"It's one of the others", Captain Anderson informs Dean over the phone, that evening. And Dean mentally notes down that this is the best news someone's ever given him. As shallow as it sounds, he couldn't find it in himself to be upset, he was just glad it wasn't Roman.
Roman gets out of surgery the next day. For a few hours, and then his lung ruptures and he's back in there, indefinite surgery time, not sure what the procedure is, unsure of the extent of the damage.
Everything is uncertain. Dean's mind is very, very blank.
Because he's not there. He can cry, yell, and care all he wants, but he's not there. He's in the fucking US, in his flat, while Roman's getting half a lung and God knows what else stitched back together, hour after hour after hour. And Dean wonders how long they stitch for before they give up.
Eleven hours seems like a long time. He wonders if they'll do another eleven.
A day later, Dean gets the letter. Postage paid Army envelope, express stamp on the front. He thinks that maybe it's the official documentation of Roman's condition.
It's not.
Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry.
Over and over and over in Roman's handwriting, half the page. And then,
No, but I really am sorry. I had a shit day, I got hurt, and I was being a dick, I'm sorry. I love you so much, and if I could make you dinner and light a candle to say sorry properly, I would. I dug through my bag for your letter and I read it as soon as I hung up. You're too good for me, Dean Ambrose. I don't know what I'd do without you. I can't wait to be back at home with you, and I know how you get so don't you ever dare question the possibility of it because trust me, I'll always come home. There's no place I'd rather be.
53 days to go, right? I'll call on Friday, of course I'll call. Always will. Happy Anniversary, baby.
Thinking of you always,
Ro.
Dean folds it back up, swallows as he puts it on the table. He goes to bed, and doesn't get up for a long time. Because that, right there, the flimsy bit of paper with the scribbles - that Roman calls handwriting - on it, might just be the last thing he'll ever hear from him.
I'll always come home.
Two days after that, and Dean remembers to take a shower. Mostly because Roman has been critical but stable for a whole day now, apparently a win.
He looks in the bathroom mirror and his eyes are raw and his hair is disgusting and his nails are bitten right down. Roman used to tell him to get that chilli-flavoured varnish to stop him biting them. Dean told him to fuck right off if he thought he was going to wear nail polish.
He thinks he'd wear nothing but a garter and a corset for the rest of his life if he could just have Roman home. Roman would like that joke. He'd laugh and his eyes would twinkle and he'd tug Dean down onto the couch and say might have to take you up on that offer one day, Deano.
And this is Dean's mind right now, something inconsequential that he notices gives him a stupid memory of Roman that triggers a million what-ifs; what if Roman were here, what would he do, what would he say, what would his hair look like, what would he be reading, what would we be doing.
But he needs to focus.
"Dean," the army doctor says gently. His name is Nick, Dean remembers that. He called Dean and arranged to meet with him to give further details on Roman's condition.
"Yeah," he says, "sorry. I'm listening."
"It's okay. Take all the time you need."
"No, I'm okay. Go."
He nods, takes out a report with a very large red hospital stamp on the front.
"This is the surgeon's report; I had it sent back because I don't think anyone's properly explained Lieutenant Reigns' injuries to you," he says, "that sound about right?"
Dean nods. His stomach seems to claw at him from the inside out.
"Okay, so, stop me if there's anything you don't understand," Nick says.
Nick begins explaining the injuries. It's quite the list. Roman's going to feel proper tough when he gets home.
If he gets home, Dean reminds himself, because he was given a talk yesterday. A lowering-your-expectations talk.
When, his brain argues stubbornly.
He has a shattered collarbone and shoulder blade, four broken ribs. Both lungs got punctured; one is working again, one is not. He's on breathing assistance. He's on blood thinners and thickeners at the same fucking time, because they need to stop the internal bleeding but avoid clotting in his brain. He possibly has an infection, gaping wound in his arm that's not being treated properly, because it was the only injury not set to kill him.
He's not awake, like his body's too tired, too broken to wake up, too preoccupied just holding itself together.
Dean feels like he can relate. What Roman's feeling physically, Dean's feeling it mentally and emotionally.
Nick stops talking, and there's only one question Dean has, the question that's been on his mind for four days.
