[ a month. it's not long, not really. before, it would have passed by in a blink, each hour day week filled with work and patients and teaching and staving off the gnawing emptiness that had begun to fill him. lawrence gordon is, was, is a doctor. a husband. a father.
a victim.
a traitor.
he had tried to go back. tried to convince everyone he needed to find that bathroom, to find adam. but no one would allow it. and he, despite the fact that he was capable of something as monstrous as permanently maiming his own body, could not fight the tide of voices telling him no. even once he was physically able, he did not go.
instead, he waited. hoped. hated himself for hoping. lost himself to the memories. shouted adam's name in the middle of the night. it was too much. that, more than anything else, was why alison left him. why she took diana and went to stay with her parents. why she left lawrence alone to rot in the hell he'd made for himself.
he deserved it, he knew.
but then - out of nowhere, a voice: adam. a ghost. alive, somehow. whatever hope lawrence had of moving on, piecing his life back together, shattered the instant he got that message. perspective. asshole. skeleton. word after word after word. each one sounded like a heartbeat, faint and stuttering but alive. alive.
and now here they are. adam sits, looking extremely out of place, on lawrence's too-plush couch, as lawrence makes coffee for them. the apartment is silent save for the sound of the spoon stirring milk and sugar into the dark liquid. he wants to shout. he wants to cry. he wants to throw himself at adam's feet and beg for his forgiveness.
instead, he clears his throat. hears himself speak, voice raspy from disuse: ]
feel free to change details around as needed!
a victim.
a traitor.
he had tried to go back. tried to convince everyone he needed to find that bathroom, to find adam. but no one would allow it. and he, despite the fact that he was capable of something as monstrous as permanently maiming his own body, could not fight the tide of voices telling him no. even once he was physically able, he did not go.
instead, he waited. hoped. hated himself for hoping. lost himself to the memories. shouted adam's name in the middle of the night. it was too much. that, more than anything else, was why alison left him. why she took diana and went to stay with her parents. why she left lawrence alone to rot in the hell he'd made for himself.
he deserved it, he knew.
but then - out of nowhere, a voice: adam. a ghost. alive, somehow. whatever hope lawrence had of moving on, piecing his life back together, shattered the instant he got that message. perspective. asshole. skeleton. word after word after word. each one sounded like a heartbeat, faint and stuttering but alive. alive.
and now here they are. adam sits, looking extremely out of place, on lawrence's too-plush couch, as lawrence makes coffee for them. the apartment is silent save for the sound of the spoon stirring milk and sugar into the dark liquid. he wants to shout. he wants to cry. he wants to throw himself at adam's feet and beg for his forgiveness.
instead, he clears his throat. hears himself speak, voice raspy from disuse: ]
Are you hungry?