she's really let herself go

Overwatch

🎲s/s dynamics | Read on AO3 Symmetra x Junkrat | Oneshot, 10K | Explicit Symmetra and Junkrat are hopelessly attracted to one another, but as submissives, they are both waiting for the other to make the first move. When the sexual tension becomes too much to ignore, one of them needs to make a compromise.

🎄Blackwatch Ugly Sweater Party | Read on AO3 Blackwatch!Reyes x Reader | Oneshot, 3K | Mature When you attended Blackwatch's Ugly Sweater Party for the holidays, you didn't expect your Commander's getup to be so… tight.

Date Everything!

☀️Too Close to the Sun | Read on AO3 Hector x Plus-Sized!Reader | Multichapter, 52K | Skippable smut in the final chapter, otherwise rated Teen You catch the attention of the hunky Norwegian at your job and begin to exchange flirtations Thiscord messages. You are unaware that the words are not coming from him, but a shy secret admirer who has been peering at you through the vents for years.

Skyrim

🐲Fifteen Years | Read on AO3 Vilkas x Dragonborn OC | Oneshot, 9K | Explicit Stressed and exhausted Dragonborn Avangeline does Vilkas a favor when he's at his worst. Fifteen years later, he returns to fulfill his debt.

And I have two more Skyrim fics but they kinda suck lol. If you're interested, they are on my AO3 profile.

Before the start of the twenty-sixth week, you received a phone call from an administrator at Saint Ambrose.

“I’m calling to inform you that the patient you’ve been working with, John MacTavish, was discharged today.” You had known it was coming, but God did those words hit you like a fist to the gut. You wondered if he went willingly, or if he was removed from the property.

“When you arrive for your session on Tuesday, please ask the reception desk to page someone to show you to your new room.”

“Okay,” you croaked out. “Can I know anything about the patient?”

The administrator shuffled some papers on his end. “Looks like next in the queue is Lorraine O’Leary. Due to our patient confidentiality policy, that’s all I can tell you.”

“Right. Thank you.”

The day after your last session, you’d stopped by Sainsbury’s to pick up a simple bouquet wrapped in cellophane with a gold bow. Your intention was to present them to Johnny as an apology for making him feel like you were part of the dogpile when what he needed at that moment was an ally. Given how hard he’d fought against the discharge, you had been relatively confident he would’ve at least talked his way into another week at the facility.

Apparently not. You moved the flowers into your windowsill and shut the curtain, so you wouldn’t need to look at them on the kitchen table.

With Johnny well and truly out of your life, you made a conscious effort not to project any resentment or regrets onto your new patient. You’d taken just as much as you’d given with him, which was not the point of the program. This was supposed to be an act of selflessness, giving back to someone less fortunate. These flowers could be an overture of friendship to Lorraine. While your last patient had plenty of friends and family to support him, this one may not be so lucky – these could be the only flowers she received during her convalescence.

The following Tuesday rolled in with a thunderstorm. You listlessly drove yourself down your usual route after work, pulling into the parking lot as rain pummeled the cracked blacktop. You swept the flowers and umbrella off your front seat and hurried to the lobby.

Folding the umbrella one-handed, you took swift strides towards the reception desk when someone called your name.

Incredulously, you looked over your shoulder. Johnny was seated on a sofa in the waiting area beside reception, forearms braced on his thighs. He pushed himself into standing position and walked over to you.

You felt like you were going to faint.

“I know ye have a shift,” he told you gently. “But – can we talk first? Or after, I dinnae mind waiting.”

You’re not sure what came over you, but you shoved the flowers into Johnny’s chest and said, “I’m sorry.” You’d buy Lorraine a fresh bouquet next week.

He looked down at them, bewildered, before slowly taking them in his hands. “Sorry?” he echoed softly. “Ye got it all wrong. I’m here to apologize to you.”

“You felt ganged up on,” you rushed, spitting out what had been running through your mind all week. “You needed a friend, not another push.”

“Not at all,” he informed you with conviction. “I was spiraling. You bein’ firm with me was the wake-up call I needed. But I acted like a prat and sent you away.” He looked so deeply disappointed in himself, his heart on his sleeve as always. “I’m so sorry. Dumbest thing I’ve done since getting shot in the head.”

You gave a one-shouldered shrug and looked at the ground, still feeling guilty for the way it all played out.

With a crinkle of cellophane, Johnny placed his flowers on a coffee table scattered with last month’s magazines. He took both your hands and led you to a sofa, pulling you down to sit face to face with him. Your heartrate spiked.

