, you recognize a semblance of consciousness behind a screen of intense worry.

“Y/N?”

Exhaling all your trembling air, you shakily nod and take a hesitant step towards the bed.

This was…This was no joke. This was…It honestly was scary, and you’re glad it’s over now. For both of you.

“Y-Yeah.” Your voice has gone dry, so you clear your throat. “Yeah,” you repeat.

“You need to be–What’re you doin’ out here?” he asks intensely, almost in accusation, and your mouth drops open. “Get back! Get down!”

It’s not over yet.

Sy's eyes hold residual panic while he looks behind you. Before he can interject like you can see he's about to, you carefully turn on the lamp atop his nightstand.

Slowly, you hold out the hands you’ve just been wringing and gesture around the bedroom. “You're home. See?”

Untensing his muscles, Sy looks side-to-side. After several thick and silent moments pass where all he does is breathe heavily, he finally falls back in exhaustion, bringing a hand to his forehead. The other reaches out and takes hold of one of your wrists, and he pulls you closer to him, squeezing there like a lifeline.

"Oh, thank fuck," he quickly whispers under his breath, and it’s not until he says the words that you’re able to relax a little bit.

But only a little bit.

Gritting his jaw so heavily that it's extended almost in an underbite, Sy examines the ceiling with the passing ghost of fear on his face.

Lowering your shoulders–this time for good–you simply stare at Sy. He’s back, but his face looks like it’s been through a very brief, very intense war.

He’s covered in more sweat than should even be possible, all of his body hair flattened onto his chest and stomach. The bedsheets underneath him are stuck to his back, the pillow underneath his head stuck to his neck. You feel his quick pulse through the hand he’s gripping you with, and with visible effort, you watch as he struggles to catch his breath.

You sit down on the sliver of mattress beside him and put a gentle hand on his chest. “Shh. Try to slow it down.”

“I was–” He closes his eyes. “You–”

You mimic taking a slow breath before speaking softly. “You’re safe. You're okay."

Sy doesn’t keep his eyes shut for long, and he doesn’t remain laying down for long, either. Within seconds, even as you're trying to comfort him, he sits upright and swivels, moving until he’s at the very edge of the bed. After putting his feet on the floor, he shakily puts his elbows on his thighs and drops his head into the palms of his hands. You hear him let out a loud breath like emptying all the air from his lungs.

“I don’t even remember–It was–”

You put a hand on Sy’s damp back, making silent circles until you eventually just stop to keep your arm securely wrapped around his waist. After a while, he places a hand on your bare leg and keeps it there, squeezing. You both sit still in the aftermath, holding each other.

“If that scared you,” he eventually mumbles, "I'm so fuckin’ sorry."

You rest your cheek on his arm. “You don’t have to say sorry. For anything.”

Once Sy lifts his head, you don’t know what else to say or do, so you don’t say or do anything. You just hold onto him, wondering what images he must’ve seen just now, and where he had gone, and what he had been through.

His breathing finally evens out entirely with the help of you audibly assisting him.

“There you go," you murmur, and he clears his throat.

You do the same.

“Are you…Are you feelin’ any better?”

Sy just nods at you. He doesn't let go of your leg.

“Want some water?”

Wordlessly, he nods again, and you stand up to quickly breeze out of the room, glad to be doing something to help, even if it’s just something small like getting something from downstairs. When you ascend the stairs again with a plastic bottle of water, your eyebrows crinkling together in worry, you catch Sy stepping out of the hallway bathroom, dabbing his face with a small towel.

After walking ahead of you into the bedroom, he gets in bed again, sitting up at his sweaty section of sheets and staring blankly ahead at the wall. All earlier fear and exhaustion from his face is erased. Now there's just a shadow of scorn.

You swallow as you approach him, standing next to him like he’s in a hospital bed for a moment, but when you figure you’re probably acting strange, you walk around the bed and join him.

You’re not worried that the blankets are all messed up and wrinkly or even that they’re damp and dirty. There's nothing on your mind except Sy.

He drinks the water you give to him in one go, squeezing the plastic and almost sucking it entirely down, then he tosses it carelessly on the floor. Laying down all the way, he scowls at the ceiling, and you climb in bed beside him and worry even more.

While he lays horizontally, you stay upright, crossing your legs and turning your body towards him so your kneecaps touch his side. You get as close to him as possible, gently touching his chest and running circes over the skin there. He closes his eyes under your touch, so you don’t stop.

You don’t speak until Sy finally breaks his stillness to lift a hand to his forehead. He keeps it there with no purpose before reaching out to touch you, grasping your sleep-shirt and holding it in his clenched fist almost like a lifeline. You cover his hand there with your own.

“Do you not like to talk about it either?” you carefully ask. “Like when I…Like with me?”

Sy shakes his head.

“Okay,” you tell him softly, continuing to touch his fingers until they finally loosen up a bit. “Then we don’t have to talk about it.”

When he finally lets go of the death-grip on your shirt, he keeps his hand on your hip, and the heat from it sears your skin through your clothes. After that, the room remains oddly still. Even the fan in the corner of the room seems quiet.

His croaky voice interrupts the silence. "They just…"

You lift your eyebrows.

"Nothin'," he finishes.

"You can tell me."

He shakes his head. "Just wanna forget that shit even happened."

In understanding, you nod. “I have medicine you could take if you want,” you keep your voice down and offer.

“Ah, I’m alright,” he tells you, almost dismissively, and you just continue to softly frown down at him.

That can’t possibly be true. Not with the look on his face right now, the residual doom, the fear from earlier that no amount of strength or willpower could get him through. Not with the noises he had made. Not with the things he'd said.

Well, he does have the skills to work through this stuff, you know. Alone. He’s not just physically strong; he’s mentally strong, too. His military training and experience are kicking in by now, and he’s probably pushing the occurrence deep down in his psyche. Trying to forget it even happened. Just like he said.

But he’s human, though. And everyone has their limits.

Sy inhales deeply and lets all the air out in a rush while lifting his hand from your side and running it over his forehead again. "Gonna shower," he mumbles.

After nodding, you lean down and kiss his mouth, as gentle and slow as possible. When you back away, your hair falling onto his shoulder, the two of you just stare at one another. While holding each other's gazes so long it almost becomes sentimental, you reluctantly slide your hand off his chest.

"You want any company?"

He tries to smile, but it's only the corner of his mouth purposefully twitching and then evening out again. "Just gonna be a minute," he says, his version of asking for space.

After touching your face and staring into your eyes for another heavy moment, Sy rises. Soon after he walks out into the dim hallway, you listen as loud, cascading water from next door audibly sounds out.

Then it’s just you by yourself.

The guilt from everything that had just happened starts to shroud you, layering up so much in the forefront of your mind that your head becomes heavy.

Of course it’s not your fault that he’d had a night terror or anything, but the fact that he gets night terrors at all…it has you feeling helpless. It was horrific. It was horrific to witness, and it must’ve been just as horrific to experience.

As always, you struggle with the desire to fix everything and make it peaceful and nice again, but with this, you’re in uncharted waters. Uncharted waters that Sy’s had to navigate countless times. With no help.

