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sushirrrry · 24 days ago

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PATIENT | a harry styles x reader one-shot word count: 13,405 content warning: mentions of sickness, hospitals, mentions of surgery, pain, mentions of sex

summary: you’re stubborn; harry knows this, but it’s one of his favorite parts about you. his protectiveness goes into full panic mode when you start to inhibit symptoms of a serious medical emergency. as a medical professional himself, he helps you through the scary parts, the recovery, & the parts of life we fear the most: being vulnerable.

authors note: thank you to the anon who sent in the request for protective!doctorry x stubborn!reader <3 here's my take on it, hope you enjoy - sorry for the wait!

________________________________________

You’re sitting on Harry’s kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him stir something on the stove; it’s his favorite pasta sauce that he claims is made from scratch but is actually a hybrid or jarred and fresh, with a focused furrow in his brow.

There is a candle burning on the table behind you. It is something warm and woody that smells vaguely like cedar and oranges, and if you weren’t sweating through your shirt, you might actually enjoy the atmosphere.

He glances over his shoulder and offers you a small smile. “You alright?”

You nod, instantly, almost too quickly to think about it. “Fine. Just a bit hot in here,” you reassure him, “Must be the stove.”

He doesn’t push that, knowing the cooking could have been a bit much for the small apartment space. He just tilts his head in that knowing way of his and goes back to stirring.

But you can feel his eyes on you when he thinks you’re not looking

They are sharp and perceptive, like he’s filing something away in that trauma surgeon brain of his.

Truth is, you haven’t been feeling alright for days— days have turned into weeks by now.

It started as a weird heaviness in your stomach. You thought it was just something you ate. But then came the fatigue, the nausea, and the low fever that refused to budge that you tried to work through since it felt like you may just have something viral.

And now your entire lower abdomen feels like it’s trying to fold in on itself. But you hate fuss, and you hate the attention that something like this would bring. You hate being the reason anyone has to stop what they’re doing.

Especially Harry— a surgeon who has a lot more to process in his brain than your simplistic day to day life.

So, you just take a slow, deep breath, trying not to wince. Your fingers clench around the edge of the counter as another wave of sharp pain rolls through your side.

“Seriously,” Harry says again, concern is gracing his features as he tries to be a bit gentler this time, “you look a little pale.”

You roll your eyes and grin like it’s nothing. “I’m just a bit hungry.”

He huffs a soft laugh, scrunching his nose as he pushes his glasses up on his face. “Cheeky.”

There’s a pause as he turns the heat off and grabs two bowls from the cabinet. You shift your weight, but the movement sends another stab of pain through your lower abdomen, and your hand shoots out to grip the counter more tightly.

You don’t say anything, you just breathe through your nose and count backward from ten. Each number lasting longer than you anticipated.

When you open your eyes, Harry’s standing in front of you with a bowl of pasta with sauce and a raised brow.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, tone still casual but layered with concern. “You’ve been quiet all day and your knuckles are white from gripping that counter a bit hard.”

You shrug, accepting the bowl with a shaky hand and trying not to let the fork rattle too obviously. “Tired. Work’s been a lot and maybe just a bit anxious for the week.”

He crouches slightly so he is eye-level with you, hands on either side of your hips as he stares and your stomach twists—not from pain this time, but because that look that he gives you is so damn gentle. It’s quite infuriating, if you were honest.

“I can check you out, you know,” he says carefully. “Just in case. I’m a doctor.”

You shake your head immediately. “Harry—"

He lifts his hands in surrender, still standing in front of you. “I’m not pushing. Just offering. Doesn’t have to be now.”

You take yourself off of the counter and move towards the small breakfast nook that you use in his apartment for eating meals together; it’s cozy, and it makes you feel domestic together. You take a large bite of the pasta and force it down even though your stomach lurches in protest. Tomato and roasted red pepper—your favorite. He always remembers.

“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Don’t want to waste your time.”

His jaw ticks. That’s the only sign that your words bother him, but he leans against the counter and takes his first bite of his pasta.

“You could never waste my time,” he says quietly, chewing around his words.

You don’t reply to that, and just look down at your pasta, the steam fogging up the lower half of your vision. Your hands are trembling a little, and Harry notices. Of course he does. But he doesn’t say anything else.

Instead, he sits down at the table near you, resting his forearms on the wood as he starts to eat his own bowl.

“So,” he says casually, giving you an out, “I had a guy come in today with a screwdriver embedded in his shoulder. Said it slipped while he was ‘fixing the shed.’” Harry makes air quotes with his spoon. “Pretty sure he was trying to pry open a beer fridge.”

You chuckle softly. “Sounds like a productive afternoon.”

“Oh, he was very committed to the fridge. Stabbed himself, passed out, then woke up and walked into the ER holding it like a party favor. Bleeding all over the floor.”

You smile in spite of yourself, the image absurd enough to cut through the pain. “Did he get to the beer, though?”

“Of course,” Harry says, mock-serious, shaking his head. “It was a matter of principle by then. I think he really just needed his ego to be met at that point.”

You chuckle a little bit, and Harry watches you with something soft in his expression—like the sound eases something tight in him.

“How about you?” he asks. “What chaos did your coworkers create today?”

“Oh God,” you say, perking up a little as you tried to think about your day. “Okay, so you know Ben from accounting—the one who always brings canned tuna in and eats it at his desk?”

Harry grimaces, stabbing another penne noodle. “Unfortunately.”

“Well, he walked into our morning meeting wearing—no lie—sunglasses and a cape. Just stood in the doorway like some kind of budget Dracula and said, ‘I am here to suck the inefficiency from this budget proposal.’”

Harry snorts, shaking his head as he looked back over at you with complete uncertainty that you’re actually telling the truth. “Please tell me you’re making that up.”

“I wish I were. He had charts.”

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs and wipes his mouth with a napkin before he presses his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “You attract the weirdest people.”

“I think it’s a gift,” you say solemnly, pursing your lips.

“Or a curse,” he mutters.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” you ask, tilting your head a bit as you stare at him and notice that his eyes blink up at you with a chilling smirk of his lips. The laughter was good, but your body is rebelling again—tired, hot, shaky. You try not to let it show.

Harry watches you for a beat, noticing that your laugh is cut short. “You sure you’re okay for a movie? We don’t have to do anything else tonight if you’re exhausted.”

“No, I want to.” Your eyes open slowly. “I need something stupid and funny. Something with explosions. Maybe a car chase.”

“Explosions, huh?” He leans back in his chair, considering a few options. “So, like, Fast & Furious stupid? Or actual quality stupid like The Nice Guys?”

“The Nice Guys, please. I have standards, and Ryan Gosling meets all of them.”

He grins, taking the last bite of his meal even though he started eating after you did. “Excellent choice. I’ll set it up after we clean up.”

You slide off the counter carefully, hoping he doesn’t notice how much you’re leaning on it. The pain hits sharper every now and then, like something inside you is straining, waiting for the moment it can give out completely.

But Harry’s eyes are already on the sink, rinsing bowls and talking about how Ryan Gosling in short-sleeved shirts is unfair to everyone involved. You hum your agreement and move toward the couch.

You hate this feeling— the feeling fragile, feeling like something’s breaking apart inside of you and you’re powerless to stop it. But you hate even more the idea of letting Harry see you weak.

That’s the thing about you and Harry: you’ve only been together for about ten months now. It’s hard to find that perfect medium of wanting to be taken care of and making sure you don’t feel like a victim to every situation. Harry has enough to deal with during the day, you don’t want to be a hassle.

You tell yourself that you will make a doctor’s appointment tomorrow if your symptoms don’t cease – Harry doesn’t have to be involved.

So, instead, you smile and say, “I’ll grab the blanket. You get the snacks.”

And you pretend that nothing’s wrong, because it’s easier than admitting your faults.

But now, you’ve curled up on Harry’s couch with a blanket over your lap, the faint blue light of the TV flickering against the windows. The Nice Guys is halfway through, and you haven’t laughed once since the first scene. You want to—Harry’s chuckling quietly beside you, quoting half the lines under his breath like he does in movies that he loves, but everything feels distant, like there’s a thick layer of static between you and the rest of the world.

You shift beneath the blanket and the movement sends a jolt through your right side, and you let out a breath through your nose. The pain has sharpened, localized, like someone has driven a hot poker just below your ribs.

You suck in a breath and try to play it off as a yawn. You lean into the corner of the couch, curling tighter, biting the inside of your cheek as your vision blurs for a second as you start to feel yourself sweating through the sweatshirt you had thrown on over yourself to get more comfortable.

“You cold?” Harry asks gently, his eyes not leaving the screen except for a small movement to glance over at you.

“Mhm,” you hum, swallowing hard. Your throat’s dry, scratchy and soft. “Just cozy.”

He throws a soft arm over the back of the couch and lets his hand settle lightly on your shoulder. He definitely knows you’re lying, but he doesn’t press.

The minutes start to pass, and you lose track of the plot of the movie even though you’ve seen it a million times. Your head starts to pound, and the nausea you had before eating dinner creeps back, stronger now, twisting your stomach with every second that ticks by. Your hands start trembling under the blanket, and your breaths come shorter, faster.

You press your fingers into your side hard, almost like it can cancel the pain. You’re jolted out of your head when you hear Harry’s voice instead of Ryan Gosling’s.

“Alright,” Harry says suddenly, pausing the movie and turning toward you, voice still calm but firmer now, “that’s enough pretending.”

You blink up at him, dazed at his comment, removing your hands to stop yourself from wincing. “What?”

“You’re not okay.” He shifts on the couch, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t been okay all day– all week, really. And I’ve been trying not to push, but… your skins clammy. You’re shaking. And you haven’t touched your tea in twenty minutes, which is your biggest red flag.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out wrong like your vocal cords are tight, cracked. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, and the way his jaw tightens says everything. “You’re burning up.”

“I probably just have a flu or something,” you mutter, shrinking under his touch.

“You’ve had abdominal pain for days,” he says, sharper now. “And a fever. And you keep pressing your side like it is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.”

You look away. He’s right, of course. But you hate this—the exposure, the vulnerability, the way he’s seeing through every wall you’ve built.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” you whisper to him, eyes beginning. “I promise I’ll just—”

Harry breathes in slowly, fighting to keep calm. “Let me check you out. Properly—just here, it will be quick and professional.”

You shake your head.

“Why?” he asks softly, voice laced with concern like he feels a bit unsure of your level of trust towards him. “Why won’t you let me help?”

At this point, you really just don’t have a good answer. It stems from the fear of being a burden, of needing too much from someone else. Of being someone whose pain rearranges other people’s lives because you had seen it so many times before, so you decide it’s better to leave him out of it.

“I’ll feel better tomorrow,” you lie— you know it's a lie the second it leaves your mouth.

Harry studies you for a long moment, then sighs, sitting back and running a hand through his hair as he stretches back out on the couch. “Alright. I’m not going to force you. But I need you to promise me—if it gets worse, even a little, you’ll tell me first.”

You nod way too fast and automatically that you feel like you don’t need to say anything else, so you just take a piece of popcorn and place it on your tongue. The salt causes a wave of nausea, but you smile back at him for reassurance.

He doesn’t believe you. But he lets it go, because you can tell that he really, really cares.

But then you only last another thirty minutes of the movie.

The pain turns cruel, truly cruel. It sinks deep, radiating outward, until you can’t focus on anything else. You’re sweating through your clothes and then shivering at the feeling of dampness on your skin under your sweatshirt.

Taking off the blanket, you throw it on the couch next to you, not making eye contact with Harry before you make your way into the kitchen. It may make you feel better to try to make it to the kitchen to splash water on your face, but the moment you stand, the floor tilts under you like a ship.

The wave is intentionally harmful to you as you try to level yourself against the wall in his apartment by the fridge, hanging onto it to keep your balance.

“Harry?” you croak, feeling your tongue slur before everything goes sideways.

You collapse to your knees, gasping, the pain in your abdomen stabbing so violently it knocks the air out of you. You barely register Harry flying upwards from the sofa, shouting your name before you hit the floor.

The last thing you see before the black creeps in is Harry’s face hovering over yours with a look that screams terrified and helpless. There may be some anger in there, but he doesn’t let it show yet.

When you come back to the world, your head is in his lap and you feel the sweat dripping down the side of your face. His fingers are on your neck, checking your pulse. His other hand is brushing hair away from your clammy face, but his voice is anything but soft.

“Jesus, I knew something was wrong,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “What the hell is going on with you?”

You groan, trying to sit up, but the motion tears through your core like glass. “Harry—”

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes flashing. “No more of this. You’re done hiding.”

“I didn’t want—”

“I don’t care what you want right now,” he lifts you with terrifying gentleness, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. “We’re going to the ER. Right now.”

“I just need a minute— I got dizzy.”

“You collapsed, you didn’t just ‘get dizzy’.” His voice cracks at the end, and that’s when you stop arguing.

Because you’ve never heard Harry Styles sound scared before. You decide it’s not worth it to fight anymore, and that maybe it would be best to just allow this to happen – to allow him to have the pleasure of figuring out if something is wrong.

You decide to let your guard down for the moment, and take a deep breath before you concede to his request.

He moves like a man possessed—no fumbling, no hesitation this time. He sets you down, you lean against the kitchen cabinets just long enough to grab his keys, his phone, his ID badge for the ER. You try to speak again, but the pain cuts you off, so you just focus on your breathing instead.

Harry scoops you back into his arms without missing a beat and carries you down to the car, muttering under his breath the entire time—things you can’t make out, except for the way your name keeps slipping through like a prayer and a curse all at once.

In the car, you’re curled against him in the passenger seat, your body lurching with every bump in the road. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, grounding you.

You’re half-conscious by the time the car pulls up to the hospital entrance, the world a blur of lights and color through half-lidded eyes, you feel yourself groan out. Harry doesn’t waste time; he pulls you from the passenger seat with practiced urgency and strides through the ER doors like he owns the place. Because, in some ways, he does.

“Patient presenting with acute abdominal pain, fever, and collapse,” Harry calls to the intake nurse. His voice is sharp, commanding, not loud, but nothing like the soft way he talks to you at home.

The nurse’s eyes widen as she recognizes him. “Dr. Styles—”

“Let’s do vitals first. Please page Dr. Carson for consult. I’ll stay with her until someone gets here.” He doesn’t wait for a response before steering you into the nearest exam bay, gently easing you onto the bed. You hiss in pain as your body curls inward, instinctively guarding your side.

Harry’s jaw tightens. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair off your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, your lips cracked.

“Kinda hot how you act like you own the place,” you rasp, trying to make a joke before he rolls his eyes.

He lets out a humorless laugh, kneeling beside the bed to stay eye level with you. “Just try and take it easy, will you?”

“I didn’t want to—”

“I know.” His voice softens, nodding as he understood what you meant. “But I don’t care how tough you think you are. You scared the hell out of me.”

You blink up at him, and in the bright hospital lights, his worry is plain: the crease in his brow, the tight grip on your wrist where he’s still checking your pulse, the way his eyes won’t leave yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away.

A nurse appears with a blood pressure cuff and thermometer, giving you a quiet smile as she looks between you and Harry. Harry steps back just enough to let her work, but stays close—hovering, watching every reading with clinical precision. You can see by the way that his fingers pinch his lower lip that he would do anything to be the one checking this – just to make sure you’re okay.

“Your fever’s over 102,” The nurse states, writing down your vitals on the chart before she watches your blood pressure, “Heart rate’s through the roof. Blood pressure is low.”

You look back at Harry to get his reaction before you take a deep breath. Your body lays on the small bed, feeling the weight of your body now.

“Any chance of pregnancy?” the nurse asks casually, more out of habit than suspicion.

“No,” you both say in unison. Harry’s voice is firm, yours is barely audible before you catch his glimpse.

The nurse jots it down, unbothered by the speed. “Pain on palpation?”

Harry’s eyes meet yours. “I’m going to press on your abdomen, okay?”

You nod weakly, as you look back at the nurse who watches for a moment. His fingers are careful but methodical as he moves across your stomach. When he reaches your right lower side, you jolt violently, a strangled sound escaping your throat.

“Rebound tenderness,” he mutters; the nurse writes down his notes as you take in a breath. Then louder: “We need an ultrasound. Maybe a CT, but let’s start there.”

“Harry—” you manage, a whisper, barely audible as he starts to move away to allow the nurses to take more charge on the case.

“I’m here,” he says immediately, stepping closer, one hand steady on your arm as he moves to squat next to you. “You’re okay, in good hands. I’ve got you.”

The nurse has found a vein and starts drawing blood. You hate needles, always have which may be a subconscious reason you didn’t make your way here on your own earlier, but you don’t flinch. You’re too far gone to care, and you just keep your eyes on Harry.

Someone is speaking to you, asking for your name, your birth date, the onset of symptoms. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“She’s had intermittent lower abdominal pain for days,” Harry says, voice even but clipped, like he’s trying to stay calm and professional. “Fever, nausea, and then collapsed at home tonight. RLQ tenderness on palpation. I would suspect probable appendicitis with high risk of rupture.”

“Has she eaten anything in the last few hours?” a nurse asks while sliding an IV catheter into the crook of your arm.

“Yes, we made dinner tonight, but I don’t think she’s eaten or had an appetite for a few days.”

You feel the IV thread into your skin, a deep ache blooming up your arm, and instinctively try to pull away. Harry presses his hand over yours, firm but reassuring.

“Sorry, sweetie,” The nurse tells your gently; her hands are light, and you can tell that she doesn’t like making your uncomfortable.

“Easy, love,” he says gently, his thumb brushing over your wrist. “It’s just fluids. They’re trying to help.”

He doesn’t let go, either. One nurse places a cool hand on your forehead while another adjusts the monitors. The pulse oximeter beeps on your finger before the curtain rustles again, and a technician wheels in the portable ultrasound machine.

Harry steps aside just enough to give them access to your abdomen, but his hand lingers at the edge of the gurney, eyes locked on the screen as gel is applied to your stomach and the wand begins to sweep over your skin. You feel like everything is happening so quickly, but you let yourself breathe.

Your hand starts to tremble, and he takes note of it quickly before taking it in his.

You don’t remember what they say, or how they say it. You just remember the sound of your name spoken in Harry’s voice—soft, steady, anchoring you through the white noise.

“Why didn’t you bring her in sooner?” someone asks, not unkindly.

Harry doesn’t answer right away, but just glances at you.

“Because she’s stubborn,” he finally says. “And I didn’t want to push her.”

You want to apologize, but your body won’t let you. You’re too tired, too sick.

The next hour passes in flashes: the cold gel of the ultrasound wand against your skin, the dim blue light of the imaging room, the sharp sting of the IV drip as fluids rush in. You think you hear someone say “rupture risk” again, but your brain is floating too far away to make sense of it.

As time passes, you let your eyes close for a moment as you try and calm yourself down. Everything feels very overwhelming, but Harry is by your side, arms crossed, talking in low tones with another doctor. You recognize Dr. Carson—she’s senior, good, calm under pressure. She had always talked so highly of Harry and his skill, and you trust that you’re in excellent hands.

“She has acute appendicitis,” Dr. Carson says gently, confirming what Harry already knew. “Looks like it’s close to rupturing which is causing all of the severe pain and fever symptoms. We’ll need to take her in immediately.”

Harry nods once, sure of his choice. “I’ll assist.”

“Are you sure?” Dr. Carson asks, lowering her voice. “You’re close to her.”

“I won’t cut into her,” he replies, steel in his voice. “You can lead. I’ll assist. But I want to go in.”

You watch as Dr. Carson nods and steps away, her arm resting on Harry’s shoulder as he moves to turn back to you. You’re more alert now, the fluids helping, but your stomach still feels like a war zone and every breath sends new pain radiating through your side.

“I have to go scrub in,” he says softly, brushing your cheek. “Dr. Carson’s the best. You’re in good hands. But I’ll be there and get all of the information I need, alright?”

You nod, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, feeling yourself sink into the gurney. Everything seems to be slipping away from you as you shake your head and feel like a complete fool for not allowing Harry to help sooner.

His brows furrow, thumb brushing against your cheek. “What for?”

“For hiding it. For making you—”

“Don’t,” He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than he should. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever loved.”

You freeze; he doesn’t take it back, but you watch as the smile creeps on his face and lingers. You swallow back the words before you watch as he moves out of the room, leaving you with the nurses and the words floating around you.

+++

It had been a while since Harry had left you – not super long, but long enough. You tried to take a small nap, maybe allowing your body to catch up with how exhausted you really felt besides all the pain.

They wheeled you through the wide corridors of the hospital with purposeful ease, the fluorescent lights above blinking in rhythm as your bed glides beneath them. You try to keep your breathing steady, to focus on the clatter of wheels or the gentle murmur of nurses beside you, but every nerve in your body feels exposed, raw.

Your mouth is dry; your fingers twitch restlessly on the starched sheet draped over you and your new hospital gown that they had helped you change into.

Then, through the hum of motion and soft beeps and antiseptic air, you see him.

Harry.

He’s just outside the surgical suite, standing tall beside Dr. Carson, already dressed in surgical scrubs. The navy-blue fabric clings to his frame in all the right places—familiar, but different now, clinical and commanding. His hair is tucked beneath a surgical cap, a few curls escaping at the nape. A mask hangs loose around his neck, not yet covering his face, and his eyes—those bright, sharp, impossibly expressive eyes are now locked onto yours the moment he sees you through his wire framed glasses.

His spine straightens against the wall; his face softens. And then he’s moving toward you.

You try to sit up but don’t make it far—pain curls hot and fast through your side and steals the breath from your lungs. You flinch, and instantly, Harry is there, crouched beside the gurney, reaching for your hand.

“Hey,” he says quietly, but his voice trembles at the edges. “Looks like you’re still here on Earth with us, huh?”

“You look… unfairly hot right now when I have to look like this,” you murmur, feeling the drugs working through your system.

He lets out a laugh—sharp and short, surprised, but it cracks something in the tight line of his shoulders.

You scan him again, head to toe, trying to take it all in. The sleeves stretched over his forearms. The pale green ID badge clipped to his chest. The way his scrubs hang slightly loose on his hips, the stethoscope still slung around his neck even though someone else will be listening to your heart soon.

Harry raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re drugged.”

“No,” you breathe, letting out a smaller laugh, “Well – yes, but I’m also scared. And you look like you could fight death itself and win.”

He shakes his head softly, eyes glinting in the light as he blinks back at you. “That’s not the part that scares me.”

“What is?”

“That I can’t protect you from this the way I want to – I’m not in charge of this, so that’s difficult for me.”

You lift a hand slowly to brush the backs of your fingers over his jaw. He leans into the touch, just a little.

“You’re here and you made sure I was here,” you tell him. “That’s enough.”

Dr. Carson approaches then, calm and capable in her own scrubs to match his. “I think we’re ready to bring you back, we have a plan of action and we’re going to make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

Harry’s hand lingers on yours before he stands up and moves closer to Dr. Carson.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” he promises, nodding back at you for assurance. “You won’t be alone for a second.”

You blink up at him, throat tight as you try your best to keep it together. “And you won’t be distracted thinking about how good I think you look in those scrubs?”

He huffs out a broken laugh. “Not a chance.”

The gurney starts to move again, and Harry squeezes your hand once more before letting go—slowly, like he’s reluctant to release you.

The last thing you see before the operating room doors swing open is him, and you think, just before the anesthetic clouds your thoughts: if he’s in the room, you’ll make it out.

+++

The first inkling that you’re awake is the sound of the soft beeping and the distinct chill of a hospital room.

Your mouth is drier than it was before, your throat aches. There’s an oxygen cannula nestled beneath your nose and an IV in your arm, but none of that bothers you half as much as the tight throb in your side, wrapped in bandages and freshly stitched.

You blink slowly. The lights are dim. Outside the window, the sky is a deep indigo, early morning maybe. Everything’s quiet, except the small sounds of the hospital that feel at peace. It almost feels hard to breathe with the tightness at your side.

“You’re awake.”

Harry’s voice is a whisper, hoarse and laced with relief. He’s seated beside your bed, still in his scrubs, hair a mess, exhaustion etched deep into his face. His hand is already on yours, thumb stroking your knuckles.

“You scared me,” he says. Not accusatory. Just honest.

You try to speak, but your voice barely comes out. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” He squeezes your hand, grabbing the ginger ale that sits by the bedside and hands it to you. “Surgery went perfectly well. It was a textbook appendectomy. No rupture, but it was close—maybe another hour and we’d be having a very different conversation.”

Your heart stutters as you look at him, really look at him, and the façade he always wears in his scrubs is gone—no cool detachment, no clinical efficiency. It’s just Harry – the guy you met on Hinge on a random Thursday night, went to dinner with after his long 12-hour shift, and he’s looking at you tired and worried and still so soft.

You take a sip of the ginger ale, gently, through the straw and blink a few times before your throat starts to ease.

“You said you loved me.”

The words hang in the room, and he goes still. You feel the way that his fingers brush over your hand, softly allowing there to be a moment between you.

“I did,” he says, voice barely audible. “And I meant it.”

You stare at him, searching his face. The room feels incredibly intimate, and you wonder if you want to stop talking about this until you’re in a better state of mind, but you continue to joke, “You’re not just saying that because I almost died?”

A weak smile tugs at his lips. “No. I promise I’ve loved you through much less dramatic situations.”

You want to laugh, but it hurts too much; you can feel how tight your stomach feels. So instead, you let the silence settle between you again. You don’t say it back, not yet, but the way your fingers curl tighter into his says enough.

A nurse enters with fresh fluids and checks your vitals, taking notes about your coming out of anesthesia. Harry steps back just enough to let her work, but stays in your peripheral, arms folded, eyes locked on every number on the screen.

“She’ll be in overnight,” the nurse says. “Barring any complications, you should be able to go home tomorrow.”

Harry nods at the direction. “Thank you.”

Once the nurse leaves, you glance at him again starting to get comfortable against the leather sofa in the room, the one direction next to your bed. “You’re really not going home?”

He shakes his head, kicking off his shoes. “Not a chance.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when you’re back in your own bed.” Harry curls into the chair, letting his head rest against the side of the chair before he throws his legs over the side of the armrest. It’s like he’s done this before, multiple times, so you don’t feel as bad.

You sigh, your heart full and aching all at once. “You’re impossible.”

“Takes one to know one.”

+++

Later, when you drift back awake in the early morning, Harry’s still there. He’s kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the chair beside your bed, legs slung over the armrest, head tilted back. His neck looks like it’s going to regret that nap.

You shift slightly, and it’s enough to wake him. He jolts upright, instantly alert.

“You okay?” he asks, voice very raspy from the momentary nap he's taken.

You nod, because that doesn't hurt as bad as the rest of your body. “Just sore.”

He moves to your side, throwing his legs back over the chair and wiping at his eyes to wake himself up. “You need anything? Ice chips? Pain meds? I can call the nurse.”

“I’m fine.”

He raises an eyebrow, licking his lips as he shakes his head at you. “That phrase is banned until further notice.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile cracks your lips. “Okay. Maybe a little water would be good.”

“See? Progress," Harry smirks, grabbing a cup of water with a straw.

He helps you sip slowly from a cup with a straw, holding it for you like you’re made of glass. You hate how helpless you feel—but you also love that it’s him willing to help.

“How long till I can leave?” you ask after you swallow, wiping at your lips.

“Tomorrow morning, maybe,” he says. “They want to monitor you overnight tonight. Make sure there’s no fever, no signs of infection.”

“And then?”

“Then I’m taking you home.” His tone is final, nodding at you as he sat next to you. “You’re not lifting a finger for at least a week. I already put in leave. My schedule’s clear.”

You shake your head, sighing at his sudden need to protect you, “Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, and I will."

You swallow thickly. “But—”

“You took care of me after that car accident last year. Remember? You didn’t sleep for two nights. You made that weird soup that had the broccoli puree.”

You groan, remembering it well. “That soup was delicious.”

“It was awful,” he says with a grin, which only makes you grin back in response. “But I drank every bowl of it. Because I love you.”

Your eyes sting when you blink; taking in a breath when you hear him say it again. You still haven't said it— but you feel it. You know what it feels like, and you just don’t know when you're going to feel it.

“Let me return the favor,” he says gently, taking your hand in his. “Please.”

You nod, finally. And he kisses your hand again, this time without hesitation. This time, with solidity that he won't hurt you.

+++

You had spent the night in the hospital again— much to your dismay, as you really didn't get too much sleep when you were there. You didn’t show any negative symptoms and seemed to be doing fine walking on your own to the bathroom and back to your bed.

So, it meant that Harry could bring you home to care for you. Harry was happy that all of you seemed to check out, leaving him with a proud look on his face as he kept you company and took care of you when the nurses weren’t available.

You barely make it to the couch back in his apartment before you’re ready to collapse.

Harry has one arm around your back holding you up as you took many little steps, ignoring every protest you’ve muttered since you left the hospital. He practically carries you across the threshold like it’s a wedding night instead of post-op day one and gently helps you settle down on the plush cushions, adjusting the pillows behind you with absurd precision.

