ashxllbey

[ashxllbey]

Gravity Part Three

Part Two

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to part three another accidental three-parter (which may be getting an explicit bonus chaptre in the near future). Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 3.2K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical (and likely inadequate) medical chat; fluff; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: It had been a while since you’d found his lingering gazes intimidating, and you were almost ashamed to say that you’d begun to seek them out when the two of you were alone—but when you were around other people, there was still a fear there for you. Fear that someone (namely Ellis) might pick up on your behavior the way they had before. Call it your interest, your infatuation with Abbot—whatever it was, you had only sunk deeper over the last few weeks of slow day-off walks, and hours spent together on your couch, working your way through Frank Herbert’s first behemoth. 

“I can’t believe you read ahead.” 

“I can’t believe you’re still hung up on that.” 

“I’m not hung up. Not pleased, but I’m not hung up.” 

“If you weren’t hung up, you wouldn’t still be talking about it,” You teased in a sing-song tone, pulling Jack’s copy of Dune out of your backpack and holding it out. “You got something for me?” 

“I’m still finishing up yours.”

“I told you this would happen.” 

“You read ahead, I’m behind. The yin to my yang.”

“Uh-huh,” You chuckled, still poking through your locker. You weren’t looking for anything in particular, but Abbot’s teasing still felt a little too close at work. It was different outside of the Pitt—you could almost handle it at your apartment, at the bookstore, at Marshall’s. Your little reading hangouts (you refused to call them dates) and occasional walks on your off-days had nearly acclimated you to Abbot’s dry humor. 

It had been a while since you’d found his lingering gazes intimidating, and you were almost ashamed to say that you’d begun to seek them out when the two of you were alone—but when you were around other people, there was still a fear there for you. Fear that someone (namely Ellis) might pick up on your behavior the way they had before. Call it your interest, your infatuation with Abbot—whatever it was, you had only sunk deeper over the last few weeks of slow day-off walks, and hours spent together on your couch, working your way through Frank Herbert’s first behemoth. 

“If anything, it’s your fault, you know,” You added, “The fact that I read ahead, I mean.” 

“Oh, is it?” 

“Mhm.”

“How do you figure?” 

“You’re the one who got me into the series—how many are there, anyway?” 

“Herbert wrote six, but his son picked up the mantle after him.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” 

“The hell are you two chatty Cathies doing?” 

Ellis’ voice startled you, and you whirled around so fast that your elbow whacked into the locker. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to hold eye contact with her, even as she and Abbot shared a glance. 

“You okay?” Abbot asked. 

“Mhm,” You gritted out. “Funny bone.” 

“Doesn’t look like you found it funny.” 

“Sounded hilarious, though,” Ellis grinned. 

“Always the charmer, Parker,” You grumbled, straightening your arm out and rubbing over the throbbing joint. 

"You're reading Dune?" Ellis asked, nodding to the book in Jack's hands. Your heart stuttered at the question, heat prickling at the back of your neck as a cold sweat popped up across your forehead. You hurriedly turned back to the locker, fishing into your backpack as your mind began to race. Shit shit shit.

"No—Well," Jack corrected, "We've been reading it, but someone finished without me." 

"Crying out loud," You muttered. "You've read it before, so you’ve technically finished it without me a bunch of times."

“That’s different.”

"...We." It was half a question, half a realization as Ellis repeated it, and it hung heavy in the air. You yanked your water bottle out of your locker, shoving the door shut once, then again when the corner of your bag stuck out just a little, keeping it from closing fully. 

"Were you gonna let anyone else in on your little book club?" Ellis pressed, and despite the teasing mirth in her voice, your stomach twisted with nerves. 

"If you were interested in the books we've been reading, sure," You excused, keeping your gaze on the lid of your water bottle. "I'm gonna go fill up—'scuse me." You cut between the two of them, keeping your focus firmly forward as you headed for the staff room. Your palms were sweating where you clasped the water bottle, your heart pounding in your throat. 

So you'd been reading with Jack—so what? Why were you so mortified? 

Your little book club—god, it made you feel like a tween whose mom had just embarrassed them in front of their crush. 

You opened the water bottle focusing on the sink, the soap, your hands as you washed it. 

Maybe you shouldn't have left so fast. Was Jack going to tell Ellis that he'd been going over to yours for weeks now, reading on your nights off? That the two of you had spent so much time together off-shift that you almost began to expect to see him outside of the ED at least once a week? Well, Jack could never know that, probably didn't feel the same about it, but—What the hell did he feel about it, if he felt anything? 

"...Kid." 

You startled, looking up to find Dana watching you amusedly just a couple of feet away. You glanced between her, the empty coffee pot she was holding, and the running water. 

"Shit, sorry," You scooched out of the way, pulling your water bottle out of the sink and grabbing a few paper towels to dry it. 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah! Yeah, no, yeah, I'm good. Fine. Just," You raised a hand, waving toward your head, "Zoned."

"Little early in the shift for you to be this off your game." Dana stepped in front of the sink, running the coffee pop under it and swishing out the dregs before filling it with water. "You need some of this?" 

"Maybe a bit later. I should hydrate first."

Dana hummed sympathetically. "What's buggin' ya?" 

"No, nothing." 

You knew by her sidelong glance that she didn't buy your answer for a minute.

"If you say so." 

"I'm good, honestly," You swore. "What's got you in here this late, anyway?" 

"Lena called out."

"Were you on this morning?" 

"Nope."

"That's good, at least." 

"Little miracles."

You smiled, leaning against the counter and watching her make coffee. "Our days hinge on 'em, you know."

"What?" 

"Little miracles."

Dana smiled, nodding as she reached out, pinching your cheek. "They sure do."

You were just a couple of steps away from the door before she called out to you again. You turned, twisting the cap more tightly on your water bottle as you waited. She gave you a once-over, a small wrinkle in her brow. 

"You sure you're okay?" 

You hesitated. Physically, sure, for the most part—though you had a brand new lump in your throat that you couldn't seem to swallow past, and the closer you got to the door, the more your stomach twisted with nerves. 

But nothing about what had happened by the lockers left you unable to focus on the work, the job, the people that needed you. So you gave a smile, a firm nod, swore, "I'm fine," And forced yourself out to central. 

-- 

“BP’s 70 over 40!” 

“Son of a bitch,” You hissed, rounding the bed as you hurriedly pulled gloves on. You opened your mouth to run through an assessment, what you knew, what you needed to check, but—

“The hell happened?” Shen asked, following you in. 

“Ah—Patient presented shortness of breath, minor chest pain, I thought bronchitis—”

“Physical tenderness?” 

“None that he indicated during the examination. He’s been dealing with seasonal allergies, thought he had a cold or something, said he only came in because his wife made him, but—” 

“Any falls?” 

“Not that he told me.” 

“The bruising would indicate otherwise,” Shen nodded to the man’s chest. 

“He told me he was rough housing with his kid.” 

“X-ray?” 

“He didn’t want one, I couldn’t talk him into it.” 

“Did you stress the importance?” 

“What are we looking at?” 

Your ear just barely caught on Abbot’s voice as you pushed back at Shen:

“Of course I stressed the importance, but he wouldn’t listen to me.” 

“Well you obviously missed something here.” 

“Yeah, no shit, Shenlock.” 

“Hey!” Abbot snapped, and you glanced doggedly toward him, “Cut the bickering. Let’s get set up for an x-ray,” He insisted, rounding the bed and nudging you back. “You, go get some air.” 

"But—" 

"Go." 

Flat, firm—faceless. Abbot issued the order without meeting your eye, still bent steadily over the patient. Your mouth worked wordless for a few seconds, eyes darting to Shen, Ellis, Perlah—and then you were turning away, yanking the PPE roughly from your body and cramming it in the bin as you shoved through the doors. 

You didn't meet anyone's eyes as you rounded outside. You hadn't realized how short your breath was until you were outside, how tight and tense you were holding your body until you were hit with the cool night air, and the waft of cigarette smoke. You pulled in a breath through your nose, struggled to swallow, puffed out through your lips.

"You okay over there?" 

Dana's voice didn't catch you as off-guard as it had just a couple of hours ago, but it wasn't as welcome in that moment as it had been the first time. You tucked your arms across your chest, slouching against the wall near the entrance as you nodded. 

"Want a cigarette?" She prodded.

"I don't smoke."

"Expression like that, maybe you should start." 

And it made you laugh—but that laugh kickstarted a hiccuping, helpless sob that spilled out of your mouth before you could even register it had welled up in the first place. You slapped your hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking as your body was wracked by another, though you managed to keep it quiet this time. 

"Whoa, hey—" Dana soothed, flicking her cigarette away as she hurried to close the gap between the two of you. "I was kidding. I'll keep the lung cancer to myself."

It made you laugh again, though you didn't want it to. She rested her hands on your shoulders, watching you closely as you scrubbed your hand over your face, clearing the few tears that were fighting to escape your eyes. 

"What's going on with you, huh?" She pressed. "Somethin's been off all shift." 

You shook your head, pulling a deep breath in through your nose. "I feel so fucking dumb." 

"Dumb? Why?" 

You shook your head again, forcing yourself to pull in another deep breath, hold it, push it out between your lips. 

"I fucked up."

"The patient gonna be alright?" You shrugged, nodded, and Dana gave your shoulders a squeeze. "That's all that matters. So you fucked up, who hasn't? I know you. If you're this torn up, you won't make that mistake twice. Don't be so hard on yourself." 

You nodded a little, lowering your gaze to the ground. 

"Yeah," You reluctantly agreed. Dana smiled, patting your cheek. 

"Don't stay out here too long, okay? Better to jump back in with both feet."

You gave another nod, forced a small smile, held it until Dana was inside and out of sight. You tipped your head back against the cool brick and peering up at the ceiling of the ambulance bay. No, you sure as hell wouldn't be making that mistake twice—not with another patient, and not with Abbot. 

You tipped your head to the side as you heard footsteps, ready to straighten up, to be herded back inside by Dana—but the sight of Shen made regret well up in your stomach. You looked down at his hand as he held out a sugar-free can of Monster, and smiled in spite of yourself as you took it. You cracked it open, lightly cheers'd it against the can in his other hand before you both took sips. 

"...What've we got in there?"

"Pneumothorax."

"Son of a bitch...I was out of line. Should've listened. Sorry."

"S'okay," He shook his head. "I shouldn't have dismissed your work-up so quickly." 

"Even though it was wrong?" 

"It wasn't wrong, just not complete. ‘Sides, I talked to Perlah—She confirmed the guy never mentioned a fall, tenderness, didn’t so much as flinch when you examined the area. Shortness of breath, minor chest pain, coupled with his seasonal allergies and the congestion—Bronchitis was a valid diagnosis. You didn’t have all the pieces." 

You smiled, raising your hand and lightly punching him in the arm. "Ya big softie." 

"Okay, watch it with that. I'm a very authoritative attending."

"Uh-huh." 

"You good?" 

"Fine." You glanced doggedly toward the door. "How is it in there?" 

"He's stable."

"Good." You took another slug of the Monster, swallowed, sighed, and finally straightened. "I should get back inside."

"Yeah...Hey."

"Hm?" 

"You good?" 

You frowned, shaking your head. "Course." 

"Dana gave me a look on the way out here.”

“Oh, that—Pff,” You waved him off. “No. That was nothing.” 

“Didn’t seem like nothing.” 

“Nothing,” You insisted firmly. You raised your Monster to him in a mock salute before forcing yourself back inside. 

--  

He hadn’t texted or called that he’d be coming over. You’d hardly spoken to him for the rest of your shift, had fallen back into your old routine—dodging his glance at every turn, avoiding his eye across central, glancing toward him but not at him when answering. 

The closest you’d gotten to meeting his eye when he’d arrived was spotting him through the peephole. You’d known that you didn’t have to answer the door. It was your night off—maybe you had plans. He didn’t know you were in there. 

But you drew in a deep breath, held it, pushed it back out, and unlocked the door. You stepped back as you opened it, gaze set on his chest, then dropping to your book as he held it out. You hesitated before reaching out, taking hold of the copy. You turned away, the door open, leaving it up to Jack whether he came in or not. 

You heard the door click shut, heart leaping as it was followed by the soft thud of Jack’s shoes as he followed you into the kitchen. You unthinkingly got a mug down from the cabinet, busying your hands and focus as he stopped entirely too close to you at the counter. You didn’t ask what he thought of the book—you didn’t even ask if he wanted coffee. You just fixed it the way he liked it and set it down in front of him. 

You knew you should look. You could feel him watching, waiting for you to turn. 

“It was good.” 

Your browns tipped up at his assertion, and you reached out, thumbing the book. He went on: 

“I mean, opening with the murder caught me off-guard in the first place, but following them further and further down the rabbit hole was dizzying. I was almost hoping they wouldn’t do it, you know, I’d started to like the guy, but I knew what was coming.” His fingers rested on the side of the mug, tapping against the curve and smoothing over the handle. He had a sip, set the mug down, took a step closer. Then—

“Why didn’t you tell Ellis I was coming over?” 

Your stomach churned, your clammy hands bracing on the counter as you shrugged. 

“She doesn’t care that you come over. And I didn’t wanna make it seem like this is anything more than it was—is. You know.” 

Jack let out a soft, “Hm,” taking another step closer, his chest lightly brushing your shoulder. 

“Anything more than it is,” He repeated, and before you could nod again, he plied: “What is it?” 

Your mouth opened before you abruptly closed it again, shaking your head. 

“I don’t—” 

“You don’t what.” 

“I’m not—” 

“You’re not what—” 

“Oh my god, could you just stop talking for five seconds so I can think?” You snapped, raising your hand to scrubbed your hand across your forehead. Jack went blessedly quiet for a second, two, then—

“Last night—”

“Holy shit, you just can’t help yourself.”

“I wanted to ask—”

“Shen and I are fine.”

“Okay.”

You pulled in a deep breath again, pushed it out again. “Not that you were really worried about that.”

“Sure I was.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. It’s important that residents and attendings are all on the same page, gelling, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“...We’ve been gelling.”

“We all gel. I gel with Ellis, Ellis gels with Shen, Shen gels with me, Ellis gels with you—”

“Please stop saying ‘gel.’” 

“You started it.” 

“That one’s on me.” 

“And last night was on me.” 

“...You thought it was the right course of action. You won’t make that mistake twice.”

You scoffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Dana said the same damn thing.” 

“She’s right.” 

“Mm.” 

“...Why didn’t you tell Ellis I was coming over.”

“I told you why.” 

“Look at me and tell me again.” 

“I can tell you just fine like this.” 

“Jesus,” Abbot pushed off of the counter beside you, and you squeezed your eyes shut, slamming your hand on the counter before you forced yourself to turn around. 

“Hang on—Please.” 

Jack stopped just in the doorway, turning to face you. Your eyes dropped to his throat, flickered to his face, lowered again as your heart ticked up in your chest. 

“...I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want her to make assumptions.” 

“About?” 

“Us.” 

“What would she assume?” 

“Don’t make me say it,” You pleaded, scrubbing your hand across your brow. Abbot took a step closer, dipping his head to try and catch your eye. 

“Not like saying it would change anything,” He insisted, “We’re both thinking it.” 

“Are we?”

“Sure.”

“But are we both wanting it?” It fell out of your mouth before you could stop it, your fingers flexing and curling around the edge of the counter as you eyed the floor, waiting for his answer with baited breath. Another pause, another step closer. His shoes entered your field of vision. You saw his hand lift, hesitate, stall—before he cupped your chin, fingers curling gently around your jaw. Your eyelids fluttered closed, lower lip pulling between your teeth as you held still, praying that your traitorously pounding heart didn’t sound as loud as it felt. 

His breath swept lightly over your skin before you felt the warm pressure of his lips against your eye lid. Your lips parted in surprise, pulling in a stunned breath as he kissed one, and then the other. You felt his nose nudging against yours, his lips ghosting across yours—and leaned up to chase the heat of him as he began to pull away. Your mouth pressed softly, clumsily against his for just a moment before you drew back, eyes opening as though you’d just been shocked. 

You expected an equally surprised look from Jack, but you found him watching you with a warm smile, and a twinkle in his eye that you’d never seen before. Your eyes lowered to his lips as he leaned in again, catching your lips in a warm, steady kiss. You tipped your chin up, mouth working tenderly against his as he crowded you back against the counter.

You curled your arms around his shoulders, fingers combing through the hair at the nape of his neck as his tongue teased along your bottom lip. You pouted what Jack leaned away just enough to break your kiss. 

“Is this what you meant by ‘gelling’?” You finally teased, smile pulling wide to mirror Jack’s. 

“Definitely not,” He chuckled. “Unless you’ve been doing this with Ellis and Shen and I don’t know about it.” 

“Never pegged you as the jealous type, Dr. Abbot.” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

“Oh?” 

“Mm.” Jack dipped his head, catching your lips in another kiss. “By the way…”

“Mm?” 

“Don’t think,” He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “That this gets you out of trouble,” Along the curve of your jaw, “For finishing Dune without me.” 

You laughed, shaking your head. “My curiosity got the better of me…I’m kinda glad I read on without you, though.”

Jack leaned back, brow furrowed, and you gave another small shake of your head. 

“Leto and Jessica,” You clarified. Then, with a self-conscious chuckle: “I cried.” 

Jack’s face softened, his knuckles gently skating over your cheek. 

“I wish I had been here for that.”

“No, no. I would’ve been mortified.” You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before you nodded down the hall. “Wanna come help me pick out the next book I give you?”  

“Sure.”

You leaned up, pecking his lips again before sliding out from between him and the counter, taking his hand in yours.  “C’mon…You bring me another book, by the way?” 

“Course I did. You’ve gotta read Dune Messiah sometime.” 

Tag list:

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[ashxllbey]

"Who's next ?" (Sam and Dean Winchester) - (2025)

[ashxllbey]

Gravity Part Two

Part One | Part Three

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to another accidental three-parter. Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 5K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; book sharing; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: Now and again, you felt his eyes flit toward you, too, but they didn't seem to linger for nearly as long. It was new, and fun—you’d spent so much time avoiding his gaze, but now it felt like you were playing tag.   

Little glances. That was all you allowed yourself at work for a while, just little glances. You limited it to certain areas—near the charge board, the staff room, by the lockers. Little glances, and little smiles.

He began to stick a little closer to you in the ER. And it was different than it had been when you were new to the Pitt. You were more steady, more sure of yourself, more used to the warmth and presence of him. 

But where his attention had nearly sent you careening into the sandwich cart just a few weeks ago, you worked steadily with Jack keeping close.

You even managed to keep that girlish fluttering at bay until the two of you were shoulder to shoulder, taking off your PPE. 

“Excellent work.” 

“Very kind of you, Dr. Abbot.” 

“Honesty and kindness are rarely the same thing. I said it was excellent work because you did excellent work.” 

“Well, thank you.”

“Sure. You ever find those Triscuits?” 

“You know what, I did. Right after Ellis pointed them out to me.” 

-- 

Was the weather the nicest? No. It was gray, drizzly, and windier than usual. 

But that didn’t stop you from taking a leisurely walk. It was your first day off after eight straight shifts (the last had been an unplanned double), and you needed to clear your head. You started with a late lunch at a cafe near your apartment before moseying over to your favorite bookstore. 

You had already been there far longer than you’d planned, and were going to move on—but something stopped you in your tracks. You weren’t typically the type to stare, but for once, you leaned against one of the bookshelves and just let yourself look.

It was sort of strange to see Abbot out and about, and at your favorite bookstore no less—but it was also kind of…Hot.

You had never seen him so relaxed before: not in the staff room, not filling out a patient’s chart, not even when he was just taking his things out of his locker. It was as little odd to see him out of scrubs, too—but you weren’t taking issue with the sight of him in jeans and a henley that fitted very, very nicely over his thick biceps. 

You could just pass by, you knew that. He hadn’t seen you, probably had no idea you were there. He would’ve made his presence known by now if he had, or you would’ve felt him looking at you. 

You could always feel it when Abbot looked at you. It was what had sent you skittering the day before Ellis had asked if something was going on between the two of you. You’d been so focused on your conversation with Shen and then you’d just…Felt someone looking. And you’d known that it was Jack. 

It had been a combination of factors. Some of it was vantage point, but so much of it had been the intensity. You’d made such a careful study of trying to avoid his attention for so long. When you felt it that day, you made the rare mistake of looking at him, and it kicked you into a panic, sending you down the hall muttering something about patient results. 

It wasn’t as bad these days. You still felt when Jack was looking at you, but the fear that used to accompany it had ebbed. You’d gotten better with him in the ER, you could just…Say hello, see if it was any better outside. 

You steeled yourself, crossing the aisle and speaking up: “Do my eyes deceive me, or is Dr. Abbot not working a night shift?” 

He glanced up from the book in his hand, doing a double take as he reshelved a book. “I take days off now and again.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“What brings you in here?” 

“Just browsing,” You shrugged. 

“Surprised you’re not holding anything. Ellis said 90% of the books in the living room are yours, even more back in your room.” 

You pressed your lips together, fighting off a smile. 

“They are—And yeah, usually I’d make a meal of being in here, but I’m on a book buying ban.” 

“Really?” Jack leaned against the shelf, arms folding across his chest—and it took everything in you not to let your eyes drift over the bulge of his biceps. “How’s that going?” 

“Surprisingly well.” 

“How long’s the ban?” 

“A year.” 

Jack’s eyes widened, brows lifting. “A year?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“That seems a little extreme.” 

“Honestly, it’s not. I could probably build an entire bookshelf with my to be read pile.” 

“What are you doing in the meantime?” 

“Trying to work my way through the books I already own—And taking pictures of book covers that I’m interested in when I’m browsing so I don’t forget.” 

“So being in here isn’t torture for you?” 

“No, not really. It’s like window shopping.” 

“Anything in here catch your eye today?” 

Just you. 

“Oh, sure,” You fumbled looking around at the shelves, trying to push past your thoughts. “A couple. What about you?” 

“Buddy’a mine recommended this to me,” He reached into the shelf, drawing out a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. 

“Oh yeah?” You reached out, taking it from it when he offered. 

“You read it?” 

“Nope,” You shook your head, turning it over and skimming the jacket copy. “It’s on my list, though.” 

“Mm…Tell you what,” Jack plucked it from your hands again. “I’ll lend it to you when I’m done with it.”

“Yeah?” You smiled. “That’d be cool, thanks.” 

“Unless…”

“What?” 

“You don’t dogear pages, do you?” 

You hesitated, pulling your lower lip guiltily between your teeth, and Jack let out a pained little hiss before tutting his tongue. 

“I don’t do it when it’s someone else’s book,” You insisted. Jack just hmph’d softly, straightening up and turning away. You couldn’t help but follow, falling in a half-step behind him. “What’s so wrong with dogearing pages, anyway? Your own copies, I mean. It’s not like I’d do it to a library book or something.” 

“Have you ever heard of a bookmark?” 

“Have you ever heard of personal freedoms?” 

Jack chuckled, setting the book on the counter and fishing into his pocket for his wallet. 

“Rings a bell, sure.” 

-- 

“You out on one of your walks?” Jack asked, stepping back and holding the door open for you. 

“Oh, thanks—Yeah, I am. Needed to get some air.” 

“This your last stop?” 

“No, no,” You shook your head. “I usually take a leisurely stroll through Marshall’s. Poke things, think about how cute the mugs would look in the apartment, leave.” 

“Could always get one.” 

“In theory.” 

Jack’s brows tipped up with intrigue, and your lips twisted into a bashful smile. 

“I might also be on a mug buying ban,” You admitted. 

“Jeez.”

“I know.” 

“You’re a menace.” 

“Shut up,” You chuckled. “I’m not that bad. Mostly doing it to prove to Ellis that I can control myself when it comes to cute drinkware.” 

“What if you break one of the mugs you have now?”

“Well, that would be an exception. Not planning on breaking any mugs, though.”

“Does anyone ever plan on it?” 

You shook your head, averting your eyes and looking around. You should let him get on his way—

“...Wow," He huffed.

“What?” 

“You’re still doing it.”

“Doing what?” 

“We’re the furthest we could be from work and you still can’t look at me.” 

“I’ve been looking at you plenty,” You insisted, “And this is hardly the furthest we could get away from work.” 

“Oh no?” 

“Nope.” You took a couple of steps back, nodding over your shoulder. “I gotta go, I have a date with the mug aisle.” 

“That a real hot spot?” 

“At six pm on a Tuesday? Sure, it’s wild.” 

“...Mind some company?” 

The request seemed to surprise both of you—almost as much as your answer: 

“Long as you don’t make any more cracks about me dogearing pages.” 

“No promises.” Two strides, and then Jack fell into step with you. Your stomach flipped as his arm brushed yours, and you hastily shoved your hands in your pockets, putting a little distance between the two of you. 

“How far’s the walk?” He asks. 

“Not far—Ten minutes, maybe.” 

“Been out long?”

“A couple hours. I stopped for lunch first.” 

“Any other usual stops?”

“No,” You shake your head. “Not usual. Sometimes I switch up the order I go in, or stop in somewhere that I’ve walked by a hundred times but never gone into…What about you? Any other plans for the day?” 

“A few errands—All things I’m happy to be distracted from.”

It caught you off-guard, and you couldn’t help your brow wrinkling. Was that what you were? A distraction? 

“You said a friend of yours recommended the book?” You pushed on, determined not to let yourself or the conversation get bogged down by your contemplation. 

“Yeah. And I made the mistake of mentioning it to my therapist, who seconded it.”

“Can’t get out of it now.”

“Exactly.”

--  

You were just about to put the last of your things away when his arm entered your periphery, shoving the book into your locker beside your bag. You cast a glance back toward Jack as he drifted just a few feet away, unlocking his locker with fastidious focus. You took up the book, flipping through it—not a single dogeared page. 

“How soon do you want it back?” You asked.

“Whenever you’ve finished. There isn’t a waitlist.”

“What’d you think of it?”

“I don’t want to spoil anything.”

“Mm.” You hesitated before you fished into your bag, drawing out the book that you'd finished most recently. “Here.” 

You held it out, heard the pause in Abbot’s rustling before he took a step closer. You felt the book lift out of your hand before you forced yourself to fish through your things for another few moments—though you weren’t looking for anything in particular. 

“...Why this one?”

“It’s on the list.”

“How long have you had it?”

“An embarrassingly long time,” You admitted. 

“More than two years?” 

“Pleading the fifth.”

“Yikes.”

“I know.” You hesitated, glancing over, “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Jack insisted. “Besides, if you fuck with some of my pages, I can fuck with some of yours.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I will iron your pages, Abbot. They’ll be straighter than they were when you bought the book.” 

-- 

It became a routine. You didn’t mean for it to, but it did. You’d always considered yourself a fast reader, and it seemed like Jack could get through a book at a similar clip. It usually kicked off at the top of your shifts—either you or Abbot would linger by the other’s locker, pass over the book that you’d just finished and wanted to return, the one you thought he other should read next. You felt like you’d never gone through more of your TBR pile in your life, or in such an orderly fashion. You found yourself selecting your next read based on what Jack may think, or how interested he may be in it. 