To keep your mind off worrying with no end in sight, you step out of bed and mindlessly begin to clean up the room, first collecting your earring that had fallen to the ground. Your ear feels sore, so you don’t put it back in your earlobe; you just remove the other earring and put them both on your nightstand.

In between biting your nails, you throw out Sy’s discarded water bottle next along with some other pieces of trash laying around. You then pick up some random clothes on the floor, toss them all in the hamper, and then finally begin to just strip the entire bed. Sy’ll appreciate not having to lay on top of dried sweat directly after showering.

After putting all of the dirty sheets in a giant pile in the corner of the room, you get a set of fresh linens from a closet in the hallway and then get to work stretching everything over the large expanse of the mattress, taking care around all the corners.

Since moving in with Sy and putting your own touch on the house, the bedroom is a little more cozy than the utilitarian way it'd looked before. A new chair sits in the corner of the room, the large window facing the front of the house now has curtains, and a large rug is now underneath the bed, tying together the space by the fireplace on one side of the bed and the window on the other.

You’d like to think the bedroom is more welcoming now, more home-like. That maybe, possibly, by chance, it’s helped Sy’s mind calm down a little.

He's always said that sleeping next to you keeps the bad dreams away, at least.

Usually.

Until tonight.

A recent memory enters your mind while you put a pillowcase on Sy's favorite feather-pillow. When the forest began showing signs of green again–around the time you'd first moved in–you’d opened the windows and watched the newly-purchased curtains move in the spring wind. Sy had walked into the room to catch you staring outside, and he’d matched his chest to your back before placing his chin on your shoulder. Together, you looked out at the pink blossoming cherry trees in the distance, at the bright yellow forsythia bushes scattered throughout the woods beyond the long winding lane, at the random array of tulips you were surprised to see pop up by the garage. You'd remained quiet together. Just looking.

Now that summer’s come early, you’ve started to open the same big window to let fresh air into the house. You frequently still stare outside. At the greenery and the rabbits and the chickens and the deer.

You softly smile while finishing up the bed. You’re happy living here, happy with settling in. And, like Sy's always said, he's happy when you're happy. He honestly doesn't mind you changing or rearranging things. Not even if it requires him to help with heavy lifting. Not even if you move something and decide you liked it better where it was before all along. He may give you a look, but he truly doesn't care.

These bedsheets you've kept the same, though. Sy’s got good taste in bedsheets.

He says it’s because he’s gone too many years sleeping on the itchiest military-grade bedding imaginable and won't settle for less now. You say it’s just because he sleeps naked so much and the expensive sheets feel better on his skin. You hear his voice in your head asking, “And why exactly can’t it be both?”

You can only hope the clean linen offers some sliver of peace to him after his shower. That he can fall into bed and just…be comfortable.

You don’t know. Just…knowing how he is, he’s going to have a hard time relaxing again.

You hope he can go back to sleep after this.

By the time Sy re-enters the room with a towel around his waist, you’re back under the covers in bed again, head on your pillow. You watch him lazily drop the towel by the door while simultaneously opening the top drawer of his dresser. He puts on a new pair of boxers before walking towards the bed and joining you underneath the sheets, and within seconds, the rich and spicy scent from his shower fills your nose. Getting closer to him as he gets situated in his spot, you breathe more of it in.

After Sy finishes fixing the pillows underneath his head, he lifts his right arm in invitation, and you snuggle even closer while staying curled up against your pillow and the fresh blanket. It takes a few seconds before you get settled–your earlobe feels tender depending on how you lay–but you finally stop shuffling around after a minute passes.

In the still air, you run your fingers through Sy's damp chest hair. He stays quiet.

Your hand flattens and pauses in between his pecs while you strain your neck to kiss whatever skin is closest to your lips. Right over his ribs is where your mouth connects. He still stays quiet.

Finally, you lower your hand to rest atop his stomach, and at that, Sy places his own hand atop yours. Gently, he squeezes there. You squeeze back.

"Good shower?" you check in after the silence goes on forever.

"Mm."

"Feelin' any better?"

The noise he replies with is a mixture between a scoff and a chuckle, a sarcastic coping-mechanism you’ve seen him use before.

You know it’s just a facade, but still, you frown. From where your face is pressed so close to Sy’s chest, he can’t see it.

"I just wanna make sure you're okay," you explain against his skin.

"I'm fine, baby," he tells you through a long exhale, and he sounds perfectly normal. "Don'tchu worry 'bout me none. You got work in a few hours."

“I mean…I’m gonna worry,” you admit, glancing up at him. “I just don’t want you to…not be alright.”

His eyes soften a bit when he sees your face. “Just stay like this.”

You nod. He’s probably just as used to his night terrors as you are with your panic attacks. In the shower, he probably already came to terms with what happened and compartmentalized it in his head. Now he just needs time to decompress.

"You stay right like this next to me and get back to sleep," he says with a squeeze to your body.

"Are you gonna?" you ask. "Get back to sleep?"

There's a pause. "With you like this, I can."

You kiss the side of his chest again and then roll over. Facing the window, you cuddle back against Sy until he rolls over to match his chest closer against you.

“Bed smells nice,” he mumbles.

“Mm.”

As he drapes his arm over your body, you recall a similar scene from several months ago–the night of your first panic attack in front of him. On his motorcycle. On the side of the road. Where he helped you breathe again. When you had been mortified.

You both were in this exact same position later that night–spooning in bed.

You sincerely hope his mind isn't running as much as yours had that night.

Maybe this is comforting to him. Just like this. You reach out for his hand that’s wrapped tightly around you, lift it up to your mouth, and kiss it.

“I love you,” you whisper, and Sy kisses the back of your head.

His mouth moves against your hair when he says, “You got no idea how much I love you, too.”

Breathing evenly with your fingers interlocked, you cuddle together and don’t say anything else. With the way he firmly holds you against his body like he doesn’t want you to move at all, you’re eventually lulled back to something resembling sleep. A few hours later when your alarm starts beeping, though, Sy’s no longer next to you.

Finding his departure from bed slightly upsetting but more or less predictable, you groggily get dressed for work and head downstairs without any makeup on and without doing anything whatsoever to your hair. You mess around with it while walking through the foyer so at least it'll look semi-okay for the day.

Drinking coffee at his regular spot at the kitchen table, you find Sy dressed in an old t-shirt and jeans. A wrinkled-up Car and Driver magazine is open in front of him that he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to.

As these things go, there's a strange feeling in the air while you help yourself to the coffee Sy's prepared, but he had already told you last night that he doesn’t want to talk about what had happened–at least not yet–so you're going to respect that.

When you sit down next to him, you hook one of your feet around his ankle under the table and treat him like you would on any other regular day, making small-talk about your plans for the day. Sy will be working on expanding the chicken coop out back before the afternoon heat gets too unbearable; you'll be at the office. Next, Sy will be working on Liana's car in the garage; you'll still be at the office.

Though your morning coffee together is quiet and intimate, it's careful. What had happened last night floats around the room above your heads, but you don’t dare bring it up. Even after all this time with him, you still struggle on a regular basis with knowing the difference between expressing concern for someone and pestering them.

He’d set a boundary, though. He said he didn’t want to talk about it. You’re just being respectful.

