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Hunter wakes up to the sound of birds and rain. He yawns and sluggishly turns around, grimacing when his back aches. Instinctively, he reaches out, trying to find his husband’s hand under the blanket. But Fitz isn’t laying beside him. His bedside is cold. Hunter isn’t too concerned. Fitz’s habits didn’t vanish with growing age. He still stays bend over his work or books until late-night, mumbling to himself.
Hunter gets up slowly and groans when his body protests. Now he’s old and grey, he’s hurting in parts of his body of which he didn’t even know they exist. Well. He does now. They never let him forget. He sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, massaging his kneecaps and turning his neck from one side to the other, to release the tension there. He’s still quite fit for his age. His doctor thinks so too. Regular – very, very slow – walks and stretching works wonders sometimes. Sport has always been a ventil for him. When he got angry, he went running. When he had a lot of stress, he went running. Bobbi always used to say, he’s running away from his problems. He still does when he can.
When his muscles stop protesting against every move, Hunter gets up, wraps himself into a fuzzy dressing gown and puts some slippers on. They clatter when he walks and he knows Fitz doesn’t particularly like the noise – but the floor is cold and these days, Fitz doesn’t complain about things a lot anyway. Hunter leaves the bedroom, going downstairs to find his husband.
Fitz is sitting in his favourite armchair near the fireplace. Sometimes, he falls asleep in it, an open book in his lap, his head tipped back and his mouth open. It’s one of Hunter’s most favourite sights. But right now, Fitz is staring straight ahead into the void, his hands folded in his lap.
When Hunter sees him like this, he has the first tug of a bad feeling. “Morning, beautiful,” he says softly, approaching Fitz.
Fitz perks up. He turns his head slowly, looking at Hunter and blinking. He frowns. “Who are you?” He asks, sounding mildly confused.
Hunter’s stomach drops and he can feel his smile falter but tries hard to keep it. After all this time, he still didn’t get used to this. He still starts to feel angry. Still starts to question fate and blame everything and nothing for the apparent unfairness of this. Of all people he knows and doesn’t know, it had to be Fitz – His Fitz. Fitz with his wonderful big brain. - who keeps losing parts of his memory year by year.
And it started so harmless. They both shrugged it away in the beginning, when Fitz began to forget his keys at home. Or when he wanted to get a cup of tea out of the kitchen, only to return with an empty mug, blinking in confusion. Or when he forgot someone would come to visit and went to open the door in his dressing gown. Fitz found it annoying. Hunter found it cute.
But with the time, it got worse. Never better. Only worse.
A doctor finally told Hunter that Fitz most likely had dementia. Hunter had a hysterical laughing fit in the doctor’s office. He couldn’t believe it.
First, he was so angry, he wanted to smash everything in his way. But he soon noticed, that his anger made Fitz sad and confused. So he tried to relax. Tried, to still see something good. But it was so hard … Following Bobbi’s advise, he went to a few support group meetings. His mood and temper got better after that. He had to cry for a few hours after them, but it felt … cleansing.
He found the strength, to just go on with their life. Because, they still have a good life. It didn’t suddenly stop. It’s their life. And Hunter won’t ever allow Fitz to be ripped out of it. He doesn’t react in a good way to suggestions of getting Fitz into some care home. Fitz is his husband and he’s going to bloody stay at home, where he belongs to.
Hunter learned to distinguish between good and not so good and bad days.
On good days, Fitz remembers almost everything.
On not so good days, he’s floating between a state of remembering and not-remembering. In one hour he can be completely lost, and in the next one, his eyes light up with remembrance – which is a beautiful sight.
And on the really bad days, he remembers nothing. Not even his own name. These are the scariest day. The days, on which Hunter can’t do anything more, than to try to give Fitz some comfort. Getting his favourite food, his blanket or putting some calming music on while Fitz is drowning in panic. It’s not nice. And it hurts like hell. But they get through it nevertheless.
Today, it seems to be either a bad or not so good day. That’s not fixed yet.
“I’m your husband, love,” Hunter sighs, carefully sitting down in the chair opposite Fitz and smiling.
Fitz’s eyes widen and he exhales a soft disbelieving chuckle. “That can’t be.”
“Why?” Hunter asks, leaning back.
“Because … Because I’m not, uh …” He stops, looking down at his wrinkly hands and frowns.
