#i want someone to turn my brain off and treat me like a goddan god

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

No would believe Eddie if he told them that you are a softie--like the biggest one around. You love it when he runs a steady stroke over the apple of your cheek and presses kisses into your forehead and temples. You love it when Eddie tells you what you're having for dinner. You love it when you're curled up in bed and Eddie reads to you.

You are soft. But only around Eddie.

It was a slow process--to see it fully, the way you liked requinlishing some of the control to Eddie.

Eddie only started putting something together after one particularly rough shift at the hospital for you.

You came home and you slid down the front door, head buried in your head. It shocked Eddie a little to see you not even get a fully step into the house before crumbling. But it did sort of make sense. Your job demanded a lot. You were holding life and death at all turns in the hospital. You had to have your head on straight. You had to sometimes comfort families when the news was bad. You had to walk to your next patient like nothing had happened. You were always on. You had to be.

But that day--the day that Eddie started to realize that you were strong and put together because nearly the other facets of your life demanded it, but that you really wanted someone else to take over for you in specific spheres of your home life--changed nearly everything.

Eddie tried his best to console you, settling onto the floor next to you and rubbing a hand over your back as you sobbed. He kept asking what he could do, what you wanted from him, how he could help. All you get out was 'Off, I want it off.'

It didn't make sense to Eddie. He couldn't fathom what you wanted off. But after twenty minutes of you sobbing and curled into his arms, he just decided to put his foot down. He half carried you to the bathroom, got the water started, and started to strip you of your scrubs.

You didn't stop him. Not even after he added the bubbles that you liked. Eddie got you into the tub, leaning over the side of it to help you clean yourself off from the day. There were few words. Only Eddie's soft voice asking you to lift your arm so he could scrub your underarms or a warning that he was going to wash your pelvis. Eddie fixed dinner--though it was breakfast for dinner one of the few things Eddie could fix without burning a pot--and he tucked you into bed. The only thing you could muster in all of this was a soft thank you. You said it with a tiny smile and though your face still wore of the shadow of the day, a hollowness to your eyes, the smile was bright. You meant it and Eddie had gotten something right--even if he didn't know what it was exactly.

Again--this was only the start. The light bulb being screwed into place.

Then things started to add up.

It's not that you like being bossed around--heaven forbid Eddie try and tell you to go get your car's oil changed or the tires rotated or to not buy a specific item of clothing because you would go right in the opposite direction. However, you liked not having to think about certain things--you liked when Eddie started the grocery list or even just took care of it himself. You liked it when Eddie took your car for you for tune ups. You liked it when he'd have your favorite pajamas out on the bathroom counter after a twelve hour shift and he was fussing over the rosisteerre he was trying to get right.

You liked turning your brain off at home.

And no one, absolutely fucking no one, would believe any of this.

Because in public, you still corrected when Eddie's order was wrong for him, when he was indecisive about what to get--food, drink, clothes wise--you always had an answer. When Eddie couldn't get the words right on his tongue, you had them. When you walked the streets, you still wore the practiced, but albeit still aided by genetics, pout. You still had it together.

Like the time you and Eddie were looking at new mugs and a lost child wandered your way, Eddie froze up--trying to find anyone else that would be better equipped to help. Yet, you swooped in. You got to the kid's level asking gently for his name and offering yours when the kid didn't answer. You asked the little boy to describe his parent, or who he had come in with, and you carried him on your shoulders so he could see above the shelves. You got the kid reunited safely with his father. Eddie would've never been able to do that. But you could.

Even strangers seemed to gravitate towards you--though you tried your best to repel them--they'd strike up conversations and you were always polite but firm as you exited those conversations. You had an air about you that said you had your shit together. And you did--you always did.

But you didn't always want to have it together. You want someone else to be there for you--not to ask you to do something, but to do it for you so it was one less thing on your mental list. You liked turning your brain off.

Like now--he can see it. The look behind your eyes where the light is dimmed. Your eyes look a hollow. Your face looks a little dull.

"Gimme," Eddie states, hand stretched out. It's metaphorical. There's nothing to actually give Eddie. But you know what he means--you can let it go. You can drop your shoulders and you press your forehead into his shoulder. "I got you," he whispers, letting you have just a moment to take him in.

He doesn't let you linger long. He's gentle as he slings one of your arms over his shoulder and walks you to the bathroom. He closes the toilet lid and sets you down. Your shoes go first, socks with them. The tub starts to fill and you can get your scrubs off.

It's silent, but Eddie gets the water just right and helps you down into the tub. "I'll be right back--just relax, okay?"

You nod, meekly, as the bubbles fall over your chest. He exits the bathroom and then returns a moment later, a book in his hand. "We can chat or I can read. Those are the only two options you've got to worry about." Eddie holds up the book, The Princess Bride.

You shut your eyes just for a moment. You don't really want to have a choice.

"Hey, look at me," Eddie's voice sounds closer now. When you turn your head and crack open an eye, Eddie's kneeling next to the tub. "Last thing for today, promise."

The soft exhales ghost of your skin of Eddie's breath. The sound of his voice still rattles around in your brain. Promise. "Book, please," you whisper.

Eddie nods, pulling himself up onto the closed lit. "Close your eyes. Sit back. We're going to be in here until you literally shrivel up into a prune."

"Sounds lovely," you chuckle and do as directed. Eddie's voice--in all the accents and variations that he slips into easily, bounce around in your skull. You can feel the way the octaves drop in his throat or raise. You can imagine the dramatic hand gestures as Eddie switches his hold between his hands to emphasize certain characters, or pieces of dialogue and exposition.

You don't even have to care about the story--you don't think you've made it through one full novel without missing half the middle because you check out--and Eddie doesn't care if you care. He doesn't care if you want to listen. He knows that you need it. You need the sound of his voice. You need this not to be a choice all the time.

So Eddie's slowly worked through his tattered copies and he thinks maybe soon he should invest in a library card so he could check out a few more books in a vein you like more. But until his stack is thinned some more, he just picks one from the top of the unread pile.

It's like magic. After you do help with dinner--though Eddie declared it a left over day--you rest your head in his lap and he keeps you covered in the blanket you two keep on the couch, you are melting into his touch. "We gotta go to bed earlier tonight, yeah? Tomorrow we both have early shifts," Eddie warns as another commercial break interrupts the rerun you two are watching.

"Okay."

It's all you say. It's so soft as it leaves your throat it nearly melts Eddie's inside. He strokes the apple of your cheek with his thumb--the rings on his other fingers pressing softly along your jaw. You return the gesture with a kiss to his knee over the flannel pajama pants.

If only anyone would believe how much of a softie you could actually be.