“I could’ve walked on my own,” you grumble when you're finally settled.

He raises a brow, settling your items down on the counter. “You nearly passed out getting into the car.”

“I stood up too fast,” you tell him, defensively, “Blood pressure dropped.”

He points at you with the same finger he uses when lecturing interns. “You had surgery less than thirty-six hours ago. You’re not standing at all unless I say so," He furrows, biting on his lip, "Or you need to use the bathroom, then we can figure it out."

You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already moving to start to figure out your recovery plan. He folds a blanket over your legs, checks your temperature with a forehead scanner, fluffs your pillow one last time, and disappears into the kitchen to start getting food together for you.

From the couch, you hear cabinets opening and the soft sound of a kettle clicking on.

“What are you doing now?” You call back, licking your lips as you pull the blanket over you a little bit. Harry’s kept the cooling temperature of the apartment to ensure that you don’t get too hot.

“Making tea and heating up your broth,” he calls back. “You’re not getting solids for another day, and you need some useful fluids.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. He’s in full-on doctor mode—bossy, precise, focused on the end goal of making you feel better. But there’s something else underneath it; it’s something that’s been only meant for you.

When he returns to the living room, it’s with a tray: a warm mug of peppermint tea, a bowl of steaming broth, a water bottle with a straw, and a little notepad where he’s apparently tracking your medication times and vitals. He’s written your most recent temperature and a log of medication times.

“You’re actually keeping a chart?” you ask, incredulous as you take the cup of tea in her hands.

“I trust myself more than your memory right now,” he says smoothly, sitting at the end of the sofa where your feet lie. “Now, some small sips. Ten minutes between liquids and meds. And if you so much as try to get up alone, I will have to personally tie you to the couch.”

You snort, holding the warm tea between your hands as you bring it to your lips. “Kinky.”

He grins, but the look in his eyes is anything but playful.

“I mean it,” he says, more softly now. “You were really sick. You need rest. Let me take care of you, yeah?"

The gentle edge in his voice pulls the air from your lungs. You nod, pressing your lips together. Something about this feel so safe; it’s such a different situation than you’ve ever been in, and you feel so lucky that he has taken charge.

He gives you a quiet smile, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the quiet room. There’s no more sounds of the hospital, no more beeping or interruptions, or squeamish sounds and feelings. You, half-draped in blankets, are just recovering. Him, sitting on the edge of the sofa like he can’t afford to lean back until he’s sure you’re 100 percent out of the woods.

You glance at the notepad again. Temperature log. Pain rating. Medications. Everything lined up in neat rows with Harry’s sharp, slightly slanted handwriting like he did a million times in med school, you’re sure.

It’s the kind of personality that made you fall from him; it’s so different, but it’s so him.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?” you murmur, nodding a few times. You want to express your attention to his detail, and want him to know that he’s made it beyond all expectations.

He shrugs, eyes flicking down at his lap like he’s almost embarrassed. “I’m just… really relieved you’re okay.”

There’s something about the way he says it—quiet, tightly reined in—that makes your chest pull.

“You were scared.” Your words are barely a whisper.

He doesn’t deny it, shaking his head. “Terrified.”

You reach out, hand trembling a little, and rest your fingers lightly over his wrist. “I’m sorry I let it get that bad.”

His eyes lift to yours again, hidden behind the glasses. “Just promise me you’ll never do that again. I don’t care how stubborn you are or how much you hate hospitals—if something feels wrong, you tell me. No toughing it out, no hiding it. Not from me, at least.”

You nod, slowly, taking in every word. “I promise.”

“Good,” he says, but there’s something thick in his voice, like he doesn’t quite trust his emotions to behave if he says anything else.

You let the silence settle, because it feels natural. It never felt natural before; only replacing the feeling of awkwardness.

Eventually, when the mug of broth is nearly empty and your eyelids are getting heavy again, he sets the tray aside and helps you shift further into the cushions.

“You okay to sleep for a bit?” he asks, already reaching to smooth your hair away from your face.

You nod, throat tight with a kind of gratitude you don’t have words for, so you just nod.

“I’ll be right here,” he says, settling beside you, hand resting gently on your leg through the blanket. “Just rest. You’re safe.”

+++

Over the next few days, your body slows to the rhythm of recovery—and Harry is always two steps ahead of it.

He sets alarms for every pain med dose, checks your incision daily with the careful precision of someone who’s done this a hundred times but never with this much worry in his chest. He monitors for signs of infection like he’s preparing for rounds. But it’s the little things that get you that you can’t imagine without him there.

The way he practically carried you to the bathroom the first night because your legs were too shaky, so he stayed and was so patient. The way he set up a mirror in the living room so you can brush your hair from the couch, even taking the brush a few times himself to help you with the back. The way he sits beside you during every meal, making sure if you need help, he's right there.

At one point you say, “You know, I can do somethings myself.”

He lifts an eyebrow, almost like you had said something so absurd. “You want to re-open your incision over pride?”

You glare back him, biting the inside of your cheek. He kisses your forehead, and you feel the way that he wants to linger. "Thought so.”

That night, he sleeps in the recliner beside you, one hand always within reach almost like you would disappear if he didn’t reach out. The third evening, you wake from a nap to find him checking your temperature, thinking you’re asleep.

“You’re still running a little warm,” he murmurs in the darkness. “But you’re okay. You’re okay.”

You pretend to stay asleep, just so you can hear him say it again; just so you can hear him in your dreams.

+++

By the fourth day, you feel marginally more like a human being. So much so, that you actually convince Harry to let you walk to the kitchen – of course, with him hovering behind like a bodyguard, and you even manage to sit upright for breakfast.

“I will need a shower,” you announce at the table, “Desperately.”

He puts down his spoon from his yogurt bowl that he’s constructed. “You’re not cleared for that yet.”

“Harry—” you argue, glaring up at him with a huff.

“Nope. Not arguing. Sponge bath or nothing.”

You blink at him, taking a bite of apple slice that he’s cut – in extremely small pieces so you don’t choke. “Are you offering?”

He smirks, shrugging like he knew exactly what you were asking, but didn’t want to say. “Are you asking?”

You throw an apple slice at him. He catches it with a cackle, and you feel the blood in your veins starting to heat with anticipation for the way that he looks at you.

It had only been ten months together, but this past week had felt like a year alone.

He sets the apple slice on the table and leans forward just enough to narrow the distance between you, elbows braced on the wood. His grin is lazy, knowing, but there's a softness behind it—something warmer than teasing, something quieter than lust.

“You know,” he says, voice low and slow, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to forget you’ve got stitches and make a very poor medical decision.”

You lean your back on the chair, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not doing anything.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then slowly trace their way back up. “You don’t have to.”

Your pulse jumps at his words, soft and subtle and full of extraordinary remarks that blow you away each time. He sees it in the way your breath stutters, in the way your fingers curl a little tighter around your spoon.

He leans back a bit, giving you room to breathe but not taking his eyes off you. “You’re healing,” he says gently, knowing, “I know that. But don’t think for a second I haven’t been thinking about you every night I slept in that recliner next to you.”

You smile—soft, surprised at his statement. “Every night?”

He nods, acknowledging with certainty. “You’d shift in your sleep, make these little noises when your incision tugged. And I’d want nothing more than to crawl over with you and make it all better.”

Your throat goes dry, shaking your head with a serious flush on your cheeks that is definitely not a fever. “Harry…”

“But I couldn’t,” he continues. “Because the only thing I wanted more than to hold you was to make sure you didn’t break open again.”

That shuts you up. The moment hangs—sweet and aching. Then he clears his throat and smiles again, something lighter this time.

“So unless you’re asking for a very awkward sponge bath with medical-grade wipes and an extremely flustered nurse—”

You laugh a little at that, owning the surrender. “Okay, okay! Message received, thank you.”

“Good.” He pops the last apple slice in his mouth, smirking. “Because when you’re better, I won’t be this restrained.”

You swallow hard, thinking of the last time he spoke to you this way and knowing that it may have only been this one time. “And if I said I’m already feeling better?”

He grins, licking juice from his thumb, the flush now on his face. “Then I’d just tell you to prove it. But only after a full abdominal check, clear vitals, and a signed-off discharge from your primary care provider. Which is me, by the way.”

You groan, rolling your eyes as you take another bite of oatmeal. “You’re impossible.”

However, much to your dismay and utter begging, he doesn’t let you shower.

In fact, he actually pushes for the sponge bath more than you wanted, but in a clinical way that allows him to check on the incision and make sure that infection won’t happen. When he does help you clean up with warm cloths and gentle hands, it’s quieter. More tender than he originally stated, which makes your muscles loosen.

His fingers move carefully over your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll break again or make you think otherwise of him. You don’t speak much, just look at him while he works, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Stop huffing,” you murmur eventually.

“I’m not huffing,” he states defensively, shaking his head as he wipes away a bit of water on your skin, “I’m being thorough.”

You smile, biting on your lip. “You’re a good doctor.”

His hand stills on your arm. “I wasn’t scared like this with patients before,” he says. “Not like this.”

You look at him, heart thudding slow and deep. “Because it was me?”

He meets your gaze for a moment before pulling away. “Yes, because it was you.”

After your sponge bath, he dresses you back into another set of pajamas that aren’t tight and that feel comfortable. You feel clean and like you can breathe again, and it makes you feel better that he’s satisfied with how the recovery is going.

It was finally time that you were allowed to sleep in a bed rather than on a sofa with him next to you. He helps, but you finally make it back into your bed and under the covers, and for the first time in nearly a week, he lies beside you.

“You can sleep in your bed again,” you murmur as he slides under the covers. “I’m not a fragile porcelain doll anymore.”

“No, you’re always a fragile porcelain doll, but now I know how easy it is to break you,” he says, pulling you in close without jostling your sore side. “But I’ll keep you from breaking again, don’t worry.”

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It feels nice to be close to him again, knowing that the pain is getting further away and you’re feeling stronger each day.

“Still love me even though I’m gross and stitched together?”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through you as he held you close, not hard. “I loved you when you were hiding a fever and yelling at me for fluffing pillows wrong. I’ll love you until you’re ninety and yelling at me for taking your walker away.”

You grin, the smell of cologne lingering on the t-shirt he wore to bed so now it’s just a remedy of essential scents by him. “Sounds romantic.”

“It is,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your temple. “You just don’t see it yet.”

+++

You wake up without pain.

It’s the first time in over a week that your body doesn’t feel like it’s on fire or stitched together with barbed wire. You’re still tender, still moving carefully, but you can breathe without flinching, stretch your legs without feeling like you’ll crack open.

Harry’s already up; he’s not next to you anymore, which is shocking. The past few days, he hadn’t let you leave his sight. But now you lay there in the bed, alone, and let your mind wander for a moment – thinking about how he’s in the kitchen, just a few feet away.

You hear him puttering around with pots and pans—eggs, probably, or toast, and that god-awful green smoothie he insists is “medicinal.”

You find that you can finally get up from the bed on your own. So, you shuffle out, dressed in the sweatpants and a t-shirt that you realize is his. He’s standing at the stove in his joggers and a hoodie, hair damp from a shower that morning, flipping something in a pan, listening to it as it sizzles. The Eagles play softly next to him, he whistles along to the soothing sounds of Life in the Fast Lane play out of his Spotify.

He turns and sees you leaning on the counter; your breath halts when he looks at you because it’s almost atrocious how beautiful he is in the mornings. “Morning, love.”

“I think I’ve overcome – I’m alive again,” you cross your arms, “Though I do feel like a troll.”

The smile on his face is a big and proud one, and he crosses to you in three steps, his hand ghosting over your waist like he’s still afraid to touch too hard. Instead, he just kisses your forehead and lifts your jaw to look up at him.

“You do look good,” his voice is soft as he pushes some of your bedhead out of the way, “Color’s back in your face.”

You rest your forehead against his chest. “I feel less like a Victorian orphan.”

“You smell better, too.”

You slap his chest weakly. He kisses the top of your head as he walks back to the breakfast on the stove.

He feeds you eggs and toast and you sit at the table like a real human, even though he still insists on giving you your pills with a full glass of water and checking the incision before you’re allowed to stand back up. But you catch him watching you differently now—less like a patient, more like a person he wants to wrap in his arms and keep forever.

“You’re gonna go back to work soon,” you ask softly, “Aren’t you?”

He nods, reluctantly. “Tomorrow, supposedly. Just a night shift. But I’ll be close, if you need me.”

You try to act nonchalant, like you wouldn’t be calling him right if you admitted you were quite scared to be on your own for a moment. “I’m sure the hospital has struggled without your dramatic hand-flourishes and bossy clipboard routine.”

He smirks, laughing a bit at your joke. “I’m sure they have.”

The next day, Harry had his first shift back at the hospital – you had your first night at home without any issues. It felt like you were on top of the world when he got back in the morning; you felt like a human being.

So, you don’t want to say anything at first, at the onset of the symptoms.

You’ve come so far—out of the woods, out of the hospital, out of Harry’s eagle-eyed surveillance every time you so much as sigh too heavily. You’ve had three full days now of sitting on the balcony of his flat with tea, of laughing without wincing, of Harry letting you walk to the kitchen unsupervised.

Everything had started to go back to normal – you were preparing to go back to work.

But tonight, you’re cold. Freezing, even under two blankets.

And there’s a low throb in your belly again—familiar and nauseating, not painful like the incision but just a low roar that you wished would go away. You brush it off as too much movement, maybe something you ate. You don’t want to alarm him. But, of course, Harry notices.

You’re curled on the couch with your knees tucked up, a movie flickering on the screen in front of you that afternoon, when he turns from the kitchen mid-sentence and freezes. “Hey,” his voice is a bit low; his scrubs sat on his body as he prepared to get himself back to work that night, “You doing okay?”

You try to nod, watching the TV without another thought. “Just tired.”

He’s already moving toward you, crouching by your side, palm to your forehead before you can stop him from touching you altogether.

“You’re clammy,” he murmurs, his voice already tight as you watch the expression on his face start to get a bit frustrated. “You’re shaking. When did this start?”

“I don’t know,” you say quietly, almost ashamed of your quietness to the matter that obviously is important – your health is important, but you promised him you would speak up. “An hour ago? I thought it would pass.”

“God damnit,” He scoffs, breathing out with his hands on his hips. “You should’ve said something.”

You bite your lip and didn’t know what else to say, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

He’s already halfway across the room, grabbing the thermometer, checking your pulse. His fingers move fast, methodical—but there’s a tremble in his jaw that he can’t hide, and you aren’t sure if it’s anger or terror.

“Your temp’s up to 101.6,” he shakes his head, setting the thermometer down, almost like he can’t believe you would just let this go. And you can’t either, but you stay quiet. “How’s the pain? Tell me exactly.”

“It’s dull,” you tell him honestly, “Just kind of… tight? I don’t know – not as painful as before.”

“Any nausea?”

You nod, reluctantly this time.

That’s all it takes. Harry’s voice goes clipped, firm, the way he gets during trauma intake.

“Okay. No more moving until I know what we’re dealing with.”

He stands back up, and you watch him pace the room, phone in hand, dialing the on-call nurse he trusts most. He rattles off the symptoms you’ve given with a clear urgency, asks to schedule back-up labs, then glances back at you.

He disappears into the hallway with the phone pressed against his ear. You start to hear cabinets opening, something dropping onto the floor, a sharp curse under his breath.

When he returns, he’s already in motion—wrapping the blood pressure cuff around your arm with quick, practiced hands, stethoscope slung around his neck. His movements are efficient and quiet, and you don’t question him because you feel like you’ve disappointed him. But you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“Harry, I—” you state quietly, but are cut off firmly.

“Don’t,” he says, not harshly, but with finality. “Just let me check you.”

You do. Because even your stubbornness can’t compete with the shift in his voice. He listens to your heart. Counts your breaths. Watches the clock. Then checks your temperature again and exhales through his nose like it takes effort to stay composed.

“Blood pressure’s low,” he mutters. “Pulse is elevated, mostly due to the fever, but fever would indicate an infection or illness.”

You start to sit up, pushing yourself against the sides of the sofa. “Let me just—”

“No.” He looks at you then, level and serious, and you back down for a moment. “You’re not getting up. We’re not waiting this out. You need to be seen.”

You hesitate, chewing on your lip as you shake your head and start to feel like you made a huge mistake by just letting it go. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

He straightens up, hands on his hips, staring at a spot on the floor like he’s trying to keep his temper in check. “You passed out in my apartment less than a week ago. Do you really think I give a shit about you ‘making a big deal’? Your appendix almost ruptured on my kitchen floor, I sew people up for a living and you think you’re making a big deal?”

You flinch slightly, but not because he’s raised his voice—because he hasn’t. That flat tone is worse, you think.

“I’m sorry,” you say, quietly, the apology hanging in the air as you dare to look up at him.

He looks over at you, jaw tight. Then softer since he knows that you are just as scared and annoyed at the way that your body is reacting, “You promised you’d say something.”

“I know.” You nod, licking your lips.

“Then why didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, because there’s nothing good to say – you really don’t have a good answer to give him. He doesn’t push, either. Just crouches in front of you, pulling the blanket tighter around your legs as you start to shiver again.

The way that his voice sounds like velvet even when he’s angry is something that you can’t understand, but you appreciate. “I’ll grab your shoes. Don’t move. I’ll drive you in.”

You nod, finally.

He doesn’t say anything more. He just moves with purpose—grabs your bag, your coat, his keys. He helps you into your shoes, lifting your leg when you struggle to bend. He’s calm, efficient, but you see it now—he’s pissed. And maybe rightfully so.

When he comes back over, he places a hand at the back of your neck and steadies you, lowering you into the passenger seat before strapping you in himself. You don’t argue, because you just want to appease him, want to make him feel like he’s doing the right things.

The car ride to the hospital is quiet – no music plays, you don’t talk. Just the sound of the road, the heater blasting warm air against your cheeks, and his hand flexing once in a while on the gearshift like he’s holding something back.

He doesn’t say I told you so. He doesn’t ask why again. He just drives faster than usual, eyes flicking to you at every red light, jaw set the whole way. And somehow, that quiet says more than anything.

At the hospital, everything moves fast. You’re ushered into a room immediately, which you think is due to Harry’s reputation at the hospital. Harry hands off the chart after completing it to the best of his knowledge to a nurse but stays in the room with you. Always at your side.

Your fever’s climbing; 102.3 now. Your head starts to feel murky as you lay against the gurney and feel your eyes start to shut at just how bad you feel, emotionally and physically.

He sits at your bedside, holding your wrist in both hands, silently counting your pulse again like he doesn’t trust the monitor.

“You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

He looks up, eyes glassy but locked on yours. “I’m just being thorough.”

“Harry.”

You can see the look on his face shift from pissed to annoyed to an unrecognizable one; your tongue glides over your lips as you study him.

“You scared me the first time,” he tells you honestly, quiet murmurs from his accent. “But this? This is worse. I let myself breathe – I was going to go to work, I thought you were okay. And now –”

“I’ll be okay again.”

And you say that to yourself because it makes you feel better, but you can see that he’s just shaking his head. He can’t tell himself you’ll be okay, because if you’re not, then everything he’s ever known has fallen to pieces.

Harry’s stepped out to talk to one of the attending physicians; you don’t know if it’s about you, or just a friendly face to keep him occupied while you wait. You didn’t ask him to—you didn’t have to. He knows this routine better than you do. And while part of you is grateful, the other part is… embarrassed.

You told him you’d speak up next time. You meant it – you really did, at the time. And yet here you are, laying back in a gurney and listening to the sounds of the heart rate monitors.

You pick at a thread on the blanket and try to figure out what exactly is broken in you that makes it so hard to ask for help. It’s not pride, not really. It’s more like… you’ve spent so long pretending everything’s manageable that the idea of saying “I need you” still feels like a kind of failure. Like admitting weakness will confirm every fear you’ve worked so hard to outrun.

And in some ways, you feel guilty for needing Harry. He’s needed constantly – every move he makes at work is because he’s needed, and in some subconscious way, you feel like that makes you the burden. You’re the one that’s supposed to be his go-to when he gets home from work.

You don’t want to be the reason someone worries, you don’t want to be the weight someone else has to carry. Especially not him. But the truth is, Harry isn’t just carrying it. He’s choosing to. Over and over.

It’s Harry’s love language.

And maybe the real weakness is pretending you can do this alone when you don’t actually have to anymore.

The labs come back quickly, which is a relief to all of you. Dr. Carson informs you and Harry that it’s a post-op infection. Thankfully, it’s mild, but enough to flare your fever and irritate the healing site. Nothing that IV fluids, antibiotics, and a couple more days of close monitoring won’t fix, she tells you.

Still, Harry insists on doing every damn thing himself. He helps place the IV, reviews the bloodwork three times, checks in with the infectious disease team to confirm the antibiotic regimen for the next few days.

He never leaves the room, not even once.

+++

Three days later, your fever finally breaks without the need of medications. Of course, you’re still on antibiotics and will continue the dosages that Harry maintains for you.

You wake up bathed in sweat but feeling lighter, alive again. And Harry’s beaming so wide it’s like someone let the sun back into the room.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, kissing your forehead, your temple, your hair. “You’re really okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you say groggily.

“Yeah,” he says, voice breaking a little. “But it’s nice to know.”

+++

A few days later, back at home, he’s gentle in a different way. Less clinical, more personal. Less doctor, more man who is just caring for his sick girlfriend.

He still checks your chart, yes. Still times your pills to the second. But there are longer hugs now, more forehead kisses, more moments where he just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

You recover slower this time, but you never feel alone. You’re on the couch, you must’ve fallen asleep there in the middle of the night when Harry had made his way to work, when the door clicks open.

It’s early—barely past dawn—but you’ve been awake for a while. The house is still, quiet except for the soft hum of the kettle warming in the kitchen. The air smells like lemon balm tea and the faint remnants of lavender from your blanket.

You hear footsteps. Heavy. Slow.

Then, “Hey, sweetheart,” comes Harry’s voice, low and rough with exhaustion.

You turn—and your breath catches.

He’s still in his scrubs. The navy ones. A bit wrinkled from hours of wear. The top clings to his chest in the best way, the drawstring of his pants tied in a loose knot that dips low on his hips. His hair is mussed from the surgical cap, and his eyes—though heavy with fatigue—light up the second he sees you blinking at him with flushed cheeks and your own clear eyes.

“Well, don’t you look snug,” he murmurs, dropping his bag by the door, toeing his sneakers off.

“I made it to the couch on my own last night and stood up to make myself a can of soup for dinner,” you say proudly, stretching your arms above your head.

He grins and walks over to you then, “That deserves a medal.”

You open your arms, and he doesn’t hesitate. He sinks to the couch beside you and pulls you into him like gravity’s in charge, one arm curling protectively around your waist, the other smoothing over your thigh. His lips find yours instantly, letting himself fall into your touch almost like you’re there to revive him.

“You okay?” he murmurs into your hair once you pull apart. “No more fever?”

“Not since yesterday morning. And I kept my breakfast down.”

He pulls back just enough to press his palm to your forehead. Not because he doubts you—because he needs the confirmation on his own.

“Have I ever told you my thoughts of you in scrubs?” you say softly, looking at him to break him away from his fixation on your fever.

He raises a brow, quick-witted. “No, tell me again.”

“It’s an absolute fantasy,” you shake her head, “Truly an eight wonder.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “You saying I look good right now?”

You shrug—noncommittal, teasing. But your eyes drop again, flicking over his chest, down to where his sleeves stretch a little over his biceps, then back up to the cut of his jawline still dusted with stubble.

Harry notices. Of course he does – he never misses anything, the eyes of an eagle.

You shift slightly in his lap, just a little, just enough that his eyes darken.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still healing.”

“Are you going to medically restrain me to the couch?” You ask, nose nuzzling into his jaw before he lets his head lean back.

“Don’t tempt me,” he bites his lip as he lets you tease him, “I’m trained in medical sedation and restraint.”

Your fingers trail over the fabric at his collar, the small v-neck below your fingertips. You look up through your lashes, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I’m just saying. M.D. or not, you look really hot right now.”

He groans softly, tilts his head back before he looks at you again. “You’re killing me.”

You grin, feeling bold, feeling like yourself again. “You’ve seen me puking, unconscious, stitched up – you’ve literally seen my organs, and sweating through a fever, and now you’re the one blushing?”

Harry draws in a breath and lets his hand slide slowly around your waist—not pulling, not rushing, just grounding you there. It’s like he’s testing the waters, but he doesn’t test very well – not when he knows what’s on the line and how he can hurt you.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly, nose nuzzling into your temple as you kiss along his jaw. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not tonight.”

“I’m not trying to,” you tell him, biting the inside of your cheek. “I just… when I look at you now, I don’t see just my hot doctor boyfriend. I see the Harry who drove me to the ER, who didn’t sleep, who tracked my meds like he was prepping for boards.”

You pause, your voice going softer.

“The Harry who spoon-fed me broth, and held my hair when I was sick, and made sure my shows were queued up on Netflix so when I woke up, they’d already be there,” you smile at that small tidbit and brush some hair off of his forehead, “The Harry who still looked at me like I was whole when I didn’t feel like it.”

His eyes are glassy when they meet yours again. You rest your forehead against his, and his hands slide up your back, holding you close, steady.

“I’m in love with that Harry,” you whisper, letting your words dance across his skin like you only want him to hear it, not the whole universe. “All of him.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days, most likely because he has. “You always manage to say things when I’ve got no good response lined up, and my brain is complete mush from setting a kid’s broken collarbone from a ski accident.”

You smile, shaking your head with a laugh. “I know. It’s one of my more dangerous talents.”

“You’ve got terrible timing,” he mutters, brushing his nose against yours. “You know that?”

You smirk, letting your lips pucker to meet his in a quick peck. “You’re the one kissing your patient.”

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you anyway—slow, deliberate, and entirely unhurried because it makes more sense to let things sit in this world for a moment. It’s the kind of kiss that says finally, and carefully, and I meant it. You press your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck and lean into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is because you haven’t felt this good in a long time, it feels like.

When you break apart, his lips hover near yours.

“Let’s just stay like this a while,” he says. “Until you’re steady.”

You smile, tracing your finger along his jaw as you catch yourself staring at his lips. “And when I am?”

His grin curves against your cheek into one like the cheshire cat. “Then I’ll show you why surgeons are very, very good with their hands. Steady, some may say.”

Your laugh bubbles out of you before you can help it, and he just kisses your smile like he wants to memorize it – and good news for you, he’s got a photographic memory.

Somewhere, between the tea he puts in the kettle after you snuggle on your couch, and the medicine and the kiss and the way your heartbeat skips every time he walks into a room, you realize something: you almost broke trying to keep things to yourself.

But Harry? He put you back together—with feverish nights, sponge bathes, and stitches, sure. But also with care, presence, and love so patient it hurts.

And you think… you just might let him do it forever.

+++

The scar is barely visible now. It sits low, a thin pink line just above your hipbone—quiet proof of everything you’ve survived.

You’re standing at the bathroom mirror when you hear Harry call from the kitchen, “Do you want almond milk or oat milk in your coffee?”

You smile, pulling your oversized sweatshirt back down over your bare legs. Your body feels a sense of liberation from the morning that the two of you had. “Surprise me.”

He hums something tuneless from the other room, and you hear the soft clink of mugs and the whir of the coffee grinder. The scent drifts down the hallway like something holy.

When you pad into the kitchen, he’s already got everything waiting on the little breakfast table: coffee, toast, fruit. The sunlight catches the edge of his glasses—he’s been wearing them in the mornings now, before he has to squint at patient charts all day.

That smirk you know too well curls across his face. “Struggling to walk?”

You shrug, as you watch him start to watch as you make your way to the table, all faux-casual. “Someone decided this morning was the perfect time to test the limits of post-op clearance.”

He shuts the water off and turns toward you, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I was being gentle, was I not?”

“You said, and I quote, ‘You better hold on to the headboard.’”

He steps closer, standing just in front of you now. “Which you did,” he licks his lips, kissing your forehead, “You’re very good at following directions.”

“Barely,” you laugh, and he smiles, but there’s something else behind his gaze—something warm and proud and a little possessive.

“I wasn’t allowed to touch you for weeks,” he murmurs, biting on his lip as he shrugged, buttering some bread. “I was trying to make up for lost time.”

“You did,” you say, looping your arms loosely around his waist as he stood by the counter. “My thighs are still shaking.”

He groans under his breath, ducking his head. “You can’t say stuff like that and expect me not to lose my mind.”

“You said you’d be good.” He turns in your hug, facing you now as he leans against the countertops.

“I said I’d be careful,” he corrects, brushing his lips just beneath your jaw. “Never said anything about being good.”

You tilt your head back slightly, letting him graze his nose along the edge of your collarbone, your skin still carrying the faint scent of his body wash from earlier. It would be so easy to pull him closer again, to let it start all over, but the laundry buzzes, and a pot simmers on the stove, and somehow you both feel… full. Satisfied.

