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Summary
“Fucking goddamn Christ, Blur. Always something with you, ain’t it?”
The voice pierces through the heavy veil that’s fallen over him; a bright, blinding thing for him to grasp onto and use to drag himself out of the muck.
Large hands cradle the back of his head, thumbs smoothing across his brow, and Andrew clings to the heat of them on his icy skin and dredges himself up from the depths of his own mind.
***
Or, if Sam had found Andrew in the aftermath of the haunting from the Challenger instead of Riley
Series
- Part 3 of Summer Sons drabbles