“I’m gonna say something,” he warned you quietly, blue eyes locked onto yours, “and I jes’ need ye to look at me and listen. No turnin’ away this time. Okay?”

At his request, all you could do was nod.

"Ye know the Greek legend about Theseus and labyrinth?" he asked.

You made a wishy-washy sign with your hand – you knew it had something to do with the minotaur, but couldn't remember much else.

Johnny appeared distressed at your answer. "Ah. Well… crap. Had this wee speech planned about how slaying the beast was supposta be the hard part, but really it's finding my way through the maze that's killing me, and yer like that, that lass with the red string... okay, okay." He shook his head to snap himself out of it. "Let me try something else."

"Johnny," you interrupted. "I don't need a speech. You can just tell me what you're thinking and we can talk about it." No matter how scared it made you to lay it all on the table with him. No matter how distracted you were by his broad, warm hands encircling yours.

“I’ll try.” He took a deep breath and a moment to sort through his thoughts. “What you have to understand,” he began eventually, “is that every, single time you came to visit me, it made my life better. Because you helped me study and I got a little closer to bein’ able to speak or read. Or because you distracted me with art and poems. Or, even just because you chatted with me and made me feel like a human, not a patient. Reminded me there was life beyond rehab.”

Every nerve in your body was urging you to turn away as heat burned across your cheeks, but you’d promised. You maintained eye contact and forced yourself to be okay with the fact that he could certainly feel your hands shaking with nervousness.

“As I started to get better and become myself again, I realized that I really liked you. Not as a volunteer who broke up the monotony. Not even as a friend.” He gave one hand a little tug. “Tell me ye understand, bonnie?”

The last of your denial fell away as you nodded, eyes becoming watery.

“Good. I could see you were shy and I wanted to take things slow – just as you’d done with me, yeah? A little bit of progress every visit?” A tired sigh escaped his lips. “But by the time I was well enough to try to prove myself as a man, there were just a few weeks left before my discharge. Was torn between trying to rush it, to blurt out how I felt and risk scarin’ ye off – or going nice n’ slow, prayin’ our time together didn’t run out before I’d romanced ye properly.”

You remembered in stark clarity how he’d leaned against you in the chapel, arm practically over your shoulders and his breaths sweeping your cheek in hot, little gusts… and how he’d simply drawn back when your body language remained closed off. Toeing the line to feel out where it was, but scrupulous not to cross it without your permission. Respectful. Taking things slow.

“So when they told me I was goin’ home, I panicked. Aye, I was scared about startin’ a new life – still am – but I was also scared of losing you. So scared, in fact, that it was easier just to be angry with the world for its bad timing if it meant I got to keep my what-ifs.”

“Johnny,” you squeaked, a tear slithering down your cheek. He ran his thumb over your knuckles soothingly. “My feelings for you were never conditional on you being at Saint Ambrose. All you had to do was ask, and I would have stayed in touch with you. You must’ve known I didn’t want this to end either?”

With a sad smile, he said, “Yer whole job as a volunteer was to make me feel like I had somebody. S’like a prostitute saying she loves y– wait – wait!” He withdrew his hands, a look of comical terror on his face. “I dinnae mean… can we forget I said that?”

You emitted a choked little laugh. “I know what you meant.”

"Ah fuck, I'm not doing a very good job a' this, am I?" he griped, massaging his temples.

It was endearing that he pinned so much on this one conversation, but you were not someone who put a lot of stock in grand gestures. Rather, it was the Johnny you’d come to know over these months, the little gestures and comments and moments, that had cemented your confidence in his good intentions.

"You're being open and honest with me," you told him. "That's all I care about."

He appeared unhappy with your words, although they were true. "You're too understanding, bonnie. Too accommodating. Please, I'm begging – stop tellin' me what I want to hear and start tellin' me what you're really feeling."

Shit, you thought, I’m doing it again. Johnny had shared his truth – what was yours? Why weren't you already in his arms?

"Um. I think I'm scared, too, but for a different reason," you began unsteadily. It would be cathartic to get this worry off your chest, and it was necessary to move forward, but your stomach was in knots. "I think, maybe, I'm easy to like when I'm the only girl you're seeing while you're bedridden. But when you get back to real life, I just... want to protect my heart, a bit. When you're reminded of all your other options."

God. Had you ever been so pathetic in your life? Being vulnerable sucked. As much as you tried to keep looking at him, you couldn't get the sentences out without averting your eyes.