Still, the way his hands rest on your hips, thumbs moving in soft circles, tells you he hasn’t stopped thinking about it. Neither have you.

You press your mouth to his ear. “Tonight, if I can still move…”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own darker now as he likes where your promises are going. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I want you again. Slow this time. Less headboard, more…” You trail off, letting your smile finish the sentence.

His mouth curves with intent, and he leans in to kiss you, soft and slow. Just a taste. Just a promise.

“Done,” he whispers.

The memory from earlier is still humming low in your limbs—lazy and molten. His mouth trailing down your stomach just after sunrise, fingers splayed warm and reverent across your hips like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you again. There had been no rush, no teasing—just need. Messy, sleepy, real, and quite nasty if you weren’t kidding yourself. Your legs wrapped around his waist, laughter muffled into the curve of his neck when the bed creaked too loud and neither of you cared.

He’d kissed your shoulder as he moved, breath hot against your skin, mumbling something about how he’d waited weeks to make you feel good again. And God, he had. The ways that his hands moved were no joke, and you couldn’t believe the weight of them on your lower abdomen as he pushed himself into you.

You could feel every inch of him.

You’d gone boneless beneath him by the end; sweaty, grinning, and completely undone.

“You’re spoiling me, you know,” you say, sitting down.

Harry glances over, grinning. “You got your stitches out. I figured that deserves strawberries.”

You sip your coffee. He got it right: oat milk, two sugars, just how you like it.

“Thanks,” you say softly, your tongue too quick, “But it also deserved the absolute nasty morning bone session, so I appreciate both.”

He leans over and kisses your temple. “I’d do it every day for the rest of my life.”

You blink. He freezes a little, realizing what he said. Then you both smile, slow and certain.

A month ago, you couldn’t stand up without help.

Now, you’re dancing in the kitchen to a song from the radio while Harry flips pancakes and sings off-key beside you. You’re sleeping tangled together. You’re holding hands at the grocery store. He has a photo of you on his desk at work. You’re kissing in public sometimes just because you can, because you need to know that he’s there.

Later, after breakfast, you water the plants while Harry reads the paper with his glasses slipping down his nose. There’s a new ease between you—a comfort that didn’t exist before the chaos. You’ve been through something sharp and ugly together and come out on the other side softer for it.

The scar on your skin has faded. But the love you hold for him, and he holds for you? It sat in the room with you, like a third character, just the beginning of it’s wonderous story.

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woniwontons · 2 months ago

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dead end - CHAPTER TWO

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

summary: after being assigned to monitor bob reynolds’ recovery inside the new avengers tower, you try to keep your fears hidden. but between quiet training sessions and unsettling therapy logs, you start to realize he’s watching you more than he should—and that something inside him never stops whispering.

w.c: 2.1k

warnings: abuse by parent, psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, left some yearning crumbs for y'all in here since its shorter...

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°｡⋆

ANONYMOUS POV

Transcript Log | INTERNAL FILE [REDACTED] Access Level: TOP SECRET Date: [REDACTED] Location: Off-site - Audio Transcript Only

Scientist 1: “Vitals?”

Scientist 2: “Stable. No unexpected rejection so far. Slight fluctuations during REM, but within limits.”

Scientist 1: “Neurological?”

Scientist 2: “That’s where it gets interesting. Her activity spikes in proximity to ▇▇▇▇▇.”

Scientist 1: “And the Void?”

Scientist 2: “We can’t detect it directly. But ▇▇▇▇'s energy readings dropped 17% during yesterday’s session. That’s the first time we’ve seen a suppression event without sedation or one of the New Avengers present.”

Scientist 1: “▇▇▇▇ doesn’t know?”

Scientist 2: “No. She thinks she’s been ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. She was flagged in her old unit. High trauma index, low emotional volatility, adaptable but guarded.”

Scientist 1: “Are you saying ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇ is working?"

Scientist 2: “There's too many variables here to know for sure, but I would say we're working towards a successful run.”

Scientist 1: “Continue observation. Let's try to introduce physical contact. If ▇▇▇▇▇ starts to escalate, we’ll pull her.”

Scientist 2: “And if he doesn’t?”

Scientist 1: “Then we’ve found the answer to our biggest problem.”

End of File

READER POV

You were barefoot.

The floor beneath your feet was sticky with something—beer, grease, maybe both—and the carpeted hallway stunk of cigarette smoke that had long since stained the drywall yellow. You knew, instantly, this wasn’t your memory, or at least nowhere you had ever been before.

You turned your head slowly.

A battered recliner sat in the living room, worn through at the armrests, facing a television that loudly blasted a wrestling match. The broken blinds cast sunlight across the floor. Outside, you could just barely make out a patch of dying grass.

"Where am I?" you asked yourself, feeling so lucid in this dream.

Down the hall, a door slammed.

"Useless piece of shit!" a man's voice roared from the other side of the house. You froze.

A crash. Glass shattering against the floor.

"You thought I wouldn't find out what you said to your uncle about me? Fucking liar, can't even man up and say it to my face."

Heavy footsteps approached the room you were in. Fear shot up your chest as you held your breath, slowly backing away from the hall before running to the nearest door. A set of steps appeared before you as you yanked the door open, and you ran upstairs to escape whatever was coming in your direction.

An attic.

You creeped quietly inside, looking for somewhere to hide if the footsteps continued to follow. It was a mess up there, filled with boxes and old furniture.

A broken patch in the floorboards appeared itself to you, drawing you to it. You crouched onto the floor and took in the scene underneath.

It was a small bedroom. On the floor, hunched near the edge of a mattress stripped bare, sat a boy. Knees to chest. Head down. Breathing shallow.

You recognized him.

Even this young, even under a mop of sweat-drenched brunette hair, you knew it was Bob. Thin. Shoulders curled inward, ready to disappear.

And across from him, towering in the doorframe, was his father.

Drunk. Flushed red. Breathing hard as he held a folded belt in his grasp.

His hand balled into a fist and slammed the doorframe hard enough to splinter it.

"Look at me, boy! Have you got something wrong with you in the head now?"

Bob didn't move. He didn't even cry, and you felt your heart throbbing in pain at the sight.

You leaned back from the floor as you felt a change in the energy of the attic, your senses screaming in paranoia.

A presence.

Your body swung around and your eyes met with your reflection in a mirror propped up in the corner of the attic. The air around you dropped in temperature, and behind you, stood a proper reason to shudder.

The Void.

He didn’t speak immediately, only stood at your back—close enough that you could feel the shape of him. His voice came low and deep, curling beneath your skin.

"No one came for me then."

You made in a sharp intake breath, unsure of what to do about such a powerful being standing right behind you. The crack of a whipped belt stung your ear from the room below you, causing you to wince at the following sound of younger Bob's cries.

"Why... why am I here?" you whispered, your voice cracking.

"I remember every time I wished I could simply burn this house down to get the peace I wanted. Every moment in this house turned me further into this."

You watch him reach toward you in the mirror, and you shut your eyes in horror, squeezing them in a grimace. But the touch that came was not in aggression, but a gentle grace of your forearm that made the hair stand up in goosebumps. You felt the tingle of his exhale meeting the back of your ear as he bent down to whisper.

"Is it wrong to want you to see it all?"

Your voice trembled. “This isn’t my memory to have, I shouldn't be here.”

"Well you've already seen it now, haven't you?"

You opened your eyes again to watch him. He tilted his head further forward, his gaze sweeping over the outline of your side profile. Refusing to look over, you held your gaze to the mirror, ignoring the sight of his blurred face in your peripheral. Examining you.

"You make it so quiet, I ought to consider you a threat." His hand on your forearm creeped downwards, his finger tips sliding down to the back of your palm. "But I can't help but to feel so intrigued."

You couldn’t breathe now. Your heart beat so loudly, you swore he could hear it hitting the inside of your chest.

"Let me keep you, y/n."

The training room on Sublevel 3 was colder than you remembered.

Bright, clinical lights shone down from above, reflecting off the polished floors. In the center of the mat, Bucky stood with his fists raised, sweat darkening the fabric of his T-shirt. Across from him, chest heaving but posture composed, was Bob.

He hadn’t seen you enter.

Neither had Bucky. But Yelena had.

She sat on the edge of a supply crate, legs crossed, examining the scene in front of her with careful precision. Her eyes flicked to you the moment you stepped inside and she swung her legs over the wooden crate to talk.

"You weren't on the schedule for today," she said, voice low.

“I’m not here officially,” you replied, watching as Bob ducked a punch and countered with a clean elbow to Bucky’s side. “Harding asked me to monitor some responses.”

That was a lie, but you needed to see Bob again. Or rather, you felt a strong, impulsive urge to do so. Especially after the dream.

“Again,” Bucky barked.

Bob nodded once. Then lunged.

The fight seemed brutal to you, all just weight and momentum. Bucky dodged the first blow and swept Bob’s leg, but Bob twisted midair, landing hard and kicking upward in the same motion.

You stepped closer to Yelena, clipboard clutched to your chest more out of reflex than necessity.

"Always with the clipboard, do you carry that around with you 24/7?" Yelena asked sarcastically. You scoffed back a laugh, realizing how nerdy you likely looked at all times. She eased your nerves a bit and you relaxed, letting your shoulders down as you watched the show.

Except, you couldn't help but notice that Bob was holding back. You could feel it.

Each punch he threw stopped just short of full force, like he was afraid of what would happen if he let go. But every time Bucky hit him, especially when it was hard, sharp, or unexpected, you saw it.

His eyes.

Brown. Then gold. Then back again.

A flash. So quick, you might’ve thought you imagined it. But the next time it happened, his hands changed too.

From flesh to something blacker than shadows, a smoke crawled up his wrists. Then, flickering back to normal as if nothing had happened.

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just kept pushing him.

"Does that always happen? It's in the notes, but I've never seen it with my eyes before," you question Yelena.

She shrugs, looking at you curiously. "Usually it's a little crazier than this. I'm getting a bit bored if I'm being honest."

Your reply is interrupted by Bucky's shout, “Focus, Bob. Control it.”

Bob gritted his teeth, catching Bucky’s next blow with a forearm. “I am.”

The room felt like it was vibrating slightly. Just under the surface.

You took another step forward.

"Let m̷̻̑e̸͔̍ ̵̙͋o̸͖̕u̵̡̓t̸̫͛."

The hairs on your arm sparked up again in shock. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but you felt it. Like pressure against your ribs. A whisper from inside someone else’s lungs. Something that had never occurred to you before. You looked to your side, but Yelena didn't seem to have heard the demonic voice that you had.

Bob swung wide and missed.

Bucky came in low and landed a blow to his ribs.

Bob staggered—and his eyes flared gold for just a second too long.

CRACK.

The floor beneath his foot cracked outward like broken glass.

Bucky immediately backed off, hands raised. “Bob—”

Bob doubled over, clutching his head.

“I’m fine,” he growled through his teeth, though his fingers had turned black again, wrists trembling. And simultaneously, a pressure grew in your own chest as he slowly lost control.

Bucky didn’t move.

Yelena stood, walking closer to the center of the room where the boys stood still. You followed closely behind her, ready to assist in any way you could.

"Bob?" Yelena spoke as she stopped in front of his crouched form.

And that was when Bob’s head snapped up, golden eyes searching the room like an animal sensing something off.

Then he saw you.

His posture stilled. His chest heaved once.

All of the blackness in his hands retreated at once.

“Did I lose control again?” he said softly, voice raw. It seemed like a question for the room, but he was staring directly at you. "Why do you make it so... quiet?"

You felt pathetic as your heart dropped as the memory of what the void said to you in the dream. "What?"

Bob straightened up quickly, smoothing the bottom of his shirt.

"Nothing," he exclaimed quickly, walking off to retrieve his water bottle at the corner of their training room.

Yelena looked between the two of you, confusion knitting her brows together. "What the hell was that?"

"Also nothing," you say curtly before spinning on your heel and walking away, noting the event on your clipboard.

The walls of Dr. Harding’s office were too white. The kind of professional warmth that pretended it wasn’t designed to contain people.

The artificial daylight panels made you squint as you sat in the stiff-backed chair across from her desk, hands folded politely in your lap. Your ridiculous clipboard rested beside you, useless for once.

Harding looked up from her tablet, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. “Thank you for coming by on short notice.”

You gave a small nod. “Of course. Is this about yesterday’s training observation?”

“Partly.” She adjusted something on her screen. “I just wanted to check in personally. After all, this assignment came with… heightened expectations.”

That was her way of saying: You aren't meeting them.

“I’ve been logging everything daily,” you said quickly. “Vitals. Verbal behavior. Motor regulation. There’s nothing I haven’t reported.”

Harding smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I know. Your notes have been thorough.” She paused, then added, “Surprisingly intuitive, actually.”

You sat up a little straighter.

She tapped her stylus once, then looked at you again. “How have you been sleeping?”

You blinked. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she repeated. “Any dreams? Emotional disturbances?”

You hesitated, just a second too long.

Harding noticed.

You cleared your throat. “I really don’t remember most of them.”

She smiled again. “That’s normal, especially under cognitive strain. The stress of being near dangerous people can elevate cortisol, even unconsciously.”

You gave a tight nod. “I’ve managed worse.”

“I’m sure you have.” She leaned forward slightly. “Still, Reynolds is… uniquely sensitive with his emotions. His feelings vary amongst the different staff members. But with you,” She gestured idly. “he seems to have a preference for.”

You looked at her. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Harding hummed. “Mm. That’s what makes it so effective.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Your hands folded tighter in confusion.

“Have you noticed any… changes in your own behavior since starting the assignment?”

The question was clinical. Neutral. Like she was measuring you against a standard you weren’t aware of.

“No,” you said, but your voice came out flatter than intended.

Dr. Harding didn’t argue though. Just tapped her stylus again.

The silence dragged.

You stood a little too quickly. “If that’s all, I have reports to finish.”

She nodded, but you could feel her eyes following you even as you turned.

“Thank you,” she said politely. “And y/n? Please let me know if your dreams become more memorable to you.”

You sincerely hoped they did not become more memorable than they already were.

link to chapter three

hi everyone! a bit of a shorter update that i think is a good segue into the events of chapter three. i wanted to get this one out quickly since i know we're all starving for more bob content... or at least i am.

if you have any requests for bob one-shots, please feel free to let me know! link to my requests is in my pinned post <3

ALSO: if you are not currently on the taglist, please comment down below if you want to be! if you already commented on chapter one, don't worry because i've already added you :)

#marvel fic #lewis pullman #sentry x reader #sentry #the void x reader #the void #bob thunderbolts #bob x reader #marvel x reader #marvel #fanfiction #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader

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justinspoliticalcorner · 3 months ago

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Oliver Willis at Daily Kos:

Elon Musk traveled to Green Bay, Wisconsin, on Sunday and handed out checks to Wisconsin voters in an attempt to sway the upcoming election in favor of conservative state Supreme Court candidate Brad Schimel. Musk gave out two $1 million checks to voters during a town hall and said the outcome of the upcoming race would be “important for the future of civilization.” Musk claimed the voters were spokespeople for his political group, an attempt to work around Wisconsin laws against vote-buying. Referencing a possible case before the court that could lead to redistricting of congressional seats, Musk openly worried that a liberal majority on the court could lead to Democrats being elected who oppose his ongoing efforts to attack the federal government through his so-called Department of Government Efficiency. That’s because the state is still recovering from a vicious Republican gerrymander, and electing Schimel could jeopardize that recovery. Susan Crawford, the liberal candidate in the race, has called Musk’s efforts to buy the result of the race “immoral.” Wisconsin Attorney General Josh Kaul, a Democrat, accused Musk of breaking anti-bribery state law and filed suit against Musk’s America PAC. The state Supreme Court declined to hear the case after it was also rejected by a county judge and the state appeals court.

[...] Musk’s brazen attempts to use his enormous fortune—he is the wealthiest person on the planet—to pervert the American electoral system has come under intense criticism. Writing about the Musk gambit in a guest column for Daily Kos, Wisconsin Democratic Party Chair Ben Wikler asked, “Are we feudal serfs of the richest man in the world, Elon Musk? Or are we free?” At the presidential level, Musk’s payoffs in service of Trump have led to the billionaire wielding enormous influence on American life, even though nobody voted him into office. DOGE has infiltrated multiple government agencies, purged thousands of employees, and has been repeatedly ruled against in court for violating laws. Despite his actions, Musk bristled at criticism, showcasing once again that the billionaire has extremely thin skin.

Elon Musk’s attempts to bribe voters ought to backfire at the polls in Wisconsin.

See Also:

AP, via HuffPost: Elon Musk Hands Out $1 Million Payments After Wisconsin Supreme Court Declines Request To Stop Him

#2025 Elections #2025 Judicial Elections #Wisconsin #Elon Musk #Bribes #Susan Crawford #Brad Schimel #Josh Kaul #America PAC #Wisconsin Supreme Court

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danieyells · 2 months ago

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UPCOMING CARDS!!!

HAPPY SINOSTRA 3 RELEASE DAY ARE YOU READY FOR SINOSTRA CARDS BECAUSE I'M SO EXCITED IT'S RUINING MY ENTIRE ATTENTION SPAN. SORRY I YAPPED A LITTLE THIS TIME LOL

I don't know what order these are coming out in but I think it's Taiga-Ritsu-Romeo based on the placements in the encyclopedia!

I'm including the in-game screenshots of the stats along with the file ones because that seems to be more helpful for some! Also I'm doing this from my laptop this time so if it looks weird or something. . .i usually do this from my phone lol. were my laptop key lights always so bright. . .they're blinding me here.

big kitty. . .so calm what a good pet. . .also he's got lunch right there. . .those are some fresh buns they're still steaming. . .also HIS TUMMY HIS ABS AND HE'S SMOKING listen i hate smoking but it's great when fictional characters do it and THE KISERU. . .AND HE'S BEING KINDA TENDER WITH THE BAG AND HIS NAILS LOOK NICE. . . .

Character Card: (「暴虎大我の勇」 "The Heroism Of The Violent Tiger Taiga" If it turns out that 暴虎 is Taiga's actual surname it would be something like "The Heroism of Taiga Boutora" but it may also be read differently? It's hard to tell) Skill: (「無法者」 "Lawless Person" or "Outlaw" but somehow that felt different) Fully Awakened Skill: (「その行動の意味」 "The Meaning Of That Behavior") Warding Card: Personal Packer(「荷造りにご指名」 "Request For Packing")

RITSU IS SMOKING TOO??? THE PIERCED EARS THE EXPOSED ANKLES THE COLLARBONE CLEAVAGE AND HE'S SMOKING??? AND HE'S L A T E????? SOMEONE TELL HIS MOTHER????? christ alive he is so insanely pretty here what a beautiful little man--

Character Card: Shadowed Glass(「明鏡止水に落ちる影」 "A Shadow Falling On The Clear And Serene") Skill: Intelligence Gathering(「情報収集」 "Intelligence Gathering") Fully Awakened Skill: Brains Of The Operation(「シノストラの参謀」 "Sinostra's Adviser") Warding Card: Second For A Change (「珍しく２番乗り」 "Unusually Second To Board")

And of course Romeo is beautiful as ever. . .no smoking for him he is very concerned about his health do you know what that stuff does to your lungs? god seeing how SEETHROUGH his coat thing is is so???? AND THE LITTLE CHEST WINDOWS. . . . And oh no he's been left on read. . .I assume he's trying to make things work for Sinostra as always but it's just. . .not easy all by himself is it. . . .

Character Card: Jade Pavilion (「翡翠の間にて玉衣靡かせ」 "Jade Clothes Win Them Over In The Jade Pavillion") Skill: Under-The-Table Deal (「裏取引」 "Backroom Deal") Fully Awakened Skill: Refusal To Be Manipulated (「使役者への叛逆」 "Rebellion Against The One Using Him") Warding Card: No Messages (「空白の通知」 "No Notifications")

whew doing this on desktop is way more work than on mobile lmao

Cosmic Bond for the episode! Aside from obviously being the episode cards I have no idea what other units are in this.

The Otherworldly Outing Of Sinostra (「シノストラの異世界探訪」 "Sinostra's Search In The Otherworld" or "Sinostra's Isekai Hunt" which is much funnier)

i'm losing my shit a bit reading the episode titles 👀 BUT YOU'LL SEE SOON.

ANYWAY. STATS AND UH I HAVE TO REMIND YOU NOT TO GAMBLE AND STUFF it's almost 3am and the adhd is kicking my ass in sorry

So like I'm always saying!

Gacha is gambling and gambling is a serious and legitimate addiction. Gacha games are designed to prey on that addiction and the ease of spending money in this format and FOMO. Set limits! Keep an eye on your spending! Stick to your limits! Remember that every unit so far has rerun eventually and these will be the same! If you find yourself struggling with gacha addiction, seek gambling addiction recovery! (Also, same with smoking, since we've got that imagery going. I know it's hard out there but you'll thank yourself for it the sooner you can find something else to soothe you.)

My Japanese is like kindergarten level on a good day, take my translations with a grain of salt. The localization team are paid to do their jobs, they know what they're doing most of the time.

If you're considering pushing back against the people who're using you, this is your sign to do it. Get out of that bad situation. The time is now.

Oh and here are the stats!

#danie yells at tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker spoilers #tokyo debunker #datamining cw #taiga hoshibami #romeo lucci #romeo scorpius lucci #ritsu shinjo #SINOSTRA 3!!!!! IN LESS THAN 24 HOURS!!!!#god i hope this formats correctly and nothing gets messed up

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persephonemorningstar · 5 months ago

Text

Crimson & Clover

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Additional Tags: Secret Marriage, Probably incorrect military lingo/information (don't come for me)

Crimson and Clover

You hated sitting in these exam rooms. They were cold and bland, always smelling strongly of cleaning products. Four more months of these monthly check ins and you could go back to your once a year physicals and medical exams after assignment completions. The base doc had just stepped out to check on your blood test results and you were eager for his return so you could one stop staring at the boring painting of sailboat across from you and also so you could go grab lunch at the mess hall with the team. At this rate the guys would be done eating by the time you made it though.

Just as you were giving up hope that the doc was ever coming back for you and accepting your fate of being destined to be stuck in this dingy, boring exam room until the end of time the doc comes back into the room holding your file and looking through the papers in it.You sit up a bit straighter as he starts to speak. “Well everything looks good here. Cell count is where it should be and levels all look good. I’d say your recovery since the incident six months ago is coming along nicely. You’ve resumed all regular activities now, correct?”

You nod your head, “being smart about it and not taking on too much at once, always make sure to workout with a partner as well but back to my regular schedule and routine”

He nods, “that’s good, sounds like we are right on track and following instruction. Well I think we’ve covered everything we need to for this visit you are free to go, see you same time next month”

You cheer a silent victory in your head.Finally you can get a bite to eat. As you’re hopping off the exam table the doctor is still looking at your blood test results, “one more thing Sergeant L/N, almost forgot to mention this but just need to do so for the notes, your pregnancy test came back negative as well”

You roll your eyes because of course it did, you could of told them that, the doctor just chuckles at your obvious dismay “I know but you know the rules”

You nod your head “yeah all females on base must get a pregnancy test at every medical appointment for precautions” you say as you reach for the door knob to finally make your escape.

The doc hums behind you “especially newlyweds like yourself”

You stumble into the door spinning back around to look at the doc, who looks startled by your reaction. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?!”

“Newlyweds tend to get a little overzealous, you’d be amazed by the number of pregnancies we actually deal with around here sometimes”. You shake your head and wave your hand at him “no the part about me being a newlywed”you demand.

He looks at you confused and then rifles through your file, looking over something before speaking again “well your file got updated about five and a half months ago with a wedding certificate and a new primary emergency contact”

What the actual fuck?! You’re screaming internally because what the actual fuck. It has to be a mistake! Five and a half months ago you were just finally being let out of the hospital wing here on base and moved into the barracks with the 141 team. People don’t just get married without knowing it and you certainly don’t. Bewildered, you look at the doc and say “Doc I think you have the wrong file or something. I didn’t get hitched, I’m not even seeing anyone right now. I don’t even have a next of kin on my file let alone a primary emergency contact”

His brow furrows and he looks down again but shakes his head, “no, it says right here Sergeant Y/N L/N and Lieutenant Simon Riley”

He holds up the paper he is reading from which you can see is a copy of a marriage certificate and sure enough you see your name and Ghost’s name on it as well. “It looks like when this got filed your husband Lieutenant Riley got updated as your new primary emergency contact”

Son of a bitch! You don’t even speak, there are no words at least none for the doc to hear. Without a second though you snatch the paper from his hand and you can hear him protesting as you storm out of the room, down the hall and right out of the med clinic with the piece of paper in hand; heading straight in the direction of the mess hall.

The 141 isn’t hard to miss. Sitting at the same table as usual, one that faces all doors and windows with their backs to the wall, not to mention an over six feet beast of a man with a balaclava isn’t exactly common. Price clocks you first as you storm in and approach the table. He lifts a hand in greeting that you ignore to busy glaring at Ghost who’s listening to something Soap is saying to him but you can see his eyes following you as you walk over.

Getting to the table you harshly pull out a chair, the legs squeaking loudly on the ground and sit down making sure to hold Ghost’s eye contact the entire time. All their eyes are on you now but your glare is being directed solely at Ghost while you look for any indication in his eyes that he knows what you’ve just discovered. An awkward silence falls around the table as you just sit there burning your eyes into Ghost without saying anything, letting the tension build.

Price breaks the silence first “everything go alright at the med check, Seph?”

Not taking your eyes off of Ghost you give Price a nod “yeah still all clear for full activity, doc will send you over the med report later”

“That’s great to hea-”

You cut him off “you know they do extensive blood work at all of these appointments to check my cell count and levels, really fucking annoying but do you know what else they check for?”

You address it to the group but your eyes never leave Ghost’s. The both of you are locked in on each other, neither willing to be the first to look away. No one is answering so you off a clue “I’ll give you hint, only the females on base get checked for it”

After a moment you hear Soap say “pregnancy?”

The chuckle that leaves your mouth has no humor behind it and Ghost’s eyes narrow at you a little bit, probably concerned you are having a breakdown of some sort.

“Correct, Johnny!” you exclaim

“There I was rolling my eyes at the doctor when he told me it came back negative because yeah no shit I could have told him that, and do you know what he says to me? Do you?!”

Your voice getting a little louder, drawing the attention of the table next to you and out of your peripheral you see the other shake their head. Ghost however doesn’t move, just continues to stare at you and if you didn’t know better you would say he wasn’t even breathing.

“He says he knows it’s annoying but that it’s especially important to make sure they are testing newlyweds. NEWLYWEDS!”

There it is a slight change in Ghost’s eyes, if you had blinked you would have missed it. Johnny starts to say something “Lass I think yo-”. Johnny is cut off by you swiping your arm across the table and flinging Ghost’s tray into the table next to you. Standing quickly you slap the marriage certificate down in front of him right where the tray had been.

He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t move and his eyes never leave yours as you growl out “explain yourself!”

He just continues staring at you, neither of you blinking. You’re breathing heavily, adrenaline and rage racing through your veins. It’s clear you’re ready for a fight.

“Is that a marriage certificate?” you hear Soap ask and you can feel the piece of paper being slipped from under your fingers.

“Holy shit” you hear Gaz say, you can feel his weight as he leans against the table to look at the certificate with Price and Soap.

“You can’t marry people without their knowledge” you seethe at Ghost. Ghost still says nothing but you can see the twinkle in his eye as if he is saying “oh but I can” and it infuriates you more. You hear a snicker from your right and you snap your head in Soap’s direction, slamming your hand down in front of him.

Leaning forward you get right in his face you can see Price has placed his hand on Johnny’s shoulder ready to snatch him back if you lunge. “You think this is funny? If I find out you or anyone of you had anything to do with this I will burn the barracks to the ground while you sleep”

You see Soap gulp, he knows just what level of crazy you are on and that it’s not an empty threat.Turning back to Ghost who has crossed his arms now while he watches you dish out your threat. He looks smug almost, even without you being able to see his face, you can just tell.

You let out a screech and turn kicking the chair you were sitting in before storming out of the mess hall knocking the tray of a corporal out his hands as he gawks at your display.

Once you’ve left all eyes turn to Ghost “I think she may actually kill you Lt” Soap says staring at the door you just left through.

Ghost doesn’t respond but Soap swears he can hear a low chuckle sound come from him before he gets up and heads back through the chow line.

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #ghost cod #cod #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick

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heaven-s-black-box · 2 months ago

Text

You Could've Asked- Gepard & more x fem!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: April 17th, 2025

Description: Okay I just had the funniest idea for some dialogue heavy scenarios, what if the HSR men, you can choose, accidentally grab the reader's chest when trying to stop her from moving, I guess you can say it's suggestive but I just thought it'd be funny

Notes: This work was recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contributions. Basically exclusively dialogue so they're kind of short.

Word count: Gepard- 138, Dan Heng- 145, Blade- 167, Aventurine- 172

Back to directory

Gepard

“Wait,” Gepard threw his hand out to the side, stopping Y/n, “I think I hear something.”