After standing up, Sy kisses the top of your head and carries both of your empty mugs to the sink. He stands there for a few moments, just staring out of the window at the windchimes hanging on the back deck. The almost forlorn look on his face propels you to stand up and walk to him.

"You okay?"

He grunts. While he pours coffee into a thermos, you walk to the foyer and put your work heels on. They click on the hardwood on your way back into the kitchen where you meet him by the back door to say your goodbyes.

After an exchange of softly-spoken I love yous, he steps outside through the back door, and to save your shoes from the mud out back, you leave through the front.

Naturally, you worry during your entire commute about Sy. About if he’s really as fine as he seems. About your role in all this. About whether you're not doing enough.

Not able to help it, the moment you're in front of your work computer, you log in, bypass your email alerts to open up a search engine instead, and simply type night terrors. After pressing enter, you click on the first legitimate link you see.

You're not a complete dumbass, so much of the article's information is self-evident and doesn't help enlighten you much, but in the span of one minute, something you read makes your stomach drop.

Under no circumstances should an individual attempt to wake up a person having a night terror.

You read the article three times in a row to make sure you correctly understand what’s written. And even after going to another article to make sure you’re not reading entirely incorrect information–and another article–and another–you find they all say the same thing. Don’t wake up the person having a night terror.

You had…not done that.

You hadn’t done any of the things the articles advise. The more you read about night terrors from an outsider's perspective, the more you realize how ill-prepared and impulsive you really were last night.

You hadn’t stayed out of Sy’s way like these articles suggest. You hadn’t stayed calm, either.

And you had tried to wake him up.

What if that had made it all worse? What if your voice somehow made its way into his head and panicked him more? What if you genuinely scared him?

You think of your own panic attacks. You've had two in Sy's presence already. Two. And he's dealt with you expertly. He's always known what to do.

Though you’re always unreasonable at first, still entirely stuck in your own head and afraid you're dying when you logically should know better after all this time, he's always unfazed. He always focuses on the goal of getting you to breathe again, and afterwards, he always sits with you in silence.

His presence is perfect to have.

He doesn’t make a huge deal about it in the aftermath.

He’s always so confident when it comes to you and your needs. He knows what to say. He knows what to do. He knows everything. And you…You aren't like that at all. Of all people.

Feeling inadequate, you close the door to your cubicle and stare at your computer monitor until the images get blurry and you have to wipe the corners of your eyes.

You have nothing to offer Sy. Really, you just don't. It's always him helping you. Never you helping him. All you do is take. You never give. You're always the one needing assistance. And the one time Sy needed it from you, you still couldn't do it in the right way.

You successfully isolate yourself from your coworkers and your supervisor while putting off all the work you definitely could be catching up on, and the phrase keeps entering your head, again and again–You could've done better. You could've done so much better. Last night and this morning.

But then, even if you had, you'd be sitting right here in this same spot wondering if you’d pestered him.

Your brain just won't let you fucking win.

You close your eyes. What would Sy say to you if you voiced all these thoughts out loud to him? What would he say if you told him you'd read articles about night terrors and that you discovered you'd fucked up? And more than that, that you trying to wake him up maybe made the whole thing worse than it otherwise would've been?

It takes seconds for you to predict Sy's response.

"I was the one who toldja to wake me up before, baby," he'd tell you.

Because he did. He said that. He said that before.

And if you expressed concern that you weren't calm like you were supposed to be–– "It scared you," he'd also say.

And if you worried that you hadn't done a thing at all to actually help— "Just you bein' there was all I needed."

That's what he'd say to you. You can hear it in your head just as clear as if he were truly beside you speaking it. He'd be understanding. He’d be kind. And if you truly had fucked something up, he'd be forgiving. Because he always is.

Talking to yourself internally in a mixture of Sy’s voice and your therapist’s voice and the newly-emerging inner voice of your own, you take a deep breath in and a deep breath out, and you rearrange your mindframe.

Maybe he was a little forlorn and shut-off this morning, yeah, but that’s not a reflection of you; it’s the aftermath of the situation he’s personally dealing with. That’s all. And what happened isn't your fault.

You sigh. You can’t believe that he’s the one who had a night terror, yet here you are needing to reassure yourself over it. It’s ridiculous.

But here you are. Y/N. And you’d done the best you could.

You really had tried your hardest to stay calm. And hell, maybe you actually did exude calmness somehow without you realizing it. Maybe your wavering voice still got through to Sy in the throes of it. Maybe it really had helped. Maybe holding onto one another afterwards was enough for him, and maybe when you get home tonight, he'll be okay.

And besides, you hadn’t really woken him up to begin with, had you? You’d tried, but you failed. He was in too deep. So…Maybe you hadn’t fucked up too badly, after all.

You’re still gonna have to talk to him about it tonight, though. The thoughts will eat you alive unless you let them out.

Going easier on yourself, by mid-afternoon, you open up your message thread with Sy to check in with him. When he sends you a picture of himself in the garage, you tell him that you’ll grab supper at his favorite fast food place on the way home. That’ll be one less thing for you both to have to worry about, you reckon.

Even though you end up working a bit late–well past what this little town calls its rush hour–when you finally leave your agency's parking lot, you're surprised to find the traffic unusually thick. Even for a typical Friday, the number of cars out on the road and people walking around the streets is odd.

It takes you a minute to put it together: Memorial Day is Monday. Folks are visiting for the holiday, preparing for the parade that'll go down Main Street.

The drivers in particular seem to be preparing for the parade early–creeping down the road with no regard to any traffic patterns. Cars with people hanging out of the windows. Cars slowing down at stop lights to catch up with friends and family members they recognize in the car next to them. People walking in the streets.

Impatiently navigating around it all, you mutter under your breath, just wanting to get home to Sy. He’d be pretty upset to see what he considers a really somber day be used as an excuse for this sort of excitement.

In addition to all the people out on the roads, there’s also a long line at the drive-thru. The fast food chicken joint, Sy’s favorite, is conveniently positioned directly next to Sy’s favorite junkyard. “The poor man’s KFC by the poor man’s AutoZone,” he likes to say. Normally you crack a smile thinking about that. Now you’re simply too annoyed.

After ordering grilled chicken for yourself and fried chicken for Sy, you load up on a bunch of sides and wait about twenty full minutes to leave with all your food, gratefully speeding once you hit the open, windy roads of the country. You just want to get home.

By the time you arrive and step inside the house with your arms full of bags, it’s quiet. You look to the left to see if Sy’s in the living room, but it’s empty. Next, you walk down the hallway and peek into the kitchen, only to find it entirely empty, too. And clean. Spotlessly clean. That's when you hear muffled music and the sound of clicking metal from down the hall.

You place the bags of food onto the counter and walk towards the work-out room. You stand at the doorway and quietly look inside.

In the middle of a set of bench-presses, Sy loudly grunts while repeatedly pushing his loaded-up barbell away from his chest. With his last rep, he lets out an extended groan before setting the barbell onto the rack above his head.