Waiting by your locker shifted to lingering as you swapped books, commenting on thoughts, feelings, surprises, plot twists. You didn’t always meet his eye, secure in your ability to hold the book, to focus on it instead of him before you handed over your next reads. He always seemed to surprise you. Even when you were certain that you knew how he’d feel about his work, his opinions managed to catch you off-guard. 

-- 

“Here.”

You didn’t dare glance back as he held your book out, biting your lip as you passed his copy of The Old Man and the Sea back to him.

“Thoughts?” He pried. 

“I can’t tell you until you tell me what you thought.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s one of my favorites.” You glanced toward him doggedly. “No pressure, though.”

His silence made you want to squirm out of your skin, and the soft, “I liked it,” Made your shoulders drop away from your shoulders.

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” 

“...Hm.” You had no right to feel so relieved, but there the feeling was, nonetheless. 

“Is it a newer favorite of yours?” 

“Hm? Oh—No. I just had an itch to reread it recently.”

“Doesn’t that go against the spirit of the book ban?” 

“Not technically.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t like it?”

“I wasn’t sure what you’d think. ‘Course, you could just be saying that you liked it to placate me.”

“...You think I’d do that?” 

You shrugged, face heating as you felt his increased scrutiny. You fished into the locker for the next book you were planning on giving him.

“Here, this one is uh—” You twisted with it in your hands, “Well it’s on the newer end of my TBR list, and I honestly don’t know how I feel about it. I nearly DNF’d twice.” You held it out to Jack, frowning when he didn’t reach for it. Your eyes swept up to his face, and you stilled at the sight of him—the slight furrow of his brow, and almost disappointed press of his lips. 

“...What is it?” You hedged. 

“I liked the book.” 

“I know, I—I believe you!” 

He considered you for another moment before he took hold of the book with a grunt. You fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot as you tried to get a better handle on the conversation. 

“Do you have one to, uh—”

“Yeah—Yeah, it’s in my bag.” Jack drifted a few steps away, and you watched him open his locker. You hesitated before you took a couple of steps closer, shoving your hands into your pockets. 

“My thoughts on your pick, by the way: lots of sea, not enough old man,” You teased, and relaxed a touch as Jack’s lips quirked with a smile. “Kidding—but it was an interesting read. I’m not used to reading authors with a style like that. I mean it’s uh…There’s something about Hemingway’s writing that comes off as simple at first, I think, at first, but it’s so…Abrupt?” You floundered, shaking your head. “Maybe that’s not the right word—”

“No, I know what you mean.” 

You watched Jack tuck your book into his locker before he propped his backpack up on his knee, unzipping it and drawing a thick book out. Your brows rose at the length, and you huffed out an affronted laugh.

“Uh…Okay. Intense choice. How long did this take you to read—?” You turned the book over in your hands, jaw-dropping at the pages. “Doctor Jack Whatever-the-Fuck-Your-Middle-Name-Is Abbot—” 

“Alright—”

“Am I seeing dogeared pages?” 

“Listen—”

“You hypocrite!” 

“I was young and foolish and didn’t know how to treat my books well, alright? Or, I was what’d you call it? Exercising my personal freedoms?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh as you turned the book over, smoothing your fingers over the word Dune is just barely legible along the worn spine. “I’m getting a feeling you’ve read this one a few times.” 

“You’re not the only one that likes to revisit favorites.”

“Hm.”

“And if you hate it, it might break my heart, so.” Jack shut his locker, offering you an innocent smile. “No pressure.”

“...Are you kidding me?” 

“Nope.”

“That’s not fair!” 

“You gave me a favorite and I didn’t get a warning.”

“This is so not the same. I didn’t wanna tell you that it was a favorite and put the pressure on you. You, on the other hand, just poured it on me.” 

“You can handle it.” 

You stayed frozen in place as Jack turned away, heading for the charge board. You watched him go, book heavy in your hands as that turned over and over in your mind. You jumped at the sound of someone clearing their throat, and turned to see Ellis watching you expectantly. 

“Oh—Uh,” You glanced over, realizing that you were standing in front of her locker. “Sorry.” You hurried over to where yours still was open. You gave the book another nervous look before tucking it away. 

“What was that?” 

“Dune." 

“Didn’t you fall asleep watching that movie?” 

“First of all, I fell asleep watching the tv spinoff,” You grumbled testily. “Second of all, it was a last-minute choice after we had those people come in from that elevator accident. I was all,” You waved your hand toward your head, “Hopped up on adrenaline, and then I crashed.” 

“Really hard.”

“Maybe I just need a different angle of entry.” 

“Maybe,” Ellis muttered, but you could tell that she didn’t buy it. “Thought you were on a book-buying ban.”

“I am.” 

“You didn’t buy that?” 

“No! No, I borrowed it from someone.”

“Shen?”

“No.”

“Lena?” 

“Nn-nn,” You shook your head, hurriedly closing your locker. You glanced over, panic bubbling as you spotted Ellis watching you closely. You plastered on a bright smile, hurrying past her as you chirped, “Better get in there!” 

--  

You hadn’t been so scared of a book since you tried to read The Shining. You sat on your bed, legs crossed, staring down at the copy in your hands. How did long had Jack had this book for, anyway? He’d said he was young and foolish when he dogeared the pages. 

You thumbed the spine, trying to refocus on the intro again. Bene Gesserit…How did you pronounce that? You could’ve sworn you’d heard that when you tried to watch that show, but you couldn’t remember. 

You reached out, taking your phone off of your nightstand and opening Jack’s contact information. You’d had it for a long time for ‘work purposes,’ but you never actually used it. And this technically wasn’t a work purpose. Would he view it as an overstep? 

You shook your head, putting the phone down. You could just ask him the next time you saw him. You leaned back against the headboard, doing your best to focus up again. Muad'Dib…That was it. 

You took the phone up again, steeling yourself as you fired off a quick text: All sci-fi and fantasy novels should come with a pronunciation guide

You put your phone down, refocusing on the book. When you noticed that your eyes have strayed toward the phone screen multiple times, you reached out to flip it face-down. You were just about to let go of it when you felt it buzz once, then twice—and to your horror, you realized that he was calling you. Shit, you did overstep, didn’t you. 

Fuck, okay, just buck up, apologize, and move on—

“Hello?” You asked as you answered. 

“What are you hung up on?” 

“I—” You floundered, brow furrowing. “Uh…Bene Gesserit?”

“You’ve got that one right. What else?” 

“Mood—No. Mode dib?” 

“Moh-ah-deeb.”

“Ah. See when you say it like that it sounds so simple.” You crossed your legs, cradling the book in it. “Well, thanks for clearing that up.” 

“Sure.” And you expected that to be the end of it, but— “Can’t sleep?” 

You frowned, pulling the phone away from your face and eyeing the time. Half past ten. You’d only been off of your shift for a couple of hours. 

“Honestly?” You sighed, returning the phone to your ear, “No. Figured I’d do some reading to relax.” 

“How’s that going?” 

“I’m on page one.” 

Jack grumbled, "Ouch," and you rolled your eyes, a smile pulling at your lips. 

“I’m working on it,” You insisted. “Be easier if you could just read it to me so I wouldn’t spend so much time wondering if I’m thinking about these terms right.”

“...Hm.” 

Your brow furrowed at the hum, but you forced yourself to move on: “Anyway, I hope I didn’t wake you up or pull you from anything. You should get some sleep.” 

“I’ll get there. Give me a sec.” 

“I—Okay?” You frowned. A second for what? But you almost didn’t care. You were just glad he wasn’t reading you the riot act for using his number for a personal reason. 

“Page one?” 

His return question only deepened your frown, and you pushed yourself to sit up a bit. 

“Yeah?” 

“Alright…A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct.”

Your eyes widened as you scrambled for the book in your lap. You were torn between following along and just listen to Jack reading to you. You waited for a pause in his reading before you spoke up: 

“Jack?” 

“Yeah.”

“You don’t actually have to—You know, I mean I just meant, um—”

“I know.” 

You bit your lip, sinking back against your pillows. 

“Okay,” You murmured. Jack began to read again, and for a moment, you let your eyes slide shut to just listen.

--  

“We should call it soon.” You hated to say it, but it was nearly noon. “You need your sleep.” 

“You don’t?” 

“I’m not on next shift.” 

“Neither am I.” 

“And I also feel like you don’t sleep as much as you should.” 

“I’m starting to get the sense that you and I have that in common.” 

You smiled, scrubbing your hand across your face. “Maybe. But I gotta say, thanks,” You swung your legs over the side of the bed. “You’re better than an audiobook.”  

“You’re gonna make me blush.” 

“I’d like to see that.” Oh—Fuck. You did need to go to bed, you were liable to say something even more out of order than that. 

“Could always do this in person next time.” 

“Hm?” 

“I just mean,” He cleared his throat. “Could always be in the same room when we do this.” 

You considered for a moment, smoothing your fingers over the pages as nerves kicked up in your stomach. 

“If you’re worried about me looking at you,” He added, “You’d be in the clear. I’d be looking at the book.” 

You laughed, nodding. “That is a very good point—but considering the condition of this copy, I’d believe you have it memorized.” 

“The offer stands.” 

“If I take all of your time up, you won’t read the book I gave you.” 

“I’ll find the time.” 

“When you’re supposed to be sleeping?” 

“Maybe.” 

You smiled, propping your head up on your hand. He’d offered—and you were beginning to learn that Jack Abbot had a habit of putting his money where his mouth was. “Alright. In-person next time.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm.”

“Okay.”

“Could come here,” You added before you could stop yourself. “I mean—Parker’s on shift tonight, so we'd have the place to ourselves.” Shit. Did that sound like a sexual proposition? “Or I could come to you—Or we could go to the park or something—” God, shut up, shut up. 

“I vote yours. I already know where the coffee machine is.” 

“Is that all it takes to get you to go somewhere?” 

“It helps.” 

“You know what, just for that, I’m gonna move it…Jack?”

“Yeah?” 

“If I dogear one of these pages—”

“I’m gonna know.”

“We’ll see.”  

-- 

You weren’t sure who was more concerned about the fact that Jack was coming over: you or Parker. Of course, Parker didn’t actually know that it was Jack that you were expecting—she just knew that you had someone coming over. You hadn’t been as subtle as you should’ve been—about neatening the living room, going to the grocery store to get snacks, moving the coffee pot to the other side of the kitchen. 

“I just wanna try it out over here,” You fibbed, “I think it might help the kitchen flow better.”

“Uh-huh…Who are you rolling out the red carpet for?” Ellis asked. You glanced toward the clock—6:24. You had told Jack that he could come by whenever he wanted after seven, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he kept regular working hours on his nights off, turned up on the dot. 

“I, um—No one. Well not no one, but. Just a friend.” 

“A friend like Shen is a friend? Or a friend like you steamed up the bathroom taking an everything shower kinda friend?” 

“It was not an everything shower!” 

“Then what the hell took you so long?” 

“Don’t you have a shift to get to?” 

“I’ve got time.” 

“Not a lot.” 

“Oh, you want me outta here bad-bad. Is he cute?” 

…You could dish a little, right? Nothing was going to happen, anyway. 

“Yeah,” You sighed resignedly. “He is.”

“Damn, so you have been holding out on me.” 

“Not holding out! It’s just a friend…Hang.” 

“Netflix and chill?” 

More like Dune and not to try to embarrass the hell out of yourself.

“We’re not gonna fuck,” You insisted. 

“Have a little faith in yourself. ‘Sides, you need to get some.” 

“Parker!” 

“You do! You’re backed up and this,” Ellis waggled a finger at you, “Is not good. ‘Sides, if you get some tonight, I won’t be here. You can do—You know. Whatever you’ve gotta do at whatever volume you wanna do it at.”

“I’m begging you to stop talking about this.”

“Okay,” Ellis held her hands up in surrender. “I’m going.” 

“Don’t forget your water bottle.” 

“MVP,” Parker sighed, “Whoever this guy is better wife you up before I do.” 

“Shut up,” You cackled, whacking her arm as she passed you. “Have a good shift.” 

“Have a good fuck.” 

“Parker! Jesus christ!”

-- 

Having Jack over had seemed like a good idea earlier that day, but having him there with you, just inches away on the couch, was a little tortuous. 

This was for a number of reasons. For one, Jack had opted for a shirt that gave you a maddeningly good view of his biceps. For another, when you’d been on the phone, you’d been able to just close your eyes from time to time and listen. You couldn't do that when he was right in front of you. Well—you could, but there was a chance he’d take it as boredom or disinterest.

But, now and again, you let your eyes stray from the copy of Dune to look at Jack—to watch his smile tick up and lower as he read the familiar words, to see his head tilt just so as he jumped from one character’s voice to another. And now and again, you felt his eyes flit toward you, too, but they didn't seem to linger for nearly as long. It was new, and fun—you’d spent so much time avoiding his gaze, but now it felt like you were playing tag.   

When Jack made his second throat-clearing noise in the last half-hour, you sat up, lightly nudging his knee with yours.

“You want some coffee or something?” 

“Uh—” Jack glanced from the book, back toward the kitchen, “Yeah. Coffee’d be nice.” 

You swung your legs down from where they’d been tucked up on the couch, grabbing your bookmark from where you’d put it on the table, and biting back a smile when Jack whistled low. 

“Hang on a second.” 

“Don’t start with me, Abbot.” 

“Where’d that come from?” 

“May’ve grabbed it when I went to the bookstore earlier.” That was good, that sounded casual—not like you’d gone to the store specifically for the purposes of getting a nice bookmark.

“Really.” 

“Mm. Caught my eye.” 

You were only a couple of steps away, certain that Jack would stay behind and get a better look at said bookmark, but he was up, and behind you, and chuckling, “You actually moved the damn thing,” When he spotted the coffee pot. 

“I like a clean follow-through. You hungry at all?” You asked, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “I can see what we have around.” That was good, too—it made it sound like you hadn’t gone out of your way to make sure you had good food in the house. 

“I’m okay for now.” 

For now sounded nice—like he’d be there for a while and would need to reassess later. 

“So—Thank you,” He took the mug as you offered it, “What do you think so far?” 

You leaned back against the counter, mentally combing through the chapters, the bits that had stuck out to you when you weren’t focused so strongly on Jack’s voice. 

“Jessica…” 

“Mhm?” 

“I can’t figure her out—which feels weird to say, because we’ve gotten her perspective, but she feels so…Guarded? Even to me as a reader. Also—Jessica?”

“Yeah?” 

“Jessica.” 

Jack didn’t answer, shook his head a touch, so you clarified: 

“Huge sweeping sci-fi world and her name is fucking Jessica?”

Jack spluttered a laugh into his coffee, lowering the mug to swipe at a couple of spilled drops on his chin, and you beamed, going on, “And Paul? Did Herbert spend so much time making up, like—Thufir Hawat and Gurney Halleck and Leto Atreides and—”

“Duncan Idaho?”

“Well—No Duncan Idaho sounds like he passed a chain coffee shop on a road trip and said ‘sure.’ Like that was the beginning of the end for creative names in this book.” 

Jack’s laugh tapered, and you were faced with his soft, warm smile again. Oh—geez. You turned away from him, reaching into the cabinet for a mug of your own.

“It’s clear that Leto cares about her…A lot,” You added, “Despite how basic her name is. But when he said ‘be thankful I never married you,’ it felt so…Cruel.”

“You think he meant it to be?” 

“No? But…” You trailed off, shaking your head. 

“He said in the next breath that he also thinks of her comforts.”

“Yeah, because in some respect, if she’s not comfortable, he won’t be.” 

“So you think his intentions are selfish?’ 

“I think his intentions are sweet, but they don’t come across like that.”

“She won’t let him be—Because she knows they can’t afford it.” 

You frowned, turning to lean against the counter. “How do you figure?”

“When she wants to raise another topic, but swaps her comment to what time he’ll be eating dinner.” Jack crossed the kitchen to stand beside you. “What does he think?”

“...That she wanted to ask him something different.”

“And that he wished they were somewhere else,” Jack murmured, “And alone.”

Your stomach flipped—at his closeness, his tone, and the gaze that you found yourself locked into. You gave a small nod as you considered it. 

“But he knows better,” You realized. "They both do." Jack’s smile widened, and you finally let your gaze drop from him to your coffee. “I can understand why you’ve read it so many times. There’s…A lot in here.”

“Any predictions?” 

“On what?” 

“What happens next.” 

“More bureaucracy? Some Harkonnen action? Sand?” 

“What about Leto and Jessica?” 

You thought for a moment, glancing toward Jack. “I don’t know. I hope it turns out well, but…”

“But?”

“...I’m not really an optimist.”

Tag list:

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[ashxllbey]

legend 🙌

[ashxllbey]

Gravity Part One

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to another accidental two-parter. Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 5.6K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; POV switches a couple of times; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

It started when she was an intern. 

Jack was fully aware of his tendency toward strong eye contact. It helped him make sure he was fully getting a point across when he was guiding residents in the ER—so long as their focus wasn't meant to be elsewhere. 

He managed to meet her eye fully exactly twice—and maybe it was odd, but Jack could remember both times clear as day. 

The first one was her first day at the Pitt, when she’d shook his hand, introduced herself with a nervous tremor in her voice. Her palm had been a little sweaty, and cold, but her eyes had held his. 

The second had been a week or so later, the first time she’d lost a patient. He’d clapped her on the shoulder, reassured her that there was nothing more she could’ve done. He’d tacked on, “Don’t let it happen again,” and he’d been kidding—but she had balked, ducked her head, apologized, and hurried away. 

She had rarely met his eye since then.

At first, he’d figured that she was shy, and that she’d grow out of it. Then, he’d thought that maybe she was more reserved at work—some people simply kept their personal and professional lives separate.

But those notions had been disproven time and time and time again: when she palled around with her fellow residents; when she watched and communicated with Walsh attentively; when the senior resident that was clearly hitting on her leaned just a little too close for Jack’s liking in the staff room. 

She hadn’t backed down from a single one, hardly batted a damn eyelash.

But any time she spotted Jack, her eyes would lower or dart away—to the floor, to her hands, to a chart, to the sandwich cart, to a counter.

Now, Jack was not a man to take these things personally, but after all these years, it stuck in his craw. He didn’t think about it most days, had learned to take it in stride, found ways to work with it. It had never caused a hold up during a procedure, or in the event of an emergency. She was always active in communicating with him, she just…Never looked at him. 

“You’re going to burn a hole through her head.” 

Jack hadn’t realized he was staring until Lena said so. He glanced toward the nurse, eyed her knowing smile, and redirected his focus to the computer in front of him. 

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

Lena snorted, turning back to the desk as someone approached to ask her a question. 

Jack only half-listened, unable to help his eyes drifting toward her again. She was hunched over her own computer, and seemed to be fighting back a smile at something Shen was saying. Another comment or two from Shen, and then her chin was tipping up, a bright smile on her lips as she held Shen’s eye.

Jack huffed a soft laugh through his nose at the sound of Shen’s cackling laugh, and it was like watching ripples in a pond—her head tipped, her brow furrowed, and her eyes darted in Jack’s direction. The smile flattened when she caught him looking, her focus lowering to her keyboard as she hurriedly straightened. She seemed to point to the charge board, mutter something, and turned on her heel, striding away with purpose.

Jack couldn’t help a swell of petty disappointment. What the hell was that? There was no way she’d heard him laugh. It was like she’d sensed a disturbance in the force. Jack shook his head, trying to refocus on the chart. 

Did she panic because he had been smiling? Had he been staring at her as long as Lena implied? Did he look like some dirty old man? 

Jack pushed off of the desk, eyeing the charge board with purpose. Whatever it was that made her skitter away like that—well. He’d forget it by tomorrow. 

--  

“Hey. You headed in?” 

You glanced back, doing a double-take at the site of Ellis standing in the kitchen doorway. 

“Uh—Yeah, just packin’ a few snacks. You need anything?” 

“I got something to ask you.” 

“Sure, what’s up?” You turned to face her, folding your arms expectantly. In the entire time you and Ellis had been roommates, you’d never seen her look concerned like this—and she usually didn’t bother trying to be delicate when broaching a difficult subject. 

“Parker, what is it?” You pressed.

“Is something going on between you and Abbot?”

Your brow furrowed, mouth falling open as if to answer—but what the hell kind of question was that?

“Excuse me?” 

“You and Abbot, what’s going on?” 

“There’s nothing going on.” 

“You sure?” 

“I think I’d know if something was happening between us, El. Where the hell did this come from, anyway?” 

“Shen said the two of you were weird yesterday, that Abbot looked at you and you bolted. And—” She shrugged, “You kinda always seem like that. Did something happen?” 

“Nothing happened yesterday! I realized I needed to go check on a patient, I’d just gotten their results back.” 

“And all the other times?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Ellis gave you a long look before she relented, holding her hands up in surrender with a mutter of, “Alright.”

“Great.”

“If you insist—”

“I do insist.” 

“But you know what they say about people who protest too much.”

“Cap it, Hamlet. You on tonight?” 

“Yep,” Ellis nodded. 

“See you in there.” 

“If you wanna wait, I’ll drive you.” 

“Nah, it’s okay,” You shifted your bag onto your shoulder. “The walk is good for me.”

“We’re gonna be on our feet for the next twelve hours.” 

“I like a warm-up,” You insisted. “See you in there.” 

Slow and steady, that was how you left the apartment—even steps, a measured pocket-pat-down at the door to make sure you had your phone, keys, wallet, ID badge…And then you were out the door.

Out the door, and down the stairs, and cursing under your breath as you stepped out onto the street. Where the hell did Ellis get off, asking something like that? Implying that something could be going on between you and Abbot? You hardly spoke to the guy. Hell—you felt like you barely said more than two words to the man that didn’t have anything to do with work. The implication that the two of you had something going on was categorically insane—and it twisted your gut up in a knot. 

The closer you got to the Pitt, the worse the feeling got, until it was bordering on nausea. You stopped a block away, drawing in a deep breath and puffing it out between your lips, trying to shake yourself of the feeling. Damnit, why’d you let Ellis get in your head that way? 

You drew in another steadying breath as you started forward again, trying to shake the nerves out of your hands. This shift was going to be fine—as seamless as the ones before it.  

-- 

“You doin’ okay?” 

It was a fair question asked by the last person you wanted to hear it from. The shift had been hell. Patient after patient seemed to have some hitch. You were slower to respond when Abbot asked you questions, prompted you. It was only made worse by the feeling of Ellis and Shen watching every goddamn interaction. 

Now, the test results were back for the patient you were least looking forward to seeing. The patient herself was sweet, but you were getting nowhere with her overbearing husband answering nearly every question for her. 

You pushed yourself to straighten up. 

“Fine,” You insisted flatly. “Thanks.” You straightened fully, hesitating as you heard him take a step away. “Actually—” 

It was out of your mouth before you could stop it. You saw Abbot go still in your periphery, and your hands flexed around the iPad in your hands. 

“I’m having trouble getting answers from a patient—a woman with a head injury. She said she slipped and whacked it, but based on where the cut is...I don't think it's possible. And her husband’s an overbearing ass. I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

“Abusive?” 

“I think so. Could you run interference?” 

“Sure. You have one of those pens, one of the—” 

“I always keep a couple in my pocket.” 

--

She steeled herself before she went into the examination bay. Jack had seen her do it time and time again when she could. He wondered how it steadied her, savored the way that she closed her eyes for a split-second, drew in a deep breath, and then slapped a smile on before pulling the curtain back.

"How are we doing in here?"

Her chipper tone did nothing to reveal the concern that she'd shared with him moments ago. Abbot followed close behind, taking in the young woman laying in a hospital gown on the bed, and the man standing just beside her at the head. Abbot took another step toward the bed, then stopped as the woman seemed seemed to shrink back, attempting to make herself smaller.

"She's fine." The man's voice was gruff in his insistence, his hand curled into a fist just by his wife's head. Abbot's eyes skated across the bruises and scrapes to the knuckles there, his own hands wringing behind his back as he took another step closer.

Jack saw her glance back toward him before she gestured, "Dr. Abbot, this is Nick and Amanda Alpers. Mr. and Mrs. Alpers, this is Dr. Abbot. He's the ER's foremost expert on head injuries." An easy fib, and it seemed to be a necessary one.

"Aren't you all trained on the same shit?" Nick grumbled. Abbot took a couple of steps closer, taking in the slight matting of hair on the wife's head, the dark clotting of blood.

"We all have our own experiences that inform how we practice," Abbot passed easily, taking one more step. "Mrs. Alpers, would it be alright if I examined the—"

"It's just a scrape, really!" The insistence was hurried, and left the poor woman in a squeak. Abbot forced a small smile, giving a conceding nod.

"May I examine the scrape?" He conceded.

Amanda's eyes seemed to dart to Nick for permission, and only after a hefty sigh did Nick wave Abbot closer.

He couldn't help but note the way his fellow doctor rounded the bed, caught on the slight flurry of her questions as he gloved up.

"Are you feeling any pressure?" He asked, gently parting the hair to get a better look at the bloody, raised bump on her head.

"N-no. No more than usual—I mean! No more than anyone ever usually feels," Amanda hurried to answer. Abbot's eyes lifted to the doctor on the opposite side of the bed just in time to see her fingers tightening around her iPad.

"Any sensitivity to light, sound...?" Abbot went on, drawing his penlight out of his pocket and shining it from one eye to the next.

"Nn-nn."

"Hm."

"If that's all, can we go?" Nick groused. "Already been a waste of a night."

Abbot straightened, sizing Nick up. He waited for his fellow physician to say something, but—Nothing. He looked at her, certain she was eyeing the chart, but realized immediately that it was a mistake. Her eyes were right on his, widening pointedly as they darted to the creep beside her. Abbot cleared his throat, doing his best to focus on the patient—though he knew he'd be tucking that look away for himself.

"Nick, can I have a word?" He asked, gesturing toward the nurse's station.

"What for?"

Abbot pushed a short breath out through his nose as he rounded the bed, taking even steps so as not to raise the brute's hackles.

"There are some things that I'd like to discuss with you. Things that, you know," He nodded, "Women shouldn't hear."

Watching understanding wash over Nick's face made his stomach turn. It was a wonder the man had brought his wife to the ER at all if that was the attitude he held.

"We won't go far?" Nick pressed, though he was already moving.

"No, no," Jack insisted, following him out, "Just a few feet." He gave her one last look, and a quick nod before tugging the observation curtain closed behind them.

--

The knot that had formed in your stomach only tightened, but it wasn’t for your own nerves or panic anymore. You didn't like letting her go, hated seeing her leave with him. Abbot came to a stop beside you, and for a moment, the two of you just watched Nick steer Amanda out of the ER.

"What'd you say to him?" You asked.

"Distracted him with football."

"I didn't know you watched."

“Sometimes. She take the pen?” He asked. 

“...Yeah.” 

“It’s a start.”

“Might be too little, too late.” 

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“You think so?” 

“Sure.”

“...I gave her my number, too.” 

