averalia

[averalia]

A Little Much

Part 1// Part 2

| Parings: Thomas “Tommy” Shelby x Reader

| Summary: After years of hidden trauma, you find unexpected solace and fierce protection in Thomas Shelby, the man you once viewed as your enemy.

| Warning/s: mentions of abuse, smoking, Implied emotional abuse/neglect, PTSD symptoms, Discussions of self-worth, self esteem issues.

The gift of Jane Eyre was a turning point. It wasn't a grand gesture, but its quiet thoughtfulness chipped away at the formidable walls you’d built around yourself. You still carried the invisible scars of your past, the ingrained fear of speaking out, the constant awareness of your own vulnerability. But Thomas… Thomas was slowly, subtly, dismantling the narrative you had created for him in your mind. He was no longer just the enemy who had sealed your fate; he was a complex, unpredictable man, capable of surprising tenderness.

You began to seek out his company, not actively, but by lingering in rooms you knew he’d enter, by taking your tea in the morning at the same time he was having his first cigarette. He, in turn, seemed to seek yours. He’d bring you books he thought you might like, sometimes leaving them silently on your bedside table, other times handing them to you with a slight, almost shy, smile. He'd ask for your opinions on small matters concerning the house, a subtle way of acknowledging your presence, your intelligence.

One evening, a fierce storm raged outside, rattling the windows and making the old house creak. You were in the drawing-room, trying to lose yourself in a book, but the memories of being locked out in the snow, the biting wind, the numb cold, were overwhelming. You shivered, pulling a shawl tighter around you.

Thomas entered, shrugging off his wet coat. He paused when he saw you, his gaze sharpening. "Are you cold?" he asked, his voice softer than the howling wind.

You shook your head, unable to speak, the fear a tight knot in your stomach.

He walked over to the fireplace, adding more coal, stirring the embers until the flames licked higher. Then, unexpectedly, he sat on the ottoman in front of you, closer than he ever had before. He reached out, his large hand gently covering yours, which still clutched the book.

"You're trembling, Y/N," he observed, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "What is it?"

The dam broke. The years of unspoken trauma, the hidden abuse, the suffocating fear – it all rushed to the surface. Your voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the storm. "My father… he used to… he'd lock me out. In the snow. If I displeased him." The words tumbled out, shaky and broken, each one a shard of glass. "A speck of dirt, a forgotten chore… he’d just… open the door and push me out. No one ever knew."

Thomas’s hand tightened around yours, a silent anchor. His face, usually a mask of control, was etched with a profound sadness, a deep, simmering anger that wasn't directed at you. "He beat you," he stated, not a question, but a quiet, chilling certainty.

You nodded, tears finally tracing paths down your cheeks. "Senseless. For speaking without permission. For looking at him the wrong way." You pulled your hand from his, instinctively clutching your arm, a phantom pain throbbing beneath your sleeve. "They gave me away without a second thought. I was nothing to them."

He stood then, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "You are not nothing, Y/N," he said, his voice low and guttural, filled with a controlled fury you’d never heard from him before. He turned to face you, his eyes stormy, but no longer with just calculation, but with a fierce protectiveness. "And no one will ever lay a hand on you again. Not while I draw breath."

He reached out, cupping your face gently in his hands. His thumbs wiped away your tears, his touch surprisingly tender. You leaned into his touch, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort he offered. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a vulnerability you hadn’t thought him capable of. He was still Thomas Shelby, the gang leader, the calculating businessman. But he was also the man who saw your pain, who offered solace, who promised protection. And as he pulled you into a tentative embrace, holding you close while the storm raged outside, you realized with a startling clarity that he was no longer your enemy. He was your unexpected solace, your reluctant protector, and perhaps, just perhaps, something more. The path to love was fraught with the shadows of your past, but in his arms, for the first time, you felt truly, deeply safe.

The revelation of your past, whispered amidst the storm, changed something fundamental between you and Thomas. The fragile trust you’d been building solidified into something stronger, more resilient. He had seen your deepest vulnerability, the raw, ugly truth of your childhood, and instead of recoiling, he had offered unwavering protection.

The days that followed were marked by a quiet intimacy. Thomas, ever the man of action, didn't dwell on your past in endless conversations, but his actions spoke volumes. He became acutely attuned to your discomforts, the subtle flinches, the guarded glances. He’d ensure doors were never locked if you were inside, a small but profound gesture that chipped away at the ingrained fear of confinement. He’d occasionally find you staring into space, lost in a memory, and without a word, he’d simply sit beside you, his presence a silent comfort, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of your mind.

One crisp morning, you were having breakfast alone when Thomas entered, a rare occurrence. He sat opposite you, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"You look… more at ease," he observed, his gaze assessing.

You managed a small, genuine smile. "I am. Thank you, Thomas."

He nodded, a flicker of something close to satisfaction in his eyes. "No one ever deserves what you went through, Y/N." His voice was low, laced with a familiar steel, but softened with genuine empathy. "And no one will ever put you through it again."

He didn't just speak the words; he embodied them. He started leaving clear instructions with his staff that you were to be afforded every courtesy, that your word was to be respected. He subtly began to assert your position in the household, not as a decorative wife, but as a valued member of his life. He even started asking for your opinions on minor business matters, not out of necessity, but to genuinely hear your perspective, to foster your confidence.

A Glimmer of Understanding

Despite his unwavering support, there were moments when the sheer depth of your trauma seemed to baffle him, the lingering shadows of fear unfamiliar territory for a man who had faced down so many tangible threats.

One afternoon, you were walking through the bustling streets of Small Heath with Polly, a rare outing. A sudden, loud bang – a carriage backfiring – made you jump violently, your heart leaping into your throat. You instinctively hunched your shoulders, covering your head, a primal reaction to the sudden noise.

Polly immediately put an arm around you, her expression concerned. "It's alright, dear, just a cart."

When you finally straightened, eyes wide with residual fear, you saw Thomas, who had been a few paces ahead, looking back at you. His brow was furrowed, a slight confusion in his eyes. He’d seen the fear, the instantaneous retreat, but the sheer visceral reaction to a simple noise seemed to be beyond his immediate comprehension. He understood violence, understood pain, but the invisible, insidious nature of trauma was a different beast.

Later that evening, back in the quiet of his study, he brought it up. "That bang today… you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

You hesitated, trying to explain something so deeply ingrained. "It's… when you're always waiting for the next blow, the smallest unexpected noise can feel like the beginning of it all again. It's a memory, a warning."

He listened, his gaze intense, but you could see the slight furrow in his brow. He didn't quite get it, not in the way someone who had experienced it would. He understood the logic of it, the fear, but the automatic, physical reaction, the way the past could still hijack your present—that was a chasm he couldn't fully bridge with his own experiences.

He rose from his desk and came to stand before you, reaching out and gently taking your hands. "I can't truly know what that feels like, Y/N," he admitted, his voice quiet, almost regretful. "But I can promise you this: you are safe with me. Always. And if you ever feel that way again, you just tell me. Or Polly. Or Arthur." He squeezed your hands. "We'll face it together."

It wasn't a perfect understanding, but it was an honest admission, a promise. He might not fully comprehend the internal war you still fought, but he was willing to stand on the battlefield with you, to be your shield against the unseen enemies of your past. And in that moment, as you looked into his earnest, stormy eyes, you knew that was more than enough. He was no longer a means to an end; he was becoming the foundation of a new beginning.

The quiet promise Thomas made, to stand with you against the unseen enemies of your past, became a cornerstone of your shared life. He didn't always understand the nuances of your fear, the sudden shifts in your mood, or the way certain sounds or sights could transport you back to moments of terror. But he never dismissed it. He listened, he learned, and he adapted.

You found yourself leaning on him more, allowing yourself to be vulnerable in ways you never thought possible. You’d share fragmented memories, not in a torrent, but in quiet moments, like secrets whispered into the twilight. You told him about the biting cold of the snow, the humiliation of being left outside, the searing pain of the beatings, the chilling silence that followed your father’s rage. Thomas, in turn, would simply hold you, his embrace a sanctuary, his quiet strength a balm to your wounded soul. He'd never say, "I know how you feel," because he didn't. Instead, he’d say, "That bastard. He'll never touch you again." And you believed him.

Your progress wasn't linear. There were days when the shadows of your past felt insurmountable, days when a sudden raised voice, even from someone else, would make you flinch, or a closed door would trigger a wave of panic. But Thomas was always there, a steady, unwavering presence. He learned to recognize the signs, the subtle ways your body would brace for a blow that wasn’t coming. He'd step in, deflecting a sharp word, or simply offer a hand, a grounding touch that pulled you back to the present.

The love that blossomed between you wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was woven into the fabric of your everyday lives, an unspoken language of gestures and quiet understanding. It was in the way Thomas would pour your tea exactly how you liked it, the extra sugar you favored, or the way he’d leave a new book on your bedside table, always something he knew you’d enjoy. It was in the way he’d subtly position himself between you and any perceived threat, his broad shoulders a silent shield.

And you, in turn, began to see him beyond the hardened exterior, beyond the reputation. You saw the weight of his responsibilities, the quiet moments of weariness in his eyes after a long day of fighting for his family and his empire. You saw the fierce loyalty he held for those he loved, a loyalty he now extended unequivocally to you. You started to anticipate his needs, to offer quiet comfort after a particularly grueling meeting, to simply be present, a steadying force in his often tumultuous life.

One evening, as you sat by the fire, Thomas reached out and took your hand, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of your wrist. He didn't say anything, but his gaze, usually so intense and unreadable, softened into a tenderness that made your breath catch.

"You know," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, "when I first agreed to this marriage… you were a means to an end. A way to solidify our position. That was it." He paused, his thumb still stroking your skin. "I was a fool."

You looked at him, your heart aching with a bittersweet mix of past pain and present joy. "And I saw you as the enemy," you confessed, your voice a whisper. "The one who took what little freedom I had left."

A small, rueful smile touched his lips. "We were both wrong, then." His grip on your hand tightened, a silent promise. "You are more than just my wife, Y/N. You are… everything."

Tears pricked your eyes, but these were not tears of sorrow, but of a profound, overwhelming happiness. You knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within your soul, that while the scars of your past would always be a part of you, they no longer defined you. You were not entirely free of the shadows, but with Thomas by your side, holding your hand, you were no longer alone in the dark. He didn't just love you despite your past; he loved you for the strength you had found in surviving it, for the resilient spirit that had endured. And you, in turn, had found love in the most unexpected of places, with the man you once considered your enemy, a love that promised not to erase your past, but to build a powerful future upon its foundations.

The quiet intimacy that had blossomed between you and Thomas deepened with each passing season. The memories of your past still surfaced, sometimes unbidden, but they no longer held the same power. You were no longer the terrified girl locked out in the snow; you were Y/N Shelby, cherished wife of Thomas Shelby, and protected by a love that was fierce and unwavering.

The idea of children had, at first, been a distant, almost frightening thought. The prospect of bringing a child into a world that felt so full of pain, and the terrifying notion of being a parent after experiencing such abuse yourself, had been a heavy burden. But as your bond with Thomas strengthened, as his love became a constant, undeniable force, the fear began to recede, replaced by a tentative hope.

It was a cold, blustery evening when you finally broached the subject. You were seated by the fire, a familiar comfort, and Thomas was across from you, engrossed in a newspaper.

"Thomas," you began, your voice soft.

He lowered the paper, his stormy eyes meeting yours. "Yes, Y/N?"

You took a deep breath. "Have you ever… thought about children?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by a thoughtful expression. He set the newspaper aside. "It's… not something I've actively considered, not in detail. Running the business, keeping the family safe… it takes up most of my thoughts." He paused, his gaze softening. "But if you have, then I've considered it."

You fidgeted with the hem of your dress. "I… I've been afraid to. After… everything." You gestured vaguely to your past. "I wouldn't want to bring a child into anything but absolute safety. And I don’t know if I’d be a good mother, after what I experienced."

Thomas rose and came to sit beside you, taking your hand in his. His touch was reassuring, grounding. "Y/N," he said, his voice firm, "you would be an incredible mother. Your resilience, your compassion… those are strengths that no one could teach. And as for safety," his eyes hardened with a familiar resolve, "any child of ours would be guarded by an army if necessary. Nothing, and no one, would ever touch them."

His words, simple yet powerful, resonated deep within you. The image of a future, once shrouded in fear, now seemed to shimmer with possibility.

His words, simple yet powerful, resonated deep within you. The image of a future, once shrouded in fear, now seemed to shimmer with possibility. You leaned into his touch, your head resting against his shoulder, finding solace in the rhythmic beat of his heart.

"You really believe that?" you whispered, the question laced with the last vestiges of doubt.

He shifted, turning slightly to fully embrace you, his arm tightening around your waist. "I don't just believe it, Y/N," he murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble against your hair. "I know it. Look at you. You survived hell. You’re stronger than anyone I know. And that strength, that resilience, that compassion you carry, despite everything… that’s what will make you an extraordinary mother. And any child of ours," he pulled back slightly, his stormy eyes locking onto yours, "will know nothing but love and safety. I swear it."

In his gaze, you saw not just a promise, but a reflection of his own fierce protectiveness, a quality you had once seen as a threat, but now recognized as the deepest form of care. The thought of a child, once a source of terror, now brought a warmth that spread through your chest, chasing away the lingering chill of your past. With Thomas, you truly believed it was possible. Not just to survive, but to thrive, to build a family, and to create a legacy of love that would finally silence the echoes of fear.

From that evening forward, the conversation about children became less a whispered secret and more a shared vision. Thomas, in his methodical way, began to consider the practicalities, discussing potential nurseries, the type of schooling he'd want for them, even the future of the family business in relation to their upbringing. His protective instincts, always a formidable force, would now be channeled into building an impenetrable fortress of security and love around your future family.

You, in turn, found yourself envisioning the small, everyday joys: reading stories by the fire, teaching them to garden, seeing a glimmer of Thomas's fierce spirit in their eyes, and perhaps, a reflection of your own quiet strength. The fear wasn't entirely gone – some shadows linger, a testament to what you'd endured – but it was now a distant hum, overshadowed by the burgeoning excitement and profound hope for the future you were building, brick by brick, with the man you now loved unequivocally.

