Chapter Text
She’s at the hospital, the nurse’s words like “successful” and “stable” slide past her, lost in a ringing feeling of fear. She pushed through the hallway, mind blank. Brain surgery. She knew the risks. The swelling. The memory loss.
When she walks into the room, he’s awake. Sitting up in bed, hospital gown loose around his shoulders, skin pale and eyes a little unfocused, but alive. Alive. She nearly collapses in relief. She got to him without thinking. “Mark.” She breathes, tears already burning her eyes. “Hey, I’m here.” He turns his head slowly, blinks at her. And then he smiles. But not the way he used to.
Not like someone seeing the person he loves. It’s a stranger’s smile. Careful. Polite. Empty.
“Hi.” He says. “Are you… here to check my vitals?” The universe empties itself all around her. The words feel like a punch to the chest, not because they’re cruel, but because they’re honest. She takes the hit silently, feeling everything slip between her fingers, her very soul evaporating from her body.
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Blank mind. She doesn’t realize, just stares at him, shaking her head slightly, like that’ll undo it. Like she could go back a few seconds ago, come in, and he will give her that fond smile of his.
“No.” She manages, voice cracking. “I’m not a nurse.” He frowns, discomfort flickering in his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” He says, slowly, carefully. “I- I don’t know why I can’t- I don’t remember your name.” She feels the crack when her heart breaks, feels it echo through her ribs, her lungs, her throat. She wants to scream. She wants to fall apart. But she can’t. Not in front of him.
“It’s okay.” She answers, and the lie burns like fire in her mouth. “It’s not your fault. They- They said this might happen.” He looks down at his hands, like he’s ashamed. Like his brain betraying him is something he needs to apologize for.
“Do we… know each other?” It’s the softest question. Gentle. Scared. The kind you ask when you already suspect the answer is yes, and that it matters more than you can understand. She nods. The tears finally spill over, but she smiles through them.
“Yeah,” she whispers fondly. “We do.” She sits down beside him, inches away from the man who once whispered her name like a lifeline in the dark. And now looks at her like a stranger. She reaches out, hesitant, and lays her hand next to his on the bed. Not touching. Just close. Giving him the choice. And after a moment…
He shifts his fingers closer. Not all the way. But closer.
“I’m sorry.” He says again, barely audible. “I wish I could remember.” She takes a shaky breath.
“It’s okay.” She repeats like a rusty disk, “It might come back. It might not.” Her voice is a bit trembling on the last one. “We knew it. So you don’t have to apologize.”
It murders her not to be able to close the few inches between their fingers. A little bit more, just a little bit more, and it would feel like it’s them against the world again. Together.
His eyes roam her face, tracing her features with uncertain curiosity. “You know me.” He says softly, his brow creasing in concentration. “I feel like I should… recognize you.” He glances down at his hand, so close to hers. His fingers twitch, like he’d wanted to close the distance, but stopped himself. His gaze shifts back to hers, a mix of confusion and an edge of embarrassment. “But I can’t.”
She can see how guilty it makes him feel, but can’t quite find it in her to comment on it just yet. “I know.” She assures him instead, not noticing the single tear falling. “Can-?” Her voice cracks at the simple thought of having to ask it. At the thought he might refuse, “Can I stay here? For a while?”
He looks a little relieved that she asked, that she didn’t assume. He nods, a small gesture that lifts a little part of the tension in her shoulders. He accepts her. For now, a little voice adds in her head. “Yes.” He shifts a bit to make room for her, and it’s strange how unfamiliar this is when only a week ago, they were sleeping tangled together every night.
She shoves the chair closer and sits at his side, one elbow leaning on the bed at a safe distance from him. “Thank you,” she whispers in empathy, “it must be weird for you.” He exhales, almost a laugh but not quite. Something softer, self-deprecating “Everything’s weird right now.” His fingers tap restlessly against the blanket before he adds quietly, “But you being here… doesn’t feel wrong.” A pause. His eyes flicker to hers again, searching for something he can’t name. “…Does that make sense?”
“I don’t know.” She answers honestly, then softer, kinder. “I think it does.” Her fingers twitch in his direction as on instinct, a primal desire to comfort the man she loves. “I’m probably asking too much but… Can I hold your hand?”, rapidly adding, “I swear I will not-,” she stops herself and tries to keep composure with a deep sigh, “just your hand.” Please, goes unsaid but is clearly hanging in the tension of the air between them.
