[Harry Potter] [Godric/Salazar] Like I Used To
Title: Like I Used To
Summary: The most comforting sound in the world is the steady breathing of the person next to you at night.
Characters/Pairings: Godric Gryffindor/Salazar Slytherin
Genre: AU, angst
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, hinted at PTSD.
Medium: Fic
Word Count: 1090
A/N: Marine!Godric, inspired by Per Mare, Per Terram but not connected.
The first night Godric is back, free to sleep in his own bed, in his own flat, he asks Salazar to sleep on the sofa. Salazar balks for a moment, looks at him like he's asked him for the impossible and can't quite hold back the why?.
"I haven't slept by myself in months," Godric says, with a shrug. He's barely dressed, loose football shorts and nothing else but he moves like he's wearing bulky clothes. "Or in a proper bed." Salazar can't say no to that, can't say but I haven't seen you in months because he wasn't the one getting shot at, so he gathers spare pillows and blankets and sets up camp on a sofa too small for him. His legs hang off the edge, and his neck aches already, but he doesn't get up. He watches as Godric shuts the bedroom door, a quiet "good night" said through the gap and then Salazar is alone, watching the headlights of passing cars create shapes on the wall.
He wonders about Godric. He wonders if he's put on a pair of trackie bottoms, or stripped down naked. He wonders if he's spread out, starfish across a bed bought to accommodate two fully grown men, or if he's curling up around a pillow, the way he curled up around Salazar before. He wonders if he fell asleep quickly, used to getting impossibly small amounts of sleep whenever he could get it, or if he's laying awake, staring at the ceiling.
He curls his toes into the air, and tries to sleep.
The creak of a door wakes him, and the green lights on the TV tell him he's been asleep for two hours. The clock isn't right, hasn't been in a long time, but he's learned to translate it. He can't remember if Godric knows to add six hours and take away twenty minutes.
He watches Godric navigate their cluttered hallway (theirs again, not his and someone elses, someone far off and not here, theirs) in the dark without stumbling. He doesn't think that it's probably the easiest thing he's done in a while.
"Are you okay?" he says, into the dark, and doesn't take comfort into the white flash of Godric's smile. He thinks about all the things that could happen in the dark in Afghanistan, and all the things that could happen in the dark here, things he doesn't know how to deal with because you don't get to be sure like they are.
"Yep," Godric says, but when he sits on the edge of the sofa, Salazar can see him shaking. He rests his feet on Godric's thighs, feels him shudder beneath him and wishes there was a manual for this, someone who could tell him what to do because he is not equipped for this; he is snarky remarks and ignoring feelings until they go away, and that's not going to help here.
He can't ignore this.
"I figured you could use someone to warm your feet up." Godric's hands wrap around Salazar's ankles, and his fingers tap in a ridiculous rhythm in a way they're not supposed to, juddering and shaking against the tendons in Salazar's heel. "You always complain about cold feet."
"I wear socks now," Salazar says. "I hate them." He kicks at the blanket, tries not to bang his heels into Godric's thighs until they cover his feet and Godric. He loops one calf around Godric's back, his heel pressed into his hip. An almost hug, he thinks. He hadn't hugged Godric when he'd turned up on his, their doorstep, too distracted by him being there, too distracted by the fact he was mumbling something about keys and always losing them and he'd have been here, home, sooner but.
"It was too hot in your bed," Godric says, and Salazar wants to point out that it's their bed, it's been their bed since they were twenty and a year away doesn't change that. "Can I stay here?"
"Of course." He bites back the no, the of course not, the go away, Godric because he's not sure if Godric still knows how to read between the lines to hear the yes, the no shit, Sherlock, the please stay.
He turns onto his side, squishes into the cushions to let Godric lay on the outside, wraps an arm across his chest to keep him on the sofa that wasn't chosen to become a bed for two fully grown men.
"Are you okay?" He asks again, his nose pressed to the back of Godric's neck. He smells like Salazar's shower gel. For a moment, Salazar imagines he can smell the battle on him, sweat and gun powder and dust and blood, but there's nothing there. He smells normal.
Godric doesn't say anything for a moment. He's stopped shaking, but he's tense, every muscle in his body prepared for a danger that isn't there.
"I," he says, and his voice gives out. Salazar breathes against him, for him, and he starts again. "It was too quiet. I couldn't stop listening and there was nothing there."
"Go to sleep," Salazar says. He doesn't say I'm here. He doesn't say anything as he turns the TV on, turns the volume right down low and doesn't listen to it. He listens to Godric instead, the breathing that comes in sharp at first, in, out, in, out, quickly, too quickly. He keeps his hand on Godric's chest, moves with Godric's breath, and feels when he relaxes, hears when he starts breathing normally, then slowly, and then he's loose and asleep.
Salazar doesn't sleep that night, he stays awake and watches the TV turn Godric's skin a bright blue. He stays awake, because it's something he can do.