"What are his chances?" Dean asks quietly, finally. "Really. What…what are the chances he's coming home?"
Nick blinks, like he's weighing up whether to tell the truth. The guardedness on his face drops. "Forty per cent," he says softly, "Forty percent chance you'll get him home."
You don't have to call if you don't want to. If, you know, if it's going to upset you.
Dean throws up for the first time since critical but stable, because if that turns out to be the last thing he may have ever said to Roman, he swears he'll never say anything again.
Roman wakes up five days, three hours, and forty minutes after the bomb.
Dean finds out fifty six minutes later.
"Shit," he breathes, laughs tiredly and humorlessly into his fist, "shit."
"It's good, Dean," Nick says; he's come to deliver the news. "Not out of the woods. But it's good."
Dean calls everyone and tells them the news, because he wants to share this. Wants to tell anyone who'll listen, because maybe if everyone knows, whoever's up there pulling the strings might just spare him.
Roman's awake and Roman's weak and Roman's asleep, a lot, actually, for someone who's being spoken of as awake, but whatever.
Dean doesn't get to talk to him.
He begs, just for five minutes, just to hear his voice. But it's a no, they can't get his heart rate up because he absolutely cannot start bleeding again, nothing can throw off the all too fragile balance his body is trying to hold onto right now. They're keeping him sedated a lot of the time anyhow, just to maintain that. They promise that Dean won't want to speak to him right now, anyway, he's delirious from the drugs, body exhausted, his voice is probably shot, they say.
Sometimes, Dean thinks, the sun can't quite break through the clouds, bright as it may be.
(Two weeks since the bomb is when they get the news, and Dean's whole time frame now seems to be since the bomb.)
Roman gets a fever overnight, 106. They have to sedate him, again, because his body's on fire and he's in pain. It's hurting him, tearing through his already barely-there immune system. Roman's hurting, and it makes Dean want to scream. The wound on his arm is apparently getting worse and there's an infection working its way through his bloodstream, just as they were going to send him to Germany, to the US Army hospital there.
Dean doesn't believe in God. Never has; as far as he can see, God's never done much for him, for anyone else as a matter of fact.
He prays anyway.
They've kept Roman sedated for three days. By now, the fever's subsiding, slowly, but his arm is fucking toxic, skin burning and weeping God knows what and Roman isn't sleeping, is writhing all alone in a fucking field hospital up to his eyeballs in painkillers, and the thought of it makes Dean shudder. They've decide to put him back under sedatives, but for some reason, Dean's not got the call that it's been successful yet. It usually takes fifteen, sixteen minutes for the confirmation to get back to Dean, but not today.
Something, he assumes, is wrong.
It's been thirty two minutes, and where the fuck is Nick, because he was meant to walk in here ten minutes ago and give a nod and a reassuring smile that Dean was supposed to take a little comfort out of. And that hasn't happened yet, not today.
Nick comes in. It's been thirty-nine minutes. He looks strung out.
"What happened?" Dean asks, voice hoarse. He thinks his heart rate would pick up, if it could, but it's been going like this for two weeks now. He's maxed out on clichéd reactions to stress.
Nick runs a hand through his hair, looks at Dean for a long time, as though he's appraising him, trying to see if he can take whatever he's about to say. Dean's sure he can't, but he straightens up anyway.
"He…" Nick starts, "he won't take the sedative. Mask or IV. Won't let them do it."
Dean opens his mouth, doesn't understand, so closes it. "Wh…" Dean starts, "why?"
"We're not sure. Tired, maybe, perhaps the pain's screwing him up. Anger, we're not sure. He's been taking a lot of drugs. Sometimes there are effects like this, but we need to get him down again. Give the antibiotics a chance to kick in."
"So do it." Dean doesn't mean it to sound cold. He's just so tired, doesn't understand why it all has to be so hard. So up and down and hopeful one minute and fucking horrible the next. He's so exhausted.
"We can't," Nick says, "it's not necessary sedation. It's a course of treatment, but it's not necessary. We can't just give it to him without his consent."
Dean snorts, turns from Nick and starts for the window. Of course they can't. Why would it be any different to every other fucking thing they've done in the last two weeks.
