sometime after stepping out from the jet in virginia, his brain stops recording. from the brief exchanges of text, he knows he didn’t drive himself home; other than that, he’s too exhausted to make note of how he gets inside the house, if the kids were up, anything else---the first time his head clears in an hour or two is when he falls backwards, fully clothed, to lie down on the bed from where he was sitting on the edge of it a moment ago. the mattress takes his aching self well, pain and tiredness spreading out, moving along every piece of skin and thinning out to something more bearable, and the few seconds of silence ( almost-silence, safe almost-silence ) is enough to get his mind back from his survival instincts as familiar footsteps re-enter the room, the medical kit they’ve brought out too many times over the last couple of years in kristy’s hands.
slowly, he puts his hands along the hem of his shirt, the half-hearted tug up met with immediate protest from his body: instead, he lets one arm lay on his side, one reaching for his better half. “ can you help me get this off? ” he’s better at upholding a cautious smile to match the gentleness in his eyes than he was two hours ago; it becomes easier as soon as she’s closer to him. there’s a hundred things he wants to say, but he needs... this, this reminder that he’s alive and safe, for both of them, to happen first.