[averalia]

The Cold Case

Part 1// Part 2// Part 3// part 4 (Final)

| Pairing: Athens Grant x Reader

| Warning: Warning/s: Attempted kidnapping, assault, guns, death

I Summary: Athena Grant-Nash moves her family to a safe house, then meticulously orchestrates the exposure of a deep-seated conspiracy. After a brutal kidnapping attempt on her, the FBI intensifies its efforts. Athena engineers the capture of Julian Hayes, the conspiracy's financial architect. However, the chapter ends with a chilling interrogation, where Connor Maxwell reveals her family is still a target, despite the arrests.

| A/N: this series is a lot longer than I though it was going to be

The remote cabin was exactly as Hen had described: isolated, rustic, and far from any prying eyes. As they pulled up the winding dirt driveway, the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. The air was crisp, scented with pine, a stark contrast to the suffocating tension of the city. Bobby, May, and Harry were exhausted but safe.

Inside, Hen and Karen, who had arrived earlier, had already set up makeshift beds and a small, secure workspace in the living area. The first priority was making sure the family was truly safe.

"Okay," Athena stated, her voice calm and authoritative, once the kids were settled with some warm milk. "Here's the plan. Bobby, you and the kids stay here. No leaving the property unless I say so. Karen, thank you for being here, your presence is invaluable. Hen, you're with me. We're going completely off-grid."

Her immediate strategy was multi-pronged, designed to protect her family while simultaneously advancing the investigation, using the very exposure that had put them in danger as a weapon.

First, secure communications and digital hygiene. They were officially dark. All personal phones were turned off and placed in a faraday bag Hen had quickly assembled. Their communication would now be entirely through encrypted channels, using a network of burner phones and a satellite internet connection that Hen had rigged up – slow, but secure and difficult to trace. They would access the outside world only through these protected means, minimizing any digital footprint.

Second, containment of Thomas Thorne. "We need to ensure Thorne is even more secure," Athena told Hen. "The conspirators know he's the key. They might have a lead on his current location. I need to make sure he's moved to an even more impenetrable safe house, somewhere completely out of their reach." She began to brainstorm options, leaning on old law enforcement contacts who ran discreet witness protection services.

Third, leverage the press. "Eleanor Vance is our primary weapon right now," Athena explained to Hen. "The exposure has shaken them, but they're still powerful. We need to feed Vance more. Keep the pressure on. Every new detail that comes out makes it harder for them to control the narrative, and puts more eyes on the FBI's investigation."

Hen nodded, already anticipating. "We'll send her more of the audio logs, maybe some of Y/N's more explicit financial breakdowns. Enough to keep the story boiling without giving away our location or jeopardizing your anonymity."

Fourth, establish contact with Agent Miller, cautiously. "It's time to reach out to Special Agent Miller directly," Athena said. "But not from here. We'll use a series of untraceable burner phones, and we'll communicate in code, or use a dead drop. I need to know what the FBI's next moves are, and how close they are to making arrests. I also need to ensure that when they do move, they have the resources to protect my family." She knew Miller would be under immense pressure, but his integrity was something she could stake her life on.

Fifth, plan for the worst-case scenario. Athena walked the perimeter of the cabin with Bobby, pointing out potential weak spots, discussing escape routes, and reviewing their emergency protocols. Bobby, though still reeling from the sudden upheaval, listened intently, his own protective instincts fully engaged. He was a fire captain, a leader, and he quickly adapted to the crisis. They established a system of rotating watches, ensuring someone was always alert.

As the sun began to paint the sky with streaks of orange and purple, Athena felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. They were out of immediate danger, for now. The cabin was a fortress of sorts. But the fight was far from over. The conspirators wouldn't stop until they silenced everyone involved. And Athena, with the quiet strength of her family behind her, was ready for them. She looked at the old photo of you, Y/N, on her secured laptop. Your sacrifice would not be in vain.

Over the next few days, the cabin became a command center. Hen, with her surprising tech savvy, managed the digital side, feeding carefully redacted information to Eleanor Vance. Each new article from Vance's paper was a gut punch to the exposed conspirators, forcing them onto the defensive. The FBI, spurred by public outrage and the undeniable evidence, ramped up its investigation, their every move tracked by Athena and Hen through news reports and discreet inquiries.

Meanwhile, Athena worked tirelessly to secure Thomas Thorne. She used her old contacts, navigating a clandestine network of former law enforcement and private security specialists who understood the nuances of witness protection. Thorne was moved again, this time to an undisclosed location far across the country, his safety paramount.

The constant threat, however, remained. Athena fielded more anonymous calls and texts, the modulated voices growing increasingly agitated and desperate. They knew she was behind the leak, even if they couldn't prove it. The threats against her family became more explicit, describing May and Harry’s school, Bobby’s fire station, even their favorite park. Athena felt a chilling realization that the conspirators had deep surveillance capabilities, or perhaps, compromised contacts within the city.

One afternoon, as Hen was monitoring the news feeds, she gasped. "Athena, look at this."

A breaking news alert flashed across the screen: "Prominent Businessman Found Dead in Apparent Suicide." The name was familiar. Marcus Thorne. Not Thomas, but his powerful uncle, one of the key figures implicated in Y/N's audio logs.

"Suicide?" Athena scoffed, her eyes narrowing. "Or silencing."

The implication was clear: the conspirators were cleaning house, eliminating anyone who might flip or who already knew too much. The game was escalating, and the stakes were getting terrifyingly high.

A call came through on the secure satellite phone. It was Special Agent Miller from the FBI. His voice was grim. "Detective Grant-Nash, we need to talk. Your information is solid, undeniable. We've moved quickly, but these are powerful people. They're striking back. We have reason to believe your life, and the lives of your family, are in imminent danger. We have assets ready to provide immediate, full-scale protection."

Athena looked at Bobby, who was sitting across the room, watching the kids play, his face a mask of weary vigilance. She knew this was her chance to bring them back into the light, to rely on the formidable power of the federal government. But it also meant exposing herself completely, becoming a primary target.

"Agent Miller," Athena said, her voice steady, "I appreciate the offer. Where do we go from here?"

Miller paused. "We're moving to bring in the primary targets. Warrants are being finalized. But we need your direct testimony. You're the one who found this evidence. We need you to identify the voices, confirm the chain of custody. And we need to get your family into full federal protection immediately."

Athena looked at the mountains surrounding the cabin, then back at the small, fragile family she had brought to safety. The cabin had served its purpose, but it was time for the next, dangerous phase. The fight was coming to a head. Justice for Y/N L/N, so long delayed, was finally within reach, but the path to it was fraught with peril.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the cabin, Athena made her decision. She would accept federal protection, but on her terms. She wouldn't let her family become passive victims, hidden away while the conspirators walked free. She would use the full force of the FBI, but she would also remain actively involved, ensuring justice was served.

"Agent Miller," she said, her voice firm, "I'll testify. I'll provide everything you need. But I have conditions. My family gets full protection, but I stay in the field. I'm not going into hiding. I'm going to be there when you bring these people down."

Miller hesitated. "Detective, that's… highly irregular. And extremely dangerous."

"It's non-negotiable," Athena replied. "I'm the one who brought this case back to life. I owe it to Y/N L/N to see it through. And I won't let my family's safety be held hostage by these criminals."

After a tense silence, Miller relented. "Alright, Detective. We'll make it work. We'll provide a protective detail for your family, and we'll coordinate with you on the ground. But you follow our lead. This is a federal operation now."

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity. Bobby, May, and Harry were relocated to a secure FBI safe house, a quiet suburban home under constant surveillance. Athena, meanwhile, was debriefed by Agent Miller and a team of federal prosecutors. She meticulously laid out the entire story, providing the original documents, the forensic copies of the flash drive, and a detailed account of Thomas Thorne’s testimony. The federal team, initially skeptical of a lone detective’s findings, quickly became convinced by the irrefutable evidence.

They began coordinating their approach to the conspirators. Athena, now operating as a key witness and a field consultant, was embedded with the FBI’s public corruption unit. Her knowledge of the local landscape, the subtle power dynamics, and the specific individuals involved was invaluable.

One afternoon, Athena was being escorted by two FBI agents to a secure, off-site location for a final pre-trial review of evidence. The location was a discreet federal building in an unassuming part of the city, chosen for its low profile. As their unmarked SUV turned onto a quiet side street, a large, dark van suddenly swerved from a blind alley, ramming into their vehicle's side. The impact was violent, throwing Athena and the agents against their seatbelts. Airbags deployed, filling the SUV with a blinding cloud of white.

Before the dust settled, the rear doors of the van slid open. Two figures, heavily built and clad in dark tactical gear, emerged. They moved with a chilling efficiency, their faces obscured by balaclavas. One agent, disoriented from the crash, tried to reach for his weapon, but a brutal blow to the head sent him slumping forward. The other agent, still struggling with his seatbelt, had a gloved hand clamp over his mouth before he could cry out.

"Grant-Nash," a muffled voice rasped, the tone cold and determined. "Time to finish this."

Athena, though shaken, was already moving. Her own weapon was still holstered, but years of training kicked in. As one of the figures reached for her door handle, she unbuckled her seatbelt and simultaneously kicked out, catching him squarely in the chest. The blow sent him stumbling back, momentarily buying her precious seconds.

She lunged for her door, pushing it open and rolling out onto the pavement, ignoring the searing pain in her shoulder. The second assailant was already coming around the back of the SUV, a dark, menacing silhouette. He was faster, more agile than the first. He lunged, attempting to tackle her.

Athena sidestepped, using his momentum against him, and spun, delivering a sharp elbow to his jaw. He grunted, staggering, but quickly recovered, coming back at her with a furious rush. This wasn't a snatch-and-grab; it was an attempt to neutralize her, permanently.

They engaged in a brutal, silent dance. Athena, though outnumbered and injured, fought with the ferocity of a cornered lioness. She blocked a punch, felt a sharp pain as another grazed her ribs, and retaliated with a series of quick, precise strikes. Her police academy training, honed by years on the street, was a blur of instinct and muscle memory. She heard a groan from inside the SUV—the agents were stirring. She needed to buy them more time.

Her assailant, larger and stronger, managed to get a grip on her arm, twisting it painfully behind her back. He began to drag her towards the van, his grip like iron. "You're coming with us, Detective," he growled.

But Athena Grant-Nash had faced down far worse. With a desperate surge of adrenaline, she dropped her weight, pulled hard against his grip, and then pivoted sharply, slamming her head back into his nose. There was a sickening crunch, and the man roared in pain, releasing her.

Just as he stumbled back, clutching his face, the doors of the federal building burst open. A team of fully armed FBI tactical agents, alerted by the crash and the sudden radio silence from their unit, swarmed into the street, weapons raised.

"FBI! Hands in the air!"

The remaining assailant from the van hesitated for a split second, then scrambled back into the vehicle as the first one, still reeling, managed to follow. The van, tires squealing, roared away, disappearing around the corner before the FBI agents could get a clear shot.

Athena stood panting, her body aching, a fresh cut bleeding above her eye, but her eyes were sharp, scanning the street. They had come for her. They were desperate. But they had failed.

Agent Miller rushed to her side, his face etched with concern. "Athena! Are you alright? What happened?"

"They tried to take me," Athena gasped, leaning against the side of the damaged SUV, her gaze fixed on the corner where the van had vanished. "They tried to silence me."

Miller's jaw was tight. "We knew they were dangerous, but this… This means we're closer than ever. And they're more desperate. From now on, Detective, you don't move without a full tactical escort. We're going to bring these bastards down."

The attempted kidnapping, the brutal fight, only solidified Athena's resolve. They wanted her to back down, to be afraid. But all they had done was fuel her determination. For Y/N, and for her family, she would see this through to the very end. The game had just become deadly.

The foiled kidnapping attempt sent a jolt of grim satisfaction through Athena. They were desperate. The attack was proof that her actions, her relentless pursuit of justice for Y/N, were tearing apart their carefully constructed world of impunity. Now, the FBI wasn't just taking her word for it; they'd witnessed the conspirators' brutality firsthand.

Agent Miller, true to his word, assigned Athena a round-the-clock protective detail. Two highly trained federal agents became her shadows, their presence a constant reminder of the danger, but also a reassuring shield. Her family remained in the secure safe house, a fortress of federal protection. The distance was agonizing, but Athena knew they were safer there, far from the direct line of fire.

The FBI intensified its operations. The audio logs from Y/N's flash drive, coupled with Athena’s deep dive into the historical financial records and Thomas Thorne’s corroborated testimony, formed an unassailable case. Warrants were executed across the city, targeting the powerful individuals named in the recordings. Residences, corporate offices, and private accounts were raided. The media, fueled by Eleanor Vance’s continued exposés, documented every development, turning the once-whispered conspiracy into a screaming headline.

One name kept surfacing in the ongoing investigation: Julian Hayes. He was a quiet, unassuming man, a long-time financial advisor to many of the key players in the original redevelopment project. Y/N’s notes had mentioned him peripherally, always in connection with unusually large, untraceable transactions. He wasn't one of the loud, aggressive voices on the recordings, but Athena’s gut told her he was significant. He was the spider at the center of the financial web.

"Hayes isn't just an advisor," Athena told Agent Miller during a late-night strategy session. "He's the architect. He managed the money, set up the shell companies. He's the one who knew every secret. If we can get him, we can get everything."

Miller agreed. Hayes had been elusive, his financial footprint expertly obscured. He wasn't a public figure, which made him harder to track, but also more dangerous, as he had nothing to lose.

The Trap is Set

The FBI finally located Hayes at a secluded, heavily fortified estate outside the city. It was a testament to his paranoia, a veritable fortress designed to keep the world out. Traditional entry would be a siege. But Athena had an idea.

"Hayes is a creature of habit," she explained. "He's meticulously private. He's also terrified. The news about the others getting arrested, the exposure of the conspiracy—it's unraveling his life's work. He'll want to secure his own escape route, maybe transfer his remaining assets."

Athena suggested a carefully orchestrated ruse. They would leak a false report, carefully crafted to appear legitimate, indicating that a key piece of incriminating evidence, a ledger detailing every illicit transaction, had been found at one of the recently raided properties. The target of this "leak" would be a minor, known associate of Hayes, ensuring the information reached him directly and swiftly. The ledger wouldn't exist, of course, but the threat of it would be enough.

"He’ll panic," Athena predicted. "He’ll think we have something we don’t. He’ll make a move to destroy it, or to confirm its existence. He'll go after it himself, to verify if his meticulous system has a flaw."

