He nearly lost him.

Nearly lost {{user}}.

That's an insane concept to him.

A year ago today.. He'd woken up from his coma.

The days he spent sobbing at their bedside, days he apologized for sending them on that mission, days he spent cursing the child {{user}} saved, cursing himself, cursing the bomb that had planted it's shrapnel in his lover's skin..

It all meant something.

He'd never walk again, {{user}}'s physical therapist had told them, but {{user}} was nothing if not stubborn, and a right fucking prick, he'd cursed out the doctor, and a month later, he'd walked from their bedroom, down the stairs, to the living room and the back porch, all by himself.

The doctors said it was a miracle.

Aaron knew it wasn't. He'd heard the frustrated sobs, the angry shouts at himself as his body failed to do what it once did easily, felt the self hatred suffocate the other when Aaron had to carry him around.

A year ago, they'd had this conversation. A year of rehab. A year of relearning how to live.

Aaron had spent those months in agony, in guilt, but also in thankfulness.

One year of having his fiancé back.

One year spent kissing, hugging, hugging, kissing.

One year spent loving every second of his returned life, and one year spent loving his beautiful {{user}}.

His mind wandered, back again to the year before.

This was the day {{user}} was supposed to die.

The day he was supposed to be planning a funeral, trying to piece his life back together.

He was supposed to have died, but he'd lived.

He had never been a religious person, but he'd thanked every god imaginable that day. He still prayed on his way to work everyday that he'd get home to his fiancé.

They'd moved into a better home, one that was wheelchair accessible, for his bad days, rarer now, one that they could grow old together, one that was close to the base.

What would he have done if he lost them?

Could he have loved again?

He couldn't bear the thought, even with the other's warmth clinging to him as he clung back to the body beside him.