"I fucken knew it," Johnny hissed. "It was my team, wasn't it, the wankers ye ran into in the hallway? The fuck did they say to you?"

"Nothing!" you half-lied, not wanting to throw them under the bus. "You're just very charming. It's not hard to imagine that you, um. Didn't have any trouble in that department."

Johnny took in your appraisal of his sexual prowess the way children swallow cough syrup. He chewed on the inside of his cheek before saying, "S'true that I was not exactly discernin' about who I took to bed. But ye gotta understand that none of it was serious. And fer the record," he said, with a peculiar sort of pride, "I pro'lly got slapped in the face about as many times as I got lucky. S’what happens when ye cast a wide net."

It was a relief that he was being honest with you rather than dodging the question, but the notion of Johnny ‘getting lucky’ with someone prettier, thinner, younger, happier, healthier than you made you sick.

"Do you even want serious, though?"

With no hesitation, he declared, "I do. I really do. Wasnae ready for it before, especially because of the job, but everything's different now. In this case, fer the better."

Although your insecurities and suspicions ran deep, you took immense comfort in the direction of this conversation. Johnny really liked you and was in this for the long haul – you had no room left to doubt that. Of course, those facts did not guarantee smooth sailing. You still felt like you knew practically nothing about supporting someone with a TBI, or how you would even see each other regularly given that he couldn't drive. 

"But, hey," Johnny said, grabbing one hand again and pulling you from your reverie. "I swear I'll do this right, because that's what ye deserve. A love story like the Brownings, right?” The knots in your stomach were replaced with butterflies. “Now I know yer not going anywhere, I have all the time in the world to take it slow. We can get to know each other outside... this," he explained, waving his free hand to indicate Saint Ambrose.

I'm not worth all that. "And you’re sure that’s what you want?" you had to confirm.

He smiled then, something entirely too innocent for his impish temperament, and scooted closer to you on the couch. "Aye. Can I show you?"

Your whole body suddenly felt too hot, then too cold. He must've seen the panic behind your poker face, because he quickly followed up with, "Just a wee kiss, to hold me over until we're datin' proper. That alright? Consider it part of me helpin' you not to be so shy."

Flattered by his profound commitment to your comfort, you nodded and leaned towards him.

Johnny gingerly slid his hands over your cheeks and brought your face to his. The kiss was almost shockingly chaste – no tongue, no theatric moans, no gasping against your mouth. Just a long, intimate open-mouthed demonstration of both his affection and restraint. Your body seemed to turn to goo as you melted closer and closer to him, your own restless fingers finding a home on his chest. Remind me why I wanted to take this slow again...

It was you who finally pulled back, both to get some air and for fear that your eroding self-control would have you crawling into his lap. Johnny chased your retreat for a moment before catching himself and leaning back as well.

"Perfect," he sighed, sounding quite like he'd just chugged a love potion.

An involuntary giggle at finally having established your feelings escaped you. His dimple resurfaced as he grinned, eyes never leaving your face.

“Can I tell ye a secret?” he asked, a boyish smirk on his lips. “Never been a fan of poetry. Mostly it’s too dense and flowery for me. But I loved hearing you read. Seein’ your face light up, watchin’ all the anxiety just…” he snapped his fingers, “disappear, because ye were so entranced.”

"Aw, you should have told me," you chastised. "We could have done something else to pass the time."

"Nope, ye've converted me now," he insisted cheekily. "'Fore ye know it, I'll be sendin' you poems. That is... if I could get in touch with ye somehow..."

You laughed. "If that's your way of asking for my number, you can have it."

You and Johnny swapped phones to enter each other's information. It took him a long time, navigating the tiny characters on the screen, but he managed it. He'd put his name in as John "Boyfriend Material" MacTavish.

You finally stood up from the couch. "I really would love to talk more, but I'm late for a session with my new patient."

"Right," he said, getting to his feet as well. "Mum's waiting for me, too."

"Oh?" you asked with a playful tilt of your eyebrow.

He pitched a thumb over his shoulder towards the parking lot. "Yeah... she drove me here, but said she’d only drive me back if I gave her a full update."

The thought of Johnny's mom being his confidante was unbearably cute. "Tell her I said you did a good job."

He scooped up his flowers from the table and gave you a lingering look as he moved backwards towards the front doors. "Don't go fallin' fer this new patient, now. I know ye've got a thing for us brain damaged types."