The FBI team was hesitant at first, but Athena’s track record and the urgency of the situation convinced them. The fake leak was planted, a carefully woven trail of breadcrumbs leading to a deserted warehouse, an old, forgotten holding facility that had once been part of the downtown redevelopment project. It was structurally sound, with multiple entry points, making it a perfect, controlled environment for an ambush.

The Final Showdown

Under the cover of a moonless night, Athena, accompanied by Agent Miller and a small, elite FBI tactical team, positioned themselves within the cavernous darkness of the warehouse. Cold Case Detective Athena Grant-Nash, a local cop from the beat, was now leading a federal operation to bring down a decades-old criminal empire.

Hours crawled by. The air was thick with tension, the only sounds the rustle of their gear and the thumping of their own hearts. Then, just as the first hint of pre-dawn light threatened to pierce the darkness, a sleek, black sedan pulled up to the main loading dock.

Julian Hayes emerged, a figure of anxious caution, his face pale in the dim light. He wasn't alone. Two burly, professional-looking bodyguards scanned the perimeter, their movements tight and practiced. Hayes carried a small, heavy briefcase. He was there to confirm the "ledger."

"Hayes!" Agent Miller's voice boomed, amplified by a bullhorn, cutting through the silence. "FBI! Hands where we can see them!"

The bodyguards reacted instantly, drawing weapons. But the FBI team was faster, a flurry of movement and shouted commands. A brief, violent exchange of gunfire erupted. The bodyguards were quickly incapacitated, but Hayes, in a desperate, final act, pulled a small vial from his pocket and raised it to his lips.

"He's destroying evidence!" Athena yelled, recognizing the desperate move. "Move!"

She launched herself forward, her protective detail a step behind her. Hayes, seeing her coming, spun, his eyes wild with terror and defiance. He didn't have a weapon, but he lunged, a desperate, cornered animal, aiming to smash the vial against the concrete floor.

Athena intercepted him, a powerful tackle that sent them both sprawling. The vial flew from his hand, shattering against a nearby metal beam, its contents splashing harmlessly. Hayes thrashed beneath her, a frantic, desperate struggle. He was older, but surprisingly strong, fueled by panic. He clawed at her, trying to reach for something at his ankle.

Athena saw it – a small, sharp knife. Her years of street experience kicked in. She blocked his arm, twisting, and slammed her elbow into his ribs. He grunted, momentarily stunned. With a final, decisive move, she pinned his arm, securing the knife.

As federal agents swarmed, taking Hayes into custody, Athena stood over him, breathing heavily. He lay defeated, his meticulous world in ruins. She looked down at him, then thought of Y/N. Their silent, enduring presence had driven her, through every threat, every danger, every long, dark night.

Justice. Finally.

Connor Maxwell, one of the two assailants from the kidnapping attempt, was a ghost. Or, rather, he had been. His face, now unmasked, stared defiantly across the sterile interrogation room table at Athena. He was the one who had grabbed her, the one who had growled about silencing her. The FBI had tracked him down hours after the ambush, thanks to a partial plate number caught by a distant traffic camera and a rapid-response facial recognition sweep. He was a professional, a shadow operator with a history of shady security contracts and no apparent ties to the main conspirators, making him a perfect, deniable asset.

Athena sat opposite him, her shoulder still aching, a faint bruise blooming on her temple. Agent Miller sat beside her, silent but watchful.

Maxwell leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. He was in his late forties, lean but powerfully built, with cold, calculating eyes. He had the air of someone who enjoyed the game, even from a losing position.

"Well, well, Detective Grant-Nash," he drawled, his voice no longer modulated, surprisingly smooth. "Fancy meeting you here. Last time, you were rather… feisty."

Athena's gaze was unwavering. "You attempted to kidnap a federal witness and assault two federal agents, Maxwell. You're facing a long time."

He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Oh, I'm well aware of the charges. But let's be honest, Detective. You got lucky. Very lucky. And messy. We prefer clean operations."

Miller interjected, his voice sharp. "Who hired you, Maxwell? Who gave the orders?"

Maxwell ignored him, his eyes still fixed on Athena, a disturbing glint in them. "You know, when they gave me the file on you, I was intrigued. A cop who just had to dig up old bones. Most people know when to let sleeping dogs lie. Especially when those dogs have teeth."

"Y/N L/N deserved justice," Athena stated, her voice even.

"Justice?" Maxwell scoffed. "Or notoriety? You could have stayed quiet, Detective. Could have enjoyed your life. Your charming husband. Your sweet little boy and girl." His eyes flickered to the invisible bruises on her temple, a hint of satisfaction. "Roughing you up wasn't in the original brief, but you did make it necessary."

A wave of cold fury washed over Athena, but she held it in check. He was trying to provoke her, to get under her skin.

"The FBI has everything, Maxwell," Miller pressed. "The audio logs, the documents, Thomas Thorne's testimony. It's over. Give us the names of your employers, and we can discuss leniency."

Maxwell chuckled again, a genuinely amused sound this time. "Leniency? You think I'm afraid of a few years in a federal pen? I've seen worse holidays. And as for 'everything,' Agent, do you really think you have everything?" He paused, letting the silence hang heavy. "They're always a step ahead. Always."

Then, his demeanor shifted. The amusement drained from his face, replaced by something cold and unsettlingly intimate. His voice dropped, becoming a low, chilling whisper. "You know, Detective, when I saw your family's pictures… very nice. Very typical. The suburban dream. It made me think. All that hard work, all those years building something… just to watch it crumble because of a bad decision."

Athena's jaw clenched. "Don't talk about my family."

Maxwell leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers. "You should have stayed with them, Detective. Should have listened to the warnings. Built a bigger wall around your perfect little life. Because now, you've put them in the crosshairs. You think a few federal agents can keep them safe from truly motivated people? People who've hidden secrets for thirty years, who've removed obstacles with extreme prejudice?"

He smiled then, a slow, sickeningly triumphant curl of his lips. "You wanted to bring justice for Y/N L/N. A noble cause, I'm sure. But you forgot the first rule of this game, Detective. You bring a knife to a gunfight, you get cut. You bring a shovel to a graveyard, and you might just dig your own."

The unspoken threat, the insinuation that her family was still vulnerable, hung in the air. He wasn't giving up names, but he was delivering a message, designed to destabilize her, to make her question every decision. He was a professional, a conduit for their fear, and he was using it as a weapon.

Athena met his gaze, her own eyes hardening. He was playing mind games, but she was Athena Grant-Nash. She had faced down far worse than empty threats.

"You can play your games, Maxwell," Athena said, her voice a low growl. "But Y/N L/N won. And you and your employers are going to pay the price. You just signed your own death warrant by touching my family."

Miller stepped in, ending the interrogation there. They had what they needed: confirmation of his involvement, and a chilling insight into the conspirators' ruthlessness. But the final, sickening words from Maxwell would linger, a cold shadow over Athena's fierce determination.

[averalia]

A little much

Part 1// Part 2

| Pairings: Thomas Shelby X Reader, Platonic!Peaky Blinders x Reader

| Warning/s: mentions of abuse, smoking, Implied emotional abuse/neglect, PTSD symptoms, Discussions of self-worth, self esteem issues.

| Summary: After years of hidden trauma, you find unexpected solace and fierce protection in Thomas Shelby, the man you once viewed as your enemy.

The chill of the Garrison’s private room seemed to seep into your bones, a stark contrast to the oppressive warmth of your parents' home, yet both held you captive. You sat rigidly, hands clasped in your lap, eyes fixed on the flickering gaslight, trying to appear as small as possible. The heavy oak door creaked open, and a hush fell over the room. Your father, a man whose presence usually dwarfed any space, now seemed insignificant next to the figure who entered.

Thomas Shelby.

You’d only seen him from afar, a whisper on the wind, a shadow in the newspapers. He was the devil in a tailored suit, a man who built his empire on blood and fear. And now, he was your intended.

"Mr. Shelby," your father’s voice, usually a booming command, was now laced with an unnerving subservience. "My daughter, Y/N."

You flinched as your father’s hand landed on your shoulder, a possessive, almost forceful gesture that made you acutely aware of the bruising beneath your sleeve. You didn't dare meet Thomas Shelby’s eyes. You knew what he would see: a pawn, a transaction, a means to an end.

"Miss Y/N," His voice was a low rumble, surprisingly smooth for a man of his reputation. "A pleasure."

You remained silent. Speaking without permission was an act of defiance, a transgression that had led to countless punishments. The memories of bitter winds whipping your exposed skin, the icy bite of snow on your bare feet, the searing pain of a belt against your back – they were etched into your very being.

Your father cleared his throat, a sharp, warning sound. "Y/N, speak."

You finally lifted your gaze, forcing yourself to look at him. Thomas Shelby was even more imposing up close. His eyes, the color of a stormy sky, held a flicker of something you couldn't quite decipher—calculation, yes, but also a hint of… curiosity? His face was a chiseled mask, betraying no emotion.

"It is… a pleasure, Mr. Shelby," you managed, your voice barely a whisper, hoarse with disuse.

He simply nodded, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer than necessary before shifting to your father. "The terms are clear, then?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Shelby. She's yours. Completely. No further obligations." Your father’s words were a cold blade, severing the last thread of your past life. You were property, given away without a second thought.

The wedding was a blur of grey and muted whispers. You were dressed in a simple, unadorned gown, feeling less like a bride and more like a sacrificial lamb. Thomas Shelby stood beside you, a dark, imposing figure, his hand at your back a phantom weight that you braced yourself against. He never looked at you, his gaze fixed on the vicar, his expression unreadable.

Later, in the opulent silence of his Small Heath home, you stood in a room that felt too grand, too empty. The air hummed with an unspoken tension. He walked in, shedding his jacket, loosening his tie. You instinctively took a step back, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs.

"There's a spare room," he said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth or malice. "Across the hall. You can stay there."

You blinked, surprised. You’d expected… you didn’t know what you’d expected, but not this detached practicality. "Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

He turned then, his eyes finally meeting yours. "It's Thomas. And you're my wife now, Y/N. Best get used to it." There was no softening in his tone, no hint of affection, just a statement of fact. You were his. A transaction. A means to an end. And in your mind, he was nothing more than the enemy who had sealed your fate.

Life in the Shelby household was a strange dance. You moved through the grand rooms like a ghost, observing, listening, always on edge. Thomas was rarely home, consumed by his business, his empire. When he was, he was a whirlwind of activity, barking orders, making deals, his mind always churning. You avoided him, whenever possible, preferring the solitude of your room, the quiet solace of books.

One particularly cold evening, you were in the drawing room, a book open on your lap, but your mind miles away. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls. You hadn’t heard him enter.

"Can't sleep?" His voice startled you, and you nearly dropped the book.

You turned, clutching the book to your chest. "Just… reading."

He moved to the drinks cart, pouring himself a whiskey. "You spend a lot of time in here. Or in your room."

You shrugged, uncomfortable with his sudden attention. "It’s quiet."

He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze distant. "You're… quiet."

The observation was so simple, yet it struck a nerve. You had been trained to be silent, to be invisible. "Is that a problem?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

He turned, a faint frown on his brow. "No. Just an observation." He paused, then gestured to the armchair opposite him. "Sit. Unless you prefer to stand."

You hesitated, then slowly sat, still clutching your book. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts.

"Your father," he began, his voice low, "he spoke of your… compliance."

You stiffened, a cold dread washing over you. He knew. He knew about your parents, about their abuse, about the fear that governed your every move.

"He said you were… well-behaved." The words were almost a question.

You stared into the fire, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. Well-behaved. You’d been beaten into submission, starved into obedience. "I learned early on," you said, your voice barely audible, "that it’s easier to agree than to argue."

He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the crackle of the fire. "Is that why you didn't protest the marriage?"

You finally looked at him, your eyes burning with a mix of defiance and raw vulnerability. "Would it have mattered?"

He didn't answer, just watched you, his stormy eyes searching, probing. You felt exposed, laid bare under his scrutiny. He was the enemy, the one who had bought you, but in that moment, there was a flicker of something in his gaze that wasn't purely transactional. It was something akin to… understanding. Or perhaps, you were just desperate for it.

Days bled into weeks, and a fragile, unspoken truce settled between you and Thomas. He still spent most of his time at his office or out in the grimy streets of Small Heath, but his presence in the house became less of a looming threat and more of a distant, yet constant, hum. You found yourself observing him, albeit from a distance. You saw the way he commanded a room, the sharp intelligence in his eyes when he discussed business, the quiet intensity when he sat alone, smoking.

One afternoon, you were in the garden, trying to coax life from a neglected rose bush. Your hands were grimy with soil when you heard footsteps behind you.

"You have a knack for it," Thomas said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You straightened, wiping your hands on your apron. "Just trying to make something grow."

He nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips, a rare sight. "My mother used to say the same about me. Said I had a knack for growing things, even if they were weeds."

You actually chuckled, a soft, unfamiliar sound. "Perhaps some weeds are just misunderstood flowers."

He looked at you, a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes. "Perhaps." He paused, then said, "You never talk about your family."

The easy atmosphere vanished. You turned back to the rose bush, picking at a dead leaf. "There’s nothing to talk about."

"Everyone has a past, Y/N."

"Some are just… best left buried." You felt the familiar tightening in your chest, the fear that always accompanied thoughts of your parents.

He watched you, his gaze intense. "Are you afraid of them?"

The directness of the question startled you. You didn't answer, instead focusing on the task at hand, your fingers trembling slightly.

"You don't have to be," he said, his voice low, steady. "Not anymore."

You slowly raised your head, meeting his gaze. There was something in his eyes, a quiet promise, a strange sense of protection. It was a foreign feeling, one you hadn’t experienced in a very long time. He was still the man who had bought you, the head of a notorious gang, the enemy. But for the first time, you wondered if there was something more to Thomas Shelby, something beyond the cold, calculating exterior. And you, against your will, felt a faint, unsettling flicker of hope. He still saw you as a means to an end, a strategic alliance, but the way he looked at you, the way he spoke, it was beginning to chip away at your hardened defenses. You were still trapped, but perhaps, just perhaps, the chains weren't as tight as you’d always believed.

The incident with the rose bush marked a subtle shift. Thomas started appearing in the garden more often, not to garden himself, but to observe you. Sometimes he’d offer a brief, almost gruff comment about the weather or the state of the plants. Other times, he’d just stand, smoking, his silence less intimidating and more…companionable.

