[ Not all the memories they share are happy ones. Pitfall was two years ago, and they’ve made so much progress since then, setting their foundations on something more solid than the rubble of their lives before the closing of the Breach, but it’s been a slow road to recovery for them both. Together, they’ve managed to successfully outrun some of their personal demons, but they can’t rid themselves of the nightmares that haunt them still; Raleigh’s old anger at the long-dead kaiju rekindles whenever Chuck gasps his way awake in their nights together in bed, burning up from both the heat under the blankets and the memory of blistering in the kiln of his own drivesuit.
It’s moments like these when the anger is particularly strong, because these moments are theirs, with no place for old ghosts to share.
They’re lying on the couch together after a night of drowsy conversation by the fireplace; Chuck’s drifting asleep on top of him, head laid against his shoulder, his dog tags digging into Raleigh’s chest. The hard line of the tags isn’t noticeable enough to trouble Raleigh to move, and he likes the way Chuck’s heavy, sleeping weight feels on top of him.
The peace doesn’t last long. Two years had been enough for Raleigh to catalogue Chuck’s body language, so Raleigh can pinpoint when Chuck’s soft, muffled sleep noises take a turn for something darker, sharper, hurt-sounding. Raleigh's stomach drops, and he sits up a little against the arm of the couch, careful not to let Chuck’s weight slide off him.
He shakes Chuck’s shoulder. ] Chuck? Hey, Chuck, wake up.
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[ Not all the memories they share are happy ones. Pitfall was two years ago, and they’ve made so much progress since then, setting their foundations on something more solid than the rubble of their lives before the closing of the Breach, but it’s been a slow road to recovery for them both. Together, they’ve managed to successfully outrun some of their personal demons, but they can’t rid themselves of the nightmares that haunt them still; Raleigh’s old anger at the long-dead kaiju rekindles whenever Chuck gasps his way awake in their nights together in bed, burning up from both the heat under the blankets and the memory of blistering in the kiln of his own drivesuit.
It’s moments like these when the anger is particularly strong, because these moments are theirs, with no place for old ghosts to share.
They’re lying on the couch together after a night of drowsy conversation by the fireplace; Chuck’s drifting asleep on top of him, head laid against his shoulder, his dog tags digging into Raleigh’s chest. The hard line of the tags isn’t noticeable enough to trouble Raleigh to move, and he likes the way Chuck’s heavy, sleeping weight feels on top of him.
The peace doesn’t last long. Two years had been enough for Raleigh to catalogue Chuck’s body language, so Raleigh can pinpoint when Chuck’s soft, muffled sleep noises take a turn for something darker, sharper, hurt-sounding. Raleigh's stomach drops, and he sits up a little against the arm of the couch, careful not to let Chuck’s weight slide off him.
He shakes Chuck’s shoulder. ] Chuck? Hey, Chuck, wake up.