The Blue Lives

3# Old Memories Await.

Bobby X FemReader

Summary: Constable Whistler's memories are boiling back up, unpleasant memories for sure. Fortunately, you're still here with him, and he wants you to stay here with him.

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"We will he come back from the war?" A fourteen-year-old boy asks. His mother and father are sitting at the table. His mother holding a letter with shaking hands. His father has a comforting arm around her. Droplets of tears fall on the paper, ruining the ink. 
His mother looks up from the letter and at her remaining son. "Come here..." She sniffles, gesturing for her son to come closer. He does so, and once he's close enough. She traps him in a tight embrace. "mum?" He questions her action. His mother weeps into his shoulder, clutching her last remaining child.

~~~~

Whistler's eyes open. It's still dark in the room, it must be early in the morning. He sighs, resting his forearm over his eyes. That was the strangest dream he's had in a while.
"Charlie..." he mumbles quietly. How could he forget his older brother like that, he was drafted to war... he never came back... 
His parents never told him what was in the letter, but later he made the assumption that Charles Whistler perished in the war. 

The thought of his dead sibling making his gut churn with sadness, it's so painful... Whistler sits up with a little effort, a mild sore feeling in his gut reminds him of his situation that he almost forgot about. Looking around, he's still in the very same place he was yesterday. That cosy living room doesn't feel as cosy without the light. His injury doesn't feel as painful as much as the memories do. 
He leans forward, lifting his hand to rub his face. His fingertips make contact with a rubber texture, his mask. What's even to point of wearing it now, it's not helping him as much. He slowly peels the mask from his face in order to rub his still sleepy eyes. 

He could use a glass of water right about now. Whistler hoists himself from the sofa, he feels sore from the horrible position he's been sleeping in. 
In the kitchen, he peeks into the refrigerator for something cold to drink and calm his nerves. A bottle of water, is it water? There's only one way to find that out. He looks for the cupboard where (Y/n) stores the glasses, eventually finding a glass to pour some water in. 
The cold water doesn't help get rid of the lump in his throat. He sighs after finishing his drink, he can't stop thinking about his brother, and the helplessness he felt back then. There was nothing he could have done, nothing at all... and it hurts. He lost his brother to a force that was beyond anyone in Britain at the time. 

"Good morning." 
A gentle voice startles Whistler out of his thoughts, turning to the source, with a quiet gasp he turns and sees you standing by the entrance of the kitchen. Smiling kindly at him as usual. "uh, mornin'" He greets quietly. 
"It took me a moment to recognize you, ahaha!" You chuckle at your own foolishness, pointing at the Constable's face. "How are you feeling?" You ask, tilting your head to one side. Whistler looks down at his own shoes and rubs his chin, feeling a little self-conscious. It's been so long since he has been in the presence of another without his mask on. He can feel a light stubble growing on his jaw. 
"err... y'know... I'm thinking about stuff," he confesses, his expression turning sorrowful. You frown, not really the answer you were hoping for.
You know how it feels to be off Joy and sober, the first few weeks are a Hell. Remembering all the bad things one so desperately wants to forget is painful indeed. During your first weeks off Joy you had spiralled into a depression basically, grieving your missing loved ones and the horrors of war you had witnessed at a young age. After that, you had learned how to cope with the past and strive for a better future for yourself. 

You reach over and put a hand on Whistler's shoulder in order to comfort him. "I know going off Joy is rough. I promise you once you're recovered you can go back on Joy." You squeeze his shoulder, offering him the best comforting smile you can offer. Your hand feels warm, even through the fabric of his shirt.
He's not sure about your suggestion; On one hand, going back on Blackberry and getting rid of the pain sounds delightful, on the other hand going back on Joy and forgetting his brother; who fought tooth and nail for this country sounds a tad disrespectful, doesn't it?