With no break at all, he sits up, panting, and instantly bends over to lift a singular free-weight off the floor. You continue to watch as he begins doing bicep curls, starting with his right arm and then moving on to his left. In the muscle-shirt he’s wearing, you’re enamored for a bit at the sight of his muscles at work, and you feel like it's worth readdressing his idea of putting a large mirror on one of the walls.

Since Sy hates having headphones in his ears, you clear your throat when you see your opening to get his attention, and he looks back at you instantly, shoulders temporarily rising in a moment of shock that’s short-lived. A line of sweat drops down the center of his nose, and he sticks out his bottom lip to blow it off.

You offer a small apologetic smile after accidentally startling him. “Didn’t hear me come in, huh?”

Sy wipes off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Guess not.”

As he takes a long sip of water, you take in his appearance. His gray shirt is drenched in sweat, almost soaking wet. His loose athletic shorts stop just where his knee-brace begins. His body looks just the same as it always does–impressively large, confident in the space it’s in–but his face is haggard. His eyes are red-rimmed. He’s tired.

You tilt your head to the side to gesture to the kitchen. “Surprised all that yummy-smellin’ chicken didn’t give me away,” you comment, trying to keep things light.

"Yeah," he replies.

You clear your throat. “I’ll warm everything up whenever you’re done. Just say when.”

Sy makes a hand-gesture by his throat to indicate he’s finished. With a grunt, he stands up from the bench and begins to walk towards you.

“What all’d'ju pick up?” he asks before he leans down to pretend-kiss you.

You slide out of the way of his dripping-wet face and stick out your tongue. “Chicken, taters, slaw,” you answer. “Green beans and rolls…The regular.”

While pulling his arms behind him in a stretch, he makes a long, low noise of appreciation. “Thanks, baby.”

You just smile, and Sy stands there momentarily, looking at your face. Seeming to inspect your hair next, Sy’s eyes linger by your cheek in a way that has you tuck a few stray pieces behind your ear with lingering self-consciousness you suppose you’ll never be able to shake.

You’re about to ask if you have something on your face or something, but then he just says, “Gonna shower, then I’ll come back down,” so you nod at him.

Sy lightly taps your ass as he walks around you, and you reach out with your foot to kick his ass in retaliation as you follow him. On your way into the kitchen, the dryer buzzes from inside the laundry room. You gaze inside to see a few baskets of linens sitting on top of the washing machine.

You call out to Sy who’s heading down the hallway, “You do laundry?”

“Yeah,” his muffled voice calls back, and you tilt your head to the side.

“Huh,” you simply murmur. He cleaned up the kitchen and he’s done laundry, and he’s worked outside and in the garage, too. “Well, jeez, Sy, you’ve been busy today.”

You set the table in the now-entirely-finished dining room with care while reheating all the food that’s had time to cool down on your drive home. You even move all the food into nice-looking dishes before setting it all out. It may be fast food, but still.

When Sy comes downstairs in another muscle-cut t-shirt and an old pair of sweatpants, you meet him in the foyer and gesture to the dining room with an exaggerated flourish. “Hope you’re hungry.”

He stretches. “You got no idea.”

After Sy takes his seat at the end of the table, you get behind him and put your chin on his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him the best you can. You squeeze him for a while before kissing his scruffy neck and standing back up and sitting down next to him.

Sy loads his plate up like it’s Thanksgiving, and you fill your plate with the things you’re able to eat. Though he’s acting normal, he looks utterly exhausted, and you can’t help but be concerned.

You don’t know how much concern is appropriate. You keep going between “He’s fine, he’s gone through this before, he knows how to handle this” and “He’s repressing what happened, he’s not fine at all, you need to help him.”

You clear your throat before taking a bite of mashed potatoes. “You been out in the garage most of the day?” you ask, looking at his hands as he shovels a bite of food into his mouth, too. Though he’d just showered, there’s still grease underneath his fingernails.

He nods while chewing. After swallowing, he just comments, “Liana’s air conditioner blew.”

“That sucks.” You make a face. “It’s gettin' so hot outside already.”

Sy grunts. "’Course that’s not all that needed fixin’. Spark plugs covered in grease. Brakes worse’n yours were last year.”

"Oh, no," you make another sympathetic face and reply. "Does she have somethin' to drive while you work on her car?"

Sy nods. "She's in MaMaw's car."

“Oh, nice,” you say. “That car’s pristine.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, “‘cause she never uses it.”

You smirk. “Thanks for also findin’ time to clean and do the laundry,” you tell him before you begin eating.

He nods. “No problem,” he says quietly, and his face turns a little more serious as he chews.

It’s because you’ve reminded him why the bedsheets needed to be washed in the first place. Now the topic is Out There.

After going through a mostly-silent dinner together due to combined hunger and good food, Sy puts his fork and knife on his plate and leans back in his chair. As he wipes off his mouth and beard with a napkin, you know the time is now.

You take a deep breath in preparation to speak, but before you even let out a word, Sy's already talking.

“I got a question for you.”

In slight surprise, your eyebrows lift, and after you swallow, you agreeably nod almost instantly. In reaction to Sy's serious face, you touch the area around your mouth, nervous you have food there due to how intensely he’s suddenly looking at you.

"...Yeah?"

He sharply inhales through only his nostrils, and you're….confused.

"Didju have a nosebleed last night?"

The question takes you as off-guard as his surly demeanor, and your eyebrows furrow in confusion while you shake your head.

"No…" you answer slowly.

Sy mumbles something impossibly quietly, and you continue staring at him, utterly lost.

You've only seen this particular look on his face two times–once with his sister Liana's ex and once with yours. He's angry.

"Sy, what's the matter?" you ask, now growing more worried than confused. "What's gotten you so mad?"

"Myself," he replies.

Your confused face only accentuates. "What on earth for?"

"Your pillowcase has blood on it," he answers.

You pause. “What, the pillowcase in the dryer?”

"The pillowcase that’s on the bed now.”

“Oh…I mean, I might’ve had a nosebleed then, I dunno,” you say, but Sy still doesn’t relax. He keeps looking all around your face.

"What did I do to you?" he asks you through his teeth.

Lost, you blink a few times and then slowly bring a hand up to your left ear. "Oh, that!"

Sy lifts a thick eyebrow at you.

"My earring…" you murmur, reaching up to touch your bare earlobe. "It got snagged last night and fell out. I guess there must’ve been dried up blood from that.”

"It got snagged how?"

"It was–when I–"

You could lie and say it just happened in your sleep, but you won’t. It was when you'd bent over Sy to try to wake him up. Because for some reason, you had thought that doing that was a good idea. To hover over a person actively having a night terror.

"I hit you, didn't I?"

Upset again at the fact that you’d done something so stupid to scare the shit out of Sy in the first place, you frown and look away briefly. That seems to give Sy his answer, and he sharply takes in a breath.

“Just barely, Sy,” you instantly reassure him, not knowing if you should be frustrated or flattered at this sort of response. “Seriously. Just, like–” You make a gesture by the side of your jaw to show how his hand had just barely touched your ear. “Like a graze.”

As Sy's face twists in deeper anger, wrinkles begin to spread along his forehead. To feel that this sort of reaction could be directed at you, you almost wither, but you sit up straighter instead. You know within every pore of your body it can't be directed at you. It’s directed at himself. He’d said so himself.