You rolled your eyes and turned back to reception. No one could pry your attachment to this man away if they tried (and you were also about five minutes away from learning that Lorraine was 82 years old). 

That evening, before you pulled away from Saint Ambrose, you checked your phone. Sure enough, Johnny had already texted.

found this wee poem and thought of u.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all.

===

A/N: Huge thank you to everyone who read this story, and especially for your patience with my sporadic updates! We still have an epilogue coming, but it contains smut and can be skipped for anyone who wants to keep this Teen-rated. That might take a few weeks, but I promise it's on the way.

Once again, I am sending endless love to @youarehereyouaresafe, to whom this story is dedicated.

Angry, raised voices echoed from Johnny’s room on the twenty-fifth week.

Your first instinct was to head back to reception and ask to be paged when he was ready to see you. Clearly he was arguing with someone, and your picture was in the dictionary next to nonconfrontational. But your days with him were numbered given his exponential progress, and you didn’t want to miss a minute of time together.

Poking your head into the room, you saw Johnny sitting on his bed with his arms crossed and a glower fixed on his face. At the foot stood a woman with a stethoscope around her neck, and to her left was Nevaeh.

The woman was saying something about paperwork when they caught sight of you. All three turned at once, giving the impression of startled owls. You flashed an insipid smile and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt. I can come back.”

“Stay,” Johnny insisted, the hardness in his voice not directed at you. “I need a witness to this insanity.”

You timidly moved into the room and pressed your back flat against the wall. While a part of you was curious what had him so riled, a much larger part of you wanted to sink into the floor.

From this angle, you could see the woman wore a nametag that said Dr. Bhatti. “Our policy is that if you refuse to undergo the evaluation,” she explained in a calm, lilting tenor, “the attending physician will review your records and consult with your care team to make a determination.”

“Dinnae give a crap about your policy,” he spat. “Tell me my rights. And if ye cannae do that, I want a lawyer.”

Nevaeh’s lips were pursed as she wrestled to keep her thoughts to herself. She shared a look with the doctor that only made her expression more cross.

“We do have legal counsel available for you,” Dr. Bhatti informed him patiently, “but they won’t tell you anything different than I’ve already said.”

Johnny scoffed and looked over at you. “Can ye believe this, bonnie? They’re tryna kick me out.”

Kick him out…did that mean they were discharging him? Although it’s what you’d been dreading for weeks now, you had no idea why Johnny would be upset about it. This was the beginning of the rest of his life. It was an end to the boredom he had so frequently complained about, the eternal workbooks and exercises and hours upon hours lying in a bed with a lumpy mattress.

It really didn’t feel like your place to comment, but he was clearly trying to bring you into the conversation. Before you could respond, Nevaeh said tightly, “No one’s trying to kick you out, Sarge. We all really, reallylike you. That’s why Dr. Bhatti is here after her shift has ended trying to explain this to you.”

“It’s no trouble,” the doctor interrupted serenely.

“I dinnae need an explanation, I need ye to listen.” He chopped his hand into his palm for emphasis. “I’ve barely been walkin’ on my own for a month. Not three weeks ago, I fell down the stairs. At this rate, I’ll fall in my apartment, crack my skull open, and no one’ll find the body for days.”

“You still have months,” Nevaeh stressed, “of outpatient therapy to do. Professionals will be working with you constantly. This transition just means you’ll be home instead of here at the end of the day.”

“Grand. I’ll be sure to schedule my next stroke during yer workin’ hours.”

“This conversation is not going anywhere productive,” Dr. Bhatti announced. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll set up appointments for you tomorrow with our psychologist and legal counsel, and then I’ll swing by again in the afternoon to see how you’re feeling. No decisions will be made until that time.”

He glanced to the side and frowned. “Fine.” Everything about his bearing screamed, I don’t believe that you haven’t already made up your mind.

“Alright,” she said. “Get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nevaeh lingered once her boss had left, considerably more upset with the path the conversation had taken. Schooling her voice into something akin to professional, she said, “Let me just leave you with this thought – okay, Sarge?” Johnny didn’t acknowledge her, but he didn’t object. “You’ve been here for months and months. You’ve made friends with the nurses, the therapists, the doctors, and your Ambassador. We gave you the best care we could give you, and in return, you worked hard every day to get to this point. Isn’t all that true?”

He shrugged petulantly. “I guess.”