You saw Abbot’s head turn toward you, and you froze, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” It should’ve been more of a scold, but you could’ve sworn his tone was tinged with admiration. 

“I know.”

“What were you thinking?” 

“I wasn’t.” You turned away from Abbot. “Thanks again for distracting him.” 

“...No problem. Will you tell me if she calls?” 

“Yeah,” You nodded, turning to look at the board. “Hope she does—and soon.” 

“Was that all that was bothering you?” 

“What?” 

“You seemed a little off earlier. Just making sure everything’s okay.” 

Well, Abbot always was the observant type. It was one of the things that made him such a good doctor. You shouldn’t have been offended by his question, but in that moment, his concern was as unwelcome as Ellis probing had been just a few hours before. 

“Just one of those days—nights,” You corrected, “You know.” 

“Take a couple minutes, get some air.” 

“I’m alright.” And before you could stop yourself, you gave him a grateful smile before turning away. In truth, you weren't entirely sure where you were headed to—you’re more distracted by the fact that you’d met the guy’s eye more in the last twenty minutes than you probably had in the last two years. 

-- 

“Here.” 

“Thanks,” You took your beer as Ellis set it down and settled into the seat across from you. “John on his way?” 

“Yeah,” She nodded, “And uh…Don’t kill me, but he’s bringing someone.” 

You frowned, shaking your head as you waited for her to explain. Ellis didn’t elaborate, merely tipped her brows up. It only took a second for you to put the pieces together, and you groaned, sliding down in your chair as nerves flooded your stomach. 

“Parker—” 

“It’s just a coincidence!” She took in your unimpressed glare, corrected, “Mostly a coincidence. We always ask, he almost never says yes. It’s as hard to talk him into coming out as it is to talk you into it. Besides, it’ll help!” 

“There’s nothing here that needs helping.” 

“It’s slowing things down—”

“When has it ever slowed anything down?”

“Last few shifts, he’s waited for you to look at him when you answer and nothing. It’s making shit weird. We leave that messy personal bull for the day shift.”

“I’m not—This isn’t messy, it’s just—”

“You barely look at the guy. We all notice it.” 

“He’s so big on frickin’ eye contact, like,” You glanced around the bar, “It’s intimidating.” 

“Intimidating?”

“Yeah.”

“Intimidating.” 

“Yes! I barely even like making eye contact with you, but I live with you, so it’s mostly unavoidable.” 

“You love it.”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t want to be adopted by the meanest lesbian in the ER?”

“I thought that was Garcia.”

“No, she’s the meanest lesbian in surgery.” 

Ellis’ smile widened before she perked up, waving at someone behind you before she leaned in just a touch. 

“Just be yourself, be cool.”

“Pick one.”

“You know, I bet he thinks you hate him.” 

“What?” You hissed, “Why would he think that? And—Why would he give a shit, plenty of people hate their boss. Not that I hate him, I don’t, just—”

“Hey!” Shen’s voice cut over your nervous chatter, and you couldn’t stop your knee-jerk reaction of turning to look at him—and spotting Abbot just a couple of steps behind. Shen patted you on the shoulder, settling down beside you as Abbot rounded the table. Your eyes glued to your beer instinctively as he shrugged out of his jacket, sitting down beside Ellis. And you thought you’d just managed to be subtle enough—until both Shen and Ellis kicked you lightly under the table. It took everything in you not to kick back, instead lifting your head to meet Abbot’s eye, plastering a small smile on your lips. 

“Hi.” 

“Hello.” There was a little lean to his lo, a friendly tease that you felt like you hadn’t earned. And there was eye contact—heavy, steady eye contact as he folded his arms on the table. You tried to ignore the traitorous little flip in your stomach as you hurriedly lowered your eyes to the table, picking your beer up and taking a swig to try and drown the flurrying butterflies.  

“We miss anything good?” Shen plied. Ellis shook her head. 

“We were just talking about renewing our lease.” 

“I forgot you two were roommates,” Abbot commented. Ellis must’ve told him, and you couldn’t fathom why he’d remember. 

“What’s the verdict?” Shen asked.

“We’re gonna stick,” You reported as you looked at him. “Rent is going up, but, like, barely…Barely.”

“And the location is too good,” Ellis tacked on. “Half an hour to the Pitt walking, fifteen minutes by car—utilities don’t suck, either.” 

“Decent space,” You added, “And allows dogs—if this one goes through with getting a dog.”

“I’m still in research and development.” 

“Aren’t you allergic?” Shen nudged your arm. 

“Yeah, but not deathly. And if she picks a breed that doesn’t shed much and has a low can f 1 gene—” 

“I want to adopt from a shelter—” 

“So I’ll probably be moving out as soon as that happens,” You teased, “Because god knows she’ll wind up with a mutt.” 

“And sublet?” 

“Sure, John. You can move into my room, I’ll move into your place. Even trade.” 

“I don’t know about that—” 

“Better rent, better location.” 

“You won’t mind being further from the Pitt?”

“Nah,” You shrugged, “I like a long walk.” 

“Sure does,” Ellis rolled her eyes, “I don’t know anyone that spends more time just wandering around on their days off.” 

“Is it a crime to enjoy being outside when the sun is up?” 

“You ever think of switching to day shift?”

Abbot’s question caught you off-guard—it was like you’d fallen into such an easy rhythm with Ellis and Shen that you'd almost managed to forget that he was there. Your fingers tightened around your beer as you forced yourself to meet Abbot’s eye again. 

“Not once.” 

It was the truth, and it made Abbot’s smile widen in a way that felt dangerously vindicating. Unnerving quiet wrapped around your shared gaze, and Ellis clearing her throat was what finally snapped you out of looking at him. 

“So, hey,” Shen jumped in, “Did I tell you guys about my latest acquisition?”

“Jesus fucking christ,” You muttered over Ellis’ low whistle. 

“Another ebay war?” She asked.

“Not a war, an easy buy,” Shen insisted, “You know, for—”

“Yeah, your shank bank, we remember,” You insisted, smile pulling wide as both Abbot and Ellis’ laughter catches from that side of the table. “That weird-ass collection of antique medical equipment—fucking medical history nerd.” 

“I keep them as a display!” 

“Must really get ‘em going on a date night. Nothing hotter to a woman than rusty scalpels,” You batted back, nudging Shen’s shoulder with yours. You didn’t mean to catch Abbot’s eye on your way back to looking at Ellis again. And this look didn’t hold for as long as the one before it—but it was just long enough to reawaken the butterflies, even as Shen insisted,

“This one isn’t even rusty!”

--  

As you turned in for the night, Ellis teased you, insisted, “See, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You didn’t argue, because she wasn't wrong—it wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon out. But it was…Different. 

Your aversion to Dr. Abbot’s attention had started your first week at the Pitt, when he’d stuck close during an intubation. He hadn’t been breathing down your neck, but his steady focus had made you so damn nervous. You were used to your attendings being just a little scattered, torn in six different directions. And other matters had vied for Abbot’s attention, sure, but he hadn’t heeded them until the patient was in the clear.

You’d started to avoid his gaze after that, and it had just become second nature. Avoiding eye contact turned into avoiding him during the quiet moments of your shifts, which turned into a patient-treatment-only conversational focus. Abbot consulted on your cases, made recommendations, listened to your rationalizations. 

When he did insist on meeting your eye, you gave him just a long enough look to show that you’d heard him, but never anything more. You’d avoided palling around with him, even though you palled around with your fellow residents, and with other attendings—but you were comfortable with them. 

And Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

You could understand how Abbot may’ve thought you didn’t like him—if he really thought that. But he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who needed everyone to like him. It probably helped, sure, but you were positive that your countenance had never caused a slow-down or a hitch in the ER, no matter what Ellis said. You were just focused—and since when was that a bad thing? 

Either way, today had been kinda…okay. You’d made nice with Abbot, made eye contact multiple times without Ellis or Shen kicking you in the shins again. Whatever wound up happening, you’d tried, and they couldn’t take that away from you, right? 

You settled in bed, letting your eyes slip closed, drawing in a deep breath to relax yourself.

For all your initial irritation, Ellis was right—it wasn’t that bad. 

But it didn’t stop Abbot’s warm gaze from lingering behind your eyelids when you closed them, and it couldn’t keep the mirthful roll of his chuckle from playing through your mind as you tried to drift off. 

-- 

You decided to make it a little experiment, approach it as something that you could train yourself out of. Seeing him over drinks had laid the groundwork—and you had managed to look at him twice a few shifts ago, hadn’t you? 

You went into your next shift determined to look Abbot in the eye three times.

You only managed it once when you passed him by the board—a glance and a small wave.

The smile that he returned flustered you so much that you nearly walked into the sandwich cart, and it scared you out of looking at him for the rest of the night. As a matter of fact, it scared you out of it the next shift, and the one after that. 

You talked yourself out of the whole foolish endeavor. You’d managed to work with Abbot perfectly well before, why change things now? Especially when looking at him seemed to awaken something girlish and fluttering inside of you—and you couldn’t afford to be girlish and fluttering at work. 

-- 

She was doing it again. 

Jack had thought they had turned a corner after Shen and Ellis had invited them all out together, but things seemed to be moving in reverse. It had gone beyond sticking in his craw—it was almost nagging at him now, and worse now that he knew what the full force of her focus was like. It was easy to brush off before, but these days Jack was hard-pressed to admit that he felt something in him wilt whenever she avoided his eye. 

She was making a meal of it now, focused stalwartly as she instructed Javadi on setting a bone. He’d seen her head tip in his direction a couple of times, but she’d always given her head a little shake before refocusing. Was the shake for Javadi? For him? 

“...You didn’t hear me, did you,” Ellis asked, forcing him to refocus. He had heard her—and he could feign that his silence had been fueled by contemplation. He turned away from the treatment bay, arms folded across his chest. 

“See if the OR can take Mr. Tosches yet," He instructed. "I don’t want him down here too long. You follow up with the raccoon kid?” 

“That’s my next stop.” 

“Perfect, thanks.” 

“Sure—Hey, are you coming by this weekend?”

That weekend. He’d been dodging giving Ellis an answer for the last couple of weeks. She’d invited him to the last four get-togethers at the apartment, but he’d never made it to one, either because he was working, or because he just wasn’t in the mood to socialize. 

He wasn’t sure he was in the mood now, but…A fleeting smile flashed through his mind. They’d seemed to come easier to her when they were away from the hospital. And his therapist had been nagging him about leaving the house more…

“Yeah,” He nodded. “Yeah, I can make it.” 

Ellis didn’t cover her surprise well, but her, “kay, sweet. I’ll text you the address," Told him that she was just as surprised by his answer as he was.

Abbot nodded, casting another glance toward the treatment bay before turning away fully. It was just an experiment, he told himself. He would see if her smiles for him came easier outside of work, or not at all. 

If it was not at all, he’d let it go, once and for all.

--  

“Is there any coffee?” 

The question made you freeze in front of your cabinet. Your eyes darted through its contents, but you didn’t take in a damn thing. He was in your kitchen. He never came to these things, why the hell did he come to this one?

“Uh—” You turned, looking around your kitchen as though you’d never been there before. “It’s um—Yeah. Right there. It might not be hot, though. I can turn the pot back on.” 

“I’ve got it.” 

“You're on shift tonight?”

“Mhm.”

You nodded, turning back to the cabinet. Hell, what did you open it for? Goddamn, but you came in here looking for something—You huffed, shoving the cabinet door closed as you scrubbed your hand across your forehead. He wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to make you feel this out of sorts in your own damn kitchen. 

“Everything alright?” 

“You know, I feel like half the time you talk to me, you’re asking if I’m okay.” It was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and embarrassment sprang up the second it did. “I should, um—You need a mug, don’t you,” You muttered, turning to the other cabinet, and glancing back toward the living room when you heard a swell of laughter. Damnit, but Ellis sent you into the kitchen for what? Napkins? Napkins would be in the cabinet.

“Well forgive me for being concerned when one of my best residents seems to spend half of her shifts avoiding me.” 

You whirled around, too stunned to do anything but meet Jack’s eye. The steady contact seemed to catch the both of you off-guard. Your mouth worked wordlessly for a moment as your mind reeled. What the hell could you say to that? Well—what would you say if you were talking to Ellis or Shen? 

“...Just one of your best residents?” 

Abbot’s brows lifted, his lips quirk with a smile, and your stomach filled with that girlish fluttering again. 

“You’re certainly not avoiding me now.”

You press your mouth together, gaze instinctively dropping to the floor. 

“I don’t avoid you at work, either. I’m just—” You turned back to the cabinet, reaching into it for a mug. “I’m focused when I'm at the Pitt.” 

“Seem to be focused right now, too.” 

“Do you want a mug for your coffee or not?” 

“Oh, that old excuse.” 

“Fine, drink it from the pot. That’s Parker’s machine, anyway. She’ll kill you.” 

“She wouldn’t. We’re short-staffed as it is.” 

“Well, that’s true.” You crossed the kitchen, holding the mug out. And, though you knew the answer, you asked, “Do you need milk or sugar?” 

“No.” 

“Alright.” You turned, reaching for the cabinet by the coffee machine. Maybe it was something in there.

“...You don’t really think I avoid you," You plied, unable to stop yourself.

“Certainly avoid looking at me.”

“Focused.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“You’re fine to look at.” 

“Oh?”

“Good—Good to—” No, nothing in that cabinet. Check the next one. At least, you needed to get a few feet away from Abbot before you said anything else stupid. “You’re fine.” 

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” 

“...Look at me.” 

It was so firm that you went still in front of your cabinet again, hands on the knobs, doors half-open as your heart leaps into your throat.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re not at work, you can’t need to be that focused. If I’m so fine to look at, look at me.” 

Your fingers flexed around the knobs, palms growing sweaty. 

“Ellis asked me to grab something for her and you’ve already distracted me enough.”

“Is that so.” 

“You can be very distracting sometimes.” For fucksake. What was it about being alone with this man that had your head so horribly scrambled?

“I suddenly feel like I oughta apologize,” He commented.

“I feel like you’re making fun of me.” 

“A little.” 

You scoffed out a laugh, your nerves only worsening when you heard Jack take a few steps closer, saw him lower his coffee onto the counter beside you. 

“It won’t take long,” He reassured, raising his hand to close one of the cabinet doors. “One quick look.” 

You drew in a deep breath, planting your hand on the counter and turning to face Jack with wide eyes. You were prepared to stare at him pointedly—but you faltered at the look on his face. His eyes were softer than they had any right being. They searched your expression, sweeping over your nose, across your cheeks, to your lips, and up again—as if he was seeing you for the first time. 

“...See?” He murmured. “This isn’t so bad.” 

You struggled to swallow, throat dry; your face was flooding with heat. If this was a cartoon, you were certain that your heart would be beating out of your chest. 

“No,” You finally managed, shaking your head a little, unable to tear your eyes from his, “No, it isn’t.” 

Jack’s smile widened as he leaned against the counter a touch, fingers skimming against yours. And you knew that you ought to look away, go ask Ellis what she sent you into the damn kitchen for in the first place, but you couldn't bring yourself to move.

“You just gonna keep staring at me, Jack?” You murmured. His brows jumped slightly at the use of his first name, lips quirking with a smirk.

“You’re staring, too.”

“Making up for apparently avoiding you.” 

“Very kind of you.”

“Do what I can.” 

Maybe it was better that he was looking at your face, anyway—if he looked down, he might see the goosebumps sweeping up your arm from the gentle sweep of his fingertips against yours. It felt pathetic to get so worked up from such a simple touch. Goddamn, did he look at everyone like this? Did everyone feel like this when he looked at them? There was no way—if it was, nothing would ever get done at the Pitt. 

“Hey, did you find the Triscuits?” 

Ellis bottle snapped you out of the trance-like stare, and you whirled away from Jack like he was trying to set you on fire. The Triscuits, son of a bitch, that was what you were sent to look for. 

“I just—I just saw them,” You fumbled, pulling the cabinet open again. 

“My fault,” Abbot spoke up. “I asked for some coffee.” 

“You’re on tonight?” Ellis frowned, and you were relieved to hear her come deeper into the kitchen. “I thought you were taking the day.” 

“We had two call outs. Matter of fact, I should get going.”

You glanced doggedly back toward Jack, watching him pick his mug up and take a deep swig. You busied yourself with poking through the drawer beneath the cupboard, vaguely catching Abbot saying his goodbyes to Ellis in the background. Jeez, did the Trisuits fucking evaporate? 

You glanced toward the mug as Jack set it down in the sink, and, against your better judgement, met Jack’s eye when he turned to look at you. 

“Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Sure,” You nodded. “Have a good shift.” 

“Good luck finding those, uh…” He glanced toward Ellis. “Triscuits?” 

“Uh-huh,” She nodded. “Thanks for coming, man.” 

“Have a good night.” 

You listened to his retreating footsteps, marked the opening and closing of the door…And tried not to die from complete mortification when Ellis tapped your shoulder, then pointed out the box of Triscuits where it was sitting on the counter. 

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @artsymaddie

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[ashxllbey]

which one of u was going to tell me that tea tastes different if u put it in hot water?

[ashxllbey]

Mrs. R Part Four

Previous Part | Masterlist

Notes: Not beta-read.

Warnings: Angst and fluff. Flangst. A lotta cursing. Ends happily, I promise!

Summary: Your eyes dart to the time in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.

It's late—but for all of your qualms about whatever the hell you and Robby are or aren't, for better or for worse, in sickness or in a health, for richer or for poorer, you still care about him.

One glimpse. That's all it takes to convince you that you need to get over him, and to finally move beyond the foolish delusion that the two of you are ever going to get back together.

Robby has been saying that it's something that he's been meaning to do, have you over to his new place—that it's not as sad as you're probably imagining, that you'll be impressed.

And he's sort of right. It's not as sad as you were imagining. It's a little sadder.

You're not completely surprised by the nearly-empty fridge, the scatter of mail on the counter. You are heartened by the little touches of your old life together there, the few things that he took from your home that are scattered throughout the kitchen, the living room.

And he should've known that when you went to the bathroom that you were going to snoop.

That's why spotting the women's perfume bottle on the counter is so fucking jarring.

There aren't touches of anyone else, nothing that you looked at and immediately felt that they weren't his but this—?

The bottle shape is familiar, and you're sure the label would be too if you hadn't suddenly lost the ability to read. You stand in his bathroom staring at the bottle. Your hands are frozen over the drawer that you were about to pull open and snoop through. Your heart is pounding in your ears; your throat feels like someone's just crammed a boulder down it. You try to swallow past it, clear your throat a few times, but it won't budge.

You need to get out of there. You can't tell him that you're not feeling well, because he'll insist on running a full living room diagnostic. You're sure your BP is up, that your skin is going hot with upset. You can't imagine the conversation going well—

"And what were you doing when you felt the onset of symptoms?"

"Oh, just realizing that I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of fixing this."

You take a step back, draw in a deep breath, flex your shaking hands. No, this is fine. You can get out of this. You pull your phone out of your pocket, wincing as you hear Robby pass down the hall nearby. You open the ringtone menu on your phone, tapping one and letting it play loudly for a few beats before you pretend to answer a call from your best friend.

"Hello?...Honey, are you okay?...Chlo—Chloe, calm down," You fake your conversation, forcing yourself to pace through your answers. You glance toward the door, biting the inside of your cheek. Is he still nearby? How much of this can he hear? "What?—Oh, god, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?...Yeah, of course I can come."

You glance up as the bathroom's overhead bulb begins to flicker.

"No no, don't worry about that. Drop a pin, I'll be there as soon as I can."

You shove your phone into your pocket and yank the bathroom door open—nearly smacking right into Robby. He has a hand up as if to knock, and lowers it as you pull up short.

"Everything okay?"

"I—Yes—No," Shit. "Chloe called, she had a whole fiasco—Bad date, and then she got rear-ended. I'm really sorry, but I've gotta go."

Robby nods a touch, stepping back. "You want me to come with you?"

"No! No," You hurry to cover off on your too-quick answer with a smile and a pat on the shoulder. You lean up, pecking his cheek before you skirt around him, hurrying down the hall.

"Thanks for having me over. I um—" You glance back, jerking your thumb over your shoulder. "You should probably fix that bulb."

--

To your credit, you do talk to Chloe that night. It's mostly to warn her that in case she somehow runs into Robby, to let him know that her car is fine. And you know that she has more questions, but maybe it's the weariness in your voice that lets you off of the hook for the night. You know that you'll have to answer for the fact that you were even talking to Robby in the first place, something that you've neglected to mention since the light bulb situation kicked you into a new personal level of hell.

And you're so, so tempted to let yourself stew on this all for one more night, but you decide that you can't just wallow anymore.

For as difficult as this is going to be, it's been a long time coming. You need to make changes.

--

It's not a complete surprise when he turns up at your door. You've been avoiding him for the better part of a month, coming up with excuse after excuse after excuse to not see him, to not answer his phone calls.

What does surprise you is what he says. Not hello, not how are you, just—

"You're selling?"

You puff your cheeks up and push the air out in a long breath. Maybe you should've answered one one of his messages sooner. Then he wouldn't have taken it upon himself to turn up, and to run into the real estate agent hammering in a sign out front.

You cross your arms and lean in the doorway, eyeing the sign, the slight swing of For Sale in the breeze.

"Yeah. You looking to buy? I'm sure I could get you the ex-husband and bulb-fixer discount."

"When did you decide to move?"

"Been meaning to. This is too much house for me. I use, like, a third of the space. Don't even go in the basement, remember?"

"Where are you looking?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to stay in Pittsburgh, so—which neighborhoods?"

The fact he says it with such certainty makes irritation flare in your gut. You curl your hand into a fist out of sight, give a short shrug.

"I don't know if I am."

Robby's brow tip up, his chin dropping toward his chest as he takes that in.

"You don't know?" He repeats, a disbelieving laugh falling from his lips. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just means I'm still weighing my options."

"Where else would you go?"

"I dunno...Philly, New York, LA—"

"You're serious."

"I'm thinking about it."

Robby's eyes narrow, brow furrowing as he takes you in. You fight to stay still, to hold his gaze, even when every part of you wants to retreat inside, close the door, and lock it until he leaves.

"When were you planning on telling me?" He asks.

"What's that matter? It's not like I need your permission, right?" You don't mean for it to sting, but the way Robby's head jerks back makes you think that you've hit a target you didn't even know was up to be aimed for.

"No," He finally says. "You don't need my permission."

"Great, so I don't know what the fuss is about—"

"I guess I mistakenly thought that friends told each other things—"

"Oh, please," You splutter a bitter laugh. "When's the last time you fucking told me anything important?"

"This again?"

"You can't 'this again' me when you're the one that brought this shit up, Michael."

"There's a difference between that and you moving across the fucking country!"

"I'm not—I'm not absolutely gonna, I'm just thinking about it!"

"If this place sells tomorrow, where are you gonna go?"

"I'll figure it out."

"You can't just fly by the seat of your pants on shit like this."

"Whatever happens, I will work something out."

"Since when do you want out of Pittsburgh?"

"Since when do you give a fuck about what I want?"

"HEY!"

The two of you turn to see your neighbor, Diane, standing on her steps, glaring at the two of you as she waves toward where her kids are playing in the yard.

"Do you mind? Watch the language."

"Please," Robby scoffs," You curse more than the two of us combined."

"Yeah, blow it out your ass, Diane," You snap. She blanches, tightening her robe around her and pointing a warning finger at you.

"Keep that up and I'm calling the fucking cops."

"Now who needs to watch their language," You sneer, glaring at her until she goes back inside. You draw in a deep breath, keeping your focus just over Robby's shoulder.

"...Look," You say quietly, "I've got shit to do, so. You should go."

"Jesus fucking christ," Robby scoffs, turning and heading down the front walk. You force yourself inside, shutting and locking the door before sagging heavily against it, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. Your hand curls into a fist, and you just manage not to slam it against the wood grain. Hitting something won't solve anything. You have to start weeding through your living room for the things that you absolutely don't need—things that you can sell online, or just put out on the curb to get rid of.

Then you can go back to apartment hunting online, browse the internet, and see if you can google your way into figuring out where the hell you're going next. The house needs some work, there's no way it'll sell tomorrow—unless Robby decides he does want to buy.

The thought freezes you in your tracks on the way to the living room. You don't think...You'd asked, teased, but you'd been kidding—

"No. No," You mutter to yourself, shaking your head as you turn into the living room. There's no way he would do that. You have some books to sort through, then name-change paperwork to get rolling on, and then some apartment hunting as you passively watch House Hunters.

--

The call is atypical—has been for a couple of weeks now. Robby hasn't reached out since your blowout on the steps. No quick calls, no voice notes, no💡gracing your chats.

That's why seeing his name flash up on your screen in the middle of your nightly doom scroll catches you so off-guard. Your eyes dart to the time in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. It's late—but for all of your qualms about whatever the hell you and Robby are or aren't, for better or for worse, in sickness or in a health, for richer or for poorer, you still care about him.

You answer, raising the phone to your ear. It's quiet for a moment, and you hedge, "Robby?"

More silence—and then a sniffle.

You're throwing the covers off of yourself and getting out of bed before you can even think about it.

"Hang on, okay?" You yank your drawers open, grabbing the first pair of sweatpants and sweater that you see. "Give me twenty, I'll be right there. Do you wanna stay on with me?"

You tuck the phone between your shoulder and your ear, wiggling out of your pajama pants and tugging the sweatpants on.

"Michael? You've gotta talk to me, honey," You press when the quiet persists. You hear him draw in a deep breath, then push it out slowly.

"Okay," He finally mumbles.

"Okay what? Okay you want to stay on?"

"I'll see you in twenty minutes."

"You don't want me to stay on?"

"No. No. S'okay."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Okay I'll be there soon. I—" Love you. The words are automatic, but they clog in your throat, your fingers flexing around the phone. "I'll be there as soon as possible."

--

You're hardly across the threshold with the door shut and locked behind you before he's leaning into you, pressing his face into your neck and drawing in a tight, shaky breath. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, gently scrubbing your nails over his nape as he shakes.

You don't tell him to let it out, that you're there, that everything's going to be alright, that nothing's gonna hurt him. You learned a long time ago that Robby can dish platitudes, but he doesn't like to take them—and he's already been hurt so damn much. He needs someone to look at the walls that he builds up around himself and identify and patch leaks before the dam breaks. You knew it was work, at least—if one a friend or family member was sick or had passed, he would've told you over the phone.

His hands curl in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring tight; you feel his eyelashes fluttering, spreading warm tears against your skin. You let him stay there, your heart breaking with each soft sob and sniffle.

When he draws back, you let him. He doesn't go far, only lifting one of his hands from you to scrub at his eyes.

"Thought you said twenty minutes," He mumbles.

You frown, brow furrowing. "I did."

"It's only been ten. How many traffic laws did you break?"

"Let me and the speed cameras worry about that."

Robby pushes out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. You reach up, gently swiping away a few of his tears as you cup his cheeks. You let yourself search his weary face—his red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained face, quivering lips.