"Sy, it wasn't 'cause'a you,” you promise. “It was me. I leaned over you and scared you."

Like your words are just making things worse, a grimace takes over the scowl on Sy's face.

“Babe,” you say gently, reaching across the table with open palms. “It’s seriously fine. I promise.”

"You were bleedin’. ‘Cause’a me. You know that ain't fine.”

"I mean, I…I get that that’s how it seems, but it really wasn't–It really was hardly any–" You sigh. “It’s fine.”

"Hittin’ you and makin’ you bleed ain't just somethin' that's fine," he interjects with venom.

You blink a few times. You really weren't expecting this sort of emotional response from him.

While you sit frozen in shock, Sy just shakes his head at himself and stands up from the table, collecting your plate and then his own so the utensils rattle on the porcelain. You quickly rise from your chair and follow him into the kitchen.

“It’s fine because you didn’t mean to,” you tell him. "You had no idea what you w–"

“Doesn’t matter what someone means to do,” he puts the dishes in the dishwasher and gruffly says. “Matters what they actually do.”

“Okay, so, uh. You didn’t actually do anything, though, Sy,” you say, trying another angle. "It was just your knuckle touching my ear. I didn’t even know it was bleeding."

Sy stops messing with the dishwasher and stands upright. He emits a tired-sounding sigh and rubs his face with both of his large hands. “Okay.”

You stare up at him in yearning, hating this stubbornness that's so rarely directed towards you.

"You're makin' me feel bad," you whisper.

"How?"

You shrug. "Like I can't even handle a microscopic injury on my earlobe."

"You didn't–This ain't about what you can handle here, Y/N," Sy says, sounding exhausted.

"I'm–I get that. But I swear to you, I'm fine."

"Okay," he says again, and though it's not condescending–Sy would never–it's still so…dismissive.

You sigh. You’d just told him that he’s making you feel bad by acting like this, so now he’s trying not to make it worse. Now he’s separating himself from you.

After another quiet trip into the dining room, you and Sy both end up in the kitchen once more, loading dishes into the dishwasher together.

You touch his arm once his hands are empty. "You didn't mean to."

He just looks down at you wearily. "But I still did."

Your mouth falls open while you try to think of something else to say besides "I'm fine" and "You didn't mean it" and "It was just a scratch." None of those words have gotten through to him at all.

Ultimately, Sy leaves the kitchen before you can change tactics and think of anything else to say. Approaching the stairway, he briefly turns around and pauses.

“Thanks for bringin’ home supper,” he meets your eyes and says loud enough for you to hear through the hallway. "It was…Everything was great."

You simply nod, almost amused that even while stubborn and grumpy, he’s using his manners. You can’t really be amused when you’re still so worried for him, though. He's being unreasonably hard on himself.

Giving Sy and yourself the alone-time you both need to regroup, you finish clearing the dining room table. After scraping all the leftovers into tupperware and stacking the containers in the refrigerator, you rinse off dishes in the kitchen sink. You load everything into the dishwasher on auto-pilot and then wipe down all the surfaces you can find even though they’re clean already.

Next, you head down the hall to finish up the laundry that Sy had graciously begun taking care of earlier. A giant twisted ball of bedsheets greets you when you open the dryer, and you yank them out and drop them into a wide wicker basket on the floor to get them out of the way for a bit.

Afterwards, you pull out the lint-trap from the back of the dryer while simultaneously reaching out for the giant Mason jar on the shelf on the wall beside you. Peeling off all the fluffy residue from the lint-trap, you add a giant screen of white lint to the existing ball of blue and gray inside the jar, and then you place the lint-catcher back into the dryer. Sy won’t use the collected lint any time soon, but when it gets cold again, it’ll be good for starting fires. You make a mental note to bring a new jar into the laundry room since this one’s getting full.

You fold the two baskets of bed-sheets while letting your mind roam for a bit, and then you go upstairs and put everything away in the hallway closet.

Sy’s in bed watching a movie when you step inside the bedroom, and you know you’re going to have to handle this delicately. The pillow that’s next to him has a tiny spot of brown blood on it.

He watches you from the corner of your eye while you change into comfortable clothes –a pair of athletic shorts and one of his old Skynyrd shirts–and then you join him in bed. Before settling back next to him, you pointedly flip over your pillow.

Really…his hand accidentally hitting your ear had been comparable to him accidentally stepping on your foot that one time you’d gotten him to dance with you at your cousin’s wedding—a quick, sharp sensation that dissipated within seconds. And he hadn’t reacted like this then. At all. If you recall, he'd actually laughed with you that time.

This is nothing like that, though. There’s nothing good-natured at all about this.

“I don’t wantchu to feel bad just ‘cause I’m in a bad mood,” he grumbles.

“I don’t wantchu to feel bad just ‘cause I made a mistake,” you counter.

His answer is a heavy yet clipped sigh.

"Is all this still just 'cause you think you hit me?"

He glances back at you in an instant. "I did."

"Sy, I promise it’s fine. It really is.”

His head thuds against the headboard. “It shouldn’t be fine to you, Y/N."

"But it was an accident. A total accident. You didn't mean for it to happen."

“An' yet it still did.”

"Because I leaned over you," you explain. "It wasn't your fault."

"So you're sayin' it's your own?"

"I mean…" You shrug. "Yeah."

He mumbles something under his breath you can't hear, and you feel him tense.

You've never seen such a bullheaded side to him before. Not towards you, at least. You've seen it to a degree with his family, but this is the first time for you.

"Sy, please," you beg. "Try to see it from my side, okay? You were–You were basically, like, paralyzed, and I was tryin’ to wake you up but I couldn’t, and I shouldn’t’ve even attempted to do that in the first place, but I leaned over you while you were already–I scared you.”

“That’s not how I’m seein’ it.”

You sigh. “How are you seein’ it?”

"I’m seein’ a man hit a woman, and now that woman's blamin' herself."

You blink. Your face softens. Your heart slightly breaks.

"Sy, I–It's nothin' like that. At all."

He remains quiet.

"Look, do you wanna see my ear?" you offer, turning your face to show him. "See for yourself. There’s nothin’ there."

Sy's quiet for a long time until saying, "Let’s just watch this movie."

You try to watch the movie, but you can’t focus. Long minutes stretch by with your mind somewhere else.

“I don’t…I don’t like knowin’ you’re upset.”

"I ain't upset with you."

"Upset at all," you clarify.

"There really ain't no changin' that, babe," Sy says humorlessly. "It is what it is."

You blanch. "I don't think you're bein' fair to yourself. At all."

"It's fine," he gives you a non-answer.

The evening slowly passes. You continue mindlessly watching the movie that Sy’s put on. You do your nightly routine in the bathroom. You get back in bed and decompress by scrolling on your phone. Sy turns the lamps off and switches the channel on TV to ESPN.

Normally ready to pass out after such a long work-week by now, it’s hard for you to actually wind down.

"Please don't shut me out," you whisper into the stillness of the air.

Genuinely struggling with this, Sy looks up at the ceiling. You watch his chest constrict as he takes in a breath.

“We can talk more about it tomorrow,” he says. “Just get some sleep.”