“Geppy, you don’t need to hold on to me,” Y/n whispered, trying not to interrupt his analysis of the area.

“Sorry.” His eyes flickered around the frozen tundra before he turned around to Y/n… “Oh my Aeons,” he pulled his hand away from her chest like she’d burned him, “I’m-”

“Geppy, it’s fine,” she laughed, waving her hands dismissively and trying to diffuse the situation. “But if you wanted to cop a feel-”

“Please, never mention this again.” He buried his face in his free hand, gripping his shield tight in the other.

“I really don’t mind. Not if it’s you.”

“Can we at least talk about this outside of work?”

“Alright… but did you like it-”

“Y/n!”

Dan Heng

“Careful,” Dan Heng wrapped an arm around Y/n, catching her as she stumbled, “the ground here doesn’t seem to be very stable.”

“Whoops, thanks.” She looked back over her shoulder at him and smiled, and that was when he noticed…

He cleared his throat. “It’s not a problem,” he mumbled, removing his hand from her chest and stepping back to a more respectable distance.

“Hm, are you alright? Your ears look kind of red.”

“It must be the light.”

“Is it cause you touched my boob?” Dan Heng choked on his spit, making Y/n giggle. “Don’t worry, I know it was an accident.”

“Th-thank you.”

“But if you’d like to touch it again…”

The red from his ears spread to his cheeks and he looked away.

“I may take you up on that later, but for now we really should find the others.”

Blade

“Do you ever listen?” Blade huffed, pulling Y/n back by the collar into his hold against his chest.

“Why would I listen when this is so much more fun? And Blade?”

“What?”

“That’s my boob you’re squeezing,” Y/n hummed, flashing him a toothy grin as she looked up.

He didn’t let go as quickly as she expected. She expected him to push her away and keep moving, but instead he just met her mischievous gaze.

“What of it?” He did move his hand to hold onto her ribs while still keeping her in a secure hold. “Clearly I can’t let you go.”

“Aw, you’re worried about me.”

“I just don’t want to deal with the complaints from the others if you get hurt.”

“Hey Bladie-”

“If you tell Kafka about what just happened I will kill you.”

“Only if you admit that it totally wasn’t an accident.” Blade spun on his heels to level the tip of his sword with Y/n’s throat. “Backing off.”

Aventurine

“Hey, what do you think of this hand?” Aventurine reaches blindly behind him to grab Y/n as she walks by. He knows he’s missed her arm when his gloves slid easily against fabric.

“The one I’m about to cut off or the one on the table?”

He turned around to find Y/n staring at him with a raised brow, and his hand clutching the bust of her outfit.

“Oops. The one on the table please, I already know what you think about the other one.”

“Are you sure?” Y/n leaned against the table, looking down at the stoneheart. “The hand’s fine.”

Aventurine looked at his cards and his brows pinched together in confusion. “We are talking about the same hand, right?”

“I thought you knew what I thought about your hand?”

“Tell me what you think about my hand and I’ll tell you what I think about your boobs,” he said, resting his chin in his palm.

“I don’t care what you think, and I told you it’s. fine.”

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that-hazbin · 4 months ago

Note

Media Demon AU

Imagine Charlie gets that tour in heaven and.. Isn't really all that impressed.

Somehow she convinces Emily to take a tour of hell, Sera and Adam agree because they want to see/spy on why their exterminations aren't as effective as before. So as Charlie and Emily have a week of exploring and partying in hell, the Heavenly Council is scrying their activities the whole time.

It isn't what they expected, between Angel Dust explaining the Safety & Consent Contracts, Alastor dragging the duo out on a multicultural day of musical hyperfixation, Vox explaining his failed attempts to make it big in entertainment, Velvette animatedly talking up the individual sectors separate cultural fashions and foods. Alastor definitely heard about Charlie's first adventure in heaven in the previous timeline and he can't resist a little oneupsmanship so Hell definitely has a petting zoo dedicated to tamed Hellscape animals. They meet Sir Pentious The Architect overseeing the reconstruction of a few devastated areas that 'that one uncouth uncultured golden pigeon Exorcist who wouldn't know good architecture from a mud hut keeps levelling' and who is undecided between rebuilding using a Russian Theme or South African theme because he's done too much Roman architecture lately and if he has to carve one more marble pillar he is going to cry.

Maybe they run into one of the other Overlord's like Camilla who offers a tour to the visiting ambassador of her own district's musical instrument repair and medical facilities dedicated to removing angelic steel contamination from demons, amongst them, child sinners still in recovery from angelic steel wounds caused on extermination day.

There is uproar in Heaven upon seeing actual children in Hell, even more so when they look up their files and learn they're in hell on a technicality.

And then they learn that Charlie Morningstar's redemption project isn't facing problems about recruiting sinners because they don't believe redemption is possible, but because the Exorcists actions have soured any belief that Heaven is any better than Hell.

Really, if the Exorcists stayed out of Hell and never returned, Hell would happily just go about it's business as if Heaven didn't exist at all.

Alastor probably isn't the only demon with Pocket Dimensions like his Bayou in terms of providing space for overpopulation issues.

While I don't think Heaven would do a tour of Hell specifically because they can just spy on them whenever they want without having to go in person, I absolutely LOVE the idea of Alastor purposely showing off how great Hell is. Alastor worked so damn hard to make Hell beautiful and worth loving, that Charlie probably WOULDN'T be as impressed with Heaven as she was in the previous timeline.

In fact, she might find Heaven a bit... ugly, actually. Heaven's all whites and pastels, everything looking entirely modern, clean to a clinical degree, kind of quiet, and it's just not very appealing to her. In fact, it's both blinding and sort of boring. Meanwhile, Charlie's used to a Hell full of jewel colors, fairy lights, street performers, murals on the side of buildings, and a whole TON of cultural diversity at every corner. Sure, Heaven has petting zoos and rainbow sprinkles, but uh... So does Hell. Does Heaven have paintball parks? Escape rooms? Laser tag? What about rage rooms, those are super popular in Hell, and they're pretty fun! Sometimes you just gotta break things to let off stress. How do people burn stress up here?

Heaven kind of leans towards anti-chaos, while the Hell that Alastor built embraces the chaos. I imagine the Heavenly Counsel or whatever they're called would be taken aback by this new version of Hell, as well as the sinner behind the change. Sinners are not just modeling the same behavior most have on Earth, they're living exponentially better lives than before.

Hell is meant to be a place of suffering, and yet it's basically become a place of rehabilitation itself, and the evidence of its effectiveness is everywhere. The fact that sinners are willingly selling their souls, expecting safety and human respect, and then getting that safety and human respect, is absolutely insane. People are actually kind to one another, work exploitation is basically non-existent in the entertainment industry, everything is bathed in artistry, from the streets, the buildings, and even the people themselves.

I think Charlie presenting her case in this timeline is going to go very differently from the previous one, because for one, she's not going to struggle with her talking points at all. Alastor had an impact on her upbringing and she knows exactly how to present her case in a way that forces her audience to listen, whether they'd like it or not.

For another, the sinner she'll choose to represent the possibility of redemption probably isn't going to be Angel Dust. It's going to be Alastor, despite the fact that he doesn't want to be in Heaven. Because in her eyes, he is by far the prime example of a redeemed sinner.

And Alastor, knowing from the previous timeline that the Heavenly Council is going to be spying on hell during Charlie's trip, is going to put on a Performance. He brings Angel along with him to the hospital, having a casual and Totally Not Planned conversation about how they can improve the soul contracts to make everybody feel safer. They pass through beautiful city streets, a park, a petting zoo, briefly stop by to talk with Pentious about his new project, the whole works. Take the scenic route to the hospital, making sure to show off just how beautiful the Pride Ring has become.

He visits the children's ward, because he's going to make this Hurt, and he and Angel distribute donated toys, blankets, and books. Makes sure to mention how "the angels killed this one's parents" to Angel, just to make DAMN SURE the exterminations are revealed. He knows he's changed things so he has to take extra measures just to be sure.

Sera is left floundering as the room devolves into Chaos, and Charlie, upon realizing the exterminations weren't public knowledge, smells blood in the water so she sinks her teeth in like a shark. Yeah, why do you think she's here? You've been killing children, and as you can SEE, Hell's doing FANTASTIC without Heaven's interference so she wouldn't even BE HERE if it weren't for the YEARLY GENOCIDE. You know, the crime that sends mortal souls down to Hell to begin with? And now you're trying to tell her redemption isn't possible BECAUSE you want to continue committing yearly genocide, is that what she's hearing?

Charlie's still a bleeding heart, but she's much more inclined to manipulation in this timeline because Alastor made sure to teach her that manipulation in itself isn't mean or evil, especially when you wield it as a weapon or shield to protect others. And she's going to manipulate the rising emotions of this room to her advantage and make them SEE her point. She's going to win this trial by a landslide.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #charlie morningstar #media demon au #hazbin emily #angel dust #sir pentious #carmilla carmine #hazbin sera #hazbin adam

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professorlaytonarchive · 9 months ago

Text

THE ORIGINAL DEATHLY MIRROR HAS BEEN FOUND.

This is not a drill. All 6 chapters of MotDM's original version are found and playable through emulation right now, thanks to the brilliant folks over at KeitaiWiki!

Now, remember this is the original version, not the ReMix, and the whole thing is in Japanese (yes, we're working on a translation) - but this is an amazing find for several reasons.

One, of course, is preservation. Having this game accessible and available is a fantastic thing for a multitude of reasons I don't feel the need to explain here.

Two, it's amazing news for our remake, too. There were a few missing pieces that we were not sure what to do about. That worry has been solved entirely, and all of these things can now be incorporated into the remake. Like what, you may ask?

For starters, there's 15 new puzzles that we can now localise and incorporate. Some are a bit more difficult to work with (there's a few based on specific uses of Japanese grammar), but we feel confident we'll be able to deliver fun and interesting interpretations of these new puzzles. For those of you keeping count, yes, that ups the minimum total of new puzzles in our remake to 60.

Another thing we're very happy to have recovered is the minigames, and the diary entries they reward you. There's one minigame in Chapters 1-3, and another in Chapters 4-6, for which we did not have any gameplay, assets, or even rules. While the loss of the second mingame could have been overcome by simply giving the first minigame more levels, the diary entries they reward you would have needed a lot more work and imagination, with our writers having to try to create new entries that would follow the original vision. This is now no longer an issue, and we can bring the original vision for these diary entries into the remake as they are.

On top of that, there were a few characterisations and storylines that were different between the original and the remix, where we would have had to pick the remix version by default, because the back half of the original was missing - this recovery gives us far more wiggle room to combine and reconcile these versions and make this game the most interesting version of itself. (Also, at the back end, having access to the original assets makes our recreation department very, very happy.)

So, all in all, a fantastic morning for the Layton fandom!

And then, what? Well, it might be a bit quiet on the update side of things for the time being, given that our job right now is to translate and localise about a million different things - and that just isn't a super interesting process to be sharing. We may have more to tell you once we've unpacked and analysed the files (we've only just got our hands on them, that's how fast this whole thing has gone), and we definitely have some other fun stuff we're working on that we can't wait to share, but after this massive update (maybe the biggest we'll ever do, because, wow), we'll need some time to work.

So for now, keep on keeping on, keep an eye on this subreddit and our youtube channel, and go check out the incredible work KeitaiWiki is doing. This whole thing, from the beginning, would not have been possible without them. (Seriously - they've been with us since the start of it all.)

Thank you.

-Nordic

from Team Enigma and Team Professor Layton Archive

#layton #layton series #professor layton #hershel layton #luke triton #level 5 #lost media #preservation #preserved #professor layton and the mansion of the deathly mirror #mansion of the deathly mirror #deathly mirror #Layton lost media #Professor Layton Lost Media

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h33slvr · 13 days ago

Text

FEED PROTOCOL: INITIATE

. . . . . ۶ৎ╰──A H33SLVR ORIGINAL──╯۶ৎ. . . . .

℘ ────────── ℘ ─────────── ℘

—ᝰ.ᐟ𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛��𝚗𝚐. OT7!enhypen x reader

『Ｓｙｎｏｐｓｉｓ』 They were made to be monsters. Now they have to survive the game. Seven experimental vampire subjects, Forced into a high-stakes psychological game designed by the very doctors who made them, they must rely on their fractured abilities—and each other—to survive.

—ᝰ.ᐟաɑɾղíղցՏ: Blood, Gore, Violence, Psychological Horror, Death, Injury, Medical Experiments, Body Horror, Vampire!enhypen, Captivity/Imprisonment, Trauma, PTSD, Mature Language, Cannibalistic Undertones, Implied Abuse/Torture, Power Imbalance, Moral Betrayal, Romantic/Physical Tension.

—ᝰ.»ĂÚŤĤŐŔ ŃŐŤĔ: This story will be posted on wattpad, just because it's easier for me to use that. I dont use a computer for tumblr so it would take me longer to do chapters and all that on here so im sticking to wattpad for any series I do but im gonna post about them on here and include the link to the story :)

℘ ────────── ℘ ─────────── ℘

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 1 ~ THE CULL

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 2 ~ THE CULL PT2

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 3 ~ BLOODLOCK

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 4 ~ FRACTURE

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 5 ~ MEMORY VAULT

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 6 ~ ECHO CHAMBER

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 7 ~ THE HUNT

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 8 ~ FEED TRAIL

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 9 ~ FEED TRAIL PT2

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 10 ~ THE RED VEIL

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 11 ~ ASCENSION

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 12 ~ BLACKOUT ORDER

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 13 ~ RECONDITIONING LOOP

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 14 ~ M.E.D.U.S.A

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 15 ~ COVENANT BREACH

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 16 ~ PULSE TRAIL

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 17 ~ THE OFFERING

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 18 ~ GENESIS CORE

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 19 ~ CODE MAPPING

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 20 ~ LAB FILE RECOVERY

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 21 ~ TRUST TESTS

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 22 ~ TRAITOR SURVEILLANCE

`✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹𝙀𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 23 ~ BLOOD ETHICS METER

『ƈᴬŜŤ』

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 이희승 — Lee Heeseung — EX-001R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 박종성 — Park Jongseong — EX-099R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 심재윤 — Sim Jaeyun — EX-005R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 박성훈 — Park Sunghoon — EX-023R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 김선우 — Kim Seonwoo — EX-007R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 양정원 — Yang Jungwon — EX-004R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 西村力 — Nishimura Riki — EX-010R

[𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃] — 윤인 — Yoon Y/N — EX-008R

[FILE MISSING]

#enhypen fic #kpop idols #wattpad #enhypen jake #enha x reader #ni ki enhypen #enhypen x reader #heeseung #jungwon enhypen #riki nishimura x reader #scifi #vampire #jake sim #sunghoon enhypen #sunoo enhypen #jay park enhypen

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cvntroach5000 · 4 months ago

Text

Head Warden and Predator Class Prisoners Information

Staff and prisoners files for Reader and the LaDS men from my Head Warden AU. Just some info about the boys and how they do in confinement and when interacting with the Warden Reader.

content warnings: mind control, imprisonment, descriptions of fictional mental ailments, implied self-destructive behaviors, implied violence

Head Warden Profile

Staff ID: YU270

Ward: Fifth

Office Number: 564

Evol: Command*

Previous Positions: Head of Contamination Analysis, Fourth Ward: Sector Four Prisoner Supervisor, Meal-Drone Maintenance

[*Evol allows Head Warden to give orders their targets must comply with. Orders can be conveyed via voice, text or even through gestures. Exact limitations unknown. Profficiency: High.]

Prisoner Files

Xavier ✨

Subject ID: XV536

Codename: Saber

Ward: Third

Sector: Six

Class: Predator

Evol: Light

Threat Level: SSS

Temperament: Unstable

Character: Vicious

Disposition: Subject responds violently to the presence of staff, lashing out at the mere sound of a stranger's voice.

Reponse to Treatment: Subject is making very slow, but linear progress.

Head Warden's Notes: XV536 responds to touch over verbal prompts. Restraints not used due to Subject's proclivity to injure himself. Evol is used to prevent Subject from involuntarily thrashing his body. Compared to other Predator Class Subjects, XV536 sleeps regularly. Subject appears to dream vividly but cannot recall contents of the dreams after awakening. Subject often struggles with communication. Odds of recovery: Intermediate.

Zayne ❄️

Subject ID: ZN913

Codename: Thorn

Ward: First

Sector: Six

Class: Predator

Evol: Ice

Threat Level: SSS

Temperament: Imbalanced

Character: Fractured

Disposition: Subject can remain calm in the presence of staff for a limited period of time. If welcome is overstayed, Subject begins physical assault without prior warning.

Reponse to Treatment: Subject relays feedback on his progress, showcasing cooperative behavior. Most feedback is reliable, Subject is honest when lucid.

Head Warden's Notes: ZN913 is compliant mentally but struggles controlling his body. Restraints used depending on Subject's current state. Evol is used to help ease Subject's discomfort. Subject's memory is fragmented and jumbled, but otherwise reliable. Odds of recovery: High.

Rafayel 🪸

Subject ID: RF728

Codename: Dagger

Ward: Second

Sector: Six

Class: Predator

Evol: Fire

Threat Level: SSS

Temperament: Unclear

Character: Deceptive

Disposition: Subject is capable of feigning lucidity to lure staff into a false sense of security, before Subject physically attacks.

Reponse to Treatment: Subject is uncooperative but progress can be observed through surveillance.

Head Warden's Notes: RF728 is uncooperative but showcases ability to consciously impart false statements. Restraints used as Subject is prone to escape. Evol is used to secure more cooperative behavior and accurate information. Subject's memory is better than he makes it seem. After manipulating cleaning staff, Subject has been cut off from interacting with human employees. Odds of recovery: High.

Sylus 🥀

Subject ID: SY667

Codename: Talon

Ward: Sixth

Sector: Six

Class: Predator

Evol: Energy Manipulation

Threat Level: SSS

Temperament: Chaotic

Character: Dissociative

Disposition: Extremely violent and lethal. Drastic measures have been taken to ensure security of the staff.

Reponse to Treatment: Subject frequently relapses into his fully delirious state. No linear progress has been documented.

Head Warden's Notes: SY667 lashes out verbally but is primarily compliant with instruction during routine interrogation. Restraints often placed to ensure smooth inspection of potential wounds. Evol is used frequently to help stimulate Subject's brain. Subject has severe memory loss, but is not aware of this condition. Subject must be served meals by Head Warden personally, as otherwise Subject indiscriminately attacks human and robot staff alike. Cost of damages is listed in finance report files. Odds of recovery: Low.

Caleb 🍎

Subject ID: CL204

Codename: Scythe

Ward: Fourth

Sector: Six

Class: Predator

Evol: Gravity

Threat Level: SSS

Temperament: Controlled

Character: Aggressive

Disposition: Subject is immensely hostile, assaulting staff both verbally and physically.

Reponse to Treatment: Despite receiving regular treatment for a long time, Subject's condition fails to undergo notable improvement.

Head Warden's Notes: CL204 is cooperative and obedient without use of Evol during routine interrogation. Restraint unnecessary. Reported repeated behavior of tampering with Meal-Drones. Supper is partially delivered by human staff via conveyor belt to ensure safety of employees. CL204 can partially recall his past pre-contamination, showcasing an ability to reflect on his actions. Subject relapses after long intervals, but recovers to previous state. Relapses are particularly violent, taking a great toll on Subject's mental and physical condition. Odds of recovery: Low.

#all their codenames are based on sharp objects #sylus needs to let the meal drones catch a break smh #command evol reader series #head warden lads au #love and deepspace #roach on the typewriter #lads x reader #lads sylus #lads xavier #lads caleb #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads xavier x reader #lads fanfic #lads caleb x reader #lads sylus x reader #lads zayne x reader #lads rafayel x reader

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okay-j-hannah · 1 year ago

Text

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 13k

Warnings: series rewrite, season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, Stiles pining, eventual NSFW, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, fainting

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

A/N: A little more history of the Reader in this one - I honestly love her family's backstory

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Part 5: Mieczyslaw {You Are Here}

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

The hospital was quiet that evening. You were assigned to the long-term care floor and spent long hours updating patient files and making your rounds. Checking vitals, refilling water bottles, adjusting patients with bed sores, and administering medication at the right times.

It was the perfect distraction. You would be missing the lacrosse game that night, missing the first game with Scott being co-captain and Stiles being first line.

You’d be missing Andrew and his dimpled grin.

Instead of focusing on that the rest of the night, you call Lydia who had texted you an SOS.

“What do you mean you’re done?”

“I mean, he sent me a pathetic text asking for his house key back. The loser is so down in the dumps that he doesn’t think he deserves me, which is right, of course.”

You hold the phone with your shoulder and start typing notes into a patient file, “I’m sorry, Lyds. Breakups suck.”

“He’s become such an asshole recently. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. But good riddance. I needed to climb the social food chain anyway. He’s been lacking in the lacrosse category.”

“Sounds like you’re handling it surprisingly well.”

“I’m completely over him. Only took a few minutes… seconds actually.”

You smile, “Yeah, you barely sound upset over it.”

She can hear your sarcasm, “Did you hear that Allison is still going to the game? Her dad and aunt are going too.”

“That’s weird,” you frown, “I wonder why.” With the Argents being hunters… you wonder how much they know about the number of werewolves in town.

“You’re still on shift tonight?”

“Yes, right where I want to be. The perfect excuse to miss the game.” You upload another patient file and wave to another night nurse leaving for her break. It was just you and one other nurse on the floor – a redhead named Jennifer.

“Anything exciting happening?” she asks in a huff, upset that the attention was no longer on her dilemma.

“Nope, I’m working the long-term floor. Everyone here is mostly in recovery or stuck in their beds. It’s usually pretty quiet at night, which is why there’s less staff.”

“Fascinating,” Lydia says quickly, “Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m going to sit with Allison and scope out my next boyfriend.” She laughs before adding, “Don’t worry, Andrew is off the table.”

You scoff, “Yeah, thanks. Have fun.” And you slide your phone back into your scrubs pocket.

The next half hour was relatively quiet, just two call buttons going off. The rest of your time was spent making your rounds and completing chores. That is until a pair of sneakers comes walking down the hallway.

“Yeah, I said I can’t find her.”

You stand to confront the foreign male voice that was definitely intruding past visiting hours, only to find Stiles on the phone. He was getting snippy with whoever he was talking to, “Hey, listen here wolfman – the only reason I’m harboring your fugitive ass is because you saved (Y/N)’s life last full moon, got it? I don’t owe you any more favors.”

“What the hell?” you say, catching his attention, “Don’t you have a lacrosse game to get to, hotshot?”

In a few seconds you can see a range of emotions flickering through his face: confusion, happiness, worry, and something in the way he looks at your scrubs. “Hi, (Y/N).”

You walk around the nurses station and fold your arms, “Care to answer my question?”

He gives you a goofy side smile, “You’re talking to me.”

“Yes, Stiles,” you fight the immediate grin that wants to envelop your face. “What are you doing here?”

He leans into the phone for a second, “Uh… is there a Jennifer working here?”

“She’s the on call nurse tonight, why?” you pop a hip, arms still tightly crossed.

“What about Melissa?” he asks, walking down the hall and to a room. He speaks to the phone again, “Yeah, well, he’s not here either.”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask exasperatedly, “Stiles, you can’t be here past visiting hours. Would you please…”

“He’s not here. He’s gone, Derek.”

Your jaw drops, “The fugitive you’re harboring is Derek?”

He looks to you, “Yeah, the rest of the town doesn’t know he’s innocent because it’s actually a psycho Alpha werewolf that’s killing everyone,” he says to you. “You sure Melissa isn’t here?”

You hold your hands up, “I’m not answering anymore of your questions until you tell me what’s going on.”

Suddenly you can hear the frantic voice of Derek over the phone and Stiles has a look of instant terror. It sets you on edge when a mysterious man stands at the corner of the hall; it was as if he had appeared out of thin air.

Half his face is covered in burn scars and after a second thought you realize that it’s Peter Hale – the long-term resident of the floor. Your eyes widen at the sight of him standing without his wheelchair and Stiles takes a few steps in your direction.

“You must be Stiles,” Peter says in an eerily calm tone. He’s barely smiling as he nods in your direction, “Hello, (Y/N). It’s nice to finally be able to speak to you.”

Stiles drops his hand holding the phone, walking back until he feels you near him. He reaches behind him and takes hold of your arm. Your instinct is to press yourself closer into his back, “Is that…?”

“He’s the Alpha,” Stiles mutters, whipping his head to the side at the newcomer.

“Jennifer!” you say, “We have a situation with…”

The redheaded nurse holds her head high, “Shut up!”

Your mouth clamps shut – how many people are in on this? Stiles, in his usual fashion, can’t stay quiet for long.

“You and… him? You’re his… and he’s the…” Stiles is shielding you with his body at this point. “Oh my god, we’re gonna die. We’re gonna die.”

You jab a finger into his spine, silencing him. “This is not how I’m supposed to die.”

But with an elbow to the face, Jennifer falls to the floor and Derek takes her place. You forget momentarily how tall, dark, and handsome he is. Peter speaks again with that same calm, menacing tone.

“That’s not nice. She’s my nurse.”

You start to pull Stiles against you, taking you both behind the nurses station.

“She’s a psychotic bitch helping you kill people.”

Peter makes his way over, “You think I killed Laura on purpose? One of my own family?”

A growl ripples from Derek’s throat, fangs appearing from his open mouth. Blue eyes glowing with strange power, he bounds for the attack. You’re paralyzed at seeing the action up close.

“Holy shi…”

Stiles drags you to the floor, doggy-paddling across the tile like a swimmer. You army crawl beside him as Peter and Derek start to throw each other against the hospital walls. Bits of plaster and plastic side railing break away easily.

“Okay,” you say, coughing as you breathe in some plaster dust, “I believe you now. I really believe you.”

“Is that why you haven’t been talking to me or Scott?” Stiles yells over the growling werewolves. “Scott could have easily proven werewolves existed if you just asked him to show himself.”

They continue their sliding movements across the station and to the next hall, the sound of breaking glass loud behind you. “No, I stopped talking to you because I needed a break after hearing the truth. It’s a lot to think about when you realize the whole freaking town has lore in supernatural entities that aren’t just make believe… they’re actual fucking werewolves!” You swipe an arm across the tile and shove his legs out of the way to reach his side. “I needed time to cope with the sudden shift in what I knew to be reality.”

“Understandable,” he pants, tongue sticking out, “I just wish we could’ve helped you cope instead of you just shutting us out.”

“Like I said… I wasn’t really thinking!”

“And of course it was the same night as Scott forcing a kiss on you and trying to kill you in your own home…”

“Shut the hell up, Stilinski! Bigger problems at hand!” The werewolves were moving to a different patient room to continue their fight. You gesture to the end of the hall, “The emergency exit is there. We just have to get there and down the stairs. We can call 911 when we’re outside.”

Stiles agrees, watching you with a different panic, “How’s your heart?”

“If anything happens we’re in a hospital,” you say frankly, “Come on.” You lead the way as the fighting becomes quieter.

Stiles admires you from behind, standing to run the last few feet. You slam into the door and guide the way down the many flights of stairs. Stiles is jumping whole steps and crashing into the walls.

Your lungs start to fight for breath by the time you reach the bottom, Stiles tripping over the last step and falling to his knees beside you.

“Does… Does the Alpha have control…” you pant, holding a stitch in your side, “… over Derek?”

Stiles breathes dramatically, his face scrunching up in a funny way. “I wouldn’t be surprised. He might be forcing Derek onto his side right now with some crazy alpha mind control.”

You stumble toward the exit, shoving it open to a gust of chilly night air. You lean against the hospital wall, hands on your hips. Stiles follows, pulling out his car keys.

“Can you make it to the jeep?”

“If I say no would you carry me?”

He shrugs, pulling a face, “No promises. I could probably swing a piggy-back ride.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” you say, bending down to put your head between your knees. It was routine when you were out of breath and starting to feel lightheaded. Your hands lay flat on the concrete, your mind focusing on how cold and gritty it feels under your fingers. You listen to the crickets and the wind whistling through trees. You smell the honey sweet rain from Stiles.

A large warm hand spreads against your back, rubbing up and down your spine.

You feel the air flood your lungs, “Have you called the police yet?”

“I told them there was a possible break-in and a nurse got knocked out,” he says, “They’ll be here soon.”

You take a few deep breaths, soothed by Stiles’ hand. “I have to wait for the police.” You sit up and Stiles retreats a few feet. The action makes you consider him for a few seconds. “I’m not mad at you or Scott. I just… I needed some distance while I tried to figure things out.”

There’s a bob in Stiles’ throat, “And… have you figured things out?”

You screw up your lips in thought, “I need to talk to Scott first.”

Stiles nods vigorously, hope lighting his eyes. “Yeah, yeah – for sure. Let’s go find him now, I’m sure the lacrosse game is almost over.”

A flash of pity is in your face, “You missed your first game.”

“Yeah, well…” he waves a hand, extending it to help you to your feet. “I had a couple more important things to tackle tonight.”