"What's going on, Mikey?" You press softly. His gaze drops to the floor, and you watch his shoulders tense. It's the first brick of a new wall—once he's all cried out, the dam needs to be rebuilt, maybe at double-time now that you're there. A wave of irritation is pushed down by petty attraction as his hands flex in the fabric your shirt. You expect him to tell you to forget it, that it was a lapse in judgement when he called you, that he's fine. You watch him wet his lips, see him open his mouth, and—

"Can you stay tonight?"

--

It's not an easy night of sleep for you. You have to stop yourself from fidgeting. You constantly find yourself in that hazy space between light sleep and wakefulness. Whenever Robby shifts, when he mumbles in his sleep, when his fingers skim along the strip of skin exposed between your borrowed pajama top and sweatpants, your heart beats double-time.

You're not entirely sure when you manage to drift off, or what exactly it is that wakes you up first—the sunlight creeping through the curtains, or the tender brush of Robby's lips against the underside of your jaw. You hum softly at the sensation, that way his beard prickles against your skin. You press up unthinkingly against his palm where it's anchored against your hip, keeping your body tucked tightly against his.

Your hand lifts sleepily, fingers sliding into his hair as the kisses lazily drift higher and higher. The tantalizing pressure of his teeth closing around your earlobe makes you pull in a soft, sleepy gasp, your thighs squeezing together beneath the sheets to quell the growing ache there. His answering hum sends a pulse of want through you—but it also wakes you up.

You push yourself to sit up, the speed of it knocking Robby's hand aside. You stare down a your lap as you try to sort through the mess of feelings twisting in your belly.

Robby's soft murmur of, "What is it?", the sleep-roughened timbre of his voice, does nothing to quiet your thoughts. You raise your hands, scrubbing at your eyes.

"Are you working today?" You ask.

"'No."

Considering the state he was in last night, that's for the best.

"Okay. Okay, good." You swallow thickly, looking around. You left your sweatshirt in the bathroom, didn't you? When you got changed—

You still as Robby's hand slides across your thighs, his face pressing into your hip. You bite the inside of your cheek, steeling yourself.

"I've gotta go." The words come out firmly, but you don't make a move.

"Can't stay for coffee?"

"No. No, I can't stay for coffee," You insist, forcing yourself from his hold as you slide out of bed, "And I can't keep doing this."

"Can't keep doing what?"

"This!" You wave toward him as he sits up. "This one-leg-in-one-leg-out shit! Things need to change, Robby. It's gonna suck for a little while, but—"

"Is that what this move about?"

"Yes! Not—I mean, partially, yeah. I need to sort out my shit, I have to remember who I am without you and I don't think I can do that here. Not when we're both a phone call away."

You bite your lip as Robby dips his head, scrubbing his palms over the back of his neck.

"Besides," You push on, "You're—You've moved on, so. I think it's about I do, too."

"Moved on?" He laughs derisively. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

You fix him with a stern look. "I saw the perfume last time I was here, Michael. Look, it's fine—" Even though it most certainly does not feel fine—"And expected, we're divorced, but—" You falter as Robby yanks open the bedside drawer, drawing out something and tossing it to you. You fumble to catch it, and your stomach churns when you realize it's the same perfume bottle from the bathroom.

"Michael, I said—"

"Look at the bottom."

You frown, tipping the bottom as he says, and going still when you see the familiar, half-torn, half-faded Christmas label. It had been one of your worst Christmases together—Robby had been working overtime, and had been so tired when he'd tried to wrap presents that he'd wound up sticking labels on the wrong side of half of your gifts.

You run your thumb across the adhesive, shaking your head.

"I don't understand."

"It got packed up with my things when I moved. I kept meaning to give it back, but I kept forgetting, and then it got further away, and—" He draws in a deep breath. "And then when I stayed the night, a few weeks ago—and I slept better than I have in months. I tried to convince myself it was the scent of you on the sheets that I needed, tried spraying it on the pillows but it isn't enough." He shakes his head, dark tired eyes flitting to your face. "It's you."

Your heart skips a beat, and your fingers tighten around the bottle as tears prickle at your eyes. You lower yourself to the edge of the bed, pulling in a deep, shaky breath. You hear the rustle of the sheets as Robby shifts, coming closer.

"...You still want me to stay for coffee?" You hedge.

"I want you to stay for a lot more than that."

You tip your head to the side, warily meeting his eye, and finding an almost boyish smile on his face.

"...Robby," You sigh, setting the bottle on the bed. "I mean it, I can't...I can't survive in this emotional purgatory. I'm tired of tying myself up in knots trying to figure out what the hell you're thinking—And it's not so easy as just being more open with communication," You warn as he lowers his head. "We've got...Stuff. We know one another so well but we still get tripped up by this shit."

"I know." Robby reaches out, taking one of your hands between his. "But I also know that when I needed someone last night, the only person I thought to call was you."

"Because you knew I'd answer?"

"Because even if you didn't, I could still listen to your message. I could still hear your voice." His own breaks with the admission. "I need you. And I've missed the hell out of you."

You reach up with your free hand, gently stroking across his cheek.

"I've missed you, too," You murmur, "You grumpy old man."

He splutters a laugh, and you smile, relaxing as Robby raises your hand and presses a gentle kiss to the back of it.

"Whatever you decide, I can't stop you—I won't," Robby clarifies, "But...Cards on the table: I don't want you to leave."

You nod a little. "Cards on the table: I'm not so sure I want to leave either. And—" You reach up, running your fingers over his nape before giving it a gentle tug. "You still need a haircut."

--

"Okay! So I know what I read on the intake form, but I'd like to hear it in your own words from the two of you: What brings you to marriage counseling today?"

You hesitate, eyeing Robby on the other end of the couch. He gestures forward, softly urges, "Please."

"Well, this might be a bit unorthodox. " You shift in your seat, "Robby—Michael," You correct, "And I are divorced. Have been for a while now. But we've been talking a lost more lately, and the lines between our relationship have...Never felt more blurred than they do now."

"Would you say that's an accurate assessment, Michael?" The counselor prods, and he gives a nod.

"Yeah, I'd say that's pretty accurate."

"What would you say has been your biggest stumbling block throughout the relationship?"

"Communication."

The two of you manage it in unison, and it takes everything in you not to burst out laughing at the stunned look on the counselor's face.

"I promise we didn't practice that."

"Well," She chuckles, leaning back in her seat. "In some aspects, the two of you are seem to still be in sync. Why don't you tell me a little about how the two of you met?"

--

"I didn't think we'd get homework," You grumble, stepping outside.

"It's all part of the process."

"Yeah, but week one? Harsh." You tuck your hands into your pockets, glancing up the block. "You headed to the Pitt?"

"Yep. Shift starts in half an hour."

"Alright. Be careful, huh?"

"Always am." Robby glances back toward the doorway. "It's gonna be weird, not talking to you until next week."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," You fidget, shifting from foot to foot. "But honestly, if something happens at work and you need to—You know." You lean in a little, fake-whispering, "We could just lie."

He grins, taking a step closer. "Oh, no. We're doing this right."

"Such a stickler."

Before you can argue further, Robby cups your cheeks, drawing you in for a soft kiss. You hum against his lips, raising your hands and grasping his hoodie. You should lean away sooner than you do, but for you a few moments, you can't bring yourself to care that you're standing in the middle of the block in broad daylight, right outside the marriage counselor's office. But hey, maybe it's a good look. The sight of a kissing could could give off a good impression, drum some business up for her. Really, you're doing her a favor.

You lean away, letting your eyes slip closed again as Robby tips his chin up, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Seriously, though," You murmur. "If you really need—"

"I know."

"Okay." You nod, finally letting go and giving his chest a teasing push. "Have a good shift, Dr. Robinavitch."

He takes two steps back down the block, eyes still fixed on you as a warm smile grows on his face.

"I'll see you next week, Mrs. Robinavitch."

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[ashxllbey]

the suffering never ends

[ashxllbey]

Death - (2025)

I know that Death doesn't look like this in Supernatural but I loved the idea of Death looking like a more "traditional" Grim Reaper in this art.

[ashxllbey]

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 5

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: Ready for an angsty-fun filled finale? 😘💖

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: “The Very Thought of You” by Tony Bennett

Word Count: 6.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, tense situations, protective Dean, hurt/comfort, fluff, and spice.~

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🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 5: Dried Ink

Dean slammed the payphone back on the hook in frustration. He’d tried calling twice from the train station and couldn’t get you at home. It was getting late in the evening and he knew you were off work already. Where the hell did you go?

“She could’ve packed up and left him already,” Sam said. “I gave her the number of a decent hotel I know over in the Village.”

Dean reluctantly stepped aside for the next person waiting to use the phone. The sound of his train clicking by fast on the tracks echoed in the station. A gust of wind shoved at the brothers' backs, ruffling their long coats, as well as Sam's hair.

“You think she did it that quick?” Dean asked.

“One way to find out,” Sam said. “Come on. I’ve got my car waiting.”

It was so very strange to watch the bellman bring your suitcases inside your new room. You’d only ever stayed in a hotel once, for your honeymoon in Philadelphia. Michael took you to the Walnut Street Theater there, and among other things, to see the Liberty Bell. It had reminded both of you about the true cost of freedom.

You let that thought slip away from you with a shake of your head as you started unpacking, hesitantly at first. It almost didn’t feel real.

Fortunately, after sampling from a bottle of scotch you’d found under Michael’s side of the bed (and slipped into your suitcase), you began to settle into the idea. You took a break from hanging up your dresses in the closet to peer out the window to the narrow, busy streets below the fifth floor. Everything looked so small down there, so far away. In time, maybe the heaviness in your heart would feel that far away too.

Except the loud, insistent knock on the door broke you out of your thoughts. Straightening up with a frown, you set down your glass and went over to the door. It could be Housekeeping coming up to bring you the fresh towels you asked for. The ones that had been laid out in the bathroom smelled musty.

You opened the door to a tall frame taking up room in the doorway. It was Michael, standing there disheveled and steaming mad. He held your letter crumpled in his left hand. 

“Michael, what—what’re you doing here?” you gasped and stepped back. He followed you inside the room and slammed it shut. He looked around at your open suitcases in disbelief, then finally at you.

“What’s this supposed to mean, huh?” he demanded to know. He shook the flimsy piece of paper at you. “I come home with flowers, two tickets to see a show, ready to take my wife out to dinner, only to find the apartment half empty. Not to mention a letter that…frankly, cut me to down to the core.”

His anger lessened then, turning into dismay; the kind that you never would have expected to see in his eyes. Not after how he’d been acting for the past few months. He came closer and grabbed hold of you by the shoulders. When you tensed and expelled a shaky breath, he blinked in surprise.

“Darling, are you…you scared of me or something?” he asked incredulously. “I know I’ve been working late, not coming home when I say I will sometimes, but have I ever raised a hand to you? Not even once, right?”

You drew enough courage to meet his eyes, so blue, for once so earnest. It made you sick. Because the man he was when he was sober was more like the one you married. Only, you felt the true version of him was more akin to a sleeping dragon, lying in wait to be provoked.

“Neither of us have to lie anymore and pretend this is a marriage. At least, not one worth saving,” you said. “I know, Michael. I know about Dolores…or should I say, Joanna.”

Michael paused. His head cocked as disbelief crossed his features. He stared down at you almost without blinking.

“Did you know her real name was Joanna Johnson?” you asked. “Ring any bells with Brady Johnson, the man you’ve been paying to keep her company?”

Michael frowned. “He’s her brother. He pays her bills—”

“No,” you shook your head. “Look in the folder sitting on the coffee table there.”

You gestured over to it with a nod of your head. Michael was drawn to the path of your gaze. When his morbid curiosity was too much, he finally let go of you to investigate the folder in question. You released a subtle sigh of relief. You began drifting over behind the couch and closer to the landline phone. It rested on a nearby accent table.   

Meanwhile, Michael sorted through the contents of the folder and all the information Sam had gathered for you. He’d made copies of all the evidence for your personal records, including the photos he took of Michael and Dolores.

“Her maiden name is Joanna Beth Harvell,” you revealed. “Brady Johnson isn’t her brother, Michael. You’ve been paying to sleep with another man’s wife.”

No one short of Clark Gable could fake the jolt of shock that crossed Michael’s face. You saw the truth of it in his eyes when he glanced up at you.

“I don’t know why it should bother you, seeing as you don’t seem to care much about wedding vows,” you couldn’t help but snark. You were no longer all that sad though. Somehow, that pitiful look on his face made you feel sorry for him.

Michael seemed to have swallowed his tongue. For a while, he couldn’t dislodge it from the roof of his mouth to speak. But when he did, it wasn’t with anything good to say.

“How did you get all this?” he asked.

Your spine stiffened. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over, Michael. I can’t do this anymore. You should be getting the divorce papers served to you by the morning—”

Your words were cut off when he rounded the corner of the couch, grabbing you by the arms again. This time, his grip was much firmer and made you gasp.

“What the hell is going on? Have you been spying on me?!” he raised his voice to new heights, shaking you once by your shoulders. “How long have you been planning to leave me?”

The words became choked in your throat along with your fear—one that paralyzed you, and made you feel sick with yourself, small and weak.

The door bursting open again startled you both, but it was Michael who grunted when he was heaved off of you by his shirt and waistcoat.

You stumbled and braced yourself against the back of the couch, but your widened eyes fell on the one man you never thought you’d see again.

“Dean,” you breathed.

He spared you a look of concern through his anger, but Michael soon commanded his attention by trying to break his hold. Dean reeled back his arm and delivered a solid punch that knocked the other man into the wall. Michael leaned heavily against it to keep himself upright, and he had to blink a few spots out of his eyes, not only grimacing at the ache in his cheek. That one blow had rattled through his skull, disturbing old injuries. He glared over at Dean.

“Who the hell are you?” Michael shouted. His shock only increased when he noticed Sam Winchester shutting the hotel room door behind him. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m her lawyer, Mr. Milligan, and you’re hereby served,” Sam said.

He strode forward with a packet of papers. Michael took a purposeful step towards him, but Dean shoved Michael back against the wall. It allowed Sam to place the packet in Michael’s disbelieving hand.

Dean went over to you then, giving you a meaningful once-over as you held yourself. He softened when he saw the tears in your eyes.

“You all right?” he said quietly, laying a hand on the small of your back. You still couldn’t quite speak, but you nodded at him gratefully, tucking a wily strand of hair behind your ear.

Michael took notice of it once he peeled his eyes from the divorce papers, and up at you and Dean. Michael’s lips pursed as his posture became even more tense and irate.

“I’m not signing this,” he said, tossing the folder onto the coffee table beside the evidence of his infidelity. He met your wary gaze. “Look, I’m not saying I’ve been a perfect husband, but you’re my wife. That still means something to me. We can…we can still work this out.”

Against your will, hot tears burned in your eyes, and your mouth trembled. The men watched you closely.

You shook your head.

“No. We can’t,” you said. “You’re not the man I thought I married.”

In those blue eyes, you thought you saw the shine of a breaking heart. But all too quickly, it turned into anger and denial. Michael meant to cross the narrow distance between you with a threat on his mind and tight coiling of his entire frame. Dean’s hand slid from your back as he stepped in between, fisting a hand in the other man’s dress shirt and pressing there hard.

“You take your hands off me before I tear you apart,” Michael hissed.

Dean’s face was full of cold fire, with a threat thinly veiled underneath. “Lay another hand on her, and I’ll break every bone you got left.”

“Dean,” you gasped, reaching out for him. His backward glance at you warned you to stay where you were.

Michael became even more incensed. Again, he was noticing the familiarity between you and this man invading his space, threatening him, and standing between him and his wife. Before he could open his mouth to protest, Sam finally spoke up again.

“If you don’t take that file and leave now, peacefully, then this isn’t the only one of your affairs that’s going to come to light,” Sam said.

Michael hesitated. He glanced over at Sam with an angry raise of his brow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know very well what it means,” Sam replied. He picked up the folder of evidence he gave you and slipped out a few documents that highlighted an audit of Milligan Meats.

“How does a family business stay so incredibly lucrative during one of the worst times for meat production since the Depression?” Sam wondered aloud. “Maybe it has something to do with those connections you made in Philadelphia, greasing hands like Vondich, from Pittsburg. Or accepting kickbacks from the Torelli family to stock their restaurants with higher quality beef. Who knew that your father had deep, shall we say intimate ties, to one of the biggest mafia families in New York City?”

Once Sam showed the numbers and records, written in Michael’s own painstaking hand, your husband’s face went ashen.

“How did you get this?” he said. Then, as it dawned on him, he looked over at you in betrayal. You hadn’t known about the Torellis, but Sam had been able to sort the last five years of audits for himself, thanks to your investigation of Michael’s office.

“I did my own digging, Mr. Milligan,” Sam said, earning back his attention. “Your wife’s only part in this was asking for my help in securing her divorce. As you can see, I’m very thorough. And these aren’t my only copies of this information. I’m fully prepared to take it to the authorities, today.”

His lie was to protect you, just as much as Dean physically putting himself between you and Michael was. You didn’t know if Michael entirely bought the lie, but eventually, his shoulders sagged in defeat.

He grabbed the papers from Sam’s hand, pivoted on his heel, and turned to leave. However, Michael stopped at the doorway to look back at you.

“This is really what you want?” he asked.

You nodded. “You know it is.”

With that confirmation, Michael took his heavy heart with him when he left.

Sam and Dean helped you repack your things. Neither of them trusted Michael to leave you alone now that he knew where you were. You didn’t want to make such a fuss, but they insisted on helping to put you up at a different hotel across town.

Sam took half of your belongings in his car, where he also had Dean’s one and only suitcase. Dean loaded the rest of your luggage in a taxicab and sat beside you, mostly staring out the window while he smoked. During the ride, you couldn’t help but glance at him every so often. You noted his profile, handsome as always, except now you couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking.

“Dean,” you said quietly. It earned you his attention, as his eyes roamed over you from your familiar beige jacket to your favorite burgundy lipstick.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I am,” you nodded, giving him a small smile. “Thank you.”

You tried to convey deeper things with your words, and you thought Dean read your meaning. He hesitated for a moment, but he took up your hand and pressed a kiss to your fingers.

“Sam’s gonna keep watching out for you, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything,” he said.

Your smile fell. “You’re still going back to Kansas?”

Dean held your gaze for a long moment, and let out a breath through his nose.

“Nothing’s changed, sweetheart. I’m still a man with a lot to make of himself, and you’re still a married woman, even without the ring,” he said, gesturing to your left hand held in his. “It’s not the right time for us…and I’m not asking you to wait for me to get my act together. It’s not fair to you.”

You were quiet for a while. The cab’s tires continued rolling over bits of gravel in the street, the honking horns and other pocketed sounds of the city falling into a background symphony. You glanced up at Dean, meeting his eyes once more.

“I don’t regret anything,” you told him, squeezing his hand. “I could never.”

The corner of his lips quirked upwards. “Me either, baby. Not for all the world.” 

He held your hand until the taxi stopped in front of the hotel. Dean leaned over to open the door. He helped you out of the car, but there, he let you go.

You supposed you’d have to be strong enough to walk alone this time.

March 1946

Four months later, it was official. 

Oh, Michael sure made it difficult. Sam did make a point to keep an eye on you though. He even hired a client and friend, Benny Lafitte, to accompany you to and from work every day. The burly man was an intimidating presence, but he was kind and respectful. He made you feel safer, especially in the evenings when he kept watch of your apartment for a while, sat out front in his car.

Michael was tenacious. He likely used his connections through town, however nefarious they might be, to find out where you were staying again. He continued to show up outside your hotel room. 

Nonetheless, when he sat up against your door all night and realized that you wouldn’t budge, the anger finally drained out of Michael. The exhaustion and guilt set in, perhaps not for the first time. 

Then, he drunkenly apologized through the closed door, not knowing you were leaning in on the other side of it. It wasn’t the kind of apology that meant anything, you thought, but the kind that meant to let him save face in your eyes, to persuade you into softening. 

You didn’t soften, even though he tried everything to get you to reconsider. He tried gentle words and grandiose gestures, even so far as getting down on his knees outside the door and begging—something you’d never seen him do, not once. Part of you wanted to open the door just an inch if it allowed you to see that sight.

Your tears came, but not because your heart was easing up to him. Your heart was breaking again, knowing this was the end. 

He tried reminding you of how difficult it would be for you afterwards, how it might affect your family, your job, everyone’s perception of you. More importantly to him, it would affect how people saw him, a man divorced after barely a year. 

Somehow, you found the strength to speak to him slowly from inside the door. 

“It’s already done, Michael. And so am I,” you said. “After I saw you and Dolores together with my own eyes, I…I was intimate with another man. I didn’t do it to hurt you, but I still did it.”

His silence was deafening. Not being able to see him actually made this easier though. You sighed.

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t go back to us,” you said, “because that would be a lie.”

You couldn’t see it, but his face tightened as angry tears filled his eyes. He felt the weight of his decisions like never before, along with a pulsing, phantom pain in his skull that alcohol could no longer dull. Dimly, he remembered the man he used to be, before. He remembered having a shred of honor to his name, even before he married you. And he did that because he’d loved you. He was sure that he had, somehow…

“I am sorry, darling,” he croaked. “You have to know…”

You nodded, taking a breath to try and steady yourself. 

“I know,” you realized. As much as he was able to be, he was sorry.

He picked himself up from outside your door and walked away. He never returned after that.

In those four months, you resolved to move back to Sioux Falls. New York had become your home in the past year and a half you’d lived here, but it wasn’t who you were. You wanted a quieter life. A more peaceful life. 

You initially agreed to move to the city with Michael because you had wanted to please him, and make his transition back to civilian life easier in his familiar surroundings. You thought the two of you were building a life together.

New York City was still a heartbeat of a world, but it was no longer in your heart. 

Now, you were finishing up on packing your things at the hotel. You left for South Dakota tomorrow, and you already sent your last payment to Sam Winchester a few days ago, along with a handwritten letter thanking him for his help. You felt badly for not going to visit his office in person, but it would be too hard. You would be too tempted to ask about his brother. 

Dean.

Just the thought of his name made your heart constrict. You weren’t sure if it was only with pain, though you hoped he was doing well. You tried to remember that you had known him for barely a week. Your mind and your heart shouldn't be so taken up with him.

And yet.

He had seen you at your lowest, belly-to-the-ground low. He had brushed away your tears and hadn’t tried to flatter you with pretty words. He’d made you feel better with simple, raw honesty.

He gave you a window into his past, even though a soldier like him wouldn’t easily pry himself open for anyone, short of his own brother, you suspected. So you’d come to realize, whenever the memory of him greeted you after that day in the park, that he’d given you something special. Perhaps the best night of your life.

Your fingers paused on the brass doorknob to what had been your bedroom for the past few months. It was a modest one, complete with a kitchen and a small two-seater sofa.

Hotels were expensive, but your parents had been kind enough to send you some money to help you. They’d been dismayed to learn of the reasons behind your divorce, of course. They both had been against it at first, but when they heard your voice over the phone, along with the full story, they finally agreed to support you in what way they could, especially by welcoming you back home.

You were looking forward to seeing them. It had only been a couple of months since they’d come to the city for Christmas, but you were ready to go home to some familiarity, and to your family’s support. 

You shook your head to get yourself unstuck from all of that. You straightened the wrinkles out of your long skirt and adjusted the collar of your blouse. You had just come home from your last day of work not too long ago, so you supposed you would take a bath and get changed into something more comfortable before you finished packing. Your train left tomorrow, early in the morning.  

You were about to head into the bathroom when you heard a knock at the door. Frowning, you wondered who it could be. If it was Michael again, you were not opening the door, and you’d call the police for good measure if he stuck around. You were done entertaining him in every sense of the word. 

You went to the door and looked into the peephole. Your brows furrowed. You unlatched all three locks on the door and opened it to the room service maid.

“Hi, Bridget, how are you?” you greeted her.

“Oh, I’m doing well, ma’am. Sorry, I’m a bit behind today, but I’m here to clean the room.”

“Oh, well, now isn’t really a good time,” you said. You had duffel bags and suitcases open, with your clothes, a curling iron, and other things thrown about. Not to mention, you had a leftover sandwich sitting half-eaten on the dining table with a nearly empty bag of chips.

“I’m afraid I can’t come back later,” said Bridget. She tended to talk with her hands, made more interesting by the fact that she held a broom with one hand, and pulled her cleaning cart with the other. “It’ll be too late, and then you’ll be asleep!”

“Look, I’ll just clean tonight, and you can come back tomorrow after I leave. How does that sound?” you suggested.

“All right, if that’s how you want it,” Bridget said with a shrug. She threw her broom on the cart and started pushing it down the hall. She still called back to you over her shoulder, “Goodnight, ma’am! Safe travels for your trip home.”

You shook your head with a weary smile. “Thank you. Goodnight!”

You closed the door behind you and reset all the locks in place. Releasing a heavy sigh, you supposed you should get back to packing. You turned to do just that, when there came another knock on the door. This time it was a heavier sound.

“For God’s sake. What is it now?” you groused.

You went back to look into the peephole. This time, your mouth fell open in a gasp. You undid all the locks again with shaking hands, and you opened the door. There stood Dean Winchester. 

He looked nice. Dapper really, wearing a dark blue suit and tie over a crisp white shirt and blue waistcoat underneath. His hair was combed and gelled and parted to the right, and he smelled faintly of a woodsy cologne.

He also looked just as stricken to see you. His eyes were as green as you remembered, and they took in your form from head to toe. They returned to your face, softening slightly, and he smiled. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

God, his voice. It threatened to make you weak. 

You shook your head and managed to smile back at him. “What’re you doing here?”

He chuckled. “Well, that’s some welcome.”

“You know what I mean.” You reached out for him, and he took your hand, raising the back of it to his lips in a kiss. All the while, his eyes never left you. Your face flushed hotly, your heartbeat leaping in and out of rhythm. 

“I’m here to see you,” he said, matter of factly. As if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Your mouth ran dry. It was difficult to form words, but somehow you managed it.

“Would…would you like to come in then?” you offered. 

“I’d like nothing more,” he replied. 

The depths in his words made a tingle run down your spine, though you tried to hide your reaction to it. You let him in and shut the door behind you both. 

“So you’re headed home, huh?” he asked. He was sitting next to you on the couch with a soda you procured for him, and a cigarette in hand, yet to be lit. 

“Did Sam tell you?” you asked. 

Dean nodded, smiling ruefully. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

You ducked your head, a bit embarrassed. He tossed his unlit cigarette on the coffee table and tucked a finger under your chin. He raised your head until you met his eyes. 

“There she is,” he said softly. 

You sucked in a breath laden with emotion. Tears welled up in your eyes. 

“Why are you here, Dean?”

“I think you know,” he said, his thumb brushing your cheek. 

“I think you need to say it,” you replied, daring him with the directness of your gaze. His hand fell away from your chin, just to cup your cheek as he moved closer. You grabbed onto his arm in reflex.

“I told you, I had to see you,” he admitted. 

“Why? Why now?” you asked. “After what you said last time… For goodness’ sake, Dean. Why wait until I’m about to leave?”