With a frown, you move your eyes from him to the flickering television set in front of you. After sighing, you crane your neck out to offer him your lips, and he meets them with his own. Morphing the meeting of your mouths from just a sulky goodnight kiss to something more meaningful, Sy pours a longing sort of dogged passion into his lips before breaking away.

Like always, when Sy uses his mouth not just to speak, he says much more. He looks at you almost fiercely after breaking away, and you want to just shake him and hug him and pull out all his pain.

"You're a good man," you tell him quietly. "And I love you."

His eyes leave yours after only a few seconds, and he nods almost solemnly.

For once, you’re able to experience first-hand exactly how it feels to want to help somebody so badly and to have them continuously brush you off, saying they’re fine. The situation is eye-opening at best and despondent at worst. You just don't know what to do.

Closely spooning, you and Sy hold each other tightly all night, and all you can do is hope to discuss this again in the morning with well-rested brains.

The next morning, however, the spot next to you is empty again, and you reach out to touch the indentions of Sy's heavy body on the mattress with a wistful hand.

After getting up, you use the bathroom and stare at your completely-fine ear in the mirror while brushing your teeth. Still wearing your pajamas, you go downstairs to find Sy at the kitchen table drinking coffee alone. Just like yesterday. Same spot, same outfit, same scene.

You pour some coffee for yourself. “Mornin’.”

With a voice that sounds off, Sy greets you back. You approach the table and curiously glance at him, and what you see is bad enough that you almost drop your mug of coffee. He looks horrible.

You don’t often think that about Sy, but it’s undeniable–he looks unwell. His skin is dry and pale yet dark under his eyes, and his eyes themselves appear not only red-rimmed like they were yesterday but bloodshot now. Long enough to touch the tips of his ears, his hair is longer than he typically lets it grow, and he hasn't shaved the stubble covering his throat, making his beard extend far down his neck.

Good God, he’s starting to get physically affected from this.

“Sy, you...” You put a hand on his forehead. "You look awful,” you worry aloud.

Sy just makes a noncommittally deep noise, and as he's planning to stand up from the table and dismiss you altogether, you decide to do something rash, especially for the first thing in the morning: you move your hand to his shoulder so he’s forced to remain in his chair.

In response to the challenge, he looks up at you with weary eyes. You just shake your head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Sy, this–this isn’t okay. You have to know that this…We really need to talk. You’re not okay. You know you’re not okay.”

He takes a deep breath before replying, “I’m fine.”

You audibly set down your coffee cup. “And I say that shit when it’s not true, too.”

Your sentence hits him, and instead of responding, he looks away from you.

You don't take it personally. This surly behavior obviously has everything to do with his self-directed anger that he’d accidentally hit you, but you don’t know how to get him to see that you’re fine. He's clearly hung up on it.

Surely he must subconsciously understand you're fine, though. You'd shown him your ear–your completely fine ear. And his opinion of you would have to be seriously low to think you couldn't handle something as small as a piece of jewelry cutting your earlobe. Yeah, he's protective of you, but you're not made of damn glass.

There's something else going on. This is more than just simple guilt. There has to be something else going on. And he's being way too stubborn to really talk, so you’re going to have to get to the bottom of it yourself, then.

Closing your eyes, you channel the inner workings of his mind.

Sy…Sy…Sy….

Sy.

Similar to how much you hate having panic attacks because of how out-of-control they make you feel, you know Sy’s got to hate his night terrors just as much, if not more. For someone with such a high level of self-control, you imagine that the loss of control would be devastating. He must've hated that you’d had to witness it.

And obviously that he'd accidentally hit you during it–the entire reason you’re in this situation to begin with.

He’s got extremely high standards for personal conduct. One of the only things he's truly unforgiving about is people mistreating the people he loves, so now he’s probably lumped himself in with that category of people he despises. …Which has now resulted in this self-hatred. And moodiness. And stubborn detachment.

Your face softens, and you slowly take a seat in the chair beside Sy. You scoot directly next to him and place your hand on his knee.

To imagine Sy feeling like he's turning into someone like his step-father or something…It fills you with grief. He's such a great man.

He just won’t budge, though. He won’t listen to your reassurances that he's a good person and it was an accident. At all. He’s being far too stubborn.

And that stubbornness goes hand-in-hand with his high standards for personal conduct…the self-control only borne from the military. But he’d slipped in a moment of weakness. Or–in a moment of what he’d consider weakness.

So…Knowing him, that act was unforgivable–even if it was just your earlobe–and this detachment he’s showing is his version of…of what? Of protecting you from him? Of trying to put space between himself and the event? Of punishing himself?

You’re almost positive that he wants to protect you from himself. As if you'd ever have to protect yourself from him–but you know how his brain works. That’s probably exactly what it is. He hates that what happened had happened at all, but it did, and he had no control over it. So…now he’s going to do everything in his power to keep it from happening again. But since that’s something he still has no control over…like, he can't predict that another night terror will happen again, or when it’ll happen again since he’d be unconscious during it, now he's–

As your lips part in realization, your eyes widen. You stare into the dull color of Sy’s own.

“You’re not sleepin’ at all,” you whisper aloud your realization. “Sy, you’re…you’ve been makin’ yourself stay awake, aren't you?”

He doesn't respond.

"Because you think you hit me and you don’t wanna do it again."

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his broad chest. "I did hit you."

"Your knuckle touched my ear.”

Sy won't look at you. "That's called hittin', Y/N," he says before diverting his eyes and standing up, and then he walks into the living room.

You sigh. Here we go again.

You stand up, too. Unlike last night, you’re not going to give up on this. You’re settling the issue once and for all. You won't continue letting him go on like this. If it means being just as stubborn as he is, then that’s what you’ll do.

Following Sy to the next room, you say, “Sy, it was on me."

“It wasn’t.”

You take the seat next to him on the couch. “Yes, it was.”

He turns to look at you and points to his chest. "I took the action to hitchu."

“Because I took the action to bend over you while you were thrashin' around," you counter. "I got in the way. That’s what happened. I didn’t move out of the way quick enough. That's it.”

Sy closes his eyes, and he tensely inhales.

“Everything I’ve read says that I shouldn’t’ve done that, Sy, but I didn’t–I didn’t know. I had no idea not to wake up someone havin’ a night terror. I just…" You speak quieter when you say, "I was just tryin' to help."

When he opens his eyes, Sy’s expression seems to shift, and you desperately try to read what he's feeling but not able to say. It seems like…shame?

Shame over what, though? For accidentally hitting you? For having night terrors in the first place? For requiring your help?

Your bottom lip inadvertently quivers.

"Please, don’tchu go cryin'..."

"You're not hearin' what I have to say," you tell him.

"Baby, I am hearin' it," he replies after sighing. "I just can’t get myself to agree."

Frowning, you sit still for a few moments. When you finally do speak, your voice is lower than a whisper. "I hate sayin’ this, but you’re almost makin' me feel like I’m inadequate," you utter, looking down at your lap. "Like I’m glass. Like I can't handle somethin' as small as my earring fallin' out."

"It didn't–"

"It didn't just fall out," you interrupt him and finish despondently. “Yeah. I know.”