His breath catches, just slightly. Not in fear, but in something closer to recognition. Recognition of what, she doesn’t know. He stares at her outstretched hand like it’s a puzzle he can’t solve yet aches to try. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turns his palm up. Not an invitation so much as a surrender to whatever flicker of instinct still tethers him to her.
“Okay.” He murmurs, the word tentative but unguarded for the first time since she walked in. When her fingers finally brush his, he doesn’t pull away, just watches them interlace with quiet fascination. They fit perfectly, muscle memory entangling them on instinct until it feels right. Like it’s where his hand is supposed to be. “Your hands are warm.” He observes absently…
A silence stretches between them, but it’s not empty anymore; stitched together by this single point of contact that feels both foreign and achingly familiar all at once.
Then: “Tell me something about us.” His voice is barely above a whisper but insistent beneath its hesitation, “Something small.”
She’s so fascinated by their hands and how weird yet normal it all makes her feel that when he asks, she answers without thinking about the only certainty she had in mind since she walked in. The only thing that prevented her from running away in tears, prevented her from running away to lick her wounds. “I promised I’ll stay,” she whispers with a fond voice as she tilts her head.
Their eyes lock, and she suddenly realizes what she just said, “Sorry,” she mutters, looking quickly away. His eyes- In his eyes- It’s so different. When she stays focused on his hand she can at least pretend nothing is wrong, but in his eyes… there is a curiosity and innocent cluelessness that hits hard and painfully. “Something small…” She tries to think out loud.
He’s watching her, an echo of confusion in the way his brows pinch together. His fingers tighten around hers when she informs him of her promise, the gesture so automatic it almost feels like muscle memory. “You promised?” He asks, brushing her attempt to come up with something else, anything else, aside.
When her head tips down again, he squeezes her fingers softly, gently drawing her attention back to him. “Look at me.” He says, the words a command and a plea all at once.
She hesitates, slowly looking back at him as she can feel tears building up. She did promise. But he couldn't remember that and that fact was stinging more than anything. Their eyes lock again and she nervously bites her lip. It’s hard, but she’s determined not to flinch. She will stay collected for him, and she does through a couple of silent tears, flowing down her cheeks. “I promised you.” She manages to confirm, the grip on his hand tightening. Her both hands are now cupping his and squeezing it, holding it up as she brings it to her lips. A soft kiss. No lingering. No heat. It’s all in her eyes, and they are too full to be read. She’s leaning on her elbows, his hand in hers, and holding him close like his one hand is the only thing she has left of him.
His expression crumbles, the unfamiliar confusion shifting rapidly into something he’s familiar with; he hates seeing her cry. Always has. And that’s the only thing he’s sure of. His thumb brushes over her knuckles in an unthinking gesture, a muscle memory that still lives in his bones even if his mind doesn’t recognize it.
“Hey,” he mutters, tender and rough with concern, “don’t cry.” He reaches out with his other hand as if to brush her tears away, but hesitates, shy of touching her, still unsure if he’s allowed to. If it’s too much.
Her first instinct is to pull away, for the simple reason she’s tempted to lean in. It somehow scares her, what if it’s too much? Too painful? What if she can’t take it? But the hope -and the need of comfort- is too strong and she represses her instinct. He let her hold his hand; she surely can let him whip her tears, right?
He exhales shakily as she leans into the touch and his fingers finally graze her cheek, warm and hesitant. He swipes away a tear with his thumb, then bites his lip when he realizes what he’s doing. “I don’t know why I did that.” He admits quietly.
But his hand doesn’t pull back; instead, it lingers there against her face like some dormant part of him still knows exactly why. His expression twists slightly in frustration at the gap between instinct and memory. “Was that something I used to do?”
The question is quiet, like a child carefully testing unfamiliar ground for landmines. She tries to keep the little composure she has left, but the fragile question makes it hard. As well as the past tense.
“Yeah,” she whispers in a shaky breath, “yeah, you-,” she stops abruptly in an attempt to hold new tears back, “you didn’t like to see me sad.” She explains as if it would answer everything.
His fingers still against her skin, his frown deepens. Not in frustration, but in wanting. Not a hunger, but an urge to pull her close. Hug her. Comfort her. He looks at her like he’s trying to solve an equation that keeps shifting.