"So," Nick says, "we want you to talk him into it."
Dean turns back around to look at him so fast that he hits his knee on the coffee table. He doesn't even register it.
"What?" he asks hoarsely.
Nick looks genuinely troubled by this, like he's trying to keep Dean hopes down. "He's suffered a major trauma and not seen or heard anyone familiar for two weeks," he says, "he's disoriented, I'm sure. Scared. We think it might help, if he hears your voice."
Dean blinks, nods at him to go on.
"He's not going to be able to talk back, he's still on the ventilator. But just talk to him. Tell him all the boring shit you can think of, anything that'll make him feel like he's at home."
No. His brain is overrun with questions and impossibilities and problems and no. He sits back down, shaky.
"I can't do this," Dean whispers. "I…I can't fucking…what, tell him how the weather is and, and, fuck," he says.
"I know," Nick says gently, "I know. It's a lot. But I need you to do this, for him. Talk to him. Tell him you're waiting for him, that you'll see him soon."
"And will I?"
He doesn't mean to say it. Doesn't mean it to spill out like that, harsh, cracked, and blunt. Nick swallows, and then nods.
"Yeah," he says, "you will. Once we put him under for a couple of days, drugs will clear his infection, he'll go to Germany. He'll stay there for a bit, maybe have a couple of procedures done, and then he'll come home. Remind him of that. Remind him you're here."
Dean sits back down, bites his nail. He doesn't want to do this, because what if he fucks it up, what if he makes it worse, what if Roman doesn't want to hear his voice, doesn't remember him in his state of drug-induced delirium.
Dean doesn't think he could handle that.
"He knows that," he says, "he knows it already."
"And if it were you, Dean, wouldn't you like a reminder?"
Dean breathes in sharply at that, flicks his eyes up to Nick.
His brain stops whirring, like someone's jammed the gears. Because yes, yes, yes, a thousand times over, of course he would. If it was him, and he was getting the chance to hear Roman's voice, he'd want it so much.
Yes.
"Yeah," he says finally, "yeah, okay. Do it."
There's no going back after that. The link to the field hospital is set up in a matter of minutes, Dean's given a phone and pushed down on the couch and someone's dialing him through, speaking to nurses and doctors and staff on the ground, making sure they can put Dean straight through when they need to.
"Try not to cry," Nick says, and Dean just stares at him, "I know it's hard. But we want him calm, not anxious and hyped up. Try not to cry. Just tell him whatever pops into your head, stupid things you've seen on TV, things you'd tell him if he was making his weekly call. Tell him you love him. Then tell him to take the goddamned sedative."
Dean blanches, and Nick smiles.
"He'll hear your voice, he'll feel comforted, he'll take the drugs, and he'll get better," Nick says, "we do this stuff a lot. Every month. It works. You're helping him get better."
Dean nods, opens his mouth to speak, but is overridden by a Lieutenant he vaguely recognizes striding over.
"We're linked to the other line," he says, "when you're ready, Dean."
Dean isn't ready. He brings the phone to his ear anyway, takes a deep breath.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Ambrose?" He's startled at the brusque voice, guesses it's a nurse.
"Yes," he says, "hi."
"Hi. As they've probably told you, we're having a bit of trouble getting Roman to go back under." It's awfully refreshing, hearing someone call him Roman. "Are you ready to talk to him?"
No.
"Yes," he says.
"Okay. I'm giving him the phone now."
He hears soft rustling in the background, the nurse saying, here, we have someone on the phone for you. She sounds like she's smiling a little. He wonders if Roman is too. If he can smile.
He can hear the ventilator, slow, in and out. It calms him. Everything feels quiet. Dean takes another breath, tries to stop himself throwing up or saying something selfish and stupid and ridiculous; why the fuck were you out there, why the fuck weren't you being careful, why the fuck aren't you home safe?
"Hi," he says instead, shakily, and before he can get another word in hears a flurry of activity, something metal clattering to the floor, the beep of the monitor getting a little faster. "Shh", he hears the nurse say, "shh, shh, shh, it's okay."