"Y/N, it ain't that I'm aimin' to treatchu like glass," he sighs again and replies. He puts an arm around you and brings his other hand up to rub his face. “That ain’t what this is.”

"Then what're you aimin' to do?" you ask. "Punish yourself 'til you die of sleep deprivation?"

You can tell he's amused by your blunt statement, but he's still holding on to such a resolute opinion that he won't let anything besides sternness show.

“Y/N….I don't think you're weak. I've said that before. So if that's what you're gettin' from all this…"

“You’re actin’ like you bashed my head against the wall or somethin’,” you argue. “Your hand was, like, going up in the air–probably ‘cause you knew someone was hoverin’ over you–and it just…"

You take Sy's hand that’s draping over your shoulder and just barely tap on the side of your ear. He still doesn’t say anything.

“Why won’t you bend on this, babe?” you ask desperately. “Just–”

"Look, I know you,” he interrupts you with a sigh. “I know you very well. You're a people-pleaser. Whenever somethin' bad happens to you, you got the tendency to think it's not that big of a deal ‘cause you don’t wanna be seen as a problem if you complain."

He squeezes your shoulder to show he’s not trying to be unkind. Finally, he twists his body so he can see you better and make eye contact.

"This isn't me doin' that, though," you earnestly respond, hating the deep bags under his eyes. "It really did only happen 'cause I leaned ov–"

“You also blame yourself all the time when somethin’s not your fault so you can spare anyone else from feelin' bad," Sy interrupts. "When someone else is uncomfortable or somethin’, you’ll do whatever you can to get things calm again. This is exactly one of those times.”

“I–”

Sy knows what you talk to your therapist about. You share just about every conversation with him. You know that he knows how you have a habit of fawning. How uncomfortable you are with other people’s discomfort. How you’ll willingly take blame for things that you don’t need to just to keep things peaceful.

He knows that. But this really isn’t that. This isn’t you taking on something that’s really not your burden to bear.

“It literally was just one time, Sy,” you say, and apparently it’s the wrong thing to say, because Sy’s weary eyes flash.

"One time is one time too many,” he retaliates.

“Sy, I literally was in your face,” you put a hand on his leg again and tell him. “I was bent over you shaking your shoulders. I was trying to wake you up when you were in the middle of–of–I still don’t know what. But I know it was scary. And I know I made it worse.”

“Y/N…”

“That was on me. I shouldn’t’ve done that. I just…I didn’t know. I really didn’t. But I know now.” You take a deep breath and let it out. “I know now, and I won’t ever do it again. Which means I won't get in the way of your hand again.”

“Just stop blamin’ yourself, Y/N,” Sy mutters. “You didn’t do a thing. You didn’t. I did. People get woken up like that all the time without doin’ what I did.”

“Normal people, yeah,” you retaliate. “Not someone havin’ a night terror. You’re a vet who’s been through a lotta shit, Sy. A lot. A lot you probably won’t ever tell me even ten years from now. You were–You were entirely somewhere else in your mind, and I know that I had to’ve scared the shit outta you. I made it worse. I just–I didn't know."

“So it’s all okay?” Sy challenges with a quiet internal scoff. “It’s okay for me to punch my fuckin’--”

You slightly shake his leg. “You didn’t, though.”

“Your ear was bleedin’, Y/N,” he argues. "You don't wanna say what happened, and I get that, but I know. I know what I can do. I hit you, and even after you changed the sheets you were still bleedin’."

"You've never hit anyone in your sleep before," you murmur. "You've never done that. You told me that before."

He’s silent long enough for you to check in.

"Have you?" you clarify. “Hit someone?”

His answer is immediate. "No."

"Then why do you think you did this time?"

"Because I did."

"You didn’t. Your knuckle made contact with the bottom of my ear, and my earring snagged and fell out,” you explain, going over the same information you already have. "But Sy, I've literally run into a door before and had that happen. It’s really not hard to do."

"I made you bleed."

You challenge his stare. "Gettin' it pierced in the first place made me bleed."

"Which you did voluntarily," he counters, starting to slur. "You knew whatchu were signin' up for."

"And I could say that I did the same thing by tryin' to wake you up," you murmur. "But I did it anyway. Because I wanted it to stop for you. Because I care."

He’s silent.

"The arguments never stop with you, huh?" you try to make light. “Tryin’ to think of another one?”

"It ain't a matter of arguin', baby, c'mon.” Sy looks upwards at the ceiling. “I hit you. You bled. That's it. That's what happened. I hitchu."

"It was just–"

"It ain’t what it even was, Y/N,” he exasperately interjects. “It’s what it coulda been. That's whatchu ain't gettin'.”

Your face falls. “Oh.”

“Who's to say that this don't happen again tomorrow night and then it's your face? Then it's your head? Then it's–” He cuts himself off with a heavy sigh. “That’s my point, Y/N. You’re focusin’ on one thing and I’m focusin’ on another."

Impulsively, you make the decision to straddle Sy's lap. It takes him a second to realize what you’re doing and adjust the way he’s sitting, and his legs are so big that it honestly takes a good deal of work, as well, but once you’re fully seated, you reach out for his upper arms and firmly grasp them.

“Sy. I know you say that I have a tendency to downplay things sometimes,” you whisper while looking directly at him face-to-face. “And maybe that’s true. And I’m super happy that you speak up for me all the time ‘cause I’m still…me. And it's hard. But you have a tendency to think that nothin’s ever my fault, and that’s just impossible. Because sometimes things are."

His face gets surly, his mouth turning into a thin line. “This wasn’t,” he maintains, leaning back on the couch so he's now looking up at you. "I hit you."

Your hands fall from Sy’s shoulders and you tilt your head to the side. “I could argue with you,” you reply, “that it probably wasn’t the smartest idea to lean over a man who’s, like, eighty percent muscle actively havin’ a night-terror.”

Sy is about to interrupt, but you continue to speak before he gets the chance to. “But,” you clarify, “you’re right. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know not to bend over you to wake you up. I didn’t know not to try to wake you up so…abruptly. But now I do. And it won’t happen again.”

You’re being a lot more forgiving towards yourself than usual, and you credit therapy for that as well as the fact that you’ve been living with Sy long enough to start to believe all of the things he says all the time.

“You can’t predict that,” Sy mumbles, slightly lifting his hands in the air.

“Predict what?” you ask. “I just said I won’t get in your way, babe, and I won’t.”

“But you can’t predict that I won’t hurtchu,” he argues. “I can’t–What if I–what if it happens when you’re still fuckin’ sleepin’ next time? What then? You can’t predict that. You can't.”

Your face drops while witnessing the distress on Sy's own. Watching him show anxiety in a way he normally never does has your heart feeling torn.

Still, you remain calm.

“Sy, your noises would…they'd wake me up before it ever came to that,” you tell him seriously.

Soft and quiet and serious. Just like how he is with you after you have a panic attack. That’s how you keep your voice.

“You…The noises you made weren't like anything I've ever heard before," you say while trying not to shiver. "They were…They…They'd definitely wake me up first. I promise you.”

Sy still wants to argue, you can tell, and the rebuttal is right there forming on his lips, right there about to exit, but when he closes his mouth, you know he’s finally accepting what you have to say. That, or he’s growing too exhausted to continue to fruitlessly offer arguments.