Summary: The most comforting sound in the world is the steady breathing of the person next to you at night.
Characters/Pairings: Godric Gryffindor/Salazar Slytherin
Genre: AU, angst
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, hinted at PTSD.
Medium: Fic
Word Count: 1090
A/N: Marine!Godric, inspired by Per Mare, Per Terram but not connected.
The first night Godric is back, free to sleep in his own bed, in his own flat, he asks Salazar to sleep on the sofa. Salazar balks for a moment, looks at him like he's asked him for the impossible and can't quite hold back the why?.
"I haven't slept by myself in months," Godric says, with a shrug. He's barely dressed, loose football shorts and nothing else but he moves like he's wearing bulky clothes. "Or in a proper bed." Salazar can't say no to that, can't say but I haven't seen you in months because he wasn't the one getting shot at, so he gathers spare pillows and blankets and sets up camp on a sofa too small for him. His legs hang off the edge, and his neck aches already, but he doesn't get up. He watches as Godric shuts the bedroom door, a quiet "good night" said through the gap and then Salazar is alone, watching the headlights of passing cars create shapes on the wall.
He wonders about Godric. He wonders if he's put on a pair of trackie bottoms, or stripped down naked. He wonders if he's spread out, starfish across a bed bought to accommodate two fully grown men, or if he's curling up around a pillow, the way he curled up around Salazar before. He wonders if he fell asleep quickly, used to getting impossibly small amounts of sleep whenever he could get it, or if he's laying awake, staring at the ceiling.
He curls his toes into the air, and tries to sleep.
The creak of a door wakes him, and the green lights on the TV tell him he's been asleep for two hours. The clock isn't right, hasn't been in a long time, but he's learned to translate it. He can't remember if Godric knows to add six hours and take away twenty minutes.
He watches Godric navigate their cluttered hallway (theirs again, not his and someone elses, someone far off and not here, theirs) in the dark without stumbling. He doesn't think that it's probably the easiest thing he's done in a while.
"Are you okay?" he says, into the dark, and doesn't take comfort into the white flash of Godric's smile. He thinks about all the things that could happen in the dark in Afghanistan, and all the things that could happen in the dark here, things he doesn't know how to deal with because you don't get to be sure like they are.
"Yep," Godric says, but when he sits on the edge of the sofa, Salazar can see him shaking. He rests his feet on Godric's thighs, feels him shudder beneath him and wishes there was a manual for this, someone who could tell him what to do because he is not equipped for this; he is snarky remarks and ignoring feelings until they go away, and that's not going to help here.
He can't ignore this.
"I figured you could use someone to warm your feet up." Godric's hands wrap around Salazar's ankles, and his fingers tap in a ridiculous rhythm in a way they're not supposed to, juddering and shaking against the tendons in Salazar's heel. "You always complain about cold feet."
"I wear socks now," Salazar says. "I hate them." He kicks at the blanket, tries not to bang his heels into Godric's thighs until they cover his feet and Godric. He loops one calf around Godric's back, his heel pressed into his hip. An almost hug, he thinks. He hadn't hugged Godric when he'd turned up on his, their doorstep, too distracted by him being there, too distracted by the fact he was mumbling something about keys and always losing them and he'd have been here, home, sooner but.
"It was too hot in your bed," Godric says, and Salazar wants to point out that it's their bed, it's been their bed since they were twenty and a year away doesn't change that. "Can I stay here?"
"Of course." He bites back the no, the of course not, the go away, Godric because he's not sure if Godric still knows how to read between the lines to hear the yes, the no shit, Sherlock, the please stay.
He turns onto his side, squishes into the cushions to let Godric lay on the outside, wraps an arm across his chest to keep him on the sofa that wasn't chosen to become a bed for two fully grown men.
"Are you okay?" He asks again, his nose pressed to the back of Godric's neck. He smells like Salazar's shower gel. For a moment, Salazar imagines he can smell the battle on him, sweat and gun powder and dust and blood, but there's nothing there. He smells normal.
Godric doesn't say anything for a moment. He's stopped shaking, but he's tense, every muscle in his body prepared for a danger that isn't there.
"I," he says, and his voice gives out. Salazar breathes against him, for him, and he starts again. "It was too quiet. I couldn't stop listening and there was nothing there."
"Go to sleep," Salazar says. He doesn't say I'm here. He doesn't say anything as he turns the TV on, turns the volume right down low and doesn't listen to it. He listens to Godric instead, the breathing that comes in sharp at first, in, out, in, out, quickly, too quickly. He keeps his hand on Godric's chest, moves with Godric's breath, and feels when he relaxes, hears when he starts breathing normally, then slowly, and then he's loose and asleep.
Salazar doesn't sleep that night, he stays awake and watches the TV turn Godric's skin a bright blue. He stays awake, because it's something he can do.