"Don't make a scene, Ro," he says with a little smile, vision going a blurry through the tears in his eyes. He doesn't even know where that comes from, but the monitor settles. He can hear Roman breathing again.
"Hi, darling," he says, and he can hear Roman struggling around the breathing apparatus, like he's trying to get words out.
And the thing is, Dean realizes in that moment, he doesn't need to get them out. Doesn't need to be able to speak. They've had this conversation so many times before. He knows what Roman wants to say.
Suddenly, he knows exactly what to do.
How are you, Deano?
It's like he can hear it, almost, almost, almost.
"I'm good, babe," he says, biting down on his lip so he doesn't make any noise, doesn't cry, because he needs to calm him down, not rile him up, "it's fucking cold, actually. Bit weird for April."
He pauses, squeezes his eyes shut tight and counts to three, tries to center himself.
"I'm, uhh," he says, "I got you tickets the other day, to see PVRIS in June. I'm gonna take you. I'll wine and dine you, Reigns, and then we're gonna go to the shitty concert. And no, don't fight me on it, I know it's going to be terrible. I don't even know why you like them so much."
He looks up. Nick gives him an assuring little nod.
"And then you're gonna let me take you to Rihanna because there's no way I'm missing that," he says with a teary laugh, hooking his hand over his shoulder, like he's protecting himself from all of this, "and you'll pretend to have fun, because I know you secretly like her."
He has no idea what he's even saying.
"We beat Chelsea this weekend," he goes on, sees the paper lying on the table, "they're fucked. Nearly out the top four. They reckon the Reds' will make it, if they win their next two. Fucking miracle isn't it," he muses as though Roman was a ride away. He bites his thumbnail. Nick nods again. "Oh, and I forgot to record The Voice for you, but that beefy guy got out. He sang Johnny Cash or something, it was horrible."
He pauses, listens for the sound of Roman's breath, the slow beep. Nick taps his watch, keep going, he mouths.
"I," he says, because he's got to do this now, "I don't have a lot of time, I guess. But you're sick, Ro," he says, "and, and I'm gonna get you back sooner if you do what they say."
He pauses, blinks out the tears in his eyes. He doesn't sniff, doesn't want Roman to hear it.
"And I love you. So much. I'm gonna be there when you get home. I'm gonna be at the base and I'll take you home but before we can do that," he says, smiling a little through his tears because in spite of it all, he can hear Roman breathing, and the gravitas of that has kind of just hit him, "before we do that, you've got to let them put you back to sleep for a bit. Okay, babe?"
He hears a small grunt on the other end of the line. He has no idea what it means, so he uses his gut instinct instead. It's all he's ever needed with Roman, really.
"I know you're scared," he says, "I know, and you're being so brave. I'm so proud of you, baby" he whispers, "but you're in pain, and. And I can't, you know. I can't sleep when I know you're hurting."
He pauses. There's a silence, like the world has stopped turning just to witness this. Dean doesn't do words a lot. He loves with touches and gestures and that look he knows he gets in his eyes that says, I can't see anyone else in this room but you. But words are all he has now, barely. So he has to keep going.
He wipes at his eyes roughly, furiously.
"You, um. In your letter. You said it was one thousand ninety six days, right?" he asks, "you remember that? Well today it's one thousand one hundred and fifteen. And fuck, Roman, I want to make it more than that."
He stops again, tries to think what Roman would say to that, what he should say now. He smiles when he realizes what it'd be, tastes his own tears on his lips.
I love you.
"I love you too," he says, "and I'm going to see you soon, okay? I'm about to go to bed. Let's…" he pauses, wonders if what he's about to say is stupid, then decides he doesn't really care, "let's go to sleep together. I'm right here."
And he almost, almost expects a response there. There isn't one, of course, but Nick, who's now got his ear glued to another phone, looks visibly more relaxed, gives Dean a thumbs up. It's all the confirmation Dean needs.
"Sweet dreams," he says quietly, his voice is all raspy and broken and before he can say anything else, I love you I love you I love you I love you, the line goes dead.
They get the call sixteen minutes later, Roman's under, and it'll be two days until they wake him again.
Dean doesn't intend on waking up until then, either.
Gradually is Dean's word for the fourth week.