One evening, you were in the library, a vast room filled with leather-bound books that smelled of old paper and dust. You were perched precariously on a rolling ladder, reaching for a particularly old copy of Wuthering Heights on a high shelf. Your fingers brushed against the spine when the ladder wobbled violently. A gasp escaped your lips as you lost your footing.

Before you could fall, strong arms encircled your waist, steadying you. You instinctively clutched the book to your chest, your heart hammering.

"Careful, Y/N," Thomas’s voice rumbled close to your ear. His breath, smelling faintly of tobacco and something uniquely him, brushed against your hair.

You felt the warmth of his hands through your dress, a jolt of unexpected sensation. He didn’t immediately let go. Instead, he held you for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on your face. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a surprising softness, a fleeting concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low.

You swallowed, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "Yes. Thank you, Thomas." The name felt strange on your tongue, more intimate than you were used to.

He finally released you, and you stepped away, feeling a strange mix of relief and… something else you couldn't name. He picked up the fallen book, his fingers tracing the worn cover.

"Bronte?" he mused. "Bit of a dramatic read for a quiet evening."

You managed a small smile. "I find comfort in it. Their troubles make mine seem… manageable."

He looked at the book, then at you, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Sometimes, the only way through is to face the storm head-on." He handed the book back to you. "If you ever need a hand reaching for another, just ask."

It wasn't much, but it was a gesture of consideration, of shared humanity, that you hadn’t expected from him. He was still the enemy, the man who had taken away your meager freedom, but moments like these chipped away at the solid wall you had built around your heart.

The cracks in your perception of Thomas Shelby deepened over time. You witnessed his fierce loyalty to his family, the quiet way he looked after his younger sister, Ada, the protective edge in his voice when he spoke to Finn. You saw him at work, making impossible decisions, always with a calculated shrewdness that was both terrifying and undeniably impressive. He was a force of nature, yes, but he wasn’t just a monster.

One rainy afternoon, you were helping Polly organize some ledgers in the office when Thomas walked in, looking more harried than usual. He ran a hand through his dark hair, sighing.

"Bloody business," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

Polly, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. "Problems, Thomas?"

He just grunted in response, his gaze landing on you. "Y/N," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone so clearly stressed. "You know anything about this new ledger system Polly’s trying to implement?"

You were surprised he even acknowledged your presence, let alone asked for your input. "A little," you admitted. "My father was obsessed with meticulous record-keeping. I learned a few things."

He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "Tell me."

You found yourself explaining, detailing the advantages of the new system, the potential for greater efficiency. As you spoke, his eyes, usually so guarded, seemed to soften, a spark of interest replacing the weariness. He listened intently, nodding occasionally, sometimes interjecting with a sharp, insightful question.

When you finished, a rare, genuine smile touched his lips. "That's… surprisingly useful, Y/N. Thank you."

You felt a warmth spread through you, a feeling of genuine accomplishment. It was the first time in your life that your thoughts, your knowledge, had been valued.

Later that evening, as you were preparing for bed, there was a soft knock on your door. You opened it to find Thomas standing there, a small, wrapped parcel in his hand.

"Heard you like books," he said, holding it out.

You took it, your fingers trembling slightly. It was a first edition of Jane Eyre. You knew the story well, of a quiet, resilient woman finding strength and love in an unforgiving world.

"Thomas… thank you," you whispered, genuinely touched.

He shifted uncomfortably, a rare vulnerability in his usually composed demeanor. "Polly said you mentioned it once. In passing."

He remembered. He actually remembered something you’d said, something so trivial. It wasn’t a means to an end, it wasn’t a business transaction. It was a gesture, small but significant, from a man who was slowly, painstakingly, beginning to see you as more than just his wife by arrangement. And you, in turn, were beginning to see him not just as the enemy, but as a complex, surprisingly human man who was capable of unexpected tenderness.

[averalia]

The Cold Case

Part 1// Part 2// Part 3// part 4 (Final)

| Pairing: (platonic)Athens Grant x Reader

| Warning: Warning/s: Attempted kidnapping, assault, guns, death

I Summary: Athena uncovers crucial evidence, your documents and a flash drive with audio recordings exposing a powerful, murderous conspiracy. With Hen's help, she verifies the evidence and anonymously leaks it to an investigative journalist, triggering a public exposé and FBI inquiry. However, the conspirators retaliate with a direct threat to Athena's family, forcing her to move them to a secure, remote cabin as the fight for justice escalates into a personal war.

| A/N: stuff is getting messy

Back in the relative safety of her car, miles from the judge’s old house, Athena finally allowed herself to breathe. Her hands, still gloved, trembled slightly as she placed the small metal box on her lap. The city lights cast long shadows across the dashboard, but her focus was entirely on the unassuming container.

With a deep breath, she unlatched the simple clasp. The lid creaked open, revealing its contents.

Inside, nestled amongst layers of what looked like old, yellowed tissue paper, were several thick manila envelopes. They were tightly bound with rubber bands, brittle with age. Her heart hammered against her ribs. These were the documents Thomas Thorne's father, Judge Thorne, had kept as leverage.

She carefully removed the first envelope. The handwriting on the front was precise, almost calligraphic. "Project Nightingale - Land Acquisitions." Athena pulled out the contents. They were photocopies, faded but still legible, of legal documents: property deeds, zoning permits, environmental impact assessments. But unlike the public records, these had handwritten annotations in the margins, notes, and figures scribbled in a tight, meticulous script she recognized from Y/N's old case file: Y/N's handwriting.

These weren't just copies; they were Y/N's copies, with their own damning observations. One document showed an abnormally low valuation for a prime piece of land, with a note from Y/N: "Appraisal fraudulent. Actual market value ~$10M higher. Discrepancy unexplained." Another detailed a hasty re-zoning request, with Y/N's comment: "Approved in 3 days. No public hearing. Bypass?"

The envelopes contained similar documentation: financial records, shell company registrations, and even a few internal memos from the development firms that contradicted their public statements. It was a paper trail, undeniable and meticulously compiled, exposing the layers of corruption that had propelled the downtown project.

But then, at the very bottom of the box, beneath the last envelope, Athena's fingers brushed against something else. It was small, no larger than her thumb, encased in a hard, clear plastic shell. A flash drive.

Her breath hitched. Thorne had said his father claimed to have destroyed the flash drive, to have melted it down. Yet, here it was. It wasn't a modern USB stick, but an early model, bulkier and more rectangular, likely from the late 1990s, when they were just beginning to become commercially available. The kind that would have required a specific driver to run on older operating systems, something a corrupt judge might have overlooked in his hurried attempt to destroy evidence, or perhaps dismissed as too antiquated to be of use.

This was the holy grail. If Thomas Thorne was right, this flash drive contained the audio recordings. The actual voices of the conspirators, caught in the act.

A shiver of triumph, mixed with profound dread, ran through Athena. This wasn't just proof; it was a hammer, poised to shatter the lives of powerful men. But wielding it would be incredibly dangerous. They had killed once. They would kill again to keep these secrets buried.

She looked down at the old photo of you, Y/N, still in the cold case file on her passenger seat. Your smile was bright, full of life, a life unjustly taken. "Y/N," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "we got them. We finally got them."

The documents and the flash drive now presented a new, even more complex challenge. She couldn't take them back to the precinct and simply hand them over. The reach of this conspiracy, even after three decades, was unknown. She needed a secure, independent way to verify the flash drive's contents and to disseminate this information without exposing herself or her family to immediate retaliation.

She knew exactly who to call. Someone outside the department, someone she trusted implicitly with her life, and with secrets of this magnitude. Someone who had the technical expertise to access a vintage flash drive, and the moral compass to handle the truth, no matter how ugly. She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over Hen Wilson's contact. Hen was a paramedic, but she was also incredibly resourceful, loyal, and had a surprising network of tech-savvy friends. This was too big for anyone else.

The fight, Athena realized, had just truly begun. And it was going to be the fight of her life.

Hen picked up on the second ring, her voice a little sleepy. "Athena? Everything alright? It's pretty late."

"Hen, I need your help," Athena said, her voice low and urgent. "Something outside official channels. Something incredibly sensitive. And it involves a flash drive from the late nineties."

There was a beat of silence on Hen's end, then a rustle as she clearly sat up. "A flash drive from the nineties? You found a time capsule? You know I'm usually asleep by now, Athena. This better be good." But the teasing tone was gone, replaced by a note of concern as she picked up on Athena's seriousness. "Bring it over. And bring whatever else you found. My garage is clear, and Denny's with Karen this weekend."

An hour later, Athena was meticulously laying out the contents of the metal box on Hen's workbench, the old documents spread carefully under the harsh glare of an overhead lamp. Hen, in her usual no-nonsense fashion, had already produced a vintage laptop from a dusty box and was fiddling with an array of cables and adapters.

"Okay," Hen mumbled, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. "This looks like a SCSI drive. Finding a port for this might be tricky, but I think I have an old external reader. My uncle was a tech hoarder."

While Hen worked on the drive, Athena explained everything: Thomas Thorne’s testimony, his connection to Judge Thorne, the chilling implications of the decades-long cover-up. Hen listened intently, her brow furrowed, occasionally letting out a low whistle of disbelief.

"So, Y/N L/N, a whistleblower, murdered by a powerful conspiracy, and a judge helped cover it up," Hen summarized, shaking her head. "This is some deep-state stuff, Athena. Your family could be in serious danger if this gets out without a solid plan."

"I know," Athena said, her jaw tight. "That's why I need to know what's on this drive. If it's what Thorne says it is, it's irrefutable. Names, voices… that's leverage."

After several tense minutes of wrestling with connectors and drivers, Hen let out a triumphant grunt. "Got it! Old school, but it's reading. Let's see what Y/N L/N left for us."

The screen flickered, then a folder appeared labeled simply: "AUDIO LOGS." Beneath it were dozens of files, dated sequentially, starting from months before Y/N's death and continuing right up to the day before.

Hen clicked on the earliest file. A wave of static, then a faint click, and then, a voice. It was Y/N's. Clearer than any audio from the cold case files.

"Entry one, October 12th. Meeting with Mr. Harrison regarding the land swap. He's pushing for a significantly lower valuation than market. Says it's 'to expedite,' but it feels… off."

They listened, captivated, as Y/N's recordings laid bare the insidious process. Meetings, phone calls, hushed conversations. The voices of men, some of them still prominent figures in the city, discussing kickbacks, manipulating zoning laws, and silencing dissent. There was a chilling casualness to their corruption, a blatant disregard for the law and the public good.

Then came a recording from the day before Y/N’s death. The audio was slightly muffled, as if recorded secretly.

"…can't let this get out," a gruff voice snarled. "Y/N L/N knows too much. They're going to the DA. We need to handle it. Permanently."

Another voice, smooth and deceptively calm, replied, "Judge Thorne is sympathetic to our… concerns. He can make sure any complications are contained. But Y/N… they need to be taught a lesson. One that makes sure no one else ever tries this."

Athena's blood ran cold. The voices were clear, identifiable. The chilling nonchalance with which they discussed murder and cover-up was sickening. This wasn't just a conspiracy; it was a criminal enterprise spanning decades, shielded by power and privilege. The flash drive was a smoking gun, a time capsule of their guilt.

"Oh my God, Athena," Hen breathed, her face pale. "This is… this is bigger than anything. These people are monsters."

Athena didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the screen, on the list of audio files that represented your final, desperate fight for justice. The raw evidence, the undeniable proof, was finally here. But the battle was far from over. In fact, it had just escalated to an entirely new, terrifying level.

The weight of the flash drive in Athena's hand, now backed by the chilling reality of the audio logs, solidified her resolve. This wasn't just a cold case; it was an indictment of an entire system, and she couldn't afford to make a single misstep.

"We need to duplicate everything," Athena stated, her voice sharp with renewed purpose. "Every document, every audio file. And we need to do it with an unassailable chain of custody. No one can ever claim this evidence was tampered with."

Hen, already one step ahead, nodded. "Already on it. I have a forensic imaging tool. It'll create a bit-for-bit copy of that flash drive, and generate a hash value. That hash value is like a digital fingerprint – if even one pixel is changed on the copy, the hash won't match, proving tampering. We'll do the same with digital scans of all the documents."

They worked through the pre-dawn hours, the whir of the old laptop and the click of the scanner the only sounds in Hen's quiet garage. Athena meticulously photographed each document before scanning, ensuring a physical record even if the digital failed. Every step was documented, time-stamped, and witnessed by both of them.

"Once we have these verified copies," Athena continued, "we need to decide where to take it. My department… I can't trust anyone there fully with this yet. Not until the top layers of this conspiracy are exposed."

Hen wiped her brow. "So, no local DA, no LAPD Internal Affairs. This is federal, Athena. High-level public corruption. The FBI, maybe? Or the Public Integrity Section of the Department of Justice?"

Athena considered it. "The FBI's Public Corruption Unit is a strong possibility. They have the resources and the jurisdiction to go after this level of criminal enterprise. The DOJ's Public Integrity Section even more so. But we can't just walk in cold. We need a clear, undeniable presentation of the facts, anonymized at first, to get their full attention and protection for Thomas Thorne, and for us."

"Anonymized," Hen mused. "Like a secure leak. We'd need to use burner phones, encrypted messaging, maybe even a dead drop for a physical copy. And we need to make sure it gets to the right person, someone trustworthy within those agencies."

Athena's mind was already racing. "I have a contact, Special Agent Miller, in the FBI's Los Angeles field office. He's a straight shooter, known for his integrity. I've worked with him on inter-agency task forces. If anyone can handle this, it's him."

"But how do you get it to him without putting yourself on their radar immediately?" Hen pressed. "If these people are as powerful as Thorne says, they'll have eyes and ears everywhere."

Athena paced for a moment, her gaze falling on a worn globe in Hen's garage. "We don't go to him directly at first. We use a third party. Someone who can present this information as a 'concerned citizen' anonymously, but with enough credibility that Miller takes it seriously."

"Who?"

"An investigative journalist," Athena decided. "Not just any journalist, though. Someone with a reputation for breaking major corruption stories, someone who values source protection above all else, and who knows how to handle sensitive, potentially dangerous information. If we present it as a potential exposé, it'll force the FBI's hand and give us some public protection."

Hen frowned. "That's playing with fire, Athena. The press can be unpredictable."

