#splintered

You growl in frustration, letting your head fall into your hands. Out of all the relationships you’ve been in, and you’d been in some shitty ones, what you have with Jim is by far the most normal. It’s easy. More accurately, he puts you at ease. You feel so yourself when you’re with him. No walls.

The happy persona you present to the world is one version of you, for sure, but it isn’t the only version. With Jim, you feel free to express how you’re really feeling; he’s seen the cheerful, deliriously happy version of you that sings and dances along to the radio while steaming milk at the cafe, but he also sees the you that hates the world after a rough day at work. He’s met the version of you that’s irritated and overstimulated, that shuts down and snaps at him when he’s done nothing wrong. He even knows the depressed, unstable version of you that comes out once a month like clockwork when your hormones go wild and your meds stop working as well as they should. Sometimes he’s confused, sometimes annoyed with you or hurt by your words, but he never waivers in his steady presence. Jim always seems to give you what you need, whether that’s a hug, a meal, or some space, and the more time you spend together, the more he seems able to anticipate those needs even when you’re not sure of them yourself.

In turn, you are patient with his memory issues, even if he’s thrown off by simple things. When he gets overwhelmed, as he sometimes does, you’re there to take him somewhere quiet and let him breathe. You remind him of all the little things that probably once came naturally to him, like knowing how much better he’ll feel after a hot meal, or a nap, or even just a walk through the park.

You enjoy caring for him, and he seems just as enthusiastic about caring for you. It’s a disgustingly healthy relationship, goddamn it.

Or is it? The last twenty-four hours have shown you just how little you know about the man you’ve been slowly but steadily falling in love with, and just how little he knows himself.

The bell above the door jingles, and you look up on instinct, already dreading the coming interaction.

Jim is there now, trying to ease the door shut behind him. His eyes flick to you, and then away just as fast. Dark circles ring his eyes and you can see that, under his work apron, he’s wearing the same clothes you last saw him in. Like he hadn’t slept at all and had instead been up all night going over the events of the last few hours again and again, much like yourself.

“Hi…,” he says, and then just waits, looking at you with big, sad eyes. Like a kicked puppy.

Goddamn it, you feel bad.

“Hi,” you manage, the word coming out forced. You busy yourself organizing the mugs and to-go cups on the counter, checking on the fresh batch of cold brew you’d started, anything to not look him in the eye.

Eventually, he leaves the doorway and starts cleaning the tables and unstacking chairs. Whereas he’s usually chipper and talkative in the morning, almost to a fault, right now he’s subdued. He doesn’t speak at all and rarely comes behind the counter. When he does, he makes sure to stay as far away from you as possible. It would be easy to see it as a rebuke, but you know it’s not. Aziraphale and Crowley let you know that they’d advised him to give you space, and he’s listening. It makes you soften even more, the fact that he’s not pushing or arguing like so many other men would be doing. He’s letting you work through this on your own, even though it visibly hurts him. It’s so very Jim. The soft spot in your chest grows, and when you catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye for the millionth time, you finally break.

You sigh and set down the mug you’d been drying, turning to face him and leaning your back against the counter, arms crossed. “Who are you?”

At the sound of your voice, he turns toward you so fast he almost loses his balance. But his brow creases at your words.

“What? I’m… Jim. You know that.” His words are soft, and they come out pleading.

“Do I?” You look away, unable to bear the hurt you see in his eyes. “Look, whatever happened last night… why were you standing in the corner of my room like that?”

He shakes his head, still gazing at you like he’s lost. “I don’t know. I don’t remember it.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No!” he exclaims. You can see the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “Why would I lie to you? I… you’re my best friend. I tell you everything.”

Something in you crumbles at that. You can’t find it in yourself to distrust him, not when he’s saying those words and looking at you like you’re the center of his whole world.

He’s still a great guy, even if he’s… fucking possessed or something.

You trust that he’s telling the truth, but that doesn’t make you any less uncomfortable with his weird behavior or further lapses in memory. It’s downright spooky. You need answers if you’re going to keep letting him be such a big part of your life.

The bell at the door jingles again, signaling the first customer of the day, and you turn to him with another sigh. But your eyes are softer.

“We can talk after work,” you say.

You don’t miss the way his eyes light up with hope.

***

The two of you spent the shift carefully ignoring each other, though the amount of stolen glances going on was nearly comical. You were sure that customers were starting to pick up on it by the end.

Once you had clocked out for the day, you met him by the front door. He was fidgeting endlessly, eyes flickering toward you and then away over and over. His hands worried at the apron slung over his arm, and he opened his mouth to speak a few times, but no words came out. Nervousness is so evident all over him that it makes your heart break just a little more.

You hate making him feel like this.

“Let’s go to the park,” you say to break the silence. The words come out gentle.

He quickly nods, and the two of you set off on the short walk to your favorite park. Right now is the point when you would usually take his hand, or slip your arm through his, or pull him closer by the waist. Instead, your hands stay firmly in the pocket of your sweatshirt, tangling together with excess energy. You can tell by the glances in your direction that he notices. Once or twice, his hand even twitches, starts to reach toward you, but then he thinks better of it.