“Won’t your dad be disappointed?”

“Maybe a little,” he shrugs, walking to the passenger side of the jeep, “But if the pinkeye epidemic continues then I’m still first line for the time being!”

You giggle, sliding into the jeep, “I’ll pray for the conjunctivitis.” With the heater still broken, you’re grateful you chose a long-sleeve undershirt for your scrubs. It took a few minutes for you to call your boss and explain the situation.

The police were on their way, and you were meant to stay to give a witness statement. It would also have been irresponsible to leave your patients in their time of need. Choosing to wait in the jeep was just common sense seeing as there were two werewolves having a row upstairs.

“Do you think Derek is okay?” you look out the window.

Stiles was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, “He’s fine. Peter will probably try to get him under his control.”

“Then what?”

“He’ll keep trying to get Scott into his pack.” Stiles leans more against the door to get a better look at you. “So we have some catching up to do.”

“Like what?” you smile.

He frowns, picking at his fingers, “I don’t know… like how Jackson broke up with Lydia.”

“Yeah,” you grimace, “Lydia only just told me about the breakup tonight.”

Stiles blows air between his lips, “Jackson always has another agenda. He’s been black mailing Scott because he wants the werewolf bite.”

“You’re kidding,” you say, “How did he find out about the supernatural?”

“I don’t know! He hasn’t been talking to anyone, not even Danny.”

You lean against the door to match Stiles’ stance, “Well, I know Lydia has said he’s never been the same since Scott outperformed him. He’s been slipping ever since.” You rub at your eyes, “He doesn’t talk to me much, and now it’s awkward between him and Lydia.”

“There’s also the news that the Argents know about a second beta werewolf.” At your look of confusion, he continues, “They know there’s an alpha and they know about Derek. They’ve realized that there’s a second werewolf and they’re trying to figure out who it is.”

“They being Allison’s dad and aunt?”

Stiles nods, “They have been scouting ever since – they think it might be a teenager.”

Your head perks up, “Lydia said Allison’s family was going to be at the game tonight. I bet they’re looking for clues as to who could be the other werewolf.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t suspect Scott.”

Stiles continues to pick at his nails, looking at them instead of you. “I’ve also heard that you might be going on a date with a certain potential lacrosse boyfriend…?”

You fight a smile, “Andrew asked me out.”

“And you said?”

“Yes!” you laugh, “I’ve been waiting for him to ask since I started working with Coach on the lacrosse field.” You miss the bitterness in Stiles’ face; he was trying to hide it with his downcast gaze.

A police siren could be heard down the highway. Stiles clears his throat, “Is he going to ask you to the winter formal?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, tickled at the thought, “But that’s still a couple weeks away.”

“Do you want him to?” Stiles finally looks at you, straining to keep the hurt he feels at bay. The tightness of his chest was smothered by the boiling jealousy in his stomach. He hates the way you sound doting on Andrew. And he hates himself for being jealous over something he shouldn’t be mad about.

You made your choice and Andrew is a good guy.

“I’m not sure. He doesn’t know about my heart and a formal dance would be prime time for it to give out.” You take a deep breath, “I’d rather not spoil an evening like that.”

Stiles nods and considers you, “I guess you just need to go with someone that knows how to calm you. That way you don’t need to worry.”

It was suddenly tense for a few seconds while the police cars come closer to the hospital. You put a hand on the door handle and say, “You should probably get out of here so your dad doesn’t overhear why you might not be at the game. Police radios, you know…”

“Right,” Stiles says, “Let me know if anything comes up. I’m going to find Scott and tell him about our newly identified alpha.”

~~~

The next few days felt a little less hostile as the friend group settles into a new norm. Jackson is still moseying up to Allison, who is still apologizing on behalf of Scott for the impromptu kissing. You console her in that Scott wasn’t himself that day.

Allison was also venturing into new hobbies to keep her mind off things. She had taken to practicing archery in the woods, sometimes taking you or Lydia with her.

Jackson was talking in angry whispers to Scott and Stiles more often. You know it has something to do with seeking the werewolf curse.

As for yourself, you were working on your science project implanting E.coli in varying meats and cooking them, swabbing each as you go and putting samples in petri dishes. They were currently incubating in the chemistry lab while you walk down the hall with Andrew.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” you say, eyeing the way Andrew held your books for you.

“Hey, now we’re going to state,” he says, “You can come to that game.”

You smile, almost to English, “I’ll bring my pom-poms and megaphone.”

Andrew laughs, handing back your books for class, “I won’t say no to a little cheerleading outfit.” He winks at you and a warm blush envelops both your faces.

“I’ll see you later,” you say.

Walking into class you’re quick to notice Scott and Stiles staring at you (Stiles with a little more of a frown). You choose to sit in front of Scott, taking any opportunity for Allison to be near him.

“(Y/N)…” he starts with hesitance, “Stiles told me you’re talking again.”

You don’t turn around at first, “And?”

He leans forward across the desk, and you can hear his whisper over your shoulder. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to apologize to you this last week and… nothing seems good enough. After you avoided me and everything, I thought I lost my chance.” He sighs and you can feel it in your hair. “(Y/N), I am so so sorry. I’m sorry for attacking you – I’m sorry for forcing a kiss on you – I’m sorry for scaring you – and I’m sorry for trying to kill you.”

Very slowly you pivot in your chair to look at him.

Those puppy-dog eyes were back full force. Those were Scott’s eyes – not the dark, menacing look they had on the full moon. You knew the difference was night and day. The real Scott McCall would never do those things if he was in full control.

“I feel terrible,” he continues, afraid at your persistent silence. “I’m an awful friend and I should have told you the truth sooner. Maybe you would have been more prepared for the full moon like Stiles.”

You blink, “Have you apologized to Allison?”

“Well, I tried…” he scratches at his shaggy head, adding to his puppy-dog look. “She was shooting arrows in the forest with Lydia yesterday… and I needed to return a necklace of hers.”

“You mean you were stalking her?”

“The details are a little foggy,” he says quickly, “I might’ve scared her and she tazed me.”

Stiles snorts from beside Scott and you have to stop yourself from losing your composure. “She’s picked up a few things since breaking up with you.”

“I noticed,” he says lowly. “Anyway, I tried to apologize, and I think it got to her a little. She’s still mad, but I think she might forgive me eventually.”

“I told you,” you say with a slight smile. It gives Scott hope.

“And what about you?” his dark brown eyes are wide with anxiety.

You share a look with Stiles, who shrugs. “I forgive you.”

Scott sighs, his head falling into his arms on the desk. “Thank god. I promise, (Y/N), I didn’t mean to do any of those things. The full moon had me wired and it was like something else was controlling my body.”

“It’s okay, Scott. I did a lot of thinking while taking a break.” You look between Scott and Stiles as the tardy bell rings. “And I don’t think I can be involved with all this werewolf stuff.”

Stiles is nearly out of his chair with how he reacts. “What do you mean?” his desk squeaks terribly against the tile floor.

“I mean, I’d like to still be friends with you guys…”

An awful needle like puncture was screwing its way through Stiles’ chest. Friends.

“… but I don’t really want to be included in any werewolf business or late night investigations or almost being killed – which has happened to me about three times now since starting school.”

“Werewolf business is a very regular part of my life,” Scott says with a disbelieving laugh.

You nod, “I get it, I just mean I’d love to hang out or go to a party sometime, but I can’t be involved with anything else related to the alpha situation.”

Stiles was having trouble swallowing as Scott continues, “Like it or not, (Y/N) – you’re kind of a part of my pack. The pack that the Alpha wants me to get rid of.”

“Then… I’m resigning from the pack,” you shrug half-heartedly.

Stiles’ jaw nearly hits the floor as the teacher snaps at the three of you for talking. There is about three minutes of quiet as the teacher explains the upcoming book report that you’ve already finished on Sense and Sensibility.

After that you receive a group text from both Scott and Stiles.

Stiles: You’re just unfriending the pack?!

(Y/N): Can’t I do that and still be friendly?

Stiles: No

Scott: Of course you can. We just don’t get why

You raise your hand and share what stance you took on the book report requirements. You wrote an analytical piece on the personalities of two sisters: Elenor being all sense and Marianne being all sensibility.

The teacher looks pleased and asks for more volunteers. You’re now covered to keep texting.

(Y/N): Tell you later

Scott: Ok

Stiles: Tell us now

You tuck your phone away and feel it buzz with a few more messages before going quiet. You don’t mean for it to be such a shock. You just knew that the more stress you had the more likely you’d have a fainting episode with your heart condition. That would lead to more heart damage and an end that you want to prolong as much as possible.

Being surrounded by high stress werewolf situations was going to be the death of you.

You are quick to leave the classroom at the bell and the boys weren’t far behind.

“Hey,” Stiles grabs your shoulder, slowing you down. “Explain.”

Scott holds his backpack straps, awkward but less demanding on hearing your explanation.

“It’s not a good idea for me to be around a lot of stress,” you sigh, “You know… because of my heart.”

Both boys purse their lips and share a look. Scott is quiet when he asks, “Because you have a tachee-heart?”

You and Stiles both say, “Tachycardia?” You laugh and continue, “Yes. My heartbeat is already irregular and if I do anything to add to it… it’s bad news bears.”

“Care to expand on what these bad news bears are?” Stiles asks irritably.

“That’s a talk for another day,” you say quickly, leading the way to your next class. “Just know that the more my heart struggles the worse off I’ll be.”

“But we can help you,” Stiles says, pressing into your shoulder as you all walk down the hallway. “We can calm you down if that happens.” I can calm you down.

You sigh, “Not always. It can be random and persistent.” You stop outside the door of your next class. “This isn’t me saying we can’t be friends, just… I want to avoid any werewolfy scenarios that might involve near death and/or general terror.”

You leave Scott and Stiles to contemplate out in the hallway. Shoulders sagging, Scott groans, “This werewolf thing is ruining my life.”

“Yeah, and mine.” Stiles broods at the classroom door, taking a second to realize what he said and turning to the mild anger on Scott’s face. “What? I’m the best friend – I am legally bound to whatever misery you experience.”

“All the new friends I’ve made are literally being pushed away because of this curse,” Scott rubs hard at his face, “And it’s ruined my love life, not to mention my lifespan. Hunters are basically knocking down my front door!”

“Yeah, it’s really putting a damper on my love life too.” Stiles mumbles to himself, “I really thought I had a shot with her.”

Scott shoves his friend, “Even after all her talk about Andrew?”

Stiles scowls, “That’s just a silly crush.”

“And what she feels for you is… what exactly?”

“Hidden feelings that I will unlock one day for her to realize that I am the perfect guy for her…” he licks his lips, wincing, “… despite the clumsiness, sarcasm, and general idiocy.”

Scott laughs, “Yeah, she’s really missing out.”

“Hey!” he rams into Scott as they walk towards their next class. “I really like her, Scott. Like… I like her, like her.”

“I know, Loverboy.”

“She’s all I can think about, and I know I’m just a pathetic friend of hers, but I’m hopeless, Scott! Completely hopeless.”

Scott gives him a look, “Are you sure you’re not stalking her?”

“In a broad sense of the term,” Stiles shrugs, “I’ve never felt this comfortable around a girl before. I’ve never felt this way about any girl.”

“You’ve got it bad,” Scott sighs, “I know the feeling well.”

~~~

You walk through the aisles of computers to sit near the back beside a hunched figure. He keeps his head down even as you watch his eyes dart to see who you are. If anything it makes him more shy, his shoulders drawing in as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible.

You sling your backpack onto the ground and ignore the random text Stiles sent you about the history of the male circumcision. He was always sending you the most out-of-pocket things.

“Hey,” you smile at the quiet boy, “My name’s (Y/N)…” He turns his head a little more and you instantly recognize him as one of the benchwarmers on the lacrosse team, “… and you’re Isaac, right?”

His blue eyes seem to warm at your recognition, “Yeah, Isaac Lahey,” he clears his throat, “I uh…”

“You play lacrosse!” your smile widens, “I didn’t realize we had computer science together.”

“Play is a strong word,” he says with a hint of a smile. “I sort of keep to myself.”

You lean on your elbow, considering him as he fidgets under your gaze. “I think the last time we talked was when I was passing out permission slips for that spring retreat Coach was talking about.”

Isaac nods his head, still bowing like he was trying to hide behind his computer screen. “I don’t talk much.”

“You didn’t bring back your permission slip if I remember correctly.”

“No,” he clears his throat again, finding it hard to swallow. “My dad needs me to stay home.”

“Even for just a weekend?” your brows knit.

He licks his lips, “He needs help at work and… I’m the only one around to do it.”

“Shame,” you mutter, “I’d like to have seen you there. Maybe we could’ve roasted marshmallows together and tossed Coach’s whistle in the lake.”

His lips upturn a little more, “You’re going on the retreat?”

“I don’t think the Coach can survive without me,” you stifle a laugh, “Besides I’m the only one who knows anything about the retreat. He probably couldn’t drive a single one of you up there.” You nudge your arm into his, “You should ask your dad again, see if he’ll change his mind.”

Isaac has an emotion you can’t gauge flash across his eyes. “Maybe.” He nods and hides that smile you’re trying to pull out of him. “I wouldn’t mind messing with Coach, though.”

“We could hide his energy drinks or put dye in his toothpaste,” you muse, “Make his teeth blue for a day.”

“Or we could put a squirrel in his cabin,” Isaac says with a little more enthusiasm, “Or maybe we could hide his shaving kit and see what kind of beard he can grow.”

You snort, “I bet it’s as white as an old mans.”

“It’s because all us kids give him gray hairs,” Isaac laughs, smiling wide.

You laugh along, suddenly struck with his change of demeanor. “You have a great smile, Isaac,” you say, “It looks good on you.”

A rush of red fills his cheeks, unable to stop smiling now. He isn’t hunched behind his computer anymore, “Thank you.”

The teacher was about ready to throttle you two for giggling over her talking. You nudge Isaac again with your arm, putting a finger to your lips.

~~~

The next day you’re being dropped off at the Argent residence for a ‘family dinner.’ Allison has been complaining about how often her dad talks about meeting you. It was odd not having met them – almost every parent in town knew who you were.

That was the consequence of a small town with two working parents in the emergency fields. Most adults knew that they had to leave at the drop of a dime if your heart was ever in trouble.

Hence the anxiety making your fingers pull on your sleeves.

“(Y/N)!” Allison greets, pulling you into a hug, “I’m so sorry for this,” she whispers.

You whisper back, “Don’t be.” But a flash of fear crosses your face when the door widens to reveal a blue-eyed, middle-aged man. “Mr. Argent?”

“(Y/N),” he extends a hand, eyes never blinking as he probes you, “We finally meet.” He shakes your hand firmly, “My wife and daughter have only had good things to say.”

And my friends have told me about your penchant for shooting arrows at teenage boys. “Nice to meet you.” You follow the family inside and to the dining room. “I hope you don’t mind…”

In your free hand was a small container of peanut butter brownies you had made earlier that day. Chris Argent looks pleased when he inspects the contents, “How wonderful – you didn’t have to.”

“I know,” you say, handing the dessert to Allison to plate. The Argents were able to provide for themselves, plus extra.

Living on the other side of town, the Argent residence was much more lavish than what you were used to. It created a very unfortunate divide between the teenagers. An invisible line that was rarely mentioned, but nonetheless present.

Over in these neighborhoods, Lydia, Allison, and Jackson lived with rich crown moldings, nice cars, high ceilings, and antique furniture. More in the valley, you, Stiles, and Scott lived in modest homes with hand-me-down items and a small growing pile of bills.

With one check you bet the Argents could take away your family’s medical debt.

“Your home is lovely as always,” you say, admiring the chandelier in the dining room. “And dinner smells amazing.”

“Not my doing,” a dirty blonde says with a crisp laugh. A near forced laugh as her less piercing blue eyes meet yours. She assesses you with something a little colder than Chris. “Hello, I’m Kate, and I have no talent for cooking.”

You give a wave across the table, instantly wary of her. Allison pops up beside you, “That’s my aunt I told you about.” She looks to Kate as she sits, “(Y/N) is an amazing cook.”

Kate nods, still scrutinizing you with her gaze. “What else are you good at, (Y/N)?”

“Reading,” you say instantly, sharing a laugh with Allison. “I keep to myself mostly.”

With the table set, the Argent family sits to enjoy the meal. Victoria Argent, whom you’ve met the few times you’ve been out with Allison, sat with her husband.

“So, (Y/N), tell us a little more about yourself,” Chris says, spearing asparagus with his fork. “You’re close with our daughter but we know almost nothing about you.”

You try to swallow your roast chicken quickly as Allison scolds her father. “I told you not to interrogate her,” she leans closer to you, “He doesn’t really have a ‘pleasant conversation’ option in his vernacular.”

“It’s alright,” you say with a wave, grabbing a nice cloth napkin to dab at your mouth. “My parents like to know who I’m friends with too.”

“You know Scott and Jackson, correct?” Kate digs into her chicken with a knife.

“Yes, we’re all friends. I also am a teacher assistant for Coach Finstock, so I see them at lacrosse a lot.”

Chris considers you, “But you weren’t at the last lacrosse game?”

“No, I work at the hospital as a medical assistant and I picked up a shift that night,” you take a sip of your water. How much information was too much information to give?

Kate tilts her head in your direction, “Wasn’t there a break-in at the hospital that night?”

You nod slowly, “Yeah, someone got into an altercation past visiting hours. I don’t know who but when I went to investigate the noise, there was a lot of broken glass and cracks in the walls. Thank goodness none of the patients were harmed.”

Chris takes his time cutting his meal into pieces, “That sounds terrible. What did you do?”

“I called the police, checked on my residents, and ran outside to meet the cops.” You take a small bite of food, “They didn’t find anything besides the damage.”

“Cameras?” Kate questions.

You shake your head, “My co-workers said that they had been damaged as well. Wiped clean or lost… I don’t know exactly.”

Chris seems satisfied for the time being, “Well, I’m glad you got out safely, whatever it was.”

Kate, on the other hand, seems to perk with interest, “I hear you’ve had a run-in with danger a couple times this year.” At your look of confusion, she nods toward your collar. “The attack on the video store, I mean.” She barely moves a centimeter as she stares you down, “Allison told me you had gotten clawed pretty bad.”

You spot the wince in Allison’s brow. “I did get attacked that night,” you wipe at your mouth again. “It was pretty bad for a while, infected and everything. But I’m okay now.”

Kate was persistent, “Must have left a pretty gnarly scar.” Her eyebrows lift as if expecting you to reveal your shoulder. She was scolded by her niece.

“It’s still a little pink, but that’ll go away with time,” you say as nonchalantly as possible. “I’d say it makes me look a little cooler than I am.” You shift the collar of your shirt an inch to reveal the tail end of three massive claw marks, another curling around your arm. It was your turn to gauge the reaction of the Argents.

Chris and Kate share a look and you clear your throat in response. Are you making yourself a possible werewolf suspect?

“And what do you guys do for work?” you say, steering the conversation off yourself. “Allison says that you’re a weapons dealer?”

Chris pours himself more water, “That’s right. We have quite the collection if you’re interested.”

You shake your head quickly, “I’m not really built for that. I enjoy my books and my lazy cat sleeping in my lap as I read.”

He nods, hopefully in a sign of respect. “That’s why Kate is here. She deals in weaponry as well – a very skilled hunter.”

She raises her glass, “The art of the kill. I needed my brother’s expertise on a few pieces for my latest hunt.”

“What do you hunt?” you say innocently.

“Big game predators,” she says, cold eyes locked on you. “Cougars, bears, wolves.”

You almost smirk. These people are hiding in plain sight.

“My mom is a buyer for a store in San Fransico,” Allison steers the conversation even more. “Right, mom?”

Victoria, already done with her meal and leaning back in her chair, replies, “Yes, it’s a charming little boutique. I also teach math at a boarding school for boys on the side.”

You nod, “Why math?”

“Strategy,” she says flatly. “Equations and probabilities. I enjoy the art of stratagem.”

That was slightly off putting as well. Did these people know how to be subtle? How had Allison gone this long without knowing her family history?

“And your parents are…?” Victoria continues.

You smile, “My mom works behind the desk at the police station – taking and directing calls. My dad works at the firehouse.”

“You must hear everything that goes on around here,” Chris smirks.

“Only when I ask,” you say, “And that’s considering nothing wild has happened in Beacon Hills for years…”

Kate leans back in her chair as well, crossing her arms in contemplation. “Have you lived here your whole life?”

“Yes,” you say, pushing your plate away, “Almost since birth.”

“Where did you live before?” Chris asks.

He might be intimidating, but you enjoy talking to him much more than Kate. “My parents lived in Palo Alto when I was born. We had a nice house and my mom worked security at Stanford University. My dad actually met her at the San Francisco Bay. He was a lifeguard before he was a firefighter, and he watched the swimmers at Keller Beach and Berkeley Marina.” You smile a sweet smile, “She kept coming back to those places to see him… even pretended to drown once for a kiss.”

“Must be a fan of The Sandlot,” Allison snickers, enjoying hearing you talk more than her family.

“So why make the move to Beacon Hills?” Kate asks, arms still tightly wound.

Your smile falls a little, “I was born with a congenital heart defect. The medical bills and surgeries became too much… and we had to downgrade.”

Allison puts a hand on your leg beneath the table. Chris sends a piercing look to his sister and mutters, “I’m sorry, (Y/N) – I didn’t know you were sick.”

“Still am,” you say with mock cheerfulness, holding your water glass with two hands to give yourself something to focus on. “Heart problems are persistent. We try to keep it as discreet as possible.”

He nods, looking at you with a different air of likeness. “It sounds like you have a wonderful family.”

“I do,” you say fast, “Thank you.”

They move on to the brownies you brought as a means to change the subject. Victoria hums her appreciation, “These are delicious, did you put caramel in here too?”

“Caramel is one of the greatest inventions of all time and deserves to be incorporated into as many sweets as possible,” you laugh, “Of course I put caramel in them.”

The table laughs as you eat, feeling a little stripped bare after revealing so much about yourself. As Allison said, it did feel more like an interrogation rather than a pleasant family meal. You were quick to text the boys as you leave the residence.

“My place in ten minutes. I have an Argent update.” You smile as you add, “… and leftover brownies.”

Allison was kind enough to drive you home, apologizing the entire way. “My dad wasn’t as brazen as usual, but my aunt Kate?” she rolls her eyes, “I can’t believe how much she was grilling you.”

“You have a protective family,” you shrug, “So do I.”

“Your parents have a good reason to be extra protective of you,” she retorts, “My family is just nosy and suspicious and… I don’t know, my aunt and dad have been a little tense with each other this visit. They usually get along so well.”

“How much longer is your aunt staying here?” you ask, holding your container of leftover brownies.

Allison knits her brow in thought, “I’m not sure. She says she’s getting ready for another big hunt and just needs supplies and my dad’s advice. But I don’t know… sometimes I feel like she isn’t telling me everything.”

You thank Allison for the ride and the invitation to dinner. You promise to give her an update on your date with Andrew that weekend, and she drives off. Entering your house was a breath of fresh air.

Oliver trots to your side, his furry underbelly swaying side to side before you scoop him up and kiss his head. He purrs instantly.

“How was dinner?” your mom asks, sitting at the dining table with little potted plants in front of her. She was trying to grow herbs from seeds and the lavender was not doing so well.

“It was fine,” you kick off your shoes, “Her family is a little interrogative.”

Tom walks in with his usual cola, no doubt with a few ounces of whiskey poured in. “I knew they were a little tense, especially after that Chris guy shot the mountain lion at parent teacher conferences.”

You scratch under Ollie’s chin, “It was still nice, but I would watch out for that Kate Argent. She scares me a little.” You sit at the table and watch your mom preen the little sprouts of eucalyptus and rosemary. “Oh, I also invited Scott and Stiles over, if that’s okay.”

Tom folds his arms, making them look massive beneath his firehouse flannel. “I thought you liked that Andrew guy.”

“I can like a guy and be friends with other guys, dad,” you snicker, “I’m just going to take my medicine real quick, will you send them up when they get here?”

Your mom waves you off, adding some water to her seedlings, “Leave me one of those brownies, would you?”

A minute later, and having taken all your prescription meds, there’s a howling laugh coming from downstairs. You move to the foot of the stairs to see Stiles beaming and your dad wiping his eyes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Tom says, “Stilinski here was just telling me about a police fiasco with a red tricycle and a klepto.”

You look puzzled as Stiles scratches at the back of his head, “Yeah, I might’ve stolen some already stolen items from evidence when I was a kid. I was the prime suspect for about three days with all the stuff in my possession.”

“And at five years old,” your dad laughs, downing his drink.

“I really wanted the tricycle!” Stiles retorts, “It was my first bike.”

Tom shakes his head, “Learning to pedal on stolen property.”

Scott pulls on his friend, “It was nice talking to you guys.”

“Of course, sweetie,” your mom says, “Now not too late, you still have school tomorrow.”

Walking up the stairs (Stiles tripping over at least two of the steps) you lead the boys into your room, Oliver already on your bed.

“Hey, buddy…” Stiles gets on his knees and crawls to the edge of the bed, “How’s the fuzz ball?”

Ollie perks his ears and blinks slowly at Stiles, bowing his head for a pet. Though upon Scott’s arrival, the cat sets his ears back and hisses.

“What the…” you mutter, watching your cat growl low in his throat and dart to leave the bedroom. “He’s never acted like that before.”

Scott looks guilty, “Well, I am part dog and… I did break into your house as a werewolf not too long ago.”

Your lips make a thin line, “Right. Cats and dogs don’t always get along.” You walk to your bed, flicking at Stiles’ head as you sit down, “Do you guys want a brownie? They’re leftover from my dinner with the Argents.”

Stiles’ greedy fingers dive for the plastic container while Scott shoves his hands in his pockets. “You had dinner at their house?”

You relay some of the conversation you had. The mysterious penchant for weapons and hunting big game predators. The interrogative questions on the hospital break-in and your involvement with Scott and Jackson. The request to see the claw marks on your shoulder.

“Do they think you might be the second beta too?” Scott asks with a tense line between his eyebrows. Stiles was too busy eating his third brownie.

“Maybe… do they think a scratch could turn you?”

“That’s what Derek said,” Scott swallows hard, “He told us a deep enough alpha scratch might give you the curse. The Argents might have the same theory.” He smacks his forehead, “Which is why they’re suspicious of Jackson. He has those claw marks in his neck from Derek.”

You frown, “And they don’t know they’re from Derek and not the Alpha.”

“But they do know your scars are from the Alpha,” Scott mutters worriedly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they do a follow-up on you.”

“But after I told them about my heart condition, they seemed to back off. At least Chris did.”

You relay the conversation that you had about your parents meeting in Palo Alto and the move to Beacon Hills because of your heart. You remember the likeness Chris Argent had in his voice as he expressed his apologies for your sickness.

“If you’re sick then you couldn’t have the curse,” Scott mumbles, picking at his chin. “Werewolves heal really fast unless the wound is supernatural too.”

Stiles is licking his fingers when he suddenly blurts, “Do you think if you were a werewolf your heart would be cured?”

You shrug, finding the amount of brownie left on Stiles’ face amusing. “I don’t really want to find out. Anyway, I knew you guys would probably want to know.”

“Still not keen on all this werewolf business?” Stiles asks.

“I’m just trying to protect myself.” You sit on the bed, Stiles on the ground and leaning against the mattress. He’s looking up at you with his brown eyes, fizzing with warmth like cola and whiskey. “It’s not that I don’t want to investigate with you guys. I just worry what it’ll do to my heart.”

You laugh and point at your own face, “You’ve got chocolate all over your mouth.”

Stiles is quick to rub his mouth across his shirt sleeves, “Those brownies were just too damn good.” There was still a smudge at the corner of his lips.

“Maybe if you swallowed between bites…” you move your fingers to his face, lifting his chin to look up at you. He’s frozen as you move your thumb to the corner of his mouth and wipe down and under his bottom lip.

Eyes wide and imploring as they look up at you. He’s all sweet innocence and deeply adoring as you touch his mouth. The brown of his eyes was melting into the sticky sweet sap color, like warm honey in the sunlight.

You pull your hand away and suck the chocolate off the pad of your thumb, “… but thank you for the compliment. I’m not as much of a baker.”

Scott was trying to keep a smile off his face as his hand hovered near his crinkled nose. He was smelling something that was flying off Stiles like a firework set aflame. The poor boy was squirming in his spot on the ground, crossing his legs and keeping his hands over his lap.

“How was Allison?” Scott changes the subject.

You look up, now ignoring the sappy eyes gazing from below. “She was fine – maybe a little embarrassed about her family. It was strange knowing the motive behind her family’s questions but seeing none of it register with her.”

“I have a feeling she’ll find out soon enough.”

“Me too,” you stand, “For now she’s releasing a lot of her stress through archery and training with her aunt.”

Scott shivers, “Scary.”

You nod, walking to the door and hearing Stiles scramble to his feet. “I’ll see you guys at school tomorrow?”

Getting into the jeep was uncomfortable, Stiles pulling at his jeans. Scott was laughing at him before too long, “Dude, you should have seen your face. You really are hopeless.”

Stiles groans, slamming his forehead into the steering wheel, “She touched me and every thought just flew out of my head.”

“I could smell it off you,” Scott grimaces, “Just awful lovey-dovey sex hormones, even without the full moon I could smell it.”

Stiles sat straight, making the jeep wiggle side to side. He had a ruddy red mark on his forehead. “Did you smell anything from (Y/N)?”

Scott clamps his mouth shut before shaking his head. “I could hear her uneven heartbeat, but that’s nothing new.”

In a dramatic turn of events, Stiles slumps in his seat and puts the car in drive. “I need to figure out a way to tell her.”

“Tell her your feelings?” Scott gaps, “What about the possibility of utterly crushing humiliation? Not to mention ruining what friendships we still have.”

“Thanks for adding to the anxiety, Scott,” he grumbles, “I just… I can’t help thinking about how I am with her. I have never been able to just talk about my mom to anyone… but with her it’s easy. I’ve never brought a girl over to my house before… but with (Y/N) it was a no brainer. I’ve never been so equally terrified and comfortable with a girl. And with her heart…”

“You’re like an anchor for her,” Scott says quietly, all teasing aside. “You can calm her.”

Stiles puts one hand over his cropped hair, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her.”

“You know the difference between you and Andrew Wickstrom, Stiles?”

He snorts, “He’s maybe four inches taller than me, has perfect curly hair, and is way better at lacrosse than I am.”

“He asked (Y/N) out,” Scott says, “You just need to ask her out.”