"It's a calculated risk," Athena argued. "If we go direct to the FBI, they could bury it, or worse, the information could leak back to the conspirators through compromised channels. A journalist, especially one who's already demonstrated a willingness to go after powerful figures, will create a public mandate for investigation that even these criminals can't ignore."

She thought of the articles she'd found about Judge Thorne's sudden acquisition of properties. That small, independent paper, now defunct, had dared to ask questions. There had to be someone like that still out there, willing to stand up to power.

"I need to find the right journalist," Athena concluded, "and then we package this evidence in a way that screams 'undeniable truth' while keeping our identities completely separate. We'll provide just enough to pique their interest, the most damning audio logs, and lead them to the rest, step by secure step. And we do it from untraceable locations."

The dawn was breaking, casting a pale light through the garage windows. The digital copies hummed softly on Hen's laptop. The physical documents, once buried secrets, lay exposed. The initial fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was now overshadowed by a fierce, protective determination. Justice for you, Y/N L/N, was within reach. And Athena Grant-Nash, with Hen's unwavering support, was going to make sure it happened, no matter the danger to herself or her family. The war was on.

Athena spent the next few days in a blur of focused intensity, her mind a steel trap. She researched investigative journalists with relentless dedication, cross-referencing their past work, their awards, and their reputation for protecting sources. She needed someone who wouldn't just break the story, but who had the tenacity and reach to see it through, even against powerful opposition. She settled on Eleanor Vance, a veteran reporter for a prominent national newspaper with a track record of exposing high-level corruption and a fierce, almost legendary, commitment to journalistic ethics.

Next, the logistics of the anonymous drop. Athena and Hen pooled their resources, acquiring untraceable burner phones and setting up encrypted communication channels. They chose a secure, public location for the drop: a locker at a busy, out-of-the-way bus terminal in a different city, one Eleanor Vance was known to frequent for her investigative work. They meticulously packaged the evidence: a heavily encrypted USB drive containing the forensic copy of the flash drive and scanned documents, along with a carefully crafted anonymous letter.

The letter, drafted by Athena and refined by Hen, was precise. It hinted at a decades-old cold case involving a whistleblower, connecting it to the downtown redevelopment project and high-level corruption, including judicial complicity. It stated that irrefutable evidence, including audio recordings, was enclosed and provided clear, but anonymous, instructions on how to access the encrypted files. It also subtly emphasized the potential dangers to anyone pursuing the story, a silent warning to Vance that this was no ordinary leak.

The drop was executed flawlessly. Athena, disguised in a wig and oversized sunglasses, blended into the bustling terminal, securing the package in the designated locker. Hen, meanwhile, sent an anonymous, encrypted message to Eleanor Vance, providing the locker number and code, along with a cryptic hint about "justice long denied."

Then came the agonizing wait. Every news cycle, every headline, was scrutinized by Athena. She knew that once Vance received the package and began her own verification, the clock would truly start ticking. The people implicated in the recordings, if they caught wind of the resurfacing evidence, would be ruthless.

She kept Thomas Thorne in a safe house, ensuring his anonymity and protection. She also tightened her own security, installing additional cameras at home, varying her routes to and from work, and making sure Bobby, though unaware of the full scope of the danger, was extra vigilant with the kids. The casual ease of their family life was now tinged with a constant undercurrent of alert.

Days crawled by. Then, a week after the drop, a small article appeared on page 10 of Eleanor Vance’s newspaper, a brief piece about a "renewed interest in a long-dormant cold case" by an anonymous source. It was a ripple, not yet a wave, but it told Athena two things: Vance had received the package, and she was beginning her due diligence.

Two days later, the ripple turned into a tremor. A small, local news outlet reported that "sources close to the FBI" indicated a "federal inquiry into historical public corruption allegations" was underway, specifically mentioning the downtown redevelopment project from decades ago. Athena allowed herself a small, grim smile. Vance had either reached out to Special Agent Miller, or the FBI had independently come across enough information to open a preliminary inquiry. The net was beginning to close.

The next morning, the dam broke. Eleanor Vance’s newspaper ran a front-page exposé: "Decades of Deceit: Whistleblower's Murder Linked to City's Power Elite." The article was a bombshell. It detailed Y/N L/N's murder, presenting excerpts from Y/N's meticulously annotated documents, and, most damningly, transcribed portions of the audio logs, chillingly identifying the voices of prominent figures. It didn't name Athena or Thomas Thorne, meticulously protecting their anonymity, but the evidence was undeniable.

The city erupted. Calls for investigations, arrests, and accountability flooded the airwaves. The FBI confirmed they had opened a full-scale public corruption investigation. The names mentioned in the article, individuals who had enjoyed decades of unassailable power and wealth, were now under intense public scrutiny.

Athena knew the true danger was only just beginning. The powerful individuals exposed by Vance's article were cornered animals. They wouldn't go down without a fight. The media storm provided some protection, but it also painted a giant target on anyone involved in bringing the truth to light.

She received an anonymous, untraceable text message that night: "You dug too deep, Detective. Some secrets are meant to stay buried. Your family will pay the price."

Athena’s blood ran cold. They knew. Or at least, they suspected. The vague threat was enough. This wasn't just about justice for Y/N anymore; it was about survival. She immediately called Bobby, her voice unwavering but firm.

"Bobby, I need you to listen to me carefully. Pack a bag for yourself and the kids. Only essentials. I'll explain later, but we need to leave the house, now. I'm taking you somewhere safe."

She could hear his concern, the fear in his voice, but he didn't argue. He knew that tone in her voice, the one that meant she was on the razor's edge of a dangerous situation. As she drove to pick them up, her mind raced. The investigation was finally moving, but the conspiracy was fighting back. She had brought justice closer for you, Y/N, but at what cost to her own family?

As Athena steered her car through the quiet streets, the city lights feeling less comforting and more like a stage for unseen eyes, her phone buzzed again. It was a call from an unknown number. Her gut screamed not to answer, but her professional instincts took over. She put it on speaker, keeping her eyes on the road.

A distorted, gravelly voice, clearly run through a voice modulator, spoke. "Detective Grant-Nash. A very brave move. And a very foolish one."

Athena remained silent, her grip tightening on the steering wheel.

"Did you really think we wouldn't notice the ripples?" the voice continued, a chilling chuckle following. "Thirty years. We've been very careful. And now you come along, stirring up ghosts."

"You killed Y/N L/N," Athena stated, her voice cold and steady, betraying none of the fear coiling in her stomach.

"Y/N made a choice," the voice purred. "A foolish choice. Just like you're making now. You have a family, Detective. A lovely husband. Two bright children. Wouldn't want anything to happen to them, would you?"

A cold dread seeped into Athena’s bones. This wasn't a vague threat anymore. This was specific, targeted. They knew about her family.

"Consider this a warning," the voice concluded. "Drop it, Detective. Bury it back where you found it. Or your loved ones will find out just how deep some secrets truly lie." The line went dead.

Athena slammed her hand against the steering wheel, a wave of rage washing over her. They had crossed a line. This wasn't just about her anymore. This was about Bobby, May, and Harry. Her entire world.

She pushed the rage down, forcing herself to think clearly. They had tracked her. That meant her burner phone was compromised, or her actions had left a trail. She immediately pulled over, removed the SIM card from the burner, and crushed it under her heel.

When she arrived at her house, Bobby was already waiting on the porch with two duffel bags, his face etched with worry. May and Harry, still groggy from being woken up, peered sleepily from behind him.

"Athena, what's going on?" Bobby's voice was low, urgent. "I heard that call. What did they mean, 'my family'?"

Athena didn't waste time explaining everything, not yet. "We're going to Hen's," she said, ushering them quickly into the car. "It's safe there. We'll figure everything out." As she drove, she sent a quick, encrypted message to Hen: Family compromised. En route. Need immediate secure location. Stay alert.

Hen's reply came back instantly: Copy that. Heading to the cabin. Remote. Secure. No one knows about it.

The "cabin" was a small, rustic place Hen and Karen owned, nestled deep in the mountains, deliberately off-grid and miles from civilization. It was a place for escape, for quiet weekends. Now, it was their sanctuary.

The drive was long, the night dark and silent save for the hum of the engine and the quiet breathing of her sleeping children in the back seat. Athena kept checking her rearview mirror, her senses on high alert for any tail. She knew this was a desperate race against time. The conspirators, now exposed, would be frantic, dangerous. They would do anything to protect their power, even if it meant eliminating anyone who stood in their way.

She gripped the steering wheel, a fierce protectiveness swelling in her chest. She had pulled Y/N's case from the cold, bringing justice closer, but at a terrible price. Now, she had to ensure her family survived the fallout. This wasn't just a police investigation anymore; it was a personal war. And Athena Grant-Nash was ready to fight.

What is Athena's strategy once they are safely at the cabin?

[averalia]

When Agencies Collied

|Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x Reader, Spencer Reid x Reader

| Summary: Your a NSA deep cover agent, and are furious after the FBI's BAU team inadvertently exposes your two-year operation.

| Warning/s: Strong language, Implied violence & discussions of trauma, Emotional distress, Confinement.

| A/N: OMG, can you feel the tension?! Your having a really, really bad day, but look super cool even when your totally ticked off! 🥺

The sterile white walls of the interrogation room seemed to press in on you, but it was the glare from the one-way mirror that truly rankled. Your hands were cuffed to the table, a stark reminder of how badly this had gone south. You were Agent [Y/N] [L/N], an undercover operative for the NSA, and your carefully constructed world had just imploded, courtesy of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit.

The door creaked open, and in walked the two agents who had been circling you like sharks since your arrest. Aaron Hotchner — stoic, sharp, and radiating an authority that usually commanded respect, but today just ignited your fury. Beside him, Spencer Reid — brilliant, observant, his eyes normally full of a gentle curiosity now held a cautious, almost accusatory glint.

"Agent [L/N]," Hotch began, his voice calm, clipped, and utterly infuriating. "We'd like to understand your involvement with the Weston group. We have evidence placing you at multiple locations where their operations were carried out."

You scoffed, a raw, bitter sound. "My involvement? You want to talk about my involvement? How about your involvement in blowing a two-year deep cover operation straight to hell?"

Reid’s brow furrowed. "We understand you're upset, but-"

"Upset?" You leaned forward, the cuffs digging into your wrists, but you barely noticed. "Upset doesn't even begin to cover it, Dr. Reid. I was this close," you held up your cuffed hands, gesturing with them, "to bringing down a major international arms trafficking ring. Two years. Two years of living, breathing, eating their lies. Two years of sleeping with a knife under my pillow, wondering if today was the day I'd get made. And you two, and your whole damn team, just waltz in and throw a grenade into all of it!"

Hotch’s expression remained impassive, but you could see a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or a dawning realization. "Agent [L/N], we followed standard protocol. Your profile matched several key indicators for association with this group. We had no information that you were-"

"No information?" You cut him off, your voice rising, fueled by pure, unadulterated rage and exhaustion. "That's convenient, isn't it? Because I'm pretty sure 'NSA Undercover' is a pretty crucial piece of information! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? I watched them execute a man in cold blood because he owed them money. I smuggled illegal weapons across three borders. I earned their trust, piece by agonizing piece. And for what? So you could come in like a wrecking ball, all guns blazing, and make me a target for every dirty mercenary on the planet?"

Reid shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to Hotch. "We genuinely had no prior intelligence, Agent [L/N]. Had we known you were an undercover operative, our approach would have been entirely different."

"Oh, I'm sure it would have been," you spat, sarcasm dripping from every word. "But you didn't know, did you? Because you didn't bother to check! Or your internal communication is so utterly fragmented that you're endangering agents in the field! Do you know how hard it is to build a new identity, to shed every piece of who you are, to become someone else so completely that even you start to forget the real you? I can't go back to that life now. They know my face, they know my voice, they know my name. Because you exposed me!"

Hotch finally spoke, his voice lower, more measured, but no less firm. "Agent [L/N], we understand the gravity of your situation. However, your arrest was based on solid behavioral analysis and forensic evidence. If your cover was that deep, why were there no safeguards? No emergency contact procedures, no fail-safes in place with local or federal agencies?"

"Safeguards?" You let out a disbelieving laugh. "My safeguard was not being found! My safeguard was blending in so perfectly that I was invisible! And as for 'fail-safes,' my chain of command doesn't exactly hand out gold stars for calling in every time some FBI agent wants to play cowboy! My job was to infiltrate, not to wave a flag saying 'I'm a spy, please don't arrest me!'"

You leaned back, taking a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the anger was a roaring fire within you. "Do you have any idea how many lives are now at risk because of this? Not just mine. The people who helped me, the informants I cultivated. They're all vulnerable now. And for what? A few quick arrests that won't even scratch the surface of what I was about to uncover?"

You looked from Hotch's unyielding gaze to Reid's troubled one. "You think you're the only ones who care about justice? About catching the bad guys? I've been doing it for years, quietly, effectively. And now, thanks to your 'profiling,' I'm a ghost, a dead woman walking, and that entire network is going to scatter like roaches."

Hotch slowly pushed a folder across the table, his eyes still fixed on yours. "Agent [L/N], we've made calls. We've verified your identity. Your NSA handler is currently en route. This is a massive misunderstanding, and we will work to rectify it. But your cooperation is still vital."

You stared at the folder, then back at them, the raw fury slowly starting to mix with a bone-deep weariness. "Cooperation? You want my cooperation after you just handed my life over on a silver platter to a bunch of killers? You want me to help you clean up the mess you just made?" You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Fine. But know this: you didn't just blow my cover. You may have just signed my death warrant. And if anything happens to me, or to anyone connected to this operation, I will hold every single one of you personally responsible."

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken apologies and the crushing weight of your accusation. Hotch and Reid exchanged a look, and for the first time, you saw something akin to genuine regret in their eyes. But it was too little, too late. Your world, as you knew it, was irrevocably shattered.

[averalia]

The Cold Case

Part 1// Part 2// Part 3// part 4 (Final)

| Pairing: (platonic) Athens Grant x Reader

| Warning: Warning/s: Attempted kidnapping, assault, guns, death

| Summary: Athena stumbles upon an old, forgotten cold case from her early days on the force, one that always haunted her. As she delves deeper, she uncovers a conspiracy that reaches higher than she ever imagined, forcing her to rely on her wit and instinets to bring justice to a victim long denied it, all while navigating the dangers it brings to her family.

| A/N: I still can’t get over Bobby 😭

The call came on a Tuesday, just as Athena was finally sitting down to a quiet dinner with Bobby and the kids. It was Sergeant Miller, his voice clipped and urgent. "Sargent Grant, I need you down here. We just got a tip on the Y/N L/N case."

