It was a miracle Johnny had survived the shot, an act of God he had learned how to talk again. He’d kept most of his mannerisms and spark, though it slowly developed in waves as he grew stronger in the hospital room that you and the team had decorated seasonally. They visited often, bringing parts of their relationships with Johnny to the room in an attempt to jump-start his brain into remembering distant experiences. Experiences that Johnny gradually began remembering. He was getting better.

And then he was discharged, you as his primary “caretaker”. He didn’t really like that term. He was well enough to “wipe his own arse”, he’d said as you pushed him out of the hospital in a wheelchair. You’d grinned at his aggravated grumbling then, certain that he’d accept it in time. You were his girl after all; his “bird” as he’d affectionately referred to you with Simon once, before everything had gone down with Vladimir-fucking-Makarov.

Johnny had never once questioned who you were to him during his stay in North Manchester General. He’d never once voiced being uncomfortable around you. Until one morning when you were cooking breakfast in your apartment. Johnny walked in from the bedroom, gray sweats low on his hips.

He cleared his throat, gentle eyes fixed on yours.

“Hey, uhm. Not to sound ungrateful or anything for ya and what you’ve done for me, and please don’t take this the wrong way, hen..”

He bit his cheek.

“Was- Was I uhm, someone close to you? Before, y’know..”

His eyes darted around your face, searching for any reaction at all.