“Because,” Dean said. He took a subtle breath, making himself relax. “Because I had to sort myself out, and I had to wait until the ink dried on those damn divorce papers. Because if I’d come any sooner, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”

Hope dared to rise high in your throat. Your eyes flit over his face, and finally met his.

“From what?” you whispered.

Dean tilted his head to consider it. He bit into his lip, and then, he made a choice.

He kissed you with abandon. He kept kissing you, stealing your breath, finding new angles to devour you with. He robbed you of any coherent thought in your head the moment his tongue breached your lips to curl against yours. It was all you could do to keep up with him, but you grabbed onto his jacket and made indents in the fabric with your nails. His hands moved down your body to squeeze your waist, pulling you flush against him. You moaned into his mouth.

“Dean,” you said, half on a gasp, half on a whimper.

He managed to slow down for a moment. His hand came up to pet your hair.

“No matter what the hell I do, I’m selfish. I just…I can’t let you go,” he said, with furrowed brows.

You shook your head in dismay. “You didn’t need to, you know. I wouldn’t have let you take me home that night if I didn’t think you were a good man…and I certainly wouldn’t have invited you in.”

Your lips tugged at a smile, making Dean smirk as well. That memory had stayed with him too, usually on long nights alone in his house. He tried to remember the sweet smell of your perfume, the feeling of your soft skin, the sound of your pretty moans in his ear. Even now, the thought stirred the well of arousal inside him.

But also, there were other things he missed, like the sight of your smile, your sweeter voice, somehow gentle and strong all at once. He shook his head, thumbing at your cheek.

“The truth is, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since the day I met you,” he said. “I’m pretty sure that means I love you.”

Your eyes blinked wide at him in shock. His face was steady and even, but his amusement was starting to peek through the longer he looked at you.   

“Pretty sure?” you asked breathlessly. 

“Well, I’m willing to be more definitive on the subject if you are,” he teased. 

You fought a smile, but you couldn’t quite help it. Still, doubt began to creep in from behind.

“I want to believe you,” you said quietly. “But part of me is afraid that these are all just pretty words. If I let another man—”

“I’m not another man,” Dean said. His tone was firm, but also imploring, willing you to hear him. He gave your waist a gentle squeeze. “I’m me and you’re you. It’s not about Michael, or anyone else right now but us. And you’ve gotta know…sweetheart, you’ve gotta know that I’m not him.”

You tried steadying yourself with a breath. Your watery gaze cut away from Dean, but he wouldn’t let you hide. He gently brought you back, once again guiding your chin. He swept the lone tear from your cheek.

“Please, just tell me the honest truth. Tell me how you feel about us, and I promise, I won’t take it for granted,” he said. He knew he was practically begging, sounding almost needy and weak, but he couldn’t walk away from you again. Not until he knew for sure what you could want from him…what you could want with him.

The seconds of waiting for your answer were more agonizing than the long hours he spent traveling back to New York.

Until finally, you spared him. You shook your head and raised a hand to caress his cheek, your thumb brushing over his plush lower lip.

“After you left, I thought about you every morning when I woke up. And I prayed for you every night before I went to sleep,” you said. “I’m pretty sure that means I love you too.”

Dean smiled. It was a soft, boyish smile that seemed too young for his face. You loved him all the more for it.

He leaned in…but he hesitated, stopping just shy of your lips.

“Look, I still don’t know if I can be the man you need,” he said. He looked into your eyes. “But I can promise to try, every day, and for the rest of our lives.”

Hot tears once again stung in your eyes, threatening to blur your vision.

“That’s all I could ask for, Dean,” you replied. “I’ll try for you too.”

He smiled slightly, holding you a little closer by your waist.

“Good, because my shoulder still hurts sometimes. Gonna need you to work another miracle or two.”

You laughed and nodded, your hand sliding back up his arm to rub the old injury in his shoulder.

“My specialty,” you teased.

His smile dimmed then, becoming a touch serious, and even rueful.

“And, uh…I don’t sleep so well at times, either,” he said.

You sobered as well. “Me too,” you said. Your lips hinted at a smile again. “But we can keep each other company.”

Dean read the thread of suggestion in your eyes, despite the hint of shyness. His smile began to perk up again.

“I can also be kind of stubborn,” he admitted.

Amused, you tilted your head and ran a gentle hand over his chest. Was he giving you every reason you might say no to him?

“Well, I’m sure I can find a way to soften you up,” you said.

Chuckling, Dean took your hand and pressed a kiss into your palm. “Oh, I got no doubts about that, sweetheart.”

He rested your hand back on his chest and thought for a moment more. You just waited for him, patiently stroking his hand with your thumb. You had time to wait.

“You know, I occasionally like to cook too,” he said, with something of an embarrassed chuckle.

Your smile brightened with interest. “Really? Well,” you said, slipping your hand out of his and winding your arms around his neck. “We can take turns feeding each other then.”

Dean really liked the way your mind worked. His hands splayed along your lower back and brought you more flush against his chest. Your face was mere inches from his, tilted up to him in waiting.

Again, he stopped short of kissing you.

“Ah, there’s probably a lot more you should know, but this one’s kind of a big one,” Dean said. That serious tone crept back up in his voice. “I’ve got a plan to make money. It’s not a sure-fire thing, but it’s an honest one. And even if it doesn’t work, I’ll just try something else. I’ll do whatever it takes to take care of you. You don’t gotta worry about anything, okay?”

You smiled at his earnestness. What surprised you most of all was that you believed him. Every word. Because you could see it in the deep green of his eyes. If you trusted him, he wouldn’t let you down. Or at least, he would try his hardest. Try really was all you could ask for.

“Then I’ll take care of you too,” you nodded, stroking his cheek.

Dean’s smile rang true as well.

He finally kissed you again, trapping you thereafter against the sofa.

You sighed and nuzzled your head in a more comfortable position on Dean’s shoulder. The train bound for South Dakota was travelling full speed ahead, four days after your initially booked ticket. The carriage bumped and jostled you both at times, but you felt nothing but peace. 

Dean turned his attention towards you, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. His fingers entwined with yours in his lap. 

“Comfortable?” he asked, both genuine and a little teasing. 

“Mhmm,” you nodded. Your eyes closed as you let out a breath. He smiled into your hair. 

“So what’s it like in Sioux Falls?” he asked quietly, as to not disturb you too much. He just wanted to keep hearing your voice. He’d missed it. He’d missed you. 

“Quieter than the city,” you replied, after a moment to think about it. “Slower, but in some ways nicer. I think you’ll like it more than New York, anyway, and I think my parents will like you too…if they don’t think too much less of me.”

“Why would they think less of you?” Dean asked. 

You picked your head up and looked up at him a bit bashfully. You raised up your joined hands, where his mother’s wedding bands now rested on your ring finger. 

“For marrying another man they’ve never met, scarcely two minutes after the ink dried, so to speak,” you said, using his words. 

Dean chuckled, and he wrapped you up more snugly against him and rubbed your back. If you wanted to get technical, the new marriage license was the most recent “ink” to be penned. Sam had been your witness, of course, and he’d hugged you both afterwards. For Dean, Sam’s hug was tight and bracing. 

“I’m happy for you, Dean. I’m always here for you. Anything you need.”

“That’s my line, little brother.”

Dean hadn’t known that the two of you needed to take a blood test just to get hitched, let alone that the license wouldn’t be valid for 72 hours. Though it did give you and Dean the opportunity to put your hotel room to good use for those three days. Call it a honeymoon before the honeymoon. 

(In fairness, you’d tried to hold out for decency’s sake, but your resolve dissipated even quicker than Dean’s.)

“Don’t worry, I’ll charm ‘em,” he said with a grin. 

You snorted. “Good luck with my father. Be prepared for his grilling. Where do you plan to live? What’re you doing for work?”

“Well, the first one we can talk about. The second one, I’ve already got an idea,” said Dean. “I wanted to wait until I saw you again to decide…but I plan to sell the house in Lawrence.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Really? Why?”

You had already been mentally preparing yourself for a move to Kansas after visiting your parents. You never considered that Dean would want to sell his family home.

“For the money. I’m thinking that after all this, you want to stick closer to home, be near your family,” he said. “I’ve got nothing tying me down over there besides the house, so I figure we can use the money to buy one here. With whatever’s left, I could try to start an auto repair shop. Nothing big to start. Just a space big enough for the work. I’m not picky about it. Your uncle could send me the stragglers from his tows, if he’s agreeable to it.”

“After he gets to know you, I don’t see why not. Dean, that’s a great idea and…thank you,” you replied. Your heart was touched that he would sell his family home, just so you could be near your family. You squeezed his hand and blinked past the tears beginning to burn in your eyes.

“Really, you don’t know what it means to me that you’d consider me like that.”

Dean noticed you getting worked up. He stroked the back of your hand with his thumb, though part of him felt a bit bashful. 

“It’s not all that special,” he said. You didn’t budge, however. 

“Yes, it is,” you said. You leaned up, wordlessly requesting a kiss. Dean obliged you. He kissed you long and slow and tender. 

He broke away after a while, just to look over your shoulder. He smiled. Then he leaned forward, careful to keep you secure in his arms as he locked the door. 

“What’re you up to?” you asked in amusement, despite the fire churning inside you.

“It’s a long way to the Midwest, sweetheart. I’m taking advantage of it,” he said. “What do you say?”

A knowing smile began to tug at your lips. “Hmm, depends on what you want to do.”

Dean shifted you onto his lap. Smirking at your small sound of surprise, he made a show of undoing every button that laced down the front of your dress with slow precision. Your breathing shallowed as you watched his nimble hand go one by one. 

“I plan to take my time,” he said. “I plan to make us both glad this train is loud enough to drown out just about anything.” 

He laid a kiss just above your neckline. The more buttons he loosened, the more bare skin he had to trail his affections, like on the tops of your breasts, and another kiss in between them. Uttering a soft sigh, you held him to you by his hair and threaded your fingers through the brown strands. His other hand squeezed your bottom, earning a stifled giggle from you. 

“I plan to map out every part of you, all over again,” he said, “until I can see it all with my eyes closed. Until we’re both sweaty and satisfied.” 

He raised his head just to mark a biting, claiming kiss on your throat, making your breath hitch. 

“That okay with you, baby?” he asked again. 

You felt his growing smile against your skin. You tightened a hand in his hair in retaliation. It was a scandalous proposal, not to mention risky. You two could be booted off the train, for heaven’s sake…  

Your breaths were shallow as he slipped a hand under the collar of your blouse, even under the bra to palm at your breast.

“You better not stop, Sergeant,” you whispered. 

When he chuckled, you felt it deep in your chest.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, shortly before he claimed your lips again.

The train rode on.

AN: I promised a happy ending, didn't I? 😉✨ What did you think of the "end" of Michael, as well as how she and Dean worked things out? I absolutely loved working on this series and this AU world. Maybe I'll do another '40s AU in the future! 💖

But until then, I have lots of fun things coming up! You'll hear about the next story soon. 😘

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[ashxllbey]

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 4

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: Now we get into the aftermath of the night before, with all the insecurity and heartbreak to go along with it. 💙

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: “Danke Shoen” by Wayne Newton

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: Mentions of cheating, angsty angst, trauma/PTSD, and a cliffhanger…

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Part 4: Complicit

Sam would give Michael one thing. The guy damn well knew how to drink.

He didn’t stop all night, throwing back whiskey like it was cheap beer. His words began to slur, his movements sloppy, but he was still coherent. When he got up to visit the men’s restroom, Sam got up as well. Maybe he could get Michael talking.

Sam stopped the other man from tripping into the urinal. The two laughed it off, with Michael thanking him before he unzipped to finish his business. Sam did the same.

After washing their hands, Sam looked over and noticed Michael’s gaze lingering on his own reflection in the mirror. It was becoming a rough sight—his blonde hair no longer neatly coiffed, purplish rings under his eyes, the stench of alcohol clinging to his skin and clothing.

“You all right there, Milligan?” Sam asked.

Michael ran a hand over his face, sighing when it didn’t get any better.

“Fine,” he replied. “So, Winchester. What did you say you do for work again? Something about your own business?”

Sam nodded. “I started up a law firm.”

That much, he had to be honest about. It was all too easy for someone to look up his name in the directory.

“Sounds like a good outfit,” Michael said, with an incline of his head. “Every lawyer I know wears a Rolex.”

Sam chuckled, glancing down at his father’s watch. “Well, I’m not quite there yet.”

“Someday soon, I’m sure,” said Michael. He bumped Sam conspiringly on the shoulder.

“And you?” Sam asked. “What’s keeping the lights on at your place?”

Michael raised a hand to sort through his unruly hair, a dirtier blonde in this unflattering light.

“Well, you could say I’ve inherited a business of my own,” he said. “I run a meat packing plant down in the district.”

Sam’s attention piqued. There had been a meat rationing during the war, even some rumors and propaganda about “meatleggers,” black market operators.

“How’s it been with the rations?” Sam asked. “Been hard to even find a good carton of eggs lately.”

Michael gave him a slight smile. “Been on the turnaround, actually. I’ve been able to make some connections with vendors outside the city. A little grease on the palms makes a little go a long way, if you catch my drift.”

Sam slowly smiled and nodded. A little grease on the palms, huh?

“Do what you gotta do in the times, ‘s what I say,” Sam agreed.

Michael snorted. “Now you’re talkin’. That’s all we can do, you know. Try to make a thing work, with whatever scraps we get. Try to stay afloat.”

“Try to stay alive,” Sam rejoined.

Michael made a low sound of approval. He became more contemplative, crossing his arms as he once again glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Sam’s gaze on the other man was perceptive, gaining ever closer to what seemed to be eating at the very core of him. Whether Sam actually believed what he was saying or not, each of his words was a test, a subtle nudge.

“You know,” Michael said. “I was shot down in France.”

Sam sobered further. Leaning against the counter, he retrieved two cigarettes and a lighter. He didn’t often smoke, but he thought it might keep the other man talking. He handed one over to Michael, and he took it gratefully. They lit up together and coiled musky tobacco smoke into the air.

“Where?” Sam asked.

Michael snorted, huffing a bit of smoke. “Lord knows. But when I woke up, I had stitches from here to here.”

He gestured to the back of his head, all the way to above his brow. It explained a small, but noticeable scar near his temple.

“And I had an angel standing over me,” he added, his eyes growing heavy. Guilty. “A bona fide angel. She’d stitched me up, she told me. She also told me I was lucky to be alive. The doc wanted to toe tag me and be done with it, but she thought I still had some fight left in me.”

Michael shook his head. “The next chance I got, I married her.”

Sam’s brows rose. He knew you had been a nurse, but he hadn’t known this part of your story.

“A wartime romance, huh?” he said. Michael quirked a smile.

“She was my anchor,” he said. “After it was all said and done, she followed me here, held my feet down to the ground. Sometimes she had to hammer me down, ya know.”

He hesitated, his eyes somewhat glazing over. He stared over Sam’s shoulder at something only he could see.

“But sometimes…sometimes an anchor just feels suffocating,” he said. “Sometimes, you need to forget your own damn name. Forget that your entire life and mortgage is in a warehouse that might as well be a freezer full a’ dead cow meat. And still, it smells a hell of a lot better than lying on a dirty cot—where the last guy who had your spot probably got his leg sawed off.” 

Michael considers the cigarette in his hand for a long while before he takes another puff.

Sam exhales smoke as well. He spent the last three years behind a desk, but he sees the same shaken core in Michael Milligan that he too often sees in his older brother.

“You know, Winchester, there’s two kinds of men,” Michael said, just a hint of a slur in his voice. “The ones who pray to live…and the ones who beg for it to be over.”

“And what kind of man are you now?” Sam asked. His tone was loose, but his gaze was sharp.

Michael snorted. He dabbed the butt of his cigarette on the inside of the sink before he threw it away.

“I’m the guy who can’t die,” he muttered.

He rolled his shoulders, as if to let the weight of his words and everything that came along with them to roll off his back. Then he pushed his way out of the bathroom, leaving Sam considering more than just half a cigarette.

That night after Dean left, you slept in the guest room instead of your bed. You couldn’t even bring yourself to sleep next to Michael when he stumbled in at four in the morning, especially now that you had seen his game with your own eyes. 

However, you also felt complicit yourself the next morning. You felt…ashamed. You took your vows seriously. You had never in your life thought you would be someone so brazen. You never thought you would dishonor your husband as well as yourself.

And yet. All while you got ready for work, hearing Michael’s snores from the other room, your mind was filled with warmth and memory—of Dean. His smile, his voice, his eyes, his lips, and of course, his hands. You couldn’t decide which of them was your favorite, but his hands were high on the list. 

You shouldn’t have let him in, you reminded yourself. You nibbled on your lower lip while you prepped the coffee maker. You should have told him goodnight at the door and saw him off. You should very well not have invited him up to the apartment, let alone drank with him, or let him touch you…

You paused while the sound of percolation and the smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen. You looked up at yourself in the small mirror that hung on the wall. The woman looking back at you was conflicted at best.

Yes, you felt guilty. But at the same time, you didn’t. Was it really betraying your marriage if your husband had been doing far worse, and for God knew how long?

No. This wasn’t a marriage. This was a sham. A mockery of the very thing.

You frowned angrily and almost slammed the carafe on the counter when the coffee was done. Forcing yourself to take a few steadying breaths, you allowed that hate and anger to slowly drain out of you, and you smiled.

You marveled that you could smile at all, but it was only thanks to Dean Winchester.

What the hell am I doing?

Dean stared at the two bouquets of flowers. One was a bound bunch of red roses, the other was wildflowers and other colorful ones he didn’t know the names of. He was having a hard time deciding, namely because he didn’t know what kind of flowers you liked.

Because after all, he barely knew you.

He sighed down at the roses. They were pretty, but expensive. He could imagine your surprise, followed by your smile—the one that actually lit up your eyes and changed your whole face, made you sweeter, almost shy.

I’m buying flowers for a married woman.

The thought managed to make him pause, with a rough exhale of breath. The truth was, he’d crossed the line with you. More than once.

The hard part about it was, he didn’t really care. He did wonder if you cared.

He wondered if you’d be embarrassed to see him again. He wondered if you wanted to keep last night a memory, and nothing more. He wondered if he was better off booking his train home now, and leaving some kind of note for you with Sam. Dean didn’t think he wanted to see that look of mortification on your face, the whiskey finally cleared from your mind to see what he really was: a man with no job, no commitments, and very little prospects on the horizon.

“Ah, ‘scuse me,” a young man said from Dean’s left side.

“Oh, sorry,” Dean said, making way for the guy. He wasn’t quite as tall as Dean, lithe, blonde, and blue-eyed. He grabbed an arrangement of blue and yellow iris flowers from the case and took it up to the front. The florist seemed to recognize him.

“Oh, Michael! Been a while since I’ve seen you,” he said.

When the florist asked about you as well, the mention of your name rang between Dean’s ears. A feeling like inky claws raked through his chest; he raised his head from the roses and finally recognized Michael Milligan. He was the same man Dean had spotted in your wedding pictures hanging on the wall last night, right in the foyer.

“She’s all right,” Michael chuckled. “Truth be told, I’ve been working late this week. Hoping to surprise her tonight, take her out to dinner. Somewhere nice, you know.” 

“Oh, really? Why don’t you take her to that nice steakhouse off of Broadway…” the florist twittered on as he continued to ring up Michael’s order.

Anger and disgust prickled under Dean’s skin, his fists clenched at his sides. More than anything, he wanted to turn around and lay your husband out flat. If he thought one little bouquet and a Salisbury steak was going to wash him clean, then he was an idiot as well as a selfish bastard.

But Dean knew, deep down, that Michael would be just as justified to throw a swing right back at him.

So Dean left the flowers, the flower shop, and the entire busy street and all its blaring sounds behind.

During your lunch break, you quickly made the trek over to Sam’s office. He’d called you this morning with a story that only confirmed everything you’d inherently felt, and yet, some of it still managed to shock you. 

You didn’t even have the patience to wait until after work, but when you got there, he reassured you. It had taken him a few rounds of poker and discreetly following Michael and Dolores after they exited through the back of the club…but Sam had gotten the evidence not long after. They weren’t exactly discreet in the alley. Or in the nearby motel.

You had the envelope in hand filled with the pictures he’d developed from his camera.  

“You don’t have to look,” he advised. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“No, I want to see it,” you said. You took the pictures out, and your expression didn’t change as you look through them all. Each position captured was more compromising than the next between Michael and Dolores Daye. Apparently, he was paying most of her bills as well with your combined household funds. So part of your own money was financing his exploits.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. He was sincere, with those hazel eyes of his.

You nodded and gave him back the envelope. “What’s next?”

“I went ahead and filed the petition. I’ll take this right to the clerk’s office myself.”

“How long will it take to be over?”

“As long as Michael plays along, should be quick. A few months at most, after he’s served the divorce papers and signs them,” Sam assured.

A few months? That wasn’t quick enough in your book, but you agreed with a nod. You got up from the chair opposite his desk. You hesitated there.

“Oh, I meant to ask…how’s your brother?” you said.

Sam began to smile, but he tempered it. “He just called before you came in. He let me know he was stepping out for a walk.”

“Oh, really? Did he happen to say where?”

You not only found Dean in Central Park, but close to the very same bench you two had sat on yesterday and talked the night away. He was surprised, but he smiled when he saw you. Your pace quickened, until you were hastening over to him. He welcomed you into his arms. He bent his head towards yours, stopping just shy of kissing you. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours for a moment.

“Well, look who’s here?” he teased. “How’d you find me?”

“I stopped by Sam’s office,” you said, holding onto the lapels of his coat. A cold November wind pushed at you both, ruffling your clothes. “The paperwork is on its way. Soon enough, I won’t be a married woman anymore.”

He tucked a wild strand of hair behind your ear and smiled, but it didn’t altogether reach his eyes.

“How soon is soon?” he asked.

“A few months, according to your brother.”

Dean nodded, taking a deep breath. “That’s good…but, I need to head home for a little while.”

That made you pause, tilting your head in confusion. Though you supposed it made sense. He was only here visiting his brother. He was planning on going home eventually.

But surely, that was before we… You lowered your gaze.

“Back to Lawrence?” you asked. Again, he nodded.

“I need to take care of some things, figure out my next move,” he said.

You pulled away from him to brace yourself, and not just against the cold. “Well, when will you be back?” 

He stayed quiet, worrying you even more. There was a deep pit forming in your stomach, churning with unease.  

“Dean?” you prodded.

He stepped back in to grasp your arms gently.

“Sweetheart…the truth is, I don’t have much to offer you,” he said. “I don’t have a business to inherit from my folks. I don’t even have a job. I’m a man who was about as useful as a jackhammer, until the war ended.”

You frowned, resting a hand against his chest. “Dean Winchester, that’s not all there is to you.”

“Really. When did you figure that one out, in the whole week you’ve known me?” he asked. It was harsher than he meant to be, but he couldn’t help the words that were spilling out of his mouth. “Didn’t that get you in trouble the first time? I’d a thought you would’ve learned your lesson by now.”

You snatched your hand back, hurt filling your eyes. You turned to walk away before he saw your tears. You should have known. You should have known a man like him would never be serious. Not about you. 

As soon as he let the words go, Dean realized what he was doing. Yeah, he was frustrated, but it wasn’t aimed at you. It couldn’t be aimed at you.

God knew he didn’t want to hurt you, or for you to hate him. He really couldn’t stomach either thought, so he relented and reached out to grab at your hand, before you could get too far. 

“Wait,” he said, managing to pull you back to him. “I’m sorry.”

You tugged your hand to try and free yourself from his grasp. 

“You know what, maybe you’re right,” you said, your voice wobbling with anger, dismay, and tears. “Maybe I ought to stop letting a man get even an inch into my heart. At this point, it’s my own fault.”

“Stop,” Dean demanded. “No, it’s not.” 

He pulled you back into him, but you looked away from his imploring gaze. Your breaths grew shallow while you tried in vain to stop yourself from crying. It damn well broke his heart.

“It’s not your fault. I’m just an idiot,” He cupped your cheeks and wiped your tears as they fell. “But you…you deserve to be happy. With a man that can take care of you, protect you. A man who has a little more of his life figured out.”

“You’re just saying that so you have an excuse for toying with me. So you can keep chasing skirts,” you said, pushing at his chest. “Yes, your brother told me about all your little exploits.”

Dean took the blow, both proverbial and physical, with a raise of his brows. He guessed he couldn’t blame you for that one. Still, the disdain behind your words stung. He allowed you to break free of him.

You stepped back and straightened your clothes. You took in a deep breath that did nothing to calm you, and you uttered a humorless laugh.

“I suppose it makes sense. Why would you want anything to do with me?” You gestured down at yourself with a dismissive hand. “A-a walking mess. Even when I am divorced, that’s how people will see me. Damaged goods. I don’t even know how I’m gonna tell my parents.”

You covered your face against Dean and the rest of the world, and after weeks and months, you finally allowed yourself the one thing you hadn’t since your first inkling that your husband was being unfaithful. You finally allowed yourself to break.

The first sob shuddered through your body, followed by hot tears. You squeezed your eyes against them and wiped at your face in vain.

Dean broke too, in his own way. He gathered you into his arms, where he shushed you gently and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“I wasn’t giving you an excuse,” he said.

Despite how much you wanted to push him away, the deep, steady timbre of his voice pierced you and soothed you at the same time.

“I meant every word I said. I may not be the right guy for you, but don’t you dare take a scrap of what anyone else might say, you hear me?” he said firmly. “You’re beautiful. You don’t suffer fools like me, and you’re better than that sad sack excuse of a man deserves.”

You looked up at him with watery eyes.

“You’re a lot of things, Dean Winchester, but you’re not a fool.”

He shook his head, not wanting to argue with you anymore. He just kissed you, deeply, thoroughly, the way you always imagined a kiss should be.

Except that you realized…this was goodbye. So you took advantage of every second of it.

You met him with as much as he gave and reached up to touch his cheek. It felt a little rough under your fingers, just like you remembered. You would probably always remember that feeling, long after you left the park.

That evening, you packed as many bags as you could. You put together the savings you’d been collecting for a few months. It had been at your coworker Jess’s advice, ever since you started feeling the inkling that something wasn’t right in your marriage.

After you were all packed, you took one last, long look at the space you had tried to make your home. With one last tear trailing your cheek, you stepped out of the apartment. You took the bus uptown, where you later checked into a hotel. 

When your husband finally got home from work, he would find a one-page letter written in your own hand. 

For once, Sam was actually home in his apartment. He was helping Dean take his suitcase to the front door after calling a taxi to come shortly. Sam wasn’t happy about it though.

“You don’t have to go so soon, Dean,” said Sam.

Dean gave a humorless laugh. He grabbed his coat from the rack and threw it on.

“I’ve gotta get back to the house. It’s already been empty too long,” he said. Three years too long. “Fact is, I’m just getting in your way here.”

He couldn’t quite meet Sam’s eyes as he went to the door, but Sam stopped him with a pressing hand on his arm, tugging him back.