~~~

Friday night was all excitement and butterflies as you walk around a strip mall with Andrew. The white fairy lights turn on when the sun sets, and you’re left walking on cobblestones and eating ice cream.

You were laughing at the ridiculous training regime that Coach was making the boys do in preparation for the state game.

“What is the benefit of running laps to the classroom and out to the field?”

“Coach makes us carry his stuff too and from his office,” Andrew mocks, “He makes it sound like an exercise, but really he just wants us to fetch his granola bars and energy drinks.”

You laugh again, “That sounds about right. How do you feel about the game?”

“Since switching to goalie it’s been hard figuring the plays out. But I think I’ve got the hang of it now.” He offers to throw away your empty ice cream cup and spoon.

The night so far had entailed a dinner at a little café outside the mall before looking in some of the stores for new summertime clothes. Andrew bought an outfit for you, shorts with little revealing tears in them and a strappy top that shows your scars way more than you’re used to.

You love that Andrew doesn’t question you about them.

Next was a stop at an ice cream parlor, taste testing different flavors before picking your favorites. The pair of you now walking around as the moon comes out, the trees adorned with white fairy lights.

You were walking so close to each other that you kept bumping arms. “Next time I want to show you my favorite antique shop downtown. It has some of the coolest things from every time period, and it’s connected to an old bookshop – one of the ones with tall ladders and a second floor just like in…”

“There’s going to be a next time?” Andrew says, sounding a little giddy. He was looking at you with pink dusting his cheeks.

You blush, “Is that alright?”

In reply, Andrew locks your fingers between his. “Very alright.” You stroll down the next street of cool fairy light, squeezing each other’s hands. “What were you saying about the old bookstore before I rudely interrupted you?”

You brush hair behind your ears, “Oh, just that it reminds me of the old bookstore from Beauty and the Beast… the one from her town.”

“You’re a fan of Disney?”

“Always,” you laugh, “With movies like The Princess and the Frog and The Emperor’s New Groove… how could you not be?”

Andrew snickers, “It’s because of Naveen, isn’t it?”

“Ah, Prince Naveen,” you groan, “You got me there.”

“Got to be honest though… Treasure Planet might be the best one yet.”

You pull on his arm, “I haven’t watched that in ages!”

Andrew side eyes you as his dimples come out, “So old antique shop and then movie night?”

You’re giddy at the thought of another date, “Sounds perfect.” You wander the streets just talking and laughing for another half hour before he offers to drive you home.

He holds your hand atop your lap the whole way.

Walking to your door, porchlight on as your parents wait for your return, you thank Andrew for a lovely evening.

“It’s nice after all the chaos the town’s been in the last month.”

He nods, “I had a really nice time with you, (Y/N).” He hands you the shopping bag with your new summer outfit, “I’ll text you a time for the next one.”

You smile wide as he takes a step closer, “I had fun too.” He was leaning down to your height, your chin rising to meet him.

In a quick mind-boggling moment, Andrew presses his lips to yours. He pulls away just an inch to see your reaction before moving further.

At your slight smile he leans in for more, kissing you more firmly and cupping your cheek. A sudden warmth blooms up your chest and into your face – and a beeping comes from your watch.

You break away suddenly, “God, sorry…” you cover the watch face with your hand. “Parents are waiting.”

Andrew licks his lips, all smiles as he says goodbye, “I’ll see you on Monday.”

You slip inside and find your mom pruning a more successful chamomile plant at the dining table, no doubt planning to make tea with it. “Hello, honey…” she smirks, “Had a nice time?”

Checking your watch, you take a deep breath, your chest tight from something a little more than your racing heart. “The best.”

You had no idea that Stiles was burrowed beneath his blankets in bed, his phone lighting up his face is somber blue light. He watches the alert of your heart rate die down and knows in his gut that you probably had an exciting goodnight kiss on your date.

It sticks him with an ache he can’t shake for the rest of the night.

~~~

The weekend came with an invitation from Stiles in the most untoward manner. You were working on term projects for history and math when there was a sharp rapping on the window. Turning around you see Stiles waving on the roof.

Already smiling, you go to unlock the window and help him open it, “What are you doing here?”

“I came to ask you something.”

“And your phone is…?”

He shrugs, “More of a boring gesture than this.”

“And not coming to the door…?”

He screws his face up in a comical expression, “Again, this is a more interesting entrance.” And with a graceful slip of the hand, he falls forward through the window and crashes to the ground, “Ow!”

You grimace, hearing the floorboards squeak in the hall, “Shit, Stiles my parents will kill me if they knew you were sneaking up our roof!” In a frantic waving of your hands you shove him under your bed.

He does his now famous doggy-paddling across the hardwood floor.

“(Y/N), sweetie?” your mom calls as she enters your bedroom, “Oh – what was that noise? I thought you must’ve fainted and fell.”

You put your hands behind your back, looking around and finding Ollie still snoozing on the history textbook on your desk. He was so unbothered and not at all helpful. “Um… I dropped my math workbook,” you say quickly, “It’s pretty thick.”

Your mom looks to your hands to see the workbook and raises her eyebrows in question.

Choking on your words you look around and find the evidence on your bed covers, “See! I just picked it up when you walked in.”

Angela shakes her head, “Studying must be getting to you. Maybe you should take a break.”

You nod vigorously and thank your mother, closing your door and finding Stiles already trying to pull himself out from under your bed. His tongue was sticking out as he struggles.

“That was close,” you laugh, sitting on the floor with him, “Who knew you’d be such mischief.”

Stiles snaps his eyes to yours and flounders in his words, “I… you – did you…”

Your knees are inches away as you give him a quizzical look, “What?”

“My m-, my mom used to call me mischief.” His voice was quiet and wondering as he says it. He looks at you with a kind of awe; a freckle of sadness making his eyes glassy.

You suddenly feel warm, maybe from embarrassment – maybe from empathy. You couldn’t imagine a life without your mother. “A very fitting name for someone so mischievous.”

He chuckles, his smile subconscious, “That’s not the only reason she called me that. Um… I uh – my name isn’t actually Stiles.”

“I knew it,” you smirk.

“I actually have a polish name – my grandpa’s name. And it’s really hard to pronounce, so I’d pretty much stop at saying mischief cause that was as close as I could get.”

You raise your eyebrows, all curiosity, “And this name is…?”

He looks shy as he mumbles, “Mieczyslaw.”

“Mitchy-slav?”

He becomes shier as he repeats, “Yeah, Mieczyslaw. You can imagine why a young impressionable child would choose to go by something a little easier.”

You look at him fondly, “I like it. I like learning things about you.” You stand, taking his hand to pull him up, “Now what was the thing you wanted to ask me?”

“I wanted to know if you’d come hangout at my place tonight and meet my dad.”

“I already know your dad, Stiles.”

“Yeah, on a professional basis,” he mocks, “But… but you’ve never seen him without the badge on.”

You agree to come over that night and say you’ll bring a treat, which immediately strikes interest in Stiles. You plan accordingly, cooking all Saturday evening and dishing it in traveling containers. Placing them in a large take-out bag, you drive with your dad to the Stilinski bachelor pad.

You hope your gesture is kindly met.

“(Y/N)!” Stiles says with as much enthusiasm as one seeing someone for the first time in weeks. He’s awkward as he thinks of another way to greet you and is grateful when you go in for a hug. “Something smells delicious.”

You lift the large bag, “I told you I’d bring something.”

He leads you to the kitchen and you see Noah Stilinski looking over case files at the dining table. He looks stressed and wary until he spots you in the doorway.

“Ah, hello (Y/N). It’s nice to see you outside of the station…” he stands up, “… and outside of an ambulance.”

You laugh, going in for a hug that he wasn’t expecting, but loving it nonetheless. He holds you for a second longer as you say, “It’s about time.” He smells of whiskey. You gesture to the food in your bag, “I brought us dinner.”

“Oh my god,” Noah deadpans, “You spoil us.” He frantically tries to shuffle his case files into an orderly fashion, “I’m sorry it’s such a mess.” He moves his full whiskey glass and goes to put the decanter away.

“It’s okay,” you start to help, catching words like ‘murder’ and ‘Hale House.’ Stiles ran for some plates and forks. “There’s not always warning when Stiles makes plans.” You wonder how drunk the sheriff already is – the case must really be getting to him.

Noah chuckles, “You really know my son, then.” He seems awkward without the authority of his badge – like any other suburban dad. “He didn’t tell me you were bringing anything. Wait… did you cook that?” he points to your bag of containers.

“Yeah,” you say, helping Stiles set the table, “My specialty.”

Noah shakes his head, “I haven’t had a homecooked meal in…”

“Years,” Stiles snorts, “(Y/N) is the real deal, dad. Whatever she made will change your life.”

“He eats some chicken and rice and suddenly I’m a three-star Michelin chef.”

Stiles chortles, “Don’t forget those brownies. I’ll never be the same.”

You laugh as the boys sit down and you reveal the dinner you brought. A bowl of spicy Italian sausage, a plate of sliced garlic bread, and a dish of homemade mac and cheese topped with chopped parsley and green onion.

It was very quiet for the first few minutes, you placing a slice of garlic bread on each plate and ladling the cheesy noodles on top like an open-faced slider. You end with placing a few pieces of sausage on the side and passing the plates to the boys.

Stiles still can’t find the words as his dad says, “Did um…” he clears his throat. “Did Stiles tell you…”

You nod, feeling a presence there like nothing you had ever experienced before. “He said it was one of her signature dishes – a favorite of his.” You look to Stiles beside you and notice something glistening in his eyes.

You let them soak in the thoughtfulness of the gesture – what it actually signifies for them – and you start to eat on your own. Though it didn’t bring up any childhood memories of motherly love that it would for Stiles… it was still delicious.

“You’re right,” you say softly, “Like a fancy kids meal.”

Noah starts to chuckle, sniffing as he clears the emotion from his throat. He’s next to start eating his meal and the way he savors each bite is compliment enough. You wait for Stiles to start, very conscious of his quietness.

Stiles was never quiet.

He picks up the garlic bread laden with mac and cheese and takes a bite. He giggles like a schoolboy, “Wow.” He closes his eyes and you feel inclined to put your hand on his. Beneath the table, you wrap your fingers around his against his leg.

You rub your thumb in circles around his knuckles, watching him open his eyes and see tears there. “How is it?”

He sniffs, looking at you with wet eyes, “Like I remember.” He wipes at his face as you smile.

The rest of the meal continues with small talk and fond memories bringing up laughter. The sheriff finishes his whiskey and seems full and tired. Stiles keeps eating until there were no leftovers in sight.

He was now staring at the files of paperwork on the current Derek Hale case. You catch his eye and stand to wash dishes, “You finished, sheriff?”

“Oh no, I’ve got it,” Stiles slips out of his chair and takes the plates from your hands, “You just sit down, I’ll clean up.”

You smile to yourself as the sheriff looks more work wary, leaning on his hand and rubbing at his temples. “You bring out the best in him,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him willingly wash a dish before.”

“He’s sweet,” you say. Realizing too late that that was another thing Mrs. Stilinski used to say all the time.

Noah nods, a little red in the cheeks from the alcohol, “He is. She always said so.”

You had a feeling the sheriff didn’t talk about his wife very much. “You seem a little put out.”

“It’s just this case,” he rubs hard at his face, “I’ve been staring at it for weeks and I know they’re all connected, but there’s something missing.”

“What are all connected?” you ask.

He points a finger at you, “I shouldn’t be telling you.”

“You know I’m not going to say anything, sheriff,” you say candidly, “I’m a hermit that makes very good mac and cheese in my spare time.”

He chuckles deep in his throat, quieter the drunker he is. “The thing is… the bus driver that got killed, he was an insurance investigator assigned to the Hale house fire.” He pulls on a paper with his fingertips, sliding it across the table.

You read it sideways as it moves. “’Terminated under suspicion of fraud.’”

“The video store clerk who got his throat slashed, he’s a convicted felon, history of arson. Two others in the woods… they had priors all over their records, including…”

“Arson…” you say to yourself. The true crime fan within you was a little tickled. It sounds like all the victims had something to do with the house fire six years ago. You look over your shoulder to see Stiles standing in the doorway. He had soapy water soaking the front of his shirt.

He puts a finger to his lips and listens.

“There’s just so many questions…” You don’t stop him for fear that he’ll register all that he’s telling you. “If Derek wanted to kill everyone involved with the fire, then why start with his sister? I mean, she had nothing to do with it. And why make it look like some kind of animal did it?”

You shake your head. It must be killing Stiles to know the real reason behind some of these things and not being able to share. He was protecting his dad from the supernatural. Just like how he was trying to protect you from it.

“You know the instances of wild animal reports were up 70% over the past few months? It’s like they’re going crazy and running out of the woods. I don’t know.” He hand a palm to his forehead, already dozing off.

You feel a little guilty as you lean in your chair.

“Hey, sheriff, can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything, sweetheart…”

You smile warmly as Stiles leans his head against the archway. “Would you be willing to call my parents and tell them I’m staying the night? It’s late and I don’t want to worry them. Stiles and I have some work to catch up on… our chemistry project and stuff. Now would be a really good time to get it done.”

The sheriff had a dopey smile on his face as he looks at you. He considers you while Stiles is having a heart attack in the kitchen.

“Sure thing,” he says, fumbling for his phone, “I know your parents worry about you.”

“It’ll sound better coming from you,” you say kindly, “Thank you, sheriff. And thank you for letting me stay.”

He scratches at his head as you stand, already dialing your mom’s number, “Hey, Angela. No, no – she’s fine. We’re taking good care of her… hey, listen. The kids want to work on some projects, and I wanted to offer to let her stay the night.” He rubs at his tired eyes, “Sure, sure… of course. It’s just late and I know Tom is at the firehouse tonight so… yeah, sure thing. We’ve got plenty of room. Yep, thanks Angela. Sure, bye bye.”

You’re walking towards Stiles with a stupid grin on your face, “Let’s go talk.”

“Night dad!” Stiles yells instantly, still in awe that you were able to pull that off.

Noah waves them off, “Don’t stay up too late.”

You pull Stiles’ hand and go upstairs. “I can’t believe that worked.” You find the bathroom but wait for Stiles to show you his room.

“Um… one second,” he holds up a finger and tells you to stay put. He rummages like a madman in his bedroom, knocking things over and slamming things shut. You picture mounds of clothes and old plates of food being shoved into the closet.

He’s breathing heavy when he opens the door again, “Okay, you can come in.” He holds open the door and you walk in to find a queen bed with ruffled blue sheets, a desk on the other side with bulletin boards hanging on the wall. One of the smaller ones had a blanket thrown over it.

You wonder how much decluttering Stiles did because it was still very messy. Papers, sticky notes, and red string were everywhere. “Cozy.”

He looks nervous, playing with his fingers and watching your expression, “I don’t… ha…” he fidgets with his soapy shirt, “I’ve never had a girl in my room before.”

You take a bow, “I’m honored.” You sit on the edge of his bed, “What your dad is investigating…”

“Derek… I know,” he sits at his desk chair. “He’s so close to figuring it all out. He just doesn’t know about the Alpha.”

“Was it bad of me to egg him on while he’s so clearly drunk?”

“No, I would’ve done the same thing.”

“Exactly,” you deadpan, smiling. “If the Alpha is killing people responsible for the fire, then Derek siding with him at the hospital…”

“… is probably because he wants people to pay for the fire as well.”

You rub your legs down to your knees, “And the Alpha just wants to become powerful again in his revenge.”

Stiles was tapping his fingers against the desk, “So was there any other reason why you wanted to stay the night? Because I know for a fact you already finished our chemistry project and it’s incubating in the lab right now.”

“Well, there have been a couple things I wanted to talk to you about.” You sit cross legged on the mattress and say, “Coach has been talking to me about Scott failing his classes.”

“Big surprise,” Stiles scoffs, “The guy thinks he can be some werewolf savior and graduate high school at the same time.”

You wince, “Finstock made a deal with the office. Scott can’t go to the winter formal.”

“Because he’s failing?” Stiles gawks.

“They wanted to kick him off the team, but Coach said… some strange things… and made the dance agreement.” You tilt your head to the side, “Are you still planning on going?”

Stiles spins around in his chair, fumbling over his words, “Um, er – yeah, technically. I was s-still planning on it. Why… might I ask?”

You sigh, “Allison will need someone to ask her out.”

He was caught off guard, “I’m sorry, what? Me ask Allison to the dance.”

“It makes sense!” you say, “With Scott’s savior complex he’s going to want everyone under supervision in case the Alpha decides to take us out one at a time.”

There was a hesitance in the way Stiles kept spinning around in the chair. He seems grumpy, “Why can’t Jackson ask her?”

“You don’t want to go with Allison?’

“Well, I…” he was biting his lips, “I don’t know. Are you going?”

“I think Andrew is going to ask me on our next date.”

Stiles bangs a foot against the desk and nearly slips out of the chair, “A second date? Already?”

You smile, going a little red, “We had a good time and… we may or may not have kissed.”

A horrible sinking feeling enters Stiles’ stomach. His heart clenches painfully and the sudden desire to hurt Wickstrom came on hard and fast. “And… you liked it.”

“It was a nice change of pace from my usual,” you try to hide your smile, “I haven’t been kissed in a while.”

Stiles waves his hands around, “Woah, woah, woah… you’ve been kissed before? I thought you were a hermit that made mac and cheese.”

“And I have the occasional neighbor boy kiss me,” you laugh, “There was Easton from down the street when I was thirteen and then Adam who was visiting from San Fransico over the summer when I was fifteen. Not to mention, nimrod, that Scott kissed me just the other week.”

“Oh my god,” he wipes a hand across his face, “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Get people to kiss you?”

You squint your eyes, folding your arms, “Are you telling me you’ve never been kissed?”

Stiles squirms in his chair, swinging it back and forth. “Maybe.”

“Ah, Stiles!” you bounce on his bed, “That’s so sweet.”

He groans, “Don’t tell me it’s sweet. It freaking sucks. All of my friends are getting their jollies off and I am left here in the dust with the driest lips this side of the valley.” His arms hang limp at his sides, “Is it nice?”

You giggle, “It can be. I think it only ever is when you kiss someone you like. It’s just… god, it’s hard to explain.” But Stiles was leaning in like the most attentive student. “There’s something really vulnerable about it, which leaves you wide open to feel anything and everything. You’re scared to death of course, especially with someone you like. But the bliss you feel after doing it is like nothing else.”

Stiles purses his lips, “Is that how the Andrew kiss went?”

“Almost.”

That raises his eyebrows, “I thought you really liked him.”

“I do, but I kind of have this new rule since the summer with Adam from San Fransico,” you hold up a hand, “I can’t date seriously. I can’t get too involved with any guy. So I’ll have to tell Andrew to stop eventually if this keeps going well.”

Stiles frowns, a punch to the gut, “Why can’t you date seriously?”

“Personal choice.”

“Because of what?” You smile and he groans, “Let me guess, it’s another story for another day.”

You use a finger gun on him, “Precisely, you’re catching on.” But the smile starts to dip from your face as you look at him. You lick your lips and say, “How about this. If you don’t have your first kiss by junior year… I’ll kiss you.”

The chair creaks as Stiles nearly falls from it, feet kicking out, “What!?”

“I’ll kiss you. We’ll make a kiss pact. I don’t want you getting too far into high school without having been kissed. The first one is always nerve-wracking anyway. It probably won’t be as meaningful as getting surprised with it by someone you really like, but it might be the next best thing.”

Stiles was losing his marbles, little fireworks exploding behind his eyes and falling like sparklers into his chest. “Okay.”

You smile at his goofy expression, “Now, can I borrow those sweats again? And maybe a t-shirt?”

He was still looking at you with sparklers in his eyes, “Huh? Oh yeah, sure.” He went to rummage through his dresser.

A few minutes later you were both in pajamas, having taken turns to use the bathroom to brush your teeth – you just using toothpaste and your finger – and standing in Stiles’ bedroom. You had dark sweats and an oversized shirt. With how broad Stiles’ shoulders were, the shirt hung low on your frame.

His throat was bobbing when he saw you standing there, pillows and blankets on the ground. “You good?”

You yawn, “Yep.” You meet him at the makeshift nest on the ground and nudge him, “Move please.”

“Oh, no this is for me,” he says, “You get the bed.” Standing so close to each other, you have to look up at him.

“I’m the guest, Stiles. You use your bed and I’ll count the dust bunnies under the bed.” You smile at the deep frown on his face.

He shakes his head, “Not gonna happen.”

“Fine,” you say, crawling onto his bed, “We can share.”

He chokes on his spit and starts coughing, “Share the bed?”

“Is that okay?” you look at him innocently.

That look combined with you wearing his clothes was sending him over the edge. His stomach was full of butterflies tickling the tightness in his ribcage. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. In one night he had a girl in his room, said girl promised to kiss him, and now wanted to share a bed with him.

“Um… I kind of sleep in the middle of the mattress. I don’t want you to wake up to me invading your personal space.”

You laugh, “That’s fine, I can just shove you away.”

He nods, but is lost for words, going to turn off the light while you get comfortable. He’s back in the darkness and hesitates, “Are you su…”

“Get in the bed, Stilinski,” you mumble, already buried in his woodsy honey scented sheets. You feel the mattress dip as he finds his pillow. His knee knocks into your leg, and he apologizes. He shuffles down further and pulls up the blanket, rubbing his arm against yours, and he apologizes again.

“It’s fine, Stiles,” you laugh, “We’re bound to touch being this close.”

He swallows hard, staring at the ceiling as you cuddle further into your pillow, blanket tucked under your chin. “Goodnight,” you mumble.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, “Goodnight, (Y/N).” In the dark of his bedroom and the warm, calm presence of you beside him, it gave him a sense of ease. He takes a deep breath and says, “Thank you for the dinner today. It… meant a lot.”

You hum in reply, “You’re welcome.”

The last thing he remembers is turning on his side to face you already asleep. Your mouth was a little open and the pillow was squashing your cheek. Your hair was wild behind you and the shirt you borrowed was low enough that he could see the scar above your heart. You look more beautiful than ever laying there.

He wanted to know what you were holding back. He wanted to know what he had to do to give you the same feelings he was having.

And with thoughts of you looking beautiful in his bed, he fell asleep too.

~~~

Hours later you wake groggily to a still dark room. Stiles was standing and pulling his shoes on, phone in his hand. You groan and shift the covers closer to your body.

“Where are you going?” you ask half-asleep.

Stiles freezes at your words, “Uh… werewolf business. You can just stay here…” he walks over to your nearly asleep figure, “I’ll come back later.”

You don’t reply and he thinks you’re already back to sleep. It makes him smile. He bends down to tuck the covers a little tighter around you and… he hesitates, looking at your face. He swallows hard and leans down to place a kiss to your head.

“Sweet dreams.”

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs @iamaslytherin0 @n3muru @bethsvrse @taylorbrooke-0912 @iloveyou2mia @everrrsincenewyork @gisellesprettylies

#stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinski #teen wolf stiles #teen wolf #okay j hannah #okayjhannah #fandomfantasia

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realityjoey · 2 months ago

Text

SEASON 1, EPISODE 6, “HAWKE.”

The roll call room buzzed with early morning chatter — the kind that came from sleep-deprived officers nursing coffee like a lifeline and catching up on the previous night’s chaos. The whiteboard was already cluttered with scribbled notes, half-erased names, and bullet points left behind by the midnight shift.

Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins sat at their usual spot in the second row — though today, they were noticeably closer together. Shoulders nearly brushing. Legs just shy of touching under the table. Neither of them said a word about it. And, interestingly enough, neither of them seemed to notice.

Tim leaned back in his chair, reading something on the file in his lap. Dylan was next to him, sipping her coffee and scrolling idly through her phone, though her gaze kept flicking to the whiteboard at the front of the room.

The low hum of voices faded when Sergeant Grey walked in, holding a thick stack of manila folders in one hand and a coffee in the other. He looked tired. Irritated. Exactly how Grey always looked at 7:00 a.m.

“Alright,” he barked, dropping the folders onto the front table with a dramatic thud. “Since the midnight shift was apparently too busy playing poker or solving the mysteries of the vending machine, we’ve got some leftover work to clear up today.” A few groans filled the room. Grey ignored them.

He started calling out assignments, tossing folders to pairs of officers without so much as a glance up. Stolen vehicle recovery. Loud disturbance follow-up. Illegal fireworks seizure. Then he picked up a thick file and held it for a beat longer.

“Bradford. Jenkins.”

Both looked up. Grey walked over and dropped the folder squarely on their desk, right between them.

“Congratulations. You’ve been gifted a beautiful little search warrant from the burglary unit. House was hit late last night. They think the suspect’s cousin stashed stolen goods two blocks over. We’re the lucky ones who get to play doorbell tag and hope no one takes a swing at you.”

Tim sighed heavily, flipping the file open. “Seriously? A burglary follow-up?”

Grey raised an eyebrow. “I’ll cry for you later.”

Tim glanced up, unimpressed. “I thought you gave the boring stuff to Nolan.”

“Trust me,” Grey said flatly. “I was tempted.” That earned a few quiet snickers from nearby officers. “Look at it this way,” Grey added, already turning back to the front. “You get to knock politely, dig through someone’s underwear drawer, and write it all up with Jenkins’ immaculate penmanship.”

Dylan smirked. “He just wants my paperwork to set the bar higher.”

“Damn right I do,” Grey muttered, sipping his coffee.

As the sergeant moved on, assigning the rest of the leftover calls, Dylan and Tim both leaned in toward the folder in front of them — their heads almost touching without realising it.

Dylan flipped through the warrant paperwork, skimming it fast. “Single-level property. Previous drug charges on the cousin. Property damage from forced entry. Fun.”

Tim made a face. “We’re gonna have to crawl through a garage, I can feel it.”

“That or a basement full of roaches,” she said, flipping another page.

Still, neither of them leaned back. Still seated close, as if the space between them had always been this small. As if they hadn’t spent last night replaying a shoulder touch, a quiet conversation, or a look held a few seconds too long.

“Ready to go knock on some doors?” Tim asked.

Dylan gave a shrug, casual. “Only if you promise not to flirt with dispatch for brownie points this time.”

He glanced sideways, smirking. “No promises.”

She rolled her eyes — but the edge of her mouth tugged upward.

And just like that, they stood and left roll call together — their shoulder bags slung over opposite sides, the case file tucked under Tim’s arm, their footsteps in sync as they made their way to the cruiser. Still pretending nothing had changed. Even though it had.

The cruiser pulled up to a single-level house in a rundown corner of Glassell Park. Paint peeled from the siding, and empty beer cans littered the dead grass out front. It looked like the kind of place that had seen more arrests than renovations, and Tim Bradford already had the guy’s file in hand.

“Name’s Carter Miles,” he muttered, skimming it one more time as Dylan Jenkins stepped out beside him. “History of assaulting officers, multiple drug-related priors, and apparently this place has been searched a dozen times already without finding squat.”

Dylan pulled her hair back into a tighter ponytail. “So he’s not stupid.”

“Nope,” Tim said, snapping the folder closed. “Which means we’ve gotta think like a thief and a liar.”

They approached the front door. No barking dogs. No movement inside. Tim knocked. Three heavy raps. Silence.

He waited exactly five seconds. Then muttered, “Alright. We’re doing this the fun way.” He kicked the door in.

