unsuperingyournatural - Tumblr blog

unsuperingyournatural · 9 days ago

Text

i told you

Russell Shaw x Wife!Reader

angst, grief

dividers @saradika-graphics

You had set the table with care, nothing extravagant, but with the kind of quiet reverence that made it feel like its own little ceremony. Candles glowed softly, music played low in the background, and the roast was resting on the counter, the rich scent filling the kitchen as you poured the wine and checked the time again. He was late, which wasn’t unusual: traffic, a last-minute call from Doug, or any number of small disruptions could have delayed him.

You’d even chosen that navy dress he always loved, the one that hugged your waist and made you feel like yourself again, even if just for a moment. Your hair was done, your makeup subtle but thoughtful, because tonight mattered. Because he was coming home, and you missed him more than you could say.

When the doorbell rang, your brow furrowed. He had a key, always carried it, always used it, and yet the sound echoed through the house as if in warning. Still, you wiped your hands on the dish towel, assuming maybe he’d left the key in his gym bag or was carrying too many things and needed help. Some harmless, domestic explanation. You smiled, imagining groceries or maybe flowers, something sentimental. That smile vanished the second you opened the door.

It was Doug.

Not Russell.

Doug, with red-rimmed eyes, his shoulders heavy and spine bowed, as if he’d aged years in the time since you’d last seen him. His mouth opened, searching for words, but you already knew, already felt it in your bones.

"No," you whispered, the word escaping like a gasp, your knees buckling before you could stop them.

Doug lunged forward and caught you before you collapsed, your body wracked with sobs that came so violently you couldn’t remember how to breathe. The dish towel hit the floor, your hair came undone, and your dinner plans faded into irrelevance as you cried into his shoulder, unable to comprehend a world where Russell wouldn’t walk through that door again.

You sat on the couch like a hollowed-out version of yourself, unmoving, arms wrapped tightly around your middle as if trying to hold yourself together. Doug had told you everything, at least, everything he’d been told. Russell had been left behind on a mission, fatally wounded and unable to reach the exfil point in time, presumed dead after being seen getting shot from the helicopter.

You hadn’t spoken since, not really. The sobs had dried up, leaving behind a cold, aching void. Your eyes remained fixed on the coffee table, unblinking, as if breaking that focus would break you entirely. Doug sat beside you, hands clenched in his lap, helpless in the face of your grief.

"Tracy and I are here for you," he said quietly, his voice cracking with the weight of shared loss. "Whatever you need, day or night."

You gave a slight nod but said nothing, the gesture more reflex than response. When his hand landed gently on your shoulder, you didn’t pull away, even though every instinct screamed for solitude. You let him, because you knew he cared, because he was trying. But he wasn’t the one you wanted.

The days that followed blurred into one another, indistinguishable and colorless. Horizon issued a sanitized, official version of events, carefully curated and completely devoid of heart. They encouraged you to accept the cover story, a vague reference to an overseas accident. A modest sum of money appeared in your account, enough to suggest a funeral had taken place somewhere, just not here, not with you. It felt like hush money. It felt like betrayal.

Then, Horizon moved on.

But you didn’t.

Couldn’t.

You hated them for what they did and for what they didn’t do. You hated every person who offered hollow words of comfort, their clichés grinding into your ears like broken glass. He was in a better place, he was at peace, he was watching over you. Look for signs, they said. Energy doesn’t die, they said.

You hated the silence more. The dreams that never came, or worse, the ones that did. Russell appeared just long enough to smile before fading again. You would scream at him in those dreams, demand answers, ask why, but he never replied. Just smiled.

Sleep became your enemy, so you drank a little before bed, just enough to knock the edge off and keep the worst of the nightmares away. Some nights you clutched his pillow like it was a lifeline; other nights, you hurled it across the room in rage. You didn’t eat unless your body forced you. You ignored calls, texts, knocks at the door.

Doug and Tracy tried, more than once, but you pushed them away like everyone else. You were drowning, and you didn’t want a lifeboat.

It had been nearly three months when you found yourself standing barefoot in the kitchen, stirring a pot of mac and cheese with a wooden spoon. Your hair was pulled into a greasy, careless ponytail, your oversized hoodie swallowing your frame, and your old jeans barely clinging to your hips after weeks of not eating properly. Dinner wasn’t about nourishment anymore. It was about going through the motions, pairing food with another mindless documentary on Netflix, something to distract you just long enough to pretend your life hadn’t shattered beyond recognition.

When the doorbell rang, you ignored it. Probably another mistaken delivery. Some careless teenager who couldn’t read house numbers, who would give you attitude when you corrected them. You didn’t have it in you tonight.

The bell rang again, sharper, more persistent.

With an irritated sigh, you dropped the spoon onto the counter, turned off the burner, and stalked toward the front door. You didn’t look through the peephole, didn’t care. You were ready to unleash all your pent-up grief and fury on whoever dared to disturb your carefully maintained misery.

You yanked the door open, and the air left your lungs.

There he was.

Russell.

He looked different, but only just. His beard was a little fuller, his hair a little longer, but those green eyes, they were unmistakable.