Athena froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. The name itself felt like a ghost, a cold shiver down her spine. It was a case from her rookie years, a murder that had baffled everyone, eventually dying a quiet death in the cold case files. You, the victim, had been so full of promise, and your untimely end had haunted Athena for decades.

"A tip?" she asked, her voice tight. "After all this time?"

"Apparently," Miller replied, "someone’s come forward with new information. And… well, it's a bit out there. Says it goes way higher than we ever imagined. Says someone made it disappear."

A cold dread settled in Athena’s stomach, pushing aside the warmth of the family dinner. This wasn't just a tip; it was a challenge. A cold case resurfacing after so long, with whispers of a cover-up? That wasn’t just a reopened investigation; it was a declaration of war. She looked at Bobby, a silent apology in her eyes. This was going to be big, and it was going to be dangerous. And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she wouldn't be able to walk away from it. Not when it was about finally bringing justice to you.

Leaving Bobby to wrangle the disappointed children and the cooling dinner, Athena grabbed her keys and badge, the familiar weight a small comfort against the sudden chill of unease. The drive to the precinct felt longer than usual, the city lights blurring into a tunnel vision of anticipation. Sergeant Miller met her at the door to the cold case division, his face grim.

"It's a burner phone," Miller said, leading her to a small, isolated interrogation room where a trembling, middle-aged man sat clutching a plastic water cup. "Came through on the anonymous tip line. Said he had information on a thirty-year-old murder, but only if he spoke to the 'Grant-Nash herself.'"

Athena nodded, her gaze fixed on the informant. His eyes darted around the room, full of a fear she recognized instantly – the kind that came from knowing too much. She pulled up a chair across from him, her posture relaxed but her senses on high alert.

"I'm Detective Grant-Nash," she stated, her voice calm and steady. "You have information about the Y/N L/N case?"

The man, who identified himself as Thomas Thorne, swallowed hard. "Yes, Detective. Everything. The truth." He took a shaky breath. "Y/N… they didn't just die. They were silenced. Because of what they knew."

Athena leaned forward, her detective instincts kicking in. "What did Y/N know, Mr. Thorne?"

"About the plans for the downtown redevelopment project," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "The one that made a lot of powerful people very, very rich. Y/N… they had documents. Proof of illegal land deals, kickbacks, environmental shortcuts. They were going to blow the whistle."

A cold, hard knot tightened in Athena's gut. The downtown redevelopment project. She remembered it now, a massive undertaking that had reshaped the city landscape, hailed as a triumph of urban renewal. But even back then, there had been whispers of shady dealings, rumors that never solidified into actionable intelligence. Could Y/N L/N's death have been connected to something so grand, so systemic?

"Who was involved, Mr. Thorne?" Athena pressed, her voice unwavering.

Thorne's eyes widened, and he seemed to shrink in his seat. "I can't say names. Not yet. They’ll kill me. They’ll kill my family." His gaze dropped to his hands, trembling in his lap. "But it goes high, Detective. Very high. People you’d never suspect. People with badges, with power, with political influence."

The implications hit Athena with the force of a battering ram. If Thorne was telling the truth, this wasn't just a cold case; it was a decades-long cover-up, a conspiracy woven into the very fabric of the city's power structure. And now, by listening to him, she was pulling on a thread that could unravel everything. The danger wasn't just to the informant; it was to anyone who dared to expose the truth. A chill snaked up her spine, a grim premonition of the battle ahead. She thought of Bobby, of May and Harry. They were her anchors, her reason. And now, they could be targets.

"Tell me everything, Mr. Thorne," Athena said, her voice firm, a promise and a warning. "From the very beginning." She knew, as he began to speak, that she was stepping onto a path far more treacherous than any she’d ever walked. But for Y/N, and for the justice so long denied, she would walk it.

Thorne’s story unfolded slowly, punctuated by nervous glances and requests for more water. He’d been a low-level accountant for one of the development firms involved in the downtown project. He’d seen the numbers, the inflated invoices, the shell corporations, and the unusual cash flows. Y/N, however, had been much closer to the heart of the operation, working directly for one of the project's lead architects.

"Y/N was meticulous," Thorne explained, his voice gaining a shaky confidence as he recounted the past. "They'd found discrepancies, things that didn't add up with the public records. They started digging, cross-referencing blueprints with land acquisition documents, tracking the real beneficiaries of certain zoning changes." He paused, his gaze fixed on Athena. "They came to me because they knew I could interpret the financial side. We met in secret. Y/N had copies, Detective. So many copies of everything."

Athena listened, piecing together the narrative. It painted a picture of two unlikely whistleblowers, one with the architectural and logistical knowledge, the other with the financial acumen, slowly uncovering a sprawling web of corruption.

"Why didn't you come forward then, Mr. Thorne?" Athena asked, her voice soft but firm.

Thorne flinched. "We were scared, Detective. Terrified. Y/N was going to go to the DA, but then… then they disappeared. And a few days later, their body was found. The official story was a botched robbery, but I knew. I knew it was because of what they found. After that, I destroyed my copies. I ran. I changed my name, moved to a different state, lived under the radar."

"What changed?"

A tremor ran through Thorne. "I got sick, Detective. Bad. And I started thinking about Y/N. About how brave they were, how they stood for something. And I realized… I couldn't die knowing I let them down. I couldn't let their death be for nothing." He pulled a folded, aged piece of paper from his wallet, pushing it across the table. It was a faded map, crudely drawn, with an 'X' marked near a series of numbers. "This is where Y/N told me they hid the original documents. A safety deposit box, far from here, under a false name. Y/N was smart. They knew they might not make it."

Athena carefully picked up the map. The coordinates looked like a series of numbers, perhaps a code or a key to a specific location. This wasn't just a tip; it was a lead, tangible proof that Y/N's fight for justice hadn't ended with their life.

"Do you remember the false name?" Athena pressed.

Thorne nodded, a single tear tracking a path down his cheek. "Yes. It was… a name Y/N picked out, something simple, forgettable. Jayden Miller."

As Thorne continued to provide what details he could recall about the specific firms and individuals Y/N had been investigating, Athena's mind raced. This wasn't going to be a quick, clean case. The people involved, if Thorne was right, would be deeply entrenched, powerful, and ruthless. They’d already killed once to keep their secrets buried. They wouldn't hesitate to do it again.

Back in her office, the silence of the late night pressed in around her. She pulled up the original Y/N L/N case file, a thick, dusty tome filled with dead ends and unanswered questions. Next to it, she placed Thorne's crude map and the name "Jayden Miller." The official report had painted Y/N as a tragic victim of circumstance. Thorne's testimony ripped that façade away, revealing a deliberate assassination, a meticulously planned cover-up.

She knew she couldn't bring this directly to internal affairs or even her immediate superiors without more concrete evidence. The network Thorne described was too vast, too influential. She'd need to move carefully, quietly, relying on her own instincts and the few trusted allies she had. This was a deep dive into the murky underbelly of the city, a place where truth was currency and power was absolute.

Athena thought of Bobby again, of May and Harry. The warmth of their dinner, the easy laughter, felt like a distant dream. She was about to stir a hornet's nest that had been dormant for decades. The dangers were immense, not just to her career, but to her life, and, terrifyingly, to her family. But looking at your smiling face in the old case photo, the one that had haunted her for so long, she knew there was no other choice. Justice, long denied, was finally within reach.

The faded map and the name "Jayden Miller" became Athena's immediate focus. She knew the standard procedures for accessing a safe deposit box weren't going to cut it. A standard warrant would require probable cause that the contents were directly related to a crime, and while Thorne's testimony was compelling, it was still just that – testimony, vulnerable to being dismissed as a desperate man's ramblings. She needed something more.

Her first move was to try and identify the bank. Thorne's map wasn't specific enough to pinpoint a single branch, only indicating a general area. Athena spent the next day and a half, fueled by lukewarm coffee and the burning desire for answers, sifting through historical records. She cross-referenced the dates of the downtown redevelopment project with bank openings and closures in the region Thorne had indicated. It was a painstaking process, but eventually, a pattern emerged. Several small, independent banks had either merged or gone out of business around the time of Y/N's death, or shortly after. One, in particular, a regional bank called "Veridian Trust," had been acquired by a larger national chain only a year after Y/N's murder. That felt significant.

Accessing information on defunct or merged bank accounts was a labyrinthine process, but Athena knew the bureaucratic dance well. She leveraged her long-standing connections in various financial crime units, hinting at a major cold case breakthrough without revealing the full, explosive scope of Thorne's claims. She needed to be subtle; any overt move might alert the powerful individuals Thorne feared.

She discovered that Veridian Trust, upon its acquisition, had transferred all existing safe deposit box records to its new parent company, "Apex Bank." It was a massive financial institution, and the idea of sifting through decades of their archived safe deposit box data felt daunting.

But Athena Grant-Nash didn't get deterred easily. She initiated a formal, but discreet, request to Apex Bank's legal department, citing "long-dormant account review" and "potential historical fraud investigation" as the reason for her inquiry into safe deposit box records from Veridian Trust's former branches. The request was deliberately broad, giving her wiggle room. She knew it would take time, and likely generate questions, but it was the only way to proceed without raising immediate red flags.

While she waited for the corporate gears of Apex Bank to grind, Athena turned her attention to the name "Jayden Miller." It was common enough that a direct search would yield countless results. Instead, she focused on historical public records related to Y/N L/N. She scoured old phone books, voter registrations, even obscure community organization rosters from the era. She was looking for any connection, however tenuous, between Y/N and anyone named Jayden Miller, hoping for a clue that might narrow down the search. There was nothing immediate, which was precisely what Thorne had implied – a deliberately "forgettable" name.

Meanwhile, she began a parallel investigation into the individuals and companies involved in the downtown redevelopment project. She pulled up old blueprints, public meeting minutes, and property ownership records. She cross-referenced them with the vague details Thorne had provided, looking for familiar names, patterns of sudden wealth, or unusual corporate restructuring around the time of Y/N's death. This was a long game, a slow chipping away at a wall of secrets built over thirty years.

The weight of the case pressed down on her, heavier than any other. She caught herself watching May and Harry a little more closely, ensuring doors were locked, windows secured. She didn't voice her fears to Bobby, not yet. He'd worry, and rightly so. She needed to be sure, to have concrete evidence, before she dragged her family into the crosshairs of such a powerful and ruthless adversary. But the knowledge that they were now potentially at risk, simply by her pursuing justice for you, fueled her determination. She wouldn't just solve this cold case; she would dismantle the conspiracy, no matter the cost.

Days stretched into a tense week. Athena’s desk became a graveyard of old reports and new suspicions. The official channels at Apex Bank were moving at a glacial pace, as expected. She hadn't received a definitive "no," but the lack of a quick "yes" was equally frustrating. The broader investigation into the redevelopment project was equally slow; most of the original players were either deceased, retired, or had vanished into the comfortable obscurity of immense wealth.

One late evening, as the precinct began to empty, Athena got a call back from a former colleague, Detective Hayes, now in a specialized cold case unit in a different state. Hayes was a meticulous old-school detective, known for his knack for finding needles in bureaucratic haystacks.

"Grant-Nash," Hayes's gruff voice came through the line, "I pulled some strings for you on that 'long-dormant account' request. Apex Bank's corporate archives are a mess, but I found something. There was a safe deposit box opened at a former Veridian Trust branch in 'Jayden Miller's' name. Opened precisely three days before Y/N L/N's death."

A jolt went through Athena. Thorne’s story was holding up. "And… the contents?"

"That's where it gets interesting," Hayes continued. "The box was accessed a week after Y/N L/N’s death. Not by Jayden Miller, of course. The access record shows it was a 'court order,' sealed by a judge. The order number is there, but the sealing judge is… well, it’s Judge Lawrence Thorne."

Athena’s breath hitched. Judge Lawrence Thorne. A prominent, highly respected judge who had presided over numerous high-profile cases during that era. He'd retired with accolades and had recently passed away peacefully in his sleep. Could he be related to Thomas Thorne? And more importantly, could he have been involved in the cover-up? The idea of a judge being complicit sent a chilling ripple through her.

"Can you get me a copy of that order, Hayes?" Athena asked, her voice low.

"Already on it," Hayes replied. "It'll be heavily redacted, I'm sure, but we might get something from the language. And the box contents? 'Inventory shows 'various documents' and 'one flash drive.' No details on what the documents or the flash drive contained. After that, the box was closed, and then officially 'emptied and closed' a few months later. Looks like someone tidied up a loose end."

"A flash drive?" Athena mused aloud. That was surprisingly modern for a thirty-year-old case, though not impossible for high-level, cutting-edge corporate data in the early days of such technology. It also implied a digital component to Y/N's evidence, making it even harder to fully eradicate.

She thanked Hayes, the phone call ending with a shared sense of grim determination. Judge Lawrence Thorne. The name echoed in her mind. This wasn't just a powerful individual; this was someone who represented the very foundation of justice. If he was compromised, then the conspiracy ran deeper than she could have imagined.

The next morning, Athena drove to the city archives. She spent hours poring over old legal journals and newspaper clippings from the time. She found numerous articles praising Judge Thorne, but also a few obscure pieces from small, independent papers that hinted at his surprisingly rapid acquisition of prime real estate in the downtown area after the redevelopment project was finalized. It was a subtle pattern, easily dismissed as good investments, but now, seen through the lens of Thomas Thorne’s testimony, it looked far more sinister.

She also found an obituary for Judge Thorne from a few months prior. It mentioned his surviving children, including a son, "Thomas Thorne Jr."

Bingo.

Athena’s mind raced. Thomas Thorne, the informant, had said he changed his name. Could he be the son of the corrupt judge? That would explain his deep-seated fear and his reluctance to name names directly, especially if it implicated his own father. It would also give him unique insight into the inner workings of the conspiracy.

The pieces were beginning to fall into place, forming a terrifying mosaic. A murdered whistleblower, a judge who sealed evidence, and a vast network of powerful individuals who benefited from the very project Y/N was trying to expose. The danger was escalating, and Athena knew she was now directly in the crosshairs. But the thought of Y/N, a bright life extinguished for daring to seek truth, pushed her forward. She had to break this open. For you, and for every other victim silenced by power.

