Work Text:
you still remember what He feels like.
you don't remember what He looks like, but you remember tracing the slope of His nose with your thumb a thousand times per day. you remember the slight give of His subtle laugh lines, the divot in His chin. your fingers still twitch if you think about running them over the raised scars on His lips.
these memories are not welcome here, they deserve to be spat out like blood and left in the mojave's dust like everything else you lost. you wish you could've remembered anything but this: your mother's smile, your sixteenth birthday, the reason you took the job that brought you to where you are now.
but you don't.
all you can remember from before you got shot is Him.
and you don't even know who He is.
a friend? no, you recall His hands moving freely across your body, His lips brushing against your collarbones, the intense heat of Him beside you. it makes you feel sick.
you pretend to sleep every night. it is much more convenient to feign slumber than tell your companion- who is even more emotionally stunted than you are- about the horrific nightmares you have about every time He hurt you. you ignore the questions about why your aim is off, why you're drinking so many sunset sarsaparillas. he can't know.
still, after your first time with this new lover you cannot bring yourself to truly sleep. you close your eyes and pretend, biting back a gracious smile when boone gently cleans you off and pulls you close to him. no matter what he says about deserving everything that hurts, he has only given you softness and comfort.
these brief joys are ruined when every time you feel a calloused hand on your waist you can only picture Him.
sometimes you will allow yourself to fall asleep, mostly when you know you do not have to share a bed with boone. when you do sleep, it is fitful. you will always wake up sobbing. it isn't your fault.
He will never have a face in your dreams- instead He remains hands and heat and a sinful mouth, some otherworldly monster masquerading as a biblical angel. sometimes it feels like that is what He was- always imploring you not to be afraid. you would always beg for Him to be gentle, but of course you don't remember that; you just remember how badly it hurt.
you don't have to be afraid anymore, courier. your monster is long dead and you no longer need to run. you have a protector- the man beside you with his arms around your waist would kill to save you. you know this. it isn't like you were sleeping when he whispered his confession into the back of your neck.
it isn't fair that everything is so hard to remember unless it causes you pain. this is a burden we all need to bear, courier.