Tree, Horse, Fiddler Crab

she’s asleep like she was waiting for him to come back home. or at least she had been.

her favorite blanket is tangled around her much shorter legs. and shes now wearing one of his hoodies— it hangs off her frame, sleeves swallowing her hands. the tv in the living room is still playing some movie she never got to finish.

he sighs, standing over her, and suddenly all at once the fight feels very small.

stupid.

he shouldn’t have said those words.

he shouldn’t have left.

her cheeks are still a little pink like she cried after. he decided to leave and gain some distance. he thought he was doing what was right.

it all just twists at something deep in his chest.

"fuck," he mutters.

he made her cry.

he did this.

quietly, he set his keys and the to-go cup down on the island before he crosses the room.

she doesn't stir when he kneels beside the couch. she's exhausted, he can tell because she pobably stayed awake longer than she meant to.

waiting for him even after everything that they said.

sammy brushes a strand of hair away from her face, the movement is gentle and he almost hesitates.

he whispers her name, "i'm sorry, babygirl.” he’s so quiet she doesn’t hear.

but maybe that's why he's brave enough to say them.

"i'm sorry." he coos.

his thumb strokes her cheek once.. twice and the familiar softness immediately grounds him as she shifts slightly under his touch.

a sleepy little frown appearing.

then, without opening her eyes, she leans toward his hand instinctively like she always does.

and sammy… he nearly loses it right there, because even angry, and hurt, and after a fight she's still reaching for him.

he closes his eyes eyes briefly before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead which causes his lips to linger as he breaths in her faint vanilla scented perfume.

when he pulls back, his voice is rough. "let's get you to bed."

and before he can move, her small fingers catch the sleeve of his shirt. her eyes open slowly, heavy with sleep and a little confused but of course she knows it’s him who is home.

"s-sammy?"

his heart cracks. “yeah, baby."

she swallows like she’s holding in tears, “you came back."

he nods quickly before pulling her into his arms.

"Jack, what happened to you? Do I need to take you to the hospital?" You take him by the hand and gently guide him to the dining table, sitting him down at one of the chairs. He winces as the weight comes completely off his legs.

"No no," he shakes his head. "I don't want to worry them. Just-ah-grab my med kit for me. Please." Jack gestures to his backpack. You rush to grab it, setting it on the table and opening it up.

“You don’t want to worry them, but you have no problem worrying me,” you huff, pulling out his med kit.

“I-ah didn’t want to be alone.” His voice is small, almost desperate. You still at the confession.

When he reaches for the kit, you pull it away from his grasp. He looks at you confused. "Let me," you set it down on the table and open it up.

“No, it’s okay, I know what to-“ he starts reaching.

“I know you do, baby” you say firmly. You maintain eye contact, holding your ground. Without another word, Jack’s hands fall to his lap, acquiescing. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying himself and relaxing into the chair. Well, as much as he can.

You grab at the bottom hem of his shirt and help him remove it, checking for any major injuries. Bruising on his side, a few cuts and scrapes. On his back, there is a massive open wound, like road rash. Angry, red, and bleeding. You sigh, balancing your breath.

“Relax, baby,” you mutter, your voice gentle and sweet. After taking stock of the injuries, you kneel in front of Jack, rolling up his cargos and removing his prosthetic. He lets out a deep sigh as it comes off, the pressure dissipating.

You start with the worst of it, first. You use a damp cloth to gently clean the wound on his back, picking out pieces of gravel and wiping away the blood. Jack winces every so often, taking in a sharp breath, but not complaining.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” You ask, gently applying an antibiotic to his back. "Or why you obviously weren't wearing your vest?"

Jack doesn’t say anything for a moment. Like he’s deciding what words, if any, could soften your worries more.

“Everything was fine. Everything was going according to plan,” he starts. “We went in, scoped it out, it was all clear. It was supposed to be all clear. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous."

You apply gauze and a bandage to his back, just listening.

“Fuckers took us by surprise,” Jack shakes his head. “That never happens. It was clear. Until it was chaos. We got out as fast as we could."

You can tell that he’s starting to get worked up. You round in front of him and position yourself between his legs. “Hey, hey, relax,” you try to smooth him.

He settles his hands behind your thighs, pulling you in closer. You let him, your own hands settling at the back of his neck. He looks up at you, gaze burning.

"It's over," you coo, fingers twisting at the curls at his nape, "you're home. You're safe."

"I, uh, made sure everyone else was good before heading out," he says. "Figured I could take care of myself later."

"Of course you did," you sigh. "Probably didn't realize how bad it was."

Jack lets his forehead fall against your stomach and takes a deep breath. His hands move up to wrap around the small of your back, hooking together and squeezing you close to him. The two of you stand like that for a moment.

"Jack, baby," you gently coax him to look up at you. "Let me finish."

He sighs and sits up, head tilting back to look at you. "Yes, ma'am."

You gently climb into his lap, thighs pressed on top of his and legs on either side. You try to be gentle and not crush him under your weight. "This okay?" you ask.

"Perfect," Jack gruffs, pulling you closer to him, his palms splayed over your ass.

You take the damp wash cloth and gently dab at the blood on his split lip, and the scrapes down the side of his face. His eyes narrow, trying to hide the sparks of dull pain, but he doesn't stop looking at you. He watches you intently, holding on just as tight, like he may lose you if he looks away for a moment.

"You're killing me, Jack," you quip, reaching for the kit behind him. You fish out some butterfly bandages.

"And here I thought I was the one 'n bad shape," he retorts, his old charm slowly returning.

"You know you don't need to do this," you say. Getting closer to the cut on his brow.

"Don't," he closes his eyes.

