Torimel 5, 18 or 44, pretty please? I loved your 5 of Mayward.
oh my god i refuse to do 44 i refuse to write terminal illness i will just get UPSET
"She’s not going to remember you, Vic."
"Fuck off, John," Victoria says, smoking a cigarette outside of Melinda’s hospital room. "She’s my wife. She’ll remember. She has to—"
"Whatever gifted Mel came into contact with during Bahrain wiped everything,” John says. “She didn’t know who Phil was when he pulled her out of the fire. She’s not going to remember you.”
Victoria puts out the cigarette. She’s barely smoked half of it. She hasn’t smoked since she was 15 and in France, but she’s kept packs around as a reminder. She’s blindly grateful for them now. Five stubs litter the floor around her feet.
"If she’s not going to remember me, she’s going to know me," she promises. "I’m not letting her go, John."
He puts his arm around her shoulder and sighs. “Yeah. I know.”
She buries her face into his neck and leaves it there until one of the nurses approaches them quietly, her clipboard pressed against her chest.
"Agent Hand? Agent Garrett? Agent May’s been cleared for visitation," she says. "If you want to go in—"
"I’m not going in yet," John says, waving her off. "You’re up, Vic. See what you can make of things in there."
He’s casual. So casual she can hear him fraying at the edges. Victoria knows the second she closes the door and the nurse leaves, he’s going to cry.
The team’s coming, though, as fast as they can. They’ll handle it. She has a wife to consider. John understands, of course. After all, he let her go.
Victoria opens the door and steps inside, closing it behind her.
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
dededos