By the time they enter into what is another week of hell, Roman's getting stronger. Gradually. He's staying awake for longer periods of time. Gradually. His arm is seeping whatever the hell's coming out of it in gradually smaller amounts. He can breathe for longer periods of time unassisted.
Gradually.
Dean considers writing a letter to the Oxford English Dictionary and having it struck from the world's collective consciousness forever.
Slowly, his chances of getting Roman home without a flag are becoming higher.
And even more slowly, he allows the tiniest bit of hope to settle itself somewhere in his heart.
They're bypassing Germany.
When they tell Dean that two days later, his legs turn liquid. In his state of pure exhaustion and barely-beneath-the-surface continuous panic, he hears we're giving him a bypass in Germany.
After a cup of coffee and a series of hurried no no no no's, he realizes that he's getting Roman home sooner than he'd expected, and for the first time in as long as he can remember (then again, he doesn't remember a lot about anything right now), he feels himself smile properly.
He calls Seth, because he thinks Seth might just understand this part.
"Hello?" Seth's talking in his very professional 'I'm in the office meeting with the bigshots so don't yell too loudly' voice. Dean doesn't care.
"Hi," Dean says, and he thinks Seth half drops the phone at the sound of his voice.
"Dean," he croaks, and Dean hears him get up and push a door open a few seconds later, hopefully going outside so he can exhibit some sort of emotion, "holy shit. I…I didn't want to call too much, you know. Didn't want to ask for news if there wasn't anything good, you know, and I feel like I've—"
"He's coming home in three days." He sounds like a schoolgirl telling a friend she's got a date to formal, giddy and fast and the smile almost louder than his voice. Dean, again, doesn't care.
"Fuck," Seth hisses, "oh my God, Dean. I'm so happy," he says, and he lets out a teary little laugh. Dean remembers, then, that he's not the only one who'd miss Roman. "Oh my God, have you talked to him?"
"Kind of," he says, leaning his head back against the wall of the living room, closing his eyes for a moment, "it's a long story. Sorry, that's a shit answer. I'll tell you one day. I'm just so tired."
"No, no, it's okay," Seth assures, "how is he?"
"He's good," Dean says quietly, like he'll jinx it if he speaks any louder, "he's breathing by himself, like, all the time. They're getting him up for a walk today. I think they'll let me call him tomorrow, before he comes home."
Seth lets out a relieved laugh; Dean hears him lighting up, taking a drag.
"I don't even know what to say," he says, "I'm so happy."
Dean smiles, bites his lip, and this time, it's not to stop himself crying. It's to stop himself smiling like an idiot. He's not really let himself believe it yet, but it's different now that he's said it out loud. He's going to see his boy.
"Me too," he says, "me too."
He gets patched through to the base five minutes before the designated call time; 1030 CET, 1930 local time.
He thinks his heart might flip out of his chest.
Roman, apparently, has different ideas. Quite exhausted from being made to get out of bed, get dressed and shower himself today, Roman is fast asleep.
They offer to wake him, but Dean says no, to let him get his rest, even though he wants to say yes, wake him up, do whatever you'd have to fucking do to make him conscious enough to talk to me.
He doesn't, though, of course. He'll see him tomorrow, and that's enough.
He's not sure, but he thinks he falls asleep that night with a small smile on his face; his Roman smile.
From about age four to eleven, Dean would categorically not sleep the week before Christmas, just in case Santa should happen to pop in early.
When he was nineteen, he didn't sleep because for the first time in his life he had a nice looking boy in his bed and he wasn't about to pass that up to get a few hours shut eye.
And now, at twenty eight, he's not slept all night because Roman's coming home.
Which he supposes is understandable, in a way. Roman's miles better than the twat he dated when he was nineteen. Roman coming home is like the best, brightest, biggest party he's ever been invited to.
And really, it feels a little bit like Christmas.
It's a very strange day. For a start, his flat is cleared out for the first time in a month. There's no one needing to be here to feed him news, discuss every minute detail or every awful medical procedure for him to sign off on, calm him down if he loses his mind momentarily or has a little cry. It brings with it an overwhelming sense of freedom and a much welcome feeling of finality.
