i wondered if i could come home
so, the episode 300% killed me dead. on the floor. so this came out of it. straight up shameless fluff. fluff without plot, if you will. anyway, i owe my heart and also this fic to @elsaclack and @jakelovesamy. title from first day of my life (thx a billion @jokeperatla omg)
Amy slowly comes to, blinking hard against the golden late-afternoon light filtering through her window. She can’t quite seem to gather her thoughts - unsurprising, since these random midday crash-naps are the closest thing she’s gotten to proper rest since the night of the trial. Her eyes are dry and a little red-rimmed, crusty with sleep. She takes a few more moments to relish this calm, taking deep breaths and steeling herself against the long night to come. It’s been ages since she slept properly, centuries since she took a true deep breath, eons since her bed, with its freshly washed sheets devoid of crumbs and spills and the miscellaneous junk that’s made its home in her - their - apartment, has felt truly comfortable or familiar.
She rolls over, away from the setting sun wafting through her half-open blinds, in the hopes of catching a few more minutes of sleep before reality sets in, before she has to put back on a pantsuit and reopen Hawkins’ file and pretend everything is normal–
–and then she lands in an unexpected warm spot on his side of the bed. It smells, quite unmistakably, like him. She groans, curling tighter into the blankets, because she’s had this dream before. She shuts her eyes tight, feeling that brief jolt of hope ebb away into the familiar numbness that’s dulled her mind for more than six weeks. She’ll open her eyes again in a second and the bed will be cold and she’ll get up and find her discarded blouse and Captain Holt will call her with an update and she’ll have ten texts from Charles about how to cry on cue for her upcoming podcast appearance.
But the longer she lays there, steeling herself against the evening of work to come, crouched around Captain Holt’s coffee table with Cheddar safely locked in the upstairs guest room and Kevin bringing out trays of desserts in which sour gummy flourishes are featured with an unusual frequency, the more she notices that something is off.
For one, the warmth isn’t going away as her mind slowly emerges from its post-nap fog. For another, the smell is different this time, tinged with sweat and the unmistakable scent she recognizes from the visiting room in South Carolina. She notes the water she can hear running in the bathroom sink. Finally, she registers the feeling of her too-clean sheets against her naked body, and her mind starts to catch up, first slowly then in a flood of images and memories that nearly overwhelms her.