#alexxreader

He died bravely. We’re sorry. Our condolences. Alex. Phrases in a little letter sent through your door, supposed to console you, supposed to inform you of his death. But it didn’t console. It didn’t make any of this any easier. 

You’d loved him with all your heart, you’d felt it deep in your chest every day you woke up. The ache that missed him, the ache of affection, the ache of him. Now the ache was for him, for it to be a mistake, for them to write another letter letting you know that they had made a grave error, that he was really still alive. What made it worse was that the war had just ended in Europe. That had he stayed alive a few more weeks...he’d be on his way home to you. 6 years of war and he’d nearly made it home for good. But nearly wasn’t good enough. 

It felt like there was a hole in your chest where he used to be, a hole that’s begging to have him back, begging for him to fill it again. You couldn’t even repatriate his body. They wouldn’t allow it because no one was allowed, just like in the Great War. He was going to stay in France and you weren’t going to be able to mourn him properly. You weren’t going to be able to regularly visit his grave, place sunflowers on his grave, talk to him, let him know that you miss him, that you loved him. That he was the key to your lock. The handle on your door. He was a vital part of you. 

It hurt so much. Hurt so much that you had to force yourself to eat, to get out of bed, to wash, to clean your clothes, to go to your work. You finally understood what so many people had said about the pain, about the grief. You’d never really understood how crippling it could be before Alex, before that letter. Your mother knew it rather well having lost her only brother in the Great War. Having never been able to get his body home. Having to travel simply to say goodbye. 

“Are you going to be okay on your own, darling?” You look up at her now from your seat, cold tea in front of you. You know she understands, that its empathy not pity that you see. She knows exactly what its like to lose someone that you love, that is a staple of your life. 

“No...no.” The tears fall, like they always fall. Ugly, heavy, gasping. Whoever said crying was beautiful was wrong. Crying out for the one person you’ll never get back, crying with everything in you, that was ugly, it was gritty, it was dirty. It was pure hurt, pure pain. 

She wraps her arms around you like she used to do when you were child and you fall into them, sobbing against her dress. You know that she understands, you know that this is a position she has been in before...but you don’t know how you’ll move past this. How do you live a life without the one person you were supposed to build that life with? The one person you wanted to build your life with?

“I just want him back...I just want him back. It’s not fair! It...”

“You have no idea how terrified I was...” You mumble it into his jacket because even though he smells like dirt and oil and sea water, he’s here. That’s what matters. You’d been absolutely petrified, everyone knew what was happening in Dunkirk, everyone knew that it was a bloody terrible situation. But no one knew who was alive, who was dead, who would return to England and who wouldn’t. Whether or not the war was going be over, if you were going to surrender.

When Alex joined the Army you knew it was going to be hard. He was going off to war and you weren’t naive nor ignorant of the fact that you’d spend most of it scared for him. But you never imagined how horrible it could be knowing he was in direct danger, but not knowing how he was.

“’m sorry...I...”

“You don’t have to talk about it...” You can’t imagine what he’s been through in the last 48 hours. He looks so haggard that you know it wasn’t an easy ride out of Dunkirk that whatever happened there was terrifying, terrible, and something that no one should ever experience. But that was war.

He presses his lips to your temple and just sighs, “Thanks, love” You know he’ll have to go back soon, that he’ll get orders to go to a base and then be sent back out to France. But until then you’re going to take him home, get him a nice bath, and as good a meal as possible with the rationing on.

“Lets go home” You pull away and grab his hand, pulling him from the station platform and down the road. Home’s been so far away for him for so long. He hasn’t had leave since the war began and its been so long since he’s seen it. He forgot how home could feel.

The walk is a relatively short one, the streets are busy however, men in uniform can be seen at every turn and everyone seems to be out on the streets to greet them. He hasn’t seen this much joy in quite a while and its jarring considering the past 48 hours have been filled with anger, frustration, fear, death...

The house looks the same as when he left. The red front door’s pain peeling slightly, the number 89 crooked. The brick and mortar the same, the plants still trying to take over the house. A deep breath leaves him, his shoulders fall, relax, and he’s reminded that he’s safe now, he’s home. Even if its for a little while and he’s going to make the most of however little that while is.

You pull him into the house and close the door behind you, giving him a few moments to take in the familiar surroundings, the hallway, the stair case, the kitchen, the living room, the settee that he found on the side of the road and decided would do until you had a little more money. You had both worked incredibly hard for this house, for everything in it, and you’d planned on making it a proper home right when the war started. You should have seen it coming, known that that flimsy peace treaty Chamberlain procured would do little in the end. But optimism was a funny thing, as was hindsight.

“It looks the same.”

“I tried not to change anything...it reminded me of you and I...I thought you’d want it to be the same when you came home.” Every day you thought of Alex, thought of the past, but also thought of the present. How was he? How was he feeling? Was he okay? Was he fed well? Was he warm? Did he miss you the way you missed him?

“What if I hadn’t? Come home, I mean.” He turned to you, brow furrowed in obvious pain at the thought, at how close he’d come to not coming home. Your own face drops at the thought.

“Then it wouldn’t have changed it. Ever.” You mean it, every little thing reminds you of him, of your relationship. From the ratty settee he found, to the pictures on the walls to the ugly vase his mother had brought the two of you as a house warming gift. If he was no longer around, if you no longer had him, then at least you would have the little memories attached to the items in your home.

He knows he has to come back then. Not just because he wants to, but because he can’t hurt you like that. He doesn’t ever want to cause you to feel that sort of pain. He knows its stupid to think that he’ll definitely survive this war, but at the very least he’ll try his damned best.

“Why don't you go have a bath? Get some clean clothes on, i’ll start on dinner. Think you could do with a good meal, love.”

“’m famished.” He is, he’s gone at least a day without eating anything and his stomach long since stopped complaining, knowing it was getting nowhere. But real, honest to god, home cooked food? That was something he desperately wanted. A bath sounded good. Clean clothes sounded good. The small comforts of life just sounded good.

“Go on.” You press a quick kiss to his lips, like you always did, like the habit hadn’t been broken at all by the war. Urging him to go upstairs before turning to the kitchen.