Dean makes a cup of coffee, and realizes, with a little jolt, that this time tomorrow he'll be making two.
Two might just be his favourite number in the world. Two, or one thousand and ninety six.
Roman is due to land in a little over ten hours; at 5 PM. Dean expects it's going to be the longest day of his life.
By the time it rolls around, those two hands on the clock seeming bigger and slower than they've ever been and Dean feels like he's possibly packed every activity in the world into the last few hours of his life. He's called Seth, found Roman's phone in his bedside drawer and fished his SIM card out of the bowl of miscellaneous shit they have on the kitchen counter, because Roman likes it working for when he gets home. He's tidied the flat up because it's quite literally not been cleaned in two months, makes sure he puts fresh sheets on the bed and restocks the fridge and why is he doing this because it's not like Roman's going to notice, anyway, but he needs to keep himself occupied, busy, because otherwise he thinks he'll explode with sheer fucking joy.
He finds the card crumpled underneath his pillow, the photo album on Roman's side of the bed, underneath the duvet. Flicks through it once more and thinks, maybe today we'll have something to add to it.
Seth told him over the phone to "go get him and never let him leave again. But he might be a bit different, Dean, quieter. Just give him time."
When he gets to the air base an hour and a half early, it's much the same message. He gets sat down with a Major, Nick, and the psychologist assigned to Roman's case.
"We honestly don't know what he's going to be like," the psychologist says, very calm and even. His name is Greg, Dean thinks Roman will like him. "Often soldiers in good spirits in hospital can become very disconnected when they come home. Don't slip back into civilian life like you're used to with him, experience mood withdrawals, that sort of thing."
Nick nods, crosses his legs. "That includes from the people they're closest to," he says gently, "I'm sure you've heard it before, seen it in some of Roman's colleagues. Obviously, it's common in soldiers who're just coming back from a regular tour of duty, let alone ones who've experienced a trauma like this."
Dean nods at him, clears his throat.
"And it's okay, to feel like you need help with that, to notify us if you think Roman's struggling at all," Greg says. "It's really important, actually. We can only see so much in his demeanor, we need those who know him best to keep an eye on him."
"Yeah," Dean says, "of course."
They tell him where he'll be waiting for Roman, in one of the private meeting rooms reserved for occasions like this. For security reasons, he's not allowed out on the tarmac, which somewhat wrecks the Casablanca-esque finale he was going for, but whatever. It's all background.
He gets told again and again, by what it seems like every second person who passes him, to relax, to breathe, to lower his expectations and have a glass of water and be gentle and quiet and take it slowly and a million other platitudes and empty clichés.
Normally, it'd make Dean want to kill the nearest small animal and just turn him into a nervous, babbling mess. Today, it rolls right off him. He nods and smiles and says thank you to each and every person gracing him with their advice.
It doesn't scare him.
He thinks quite possibly that nothing will scare him, anymore.
Dean's oddly calm. Quiet, positive. He feels small, suddenly, not in an unpleasant way. In a way that says, what's about to happen to you is so much bigger than anything that's happened before. Treasure it.
So he does. He holds it close to his heart, as close as he can, remembers all the little details, the droplets of condensation on his can of Coke, the pull he's tugging at on his jumper, the low hum of BBC News playing on the small TV overhead. The frosted glass of this little room. He thinks, vaguely, that's it's all rather symmetrical. Steamed up shower before Roman left, frosted glass now he's coming home. Tears at either end, a pressure that feels like it's building up in his chest, albeit different to two and a half months ago. It's peaceful, circular, and Dean thinks maybe he'll write it all down one day.
The clock, hanging above him, there are too many clocks at this base, he remembers thinking. Now he wishes there were more. Clocks counting down until 5pm and clocks telling him how long until Roman's in American airspace, telling him how long Roman's been flying, how many days he's been breathing by himself, how many hours till he'll fall asleep and how many hours till he'll wake up again. Dean wants a clock for everything, every tiny up and down, for every time Roman will smile at him or get annoyed at him or get another tattoo, for every time Roman will fuck him into the mattress and every time he'll make him coffee and every time he'll make Dean think, this is the only place I ever want to be.