“And now it’s time to leave this structure you’ve built your new life around, and walk into something unknown and scary. For many patients, tha—”

His expression turned feral. “Nev, I know yer not suggesting that I’m scared to leave this blasted place. I’m a fucking Victoria Cross veteran. That’s insulting.”

Her face contorted, but she quickly went on, “Okay, maybe that’s not the right word. You’re – ambivalent. Having complicated emotions.”

“No!” he insisted. “I’m brain damaged and my body and mind are only half-functional! Until I’m proper healed, yer just sendin’ me back out into the world to die.” He sullenly tacked on, “And in a manner far less noble than the line of duty.”

This time when she replied, her tone was as aggressive as his. “Every single one of us in here works under the Hippocratic Oath. If I believed, truly believed, that you couldn’t survive out there, I would be fighting tooth and nail to keep you in this bed.” Her impassioned words finally seemed to reach him. “You want to talk about insulting? Our staff has worked tirelessly to help you heal, and the thanks you’re giving them in a tantrum.” To your dismay, Nevaeh flung an arm towards you. “And what about your Ambassador, huh? After everything she’s done for you and the bond you’ve built, you’re gonna ruin your last session with her by copping an attitude?”

Both you and Johnny tried to reply at the same time, but Nevaeh threw up her hands. “Forget it,” she said. “I’m done. Sarge, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her crocs squeaked across the tiled floor as she hastened from the room.

It was dreadfully quiet after that. The arms of the analogue clock on the wall ticked along their endless path, tallying the seconds that went by without a word.

Finally, Johnny let out an exasperated chuckle. “Sorry about all that,” he said. “The staff here’s usually great, so I dinnae understand why they’re doing this. Maybe the higher-ups are puttin’ pressure on them to free up some beds,” he mused.

Surely, Johnny didn’t really believe he knew better than the staff of a trained rehabilitation facility. Many TBI patients fought with bursts of anger, hopelessness, or mania as they tried to relearn coping strategies and social rules that had been baked into them since childhood, so you were sympathetic to an extent. But ultimately, you agreed with Nevaeh. It would be such a pity to end this whole journey on bad note.

“It’s a tough situation,” you said as diplomatically as possible, perching yourself on the side of his bed. “I can’t imagine how hard it is to judge whether someone’s ready to live independently.”

“Well sure, but maybe they should listen to the person himself?” he bandied.

Your mind returned to something you caught at the start of the conversation. “Um. Did I hear right that you didn’t want to take some kind of test?”

“Oh, right.” He rubbed one of his eyes tiredly. “There’s this eval to see if I can hit a bunch of mental and physical ‘benchmarks,” he recounted with sarcastic air quotes. “S’all shite if you ask me. If they want me outta here, they’ll tell me to leave no matter what.”

It occurred to you, then, that Johnny really was afraid. Hadn’t he spent months intensively studying for these very tests so he could be released? If his concern was really about his level of readiness, why not go through the process to demonstrate his limitations? No, Johnny’s refusal was rooted in the understanding that taking the test would mean passing it, proving to both the staff and himself that it was time to leave.

And you couldn’t blame him for his fear. Before the bullet, he’d worked so hard to build a successful, fulfilling life. None of it would be waiting for him when he returned.

You gently reached out and placed a hand on his leg. He whipped his gaze towards you, eyes intense.

“What harm would there be,” you asked gently, “in playing along? You know, going through with the eval just to see where you stand?”

Suspicion clouded his features. “Because they’ll use it as an excuse to kick me out.”

“But if you pass, doesn’t that mean you really are ready?”

Johnny barked out a humorless laugh. “Christ! Cannae believe yer taking their side.”

You held up your hands and shook your head. “No, no. I’m on your side, always. Just thinking out loud.”

“Ye think I’m ready for the real world then, hmm? Think I can just waltz into an office with a service dog and shaky hands and a medical alert bracelet, and the boss’ll jump to hire me?”

Keeping your voice steady, you explained, “I’ve watched you work so hard to think, walk, and talk as well as anyone else. You’ll still have your challenges, and maybe you won’t get a job right away. But you have such a wonderful network of friends and family…”

“Enough,” he snapped. “Out.”

“W-what?”

He pointed to the door. “I’ve got enough people prattling at me that it’s time to leave. Dinnae need another one. Get out if yer not gonna support me.”

“Johnny,” you rasped, the sob in your throat obvious. “Wait. Please.”

He looked you dead in the eye and declared, “I misjudged ye.”

That one hit you right in the heart. A painful throbbing sensation blossomed in your chest.