"What?" After applying the bandage, you sit back on his lap. His grip doesn't let up.

"Don't start. Not now, please," he looks up at you with wet eyes. Those sad, sad eyes that make you weep internally every time.

You sigh and settle your hands on his shoulders. He collapses against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I'm allowed to be worried about you. 'Specially when you come to me like this." You're not scolding him, just reminding him.

"I know," he says into your shoulder. "It's not usually like this."

"But is has been like this. And there's always a chance it's going to be like this," you counter.

Jack doesn't say anything, and you worry you've pushed too far. But it's hard seeing him leave for these shifts, knowing that something could go wrong, and plastering a smile on your face anyway. Kissing him goodbye, and hoping he makes it back safely. You've had this conversation before, and it always ends the same. With Jack brushing it off, making it seem like not a big deal. But how much longer can he go on like this?

"Come on," you lean down and kiss his shoulder, moving to stand up. "Let's-"

"No," Jack says, still not lifting his head. "Just, stay with me, like this. For a little longer. Please."

Your heart damn near breaks. It takes everything in you to steady your breathing. You get as close to him as possible, letting him hold you close. Your chin rests on top of his head, and you run lazy, light circles with the pads of your fingers up and down his back, obviously avoiding the fresh wound. It's quiet, Jack's steady breaths are all you can focus on.

Eventually, Jack stirs under you, lifting his head again. "I love you," he says. His eyes search yours, and the way he says it is so gentle, so earnest.

"I love you more," you lean in and press a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Not possible," he mutters. His hands travel up to the back of your head, pressing against your head and neck, and he keeps you pressed against him, deepening the kiss. His tongue traces your lips, desperately trying to get closer to you.

You gasp at his touch, giving him the in he's craving. It's hard not to cave with him. But when he lets out a sharp groan involuntarily, you come back to yourself.

"Take it easy, Jack," you reluctantly pull away, steadying your breath. "You must be exhausted."

"I'm never too tired for you," he nips at your lips, teasing. Yeah, he's going to be okay.

You pull yourself off his lap and help him back to your bedroom. After a change of clothes, you settle him into your bed to rest, leaning his prosthetic against the nightstand, just in case.

"Where you think you're going?" Jack asks when you move to step out.

"I was going to clean," you point out to the hall.

Jack shifts back in the bed, patting the mattress. "Right here, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes, but don't argue or complain. How could you? Jack lifts the blankets so you can tuck in with him. He pulls you flush against his chest, his arm tight around your waist. He settles a kiss right on your shoulder blade.

"Better," he sighs.

Its doesn't take long for him to fall asleep. He's a rock in no time, just dead weight trapping you in bed with him. You stay there with him for a little bit, but you're so anxious and wired there is no going back to sleep. The clock on your nightstand reads 7:15 am when you carefully pull yourself from Jack's grasp. He shifts in his sleep, and you press a light kiss to his cheek, careful not to stir him.

You spend the morning cleaning the aftermath. Putting the med kit back together, wiping the blood from the chair he sat in. You soak his shirt with detergent in an attempt to get the blood stains out, but there's no telling if that'll happen.

After a few hours, you shuffle into the kitchen to make breakfast. You hear light footsteps behind you. Jack, who looks haggard but in good spirits, smiles when he sees you. He's wearing spare clothes that he keeps in your dresser. A shirt and boxers intended for fun sleepovers, not stressful naps.

"There she is, my little doctor," he reaches for you.

You side step him in a way that you hope isn't too obvious, busying yourself with dishes at the sink. "Good morning, Jack," you say over your shoulder. "I didn't expect to see you up again so soon."

Jack, notices. Of course he does. You always give him a kiss good morning, clinging to his neck, asking how he slept. He sits at the table, wincing slightly when the back of the chair makes contact. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"I, uh, woke up and couldn't fall back asleep. Was thinking about you," his face drops as he watches you scurry around the kitchen. Eventually you walk by him, and he catches you by the wrist. "Sweetheart, please."

"What, Jack?" The words come out thinner than you expected. Harsher than you meant.

"It's not a big deal. Look at me, I'm fine," he squeezes your hand. "A couple a cuts and bruises? That's nothing."

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to understand what is happening in his brain. The way he's trying to make light of the situation. It's not a big deal. Nothing ever is. "This is never going to end, is it?" you realize quietly.

Jack closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "We've talked about this."

"No," you snatch your hand back. You have to create some space, some distance. You take a few steps back. "You've talked about this. I've sat and listened and supported you. It's not just about the cuts and bruises, Jack. It's about the fact that I never know what you're doing when you go out on these shifts. I never know what kind of danger you're putting yourself in. and then you come to me, again, barely able to hold yourself up, just exhausted."

"I'm there to help them. They need me, hon-"

"I need you." It's desperate, and a low blow. You know this. But it's been gnawing at you for longer than you realized. Your breaths are shallow, and there's tears forming in your eyes. You try to turn and blink them away.

Jack's face falls. He stands and makes it to you in just a few strides, and without hesitation his hands are on you, around you, holding you.

"Hey hey hey," he pulls you into his chest, where you fold, gripping to the fabric of his shirt.

"You're not just worrying about you anymore, Jack," you say softly. "Other people care that you're okay."

One of his hands rubs your back in soothing circles. He takes a moment, then pulls away from you, making you look at him. "I need you to know that I love you. So much. And it kills me to see you like this."

"Just," you sigh, holding onto his bicep. "Promise me that you'll think about it. At least cutting back. I know how you feel about the job, that I can't just make you quit."

Jack pulls you in for a kiss, long and settles his forehead against yours. "You are my life. My number one priority. Always."