Or maybe he doesn't. Maybe that's the whole joy of getting him back, that he doesn't need that, doesn't need an obsessive record of every shift and every second. Maybe that's the best thing; that Roman's in the clear, that Dean just has him now, doesn't need the stats and numbers and big long words to keep him holding on.
He doesn't know, then again, he doesn't mind. He's got the rest of his life to figure it out.
Dean's thought about this day for five weeks now. He's not sure what he was expecting; his usual brand of verging-on-insane energy when it comes to anything even slightly stressful, perhaps to sort of collapse in on himself, like he does when he's scared.
He wasn't expecting the almost transcendental peace that he feels, the way his head feels like it's sitting straight again, the way his heart seems to beat in a way that says it's okay, he's okay, everything's going to be okay, he's in the sky, he's on his way back home.
Which is why, when he feels the low rumble in the air, the growing growl of the plane that he knows is Roman's, when he hears the thud as it hits the runway, he breathes out for what feels like the first time in weeks.
Roman's home. And somehow, it feels like he is, too.
1700.
1701.
1702.
And maybe his pulse is picking up a little now, maybe it's a little warm in this room, maybe his fingertips are bumping together as they shake ever so slightly, because this is real now, there can't be more than a few hundred meters between them, and Dean's going to, well he doesn't even know, if he'll cry, laugh or yell or sort of just topple over, because he's been holding himself up on not much else but a desperate hope, and this might just be too much.
They said it'll take him five minutes to get through the base. It's 1703 now. Dean blinks. That's one hundred and twenty seconds. One hundred and eighteen now. Seventeen. Sixteen.
Roman's on his way. Roman's going to round the corner and he's going to be in this room, in one piece with red in his cheeks and his lips all cracked like they are every time he flies; uniform with the sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone, boots loose. Dog tags for Dean to twirl round his fingers and pull him in with, the tags that Roman loops around Dean's neck every time he comes home, like he's clocking back in, I'm here, I'm safe.
Roman.
And the air feels thick and Dean doesn't even know what's going through his mind, because for all the calm and the peace he felt before, now his head feels like it's going to burst, like every cell in his body is about to break into two and splinter him into a million pieces, because it's been a million miles and a million days and a million close calls and shards in Roman's skin, a million possibilities and lucky breaks and minutes, minutes, minutes not only without him but without knowing if he was going to see the next day.
And now, now he's going to round that corner, and he's going to be all Dean's again.
And just when Dean thinks his head can't get any louder, his heart any faster.
Well.
It does.
Because Roman always makes everything burn that little bit brighter. He makes Dean love more furiously than he ever thought was possible and he makes him feel so much, every day, and now.
Now, like something out of the best dream in Dean's head, he comes around the corner, legs, torso, and then that face that Dean thinks he could never see again in his life and still know back to front, jawline, dimples, cherry lips, piercing eyes.
Roman's in a chair. He's pale and thinner than usual, his uniform hanging a little loose. His skin is dry and he looks fragile, tired, whole left side of his chest covered in a tight wrapping, face cut and bruises fading.
But as soon as he sees Dean, Dean almost swears it all falls away. The man wheeling him in gives him a tap on his good shoulder, turns back down the corridor and goes away. And for one horrible second, just one, Dean thinks maybe he can't get up. They stare at each other, eyes roaming, as though they're checking what's changed, who's in there, behind the brown and the blue after all this.
And it's almost as if once Roman decides it's his Dean, he finds the strength to get up. Dean doesn't move. He's maybe five metres from Roman, locked into place, breath coming out in ragged little hiccups, because, because, because—
"Hi."
"Hi."
Dean doesn't know for the life of him who says it first. It's just them, and yeah, he thinks, two is definitely his favourite number.
Roman's balancing himself on the arm of the chair, furrows his brow for a minute till he gets his footing. His bag hangs on the back, and as he stands, Dean gets a good look at him. Sleeves rolled up, buttons undone, boots loose.
He's home.
And it hits him, then, in that moment, as Roman takes a small little step towards him.
He's home.
"Jesus Christ," Dean croaks with a burst of hysterical-come-utterly-relieved laughter, "Jesus."