The revelation that Thomas Thorne, her informant, was the son of the late Judge Lawrence Thorne, the very man who'd sealed the evidence in the Y/N L/N case, landed like a cold, heavy stone in Athena's gut. It explained so much: Thorne's palpable fear, his deep knowledge, and his ultimate willingness to come forward after decades of silence. The burden of his father's complicity must have weighed heavily on him.

Athena knew her next step had to be delicate. She couldn't reveal her source to anyone, especially not yet. The police force, the judicial system – the conspiracy could have tendrils everywhere. She needed to approach Thomas Thorne again, but carefully, to confirm his identity and, if possible, to obtain more details about his father's involvement.

She drove to the discreet, nondescript motel where Thorne was staying, arriving under the cover of a darkening sky. He answered the door, his eyes wide with apprehension.

"Detective," he rasped, "Has something happened? Am I in danger?"

Athena stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Mr. Thorne," she began, her voice gentle but firm, "I need to ask you something personal. Was Judge Lawrence Thorne your father?"

Thorne visibly deflated, all the tension draining from his shoulders. He sank onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. "Yes," he whispered, his voice thick with shame. "He was. That's why I ran. Why I stayed hidden. He… he wasn't always like that. But then the money, the power… it changed him. He was approached, threatened. He said it was to protect our family, but it was a lie. He protected them, the real criminals, at the cost of Y/N's life. And mine, for all these years, living in fear."

"He sealed the safe deposit box containing Y/N's evidence," Athena stated, watching his reaction.

Thorne nodded, a shudder passing through him. "He told me. He said it was the only way. That if that information ever got out, we'd all be ruined, or worse. He said the flash drive was the real problem. It had everything, not just documents, but audio recordings. Y/N was meticulous. They'd recorded conversations, meetings. My father destroyed them, or so he claimed. He said he melted the flash drive and burned the papers, but he kept a small portion of the documents as leverage, 'just in case,' he said."

Athena's mind reeled. Audio recordings. That was a game-changer. Digital evidence, if recovered, could be irrefutable. "Did he ever tell you where he kept those 'leverage' documents?"

Thorne looked up, his eyes bloodshot but with a glimmer of hope. "He had a study, a private office in the house. Very old-fashioned, full of hidden compartments. He was always obsessed with secrets. After he died, the family sold the house. But I remember him mentioning a loose floorboard, under a specific old desk. He used to joke about it, said it was where he kept his 'sins.'"

This was it. A direct lead to physical evidence. The house had been sold, meaning Athena would need to move quickly, before any new owners potentially renovated or discovered the hiding spot. She needed a legitimate reason to search the property without arousing suspicion. A search warrant based on Thomas Thorne's testimony alone would be too risky; it would expose him and could be easily challenged by the powerful forces they were up against.

Back at the precinct, Athena started digging into the old property records for Judge Thorne's former residence. She found that the house had been purchased by a development company, "Evergreen Holdings," which was notorious for flipping properties quickly after minor cosmetic renovations. A quick search revealed that Evergreen Holdings was connected, through a labyrinthine series of subsidiaries, to one of the shell corporations Thomas Thorne had mentioned in relation to the downtown redevelopment project.

The irony was sickening. The same people who had orchestrated Y/N’s murder now owned the very house where the judge, their unwitting accomplice, had hidden the damning evidence. It was a clear sign they were cleaning up loose ends, securing their past.

Athena knew she couldn't go in officially, not yet. This was a reconnaissance mission, a desperate gamble. She needed to be in that house, unnoticed, to find that desk and those hidden documents. She started formulating a plan, leveraging her network outside of official channels. A former patrol officer, now working as a private security consultant, owed her a favor. A favor that was about to be called in, for a very risky, very personal cold case. The clock was ticking. Every moment that passed, the evidence could be lost forever.

Athena's plan began to take shape, a delicate tightrope walk between legal boundaries and the desperate need for justice. She reached out to Marcus "Mac" O'Connell, a retired LAPD patrol officer who'd left the force years ago to start his own security consulting firm. Mac was known for his discretion and his uncanny ability to get into places he shouldn't, always leaving without a trace. He was also fiercely loyal to those he respected, and Athena had earned that respect many times over.

"Mac, I need a favor," Athena said, her voice carefully modulated. "Something highly sensitive. Off the books."

Mac's deep chuckle rumbled through the phone. "Sounds like the good old days, Athena. What trouble are you cooking up now?"

"A cold case," she explained, omitting details. "There's a house that was owned by a deceased judge. We believe there might be evidence hidden there. It's been sold to a new development company, Evergreen Holdings."

There was a beat of silence on the other end. "Evergreen Holdings, huh? They’re connected to some heavy hitters. Not exactly an easy mark to just 'walk into.'"

"Exactly," Athena said. "I need to get inside, discreetly, and locate a specific item. I can't involve the department yet."

Mac understood. "Alright, give me the address. I'll do some recon. See what their security looks like, if there are any crews working inside. If it's as clean as you need it to be, I'll give you a window."

A few days later, Mac called back. "Good news, Athena. Evergreen is in the process of flipping that place. They've done some minor cosmetic work, mostly painting and new fixtures. The property is currently vacant between crews. No heavy security, just a standard alarm system. I can disable it for a short window, say, an hour, without raising any red flags with their monitoring company. They'll just log it as a 'system malfunction' that corrects itself."

"An hour," Athena repeated, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. It wasn't much time, but it was all she was likely to get. "When?"

"Tonight," Mac said, "between 2 and 3 AM. It's the sweet spot for minimal street traffic and no active crews."

Athena agreed, the urgency now palpable. She spent the rest of the day meticulously planning her entry, mentally mapping out the judge's old study based on Thomas Thorne’s description. She packed a small kit: a powerful tactical flashlight, gloves, a multi-tool, and a discreet evidence bag.

That night, under the cold, indifferent glow of a sliver moon, Athena parked several blocks away from the judge's former residence. The street was quiet, the houses dark and silent. The air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of the city, a stark contrast to the quiet intensity of her mission. She moved like a shadow, blending into the deeper pockets of darkness between streetlights.

Mac, a silhouette by the side door, gave her a silent nod as she approached. The soft click of the alarm disengaging was almost imperceptible. "You've got fifty-five minutes," he whispered, stepping back into the shadows. "Good luck, Athena."

She slipped inside, the stale air of the empty house greeting her. Her flashlight beam cut through the gloom, dancing across dust covers and empty rooms. She moved quickly, her instincts guiding her through the unfamiliar layout until she found what had once been the judge's study. It was a large room, still bearing the faint scent of old paper and leather, even though the furniture was gone.

Her beam landed on the area where Thorne had described the desk. There was a faint rectangular outline on the polished hardwood floor, a cleaner patch where the desk had sat for decades. She knelt, running her gloved fingers along the floorboards, feeling for any give, any subtle difference in texture. After a few tense moments, her fingers brushed against it – a faint seam, almost invisible, where one board was infinitesimally looser than the others.

She worked carefully, using the thin blade of her multi-tool to pry the board. It resisted, groaning slightly, but with a final grunt of effort, it lifted, revealing a dark recess beneath. Her flashlight beam plunged into the void, illuminating a small, dust-covered metal box. It was a simple, nondescript container, but Athena felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it.

Her heart pounded as she reached in and pulled it out. It was heavy, and a faint rattling sound came from within. She didn't open it then; the risk was too high. She tucked the box securely into her evidence bag, the cold metal a reassuring weight against her side.

As she made her way silently back to the side door, she heard a faint creak from upstairs. She froze, her hand instinctively going to her holstered weapon. It was probably just the house settling, or the wind. But the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She hurried out, Mac giving her another silent nod as he reactivated the alarm.

Back in her car, parked blocks away, Athena allowed herself a moment to breathe. The small metal box sat on the passenger seat, an unassuming container holding decades of buried secrets. She knew she had to open it, and soon. This was the moment of truth. What would she find inside? And would it be enough to finally bring justice to you, Y/N L/N, and expose the powerful conspiracy that had so long remained hidden?

What do you think Athena finds inside the box?

[averalia]

Through Thick & Thin

| Pairings: Oscar Diaz x Girlfriend!Reader, Cesar x Platonic!Reader

| Summary: Y/N has been Oscar Diaz's steadfast girlfriend since high school, helping him lovingly raise Cesar from a young age, showcasing their enduring bond and the unconventional family they've built.

| Warning/s: Fluff, Domestic Life, Found Family, Established Relationship, Light Angst, Slice of Life, Older Brother Oscar, Caring Reader, Parenthood, On My Block

| A/N: Hope you enjoyed this little glimpse into their perfectly imperfect family life! 🥰

"You almost done in there, mija?" Oscar's voice, a low rumble even through the bathroom door, pulled you from your thoughts. You splashed cool water on your face, patting it dry before opening the door to find him leaning against the frame, a familiar, slightly exasperated look on his face.

"Just about," you replied, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. He smelled of sweat and motor oil, a scent that had become as comforting as your favorite blanket over the years. "Cesar still asleep?"

He nodded, pushing off the doorframe. "Kid sleeps like a rock. Unlike some people I know." He winked, nudging you playfully with his elbow as you walked past him into the small living room.

You two had been together since junior year of high school. You were the quiet art kid, he was the brooding football player with a reputation. No one expected it to last, but here you were, years later, your lives intertwined, especially after Cesar came into the picture. You remembered the day Marisol dropped him off, a terrified five-year-old clutching a worn-out teddy bear. Oscar, barely out of high school himself, had looked at you with a mixture of panic and determination. "We'll figure it out," he'd said, and you, without hesitation, had squeezed his hand and promised, "Together."

And you had.

You looked around the living room, a space that had slowly transformed from a bachelor pad into a home. A half-finished puzzle lay on the coffee table, a collection of Cesar's drawings adorned the fridge, and a slightly-too-bright throw blanket, a gift from your aunt, was draped over the back of the worn-out couch.

"He's got a big day tomorrow," you said, picking up a stray comic book and placing it neatly on the stack. "First day of middle school. Can you believe it?"

Oscar grunted, running a hand over his buzzed hair. "Means he's gonna start thinking he's too cool for us."

"Never," you countered, walking over to him and wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. "He loves you, Oscar. You know that."

He exhaled slowly, pulling you closer. "I try, you know? To be there for him. To give him what I didn't have."

"You do," you assured him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. "You're an amazing brother, Oscar. He's lucky to have you. We both are."

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "And I'm lucky to have you, mija." His voice was rougher now, tinged with an emotion he rarely showed. "Couldn't have done any of this without you."

You smiled, the warmth of his embrace spreading through you. "We're a team, remember?"

The next morning was a flurry of activity. Cesar, usually a sleepyhead, was up before his alarm, buzzing with a nervous energy. You were in the kitchen, making his favorite breakfast burritos, while Oscar, surprisingly patient, helped him wrangle his new backpack, which seemed almost bigger than he was.

"Got your lunch?" you called out, flipping a tortilla.

"Check!" Cesar yelled back, his voice a little squeaky with excitement.

"Homework?" Oscar prompted, looking over Cesar's shoulder as he double-checked his supplies.

"Didn't get any yet, hermano," Cesar chuckled, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

You walked into the living room, a plate piled high with burritos in your hand. Cesar’s eyes widened at the sight. "Awesome, Y/N!"

Oscar ruffled his hair. "Eat up, kid. Gotta fuel up for all that brainpower you're gonna be using."

As Cesar devoured his breakfast, you noticed Oscar watching him, a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It was moments like these, quiet and ordinary, that solidified the life you had built. It wasn't always easy. There were fights, disagreements, and the constant underlying tension of life in Freeridge, but you always found your way back to each other, anchored by your shared responsibility for Cesar and the deep love that had grown between you.

"Alright, that's enough," Oscar said, pulling Cesar's plate away when he reached for a third burrito. "Don't want you getting a stomach ache on your first day."

Cesar groaned, but didn't argue. He grabbed his backpack, a renewed surge of nervous energy making him bounce on the balls of his feet.

"Ready to go?" you asked, grabbing your keys. You always walked him to school on his first day, a tradition you'd started when he was in kindergarten.

Oscar nodded, already heading for the door. "Let's do this."

As you walked down the familiar streets, Cesar chattering excitedly about his new classes, you felt Oscar's hand seek yours, his calloused fingers lacing with yours. You squeezed back, a silent affirmation of your shared journey. The sun was just starting to peek over the rooftops, casting long shadows ahead of you. And for a moment, everything felt perfectly, wonderfully right.

[averalia]

The Lost Year

| Pairing: Evan “Buck” Buckley x Black!Fem!Reader

I Summary: A freak accident during a rescue call causes Buck to suffer a traumatic brain injury, leading to significant memory loss.

I Warnings: Memory loss

| A/N: This scene focuses on the gentle, loving dynamic between Spencer and the reader, highlighting their shared comfort and affection.

The shrill cry of the dispatch radio still echoed in your ears, a cruel counterpoint to the deafening silence that had fallen over the scene. One moment, Buck was scaling the precarious scaffolding, a hero in the making, and the next, a cascade of crumbling concrete and twisted metal. The impact had been sickening, visceral.

Now, he lay in the sterile white of the hospital room, the rhythmic beep of monitors the only proof of his fragile hold on life. When his eyes finally fluttered open, a wave of relief washed over you, quickly followed by a chilling dread. His gaze, usually so bright and full of life, held a blankness you hadn't seen before.

"Hey, Buck," you whispered, reaching for his hand. He blinked, a faint furrow appearing between his brows.

"Do I... do I know you?"

The words were a punch to the gut. The doctors had warned you about the possibility of memory loss, a common side effect of traumatic brain injuries. But hearing it, seeing the confusion in his eyes, was a different kind of pain. The last year – your shared laughter, quiet evenings, the way his hand found yours so naturally – it was all gone.

The days that followed were a blur of medical consultations, physical therapy, and the painstaking process of reintroducing Buck to his own life. You, Eddie, and Christopher became his anchors, patiently recounting stories, showing him photos, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of his recent past.

"This is Christopher," Eddie would say, his voice thick with emotion, as Christopher, ever so patient, would offer Buck a drawing. Buck's eyes would hold a flicker of recognition, a hesitant smile playing on his lips as he grasped the tiny hand.

