Summary: Tom gets a surprise when he boards The Christmas Train this year.
Every good war correspondent needs a good photographer, someone who can capture the reality of the situation, who doesn’t shy away from the bullets, the bombs, the suffering.
When you find one that you’re in sync with, they’re worth their weight in gold and that partnership, it lasts a can last the entirety of your career if you let it. But Tom he doesn’t let it because you have to follow your heart, your passion project and he has to move on to the next war-torn continent. The Middle East this time.
He never forgets you, the nights he spent tangled up in your bunk, the one that was nothing more than a glorified storage unit. His hand over your mouth as you made love so that the Major in the next room couldn’t hear you. You spent over a year together in the Sudan and when his assignment’s over, you tie a woven bracelet that you made with some of the women in those villages you’ve been documenting, around his wrist before you kiss him goodbye.
He still wears that bracelet. Whenever he’s stressed or anxious his thumb plays over the intricate knots and he hears your voice, whispering into his ear the same way it did back then.
You’ve been busy during your time apart. Tom’s followed your photo documentaries in the New York Times, committing them to memory for the nights he stares at an empty pillow, wishing you were there. The work you’ve been doing it’s important, worthwhile.
Him? He’s writing about the pros and cons of memory foam mattresses because the PTSD finally caught up with him a couple of years ago.
When he boards the Christmas Train in Washington, he doesn’t expect to literally run into you. He’s trying to find his cabin, juggling his notebook, his duffle and ticket when he collides with someone. A familiar scent washes over him, wildflowers in the springtime rain and there you are, your rucksack slung over your shoulder, your camera bag dangling at your hip.
You still look the same, your hair’s a little shorter, there’s a tiny scar above your left eye but you’re still the woman he fell in love with, the one that makes his heart pound when he looks at her.
“Tom?” You question, your head tilting up, your bewitching eyes meeting his. He could get lost in those eyes, spend an eternity drowning in them.
“Gabbi.” He says, the edges of his mouth tipping up into a smile. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”