“Hey,” Sam said, his brows furrowed. “That’s not true. Where’d you get that idea?”

Dean raised his brows. “You mean the way you’ve haven’t been home more than a few hours a night? The way the only time I see you is if I go find you at that office. You should open up a Bed n’ Breakfast there. You’d make a double killing in this town.”

Sam wilted. “Dean, we opened the firm barely a month ago. I’m just trying to—”

Dean laid a hand on his shoulder, relenting.

“Hey, look. I’m not judging you, Sammy. I’m not,” he said. “You’re building something. I know that. I just need to go figure out how to do the same, whatever that means for me.”

Sam stared back at him, still with that frown. His guilt and reluctance to see Dean go was reflected in his eyes; those sad puppy dog eyes that used to get him out of almost any punishment with their parents when the boys were young. Before.

The corner of Dean’s mouth kicked up into a smirk.

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you again soon,” he said.

“How soon is soon?” Sam asked. It was something their mother used to say to John whenever he called late, promising he’d come home after long days in town buying supplies for the farm.

“The divorce papers will be served to Michael Milligan,” Sam added, pointedly raising his brows. “She…could use your support.”

Dean’s smile faded at the mention of you. His hand slipped from Sam’s shoulder.

“She’s got a strong head on her shoulders. She’ll be all right,” he said. He heard the honk of the taxi outside. He grabbed up his hat, set it on his head, and took up his bags. He turned back to Sam at the last moment. “I’m sure you’ll look out for her.”

It was somehow both a question, and an imploring charge. Sam sighed, but he nodded in agreement. His brother could be so very stubborn. Once he got an idea of what he thought he needed to do, there was almost no talking him out of it.

Sam opened the door for him and walked him out to the car, helping him with his bags. Before Dean could get into the cab, Sam stopped him. Their gazes met, but in that moment, no words were needed.

They pulled one another into a firm hug.

I’m sorry. I should’ve been there more for you.

Don’t worry about it. It’s already forgotten.

Dean released him first with a smile, and a heavy pat of Sam’s shoulder. He turned and climbed into the cab’s backseat. Afterwards, Sam watched the yellow cab take his brother away to the train station, feeling a weight in his heart that wouldn’t subside.

He would never know that Dean felt exactly the same way. Except that impossible weight felt a lot like your hand, gently laid over his heart.

Dean took up his suitcase as the train pulled into the station. He stepped up onto the platform and retrieved the ticket from his pocket, but he paused, hearing a familiar voice shouting his name.

He turned his head and saw Sam rushing to meet him at the platform.

“What’s the matter? What’re you doing here?” Dean asked in surprise. He didn’t like the wary apprehension written across Sam’s face.

“I just took a closer look at Milligan’s finances,” he said. “Before you go, there’s something you might want to know.”

AN: Come on, we needed at least one cliffhanger in this series! 😘 What do you think Sam rushed over to tell Dean? What did you think about their "goodbye," as well as her and Dean's goodbye? ...And are you ready for all the drama that's about to go down? lol 

Next Time:

Except the loud, insistent knock on the door broke you out of your thoughts. Straightening up with a frown, you set down your glass and went over to the door. Maybe it was Housekeeping coming up to bring you the fresh towels you asked for. The ones that had been laid out in the bathroom smelled musty.

You opened the door to a tall frame taking up room in the doorway. It was Michael, standing there both disheveled and steaming mad. He held your letter crumpled in his left hand. 

“Michael, what—what’re you doing here?” you gasped and stepped back. He followed you inside the room and slammed it shut. He looked around at your open suitcases in disbelief, then finally at you.

“What’s this supposed to mean, huh?” he demanded to know. He shook the flimsy piece of paper at you.

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[ashxllbey]

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: All right, diving into some muddy waters here...

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: “You Go to My Head” by Tony Bennett

Word Count: 6.5K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Angst, (technically cheating—it’s complicated), hurt/comfort, and smut.

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Part 3: A Moment

Dean sat with you in silence on the bus. While you were still beautiful in your black dress, hat, and veil, you didn’t have the vivacious spark in your eyes like you did back at the club. There, when he held you in his arms, he earned your breathless, giddy laugh by turning you too many times under his hand.

Now, you looked like you were in mourning. Maybe you were.

“You hungry?” he asked. 

You didn’t even raise your gaze as you picked at a stray seam on your dress.

“I don’t think I could eat anything,” you replied. 

As if on cue, the thought of food made your stomach percolate, uttering a rumble. You froze. Your eyes widened as you bit your lip in mortification, but you were unable to stop yourself from glancing at Dean.

He cocked a brow at the sound. Then, his lips twitched at a smile.

“I think I know a place,” he said.

You were blushing too hard to argue.

And so, you and Dean got off the bus early. You ended up sitting across from him at a steakhouse. It was nice and quiet. Softer piano music played, and you were perusing the menu, trying not to feel guilty about it.

You had to remind yourself that your husband was betraying your marriage in far worse ways than you right now, and in the grand scheme of things, this was nothing. Dean was just paying you a kindness by taking you out for dinner.  

“Get whatever you want,” he said, gesturing towards the menu in your hands. 

You gave him a measured look across the table. Sure, he could say that, but you still felt bad. He was a soldier no longer on a soldier’s salary.

So you tried to be discreet while you were eyeing the steak side of the menu. Seeing the state of these prices—more than a little outrageous, in your opinion—you turned to the other side. The server returned to your table shortly after.

“Are we ready to order?” he asked.

Dean gestured for you to go first. You once again glanced down at the tiny printed words next to the fancily scrawled prices, biting at your lower lip.

“I’ll have the roast chicken please,” you said.

Dean rose his brows at you. “You sure that’s what you want?”

“Sure. I’m happy with anything,” you said.

A smile played on his lips. “So you really want to have chicken at a steakhouse?”

His amusement was infectious. You couldn’t help but begin to smile too. He leaned in closer across the table, as if conspiringly.

“I’ll get you whatever you want, and I mean that,” he said. Then, adopting a more joking tone, “I may not have a job lined up yet, but I’m not penniless.”

Your smile fell. “Oh, Dean, I know that—” 

“Then order something good,” he said, raising his brows. “I dare ya.”

Your lips began to purse, trying not to succumb to the annoyingly charming gleam in his eyes.

“How about the Salisbury steak?” the server suggested. “It’s very popular right now.”

Dean looked to you for confirmation, again popping his brows in teasing askance. You offered a weary smile of defeat. 

He ordered two steaks with all the fixings.   

Dean was the more natural improvisor, but Sam had become just as good at finding the right role to play in situations like these. With Michael Milligan and his friends, that role was mostly himself: a bachelor, a businessman, but also being “the new guy in town,” looking for friends and a good time.

So Sam was wearing his newest suit and his best watch—a graduation present from his father—and had made sure he looked sharp before leaving the apartment tonight. Though he undid a couple of buttons on his dress shirt and ran a hand through his hair to tousle it up a little, making himself look casual enough to match these guys.

Seeing the shine on his wrist, Michael was generous enough to invite Sam along when they traveled behind the velvet curtain with Dolores Daye and the Cotton Club’s esteemed host, Brady Johnson.

Johnson. Sam recognized the name with an internal jolt. He’d seen it scrawled in Michael Milligan’s handwriting across several checks, dated between 1944 to 1945.

Brady Johnson had a crooked smile that was supposed to be charming as he led the group into a darker, cozier room. It smelled like the smoke of cigarettes and cigars, coupled with the faint must of perfume and cologne. There were a couple of pool tables, a fully stocked bar, and a big round table where he gestured for them all to sit.

Dolores took a seat right on Michael’s lap. There she gave the man a kiss that likely tickled his tonsils.

Sam pretended to be discreet when he looked away, but really, he was trying to sneak his little Canon camera out of his jacket. He stiffened to attention when Brady slapped a hand on his shoulder.

“What’re you drinkin’, Winchester?” he asked. “Scotch? Whiskey?”

“Aren’t those the same thing?” Sam said, injecting some good humor into his smile.

Brady thought about it, popped a brow, then levied a finger his way. “Damn it, when you’re right. You’re right. I’ll get ya both then.”

He reached out and touched Dolores’s side meaningfully, getting her to stop “greeting” Michael and detach from his face.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you get our guests something to drink, huh? Then you can go back to making Michael here feel comfortable,” Brady said, slapping a congenial hand on Michael’s back.

Dolores gave Brady an easy smile and practically hopped out of Michael’s lap with a graceful two-step. She caressed his face as she made her way around his back and away, heading towards the bar. Michael followed the careening path of her hand as she half-turned his head, and he shot her a wink. She giggled indulgently, making him smile.

Then he turned his attention to the game of poker at hand. One of the other men was dealing the cards. Sam glanced at his hand before he looked over at Michael. Specifically, Sam noticed the gold band on the man’s left ring finger.

Michael seemed to feel Sam’s eyes on him, and he followed the path of Sam’s gaze. Michael flexed his hand and tucked it into his pocket.

“So Sam, what’s your poison?” he asked.

“I’m a whiskey guy, I guess,” Sam said, glancing around the room. There was probably an exit out back, but otherwise, the place was secluded and well-contained. So far he didn’t notice any other back rooms, besides a door to what was probably a dressing room. Michael had probably gotten that tour a time or two.

“This is a nice place,” Sam remarked, offering Dolores a polite smile when she set down a fifth of scotch in front of him. She gave him a charming wink before she served Michael his whiskey on the rocks next.

“I don’t come here all that often,” Michael said, adding a quirking grin. “Just on payday.”

The men shared a chuckle. Sam’s gaze was a hint sharper.

“Well, the drinks are good. I imagine the company’s better,” he said, his brows raising slightly when Dolores passed by to serve one of the other men a drink. Michael cocked a finger at him, congenial, but still warning.

“Yep, she’s a sweet one, all right. Sweet for me,” he said, grinning.

Sam nodded in understanding.

“I get it. She’s happily occupied,” he said, though he casually gestured to Michael’s left hand when he used it to bring his drink up to his lips. “Sorry for your loss.”

Michael gave him a look of confusion while he sipped, but when he noticed Sam pointing at his wedding ring, he had to pause and clear his throat.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I assumed you were a widower,” Sam said. He quirked a smile and sipped at his own drink.

Michael hesitated. He rubbed at his left ring finger, over the shining band.

“Yeah, well, sometimes I forget that myself,” he said. His blue eyes dimmed. “It, uh…hasn’t been all that long since she passed.”

Sam almost shook his head. If the man was going to lie, he could at least put some effort into it. He was beginning to understand your pain even better than ever.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” Sam offered.

Michael smiled tightly. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“All right, we good?” Brady said, now that the cards were dealt. Dolores came back over to sit on Michael’s lap. Sam didn’t get out his camera just yet; the position was incriminating, but not hard proof of an affair. He’d have to wait for a better opportunity.

“Who’s betting first?” he asked.

After the meal, you realized you weren’t quite ready to go home, despite the late hour of the night. Picking up on your reluctance, Dean suggested taking a walk. You held onto his offered arm and led him a couple blocks away to Central Park. You guided him through the walkways you almost knew by heart, even in the shrouded dark of the night.

You were beginning to feel an odd prickle zip across your skin. Deep down, you knew you walked on a thin edge teetering between right and wrong.

He’s just being kind, you rationalized. You were battered enough inside to crave his kindness, more than you would’ve ever liked to admit.

“Thank you again for dinner,” you said, “and for staying out with me. I just…didn’t feel like going home to an empty apartment.”

Dean’s lips twitched up at one side, ruefully. “I kinda know what you mean. We could, uh…catch a picture show or something.”

“Oh no, Dean. It’s all right. Far too late for that,” you said, releasing his arm to wave a dismissive hand. Really, you just wanted to dispel the idea of him treating you to anything more tonight. By the way he was as dinner, you just knew that he wouldn’t allow you to pay for your own ticket to see a show. Nor did you want to eat into his pockets anymore. 

Your hands were gathered in front of you now as you walked, holding your purse. A cold rush of wind pushed at you both from behind. It popped up the collar of your winter coat. Dean fixed it for you, laying it back down above your shoulders. You murmured your thanks again as you felt the brush of his fingers across your back and shoulders.

Afterwards, he slid his hands back into his coat pockets. He looked up at the tall trees and nicely trimmed bushes, their little red flowers having opened up.

“This is the only part of the city worth seeing,” he remarked, knocking a small rock ahead of him with his foot.

You turned to him with a frown. “Come on, now. There are a lot of interesting things in the city. There’s the Statue of Liberty and Rockefeller Center, not to mention museums, restaurants, Radio City, plays, and movies too, remember?”

“Okay, aside from Radio City and a couple of old buildings, we’ve got all that back home too,” he said, with a cutting motion of his hand.

“Has Sam shown you everything? Or have you been exploring on your own?” you asked. The question was a bit deceptive though. In your mind, you were thinking of what Sam had told you…

He’s not usually wanting for company.

“On my own, for the most part,” Dean replied. “Sam’s been hard at work. A bit too busy for his hanger-on older brother.”

You looked over at him with furrowed brows. “Dean, I doubt he sees it that way.”

The man shook his head. “Look, I’m…I’m proud of him, don’t get me wrong. He’s trying to build something for himself, and that takes time and a lotta work. He’s created a life here. I’m just trying to catch up, I guess.”

You considered Dean for a moment. Like you, he seemed to be at a crossroads.

“What was it like for you two, growing up? You’re from Kansas, aren’t you?” you asked.

He nodded. He hesitated, but he surprised you by opening up a little, telling you more about his life before the war. It was always before and after. You knew it always would be.

You learned that his mother passed away when he was young, rather tragically due to an illness that came on suddenly and swiftly. He still remembered the deep blue of her eyes, her blonde hair. But most of all, he remembered her voice, kind and pretty when she sang to him until he fell asleep.

John, his father, had become a harder man after her death. Quieter, and stoic. Dean hardly remembered him without a glass of liquor in his hand after that. John had been a factory worker before he enlisted in the Navy. He died a decade later at Pearl Harbor, during the war.

That news came through with a military officer knocking at the front door of their family home. Dean answered it, and so that news hit him first. Afterwards, he had to sit his younger brother down and tell him.

That afternoon, both of them enlisted.

Dean told the story matter-of-factly, but you felt and saw the emotions hidden behind his eyes. You saw the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, both as an older brother, and as the eldest son. You had to quickly swipe away a tear before he turned your way. He offered a small smile.

“Ah…enough about all that. What about you?” he asked. “How’d you grow up?”

You took a steadying breath, and you told him.

“Well, I’m from a small town in South Dakota. Sioux Falls,” you said. “Mom’s a schoolteacher. Dad works in a steel mill, and my Uncle Bobby owns an automotive towing company there.”

“Well, that’s a decent job,” Dean said.

“Have you thought about what you want to do?” you asked. He nodded, and the two of you stopped to sit together on a bench in the park. You had a view of tall skyscrapers like Empire State in the distance, and the night sky above the arching trees.

“Yeah, a lot actually,” he said, carding a hand through his hair absently. “Like, uh, talking about cars, I’ve always liked them. The hum of a good engine. My dad could hear a car running from a block away, and he could tell you what was wrong with it, just by the sound of it.”

He punctuated his words with a sweeping gesture of his hand. You could imagine a road laid across the path of it, along with a rumbling car and his father’s perceptive, judging eye.

“Heh, matter of fact, we used to take his old Chevy apart, put it back together again,” said Dean, smiling a little. “I like working with my hands, I guess.”

You admired his hands as they rested casually in his lap. They were larger than yours, with long fingers. His hands look strong and capable like the rest of him, even though they were always considerate when they touched you.

“Then you should do something you like doing,” you said. “Fixing cars! That’s good, honest work you can make a living out of.”

Dean looked over at you. “You think so?”

You nodded your encouragement, smiling bright. “I know so. You might be a bit of a flirt, but you also look like someone who can accomplish whatever you set your mind to.”

When those words slipped free from your mouth, you realized how he might take that little accusation, let alone how overeager you sounded. Your gaze fell away from him as you felt your face getting warm in a blush.

Dean’s smile widened, showing teeth. “I’m a flirt, huh?”

“Well…” You bit the inside of your lip and tried your hardest not to look at him for a while. “At least you’re an honest one.”

Dean laughed freely at that. He wasn’t offended, just amused at the way you got embarrassed, even though you didn’t take it back just to save face.

He appreciated your support and the way you talked, straightforward and earnest. There was nothing frivolous about you. You meant every word you said, and you said it with conviction.

“Do you enjoy your work then?” he asked. You dimmed a little.

“Well, I’m a secretary. I work in an office,” you said, chuckling slightly. “Nothing exciting there.”

“You mean, compared to being an army nurse,” Dean pointed out.

You nodded begrudgingly. He saw through you too well.

“It was never boring,” you joked, even if it was a weak one.

A sigh escaped you. The truth was, you saw things on the battlefield that revived behind your eyelids every time you went to sleep. It kept you up some nights, and it made it incredibly difficult to sleep alone. Sometimes you’d craved Michael’s arms around you, even if he was too deep in sleep from being drunk the night before. Sometimes it was too hard to be alone all night in your bed, even if you wanted to be.

“That’s how Michael and I met,” you confessed. “I was trying to stitch him up after his plane was shot down. He was lucky to be alive, frankly. Had a nasty head wound. I also helped the doctor set his shoulder, horribly dislocated…”

You two fell in love in that one month you were stationed in the same town together, where France was falling apart. The combined forces of French, British, and American units were able to finally liberate Paris from being occupied. Michael was honorably discharged due to the wounds he’d sustained there.

The next time you and Michael had shore leave at the same time, you got married here in New York City: October 10, 1944.

“I wouldn’t have minded if you were my nurse,” Dean said, breaking you out of your thoughts. You sent him a wry, sidelong smile.

“You can’t help yourself from flirting, can you?” you quipped.

The way he waggled his brows made you laugh, and then duck your blushing face. He was too much.

“I’m serious though,” he claimed. One of his hands went to his right shoulder. “I’ve still got a twinge over here. Think I tore some kind of muscle from hauling ammunition, but it never really healed right.”

Your head tilted in concern. The nurse in you couldn’t help it. You turned to him more fully on the bench.

“That shoulder?” You pointed at his right one. Dean nodded. You got up and moved to his other side, and he made room for you on the bench.

“Can you peel back your jacket for me?” you asked.

“Not a problem,” he said, with a note of sensuous teasing in his voice that you chose to ignore. He revealed his white dress shirt, black waistcoat and brown leather suspenders. That was a familiar sight, but you tried to ignore the feeling of defined male muscle underneath your hands, instead focusing on finding the problem. You knew you struck it when Dean flinched, uttering a reflexive grunt of pain.

You murmured an apology, massaging the spot of muscle deep in the joint of his shoulder through his clothing. A fellow nurse with more experience in the medical field had taught you about each muscle in the body, and how to relieve tension around scar tissue. After a while, the stiffness in Dean’s frame began to relax. His neck lolled to one side as he groaned in relief.

Then he chuckled. “You some kind of miracle woman?”

“I might be,” you said. The corners of your mouth inched upwards. 

When he was fully relaxed, you stopped your ministrations and let your hands fall away from his shoulder. Dean stood up from the bench along with you, yanking his jacket back on. Soon it was the two of you standing together in near darkness.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Feels much better already,” he said. There was something warm, and a hint gentler in his voice. Even he realized it afterwards, not knowing quite how to feel about it…until you looked up at him with that smile. His heart thudded a bit harder in his chest.

“What should I charge for a miracle?” you asked.

Dean pretended to think, humming in consideration. He knew what he wanted to give you in exchange, but he settled for something more gentlemanly.

“How about you let me take you home?” he offered.

You nodded. “That works for me.”

You continued walking with Dean through the park back to the entrance, with only a few scattered lampposts and the stars above to light your path.

Once again, you and Dean made it to the front porch of your apartment building. Despite your better judgment, you invited him in for a night cap and a snack. To be fair, he would have a long way home. You just wanted to repay him at least a little bit for his kindness.

He followed you up the stairs to the second floor, Unit 21B. Inside was a modest, cozy living room, a hall leading to the kitchen, and further down, the bedroom. You poured two glasses of whiskey and sat beside him on the couch.

“Didn’t take you for a whiskey girl,” Dean remarked.

“Yes, well, it’s one of those nights, I guess,” you said. You didn’t quite smile as you took a small sip.

By now it was past midnight. You wondered if your husband didn’t intend to come home until the morning. It had happened before, but it still made you so very angry now that you’d seen it with your own eyes. You drowned out that sick feeling with more whiskey and conversation.

Within the hour, you and Dean had nearly polished off the bottle. You were more than a little tipsy.

You laughed a bit harder than you should’ve at Dean’s stories, but he liked the sound of your laughter and the way you were letting loose around him. It was the first time he’d seen you smile so much, and it was a good look on you. He was glad to be able to get that out of you.

“I almost missed my own birthday party when I was ten,” he said, laughing a little. He was spurred on by your infectious grin. “Sam and I, we got it into our heads to jump off the roof of the shed out back. See, I had a towel tied around my neck.”

“A cape,” you giggled.

Dean pointed a finger at you. “Exactly. So I can fly.”

You shook your head. “Naturally.” You could imagine him as a precocious child, with ruddy cheeks and small freckles spread across them.

“My brother had a ‘cape’ too, but he was a skinny kid at six years old. Small for his age for a long time, if you can believe it.”

“A-huh…” 

“Well, I jump off first, and I manage stick the landing, just shaking a little when my boots hit the ground,” Dean said, making a show of wobbling his legs a little. It looked odd while sitting on the couch, but you could imagine it so clearly, it made you smile harder.

“Sammy, not so much. Poor kid broke his arm,” he said.

Your smile dropped.

“No,” you gasped, a hand flying to your mouth. 

Dean nodded. “I had to take him to the clinic on my bike. He rode on my handlebars all the way there. We agreed not to say a word to our dad, you know, but of course, it’s kinda hard to hide sling.”

“What did he do?”

“He took one look at us, at me. Mom was fretting over Sam, and Dad just shook his head.”

“Was he mad?”

“Of course he was, but at least he never took it out on us. Not with his hands, at least. He cussed up a storm about us damn kids and had to walk it off.” Dean chuckled and swiped a hand through his hair. “That was some birthday.”

You erupted into more giggles. He smirked at you, but it slowly faded. 

“You know where I was on my last birthday?” he asked.

You sobered along with him, sensing his tone.

It took him a moment to continue. He didn’t know why he started to open his mouth about this. After he set foot in his house again after the war, he resolved to leave all that behind him, try not to think about it or talk about it, if he could help it. But after what you’d told him, he thought you might understand.

“I was in Eastern Europe. Knees deep in snow and blood in the Ardennes, caught somewhere between Belgium and uh…Luxemburg, they told us. The weather was sh…it was terrible,” he corrected himself before he caught himself saying something too vulgar. It had been a while since he’d had to watch his mouth around a lady, even though he had a feeling you’d heard it all in the crumbled depths of France.

“But it finally let up enough that we could start fighting back for real,” he continued. “It was grueling. A knockout, drag out dog fight in the worst cold I’d ever been through in my life…”

You listened to the rest of his story with rapt attention, your chin held in hand as you leaned against the back of the sofa. Not only did you like the sound of his deep voice washing over you, but you realized that he was trusting you with something; with a part of himself.

When his story was done, he seemed to be reliving it all in his mind. His gaze was far away. You rested a hand on his arm to let him know that you had listened, that you had heard him, and that he wasn’t alone. He’d taken his coat off long ago, so you felt the warmth of him under the fabric of his rolled up dress shirt.

Dean came back to himself. He looked at you and grasped your arm back in thanks. But that small connection slowly began to change into something else. His hand slid up your bare arm, over the black sleeve, and across the neckline of your dress. He leaned in closer.

He smelled good, of a woodsy cologne and of spicy whiskey. He was sporting a couple days’ worth of stubble, but as you took in his face, you realized that it looked good on him. You’d only ever been taken with clean-shaven men before. This man, however, was continuing to be a pleasant surprise.  

Dean cradled your cheek in his hand. You allowed him to draw even closer. You subconsciously leaned forward yourself, until his plush lips were one warm breath away from yours.

Dean held himself back though. He knew there were more things muddling your mind than the whiskey. But you held his hand to your cheek so he wouldn’t let you go just yet. You tried your best to blink back the sting of tears. 

“Please,” you whispered. You weren’t exactly sure what you were asking for. At the very least, you knew you couldn’t stomach another rejection. “At the risk of sounding entirely brazen…please, don’t kick me while I’m down.”

Dean sighed. His stomach twisted in both conflict and desire. He soothed his thumb across your soft cheek.  

“Sweetheart, I’d love nothing more than to kiss you. Believe me,” he said. His voice was low with grit and tinged with longing. “But I gotta wonder if this is really what you want.”

Your mouth trembled. Your heart was battered and frayed, your mind spinning with this isn't right. And yet, you had a fire in your belly, familiar, though you hadn't felt it in so very long. It churned a heady blaze when you stared into his eyes. Something compelled you to reach out and touch his lips with gentle fingertips. 

“He doesn’t…touch me anymore,” you confessed, swallowing. “It used to be, whenever we passed each other in the house, it was a touch. A moment.” 

Your hand ghosted over Dean’s chin, down his neck, and shoulder, and down his chest over wrinkled fabric and buttons. He had to try and calm down his own breathing, the heavy patter of his own heart in response to your touch.

“Like I had an anchor, reminding me that I was loved, and that mine was appreciated,” you said. Your voice barely rose above a whisper. “But now it’s…it’s rushed. Everything is rushed, and distant, and forgetful. That’s if it happens at all. No matter how much I work at my job, and cook, and clean, and take care of him, it isn’t enough. He’s not the man I thought I knew. That’s what hurts the most.”

Dean’s heart clenched under your palm. He was angry for you. He was sad for you. But most of all, he was starting to hate the thought of you sharing the same bed with that man, being touched by him, and worst of all, him taking from you without satisfying you. 

“Rushed, huh?” Dean asked, his fingers curling to brush against your jawline. You nodded. He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, and he raised his brows. “Everything?” 

Your watery eyes met his as you bit your lip. You released it with a trembling breath. 

“Everything,” you said.

Dean couldn’t help but treat you gently, drying your tears and kissing your cheek. He hadn’t known you long, but he knew you didn’t deserve what you were going through. He saw that you weren’t just pretty. You weren’t just tenacious and headstrong. You had a soft heart behind that iron wall.

So he took your chin and guided you to his lips, and into his kiss. You inhaled in a sharp breath, but you soon melted into him with a faint moan. He cupped your cheek and kissed you again, this time a firmer touch.

You matched his intensity and gripped the front of his shirt for balance, especially as his hand began to slide down your arm and around your waist. He pressed at the small of your back, bringing you flush against his chest. You had no choice but to take his face in your hands and meet his seeking tongue with your own.

A groan sounded in the back of his throat at your eagerness. He pushed you down to the end of the couch, where you laid on a few throw pillows. There he found his way between your legs and took your heels off, one by one.