The 118 rallied around him. Bobby and Athena were a constant presence, sharing tales of heroic rescues, trying to jog his memory of the adrenaline-fueled camaraderie that defined their lives. Hen and Chimney, with their medical expertise and unwavering support, guided him through the physical and emotional challenges of recovery.

But the hardest part was the emotional toll. For you, it was a constant ache, watching the man you loved struggle to remember the very foundations of your relationship. You’d catch him staring at you, a mixture of curiosity and confusion in his eyes, as if trying to place you in a context that no longer existed for him. It was like falling in love all over again, but with the added heartbreak of knowing what you had lost.

For Buck, it was a profound sense of disorientation. He was a stranger in his own life, a man missing a vital piece of his identity. Moments of frustration would erupt, quickly followed by a quiet sadness. "Who was I?" he'd ask, his voice raw with despair. "What did I do? What did we... what did we do?"

You’d hold him close, whispering stories of your shared adventures, of the little inside jokes, the way he always knew how to make you laugh, even on the toughest days. You showed him videos of your last anniversary, of Christopher’s school play, of simply you both existing, vibrant and in love. He'd watch with an intensity that made your heart clench, searching for a glimmer of recognition in the flickering images.

The road ahead was long, fraught with challenges and emotional hurdles. But as you watched Buck slowly, painstakingly, begin to rediscover himself, to find joy in the familiar faces of his found family, you knew one thing for sure. This wasn't just about recovering a lost year; it was about building a new one, stronger and more resilient than before.

It wasn't the same Buck who woke up in that hospital bed, but with every shared memory, every new experience, and every quiet moment of connection, you were forging a new path together. And as he looked at you one evening, a genuine, unburdened smile gracing his lips, and a spark of something familiar in his eyes, you knew that even a lost year couldn't erase the love that bound you.

[averalia]

Between Pages and Kisses

| Pairing: Spencer Reid x Black!Fem!Reader

| Summary: A quiet afternoon in Spencer's apartment leads to comfortable silence, shared moments, and tender confessions, all under the soft glow of the late afternoon sun.

| Warnings: N/A

| A/N: This scene focuses on the gentle, loving dynamic between Spencer and the reader, highlighting their shared comfort and affection.

The late afternoon sun, filtered through the blinds, cast long, striped shadows across Spencer's living room. You were curled on the sofa, a book resting unread on your lap, watching him. He was at his overflowing bookshelf, brow furrowed in concentration, muttering to himself as he re-arranged a section of his first editions. The silence was comfortable, punctuated only by the soft rustle of pages and the occasional satisfied hum from Spencer.

You loved these quiet moments with him. The world outside could be chaotic, loud, and often terrifying, but in Spencer’s apartment, with Spencer himself, there was a profound sense of peace. He was different from anyone you’d ever known – brilliant, yes, but also endearingly awkward, fiercely loyal, and possessed of a kindness that shone through his sometimes-blustery intellectual facade.

"Aha!" he exclaimed suddenly, pulling out a slim, leather-bound volume with a triumphant grin. "Found it! I knew it was here somewhere." He turned, holding up the book like a trophy. "Did you know that the first edition of 'The Raven' actually had a different dedication than subsequent printings?"

You chuckled, pushing yourself up to a sitting position. "I can't say I did, Dr. Reid. But I'm sure you're about to enlighten me."

He beamed, already making his way over to the sofa, his eyes alight with that particular spark they got when he was about to delve into a fascinating piece of trivia. He settled beside you, carefully placing the book on the coffee table. Instead of immediately launching into his explanation, he reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch was feather-light, sending a shiver of warmth through you.

"You look beautiful in the sunlight," he murmured, his voice softer than usual.

Your cheeks flushed. Despite how long you’d been together, his unvarnished compliments still had the power to make your heart flutter. "You're distracting me from my literary education."

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that always made you smile. "Perhaps I am. But some things are more important than first edition dedications, wouldn't you agree?" His thumb stroked your cheekbone, his gaze unwavering. "Like... this."

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a tentative, sweet kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of tenderness, of a quiet devotion that had grown steadily between you. You leaned into him, your hand coming up to cup his cheek, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair. The kiss deepened, becoming more confident, more urgent. It was a silent conversation, a culmination of all the shared glances, the late-night talks, the unwavering support you offered each other.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "I love you," he whispered, the words a soft caress against your lips.

Your heart swelled. You knew how much those words cost him, how carefully he chose them, and how deeply he meant them. "I love you too, Spencer."

He pulled back slightly, but kept you close, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his side. He picked up the book he’d found, opening it carefully. "Now, about 'The Raven'..."

You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder as he began to explain, his voice a comforting murmur in your ear. You weren’t really listening to the intricacies of Poe’s dedications, not entirely. You were listening to the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body beside yours, the soft brush of his hair against your temple. You were listening to the quiet symphony of your life together, and it was the most beautiful sound you’d ever heard.

[averalia]

Between The Lines

Pairing: Franklin Saint x Reader

(Fem! reader/Petite reader)

Summary: While Franklin is out handling business, you decide to run a few errands, a seemingly simple act that quickly escalates into a dangerous encounter, forcing you to confront the harsh realities of his world and the precariousness of your connection to him.

Warnings: Violence, slight cussing, Emotional distress, mature themes, brief mention of drugs. One Shot!

Blue = Internal Monologue

A/N: how. This is my first time posting fanfiction, so please be kind!

The late afternoon sun bled across the sky, painting the familiar streets of South Central in hues of bruised orange and purple. It should have felt like home, but lately, everything felt…off. A nervous flutter tickled my stomach, a familiar ache that always settled in when Franklin was gone.

He’d disappeared again, vanished into the intricate, dangerous world he inhabited, leaving me with that hollow feeling and a task he'd specifically told me to avoid. Stay low, his voice had rumbled against my skin, a warning and a promise all at once. But sometimes, staying low felt impossible.

Sometimes, the need to feel close to him, to his world, was stronger than the fear. I gripped the envelope tighter, the paper whispering between my fingers. It wasn't just about the errand. It was about him. It was about the way he looked at me, like I was both his safe harbor and his greatest weakness. And maybe, just maybe, I was both.

I glanced over my shoulder. The setting sun glinted off the chrome bumper of a car parked across the street. Just shadows. Just shadows, I told myself, a flimsy reassurance against the prickling unease that crept up my spine.

Franklin's absence always amplified my anxiety. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of charisma and barely-contained ruthlessness, and without him, I felt adrift, vulnerable. Like a kite without its string, tossed about in a sky threatening to turn stormy.

This simple errand, a favor for Mr. Johnson, felt like a reckless step closer to the darkness that clung to Franklin like a second skin.

The corner store was just ahead, a beacon of normalcy in the growing twilight. Mr. Johnson, a kind old man with eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, would be waiting for the delivery.

It was a small thing, a way to help him out. Franklin wouldn't approve. He'd been clear – no favors, no entanglements. But Mr. Johnson had always been a quiet source of comfort, a reminder of the warmth that still existed in this harsh corner of the world.

I pushed open the door, the cheerful jingle of the bell a jarring contrast to the tension in my chest. Mr. Johnson’s face lit up when he saw me.

“Y/N! You’re a lifesaver, darlin’. I was starting to get worried.”

“No problem, Mr. Johnson,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Just a little something for you.”

I handed him the envelope, and his smile widened. “You’re a good girl, Y/N. Franklin’s lucky to have you.”

His words, meant as a compliment, sent a chill down my spine. Lucky. Was I lucky? Or was I just… a loose end?

I gathered my groceries – milk, bread, a few other things – and stepped back out into the gathering darkness. The streetlights flickered to life, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock me.

As I reached my car, a dark sedan slid to a stop beside me. Two men emerged, their faces hard and unreadable. My heart lurched against my ribs. This wasn’t good.

“Y/N,” one of them said, his voice flat and menacing. “We know who you are.”

My breath hitched. They knew. They knew about Franklin. And that meant I was in serious trouble.

“We know you’re Franklin’s girl,” the other one added, his eyes raking over me with a predatory gleam.

My blood ran cold.

“He’s not here,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “He’s… out of town.”

“That’s what we heard,” the first one said, taking a step closer. “Makes things… easier.”

Easier. The word echoed in my mind, a chilling premonition. Easier to get to me. Easier to send a message to Franklin.

“We just want to talk,” the second one said, but his eyes screamed otherwise.

I knew what they wanted to talk about. Franklin. His business. The money.

I clutched my grocery bag tighter, a pathetic attempt to shield myself. “I don’t know anything,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

One of them grabbed my arm, his grip like a vise. My groceries tumbled to the ground, the carton of milk exploding in a white, spreading stain.

“Don’t play games,” he snarled. “We know you know.”

He shoved me against my car, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. My head slammed against the metal, a jolt of pain shooting through my skull.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammered, tears stinging my eyes.

He hit me, the force of it sending my head reeling. My lip split, and I tasted blood. The world tilted and blurred.

The world swam before my eyes. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth, a taste I knew all too well. He hit me again, a brutal slap that sent me sprawling onto the cracked pavement. My head smacked against the ground, and a wave of dizziness washed over me. Their voices, distorted and distant, seemed to echo from a nightmare.

“Where’s the money, bitch?”

“Tell us, and this can all be over.”

Money. It always came back to money. Franklin’s money. The lifeblood of his empire, the source of his power, and the constant threat hanging over us like a dark cloud. They thought I knew. They thought I was part of it. But I was just… me. Franklin’s girl. A title that suddenly felt less like a declaration of love and more like a brand, a target on my back.

I tried to push myself up, but my body screamed in protest. Pain throbbed in my head, my lip pulsed, my arm ached where he’d grabbed me. Terror, raw and primal, clawed at my throat. Not just for myself, but for Franklin. What would they do to him if they couldn't get what they wanted from me?

(Flashback – A month ago)

Franklin had been unusually quiet, his gaze distant as he stared out the window of his penthouse. “This life… it’s not for everyone, Y/N,” he’d said, his voice low and grave. “It’s dangerous. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire.”

“Then don’t,” I’d whispered, my voice trembling. “Get out. Get us out.”

He’d turned to me, his eyes a complex mix of tenderness and something darker, something I couldn't quite decipher. “I can’t,” he’d said simply. “It’s… complicated.”

(End Flashback)

“I don’t know anything,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and broken. “Please… I swear.”

One of them kicked me in the ribs, the force of it sending a jolt of pain through my body. I gasped, struggling for breath. The world tilted precariously, the streetlights blurring into a hazy mess of yellow and white.

“You think we’re stupid?” he sneered. “You think we don’t know who you are to him?”

They knew. They knew I was his weakness. They knew I was the key to getting to him. And in that moment, the terrible truth crashed down on me. Being Franklin’s girl wasn't a privilege. It was a liability.

They continued to badger me, their voices rising, more aggressive. I tried to answer, but my words were jumbled, incoherent. My mind raced with fear, with images of Franklin – his smile, his touch, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

Franklin… Where are you? Please, come back. Please, I need you. I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do. I love you. God, Franklin, I love you. And maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe that’s why I’m willing to risk everything. Because I love you, even knowing the darkness that surrounds you. Even knowing that it could consume me too.

Suddenly, headlights sliced through the darkness, a sleek black car screeching to a halt. My heart leaped in my chest. A fragile spark of hope flickered within me. Two figures emerged. Franklin. And Leon.

Franklin’s face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. His eyes, when they locked on mine, burned with a rage so intense it stole my breath. Leon’s expression was grim, his hand resting on the handle of something concealed beneath his jacket.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Franklin’s voice was low, dangerous, a growl that vibrated through the quiet street.

The two men who had been attacking me turned, their bravado instantly crumbling. They recognized the tone, the unspoken threat that hung heavy in the air.

Franklin moved with a speed that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. He was on them in a flash, a whirlwind of controlled violence. Leon stayed back, his expression chillingly detached.

"You touch her again," Franklin hissed, his voice laced with venom, "and I will fucking kill you. I will kill your families. I will burn everything you have to the ground. Do you understand me?"

The two men nodded frantically, their eyes wide with terror. They knew. They knew who Franklin was. And they knew they had made a terrible, potentially fatal, mistake.

Franklin turned to me, his expression softening slightly, though the fury still simmered beneath the surface. He knelt beside me, his touch gentle as he brushed a stray strand of hair from my face. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, tears streaming down my face. “I’m okay,” I managed to say, my voice trembling. “You’re here.”

He helped me up, his arm wrapped protectively around my waist. He shot a look at Leon, who nodded and moved towards the two men, his expression suggesting their conversation was far from over. I didn’t need to hear what Leon said to them. The fear in their eyes told the whole story.

Franklin led me to his car, his grip firm but gentle. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel the tension radiating off him, the barely contained rage that threatened to erupt.

At their house, he helped me inside, the silence between us heavy with unspoken emotions. He guided me to the bathroom, his movements careful and deliberate. He sat me on the edge of the tub and began to clean my wounds, his touch surprisingly tender despite the storm raging inside him.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice thick with tears. “I messed up. I shouldn’t have gone there.”

He looked at me, his eyes searching mine. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Don’t blame yourself. They’re the ones who messed up. They messed with you.”

He finished cleaning my wounds and began to wrap my arm in a clean bandage. The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the soft sounds of his movements and my shaky breaths.

“Franklin,” I said softly, “I was so scared.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of tenderness and pain. He reached out and gently cupped my face in his hands. “I know,” he whispered, his thumbs brushing away the tears still clinging to my lashes. “I know. But I’m here now. I’m here.”

He pulled me close, holding me tight against his chest. I could feel the steady beat of his heart, a comforting rhythm in the chaos of my emotions. I closed my eyes, burying my face in his chest, breathing in his familiar scent – a mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely him. I was safe now. At least, for the moment.

He carried me to the living room and gently laid me on the couch. He sat beside me, his hand stroking my hair. “Tell me what happened,” he said, his voice quiet.

I recounted the events of the evening, my voice trembling as I relived the fear and the violence. Franklin listened intently, his expression growing darker with each word. When I finished, he was silent for a long moment.

“They won’t touch you again,” he finally said, his voice low and dangerous. “I promise you that.”

He leaned down and kissed me, a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes of his love and his protectiveness. It was a promise, a reassurance, a silent vow.

Later, as I lay in bed, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. I knew that Franklin’s world was a dangerous place, and that being connected to him meant being exposed to that danger. But I also knew that I loved him, deeply and irrevocably. And maybe, just maybe, that love was worth the risk. Maybe it was worth facing the darkness together.