On the twenty-fourth week, you resolved to be brave and read Johnny the poem you’d written for him.

Despite the waves of self-doubt that battered your heart all week, you knew this was something you had to do. It would bring both of you closure and put a nice bow on top of the whole experience. Besides, after rereading it ad nauseum, you had at least convinced yourself that it didn’t reveal your romantic feelings – just your admiration for him as a person.

But God, wouldn’t it be mortifying if his was about seals or something?

Johnny didn’t notice right away when you walked through the door. He was bent over a piece of paper with squinted eyes, mouthing the words to himself. Was he rehearsing his poem? Affection swelled inside you as you considered that an exchange of feelings might be overdue.

“Hi, Johnny.”

He looked up when he saw you, eyes bright. “Hey, bonnie. Did ye bring a poem?”

Taking your usual seat, you set your tote bag at your feet and confirmed, “I did. But, honestly, I’m a little nervous to share it with you.”

Johnny made a dismissive pshaw sound. “I’m sure it’s grand. If it makes ye feel better, I can read mine first.” He quickly tacked on, “Actually, that’d prolly be best. Got a feeling yer a tough act to follow.”

You smiled at his disarming air. “I’d love that.”

He smoothed out the paper and extended it to you. “It’s a bit messy because I’m still working on my handwriting an’ all. Let me know if ye cannae read something.”

You looked at it and hesitated. “Would you read it to me?”

“Ah, lass, you don’t wanna hear me stumble over the words. It’s bad enough already.”

“I do want to,” you insisted. “Even if you need to start over a few times. And then I promise, I’ll read you mine in return.”

He drew his hand back and reviewed his poem with new resolve. “A’right. Lemme give this a try. I suppose it’s called, uh… Because of You.”

And so he read:

Better every day

Because of you

Gives me something to look forward to

Things I never thought I'd do

I'm doing now

Because of you

When I felt like an animal in a zoo

I kept my head

Because of you

On days I thought I’d come unglued

I thought of your poems

And I thought of you

Wanted to give up

But I pushed through

Might have quit

If not for you

Recovery isn’t just learning to talk

It’s not just crawling ‘till I can walk

Emotional healing has to happen too

I’ve done all three

Because of you

No sooner had he finished than he rushed, “I know s’not very good. Just kinda threw some thoughts together—”

“I love it,” you interrupted. Your heart was racing, processing what you’d just heard. Choking back the lump in your throat, you affirmed, “Johnny, I absolutely love it. Can I keep this?”

“Oh. Er, sure.” He handed over the paper and you took it with both hands, eyes feasting on the sloppy handwriting like it was a sacred text.

When you got home tonight, you would read this again and have a proper cry over it. The rhymes and words weren’t elegant, but they were so earnest and so very Johnny. It meant even more to you that he’d fumbled through expressing himself in a medium that did not come naturally to him.

No matter where your paths took you from here, your now had a permanent relic from the half-year you’d spent with this remarkable man. His face may fade in your memory – perhaps you wouldn’t be able to recall exactly what he sounded like – but this poem, written in his own hand, was yours to keep.

“Ye like it, then?” he prompted quietly when you’d been staring at the paper a bit too long.

Carefully, you slipped it into your tote. “Yes. Thank you. I think this is the best gift I’ve gotten in a while.”

A fetching dimple appeared among his stubble as he smiled. “Good.”

Suddenly, you were worried that your poem wasn’t good enough. Were you too guarded in your approach, using metaphors to distance yourself from the depth of your feelings? He had made himself so vulnerable by sharing this piece with you, and here you’d taken pains to weave plausible deniability into your own…

Before you could lose your nerve, you took out your what you’d written. Once you had finalized the content, you’d spent a good hour trying to make it look nice on paper, thinking it was only fair to write yours out since Johnny had to do so as well. You hoped he would feel the same way about yours as you did about his and want to keep it.

Your voice quavered as you announced, “This poem is called Phoenix. And…” Urging yourself to be brave, you barreled on, “And the truth is, I actually wrote most of it before we agreed to swap poems. So. Here it is.”

And so you read:

You blink your eyes open in a pile of ashes

And your skin is covered with blisters and rashes.

The thing they don't tell you about rising again

Is you still bear the scars of where you have been.

For when you went down in your blaze of glory

You refused to let death be the end of your story.

But you paid for rebirth with blood, sweat, and tears

A Herculean labor you will carry for years.

The spirit is willing but the body is weak

It's a struggle to move, to think, and to speak.

