greyscale photo

You paced back and forth in front of the train station, both to keep yourself warm in the chilly December air and to try and keep your excitement and nerves under control.

It had all started more than two years ago, when you’d seen an advert in the paper, asking those at home to write to soldiers abroad to help keep their spirits up.

After receiving the telegram the week before about the death of your father in the battle of the Somme, you had thought it would perhaps lift your spirits as well.  You were used to writing two letters, one to your father, and one for your older brother.  You had hoped that still writing two levels would help take the sting out of his loss, at least a bit.

You’d responded to the add, and asked, if possible, to be assigned to a solider in your father’s unit.  They had complied, and soon you had the address for a Major Thomas Shelby.  Knowing from your father and brother exactly what sort of things a solider would most appreciate, you included a pair of warm socks, a box of cigarettes, and a short note.

Tommy had written you back, and the two of you had spent the last two years corresponding. In that time, the letters had grown in length and the feelings between the two of you had deepened.  It was you who had confessed first after eight months of correspondence.  Tommy had sent a one line postcard back with a translation of the name he’d been calling you for the past three months, refusing to tell you what it meant.

Ves'tacha, the postcard read simply, means beloved.

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“Nice pajamas,” says someone drily just over Stiles’ shoulder, and it’s because he’s suddenly, uncharacteristically been blessed by the gods of grace that he doesn’t jump straight through the ceiling. It’s not a jump. It’s more of a jolt. He jolts a little. Then he just turns his head, looks balefully at Derek. Derek looks soft, rumpled at the edges. He’s wearing sneakers. “What’re you doing at the grocery store at one in the morning,” he asks Stiles. Then he steps up to the self checkout station next to Stiles’. He’s holding a shopping basket. It’s probably the funniest thing Stiles has ever seen Derek do.

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Sometimes these things happen

A/n: sorry for the inactivity. I have my end of years coming up so I won’t be posting much. I wanted to try something angsty for once so here’s my attempt. Hope you don’t cry.

Dan x reader

Warning: ANGST, Death

Your back is in excruciating pain and your mind can barely think straight. You grimace slightly as you try to move into a more comfortable position. There’s a click as the bedside lamp brings light into the previously pitch dark room.

“Are you okay babe?” Your husband sits upright and starts to rub your shoulder comfortingly.

For the past 8 and a half months, Dan has been the best partner. He was the sweetest, most loving spouse a pregnant woman could ask for. Whatever you needed, he’d deliver without question or reluctance. Now was a perfect example of it.

“My back is in agony.” You groan and immediately he helps you up into sitting position, working his hands through the right knots.

Instantaneously, you let out a sigh of relief. There are still slight remnants of pain but it was merely just a throb. Maybe more than a throb. Anyway, it didn’t matter because you felt miles better now.

“Is that better?” He enquires, resting both his palms on your shoulders.

“Much.” You mumble, placing your hands over his.

“I know how much you love my magic fingers,” He jokes and you can visualize him winking (or attempting to). You guffaw heartily and regret it instantly as pain strikes you again. You wait for it to pass but it doesn’t, in fact in only grows stronger.

“You’re gripping a little too tight there, sweetheart.” Dan murmurs, causing you to realize you had been digging your nails into the back of his palms. Concern was written all over his tone. “Is everything alright?”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “Just a little contraction, nothing to worry about.”

“Contraction?”

You were about to answer him when another wave of pain flooded your senses. You release a low moan, causing Dan to stiffen behind you.

“Are you sure it’s not-”

“Yes, Dan.” You state, “Absolutely, positively, a hundred percent confi- oww!” The wail involuntarily slips from your lips.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “We should probably-”

“I’m fine! Absolutely fucking-” You stop abruptly as you notice a damp patch growing on the bedsheets below you.

“Is that your-”

“My. Waters. Just. Broke. FUCK!”

“Okay, stay calm. I’ll get the bad then we’ll head down to the car. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You whimper. “But Dan I’m early.”

“I know, I know but whether we like it or not, she’s coming.”

-
Sometimes seconds turn into minutes and minutes turn into hours. When exciting moments happen, it’s normally vice versa. This was not the case in this situation. Every second of stinging was a minute of agony. Every ten seconds of tiredly pushing, ten minutes in hell.

You and Dan reached the ER in the nick of time. You were already fully dilated when you arrived, so you were stripped of your bottoms and laid on the delivery table.

The unendurable throb clenched around your abdomen like a vice grip as a loud animalistic screech emerges from your mouth. Another contraction pounds you forcefully, the doctor encouraging you to push again. It was too late for an epidural, so you resigned to the old fashioned way.

A maelstrom of dizziness and nausea unexpectedly slaps you. You’re about to regurgitate whatever dinner you had left in your stomach.

“Dan, I feel light-headed.” Was the last thing you remember saying before you knocked out.

-
Too many explanations. But none of them seem feasible to you. Thoughts swirl in your mind as you clutched the greyscale photo in you hand, almost crushing it.

The first tear drops, rolling off your cheek like a barrel on a slope. He’s beside you, like always. More traumatized than you, he’d been through a lot.

Your body is wrecked with sobs that you’d kept in for several days now as you finally breakdown.

“This isn’t fair.” Is the only thing you choke out.

For the past few days, there was a routine. Wake up. Bathe. Eat. Sleep.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

Today, you were ultimately coming to terms with it. It had started when Dan took the photo out of his bedside drawer and passed it to you. You stared at it for a second before the taps began to run.

He pulls you close to him, enveloping you in his arms.

“Sometimes these things happen.”

You’re tugging on the fabric of his T-shirt, staining it with tears. You don’t want to talk about it anymore than he does but eventually you had to face it.

Losing someone close to you is like losing one of your senses. You’re incapacitated for a while but you grow to get used to it. Losing someone you never got a chance to know… it’s difficult to say the least. What this person could have done to your life will never be found out.

“I miss her.”