And he closes that gap between them so fucking fast that he doesn't even think he has time to blink. He doesn't hug him, not straight away. He's bruised and sore and Dean knows his shoulder, his arm, must be throbbing in pain.
So he touches him, gingerly but with enough fucking need to drown them both. Just his cheek, slowly, cups his cheek in his palm and strokes his thumb across it, watches as Roman closes his eyes at the touch, breath still, blinks open and looks downwards and smiles like it's too much, too soon, like he can't feel this much all at once.
He nuzzles into Dean's hand, and presses their foreheads together, gives a deep laugh, eyes shut for a long moment. When he opens them, he brings his own hand to meet Dean's, holds it there. Holds his hand as though he's been waiting to do it for weeks, like he just needs something of Dean to cling on to, to never let go of again. Dean supposes his hand is a pretty safe bet.
"Shit," Roman breathes, that baby smile that makes his face light up taking over his face slowly, like he's just realizing he's here, that Dean's here, that it's over. He presses his lips to Dean's hand, again and again, kisses his palm and his fingers and his knuckles, tiny and feather light, like he can't let go, won't let go, and Dean thinks, please, please don't.
Roman's lips find their way from Dean's hand to his cheek, to the corner of his lips, settle on them briefly before his other cheek and back again. Dean's not shaved in a few days; Roman's lips graze against his skin slowly, his hands clasping Dean's and on his waist and in his hair all at once, fingers pressing into the back of his skull, kissing him in short little bursts, desperate and quick and shaky. Dean feels his hands quivering, all of him, and he can almost feel it then, how weak Roman is.
"Hey," he says gently, pulling away. There are tears on his cheeks, on Roman's too, running together, salty on both their lips. Silent tears, though, because there's more now, more than tears, there's this.
"Shh," Dean says, "it's okay. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."
Roman ducks his head back down, kisses Dean again, panting a little, and all Dean can hear is breath, there's no symphony in his head, no soundtrack or band, it's just this, the sounds Roman makes as he kisses him, his lips, his hands carding through Dean's hair and drifting down his back, the little sniffles and hitches as he cries, tears falling onto Dean's cheeks.
"Hey," Dean says again, because Roman's gasping for air, like he doesn't know what he wants to do with it now he has it back, has Dean back. Doesn't know if he wants to talk to touch or kiss him or cry or laugh, until he forgets the most important thing. To breathe.
"I'm running out of breath," he says hoarsely, and it's the first thing Dean's heard him say and he has to close his eyes for a moment, steady himself, because he's here, talking, in his arms.
"Yeah, well. You're not allowed to do that," Dean says, laugh folded in with his tears. He wipes at a pretty little tear falling down Roman's cheek. "Never again, you understand?"
Roman nods, buries his head in Dean's shoulder, kisses his neck and the shell of his ear and nuzzles himself in there, just for a moment falling into Dean's warmth.
"Yeah," he says breathlessly, "I got it."
And then, and only then, does he draw Dean in, almost crush him against his good shoulder, and Dean's head is swimming because it's Roman; the khaki rubbing against his cheek and that smell it carries, Roman, the tickle of his hair and the shape of his hands on Dean's back.
It's him.
"You're home," Dean murmurs into his shoulder, into that silence between them that fills Dean up. They don't need to talk; they've got forever to do that. They just need this; hand, lips, bodies, heat, eyes, tears, smiles, laughs, breath. That's all.
Roman hums a low laugh into his shoulder, pulls back. Dean can feel his hands still shaking slightly as he moves them from Dean's waist to his neck. Gingerly, avoiding his injuries, he takes his tags off from around his neck, wincing a little at the pain of the movement. Dean opens his mouth to ask is he's okay, if he can do anything, but is silenced by the look on Roman's face.
"I told you," Roman says, pressing a kiss to his forehead, each of his cheeks, and finally, his lips, relearning, Dean thinks.
"Told me what?"
Roman smiles.
"I told you I'll always come home."
It's 5:28pm, and Dean's got his boy back.
A/N - And that's it! I was so overwhelmed by the responses I received regarding the first part, and I can't thank you all enough for being so kind. I really hope you guys like this too!
Leave a review, message, wherever, just let me know what you guys think. Thank you for reading!