The Sisyphean boulder you roll up the hill

Would flatten a man with any less will.

Slowly, I've watched your feathers regrow.

Fire, once lethal, now under your control.

Face to the sky, wings finally unbent.

Every bad day paved the way to ascent.

When the hour comes that you retake the skies

I'll witness your flight with bright tears in my eyes

And you shall break free from the last of your fetters.

Not the same as before, no.

To me, you are better.

It felt like your whole body was throbbing with anxiety, gut twisting in fear. You couldn’t bring yourself to rip your eyes away from the final line and face the man you’d written it for.

Like someone un-pausing a show, your head snapped up when you heard Johnny moving. He lifted himself from the bed and took one step over to where you were seated. Trembling slightly just as it always was, his hand appeared in front of you with his palm up. His expression was intense, anticipatory.

You set down the poem and took his invitation, letting him gently tug you into standing position. Before you could question his next move, he swept you into a tight embrace. His head – the side with the scar – knocked lightly against yours.

“I cannae believe you’re real,” he whispered. A hoarse noise left his throat, then a ragged swallow. “I’ll treasure this forever, lass. I mean it.”

For once, your inner monologue was blessedly silent. “It’s all true, Johnny. Your future is bright,” you assured him, bringing a hand to rest on his broad back.

You remained in the embrace for another moment until your anxiety caught up with you. Would he kiss you when you pulled away? Or were you reading too much into this? His fingers were rubbing little circles in your shoulder blade that were terribly distracting.

“Got it wrong about you being my guardian angel, I think,” he told you softly.

“Oh?” You were prepared for some goofy joke about being a bard-ian angel, or something.

“Better’n an angel. A goddess.”

The exaggeration yanked a surprised laugh from your mouth. The sentiment was sweet, of course, but even cornier than you were expecting. “Johnny…”

“I know, I know,” he admitted sheepishly. You took the break in tension as your cue to finally end the hug, keeping your face downturned to hide your bashful smile. His grip lingered on your shoulder for a moment before his arm fell back to his side.

“I’ll work on my one-liners,” he told you, “if you keep workin’ on that shyness. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Johnny returned to his seat on the bed and you, to your chair. The rest of the session was spent chatting about your lives, your families, and the progress he’d made this week.

When you left, Johnny had your poem in his hands and was reading it to himself.

Today was… it was everything you needed. Gratitude for your time with Johnny and a soulful acceptance that you would soon part ways forever settled in your stomach like something warm and final. It wouldn’t be easy. But now, you were certain that time would heal your emotional wound just as it healed his physical ones.

Now, you could say goodbye.

====

On the twenty-third week, Johnny showered you with apologies as soon as you entered his room.

He was sitting on the side of the bed, hands laced in his lap and head down like a contrite prisoner awaiting his final appeal. When he saw you, he hopped up and rushed, “I’m sorry I was such an arse to you last time. Ye been nothin’ but sweet to me n’ I—”

You held up your hands placatingly. “Johnny, it’s no problem, really. I totally get it.”

Your words did little to alter his hangdog expression. “But I missed m’day with you. Had to wait a whole week to see ye again.”

Aww. You were doing a terrible job of disguising how much his sentiment touched you. Like him, you’d spent the week agonizing over that encounter and wondering what today would be like. It was a relief that he wasn’t holding it against you, and you were happy to extend him the same courtesy.

“Well, let’s make the most of our hour then,” you told him cheerfully. “What do you feel like doing?”

His eyes lit up. “Can I show you some of what I’ve been working on? Promise it’s a lot more impressive than tracin’ rectangles.”

“I don’t know,” you teased, “those were some pretty badass rectangles.”

He stood up from the bed and explained, “I do yoga every mornin’, now. Good for muscles and balance.” With a deep breath, he stretched his legs into a lunge, rotated his torso, and raised his hands above his head. “This one’s my favorite. It’s called Warrior,” he narrated. “I pro’lly coulddo Reverse Warrior, too, if m’back didn’t get all buggered up from this mattress.”

You thought his current position looked plenty striking, showing off the powerful flex of muscle in his thighs and calves beneath his sweats.

“I also like plank pose,” he went on, slowly lowering himself to his knees. He planted his hands on the ground in front of him and extended his legs behind.

“It looks like a push-up,” you observed.

“Yeah,” he huffed from his stance, looking up at you with a smile. “S’why I like it. Reminds me of trainin’.”