“… I still don’t,” he murmurs eventually, almost surprised by the certainty of it. His thumb brushes under her eye again before his hand slips back down. Not retreating, just resting loosely against hers once more. His hands slipping all naturally back in hers.
There’s a beat of silence before he exhales sharply through his nose. A habit she knows means he’s annoyed with himself. “I hate that I can feel this but not remember it.” His grip tightens on her hand -frustration or apology or both- as if anchoring himself to what little makes sense right now: him and her, in here. Together.
“It’s okay,” she pats his hand awkwardly, “don’t be too harsh on yourself.” She chuckles suddenly. “You’re always… expecting so much from yourself. And you don’t even realize it.” She shakes her head with fond nostalgia.
He huffs, half amusement, half exasperation, and she recognizes the sound instantly. Some things don’t change. Memory or not. “Sounds annoying.” He mutters, but there’s a flicker of warmth in his eyes now, like he’s warming up to her, something closer to the men she knew peering through the crack of this stranger.
His finger shifts ever so slightly under hers, testing, tentative, before settling again. “Guess some things don’t need memories to stick around.” A pause. Then quieter: “… Is that hopeful or just terrifying?” The joke is weak but deliberate; an offering wrapped in uncertainty and dark humor alike. Mark humor. Armor. She could cry all over again at how achingly familiar it is.
Instead she squeezes his hand more tightly, “I think it’s comforting. Isn’t it? To know that aspects of you, thing that makes you you, can’t be taken away from you?” His fingers grip her back, his gaze dropping to her joined hands before flicking back to her. He processes her words for a long beat, the gears in his head spinning visibly.
Finally, he sighs. “Maybe.” He concedes, though the note of doubt is still there. Then his gaze sharpens, and he meets her eyes directly. “… You look tired. Did you sleep at all?” The question sounds like he’s just now noticed how exhausted she seems. His brows furrow in concern.
She let a huffed laugh out. “Are you serious? You’re the one in the hospital bed! Don’t worry about me.” She squeezes his hand in an attempt to comfort, and adds softer: “I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.”
She can practically see the familiar stubbornness settling over his features, the tight press of his lips and the furrow of his brow. He was always stubbornly protective, even before she confessed her feelings. “It doesn’t matter.” His fingers tap impatiently against hers, still staring at her face; his concern deepens. “You look like- you’re on the verge of collapsing. You need rest.” A hint of defiance in his voice.
She frowns, trying to stay controlled, and lets his hand go as she straightens up. “Of course it matters!” She’s surprised by the force of her own voice and bits her cheek as if caught red-handed. “Sorry.” She apologizes with a calmer voice, shutting her eyes and sighting, conceding, “I’ll sleep.” She looks up with determination, “But I’ll stay here. In the room or in the hallway, I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere.” She couldn’t admit that she was afraid that he would forget the small progress they were making here by the time she came back. She was afraid to let the small string between them go, even for an instant.
His expression softens, just barely. He exhales through his nose, his fingers squeezing hers slightly. “Fine.” He mutters, but there’s no beat behind it. Then almost grudgingly: “… Stay here.” His voice drops quieter, “I don’t like the thought of you in some hallway.” His jaw tenses slightly at that admission, as if it surprised even him.
Somewhere beneath all this fog… he still cared and worried about her.
She smiles sadly at the comment, not commenting on it. The chair isn’t that comfortable; there is no armrest to keep her up if she falls asleep. So instead she considers waiting for him to fall asleep and then go get coffee. He should not take long to fall asleep since he’s still full of medications.
She watches as his eyelids start to droop, whether he wants them or not. But then, just before sleep takes him completely, his fingers twitch against the blanket like he’s searching for something. His voice comes out slow and half-swallowed by drowsiness: “…You’ll be here when I wake up?”
The question isn’t fearful, just resigned. As if expecting disappointment is already wired into this fractured version of him now. And damn it all if that doesn’t make her coffee plans evaporate instantly.
“You can be sure of it.” She answers, looking as he let himself drift in unconsciousness. She waits a couple of minutes and since he doesn’t move again, she carefully pulls the chair closer and takes his hand back, like it could sooth her to sleep like a stuffed animal would. Looking at him like that, peacefully asleep, his hand in hers, she can almost make herself forget he doesn’t remember her. Almost. The emotions of the day having taken their toll on her, she has difficulties holding her head upright, drowsiness taking her too. When she falls asleep, it falls softly on Mark’s lap.