Author's Note: I do not own Boy Meets World. This will be a chapter fic, and I hope you enjoy! Reviews make my day!
Chapter One: Home
You stand there in the rain, your feet squishing down into the marshy grass. The rain falls harder, and you can't tell if your face is wet with tears or rain. The grave turns to mud, and you kneel down in the mud next to the grave. It's a simple grave, but to you it is so much more. To you, it's the realization that all of this has actually happened – the car crash, the hospital, the having to call his parents and let them know, the having to fly back home for the service, everything was so overwhelming. You had looked at everything from afar – an out of body experience. You pretended it was just a dream, or that you were watching a drama unfold, everyone actors and actresses and you the unaffected audience member. But this was real. You had seen the casket lowered into the grave, you had heard the priest's words, and you had seen the dirt fall upon the casket until it was completely covered.
His parents tried to pull you away and invite you back to the house you'd known as your second home for years. You couldn't be moved. Even when Allen tried to pull you away, you wouldn't budge. Amy shook her head sadly, and together they walked away hand-in-hand. Eric even tried to ask you to come with them, but you just couldn't. You couldn't leave his grave – the grave of your first love.
As you're crying and kneeling in the muddy mess, your hair stringing and dripping falling into your blurry eyes, you hear footsteps behind you. You cry harder, just wanting to be left alone and not quite understanding why you can't be. Why does everyone want to talk to you or comfort you? You just want to be alone – alone with your husband. Was that really too much to ask?
"Hey," you hear the familiar husky voice, and your neck prickles as you realize who it is. You haven't seen him in ten years – had it really been ten years – and you were not expecting him to show up today. Why should he? It had been a nasty falling out that had left him with a busted lip, broken nose, and fractured cheekbone. He didn't need to be here. He shouldn't be here. Why was he here?
"Hey," you say because you honestly don't know what else to do at that point. He is there and he isn't leaving anytime soon, no matter how badly you wish he just would. And honestly, the voice is a comfort to you. It always has been. It's like listening to an old song you used to love, and all the memories wash over you. It's almost too much for you. You had never thought you'd have heard that voice ever again.
"I'm sorry I missed the service," he kneels down next to you, and you want to scream at him and tell him to go away – this is your time alone with your husband, but you know you need him there. He's both an annoyance and a comfort, and you don't understand how that can possibly be, "Maybe it was for the best," he continues, "I don't know if his family would want to see me."
"You're here now," you don't know how you were able to find your voice, so raw from crying.
"I'm here now," he nods and runs his hand across the tombstone, "I'm here now."
You kneel together for what feels like hours, in the mud and the rain and the silence. You have so much to ask him, but you don't know how. You want to look at him, but you don't know how to do that either. It almost felt so wrong to be there with him on the grave of your husband after what had happened. It had only been one kiss, you try to tell yourself, but you know it went deeper than that. You're scared to turn and look at him, because you're scared of those feelings resurfacing. It terrifies you. Just him next to you terrifies you. You feel yourself shaking and suddenly there's a leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders.
"Come on," his voice is husk but as gentle as his voice can possibly be, "Let's go, Topanga."
You don't want to leave, and you certainly don't want to leave with him, but where would you go? You don't want to go back to that house with those photographs and those memories; and the thought of going back to that lonely motel room frightens you. He puts his arm around you and you feel yourself being lifted to your feet. He turns you around so you're facing him. Those eyes – those eyes you remember from all those years ago – are clouded with every kind of misery imaginable. He still has the scar on his bottom lip.
"I-I don't want to," you say, your voice shaking.
"You have to. I'm not going to let you stay out here in the rain. Come on. Let's go." His arm slips around your shoulder and you can't help but feel this overwhelming sense that everything is going to be alright, and you're scared of feeling that. You're scared of everything being alright without your husband there.
"It's not much," he says leading you towards the black sedan, "But I've got a warm apartment with a roof and a heater and a stove and there's a couch there with your name on it. You're crashing there as long as you need."
The offer is far more than you could ever expect from him. He owes you nothing, and here he was giving you everything. You slide into the passenger seat, and nod – not really knowing how to say thank you. He turns the key in the ignition and says –
"Come on, Topanga. Let's go home."