It felt voyeuristic to see this specimen of a man demonstrate his strength and flexibility, but he had invited you to watch. Maybe this one time, it wouldn’t be so bad to indulge your female gaze…

Johnny showed you a few more of his yoga poses, only stumbling once and needing to grip the bed for support. He was always turning to look at you, like a puppy waiting for its owner to acknowledge it had done a trick. You oohed and aahed and tried not to pass out during downward facing dog.

He finally sat back on the bed, expelling a loud breath. Sensing the show was over, you gave a little round of applause and said, “This is so great, Johnny. And the best part is you can practice these poses anytime you want.” You recall him mentioning that some of his early training involved equipment like a treadmill and stair stepper.

“Yeah. And that’s only the start,” he went on, eagerness again infusing his voice. “I have all sorts of hand exercises fer fine motor skills and such.”

“Do you still do workbooks, or are you mostly onto physical exercises now?”

Johnny patted the bed beside him and reached for his end table. Sure enough, he snagged a workbook from under some empty cups and a greeting card. It was different than the one you looked at last time – you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been through several of them since then, given his work ethic.

You lowered yourself onto the bed beside him, just a hair’s breadth between your shoulders, and bent over the book together.

Whereas he’d started out copying letters and large-print sentences, now he was responding to short-answer questions. “Resources” are people, information, or tools that can help you in your recovery, one of them announced. Describe the resources you’ve been using and why they are important. He didn’t stay on the page long enough for you to read his full answer, but you noticed his handwriting was smaller than before and the letters were neater. It looked like he was still having trouble spacing them properly or struggling to judge how much room he had left until the end of the page.

“It is tiring?” you asked him. “Writing?”

“Aye, still need to take breaks if I’m staring at words too long,” he admitted. He flipped to a different section and explained, “These’re easier for me.”

The two pages he had open each bore a question at the top and a large, empty box for the response. The first said, Use words or pictures to show what it feels like to live with a TBI. Johnny had sketched a man with no facial features except a dark hole in his head. From it spilled a vortex that spread over rest of the box like a puddle, with warped versions of faces, weapons, a book, and a house inside it.

The second page prompted, Use words or pictures to show how you feel about your recovery journey. Near the top of the box, a rippling line seemed to indicate the surface of the ocean. A number of marine creatures peppered the rest of the page, sharks and whales drawn at a tiny scale to indicate the vastness of the space. At the very bottom, among abstract coral reefs, stood a small man on the seafloor. His face was pointed upward.

You were once again blown away by his artistic ability, even with the eraser smudges and shaky linework.

“I just… can’t get over how creative you are,” you said, eyes still trained on the images. “In your journal, you made these diagrams with perfect angles and dimensions, but you can also draw abstract things in a way that makes the viewer understand your feelings.” Your eyes lit up as something occurred to you. “Johnny, it’s like – like your version of poetry.”

“Dunno about that,” he demurred. “I couldnae write a poem for shit.”

“Visual art and poetry are different,” you admitted, “but they take just as much talent.” You hoped that no matter what life threw his way after the discharge, he never stopped drawing.

He slowly shut the book and smiled down at it. After a beat, he asked, “Do ye write your own, ever? Poems?”

A couple of weeks ago, you’d written one about him, but you’d sooner die than let him know that. You busied yourself looking around the room and murmured, “Sometimes. They aren’t very good.”

“I’d love to hear one,” he replied instantly.

Damn Johnny and his sunshiny, supportive disposition. You chewed on your lower lip before trying to joke, “Honestly, it’s probably better for your cognitive development if you don’t hear my drive. The anthology’s much better.” You didn’t want to look at him and see that heart-melting pout.

“What if I wrote one, too?” he posed. “We could swap next week.”

His intriguing offer made you reconsider. What’s the worst that’ll happen? you asked yourself. You did have a whole week to clean up your poem to make it less sappy, and if he called you out on the content, you could always chalk it up to creative liberties. Hell, you could bring a different poem altogether, something you wrote long before you met him. He never needed to know Phoenix existed.

Looking into his earnest blue eyes, you conceded, “Alright. But only if you promise not to laugh at me.”

“Never,” he pronounced sincerely. “’Sides, I swear six ways to Sunday mine’ll be worse.”

If he applied a fraction of the creativity he gave to his drawings into a poem, you were sure it would be magnificent. The reciprocity of this new arrangement made you feel much better about making yourself so vulnerable.

“Shake on it?” Johnny stuck out a hand, trembling just slightly as it always seemed to.