Then his touch was heavy and warm across your hip, running down your thigh. After a while, he veered away from your lips to kiss his way down your neck. It earned your shallowing breath. Your hands roamed his shoulders, slipping down his back as far as you could reach. You wanted to feel more of him.

And the feeling was mutual. His kisses blazed a path along your collarbone and between your breasts, dipping below the neckline of your dress. His hand came up to gently palm one of your breasts, thumbing at your nipple hardening under the fabric. You whimpered, clinging to him tighter.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, his own breathing labored as well.

“You are touching me,” you whispered.

“You know what I mean, baby,” he said. For a moment his usual grin took over his features, but he leaned up to steal a kiss, nice and slow. “Want to make you feel good. Give you something to remember me by.”

You found yourself nodding and uttering a broken moan. It almost didn’t matter to you what he meant. His hands and the weight of his body on top of you felt so very good, you would take whatever he wanted to give you.

Your breath hitched when you felt his hand slipping upwards along your inner thigh. His thumb brushed between your legs, across the dampened fabric of your underwear. You whimpered, nodding again.

Dean reassured you with a kiss. Then he hooked his fingers on the waistband of your pantyhose, along with the silk and lace covering you underneath. He slid them down carefully, as not to rip anything (even though he’d like nothing more).

When it all bunched around your ankles, you kicked the rest of it off. The wad of sheer fabric and satin panties fell across the coffee table, over the forgotten drinking glasses. You giggled against his lips. Dean smiled too, though he gently nipped your lower lip to keep your attention. Your fingers curled up into his hair, nails grazing his scalp. The sensation made a shudder run down his spine.

He decided to return the favor, now that he was able to feel your bare thigh under his hand. He stroked your skin while he waylaid you with deeper, sloppier kisses. But all the while, his hand slid higher, closer to your throbbing core.

Finally, his fingers brushed between your legs against the bare seam of your sex. You inhaled sharply against his mouth. “Dean…”

“I gotcha, sweetheart. Promise,” he said, just a whisper of his lips with yours.

Two of his fingers slipped inside you first. You were already wet and pulsing around them when they sunk into your heat. You whimpered in his ear, especially as his fingers began to explore you, working you open, and curling upward against the most sensitive of places within your inner walls. You cried out gratefully, clenching a hand in his hair. Your core was already beginning to flutter around his fingers.

“Hmm, right there, huh?” Dean said. His voice was a bit rough; his own desire was straining in his pants, begging to be touched, but he was focusing all his efforts on you. He wanted to see you come apart, hear you gasping his name like it was the only thing you were able to remember.

His thumb began to massage tight circles over that small, sensitive bud above your entrance. You moaned and writhed against his hand. Your voice in his ear was heaven, especially when he got what he wanted. A few more deliberate strokes deep inside, and you were gripping him tight, throbbing from the inside, and coming all over his hand. He felt the rush of wetness, but he still kept pulsing his fingers inside your quivering walls, drawing out your release.

You cried out his name and fairly trembled against him. Your lower belly clenched as another wave hit you, making your inner walls flutter tightly around his fingers again.

His heart was beating as fast as yours when it all finally subsided. You fell back against the pillows, gasping for breath. Dean raised his glistening fingers up to your mouth. You were shocked to see the evidence of your own release there.

He pressed the pads of his fingers to your lips. It was downright obscene, but you gave into the urge to slide your lips over his fingers, tasting yourself when you sucked around his digits.

Dean’s green eyes were dark with arousal and satisfaction as he watched you. Feeling your tongue around his fingers made him imagine another use for your pretty mouth, making his cock throb in the confines of his slacks. But for now, it was enough to see the remnants of your lipstick come off on his mostly clean fingers.

He licked off the rest from his fingers himself, then bowed his head to kiss you thoroughly. Your hands began to explore him, the expanse of his chest over his shirt, and traveling down, below the belt. Dean slowed the pace of things, grabbing one of your hands.

You frowned in confusion. “You don’t want me to return the favor?”

Dean groaned, and he chuckled. He pressed a kiss to your hand.

“I’d go for that in a heartbeat, I really would. But tonight’s about you, sweetheart,” he said.

What was more, he didn’t want to take advantage of you. You’d had quite a lot to drink. You both had.

But I want to do this right.

That thought stopped him for sure. It surprised him, even if it was the truth. He just didn’t want to examine it too closely just yet.

He swore you looked disappointed though. It was even more difficult to make his arousal subside. He took in a deep breath, clearing his throat as he shifted off of you. He helped you tug your dress back down your thighs and tried thinking of anything that might help him calm down.

Picturing that time he accidentally walked in on his father in the bath ultimately did the trick, accompanied by a small body shudder.

“Are you cold?” you asked, rubbing his arm.

“No, I’m just fine,” Dean replied. He gave you a smile and tucked a wily strand of hair behind your ear. “You feel okay?”

Your smile was more demure, almost shy. If he were a betting man, he’d say you were blushing.

“More than okay,” you murmured.

He chuckled and swiped his thumb across the apple of your warm cheek. 

With a more genuine smile, you leaned up and checked your watch resting on the coffee table. Your eyes widened.

“Michael could be coming home any moment,” you said.

The thought rekindled the wellspring Dean’s anger. His brows furrowed with a frown. He’d like to be here when Michael came home. Maybe Dean would get the chance to sort the man out, get one or two good hits in.

Instead, he let out a heavy breath. He got up and allowed you to walk him to the door, where he grabbed his coat and straightened up his clothes. He paused at the door when he glanced back at you.

You looked too damn much. Your lips kiss-swollen, your dress sleeves hanging further off your shoulders, your hair a tousled mess. He slipped an arm around your waist and pulled you back in for a kiss goodbye. You breathed in, then you melted into him, your fingers slipping through his hair. That kiss was everything.

However, like this night, it had to come to an end. You pulled away first, slowly. You touched his chin with gentle fingers.

“Go,” you whispered, “before I lose myself.”

Dean chuckled. “You took the words right outta my mouth, sweetheart.” 

He forced himself to break away from you and step out of the apartment. Releasing a sigh, you shut the door behind him.

AN: Okay, you're probably having mixed feelings lol. I don't blame you! Honestly, I'm not advocating cheating here (even if we think Michael deserves it). It's just an added layer of complexity to the story in this case. 😬 Get ready for more of that in Part 4, where we catch Sam's side of things...

Next Time:

“Well, you could say I’ve inherited a business of my own,” he said. “I run a meat packing plant down in the district.”

Sam’s attention piqued. There had been a meat rationing throughout the war, even some rumors and propaganda about “meatleggers,” black market operators.

“How’s it been with the rations?” Sam asked. “Been hard to even find a good carton of eggs lately.”

Michael gave him a slight smile. “Been on the turnaround, actually. I’ve been able to make some connections with vendors outside the city. A little grease on the palms makes a little go a long way, if you catch my drift.”

Sam slowly nodded. A little grease on the palms, huh?

“Do what you gotta do in the times, ‘s what I say,” Sam agreed.

Michael snorted. “Now you’re talkin’. That’s all we can do, you know. Try to make a thing work, with whatever scraps we get. Try to stay afloat.”

“Try to stay alive,” Sam rejoined.

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[ashxllbey]

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: Before we tune back into some 1940s drama, I just wanted to thank you all so much for your wonderful responses on Part 1 of this series. 🥹 It’s my first time doing a story like this, so I’m very happy you liked the jumpstart here. 💖💖

Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” by Frank Sinatra

Word Count: 3.7K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, hints of PTSD, flirting, dancing…

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Part 2: Devil May Care

After you got home from work the very next day, your apartment was entirely empty.

Predictable. Michael was still out.

This time, you counted it as a blessing. You rifled through every corner, cabinet, pocket, and drawer in search of evidence—anything you could use to prove, without even one shade of a doubt, that your husband was the unfaithful scoundrel you knew him to be. You knew it, deep in your gut. In your very soul.

You even rifled through Michael’s desk in his office, through every single folder, drawer, and booklet. You’d never done such a thing before because he was a particular man about his things, and you respected his privacy. 

That was done now. In your search, you found a useless ball of rubber bands and old coupons. You took his father’s old collection of fountain pens, which you knew Michael was precious about, and threw them haphazardly onto the desk to make room for your seeking hands through the rest of the drawers.

You even came across a small, crumpled photograph from your wedding day. This one made you pause.

You considered the picture, its bent corners and slightly grainy black and white lens. You’d worn your mother’s wedding dress, and you stared up at your new husband with the rosiest of smiles. He stared into your eyes then the way he always used to—like a man ready and willing to drown in them.

You sighed and let the picture fall from between your fingertips. It swayed onto the desk’s mahogany wood surface, and rested there. You shook your head and returned your attention to your task at hand, holding your hands to your hips.

The problem was, you didn’t see anything incriminating here…until an idea finally occurred to you. You went into Michael’s closet. You sorted through the suit jackets he still needed to get drycleaned and pressed again.

In one of the pockets, you found a receipt. 

You brought it to Sam Winchester’s office the following morning before work, along with some documents of your household expenses. Like you did the afternoon before, he identified the receipt as one for the Cotton Club, a nightclub in the Upper East Side. You had never been there in your life, but you heard it was one of the new go-to spots in town. It was the kind of place you used to wish Michael would take you to, once in a while.

“It could be a lead or it could be nothing, but I’ll check it out, along with these,” Sam said. He gathered the financial documents you gave him as well. 

“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Winchester,” you nodded.

“You can call me Sam if you like,” he said, kind, but still professional. You smiled. Unbidden, it reminded you of his brother.

“Please,” you said, your eyes briefly closing. “Just…call me by my name. My first name.” 

Dean slowly smiled. “Perfect. I like your name better anyway.” 

This time, your smile in return was genuine, if tinged with amusement. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” you replied.

Biting the inside of your lip, you gave into the urge to ask the question.

“It was nice of your brother to walk me home last night…what is he up to today then?”

“Ah, well, he’s out to lunch with a young lady he met last night,” Sam replied, with a somewhat wry, but still amused tone to his voice. You frowned.

“Last night? Does your brother meet a lot of women after 9:00 p.m.?” 

Sam chuckled. “He’s not usually wanting for company.”

“I see,” you said flatly. You should have known. The devil-may-care grin on that man was too charming to be anything less than the mark of a shameless flirt. Maybe even a scoundrel. Lord knew you couldn’t take any chances either way.

Dean returned from his day out with Vanessa. She was a nice enough girl, a knockout blonde too. She was smart, studying to be a schoolteacher. But she also tended to twitter on about frivolous things, so much that he couldn’t really remember much of what she said. She did look good doing it though. Not to mention, she let him feel her up while they kissed in one of the alleys, between the ice cream parlor and a drycleaners.

He predictably found his brother whittling away life in his office. Dean dropped his coat and hat on the hanger with a flourish. Sam raised his head from his work with an amused smile.

“Had a good day, did you?” he remarked.

“I can’t complain,” Dean agreed. “Especially when a beautiful woman’s involved.”

Sam shook his head. Before September, he hadn’t seen Dean in three years. Yet some things just didn’t change.

“You gonna see her again?” Sam asked.

Dean made a noncommittal sound. “We’ll see. The day is young, brother.”

Sam raised a finger. “Speaking of which. Mrs. Milligan came by this morning. I’ve been looking through her husband’s finances.”

“Oh really?” Dean sobered as he approached his brother’s desk. “What’d you find?”

“Overall, things seemed to be in order, until I noticed something strange,” Sam said. Dean lowered into the chairs opposite his brother at his desk, and they went over it all together. Sam appreciated another set of eyes on this, with the understanding that Dean would keep the information to himself. 

Starting roughly eleven months ago, there was a check signed to a Mr. Johnson for a moderate sum. Three weeks later, another check, this time a bit larger. For the past few months, Michael Milligan had been making these payments at least once a month, sometimes as much as three, albeit in different amounts.

“He might just have a gambling problem,” Sam said. He rubbed his chin in contemplation.

“Or it could be what she’s worried about,” Dean pointed out. “The name could be an alias. Maybe Mike’s paying for someone’s services…or paying her bills, if you catch my drift.”

Sam slowly nodded. “That’s a possibility.” He checked the dates on the documents again and shook his head. “Mrs. Milligan told me they got married about a year ago, here in the city. It would mean this guy started stepping out on her a month after the wedding.” 

Dean both could and couldn’t believe it. He might not have been a saint himself when it came to the fairer sex, but if he went through the whole ordeal of marrying one, let alone a straight-shooting woman like you, beautiful, clever…

“Geez,” he muttered. “He could’ve at least waited until the ink dried on the certificate.” 

Sam nodded in agreement. He picked up the receipt to the Cotton Club, and he shot his brother a grin.

“Wanna go to the club tonight?”

A wall of sound. That was the Cotton Club—the band on stage playing jazz tunes, loudly, if skillfully; the clanking of glasses as drinks rolled past; the clamor of heels and leather shoes as couples swung on the dance floor; and the added layer of people raising their voices to compensate. The room was filled with the smell of cigarette smoke, fighting against perfume and cologne and musk and sweat.

It was a bit overwhelming for Dean at first. He tried to ease himself into the scene with Sam at his side, even if he did jolt at the cork of a champagne bottle popping open. Sam noticed, but he mercifully didn’t say anything. He thumped a hand on Dean’s back to steady him under the pretense of a brotherly pat, adding a smile for good measure.

Sam was there to keep a lookout for Michael Milligan. Dean would help, but it wasn’t like he was being paid for it. He was largely aiming to have some fun while his brother was all serious, focused on the work. Dean was here for the community nightlife. 

The beautiful, beautiful community. As a matter of fact, there were lovely ladies everywhere. One sultry blonde was singing an upbeat, jazzy tune at the mic. Dolores Daye, said the banner above the stage.

Dean’s attention shifted from the stage to the scattered round tables outside the dance floor, as well as the chair lined up at the bar. His gaze caught on someone familiar—on you, sat at a table by yourself. His eyes widened. He slowed to a stop while Sam went on ahead.

You were stunning, almost unrecognizable in a shimmering black dress that hugged every lush part of your figure, with sleeves that draped off your shoulders. His eyes drew down your crossed legs, the sheer pantyhose, leading to a pair of tall, shining black heels.   

You wore a hat and partial veil that covered half your face, but he knew it was you. Those lips of yours were familiar on sight. Now they were painted red, dark and luscious.

“Dean?” Sam questioned him. He’d turned back when he realized his brother wasn’t keeping up with him. Dean subtly pointed you out. Sam raised his brows, but then he noticed what you were doing. You had a glass of wine in hand, and you seemed to be watching someone.

Every now and then your gaze would travel across the room, where your husband Michael was sat at a table filled with other men and women. They were laughing, drinking, playing cards. 

Sam and Dean shared a conspiring look, one that said they had the same thought. They went over to you. 

Sensing you were being approached, you looked over and found the pair of tall, familiar men with a widening of your eyes. That pretty mouth of yours fell open in surprise. 

“What’re you doing here?” you whisper-hissed. You beckoned them to sit down so they weren’t standing out so much while talking to you. Both Winchester men were broad-shouldered and tall as oaks.

“The same thing you’re doing, apparently,” Sam said, once he and Dean were sitting across from you at the table. He showed you the camera he had hidden in his coat pocket. “I’m going to see if I can get a read on what your husband’s up to, maybe collect some evidence.”

You let out a rush of breath. “Good, thank you.”

“Until then, maybe you’d be more comfortable at home,” he suggested.

Dean knew what his brother was getting at. This wasn’t the kind of place for a woman to be hanging around…unaccompanied. Not a respectable one like you, who clearly wasn’t used to being in a roaring nightclub. Plus, if Michael did slip up here, it wasn’t exactly going to be pleasant for you.

You still shook your head stubbornly. “No. I want to see it with my own eyes.”

Sam almost sighed, but Dean shot him a nod. Right then, they had an understanding. Dean would stay and look out for you while Sam tried to get closer to Michael. Sam left you and Dean together at the table thereafter, and Dean ordered a drink for himself. You sipped at your wine.

Dean glanced at you in appreciation. You really were beautiful…and not just tonight. Though he had to smile at your “disguise.”

“You think that getup is gonna fool your husband?” he remarked, gesturing at your form.

Your lips pursed, but you kept your head angled towards him, so that your hat and veil continued to hide your face from Michael’s direction.

“It has so far,” you retorted. “And this isn’t a getup.”

You smoothed slightly self-conscious hands down the skirt of your dress. Dean smiled. 

“All right, I’m sorry. Poor choice of words,” he said. He dropped his chin and raised his brows, earning your gaze under the hat. “It’s quite a dress, sweetheart.”

I’d like to see you out of it, he thought, even though he immediately stamped it down. You weren’t exactly available, no matter how delectable you were. The interesting part was, you didn’t seem to realize it as you fidgeted in your seat, a little self-consciously.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” you snipped.

His lips tugged at a smirk. He tilted your hat up a little so he could see more of your frowning face. 

“Want me to do better?” he teased. 

“I’d like you to leave me be. How about that?” you said, grabbing the edges of your hat and tilting it back down. “You’re distracting me.”

“Oh, I’m distracting?”

You met his gaze to give him a hot reply, but your words failed you. Just then, faced with his perfectly handsome, roguish face, you finally noticed how green his eyes were. Holding the gleaming reflection from the crystal chandelier above the bar, they briefly dragged over you again, like he was a starving man, and you were the very last morsel held in front of him.

It was indecent, you thought, but suddenly your mouth had gone dry.

“How about this,” Dean said. He finished off his whiskey and held out a hand to you. “Dance with me. You’ll have a better vantage point to spy on Mike over there.”

“Keep your voice down,” you shushed, glancing around.

Dean just smirked. He beckoned you again with a raise of his brows.

You hesitated, but you still eventually dropped your hand into his. He stood before you so he could help you to your feet. You allowed him to escort you over to the dance floor, and all the while you fought off your nerves. You were only doing this because he had a good idea; this would help you keep an eye on Michael without looking so out of place, a woman drinking alone at the table.

The band was playing a moderately paced song, which was good. You weren’t in this to be swept into the air.

“Relax,” Dean whispered, once he had you in his arms. His hands were respectably placed on your waist and in your hand. You knew you did have to relax though. Already you were too stiff while tentatively holding his hand, your other resting on his shoulder.

“I haven’t danced in—in a while,” you admitted. You were a little nervous as you began swaying with Dean, letting him lead you. He turned you about with ease, even twirling you under his hand.

“See? There’s nothing to it,” he said, welcoming you back into his arms. “When’s the last time you had some fun?”

You tilted your head as you thought about it. You and Dean shuffled about the dance floor in more complicated steps as the song increased in tempo. You were breathless in a good way. In a way that you couldn’t even remember needing to breathe as the golden lights sparkled in the corners of your eyes.

“He took me to a club like this once, about…I’d say month or so after we got married last year,” you admitted between spins. You had to hold a hand to your head to keep your hat on.

You were distracted enough by it all—the spinning, the laughter and tinkling glasses, the flashes of spotlight in between sultry dim shades, the heady smell of this man’s cologne, and his every touch, however brief on your body, but just as confident and measured. You actually told him the truth.

“I’ve been dying to get out more ever since, but…” you trailed as he spun you again, then winded you back into the growing familiarity of his arms.

Dean smoothly guided you even closer to him by your waist, until there was hardly any room between your chest and his, between your face and his. Your hand curled around the back of his neck on instinct, the edge of your nails just barely grazing through his hair. You wouldn’t know how it elicited a hot zing of sensation down his spine.

“Your husband really is blind, and even dumber than he looks,” Dean said, glancing down at your face. “I clocked you in five seconds flat, just by those pretty lips.”

You lowered your eyes, but not very far. They landed on his plush lips in contemplation. When your eyes met his again, Dean had a conundrum. He just didn’t think he cared all that much about the consequences.

His head began to bow towards yours, just when the song slowed to a stop. Almost without realizing it, he pressed his hand a little more insistently on the small of your back. You found yourself accepting that guiding pressure. Half-lidded eyes and heavy, mingled breaths in between…

“Let’s hear it again for Dolores Daye, everybody!” the host called out.

You snapped to attention and glanced over Dean’s shoulder at the singer. She waved goodbye to the crowd with a sensuous smile on her ruby red lips. Then she walked off stage in her glittering golden dress, and she grabbed hold of a man’s tie. That man was your husband.

Michael wore a wide smile on his face as she led him to his feet by his tie. He stood, his form looming over her, though she didn’t seem to mind—especially when his arm wrapped too familiarly around her waist.

It wasn’t the kind of embrace you would see between strangers, even for the sake of a good show for the crowd. Their faces became impossibly close, but it was just shy of a kiss as she laughed, a sound like fine crystal bells.

Dean noticed why you froze. He turned to look over his shoulder and his expression faded, becoming grim. He led you off the stage, and while keeping a discreet eye on the scene, he lingered at the bar in the center of the room. His arm stayed around your waist. He could tell himself it was to stay in character, but really, he just wanted to keep you grounded…that right now, you weren’t alone.  

Here by the bar, it was far enough that Michael likely wouldn’t notice you, but close enough that you both could hear what was happening.

The host stepped down from the stage and joined Dolores and Michael, laying a heavy hand on your husband’s shoulder. Yet another clue that Michael showed his face here all too frequently. The host waved over his entire table of friends, Sam included. He’d managed to get himself invited to sit with them.

“Come on. Join us out back,” said the host, gesturing behind the curtain.

“Where to?” Sam asked.

“For a card game or two, a little smoke, a nice little drink,” Michael said, grabbing Sam’s shoulder. “You in?”

Sam nodded. He glanced over and found Dean across the room with his eyes. They shared a brief, but telling look, after which Sam followed Michael and Dolores past the curtain discreetly. Meanwhile, you were already pulling away from Dean’s arm.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go,” you murmured.

You went back to the table to collect your purse. You left the rest of your wine there with a few bills on the table to cover it, and you were off, walking brusquely to the front doors. Dean followed suit, laying some money down for his own drink before he followed after you. The clerk at the front brought you your coat after you handed over your ticket, and Dean did the same.

“Hey, why don’t I take you home,” he said, having to raise his voice even here over the noise.

“No, thank you,” you said thickly.

After you had your coat on, you hastened to the closest bus stop outside the club. It was late, it was dark, and it was cold. You saw your fragile breath on the air as you stood there in your tall heels, and you held yourself for more than one reason as you fought off bitter tears.

You bit your lip and blinked against the burn, but you still had to swipe a few droplets quickly from your cheeks. You tried to even out your shallow breaths. It felt like someone had reached into your chest and started squeezing whatever they found. Whatever was left.

Dean sidled up to you with his hands in his pockets. You heaved a sharp sigh, recognizing him just by his shadow casting beside yours under the streetlamp. You kept your face away from him as you wiped at your tears.

“Why do you insist on watching me be miserable?” you asked. 

“Aw, come on, sweetheart.” He shook his head, carding a hand through his hair. “I know you’re upset. I just want to make sure you get home safe, that’s all. …You don’t even have to talk to me if you don’t want to.” 

You slowly shot him a glance, but you didn’t budge. Your frown deepened along with your furrowed brows.  

“Dean, please. You don’t have to do this just because you feel sorry for me,” you said.

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” he said.

It earned your attention, your confused and hurt expression.

Dean met your gaze steadily. “I feel sorry for him. Because he doesn’t have a clue what he’s just lost.”

Your breath stilled in your lungs. 

His words touched you, more deeply than he probably realized. Part of you still wanted to give a sharp retort, that you didn’t need a chaperone. You didn’t need him to swoop in and collect you like broken glass…but a larger part of you craved the company. You didn’t want to be alone.

Soon enough, the next bus pulled up at the curb in front of you. The doors opened. 

Dean gestured with a sweeping hand towards the bus’s steps. 

Ladies first.

With another small sigh, you climbed up without a word. You even accepted his helping hand as you did so. Dean stepped up after you, and the doors closed behind you both.

AN: Welp, Happy Valentine's Day! 😅💜 Quite literally an angsty ride here, but what should happen on this bus going nowhere...

Next Time:

You admired his hands as they rested casually in his lap. They were larger than yours, with long fingers. His hands look strong and capable, like the rest of him, even though they were always considerate when they touched you.

“Then you should do something you like doing,” you said. “Fixing cars! That’s good, honest work you can make a living out of.”

Dean looked over at you. “You think so?”

You nodded your encouragement, smiling bright. “I know so. You might be a bit of a flirt, but you also look like someone who can accomplish whatever you set your mind to.”

When those words slipped free from your mouth, you realized how he might take that little accusation, let alone how overeager you sounded. Your gaze fell away from him as you felt your face getting warm in a blush.

Dean’s smile slid into a smirk. “I’m a flirt, huh?”

“Well…” You bit the inside of your lip and tried your hardest not to look at him for a while. “At least you’re an honest one.”

Dean laughed freely at that.

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[ashxllbey]

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: My day tomorrow is going to be a bit packed, so I decided to release this a bit early for you guys! So here we go! The first chapter of yet another new series, my first ever 1940s AU. 🥰 I hope you have fun on this one, because I sure did. Again, very much inspired by The Clock (1945), starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker. 💜

Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: For this chapter it’s “Cry Me a River” by Ella Fitzgerald

Word Count: 3.9K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, mentions of cheating, PTSD, historical tidbits

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Part 1: Legal Grounds

November 2, 1945

Dean idly read the pamphlet stacked with others on his brother’s desk, which advertised his new and successful enterprise.

Law Offices of Winchester, Bialystock & Bloom

What do you know? His brother had his own office, his own business, and his name on a pamphlet.

Dean couldn’t help but curl a finger around a steel ball on the abacus sitting at the head of the mahogany desk, right next to Sam’s nameplate.

He let it fly. The abacus began to clack as one ball hit the other.

Sam looked up from the deposition he was writing to give his brother a wry brow raise.

“So this is what you do, huh?” Dean remarked, crossing his arms.

Without his jacket, his suspenders were on display over his shoulders. His red pinstripe tie was still in place, but his white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows. Meanwhile, his brother preferred to keep himself more presentable with his sleeves down to his wrists. Jacket on.    

Dean glanced around the office, nodding at the line of bookshelves behind Sam, framing him as the bookish academic he’d always been. There was limited seating in here though, just a spare chair in front of the desk, and another to the right of it. Dean stood on the opposite side.

“If you’re bored, all you have to do is say so,” Sam said. “Which is strange, considering we’re smack dab in the middle of a city that never sleeps.”

He was right, Dean could concede. His little brother had given him a veritable list of things to do in New York City: visit the park, go to the zoo, see a picture show, visit a nightclub, or sample a host of restaurants that Sam knew Dean would probably enjoy.

He’d seen a lot of this place in the week that he’d been here visiting Sam, but a good deal of it he’d either spent alone, or with any willing young lady Dean came across, thanks to the demands of this office. If he was honest, entertaining young ladies was eating into the wallet in his trouser pocket, and the hustle and bustle was starting to be a little much for him.

“You don’t get tired of it?” Dean asked, gesturing to the out there beyond them. “The, uh…the lights, the noise, all the people?”

