A/N: I haven't written anything for any fandom in a long time. But this ship spoke to me, and I've been itching to write something for them. Sorry if this is a bit rusty! Originally posted on tumblr. Inspired by Ed Sheeran's "Photograph". (This song makes me all degrees of emotional.)

There are days when he gets lost in his dreams and thoughts of the past, of the five years spent on Lian Yu. It's a purgatory of his own making, one that pulls him so deep, so fast that he never really quite remembers how he got there, always forced to take a moment to register where he is.

But when the jungle's familiar sights, smells and sounds settle around him, all he wants is to escape, afraid to relive memories that are already haunting his every existence, a shadow to every step and ghost to every breath. When he's there, he doesn't remember coming home, of the relief and comfort he felt seeing familiar faces and visiting old haunts that were the same yet different. Instead, all he knows is despair, anger, regret and fear, all of it tightly bound together by blood, sweat and dirt. Everything is as vivid as when he experienced it, and that, more than anything, keeps him submerged in the memories.

Before, fresh off the island and the accompanying memories only mere yesterdays, the memories proved to have an ironclad grip, maliciously insisting that he remember every detail, cruel in punishing him for everything he already believes himself culpable (and for which he would never forgive himself).

Back then, the only thing that could pull him out was either a scream reverberating in his ears (sometimes his own, other times not), or the voice or touch of someone bringing him back to the present. (Either way, he would come to with his heart palpitating wildly in his chest, fingernails biting painfully into the skin of his palms.)

There were times when he believed these spells were good, purposeful even, serving to remind him of his promise to his father, his duty to his city, of all the sins for which he has yet to (and could never) atone. (Or so insisted the masochist in him, insidious and gleeful.)

But the truth is this: blood-soaked pasts can be exhausting. More than that, they keep you from a future that could salve, soothe and heal. And he's learning day-by-day that maybe he wants it. He's slowly reconciling himself to the idea that, while he may not deserve it, he can nevertheless have a chance at proving himself worthy of such a wonderful thing.

So he tries more earnestly to unshackle himself from the seemingly indelible images behind his eyelids and embedded deep within his mind. At first, he claws his way to respite; there's nothing to guide him and it is sheer determination and will alone that has him breaching the surfacing and gasping for precious breath.

But these days (and maybe several before them if he's really going to be honest with himself), he finds that all he needs to float to the surface is to conjure up a photo in his mind's eye, one he doesn't yet own, one he's retrieved from a pocket of his imagination that he has for so long forbidden himself from reaching into. This single image is enough for him to crawl out of the maelstrom and into the safety of calmer waters. Because in this photo Felicity is colour, life, laughter and love, her smile a promise.

(I'll wait for you to come home.)

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