Hunter’s heart aches. On such days, it’s almost like Fitz’s past shyness and insecurities come back. Like ghosts that were just hiding in the shadows.
“I’m your husband and I love you,” he tells Fitz gently. “Don’t you wonder where the ring on your finger comes from?”
Fitz looks at it, blinking. His eyes are heavy, and he exhales a sigh, that sounds both tired and confused.
“I gave it to you on our wedding day,” Hunter says and smiles at the memory. “It was summer, and we were on the beach. Everyone was there …”
He talks a few minutes more, until, he suddenly hears a soft snoring. He looks at Fitz, who’s sitting there slumped and with his chin on his chest. He dozed off. Hunter smiles and sighs, carefully pushing his chair closer to Fitz’s, to be able to put his hand on his husband’s, feeling his ring, solid and cool against his own skin.
Yes. Everyone was there that day on the beach, when the ocean water washed their feet clean …
People, who partly only exist in their memories now.
They lost a lot of people over the last years. That’s what happens when you grow old. But it also happened when Hunter was young. It’s the course of life.
Some of their friends were lucky. Some not so.
Jemma is still writing one book after the other. She won a lot of prizes. She visits them regularly. When she comes, she brings her sandwich. And no matter how bad the day is, Fitz always remembers her and the sandwich. Sometimes, Hunter has to fight off a violent hint of jealousy. It’s stupid and he hates it. He had more of Fitz than any of them. But still …
May died in her little house in Tahiti, where she buried Coulson. She seemed to like it there. She had been teaching the kids there self-defense and meditation for long years, coming to visit on Christmas or New Year. Hunter still misses her so much...
Daisy and Robbie are still doing their regular road trips together. By now, there’s rarely a place on earth they haven’t visited. The Ghost Rider is long gone. He has left Robbie’s body to possess another soul. The reason isn’t quite clear. They send cards and every time, Daisy says, give Fitz a kiss for me. Which he does. On good days, Fitz chuckles and breathes, “That one was for Daisy, right?”
Mack died last year. The funeral was … gut wrenching. On that day, Fitz remembered everything. And he cried so much, Hunter thought it would never end. Streams of tears, drying on his black suit …
Bobbi is still there and still the old one, although she struggles a lot with arthrosis. She visits them as regular as Jemma does. Sometimes, all four of them are together, laughing and sharing memories. Good and bad ones. Memories of all the adventures they had. They seem almost surreal now.
Hunter doesn’t know how much time has passed, when he feels Fitz’s hand twitching. He looks at his husband, and sees his eyes fluttering open. Fitz looks through the room, sighing softly. When his eyes fall on Hunter, they are blue and clear. “Hunter?”
Hunter smiles. Not so good day. Yes. “I’m here, love.”
Fitz returns his smile. “Oh. Good. I think I … I had a dream.”
“A bad one?”
“Kind of.” Fitz sighs. “You weren’t there.” He yawns and raises his slightly trembling hand to rub his eyes. “I’m so tired. I worked the whole night. Had to … to finish the … the thing, you know? The thing.”
“I know,” Hunter says softly, taking Fitz’s hand and rubbing his thumb over the dry skin. He has to put balm on it again today. He loves to put balm on Fitz’s hands and see his husband relax under his touch. “Just go back to sleep, love. I got you.”
“Hmm.” Fitz closes his eyes again. He dozes off again soon. And Hunter won’t – can’t – know, if he’s so clear when he wakes up the next time.
He sighs and lets his thoughts wander, feeling himself getting a bit sleepy as well. He guesses he will join Fitz in his slumber soon. Why not. They are old and all they have now is time. They don’t know how much of it is left. But Hunter is going to take care that it’s going to be good. As good as possible.
Something inside Hunter equally hopes and fears, that Fitz will be the first one to leave this world. The image of waking up one day, to find Fitz lifeless beside him or in his favourite armchair makes his throat feel impossible tight. He can’t stand the thought of living in this big house alone. He can’t imagine a life without Fitz. Without his smile and chuckle and sparkling eyes. Without his warmth and familiar smell lingering everywhere.
But at the same time, he knows it would be … Well. Better.
Fitz hates being alone.
And Hunter doesn’t want him to be alone.
He shakes the thoughts off, because right now, they are both alive and can still make some new happy memories. It’s almost Sunday, which means Jemma is going to visit with the Sandwich. They will talk about the past and the present. They will laugh and hold hands. They will love like only they do.