The deadbolt snapped with a metallic crack, the door swinging inward to reveal a dimly lit living room, the air thick with stale beer and weed. A man in his thirties stood halfway between the kitchen and a beaten-up couch, eyes wide and arms halfway raised.

“Yo, what the fu—”

“Down. Now.” Tim’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Carter didn’t resist — maybe he remembered the last time he tried to swing on a cop and ended up with three fractured ribs. Tim grabbed him, spun him, and cuffed him to a chair, fast and tight.

“You know the drill, Carter,” Tim said flatly. “You’ve had more warrants than birthdays. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut.”

Carter snorted. “You pigs just mad you never find anything.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dylan muttered, already moving past the kitchen into the living room. Her eyes swept the space — a wreck of old furniture, laundry, takeout boxes, and years of dust. She dropped to her knees and started pulling up the edge of the couch, flashlight in hand. “He’s right. It’s clean on the surface. He’s not dumb — probably got a crawl space or a false panel somewhere.”

“I’ll check the vents,” Tim said, already moving toward the hallway.

But he wasn’t more than two steps away when it happened. Dylan was crouched, leaned forward with one arm under the couch, when Carter, watching her with a lazy, smug grin, opened his filthy mouth.

“Yo, lady cop… You can search my place all day if you’re gonna bend over like that.”

Everything stopped. Dylan’s body froze — not out of fear, but from pure, measured restraint. She started to rise, jaw tight, ready to respond— But she didn’t get the chance. Tim turned like a switch had flipped.

He stalked back across the room in three strides, smacked him across the back of the head, grabbed the back of Carter’s chair, and yanked it violently away from the table, forcing the man upright.

“Hey—!” Carter barked, but Tim already had him by the collar, spinning him around and slamming his chest against the peeling wall.

“Face the wall,” Tim growled, voice low and deadly.

Carter grunted, now pinned, arm twisted awkwardly behind him in the cuff. “What the hell—?!”

“You wanna mouth off? That’s one thing,” Tim said, his mouth near the guy’s ear now, ice-cold. “But you talk to her like that again, and I’ll make sure your next warrant comes with a concussion.”

The room went silent. Even Dylan stared, momentarily stunned — not because she couldn’t handle herself, but because Tim’s reaction was… different. Protective. Fierce. Personal.

Tim stepped back, eyes narrowed. “You want respect? Try giving it.”

Carter stayed quiet now — no cocky remarks, no slurs. Just a bitter, breathless silence as he slumped against the wall.

Dylan finally spoke. “Tim.”

His eyes flicked to hers — just for a second. She gave a small shake of her head. Not disapproving, just… surprised. But underneath it, a flicker of something else passed between them. Unspoken. Real.

Tim didn’t say anything as he walked past her and disappeared down the hallway to resume the search. And Dylan? She stood there, still catching her breath, still processing the heat behind his reaction — a heat that had nothing to do with protocol and everything to do with her.

What the hell was happening? And why did part of her not want it to stop?

The air inside Carter Miles’ house was stale, thick with old smoke, mildew, and the faint scent of body spray desperately trying to mask something much worse.

After restraining Carter and securing the premises, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins regrouped in the living room, both now donning gloves and flicking through the search warrant again.

“He’s done a good job hiding this stuff,” Dylan muttered, shining her flashlight up into the corners of the cracked ceiling.

Tim nodded. “Which means we go back to basics.”

He pulled a pen from his vest pocket and wrote four bold letters on a napkin from the filthy coffee table: D. E. A. R.

“Deception, Elusive, Access, and Repulsive,” he recited. “You know the drill. Look where most people wouldn’t. Where they hide what they don’t want found.”

Dylan leaned against the wall, arms folded. “You’re assigning letters now?”

“Of course,” Tim said, smug. “It’s only fair.”

He pointed to the first letter. “D — Deception. Hidden panels, fake bottoms, containers disguised as something else. I’ll take that.”

Dylan arched a brow. “You’re assigning yourself the clever one?”

Tim grinned. “E — Elusive. I’ll also take that. Nooks, behind outlets, under floorboards.”

“I see what’s happening here—”

“A — Access. You’re good at that,” he cut in. “So you’re climbing into the crawl space.”

Dylan narrowed her eyes. “That leaves me with—”

Tim’s grin widened. “R. Repulsive,” he said. “Congratulations. That means garbage bags, toilets, and—oh—there’s a lovely box of sex toys in the bedroom. Top shelf.”

Dylan blinked. “You’re joking.”

Tim was already walking toward the hallway. “Nope.”

“I am not sorting through sticky handcuffs and god-knows-what,” she called after him.

“You don’t want to win today’s warrant game?” he called back, smug. “Could be something nestled between a pair of furry handcuffs.”

“I’m going to throw up.”

Tim popped his head back into the room. “Listen, Jenkins, if you’re too squeamish—”

“Oh, don’t even start,” Dylan cut him off, marching after him. “I’m not squeamish. I just have standards. Which includes not elbow-deep diving into a man’s porn collection for sport.”

Tim leaned against the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, all too pleased with himself.

“Fine,” Dylan snapped, pointing a finger at his chest. “Here’s how this works: I get three minutes. If I find the stolen jewellery before then, we skip the ‘Repulsive’ round altogether. If not, we both go in. Together. You touch the love lube just as much as I do.”

Tim made a face. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’ve had years of practice.”

He stepped aside, gesturing with a bow. “Your time starts now.”

Dylan moved fast. Focused. She started with Access, climbing onto counters to check behind the top cabinets in the kitchen. Found nothing. Moved to Elusive — behind vents, inside power outlets, under the bathroom sink panel. Still nothing. Two minutes in. She pivoted.

Back to the living room. Eyes scanned the furniture. Then something caught her attention — a slight gap between the drywall and the back panel of an entertainment unit. Looked like bad craftsmanship. Seemed like nothing. But it was exactly the kind of D = Deception tactic they were trained to notice.

She crouched low, pulled her flashlight up close… and gently pushed on the panel. Click. It gave way. Inside, tucked into a cutout hollow, was a velvet-lined pouch, bulging with rings, gold chains, and a Rolex. Dylan grinned.

“Bradford!” she called. He walked in, clearly ready to gloat — until she dangled the pouch in front of him like a trophy. “I believe this counts as a win for Team Jenkins.”

Tim blinked. Then let out a low whistle. “How long did I give you?”

“Three minutes,” she said, smug. “I did it in two.”

He took the pouch, opened it, and glanced inside. “You missed your calling as a burglar.”

“I’m an excellent detective with an excellent sense of smell,” she said. “And I’d rather not waste it sniffing my way through a drawer of vibrating socks.”

He shook his head, chuckling. As they walked back toward Carter — still handcuffed to the chair and looking not nearly as smug as before — Dylan bumped her shoulder lightly into Tim’s.

“Next time you try to assign me the gross job,” she said under her breath, “remember this moment.”

Tim looked over at her. And for a second, that same half-smile from the burger van flickered back.

“Noted,” he said.

But somewhere deep inside, beneath all the banter and bravado, something warm settled in his chest. And Dylan? Still couldn’t figure out if the flutter in her stomach was pride— Or something she didn’t want to name yet.

The sky was overcast, a thick sheet of grey hanging low over Los Angeles as Dylan Jenkins and Tim Bradford pulled up to the curb. The caravan in question sat crooked along the side of a residential street — nondescript, a little worn, the kind of vehicle you’d pass without a second thought. Except this one had just pinged from Jeremy Hawke’s phone — a once-respected officer, now on the run after an alcohol-fueled, violent incident the night before.

Tim killed the engine, the silence settling between them like a weight.

“Open door,” Dylan noted, tilting her head. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That he wants us to find this,” Tim muttered, eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

They stepped out, both reaching for their sidearms instinctively. The caravan was parked tight against the curb, one tire dipped slightly into the gutter, the small window cracked open just enough to see movement inside. Tim moved forward first, gun low but ready.

“LAPD! Jeremy Hawke, if you’re in there, step out now!”

For a moment, nothing. Then the door creaked open and a head popped out — a man in his late twenties, shaggy hair, hands raised nervously.

“Whoa! Whoa. Don’t shoot, man. Hawke’s not here.”

Dylan kept her weapon raised, eyes locked on the man’s every move. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Jesse. I met him at a hotel, just outside the Valley.”

Dylan walked slowly around the side of the caravan, her boots crunching gravel beneath her. She scanned the undercarriage, the hitch, the wheel wells — all the typical places someone might stash something.

That’s when Tim appeared beside her, his brows furrowed in that way she’d learned meant something was clicking in his brain. Without a word, he stepped forward and popped the bonnet of the caravan’s attached vehicle. Inside, nestled carefully between the battery and the radiator fan, taped down in a black Ziploc bag, was a cell phone. Hawke’s phone.

Dylan let out a quiet breath. “He planted it.”

Tim nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Which means he’s running. And now he’s thinking like someone who knows our playbook.”

“Which makes him dangerous,” Dylan added. “He’s already one step ahead.”

Tim stared down at the phone, the low whir of nearby traffic muffled by the heaviness that had just settled over the scene. Dylan glanced up at him, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand gripped the edge of the bonnet.

“You knew him well?” Dylan asked.

“He was an instructor when I was in the academy.” Tim said quietly. “He was brave. Impulsive. Kind of cocky, but in a harmless way. This? This isn’t the guy I knew.”

Dylan was quiet for a moment. Then: “It never is.”

Tim didn’t respond — just closed the bonnet with a low clunk and turned back toward the cruiser. “No more doubt,” he said grimly. “He’s officially running. Let’s call it in.”

As they headed back to the car, Dylan walked a little closer than usual. Not saying anything — but present. With him. Like always. Because cops on the run? They were unpredictable.

The radio crackled with urgency as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins tore through mid-city traffic, sirens screaming and tires shrieking around every tight corner.

“—last seen heading westbound on Sunset. Suspect vehicle: black Chevy Silverado. Repeat, suspect is Jeremy Hawke. Suspect has evaded capture. Officers in pursuit—”

Tim was on the mic before dispatch finished. “This is 7-Adam-19. We’re in route. ETA two minutes.”

Dylan gritted her teeth behind the wheel, fingers tight on the steering wheel as they swerved between cars, moving faster than the law usually liked.

“Pushing it,” Tim muttered under his breath — not disapproving, just bracing.

“Then hold on,” Dylan snapped, flooring it.

Up ahead, Bishop and Nolan’s cruiser came into view, taillights glowing red through the thinning veil of smoke now billowing across the road. Their vehicle swerved violently, tires screeching as a thick grey cloud engulfed the entire intersection. Hawke had dropped a smoke bomb. Tactical-grade. Military issue.

Dylan swore. “He came prepared.”

Bishop and Nolan’s cruiser slowed behind the cloud, wipers flipping, lights still flashing — but it was clear they were momentarily blinded. Dylan veered hard left, bypassing the smoke entirely through a side street, engine roaring as she picked up speed.

Tim called it in. “7-Adam-19 — suspect has deployed obstruction. Bypass route initiated. We’re still tracking.”

Dylan’s foot stayed heavy on the gas, eyes sharp.

Then— “There!”

Hawke’s black Silverado. Barreling down an open street, weaving recklessly between lanes, smashing a mailbox as it took a corner too fast.

Dylan gritted her teeth, accelerating. “We’ve got visual.”

Tim’s voice cut through the tension. “He’s going to kill someone at this rate.”

Before she could respond, Captain Andersen’s voice broke through over comms.

“7-Adam-19, you are cleared to use vehicle intervention. Repeat, you are cleared to hit the target vehicle. Stop him now, before he kills someone.”

Dylan’s jaw tightened. “Copy that.” She closed the distance — fast.

The cruiser’s engine howled as she pulled up just behind Hawke’s rear bumper, eyes locked on the truck’s left tire. She angled slightly, ready to bump the rear quarter panel just enough to spin him. One second. Two— And then her eyes flicked to the side mirror of Hawke’s truck. Her breath caught.

“Wait—wait!”

She swerved hard, veering left and missing the Silverado by inches. The cruiser jolted, slammed against the curb, tires skidding against concrete.

Tim braced with one arm, gripping the handle above the window with the other. “Jenkins?!”

Dylan’s chest was rising fast. Her fingers trembled slightly on the wheel. “I saw a kid,” she said, breathless. “In the passenger seat. There’s a kid in the truck.”

Tim’s eyes widened. He was already grabbing the radio. “Dispatch, this is 7-Adam-19 — call off tactical intervention. Suspect is not alone. We have a possible child passenger. Repeat, possible child passenger. Likely to be Hawke’s son.”

Silence on the other end.

Then: “Confirmed, 7-Adam-19. Jeremy Hawke’s son was reported missing by his mother this morning. All units, adjust protocol.”

Tim turned to Dylan, still stunned. “You good?”

She nodded, swallowing thickly. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just—couldn’t risk it. Not with a kid.”

Tim looked at her for a long moment — longer than usual. And something in his expression shifted again. Not just admiration. Trust.

“You made the right call.”

Dylan stared ahead, heart still pounding, eyes following the fading shape of the Silverado vanishing into the horizon.

“He’s not just running,” she said quietly. “He’s desperate. And now he’s got a hostage who calls him Dad.”

Tim was already back on the mic. “Suspect is armed, unstable, and now mobile with a minor. We need containment now.”

And as the pursuit ramped up into a manhunt, Dylan hit the gas again — slower this time, steady, calculating. Because this wasn’t just about stopping Hawke anymore. It was about saving the child caught in the middle of the storm.

The sound of sirens was distant now — muffled behind the constant hum of engine noise and the chatter over the comms. Dylan Jenkins’ hands were steady on the wheel, her eyes locked on the black Silverado still speeding two blocks ahead, weaving through traffic with desperate, erratic swerves.

Behind them, a convoy of patrol units followed in coordinated formation — unmarked SUVs, black-and-whites, and even a traffic unit or two, all perfectly spaced, playing the long game.

It was a rare tactical move — make the suspect feel free by falling back into “tracking mode,” lights off, sirens off… letting him think he’s lost them.

What Hawke didn’t know — or so they thought — was that every traffic light had been turned green, and all side streets had been quietly barricaded. They were funneling him. Straight into the trap. Or at least, that was the plan.

Tim sat beside Dylan, eyes flicking between the Silverado, the GPS screen, and the map of coordinated unit positions.

“Fifteen more blocks and he’s boxed in,” he said, voice low but confident. “We’ve got him.”

Dylan glanced at him. “Unless he somehow grows wings or crashes into a farmer’s market, yeah.”

Tim leaned back slightly, a rare flicker of calm showing through his usually wired posture. “You know, if we’d used D.E.A.R to assess his next moves, we might’ve stopped him an hour ago. D.E.A.R works for any situation.”

Dylan rolled her eyes. “We are not doing this again.”

He grinned. “Come on. Deception? He left his phone in a decoy vehicle. Elusive? Disappeared before we even got to Megan’s. Access? Hitting places even seasoned cops wouldn’t think to look. And repulsive? The guy took his kid on the run — you think this isn’t repulsive?”

Dylan groaned. “You can’t just twist a tactical acronym to fit your narrative. That’s not how it works.”

“D.E.A.R works for everything,” Tim said, smug. “It’s a mindset.”

“You’re officially weird,” she muttered, turning the wheel slightly to hug the curve.

“And yet, here we are,” he replied, gesturing to the convoy behind them, “about to trap a rogue cop because someone thinks like a criminal.”

“You are not putting ‘Tim Bradford’ and ‘criminal mastermind’ in the same sentence—”

Suddenly, the radio burst to life. “All units, be advised — suspect is approaching final quadrant. Prepare to close in.”

Tim leaned forward, radio in hand. “7-Adam-19 is primary. Ready to block.”

The GPS showed it all — ahead of them, the funnel was narrowing. Barricades were in place. Backup was waiting.

“This is it,” Tim said, eyes locked on the road. “Three blocks. He’s boxed—”

The Silverado swerved. Hard. Left. Dylan swore and slammed the wheel, tires screeching as she followed.

“He turned! He turned left! He’s not following the funnel!” she shouted, taking the corner dangerously fast.

Tim scrambled for the radio. “Dispatch — he’s deviated. Suspect has turned onto Glendale Ave. He’s off the grid. I repeat, off the planned route.”

Static. Then a strained voice came through: “He must still have his radio. He’s been listening to us.”

Dylan’s heart dropped. “He’s a cop. Of course he kept his fucking radio.”

Tim’s expression hardened. “And now he knows we were closing in.”

The cruiser surged forward, lights back on, sirens slicing through the air again. Behind them, the convoy roared back into pursuit, scattered slightly by the sudden change in direction.

“He’s panicking now,” Tim muttered, buckling in tighter. “He’s not thinking straight.”

Dylan clenched her jaw. “That makes him more dangerous. Especially with a kid in the truck.”

They could see him again now — two blocks ahead, barely visible through the blur of tail lights. The Silverado jolted over a speed bump, bouncing like a bull let loose in a city.

Tim leaned toward the dash, voice grim. “Now we stop chasing Hawke the officer—”

Dylan finished it quietly. “And start chasing Hawke the criminal.”

The convoy continued through the city, sirens wailing now, engines roaring in an all-out pursuit. Jeremy Hawke’s Silverado was weaving erratically through traffic, clipping mirrors, jumping red lights, barely holding the line. Behind him, a swarm of black-and-whites followed, every unit in range mobilised, boxing him in tighter and tighter — but not quite enough.

In the second cruiser back, John Nolan gripped the radio in both hands, jaw clenched. His voice cracked slightly as he pressed the mic. “Jeremy… it’s me. It’s John.”

Static filled the channel for a moment. Then— nothing.

Nolan tried again. “You don’t have to keep doing this. Look, I get it. I know you. I know you didn’t plan for this to go this far. I know you’re scared. But you’ve got your son in the car, man. You can’t—”

Click. A sudden, sharp break in the static. And then: “Don’t talk to me like you know me.” The voice that came through was strained. Angry. Not the Jeremy Hawke anyone knew. “You think you know what this feels like?” he snarled. “You think you understand what it’s like to have your whole life ripped away? Your family. Your badge. Your name.”

“Jeremy,” Nolan tried, softer now. “We can fix this. You can still walk away—”

“No, we can’t!” Hawke’s voice exploded over the frequency. “It’s already done. You’re either with me or you’re not. Don’t call me again.”

The channel went silent. Not a click. Not a word. Just silence.

Back in the lead pursuit cruiser, Tim Bradford exhaled slowly, face grim. “He’s gone dark.”

Dylan’s fingers flexed around the wheel. “And if he’s gone quiet, it means he’s stopped caring who hears what. That’s not good.”

Tim leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he tracked the Silverado’s route on the GPS.

“He’s not heading for an exit. He’s circling. Looping. Like he’s looking for something.”

Dylan was already ahead of him. “Or someone.”

“What would you do?” Tim asked suddenly. “If it were you — desperate, cornered, son in the car, and no way out?”

Dylan frowned. “I’d look for cover. Somewhere dense. Somewhere I could disappear long enough to either blend in or take a hostage.”

Tim tapped the map. “Somewhere crowded. Big. Confusing.”

Dylan’s eyes snapped up. “Covered parking.”

They both said it at once— kind of.

“The mall.” “The shopping centre.”

Tim grabbed the radio. “Dispatch, 7-Adam-19 — suspect may be heading for the Glendale Galleria or surrounding commercial parking structures. He’s circling. It’s not random.”

Dylan was already flooring it again, taking a hard right and veering onto a faster access road. “If he parks that truck and disappears into a crowd—”

“—with a gun and a kid,” Tim finished grimly. “It’s a nightmare scenario.”

More voices buzzed over the comms. Confirmations. Redirects. Units repositioning. But inside the shop, Dylan and Tim were locked in their own storm — two minds in sync, thinking like the man they used to work beside. A man they now had to stop at all costs.

Dylan’s voice was tight. “We need to cut him off before he makes it into that parking structure.”

Tim nodded. “Then let’s move like we mean it.”

The chase had ended. But the hunt had begun.

The mall was alive with noise — the soft hum of overhead music, the murmur of shoppers, the occasional burst of laughter or the screech of a toddler — all layered over the quiet, pulsing intensity of the LAPD as they moved, spread out, eyes sharp, steps quiet.

No sirens. No shouting. They couldn’t spook the public. Not with children everywhere. Families. A hundred places for Jeremy Hawke to hide. Or worse — take someone else with him.

Dylan Jenkins spotted them first. A flash of movement through the glass — Hawke, holding his son’s hand, head low, moving fast past the cosmetics counter at the edge of the department store.

“Bradford!” she hissed, breaking into a sprint.

Tim was already moving beside her, weaving through shoppers, badge in one hand, free hand waving people aside.

“LAPD — out of the way!”

Hawke turned. Their eyes met. And for a split second, Dylan saw it — not rage. Not panic. But guilt.

He yanked open the security door into the store’s stockroom, dragging his son with him. Tim and Dylan pushed through just as the metal security barrier began to descend behind them.

“Slide under!” Tim shouted, diving under the barrier and holding it just high enough for Dylan to slip beneath. Seconds later, the metal slammed shut behind them, cutting them off from the rest of the store — and the public.

Inside was a maze of racks and boxed-up shipments. Bright fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead.

Then came the voice. “Don’t follow me!”

It was Hawke. Near the back.

“Jeremy, stop!” Tim shouted, rounding the first corner.

Suddenly — Nolan burst through from a side access hallway, out of breath but determined.

“Jeremy—please,” he called, voice lower, more measured. “Let’s just talk. You don’t have to do this.”

They saw Hawke now — crouched beside a display rack, breathing hard, his son standing behind him, confused, clutching his small backpack.

“I can’t go back,” Hawke muttered. “I’m not going to rot in some cell while she moves on and pretends none of it happened. I’m not losing everything.”

“You haven’t lost your son,” Nolan said. “He’s here. He’s scared. And you’re still the person who raised him — you can still end this without destroying everything else.”

Hawke shook his head. “He’s better off without me.”

Then, in one swift motion, he snapped a handcuff around the boy’s wrist, latching the other end to the steel leg of a clothing rack.

“Jeremy!” Tim and Dylan shouted in unison.

“I can’t take him with me. He’ll slow me down.”

“Don’t do this,” Nolan said, stepping forward.

But Hawke was already moving. He bolted toward the rear exit — a shipping bay door left slightly ajar — and disappeared through it. The child was now crying, pulling at the cuffs.

Dylan ran over immediately, crouching, gently placing a hand on the boy’s back. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Tim was already calling it in. “Suspect has exited through the loading area. Child secure. All units converge on northeast quadrant.”

Moments later, the rest of the team arrived — Grey, Bishop, Chen, and two officers from mall security. Everyone looked tense. Wired. Grey’s brow was furrowed deep, sweat beading at his temple.

“He’s still inside,” Grey muttered. “Security footage confirms — no exits triggered beyond the west loading dock. We’ve got most exits covered.”

“Then where the hell is he?” Bishop asked.

“He knows this place is a labyrinth,” Lucy added, glancing at the map of the mall floor plan on her phone. “Employee corridors, utility stairwells, back offices…”

Tim turned to Dylan, who was now standing, jaw set. “What would you do?” he asked.

Dylan’s mind was already racing. “He won’t try for the loading docks. Too open. Elevators and exits are probably covered. If he’s smart—”

“He is,” Tim cut in.

“—then he’ll go low. Basements. Mechanical areas. Maybe maintenance tunnels if this place has them. He won’t go high — he’ll want a place to hide, not jump.”

Grey nodded. “Alright. Jenkins, Bradford — check sub-levels. Bishop, Nolan, Chen, take cameras with security. I want every hallway monitored. He’s somewhere in this building, and he’s running out of time.”

They nodded, already moving.

As Dylan and Tim jogged side by side down a concrete corridor toward the lower levels, her voice was quiet but firm.

“He’s unraveling.”

Tim glanced at her. “And desperate.”

“That makes him the most dangerous man in this building.”

The fluorescent lights had died three turns ago. Now, the only thing guiding them was the hum of the emergency bulbs lining the concrete wall — pale red and flickering, casting long shadows through the sub-level maintenance corridor of the Glendale Galleria.

Dylan Jenkins moved silently along the left flank of the hallway, her Glock steady in her grip. Each footstep was careful, calculated, her body pressed close to the cinder block wall. The air smelled of damp steel, dust, and something chemical.

On the opposite side — equally quiet — Tim Bradford moved in tandem. They were tracking Jeremy Hawke. And they were close. There’d been movement. Breathing. A metallic scrape that echoed too long.

Then— “Don’t come any closer.”

The voice floated from the shadows. Cold. Measured. But fractured.

“Hawke,” Tim called out, voice calm, weapon raised. “You’re boxed in. Just drop the gun, and we’ll talk this out.”

A bitter laugh echoed back. “You think you’ve got this under control?” Hawke said, stepping out from behind an electrical unit. He was dishevelled, pale, sweat beading at his temples — but his hands were steady. Gun drawn. Pointed squarely at Dylan.

Tim froze. Dylan didn’t move. Her grip tightened slightly — nothing else. Her stance was strong. Her aim was perfect. But her eyes locked on the barrel aimed directly at her. Tim’s heart dropped.

“Hawke—” he started, voice lower now, laced with something close to desperation.

“You made a rookie mistake,” Hawke said, almost smug, almost gleeful. “You’re both too close. Your lines of fire cross. If you shoot me, you risk hitting her. If she shoots—well. She might take out her partner.” His eyes shifted, twitching with something broken behind them. “You two really think you’re the heroes here? You think you’re different than me?”

“No one said we were heroes,” Dylan said, voice level despite the cold sweat trickling down her spine. “But we’re not pointing guns at our own people.”

He took one step closer.

Tim’s voice sharpened. “Don’t. Jeremy, listen to me—if you hurt her, if you even twitch wrong, I swear to God—”

“She’s just leverage,” Hawke muttered. “You won’t shoot if it puts your partner at risk, Bradford. I know you. I know the type.”

Tim’s voice cracked, barely audible: “You’re not gonna shoot her.”

“Is that a threat or a prayer?” Hawke whispered.

Dylan’s finger hovered over the trigger, her breathing steady, every muscle poised but still. She could feel Tim’s presence behind him, the weight of the moment, of this moment, settling like concrete in her chest.

“He’s bluffing,” Tim said, eyes locked on Hawke’s back. “He won’t shoot you.”

He was speaking to Dylan. And to himself. Because the truth was, if Hawke pulled that trigger, and Dylan— He wouldn’t survive it. He wouldn’t come back from that. Not again. Not after he’s already seen her shot for saving his life.

“Jeremy,” Dylan said softly, “you’re not thinking clearly. You’re scared. You’re angry. But this—this isn’t you. And the man I read about? The cop you used to be? He wouldn’t pull that trigger.”

Jeremy Hawke’s gun was still raised, though his finger hovered loosely near the trigger now. His eyes — bloodshot and wired — flicked from Dylan to Tim.

“What’s the endgame here, Jeremy?” Tim asked, voice low, steady despite the storm building behind his eyes.

“You think I’m going to be the guy who surrenders? Gets dragged out in cuffs while news cameras wait to plaster me all over every channel?” Hawke spat. “Nah. I go out my way.” He dropped the gun to the floor with a deliberate clunk. “But we do it like men,” he added. “No bullets. Just blood.” He looked at Tim with a sick, eager grin. “Been waiting years to test you, Bradford. And you…” — he turned to Dylan — “can’t wait to see what you’re made of.”

Dylan exhaled, already sensing where this was going. “Of course,” she muttered, lowering her weapon with a roll of her eyes. “Because why wouldn’t I want to get into a bare-knuckle brawl with a riled-up ex-cop in a maintenance corridor on a Tuesday?”

Tim gave her a sideways glance. “You can handle it.”

Dylan snorted. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I want to.” But she holstered her gun and raised her fists all the same.

Hawke’s knuckles cracked as he squared up. “Let’s dance.”

Tim charged first, always the battering ram when instinct kicked in — but Hawke was faster than expected. He ducked low and slammed his elbow into Tim’s temple, sending him spinning to the ground, stunned.

“Tim!” Dylan barked, eyes flashing.

Hawke turned to her, grinning. “You’re up.”

She didn’t hesitate. She lunged. The first punch landed square in her gut, knocking the air out of her lungs, but she didn’t go down. Instead, she twisted with the blow, using the momentum to grab Hawke’s shoulder, kneeing him hard in the ribs. But he was big. Strong. Experienced. He grabbed both her wrists, and slammed her against the wall, the back of her skull bouncing painfully off the concrete.

“Still think you can take me, Jenkins?” he hissed, inches from her face.

Then— Slide. A small object skidded across the floor, barely audible. Pepper spray.

Tim — still groggy, still down — had pushed it her way, his hand bleeding from where it scraped the concrete.

Dylan didn’t hesitate. With her wrists pinned, she maneuvered just enough to hook the spray can with her boot, popping it upward into reach. Hawke realized too late — she snatched it, and sprayed directly into his face, holding it until he screamed. Hawke reeled back, eyes clamped shut, shouting and swearing, clawing at his face.