"Russell?" you breathed, your voice cracking.

His smile was restrained, tentative.

"Hey, sweetheart."

You didn’t hesitate. A sob burst from you as you threw yourself into his arms, and he caught you with a grunt, his arms locking tightly around you as if he never wanted to let go again.

"It’s alright, baby," he murmured, his voice quiet and steady against your ear. "I’m home."

You sat beside him on the couch, the same couch where Doug had broken you. But now, Russell was here. Alive. Real. Warm.

He had explained everything.

He hadn’t made the exfil point. He’d been shot. Doug had seen it happen, but it was too late to go back.

"But Doug said he saw you get shot, badly," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, "how did you survive?"

Russell sighed, took your hand in his.

"I’m sure he tried to make them turn around, but Horizon has policies."

Your jaw clenched with fresh anger.

"How did you make it out?"

He gently tilted your face up to his, making you meet his eyes.

"I was shot up pretty badly but I was still kicking. I managed to find a doctor who was willing to take American cash and keep quiet. He patched me up. I had to move quickly, stay off the radar, keep my head down. It took me some time and a hell of a lot more money to get back here, but I kept going. I swore you'd be the first person I’d find if I made it back."

Your eyes shimmered as your fingers squeezed his.

"So Horizon doesn’t know you’re back?"

He shook his head slowly.

"And if they did?"

His mouth pressed into a hard line.

"Don’t know. Don’t plan to find out."

Your fear must have shown in your expression because he turned toward you and took your hands in both of his.

"I’ve had a lot of time to think. I want us to start fresh. New names. New life. Just us. Somewhere off the grid."

You hesitated.

"And you think Horizon won’t come looking?"

He gave a small, reassuring smile.

"They think I’m dead. That’s all we need. We start over, stay quiet, and they won’t even blink. Plus, I was already on the track for retirement, anyway. I doubt they'll come looking even if they somehow got wind of me turning up, still breathing."

It was too much. Too fast. But still, you held onto him.

"I can’t lose you again."

His expression softened as he looked at you, really looked at you, taking in the weight loss, the bruised under-eyes, the rawness that hadn’t yet faded.

He leaned forward and touched his forehead to yours.

"You won’t."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and when you kissed him, it wasn’t out of passion. It was out of relief, and desperation, and something closer to a promise.

He whispered against your lips, "I told you I’d come home."

You laughed, a tiny foreign sound from these past few months that broke into another sob, and he wrapped you up in his arms again.

These days, you live in Tennessee.

A small brewery in just a slightly bigger town. New names. Fresh start.

He’s clean-shaven now, his hair much shorter and dyed a dark shade of blonde. Sometimes you miss the old look, but every time he smiles at you, you see him. All of him. And it’s more than enough.

He’s talking to the manager you hired to take over soon. You sit at a table nearby, working on a list. Things to finish before the baby you're carrying arrives. Tasks for the house, for the brewery, for the life you’re building.

He laughs at something, then looks up, his gaze finding yours.

You smile and lower your eyes back to the list.

A moment later, you feel him behind you, his arms slipping around your waist as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

"Hey, beautiful."

You smirk without turning.

"Hey, yourself."

"You were watching me."

"I was not."

"You were. Can't say I blame you."

You rolled your eyes, your smile growing.

His hand settled over your stomach, fingers curling lightly as he glanced down at the list you were working on.

He chuckled when seeing the portion of the paper you had filled out for his duties. "You and your lists," he murmured against your cheek.

You smirked faintly. "They're efficient."

"They're aggressive."

You turned your head just enough to glance at him. "That’s rich coming from the man who color-coded our spice rack."

"That was survival. I was tired of looking for paprika."

"You're lucky I find that endearing."

"I'm lucky you kept me around at all."

You didn’t even hesitate. "Damn right you are." You then let out a quiet breath and leaned back into him, your voice low but certain. "Besides, I wasn’t about to let go after I finally got you back."

He didn’t press anything further. Just held you there, steady and warm, his arms circling you like they had all the time in the world. After a moment, he kissed the side of your head, slow and deliberate, then let his hand move in a gentle stroke over your stomach.

"We're gonna be alright," he murmured.

You closed your eyes for a beat, letting those words settle. Then you gave the slightest nod, your hand tightening over his where it rested. Not as a question. As agreement.

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore. It wasn’t something to flinch from or fill. It just was. And now, it felt okay.

You breathed him in: soap, hops, and something that had once felt so far away it hurt to remember. But he was here. He was real.

You sank into the quiet, into him, into the shape your life had taken with his body pressed to yours and his hand resting steady where yours had started to tremble. The baby kicked once, light and brief beneath your joined hands, like it knew something had just settled.

Months ago, everything had collapsed around you, the world coming apart with a single knock at the door. But now, he's here. You're here. And piece by piece, you’ve been building something back. Not the same life. Something new. Something steady. Something that truly feels like home. And you couldn't ask for anything more.

#russell shaw #russell shaw x reader #female descriptors used #female reader #jensen ackles

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