Fics like they'll hang us in the louvre

It's just — every time he walks in, a skip to his step like he's still surprised he's allowed to be here — all she can see is his new key-chain jiggling against his keys, a gift he'd shown to anyone willing to look; Tanner made it himself, Abby let him give it to me for my sobriety anniversary. No, he doesn't know that's why, he's five. Isn't it great? And it is, she'd thought — said — absently. He fought so hard to keep his relationship to his children, to his now ex-wife, even as he went through the motions of rehab and recovery and constant HR meetings and random piss tests everyone conspicuously pretended weren't happening. He'd fought so hard, of course it's great. Or it would be, Mel thinks, ducking away with lukewarm coffee in hand, if she didn't know the image of that key-chain like the palm of her hand. Or, rather, like the soulmark on the back of her knee. [or: soulmateism made literal]

Fics like they'll hang us in the louvre

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