Work Text:
It’s been ten years.
Ten years ago, Waylon Park sent out a desperate email.
Ten years ago, Miles Upshur broke into an asylum, fueled by a selfless drive and a need for justice.
Nowadays, Miles doesn’t think his life is anywhere near as exciting. That’s probably for the best. Ten years is a lot of time to recover from physical trauma, but there’s only so much that time can heal, right? He has an ache in his shoulders that will truly never go away and the person he lives with will always have a just-noticeable limp, but nothing’s as bad as it could be. Nothing is ever as bad as it can be, that’s for damn sure.
So Miles wakes up early while Waylon sleeps for another two or three hours, and when he looks at him asleep he isn’t shaking. He doesn’t cry out or wake up fighting an invisible assailant, and these days he doesn’t do more than furrow his eyebrows or bite his cheek. And on the days it’s bad, there’s not much of an indicator other than Waylon making two shots of espresso for his coffee rather than one. And, really, there’s not much to be done other than give a tired sigh as Miles knows he’s remembering things and hugs him from behind and rests his chin on his head.
It’s 6am and Miles finishes his usual morning routine. When he checks his phone, there’s an email.
Dear Mr. Upshur,
My name is Kennedy Seeger and I am a reporter for the Daily Ribbon. I was sixteen when the exposé surrounding Murkoff broke the news, and was captivated by both your willingness to risk your life in the name of journalism and your resilience in dealing with the consequences. It is no exaggeration to say that your work served as motivation and inspiration to go into investigative journalism myself.
I am aware that in the past you have denied all requests for interviews except for one. I also do not wish to intrude on your life outside of the public eye. Still, asking at all has a higher chance of success than not asking at all. Would you be open to an interview reflecting on the events ten years later?
Best Wishes,
Kennedy Seeger
Daily Ribbon Journalist
789-555-1340 | She/Her
Miles pauses and considers the email. Setting down his cup of coffee, he doesn’t ponder on his response very much.
Ms. Seeger,
I’m glad to hear about any impact my career has had on your life. Really, it’s not often that I get sent things like this. Especially not these days. Murkoff is mostly a memory that gets tossed around in the occasional political debate or YouTube conspiracy video.
To be blunt: I have no interest in interviews or anything else related to what happened ten years ago. The most I can say is that I’m just some guy living off of lawsuit money, the occasional blog post, and other stints in writing. I also don’t enjoy publicly digging up very fucked up memories.
I’ll give you props for going out of your way to find my unlisted contact info. Seriously— I still have an email labeling me an “annoying and prodding prick too willing to duck under ‘no entry’ signs” saved because I’m proud of it. That’s the point, right? My only reflection is that I wish I’d done more to get called worse names by worse people. And yes, you can quote me on that and anything else in this email.
Have a good one,
Miles Upshur
Okay, maybe he ponders a little. Miles stares at the stubs where his fingers used to be. For the first time in a while, he feels the ache of a phantom pain. If he closes his eyes, he knows he can remember more than what it felt like. And if Miles opens his laptop, he knows his mouse will drift to the file containing what he used to think would never leave the back of his eyelids.
Trager gets to rot in hell. Miles gets to sip a coffee while his husband snores in the room over. Eat shit.
Later, after Miles showers and takes an assortment of medication, he looks into the mirror and stares at various scars. It’s insane how much more of the damage came from a single day compared to the ensuing months on the run.
Waylon wakes up and doesn’t move for a while. When he finally sits up, he looks much more tired than usual, despite the more than adequate amount of sleep. His eyes look hazy and Miles doesn’t have to guess why, because he doesn’t have to guess a lot of things about Waylon when it comes to things like this.
Miles kneels down next to him and it takes a second for Waylon’s vision to focus. When he looks at him, though, he really looks at him, and a small smile cracks the corner of his mouth.
“Everything okay?” Miles asks.
Waylon shrugs. “Nothing much. Not very memorable dreams, except towards the end.”
With that, his smile fizzles out. Miles sits next to him on the bed and Waylon sighs, leaning against him.
“I had to stop by work in person yesterday. It was just a quick stop." He pauses, thinking on his words. "Had to talk to one of the staff about a serious issue in their website’s coding. Wasn’t getting fast enough answers to my emails.”
He closes his eyes and wraps his hand around Miles’.
“Some grandparent came to pick up a kid early.” Waylon drums his fingers against the back of Miles’ hand. “He recognized me. He said he used to work for Murkoff.”
“Shit,” Miles says, because those things can always go one way or another. Nothing like getting called a commie government plant by strangers with all sorts of conspiracy theories.
“Yeah. I was surprised when he actually thanked me. Said he’d gotten fucked over by them himself. We didn’t talk much, but…” He pauses. “I don’t know, I keep remembering things.”
Waylon opens his eyes and flops on his back, pulling Miles with him.
“He was in my dream last night,” he says. Miles doesn’t need to ask who. “And you know what happened? A gun appeared and I shot him. And he was gone. That was it.”
And Waylon didn’t wake up sweating or clutching the sheets or biting the inside of his cheek. He just woke up and stared at the ceiling and thought about it, his heart beating just a bit faster than usual.
“Y’know,” Miles starts, “I got an email from some kid looking for a ‘decade later’ interview. Got my stubs hurting like a bitch.”
“Huh. Are you going to do it?”
“Fuck no,” he says softly, putting his head on his partner's chest. He can hear Waylon's heartbeat. Thump thump thump. Even and steady.
Waylon huffs a quiet laugh. “I figured.”
It’s been ten years and they don’t leave the house that day. Not out of fear, but just because they don’t feel like it. The day continues on. They talk about what’s on the local news, some show they’ve been watching, what Waylon’s boys are up to and the colleges they’re looking at, and whatever else comes to mind. Lisa calls to say hi and check up like every year.
Later, when the sun sets and some movie on the television is going completely ignored, Waylon doesn’t flinch and doesn’t shake when Miles puts his hands on his waist. Miles doesn’t move away when Waylon’s hands touch his shoulders that have a near constant ache. There’s nothing wrong when Waylon pulls him in close, arms around his neck.
Waylon’s hand drifts to Miles’ waistband and it’s not because of any trauma-driven need to please, but rather because they’ve been partners for ten years and at this point it comes as naturally as making a pot of coffee. A lot of things come naturally, like the way he lays down on the bed and the way Miles looks at him with love before anything else.
And after, they fall asleep. Neither of them dream.
The next day rolls in. The riskiest thing Miles has to do that day is edit an article for a sensitive client. The worst thing that happens to Waylon that day is getting stuck between adopting either a cat or a dog from a local shelter.
They go with both.