compersion & limerence

He got out of the car and leaned his cane up against a gravestone, more lime scale then epitaph; he couldn't even read the name or the dates. 4 NEW MESSAGES said the screen. John frowned.

Shep, on the level? I know you have to get back to your people. You know I know how that goes. But I have to tell you something, and I should have told you to your face.

He clicked NEXT.

You're pretty hard to let go of. You should know that.

Sheppard swallowed, hard, against the lump in his throat.

So take care of yourself, and swing by next time you’re in DC, if the brass give you enough leeway. The offer stays open.

One more thing: I’m sorry about that night. What I said. It wasn’t true. I was trying not to say something else, but that doesn’t make it okay.

There were long rows of family plots, squares fenced in with low limestone railings, and filled with bright burnt-yellow flowers, tiny daisy-like masses that reflected golden light back up onto his hands and face, the way autumn leaves did back east. And he had something of the same feeling: a biting nostalgia, summer coming to an end and like he was walking away from something he would much rather keep.

His Blackberry pinged again.

But if you change your mind, if that’s even possible. I can promise you I will fuck up on a regular basis, and, on occasion, I’ll admit it. And I can promise you that I’d take care of you, if you let me. For as long as you’d let me. Out.