Sam picked his head up from his paperwork to consider the question. “No, I like it. Keeps my mind busy, and…I guess it makes me feel alive, you know?”

Dean supposed he could understand that, so he nodded.

Sam wasn’t fooled though. He thought he could tell what was running through his brother’s head, watching him fidget, and turn his head a bit sharply when a bus honked loudly outside the office’s glass doors as it thundered past.

It had only been two months since the end of the war. Two months since he and Dean met back in their family home in Lawrence, Kansas after three years fighting on two different fronts, in two different countries.

Both of them had enlisted, but Sam had spent most of his time in London while he was deployed, helping British Intelligence. Dean had clawed his way out of Normandy, and later, out of the Ardennes—the last offensive before the end.

Their experiences might as well have been worlds apart, but one thing remained the same: it had been three years in which neither brother knew if they’d see each other again.

Now, Sam saw the signs. Dean seemed a bit jumpy, overstimulated, but willing to be here to spend a little more time with Sam before he went back home. Guilt prickled in Sam’s gut. 

“I’ve got some work here to finish up, but afterwards let’s go to dinner,” he suggested. “Maybe see a show?”

Dean’s lips flickered at a smile. “You’re burning both ends of the candle. You know that, right?”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, when there was a knock on one of the glass doors—at the entrance to the small building. Their heads turned, and through the open door of his office, they spotted you standing there in the evening light. You wore a wide-brimmed hat on your head and a scarf underneath, wrapped over your hair and under your chin to shield your face. You knocked again with a hand covered by a leather glove, more persistently.

Cocking his head in confusion, Sam stood from his desk and left the room to let you in. Dean hung back and sat on the corner of the desk to wait. He withdrew a cigarette from the pack and a lighter from his pocket as he did so, but he heard you talking with his brother by the door.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed, miss,” Sam informed you.

“It’s still two minutes until closing. At least, according to my watch.”

“…Well, I suppose you’ve got me there.”

“So can I come in? I need to speak to a lawyer.”

“You sure it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid it can’t, sir.” Your tone was firm, and it more than implied that you wouldn’t be moved. Sam paused then, perhaps to take a steeling breath.

“All right. Come with me, please.”

You later followed behind him through the hallway and into the office. With a lit cigarette between his fingers, his arms crossed, Dean took note of you. He subtly glanced down at your crème-colored blouse, neatly tucked into the long, burgundy skirt (with lipstick to match), your modest, classy heels, and the way you wore your hair. His brows subtly raised. He’d met quite a few girls this week, but he hadn’t seen a lady like you in quite some time.

Should’ve shaved this morning. The thought was accompanied by the way he swiped a subtle hand over his prickly chin.

You gave him a cursory glance in turn, and offered a polite, “Hello.”

He stood from the desk and switched his cigarette to his other hand, so he could shake yours.

“Hey there. Dean Winchester,” he said. He offered a smile with no small amount of charm. “Pleased to meet you…”

You dutifully gave him your first name only. He found that a little strange, but you soon slipped your hand out of his and focused on the nameplate on the desk, followed by Sam himself.

“So you’re brothers,” you realized. “Do you work together?”

Dean scoffed. “Nope, I’m just here to distract him.”

Sam tossed him a sidelong glance. There was a subtle edge of bitter truth in there somewhere, and you didn’t seem to miss it. You looked between the two men, a hint wary.

“Well, as I said, I’m here to speak to the solicitor,” you said. 

“That would be me,” Sam nodded. He went to his desk and sat down behind it, gesturing for you to do the same in front of him. You obliged him, smoothing your hands down your skirt once you were seated. “How can I help you?”

You met his eyes with a directness that surprised him a little.

“I want to divorce my husband,” you said.

To say it shocked the room would be an understatement. Behind you, Dean gave his brother a pair of raised brows. Sam didn’t allow himself to react too much in order to remain professional, but he still tilted his head, blinking, before he focused on you again.

“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.

“Michael. Michael Milligan.”

“Why do you want a divorce, Mrs. Milligan?” 

Here, your gaze fell to the folded hands in your lap. 

“I have reason to believe he’s been unfaithful,” you quietly replied.

Once again, there was a pregnant pause.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said. His sympathy was genuine, because he could see the way you’d hesitated to say the words, like they embarrassed you, shamed you, and saddened you all at once. 

“But I have to ask,” he added, “do you have proof?”

Dean glanced his way, his brow raising once again. Sam knew what he was thinking, just as he saw how you frowned as well. But there was a reason why he asked, and it wasn’t to be unkind.

You sighed. “What kind of proof?” 

“Pictures. Letters. A witness. Something of legal standing that we can use as leverage and as grounds to grant you a divorce, whether he wants it or not,” Sam said. 

You let out another heavy breath through your nose. “No, I don’t have anything like that.”

“Then what makes you so sure he’s steppin’ out?” Dean chimed in. By now he was leaning against the wall, off to the side where he could smoke with the window cracked open. It let in the sounds of cars and distant honking, people traversing the sidewalks. 

You turned in your seat to give him a tight look. “If you must know, there’ve been…signs. I won’t trouble you with the details, but I’m sure.”

You met Dean’s gaze, and then Sam’s firmly. 

“So will you help me?” you asked him. Sam nodded.

“Yes, I’ll look into your husband and try to find some evidence of his…extracurricular affairs.”

Your lips pursed. “And how long will it take?”

Since you were being so direct, Sam levelled you with honesty.

“It may take time,” he said. “Realistically, we’re looking at months, even after I find what we need… It would be easier to legally separate.”

You had been slowly deflating the more he spoke, but now your expression became stony.

“Mr. Winchester,” you began. “I don’t want to just be separated. I don’t want to live in our apartment, let alone share his bed or wear his last name.”

Despite your best efforts, your voice began to shake. Tears welled up and stung in your eyes.

“I don’t want anything from him, other than his signature on the damn papers,” you said. “The case is that I can no longer tolerate that man in my sight, much less in my life. Will you help me? Or should I look for another lawyer who will actually do his job.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. For his part, Dean couldn’t remember the last time he heard a woman curse. Despite your outburst, the tears clinging to your lashes stirred both men.

“I understand, Mrs. Milligan,” Sam said. “I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

He began to look for his handkerchief, but you retrieved one of your own from your purse and quickly dabbed at your eyes, sniffling. You were embarrassed.

“What about your fee?” you said, withdrawing your checkbook. “I, um…I have a little money stashed away. I’ve always worked, you see.”

Sam nodded and went over what his rate would be going forward. Once the two of you came to an agreement, you signed the first check right then and there, even though he felt bad for even taking it from you.

You were still sniffling, and twice you dabbed under your eyes to make sure your face was dry. When you handed over the check, your hands shook, just a little. Sam wouldn’t tell you that he discounted his usual rate.  

Again, he mentioned that he would need some time first to investigate your husband and begin collecting evidence for your case. He asked you for any documents you could safely bring him of your finances, for example. You agreed to do an investigation of your own.

“Just be careful,” Dean cautioned. He was getting an idea of what kind of man your husband was, but Dean couldn’t be too sure of what the man was capable of. He’d hate to hear of a girl like you getting hurt over a few papers.

Dean put out the bud of his cigarette on the ashtray lying on the windowsill. He pushed off the wall to approach where you and Sam were getting to your feet. You gave Dean a nod of acknowledgement.

“I will,” you agreed. “Thank you both. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time, but I’ll be heading home now.”

“Did you take a bus or a taxi?” Sam asked.

“Oh, I walked,” you replied, and you checked your watch as you gathered up your purse. You headed for the coatrack, but Dean got there first, helping you into your beige wool coat. It went nicely with the burgundy you had on, namely on your painted lips.

“Thank you,” you said to him, but you still didn’t smile. You were a hint demurer now. It seemed with Sam’s promised help, the fire had dimmed behind your eyes and your tongue.

“How about I give you an escort, make sure you get home okay?” Dean found himself offering. “It’s getting pretty late on a Friday.”

Sam shot him a knowing look, but Dean ignored him, instead focusing on your face.

You hesitated. “It’s a bit far though. Out of your way, I’m sure.”

“All the more reason that you shouldn’t go it alone at this time of night,” he argued.

You considered his offer, and him, with a quick perusal. You seemed to be judging for yourself if he was trustworthy. Dean kept his posture straight, yet relaxed. Maybe he’d liked what he saw the moment he took you in, but after hearing your situation, he felt for you. It really was just an honest offer to walk you home.

“Where did you serve?” you asked. “The Army, the Navy, or the Air Forces?”

The question took him off guard for a beat, but he answered you.

“The Army,” he replied.

“Your rank?”

“I was a sergeant, ma’am.”

You looked at him a little more shrewdly, then you relaxed.

“I might’ve guessed,” you said. “All right, Sergeant. Let’s go then.”

You buttoned up your coat and turned to leave the office. Dean shot his little brother a raise of his brows and a what do ya know? kind of smile. He grabbed his dark brown jacket and hat and followed you out.

Sam’s smile was more reserved, with a shake of his head. He closed the door behind you and Dean and locked it. He still had some work he wanted to finish before tomorrow, and Dean’s little show of chivalry would give him time to do it.

Dean had his hands in his coat pockets as he walked with you down the long city sidewalk. Night had drawn into the November sky, but with all these lights, he couldn’t see many stars. It was also cold as all hell. The frigid wind slapped at him every time they turned the corner of a building, snapping right into his bones.

Still, he supposed there was a kind of attractiveness to the city at night. The stores and their signs were all lit up gold and other neon colors. Couples and families walked together, all done up nice for wherever dinner reservation or movie they were trying to get to. It begged the question of what your husband was doing right now if he didn’t notice his wife out at this time of night.

“Where’s your husband tonight, if I might ask?” said Dean.

You shot him a look, reading between his lines.

“He claims to be working late virtually every night of the weekdays,” you said, “but he usually comes home stinking of alcohol.” Your eyes dimmed, even with the pretty lights shining in them. “He was in the Army as well. A corporal. He’s had a hard time adjusting to being back home, and I know that… He doesn’t sleep very well. And do you know, he had a hard time finding work for a while too. Luckily, he has his father’s business to fall back on.”

Dean tried not to show how much your words resonated with him. He didn’t think it a good thing to have common ground with your husband, if he was the kind of man you said he was.

“Yeah? What’s his business?” he asked.

“He manages a meat production plant, of all things,” you said.

“Ah, located in the Meat Packing District, I presume?”

“You’d presume right.”

Dean nodded. “I get it. I inherited the family home back in Lawrence. I just need to figure out what’s next.”

“Lawrence?”

“Kansas.”

“Oh, the Midwest,” you inclined your head. “What’s it like there?”

Dean scoffed. “Dusty.”

You almost laughed at that. At least it earned him your first smile of the night.

“Do you have an idea of what you’ll do for work?” you asked.

Dean chuckled. “Not just yet. Didn’t plan that far, you know?”

“Why not?” you asked.

“Hmm. Guess I didn’t see the point,” he replied with a mild shrug. It hid a deeper, darker well inside him. The part of him that hadn’t thought he’d make it back home after the war.  

You turned to him then, and you saw it behind his eyes. The two of you walked in silence for a little while as the neighborhood blocks began to shift and change, becoming somewhat quieter, more residential. Dean put himself between you and the sidewalk when a taxi zoomed by too close to the curb, resting a hand on the small of your back for protection.

Part of you trilled inside at the small touch, but you immediately beat that reaction down. Dean Winchester was an attractive man, to be sure. His hair was a lighter brown than his brother’s, and shorter too. He had an air of roguishness about him, even though he’d been perfectly pleasant so far.

But by the way he eyed you when you came into the law office, you had a strong feeling he was a flirt. You had no room for that in your life, and not only because you were still a married woman.

Yet, there was something about him that…well, made you curious.

“I was a nurse,” you said eventually, earning his attention. “I was there when they liberated Paris.”

Dean turned to you with newfound interest lighting his green eyes. “You were at Normandy.”

You nodded. “For a while. Almost a year before D-Day.”

Dean let out a short, if humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, that’s where I was. At that time, at least,” he said. You gave him a similar look; respect, and perhaps finding a kindred spirit.

“I did what I could do before, during, and afterwards,” you said. “I think that’s all we can do now, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean,” he said. “If you like.”

A second smile almost tugged at your lips. You nodded in agreement.

“Dean,” you said.

In another ten minutes, he was walking you up to your porch at your apartment building. You travelled up the four small steps, while Dean stopped at the second one. For the first time, you had the vantage point above him as you turned on your heel to face him. You were about to thank him when he shook his head, scoffing.

“This guy must be dumb, deaf, and blind, sweetheart,” he said.

Your face warmed in a blush, and you gave a rueful smile when you realized what he meant. He was looking up at you like someone who couldn’t understand your plight. You knew the feeling.

“That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to do that,” you said.  

His brows furrowed. “Do what?” 

“Try to make me feel better,” you said, scuffing the toe of your sensible heels against the brick platform. Dean crossed his arms. 

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because the fact of the matter is, Sergeant, words don’t move me anymore.” You picked up your gaze from the ground, and you met his. “Flattery is just a pretty way of lying, and I’ve grown to really, truly hate lying.” 

It took him a moment, but Dean nodded.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said. He had to stop himself before he proved your point with a smart word on your pretty smile. Although, it wouldn’t have been a lie. He tipped his hat up. “Goodnight then, Mrs. Milligan.” 

You stopped him from leaving with just your voice. 

“Please,” you said, your eyes briefly closing. “Just…call me by my name. My first name.” 

Dean slowly smiled. “Perfect. I like your name better anyway.” 

This time, your smile in return was genuine, if tinged with amusement. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” you replied.

He gave you a charming grin and a more casual soldier’s salute. Then he stuck his hands back in his pockets, turned on his heel, and began to walk back the way he came. You couldn’t help but watch him go for a second or two. His legs were slightly bowed under his slacks, you noticed.

With a blush, you shook your head to rid yourself of those silly thoughts. You closed the door.

That night, Michael came home late, as usual—this time at two in the morning. He reeked of alcohol, also per usual, but this time when he rolled over towards you in bed to say goodnight, you stiffened. He also smelled like a woman’s perfume. Expensive stuff. 

This was one of those signs you hadn’t wanted to tell Sam Winchester. Frankly, it was crude and embarrassing.

“Sorry it’s so late, darling. Got held up,” he said, kissing your shoulder through your nightgown. His fingers played with the ends of your hair while you laid facing away from him.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You were fighting every instinct you had inside you that wanted to recoil from his touch and bolt out of the bed. When just a few months ago, his touch was all you craved, almost desperately so. 

“Where were you?” you asked. Somehow, you kept your voice steady and calm. “You weren’t at the office all this time.”

“Had a couple of drinks with the guys after,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry. The night got away from us, but, uh…I’ll be home on time for dinner tomorrow.”

With your back turned to him, you were able to roll your eyes.

“What’d you make tonight, outta curiosity?” he asked.

“Egg salad sandwiches,” you replied flatly. 

“Hmm. No real loss there then.” 

Your teeth clenched. “If I thought you were actually going to be home when you said you would, maybe I would make a rump roast with all the fixings.” 

Michael paused, but then, he grasped your shoulder, slowly turned you around in the bed until you were facing him. His face was sterner. 

“Excuse me?” 

You remained quiet. Your gaze travelled downwards, avoiding his.

Michael huffed, shaking his head. “Sometimes you got a real mouth on you. One of these days, you just might regret it.” 

He turned his back on you, laying on his side. You did the same while trying to stem your tears.

When did this become your life?

AN: Oof, sorry for all that angst at the end there, but I hope you liked the first chapter! Did you enjoy soldier!Dean and soldier/lawyer!Sam? Do you want to find a dark alley for Michael yet? 😅

And are you ready for what's coming up next? 😘

Next Time:

Dean both could and couldn’t believe it. He might not have been a saint himself when it came to the fairer sex, but if he went through the whole ordeal of marrying one, let alone a straight-shooting woman like you, beautiful, clever…

“Geez,” he muttered. “He could’ve at least waited until the ink dried on the certificate.” 

Sam nodded in agreement. He picked up the receipt to the Cotton Club, and he shot his brother a grin.

“Wanna go to the club tonight?”

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[ashxllbey]

[ashxllbey]

[ashxllbey]

What do you think happened to the characters after your fic patched up? Did will get his priorities straight and commit to the reader…pls say yes

Unraveled - Sequel to Patched Up

Here is a very long answer 💖

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. Minors, DNI.

Pairing: Will Miller x Reader

Warnings: Fluff/angst (flangst). Sexual content: Vaginal sex; safe sex; biting. Not beta-read.

You don't think your coworker means to send your whole day careening off its axis, but it happens anyway. It's tacked onto an invitation to hang out that weekend, coupled with a sigh that she's had no luck hooking up with Ben (who's been out of town) or with the manimal.

You still wince at the term, but you're more intrigued at the fact that Will has turned down your gorgeous friend.

"Oh?" You ply as innocently as possible. She doesn't seem terribly put out as she shrugs a shoulder, setting her laptop and notepad down on her desk.

"He was nice about it, at least. Said he was flattered, but that he travels a bunch, already has his eye on someone."

She says it like it's nothing. And to be fair, to her, it is nothing.

She has no idea that she's just touched on the tenuous string keeping Will—the thought of him in your arms, in your bed, the idea of him—and set the fucking thing on fire.

You're numb and quiet for the rest of the day as the seams of your misplaced devotion silently disintegrate. You drive home stoically, unable to even bring yourself to turn the radio or a podcast on to distract yourself.

You step inside your apartment at 6:02 pm, shut the door, lock up, and draw in a deep breath.

You have no right, no reason to mourn. There's never been an agreement between the two of you. No exclusivity, no expectations, just...an understanding. You'd talked about it. You'd settled on this decision. This is your fault, isn't it?

You should've quit while you were ahead, drawn back when you'd found yourself in tatters after spending nights with him; seaming your sanity back into one piece as your mind spun with his tender smiles, and steady touch; with his eyes slipping shut as his hips bore down against yours—

You raise a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose, fighting desperately to staunch a wave of tears that have been waiting in the wings since approximate 10:38 that morning. You can't rationalize this, not right now.

You'll let yourself put your delusions to bed tonight. You can blame yourself all you want tomorrow, and put yourself back together the way you always have.

--

Piece by piece, thread by thread, you draw yourself back together over the next week, two weeks. You stop letting your every other thought be of him—his sweet eyes, and warm hands, and crushing kisses.

You even go out with a couple of people. You don't shy away from the attention that your coworker manages to drum up when the two of you go to the bar, and when some is directed at you, you manage not to shy from it. You let someone new catch your eye, and hold it for a couple of dates.

The time you spend with him that evening is nice—you go bowling, and then grab a drink. He leaves you on your doorstep with a chaste kiss. It's sweet.

But it doesn't make you feel much.

You think, right now, that may be what you need. Something that can be gently tried and carefully broken in, like a new pair of shoes.

You're just hanging your jacket up when you hear a knock on your door. It makes you freeze, your brow furrowing. You pat down your pockets, glance over your shoulder for your purse. You didn't forget anything in his car—you checked before you got out. You tread toward the door softly, wary of the click of your heels on the entryway tile.

He can't have come back for another kiss, that first one wasn't all that spectacular. He can't want to break things off with you in person. You've only seen one another twice, and besides, why not do that instead of kissing you if he wasn't feeling it?

You peer through the peephole and just manage to stop yourself form sucking in an audible gasp.

The sight of Will Miller at your doorstep has never made you feel queasy before.

Nervous? Sure. Fluttery? Absolutely.

But right now, your heart feels like it just shocked your entire system before dropping into your bile-filled stomach.

You consider for a few moments as you watch him wait calmly on the other side of the door. It's possible that he just got there—that he pulled up, parked, walked up to the front door. But...It's also possible that he saw you get out of that man's car. It's possible that he saw that man kiss you, watched that man leave, and walked up your front steps anyway.

Maybe whoever he has his eye on is busy tonight. Maybe he wants his old, comfortable stand-in, and knows for sure that you're home. You gnaw the inside of your cheek, drawing in a deep breath and rubbing your hand over your pounding heart.

You can leave him in the cold. You can leave him on the doorstep, send the message that you're not interested anymore. You don't have to let him in just because he probably knows that you're in there.

Whatever you do, you cannot open the door. If you open the door, you'll let him in, and then all of the hard work that you've put in over the last couple of weeks will be hacked up, fit only to be sold for scraps.

The night air seems chillier than you remember from just a few moments ago—but then, you had been wearing a jacket.

Will waits there with his hands in his pockets, taking a couple of steps closer as soon as the door is opened fully. You force yourself to stand staunchly still, eyes set on his. But his gaze just sweeps from yours to linger on your lips before capturing yours again.

You won't let him inside, you can just tell him that you've had a long day and that you'd like him to leave.

He lifts one of his hands, knuckles stroking gently along your cheek as he watches your lashes flutter at the contact.

"Can I come in?"

You can say no. He probably just saw you with another man. He knows that you're at least dating, if not with someone. Just because he's here, just because he decided to show up, doesn't mean that he's entitled to your time.

--

He's taking his time.

He has before, but this is different. And it occurs to you belatedly that it may be some kind of goodbye. It makes you ache, and hide your face in his neck as his hips roll against yours with deliberate slowness.

You draw in the scent of him—his cologne, and deodorant, and sweat, and Will—and you let out a shaky little breath. You're dangerously close to unraveling the way you did two weeks ago, but you can't, not with him here. So you turn your head, squeeze your eyes shut, sink your teeth into the slope of his shoulder.

Will's hips stutter against yours as a groan punches out of him. But he doesn't let out a word of complaint, or teasing. He slips a hand up from your thigh and grasps the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing your head back. His slick skin slips from your teeth as you shudder, your back bowing as you push up against him.

Will peers down at you, those sweet lips parted as he pants softly. His typically bright blue eyes are dark, and covetous. You get as good a look at them as you can before his mouth descends on yours, tongue slipping between your lips.

You can't bring your hands to settle. The sweep across his arms, his hair, his neck, his face, the slick indent of your bite mark.

And maybe it's your turn to be the sadist, to twist the knife knowingly, just a little.

Pressing into the tender skin makes Will break the kiss with a hiss. His hands raise to grasp yours, intertwining your fingers and pinning you them to the bed. You whimper, pressing up into his iron-tight grip, but to no avail. You squeeze his hands, sink back into the mattress, and unravel as he gives and takes and takes and takes.

--

"When'd you get back in town?"

Asking the question feels like you're losing the last vestiges of safety that you'd managed to build up around yourself in your time without him. You shouldn't still want to know. You should give less of a fuck about where he's been, what he's been up to.

But with his body nestled against yours, his palms resting on your thighs, you tell yourself that you'll pick yourself back up tomorrow (again), patch yourself together (again), and move on from Will Miller once and for all (again).

He doesn't answer right away, and after a few moments, you realize that he isn't awake.

Tipping your head down to get a better look at him, you see his closed eyes, and you stop breathing for a moment to feel his—the deep, even pull of it, the push of it against your bare skin. You blink dumbly for a moment before you tip your head back.

You can wake him up. You can shoo him out. He's a grown man, he can handle it.

You reach out just enough to draw the covers up over the two of you and your bedside shut the lamp off.

--

You awake to the feeling of Will pressing his teeth into your clavicle—not hard enough to hurt, and likely not anywhere near enough to mark. But you groan and wriggle, shoving at his forehead all the same. He just presses his body more tightly to yours, hands slipping down to grasp and pin your hips.

You scrub your eyes sleepily, smiling as Will's tongue laves to irritated skin. He rests his chin against your shoulder, the brush of his beard just on the edge of tickling you. You reach up, gently raking your nails against his scalp.

"You stayed."

He doesn't nod, or him, or shrug. He just watches, and waits. And you can handle silence, you can. You'll wait him out.

You manage all of ten seconds before it gets to you.

"...How long have you been back in town?"

"A few hours."

Hours? You'd been expecting him to say days, weeks—

"When did you—?"

"Around nine."

Nine. You'd been dropped off around nine. If Will was being honest, it meant that he'd driven right to yours. You avert your gaze, fighting to keep your composure in the face of Will's steady focus.

"Oh?"

"Mm." One of his hands smooths up and over your thigh, fingers swirling in aimless patterns. "Who was he?"

You're unable to stop or hide your wince, and you pull yourself out from under him as your tangle of feelings flare. He lets you up, and sits up himself. You can feel the close watch that he keeps on you as you grab your bathrobe, tugging it on and tying it more tightly than necessary.

"Well?" He prods after a moment.

"Just a guy I've been seeing."

"How many times?"

"A couple."

"Serious?"

"The hell does that matter?" You scoff. Will remains steady in the face of your irritation, just watching you move around your room, picking up your discarded clothing. You lay his pants on the bed, and he gamely catches his underwear and shirt when you throw them at him. He stands, pulls the underwear on, but doesn't bother with anything else.

"You wouldn't have let me in if it was," He argues. You shake your head, your protestation clogging up your throat. You both know he's right on that point, there's no point quibbling.

"Was your first choice unavailable?" You grumble.

"Excuse me?"

"I've been told you have your eye on someone." You don't dare look at him as the quiet fills the room, and stretches to suffocating as you wait for Will's answer.

"...Yeah," He confirms. And it's like it's 6:02 in your entryway all over again. Tears prickle in your eyes, and your stomach churns with upset. But you just nod, raising your hand to pinch the bridge of your nose and steady yourself again.

"So?" You press. "Why aren't you wherever she is?"

"I am."

It's spoken deceptively softly, so quietly that you nearly miss it the same time. You shake your head, trying to make sense of the words over the blood pounding in your ears.

"Excuse me?"

You register the slight creak of the floorboards as Will stands, the soft padding of his feet as he gets closer. He takes hold of your wrist, drawing it back from your face as he gently grasps your chin with his other hand.

"I just got back into town and I came right here," He murmurs.

"For a bootycall."

"To ask you out...And yeah, for a bootycall."

His warm smile widens as you sputter a disbelieving laugh, the force of it pushing a few waiting tears from your eyes. Will reaches up, gently smoothing the drops away before he presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I should've said something sooner. That is," He dips his head to meet your eyes, "If this is something that you want."

You huff, reaching up and dabbing irritatedly at your eyes with the sleeve of your bathrobe.

"Can we just be clear about what this is?" You sniffle.

"Dating, for a start."

"A start?"

"Mhm. I'm happy to take it slow, considering how quickly other areas have accelerated."

You consider him for a few moments—the heat of him, the steadiness. He stayed. Will Miller fell asleep in your bed, in your fucking arms. He came to your first.

Your eyes stray to his shoulder, to the slight mark left behind by your teeth the night before. You reach up, skimming your fingertip over it.

"Sorry," You mumble.

"S'okay," He soothes, smoothing his hands over your hips and drawing you closer. "So?"

"Okay."

"Can we just be clear about what you're saying 'okay' to?"

You do your best to shoot him a disapproving glare, but you can't help the smile beginning to twist your lips.

"Okay," You lean into it. "I would like to date. For a start."

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