You make it to your favorite bench, the one overlooking the lake where you had kissed him for the first time, where you had first caught a glimpse of something strange in his eyes. The two of you sit down wordlessly. There’s more space between you than ever before.

“What the hell happened last night, Jim?” you ask softly. No accusation in your voice, just a question. The desire to know what went wrong.

But he just shakes his head, looking lost and adrift. “I don’t know. I remember that you fell asleep, and I carried you to your bed. I pulled the covers over you…. And then suddenly the lights were on and you were telling me to leave.”

His eyes drop, watching his own hands as they nervously twist around each other in his lap. When he looks back up at you again, there’s fear in his eyes.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You quickly shake your head, and his whole body relaxes. The relief is so evident on his face that you feel your heart soften just a bit more.

This is Jim. Your Jim. He wouldn’t hurt you.

As the sun falls lower in the sky, bathing the park in afternoon light, you explain to him the events of the previous night. By the end, he looks just as confused and freaked out as you are.

“I don’t remember any of that,” he says again, his brow furrowing. “Maybe its part of the amnesia?”

“That would make sense,” you say. “Kind of.”

It didn’t seem so out of pocket to think that a condition involving memory loss would cause… more memory loss. Stretches of lost time. Now in the light of day and with Jim sitting right in front of you just as gentle and caring as ever, you couldn’t help but feel silly.

His memory condition is acting up. The purple eyes were a trick of the light. And the strange luminescence they seemed to have last night? Just your tired brain seeing things in the dark while trying to wake up. There’s no deeper conspiracy, no big truth lurking in the shadows. There can’t be, not when it’s Jim, not when he makes you feel so safe and cared for.

You feel silly.

“There is one thing, though,” you continue, glancing up at him. “You said something before you came back to yourself.”

“Really?” he says, a note of surprise in his voice. “What was it?”

You shake your head. “It sounded something like, ‘Be not afraid.’ Any idea what that means?”

Jim doesn’t answer right away. The quiet stretches between you, and you watch a change come over his features. A glint of something unrecognizable comes into his eyes as his features harden just a tad, just enough that only someone who’s memorized every plane of his face would notice. The air feels charged with something electric for just a moment. Your breath catches.

And then it breaks. Just as fast as it came over him, Jim’s tense posture loosens. He meets your eyes again, shrugging.

“No idea.”

“It probably didn’t mean anything,” you find yourself saying. Maybe Aziraphale was right – maybe you do have an overactive imagination.

You reach over to take his hand, and the feeling of his large, warm palm against yours is enough to quiet any lingering doubts in your mind.

“Let’s forget last night happened,” you say. “Things are bound to be a little weird sometimes when you’re dealing with amnesia.”

Jim’s smile is bright enough to overshadow the sun, and it makes you feel just as warm.

“Thank you. I’ll try to be careful.”

You squeeze his hand, smiling back.

“I know, love. You always do.”

And then the two of you resume your walk through the park, hand in hand like always. If there is any lingering misgivings in your brain, you simply push them to the side. Surely you won’t have to contend with anything stranger than a few moments of lost time.

Surely.

I hope you enjoyed! Also friendly reminder that I take requests 👀. I've been doing some for my other big fandom, but I would love love love some Good Omens x Reader drabble or one-shot requests to work on. I'll write for Gabriel ofc, but also more than willing to do Crowley, Aziraphale, Crowley&Aziraphale, or Beelzebub!

Having a good relationship with all of the lead secretaries was an important life skill she had learned from Chief Tsai when she worked as his Chief of Staff. “Never make any of them mad, or make it up to them as soon as you can. I can’t afford a splintered relationship with them. If you mess things up for me, you’ll be out on your ass.”

With a nod and a signal of her own, she reassured her colleague that lunch would arrive as usual.

Having him already in a mood, she saw no point in giving it more time. She knocked five seconds ahead of her appointment, as usual.

The angry shout from within was no surprise.

She twisted the handle and swung the door open. Inside, the President was off to one side of his office. In one hand, he held a wooden board with a sheaf of papers.

“Mr. President…”

He rounded on her, his face a mask of rage.

“Beifong! Do you expect me to accept this?”

His tirades had gotten somewhat more frequent of late. Iroh had kept her informed on the First Lady’s travels in the Earth Kingdom. She had reciprocated with updates on the President’s declining mood.

“I gather you are displeased with my report on the Triad Interdiction Project?”

Somehow, he managed to look further enraged.

“No results for months! This city will never be safe, will it? You have wasted time and money on this program, Beifong! Cancel it!”

Even though she and Saikhan had anticipated he might react this way, it still stung.

“Give it time, Mr. President. Three weeks is hardly long enough…”

“No! No more time!”

In a blur, he raised and then slammed his writing board down on the edge of the desk.

It splintered, exploding into a cloud of shards.

“Get out,” he growled.