You're left watching him struggle internally.

“Babe, if it happens again," you promise, "I’d get out of the bed just like I did before, and I’d–"

You'd be worried sick.

You’d be worried and anxious and maybe afraid again, but you’d be prepared and resolved and headstrong, too. You'd be there for him. Just like he always is for you. Every time. No matter how hard it still is for you to accept his help.

"Next time, I won’t lean over you. I won’t get in the way tryin’ to wake you up. I won't make you feel threatened."

You realize your eyes are growing prickly, so you blink a few times in a row.

"And it’ll be fine," you finish. "We'll both be fine.”

Sy takes a long, deep breath, and with deliberately slow words, he responds to you. "You should never have to make up a plan designed to protect yourself from me."

"I–"

"Not from me. Of all people."

"It's not to protect myself, Sy. It's to help you."

"Still shouldn't have to do it."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't have to bring me paper bags when my lungs don’t work," you reply humorlessly, "but here we are anyway, aren't we?"

Sy clicks his tongue. “You can’t help that.”

“And you can’t help this.”

He takes another deep breath, and you put your forehead on his.

“It’s not me protectin’ myself from you, Sy,” you quietly repeat, now putting your hands on the sides of his face. “It’s me tryin’ to help you. You help me all the time. I wanna help you, too.”

"Y/N…"

"Just let me help you. I don’t want you to have to deal with it all alone. I hate that I get panic attacks just as much as I know you hate this. I get it. Of all people, I get it. But it’s not your fault. It’s…You really can't help it," you softly tell him. "It makes you feel so outta control…At least for me, so I can imagine it's the same for you."

Sy shuts his eyes, and he remains sitting there with you on his lap, squeezing your thighs like he’s grounding himself.

"I feel like I'm rude as shit to you when I'm having a panic attack. I always…I always tell you to leave me alone and stuff. Right when I need you the most. And I don't mean what I say at all. And I always feel horrible when it's over. 'Cause words can really hurt. They really can. But what is it you always tell me?"

You don’t give him the time to answer before you’re continuing.

"You tell me I have nothin' to apologize for," you answer for him. "You always say that–You always tell me that you know I didn't mean to push you away. This is me tellin' you….You have nothin' to apologize for, Sy. You really couldn't help it."

Sy opens his droopy eyes, and with an intensity, he says, “You’re important to me. You know that.”

You touch his nose with yours. “You’re important to me, too,” you whisper, starting to see that he’s starting to become so tired he's growing delirious.

"I couldn’t live with myself if I did somethin’ t' hurtchu like that," he practically slurs. "I mean it. I really couldn't. That ain't me. I could never.”

“I know.”

You stare into his eyes for a long, long time. He’s never one to hold back his tongue, but when it’s stuff that he’s ashamed of like this, you get that it’s hard. It's hard for him to not be strong in every single situation.

“You wouldn't ever hurt me, Sy," you tell him.

Practically unblinking, his eyes are like a midnight ocean. On one hand, the heavy intensity is taking you aback; it really was just a knuckle to your ear because you got in his way. On the other hand, though, you get the symbolism of it all.

“You wouldn’t ever hurt me,” you repeat. “Even on accident. You love me too much.”

Sideways, he finally offers a little smile. “I do, but that ain't how it w–”

"And anyway, I've got pretty quick reflexes thanks to workin’ out with you."

Sy lowers all of his fingers at once so they’re in between the webs of your hands, interlacing them in mid-air. "I'm bein' serious here," he says, almost grumpy again.

"So'm I," you maintain, slightly pushing on his palms. "You'd never hurt me while awake, and you wouldn’t hurt me in your sleep. I’ve already told you that your noises would wake me up, and plus, I've got quick reflexes. We're covered."

Your concise and simple summary seems to finally be accepted by Sy–finally–and you pray that he doesn’t drag out his self-flagellation any more.

You know how intimidating he can be. To the people who deserve it, you know exactly what his hands are capable of. You know the pure strength he carries in his muscles. He'll never show you the true extent, but still, you know.

"I'm not scared of you, Sy," you whisper in finality. "You know I'm not."

After a long time, he turns his head and looks out the front window. Several moments pass before he speaks again.

“Thought they were gone,” he whispers. “Hasn’t happened in so long. Thought that I…Thought I was in the clear.”

You reach out and touch his face. “Is there somethin’ that happened recently?” you ask. “That maybe…had somethin’ to do with it?”

He sighs like letting all the air out of his lungs at once. “Shit just comes up ‘round this time’a year more, that's all."

You pause. "Memorial Day?"

Sy nods. You reach down for his hands again and put your smaller fingers in between his larger ones, interlacing them once more in between your bodies.

You remember meeting some of his military friends at Amelia and Johnny's Christmas party. You remember hearing them talk about the people who aren’t around anymore.

"I'm sorry this is somethin’ you have to deal with," you say somberly, and his shoulders shake a bit as he chuckles.

The response would either confuse or offend someone who didn’t know him, but you do know him. You’re aware that his humor can be somewhat dark at times.

You’re also aware that dealing with the loss of so many people leaves its mark, leaves its holes behind. You know Sy in particular carries everything with him deep down, in a way that he almost never, ever shows.

Just like with Aika.

"I get that laughin' is your way of coping, and that's fine," you say, "but I am serious, you know. I'm really sorry that you have to re-live stuff like that when you’re awake and then again when you’re asleep. And that you can’t control any of it. And I’m sorry that you…I’m sorry that it traps you like this."

“Just the price,” he murmurs, looking back at you, and you frown. He’s been up so long his words are starting to be indecipherable.

You nod. “I get that. I know I’m just one person and can’t, like, prevent it from happenin’ or anything, but I’m here to help. However I can.”

He mumbles something you can’t make out. You lean in closer. “Hm?”

“You do, y’know,” he repeats himself. “Help. Livin' here. Bein’ around."

You touch his forehead. “I know. Now let’s getchu back in bed, baby,” you decide.

“C’mere ‘n kiss me first,” he slurs, and you smirk and oblige, but when he wants the kiss to go on for longer, you disengage. Instantly, he sits all the way upright on the couch and wraps his arms around you.

You chuckle quietly while disconnecting his hands from your back. “You’re gonna go upstairs and get some sleep now.”

He lifts a tired eyebrow. “Am I?”

You nod and slide off his lap. “You're done bein' stubborn."

"Yeah? Says who?"

"Says me. Get up."

"Mm?"

"Mm,” you repeat while tugging on his arms to fruitlessly help him get up. “Go upstairs. It's an executive order.”

He lets you pretend to boss him around while you walk him up the stairs, and he watches in amusement as you tuck him in the bed.

He starts to drift immediately, his eyes heavily falling shut and his lips parting like he's about to do some serious mouth-breathing.

His exhaustion doesn't stop him from mumbling one last thing, and you have to lean close to his mouth and ask him to repeat himself.

"Thanks for fightin' for me," you’re able to understand, and then he's out.

#eyes that see #just-chirpin #captain sy #sy #sy x reader #captain syverson x reader #captain syverson #Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill x reader #Reblog

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