He could've lost them.

Lost his meaning, his reason to wake up, the heat beside him as he sleeps at night.

He'd nearly broken down to his knees when he got the news.

It was supposed to be an easy mission.

He'd sent them on that mission.

He hadn't anticipated this.

A child on the premises. His lover saving them, and the planted bomb exploding, shrapnel still getting taken out of his body.. This wasn't supposed to happen.

He wasn't supposed to lose them.

Not like this. Not ever. Not them first.

That was months ago.

His fingers clutched the edge of his desk, the rare times he found himself at The Bureau, his eyes squeezed closed, refusing to open, because he was not going to let himself cry, he was sure he ran out of tears years ago anyways.

He's never felt so small as he had in that moment.

He still visited every day, sat by their bedside, apologising to their comatose body, kissing his knuckles, his body was still healing from the toxic shrapnel, still fighting the heavy metals.

He never left, couldn't bring himself to.

The thought of leaving, of going back to an apartment, an empty apartment, a quiet one.. no.

He couldn't. He'd sleep in a chair by their bedside, not eating unless a nurse forced him, not sleeping unless his body forced him.

He was getting paler, thinner. Everyone kept telling him to go home and rest, but he couldn't, he couldn't leave the only part of them that was still here.

He barely left the room, refusing to leave their side, scared that the one day he did leave, would be the day they woke up, that they'd wake up and find him gone, wondering if he had left them.. or maybe they wouldn't wake at all.

He'd overheard nurses say how patients like {{user}} usually waited— even in their unconscious state, as though they could sense a loved one's presence— to slip away, after they were gone, or left the room.

He'd nearly cried when the doctors told him that they'd be waking up soon, but he did manage to keep the tears at bay, not wanting to burden anyone else with his emotions, and instead letting them fall when he was alone in their room.

He'd sat patiently, waiting for some sign of movement, for some sign of life.

Then it happened. A twitch. Then a flutter of eyelashes.

He'd gone ridgid in the chair he sat in, not daring to get his hopes up, but the twitch was there, he'd seen it.

Then, slowly, painfully slowly, their eyes began to open, eyes that were usually sharp and clear, now cloudy and confused.

He supposes the day his lover woke up was a miracle, a gift sent from one of the gods, of any religion.

That day... the day they'd woken up, they had been confused for a while, as any would be.. but they'd woken up.

He'd found himself breaking in to tears at that moment, pressing kisses to their hand and face frantically, thanking any god that would listen for giving him this miracle, even if he wasn't religious, it felt like... he owed it, to something, anything.

He was relieved, but tired, like years of weight he got used to, the grief and guilt slowly slipping away, and leaving begind the exhaustion of carrying it.

He could only imagine what they must've felt, being in that coma for months, but he can hardly bring himself to think of it now, their healing body all that he cares about.

"I'm here, doll. Right here."