And that’s when Tim struck. From the floor, he whipped out his taser, arcing it forward and driving the probes into Hawke’s leg. TZZZT. Hawke seized up mid-stagger, body locking before he collapsed to the ground like a toppled statue.

Moments later— Footsteps. Running.

Bishop and Chen burst into the corridor, guns drawn and eyes scanning—only to see Hawke unconscious, and Tim and Dylan slumped against opposite walls, both breathing heavily, both bruised and scraped.

“Clear!” Bishop called out, holstering her weapon and moving in to cuff Hawke.

Chen’s eyes widened. “Holy sh—are you two okay?”

“Define okay,” Dylan groaned, wincing as she stood upright, hand to her ribs.

Tim sat back, breathing hard. “He got a cheap shot. I was distracted.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “You were overconfident. And slow. Guy elbowed you into next week.”

Tim gave her a tired glare. “I got you the spray, didn’t I?”

“Right after eating the floor like a rookie,” she said, grinning despite her split lip. “What would you do without me?”

Tim couldn’t help it. He smiled — a real one, bruised and tired and sincere. “Shut up, Jenkins.”

They looked at each other then, breath catching slightly. Because beneath the ache in their limbs and the adrenaline crashing down, there was something else. Something quiet. Something neither one of them could keep brushing off much longer. But now wasn’t the time. Now, Hawke was in cuffs. His kid was safe. The building was clear. But the air between Dylan and Tim? Still crackling. Still unresolved. And with every near-death moment, every brush with danger, whatever this was kept getting harder to ignore.

The station was quieter than usual, that rare after-hours lull hanging in the air. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a soft, sterile glow over the worn linoleum floors and cluttered desks of the bullpen. Most of the chaos from earlier had died down, and the adrenaline that had carried them through the last few hours was finally starting to drain from their limbs.

Dylan Jenkins and Tim Bradford emerged from the locker room, now in their civilian clothes — Tim in a plain black Henley and jeans, Dylan in her usual black hoodie and joggers, her hair tied loosely back. They looked like two people who’d been through a warzone… and maybe had.

The hallway stretched out in front of them, but Dylan could feel it — that weight hanging off Tim’s shoulders, subtle but there. The way he walked just a little slower than usual, quieter. A shadow of guilt clinging to him like dried blood.

And she knew why. Because he hadn’t been there. Not the way he wanted to be. He hadn’t stopped Hawke before Dylan got slammed against that wall. Before she had to fight her way out of it.

So, naturally, she decided to do what she did best. Ruthless sarcasm.

“So,” she began casually, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder, “just to recap, I took a punch to the stomach, got pinned to a wall by a six-foot, rage-filled ex-cop, sprayed him in the face with his dignity, and had enough energy left to quip about it—”

Tim sighed, eyes fixed forward. “Jenkins—”

“—while you, my ever-capable partner, threw yourself headfirst into an elbow and spent the next five minutes face down on the floor like a Victorian lady fainting over corset tightness.”

That did it. A breath. A huff. The barest edge of a smile.

“Don’t make me regret pushing you the pepper spray,” he muttered, but his tone was lighter now.

“Oh, you regret it?” Dylan turned to him with mock outrage. “I had this whole image in my head of the great Tim Bradford — training officer, tactical god, the man, the myth, the very large shoulder pads — and then boom. Down like a sack of potatoes.”

Tim shook his head, that smile tugging a little further into view. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And still standing,” she shot back proudly. “Unlike you.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it. In fact, he looked over at her then — really looked — and there was something in his eyes that lingered. Not admiration. Not just respect. Something quieter. Heavier. Real.

She felt it too. Which is probably why she looked away first, bumping his elbow lightly with her own.

“Don’t go brooding on me,” she added. “I’m not made of glass.”

“No,” he said, voice softer. “You’re not.”

They turned the corner together, still shoulder-to-shoulder, still close enough that their elbows brushed occasionally. And across the bullpen, Angela Lopez and Lucy Chen sat at their desks, both mid-report — or, they had been. Now, they were just watching.

Lucy nudged Angela subtly with her pen. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

Angela’s eyes followed Dylan’s hand as it briefly touched Tim’s shoulder during another laugh, her body leaning slightly into his space. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away. If anything… he leaned back.

Angela sipped her coffee, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I see it.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Do we say something?”

“God, no,” Angela whispered, eyes gleaming. “We let it simmer.”

They watched as Dylan and Tim continued walking, voices quiet, laughter low and intimate — not romantic yet, not overt. But definitely… something. Something brewing.

It was nearing the end of the shift the next day. The bullpen hummed with the usual end-of-watch energy — officers typing up their final reports, the faint buzz of vending machines in the corner, someone laughing in the breakroom two doors down. Outside, the LA sun had started to dip low, casting warm gold light across the tiled floor.

Angela Lopez, Lucy Chen, and Jackson West sat clustered around a shared table near the windows, each of them with cold coffees, tired limbs, and more curiosity than paperwork at this point.

Jackson leaned back in his chair, stretching with a groan. “I still can’t believe what went down with Hawke yesterday. That could’ve been really bad.”

Angela nodded. “It was really bad. But the fact no one got shot? That’s a miracle.”

Lucy swirled her iced coffee with a straw, eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, well… I can’t stop thinking about Bradford and Jenkins.”

Angela smirked. “Here we go.”

Jackson glanced between them. “What about them?”

Lucy leaned in, like she was about to share classified intel. “They walked out together yesterday after being cleared. Civilian clothes. All normal on the surface… until she started doing her British charm— all sarcasm, subtle intimacy.”

Angela laughed. “British charm?”

“Oh yeah,” Lucy nodded. “You saw it. You saw Tim’s reaction. Lucy said. “He smiled. Like an actual, real smile. You know how rare those are.”

Angela gave a knowing look. “Weird thing is, I saw them at the hospital. Both of them looked like they’d been a bit busted up from the scrap with Jeremy — bruises, blood, dirt… and neither one of them cared. They were just asking if the other was okay,” adding onto the speculation and gossip Jackson was now intrigued with.

Jackson leaned forward. “You think something’s going on?”

Angela lifted her hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying… Jenkins is tough. Closed-off. Doesn’t let many people in. But with Tim? She lets him in. That’s not nothing.”

Lucy grinned. “They bicker constantly, they work like they’re reading each other’s minds, and now they’re touching each other every five seconds like it’s not a big deal.”

Jackson gave a slow, impressed nod. “I mean… they do have chemistry. But Tim? With someone like Jenkins?”

Angela raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean,” Jackson said quickly, “she’s… intense. And smart. And… British.”

Lucy smirked. “And intimidating. You forgot intimidating.”

Angela leaned back. “So is Tim. They’re basically the same person. Stubborn, protective, emotionally constipated—”

“—but quietly loyal and kind of terrifying in a crisis,” Lucy added.

Jackson shook his head, laughing. “Okay, okay. So what are we thinking? A thing?”

Angela sipped her coffee. “Not yet. But it’s heading there.”

Lucy twirled her straw. “Give it a month.”

Jackson grinned. “You think it’ll be Jenkins who cracks first or Bradford?”

Angela and Lucy both answered at once:

“Bradford.”

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Angela reached into her back pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, sliding it onto the table. “I’m putting this down on ‘within the month.’”

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

#oc #the rookie #tim bradford #jackson west #john nolan #lucy chen #tim bradford x reader #fanfic #oc x tim bradford #officer bradford #angela lopez #talia bishop #sergeant bradford #rookie x oc #wade grey #sergeant grey #the rookie fanfic

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woniwontons · 22 days ago

Text

dead end - CHAPTER SIX ; bob's pov of events

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

w.c: 4.9k

warnings: some significant use of she/her pronouns for the reader here, psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, murder, domestic bob, gore/bloody void, like a lot of blood & violence, taking pills (not suicide), kidnapping

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bob's pov; retold in his perspective, starting from the events of chapter one

He heard the footsteps before he saw you.

Soft rubber soles echoing off the polished concrete floor, slow and uncertain. A familiar cadence to him.

His body went still. Every muscle locking into place, even as his breath caught halfway up his throat.

Even after everything, even after the fifth time they’d scrubbed your memories clean, his body still remembered your steps before his mind did.

He stood behind the door. Motionless. One hand pressed to the reinforced wall beside the frame. Just close enough to hear.

You were here, again.

His eyes burned.

You shouldn’t have been assigned to this level yet. The reassignment protocol wasn’t supposed to go into effect until morning. That’s what Harding had said. That’s what the file claimed.

But he should’ve known better because you were always so curious.

Even now, stripped of memories, stripped of trust, stripped of any memories of him, your curiosity still found its way to his door.

He didn’t need to look to know what you’d see.

A hallway too quiet. Fluorescent lights that always flickered once right above his room, reacting to the flaring energy growing in his mind. The kind of silence that felt like it was watching you.

He could feel your presence in his chest now. Not in any mystical way, but in the most human way of wanting.

You were on the other side. Breathing. Staring.

He closed his eyes, watching you on the security monitor as your hand reached up to the panel.

His hand twitched in sync with yours, reaching up to the door as a fist clenched around his heart.

Every instinct screamed at him to open the door. To pull you in. To tell you everything, and find another way to bring your old self back together.

To say, You came to me, remember? You always do.

But you wouldn’t remember any of that.

Not after what they did to you.

Not after he begged them to do it. Again.

He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight it throbbed in complaint. His palm pushed harder into the wall, trying to ground himself. Trying not to break.

The Void stirred beneath his skin like a serpent waking.

She forgot us.

“Yes,” he whispered, under his breath. “I made her forget you.”

And in doing so, she forgot it all.

His fingers curled into a fist. Nails digging into his palm.

You've ruined it all, this is the fifth time now.

“She was breaking.”

And now she’s empty.

“She was hurting, she was in so much pain.”

And you left yourself alone. Again, with no way to fix her yet.

He pressed his forehead to the cool surface of the wall. The pain was easier to bear when it was physical.

He had watched the footage. All of it.

You siting in the memory suite, consent on your lips, determination in your voice. “I want to forget.”

He remembered the first time you said it.

How much it destroyed him to hear that wanted to forget. That in order to forgot about the events that had occurred when you were fourteen, you also had to forget everything about the creation of the procedure. Even if it overlapped with your time with him.

How quickly he’d whispered, please don't leave me.

You lied, saying you would reconsider, but you had done it anyways.

He couldn’t bear it, especially not with what lived inside him.

He heard your breath catch. On the other side of the door, and he recovered himself then, realizing how quickly his energy had made the temperature drop. How you must have felt the sudden coldness.

You were still there.

Lingering.

Maybe you felt it, too. The pull to each other that neither of them could name, one the extended beyond the bounds of memory.

He reached for the handle, but stopped himself. A tremble shook in his hands as he kept the urges contained.

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes as the Void rose higher, licking at the edges of his grief like a wound it wanted to nest in.

You didn’t know him anymore. Not really.

He was just another locked door in a facility full of familiar faces to you; everyone but him.

He lowered his hand and forced his feet to stay planted.

Let her walk away.

Let her feel safe again.

Even if it meant being a stranger to you. Again.

Even if it meant burning from the inside out every time you looked at him without recognition. It hurt him so badly, his mind spun with pain he didn't realize could be felt mentally. An ache that tore into the cavity of his hollowing chest.

He waited until your footsteps started again—faster this time, retreating.

He didn’t let himself breathe until they were gone.

S̵͇̺̿̓E̷̜̼͂͋S̵̘̙͊̐S̶̟͂̾Ị̶̂̔O̵̟̪͝Ň̶̫̼͌ ̵̣̽Ö̴̰̪́N̴͇̺͑E̶͚͋́ ; in the pov of bob

The lights above the training room hummed faintly. Blue-toned, cold. Bob sat at the edge of the mat, his body still, eyes half-lidded—not asleep, just quiet in waiting.

He didn’t have to look up to know it was you.

The moment you entered the observation room, something shifted in the air. Your presence buzzed under his skin like static. You were always soft at first. Not afraid, not yet. But holding something back. Holding him back, maybe, without even realizing it.

You stood behind the glass. Clipboard in your hand with your shoulders drawn.

He lifted his head slowly and met your gaze.

You flinched.

No glowing eyes. No voice from the dark. Just at him. Just at Bob.

That hurt him more than the previous time.

You introduced yourself. He already knew your name. Had said it to you and whispered it to himself more times than he could count. But he listened again to your voice like it was sacred.

Your voice had changed a little. Brighter at the edges now, but still yours.

You spoke like a professional. Rehearsed. And when he teased you; about not being a doctor, about whether you were there to shrink him—you answered back with a faint smile.

You always did have a sense of humor. They couldn't take things like that from you.

He said he didn’t feel the Void when he was awake anymore. Not a complete lie, although it hadn't been true for these last few days. But you tensed anyway. He felt it ripple off of you like cold air. Your heartbeat stuttered before you even realized it.

You were gripping your clipboard too tightly.

Bob stood, carefully. Slowly, like he was approaching a deer. He stayed a few feet away, enough not to startle you. Not that it mattered. His presence always rattled something loose in you, even if you didn’t understand why.

When he told you he’d felt you at his door yesterday, he meant it. God, he meant it, even if he couldn't divulge into how badly he wants to go outside and just hold you again.

“I wasn’t watching,” he said softly. “I just… noticed.”

Because how could he not?

Your presence had a signature for it. A specific weight in the air. A rhythm in his chest that beat faster when you approached. He didn’t need a security feed to know when you were nearby.

You looked down at your notes. Trying to redirect. Retreating into clinical distance. It didn’t work. Not for either of you.

Your voice was quieter when you asked what he meant.

“My shadow,” he’d said. “Or maybe your heartbeat.”

You froze. Didn’t know whether to feel threatened. But he wasn’t trying to scare you. He was trying to reach you. Trying to find some trace of the person who used to fall asleep on his chest without fear, who'd look at him like a protector.

He apologized. Said he was trying to get better.

At being normal.

At being someone people didn’t instinctively fear.

When you asked about the Void, he told a white lie the only way he could. Carefully. Sometimes, he said, it was hard to tell where he ended and it began.

Especially when he was tired. Especially when he was alone, without you around to distract him from it all.

He wanted to ask if you’d been dreaming. If the Void had touched you yet. But he didn’t. He asked if you dreamed instead. It was safer. More human.

You said yes.

He told you he hoped they were good.

Because his dreams were always of you. And none of them ever ended well.

Then Harding came in. Sharp voice, cold heels on tile. Talking about sensor spikes and midnight activity.

You didn’t look at him.

But he never took his eyes away from you.

Harding dismissed you casually, offering to let you leave.

And Bob’s heart sank.

But then—

“I’ll stay,” you said.

Something in his chest cracked open.

You wanted to stay around him. Even if you didn’t know why.

Harding said nothing, just gave you permission. Told you to pull a chair.

You sat in the corner of the room like you didn’t know what his presence was doing to you.

But he did.

And it nearly destroyed him.

He answered Harding’s questions politely. Obediently. Softly. But every now and then, when she looked down, he looked at you instead.

Not hoping for recognition.

Not even for a kindness.

Just for a moment where you saw him: not as a monster, or a file—but as someone.

As yours.

Even if you didn’t remember.

Even if you never would.

before ; bob's pov

He didn’t go back to his room right away.

He should have. That’s what Harding expected. Cool down. Hydrate. Log the session in his recovery journal. Wait for another hour of silence.

But the hallway would smell like you. You’d stood there longer than you realized. The faint trace of your skin, your breath, it clung to the energy in the air like static.

He couldn’t walk into that right now.

So instead, he turned toward the elevator.

The corridors were quiet. His shoes feet stuck slightly to the vinyl flooring, badly needing a mopping. Every light he passed flickered the tiniest bit—whether it was the Void or faulty wiring, he didn’t know anymore.

He stood outside Bucky’s door for longer than necessary, gathering his bearings. The hall cameras would catch it. Harding would raise an eyebrow later.

Let her.

He knocked twice.

There was a pause. Then the soft hiss of the lock disengaging.

Bucky answered shirtless, hair still wet, towel slung around his neck. He looked tired in that way only soldiers could. Fatigue wasn’t an emotion for him, just a state you adapted to.

Bob didn’t say anything right away.

Bucky stepped aside and let him in without asking.

The door closed behind him with a sigh.

“Wasn’t expecting you,” Bucky said, moving toward the dresser, pulling on a dry shirt like it was part of a ritual. “You just finish a session?”

Bob nodded, slow. “She stayed the whole time.”

“The assistant?”

He hesitated. Then: “Yeah.”

Bucky didn’t say anything right away. He just grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, tossed it toward him. Bob caught it without looking.

He didn’t open it.

He just stood there, still holding it, staring at the floor. “She looked at me like she knew something she couldn’t name.”

“That’s how she looks at most people.”

“Not like that.”

Bucky’s tone was calm, but sharper now. “She doesn’t remember you, Bob. You need to stop looking for things that aren’t there.”

“I’m not,” he said softly. “It’s not a look. It’s something deeper. Like her body reacts to mine before her mind catches up. You saw it when she walked past my door on the security feed.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “And what do you think that means?”

“I don’t know.” A pause. Then quieter: “But it hurts.”

The words landed harder than he meant them to.

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture softened. He had a soft spot for the younger man since he'd first met him.

“You’ve done this four times already,” Bucky said. “You knew what it would feel like. Why is this different?”

Bob looked down at the unopened water bottle. His thumb pressed into the plastic hard enough to crinkle it. “Because I can’t stop remembering the way she used to look at me before. Like I would make her happy by just existing in front of her.”

“And now?”

“Now she looks like she’s bracing for impact.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, tired. “She’s not scared of you, Bob. She’s scared of the only stories she remembers of you.”

Bob didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew what that meant.

“I’m trying,” he said, finally. “To be better. To give her space. But I don’t know how to exist in the same building as her and pretend none of it ever happened.”

Bucky leaned against the wall. “Then don’t pretend.”

Bob looked at him, confused.

“Be real with her. Let her form her own opinion. Don’t try to force the past back onto her. If something’s going to grow again, let it happen naturally without telling her about her lost memories.”

“You think it could?”

Bucky didn’t smile. But there was a flicker of something gentler in his expression. “You forget, I watched her help put me back together. If anyone knows how to see past someone’s worst moments… it’s her.”

Bob’s throat tightened. He didn’t trust himself to answer.

"I'll try to, without doing anything to remind her."

But they both knew he couldn’t promise that.

Not when you looked at him like that. Not when the Void already had a foothold. Not when the only thing that kept it quiet... was you.

In Session ; bob's pov & more answers

You entered the room, and it was like the center of gravity shifted.

Bob had already been seated on the mat, hands resting loosely on his knees, breath slow, posture calm enough to pass. He’d practiced this stillness. Every morning. Every day since the last time.

But when you walked in, something in him broke rhythm.

You didn’t look different. Not outwardly. Clipboard, clean lines, and a mask of professionalism. The same stance as always.

But he could tell the difference.

Your steps were heavier. Your breath was quieter. You were trying to be normal, and failing in all the same places you used to. The weight in your gaze told him the Void had seen you again.

And if the Void was touching you, dreaming through you—then that meant Bob was losing control.

Again.

Dr. Harding spoke first. She always did. Her voice was efficient, clinical. All the questions were the same: ideation, impulse, suppression. He answered them all perfectly. That was the job. That was the only way they let him stay lucid.

But every time she spoke, his attention wandered back to you.

You weren’t writing like you usually did. Your hand moved, but he could see it wasn’t words. The lines were loose. Repetitive. Just drawn circles on the page.

He knew that from you. Your old self used to do it, too—right before you’d break.

He tried not to stare. But when your eyes met his for a second longer than they should have, it was enough.

Harding’s comm buzzed. She left.

And the second the door sealed, the breath left his chest like it had been held for days. He made a small joke. Something to fill the silence.

You responded.

He was careful not to say your name. He didn’t know what you’d remember. What you felt. But he could see the fracture lines now. In your eyes. In your voice.

“There were a few before you, but they didn’t last long,” he said carefully. “The last one, she actually started getting sick. Headaches, panic attacks, you name it. Like her brain was shutting itself off."

He said the last assistant had gotten sick. He didn’t say it was you.

He couldn't tell you that there were no assistants before you. Only resets of you, four in total, and you in front of him now was the fifth.

The one who got headaches. Who couldn’t sleep. Who started hearing the Void whisper during waking hours.

All you.

Each time, they promised it would work. That this version would stick. That he just had to love you so gently, so distantly, that you wouldn’t feel the pull again.

But it never lasted.

You remembered every time.

Your body always remembered before your mind did. That’s how the Void found its way back.

“You don’t feel sick, do you?”

You shook your head. Slowly, but Bob could tell it was a slight lie.

“That's good,” he said, "the last thing I'd ever want is to hurt someone else again. Especially you."

You were talking to him now. Your voice quieter than the hum of the vents.

Something about Harding’s tablet. About seeing notes you weren’t supposed to see. You said you thought you were the subject.

And you were right.

He looked at you, heart breaking all over again, because he couldn’t say the truth—not here. Not where they were still watching. Not where the wrong sentence could put you back under.

“You think they’re doing this on purpose?” he whispered.

You were already spiraling. He saw it in your hands. The way you wrung them together, the same exact way you had during Erasure Cycle #3, when the dreams started bleeding into the day.

And still—you trusted him.

You said it plainly. A short laugh escaped you as you adjusted on your seat, throwing you ankle over the other. "I can't believe I'm even telling you this, but I think you're the only person I trust right now."

You trusted him.

It hollowed him out.

You weren’t supposed to. You were supposed to be reset. Clean. Disconnected from the damage.

But that was the flaw, wasn’t it?

They could scrub memories. Suppress emotion. Fill in blanks with false ones.

But they couldn’t rewrite the unbreakable bond between the two of you, it was the biggest flaw in choosing her for the experiment.

He wanted to reach for you. To break every rule and tell you everything. That the old notes were yours. That you’d cried in his arms four different times, begging to be made new. That he had watched you volunteer again and again because you thought you were the danger—not him.

That he was the reason it never worked.

Instead, he said nothing. Just nodded. Just watched the shadows flicker along his own wrists, curling faintly beneath his skin.

They only did that when the Void was awake, and he knew it was watching you again.

He could feel it. Hungry. Curious. Waiting.

You said his name and he looked up.

Your expression was soft. Kind, like it used to be.

He settled, looking up at you. "Yes?"

"Thank you for talking with me, but we should wrap this up before someone notices how much time has passed."

He forced a smile. “Anything for a friend.”

But as you gathered your clipboard, he whispered the rest inside his chest where no one could hear:

Please don’t remember everything yet. Not again. Not until I can find a way to keep you safe.

Because this time, when you broke—he didn’t think you’d survive it.

before ; bob's pov

He woke not to sound, but to sensation.

The air shifted, like pressure rolling under the skin of the tower itself. A static pulse that hummed through the floor, the walls, his bones. Not from the Void this time.

You.

He sat up in bed, breath already caught in his chest. The darkness was dense around him, unbroken by the moonlight that usually filtered through the blinds. Something in the tower’s systems buzzed faintly in the walls, too faint for anyone else to notice, but he knew what it meant.

You were dreaming again, but more than that. Remembering.

He was on his feet before he realized he’d moved.

The hallway was colder than it should’ve been. That, too, was a sign. He didn’t need clearance in this building. Not with the way the Void still coiled inside his skin, dormant but never fully gone. The doors responded to his power, opening for him with ease.

When he stepped into your room, he didn’t speak.

He just stood there watching, not thinking of how it would look to you when you awoke.

You were thrashing slightly in your sleep, brow damp, the sheets twisted around your legs like restraints. Your breath was ragged. Lips parted, but no sound came out.

Then your body jolted upright with the force of someone escaping a nightmare.

Bob didn’t move. He knew the exact second your eyes landed on him.

You flinched back against the headboard, panic radiating off your skin like heat. He didn’t blame you. The look in your eyes reminded him too much of the third time—Erasure Cycle #3—when you’d begun waking up like this almost every night. Back when the memories had started bleeding through from your dreams.

"Jesus—" your voice cracked as you tried to breathe. "What the hell, how did you get in here?"

He didn’t answer at first. Just studied you in silence. Watched the way your hands trembled, the flush of sweat on your throat, the way your gaze darted toward the corners of the room—looking for something that had already left. You had scrambled backwards, pushing your body against the headboard.

"I heard you," he said quietly. "Screaming through the door. But... you were asleep."

You seemed to not remember screaming. Just like last time. You looked lost, and something inside him fractured a bit deeper.

He didn’t come here to fix anything. He knew better by now. He just didn’t want you to wake up alone.

Because he remembered every time you had.

The maze. The blood. The gold eyes. The way the Void had begun using your memories as a conduit. In dreams, it found the cracks before they formed.

And that all meant he was losing control of the Void.

The sick and twisted part of him that wanted you to remember so badly, to drag you down with him in anguish and misery. It's what he did to everyone, even to the ones he loved. This was all his fault.

You spoke, half asleep still, murmuring about a maze, about being chased. Bob listened with his heart in his throat. You didn’t know who was following you. You hadn’t turned around.

That’s good, he wanted to say. Don’t ever look at it. But he knew it was too late. You’d seen it before. Even if you didn’t remember.

When he asked if it felt like a dream or a memory, your voice came back: Both.

He folded his hands in his lap and stared at the floor.

They always said the dreams would fade. That the resets would settle eventually.

But they never did.

Because you were never just the assistant. You were never just an independent variable, You were his constant.

Every cycle.

Every time.

And now, the nightmares were starting again.

He sat still when you whispered no in response to his question about whether they were still dreams.

That confirmed it.

He was going to have to suffer through losing you, again.

He stood to leave, heart leaden, guilt choking him in silence. He’d only wanted to make sure you were okay. But if he stayed, he’d make it worse.

He turned toward the door.

But then—

"Wait—"

Your voice cracked.

You reached out, fingers brushing his wrist with a touch that undid him completely.

He stopped.

When you asked him to stay, he turned slowly. Like if he moved too fast, you’d disappear. Perhaps even change your mind.

You pulled him back with a softness that made his chest ache. He sat on the edge of the bed, unsure, bracing himself for rejection even now.

But you didn’t push him away, only pulled him closer.

And he followed.

You curled against him like you’d done in so many other moments, in so many other forgotten nights. His arms came around you instinctively. His hand in your hair was automatic—muscle memory and heartbreak all at once.

You didn’t know this was familiar.

But he did.

"You're okay," Bob murmured into your hair. "You're still safe here."

Your eyes brimmed with tears. "I don't feel safe," you confessed. "I don't even feel like myself anymore, I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I can't understand any of these emotions inside me."

He wanted to scream. Of course it doesn’t. They’ve taken pieces of you again and again and again. How could you ever feel whole?

Bob didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, one hand never leaving your hair. "I'm scared to fall asleep," you whispered.

But all he said was: “Then be scared. Feel everything. Cry if you need to, but don't ever think you have to do any of it alone.”

And he meant it.

He meant feel everything. Because the only thing worse than grief was numbness. And the only thing worse than pain was silence. It was what he should have stressed to you before decided to erase your memories behind his back, without a proper goodbye.

You cried then. And he held you. And the Void was quiet.

For the first time in weeks, it was quiet.

As if it, too, remembered this.

The curve of your back in his arms. The weight of your head against his chest. The sound of your breathing slowing as you finally let yourself fall apart. His thumb brushed soft circles across your shoulder as your tears soaked through his shirt. "You're not alone," he whispered, "I promise."

And he stayed.

Even after your tears stopped. Even after your body relaxed into sleep. Even after the part of him that used to hope whispered: maybe this time it’ll hold.

But he didn’t believe it.

Not anymore.

He just laid there in the dark, holding the only person who had ever calmed the thing inside him. He stroked your hair as you slept, and in a quiet whisper, "I miss you so much."

And waited for morning.

Or for the next time they took you away from him.

present day ; bob's pov

He felt it the moment the dream snapped.

Your body tensed against him like a live wire; lungs gasping for air, muscles convulsing under the weight of everything returning.

He was already kneeling when it happened. Already holding you, his arms wrapped tight around your frame where you’d collapsed in the middle of your room. You hadn’t screamed. Not exactly. But something had left your throat—a ragged, torn sound of awakening—and that was enough.

He'd been horrified at the sight of you in his sleeping quarters, collapsed on the floor. Surrounded by all the sleeping pills scattered across the ground. The vision kept replaying in his mind, scarring him deeply as something he never wanted to witness again.

Your eyes opened wide, unfocused. Wild.

He pulled you tighter. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re here. It’s okay.”

But you were already thrashing, trying to get away.

Your hands pushed against his chest, palms slippery with sweat. “No. What’s happening—”

Your voice cracked. Tears hit hard and fast, panic flooding through every word. “I saw it, I saw everything—the procedure, the—Bob, I—I was the one who—how many times? How many times did you let them do this to me?”

Bob closed his eyes for a moment, forehead resting against yours. His breath shook, but he stayed calm. Steady.

He had to be. You needed him to be.

“They kept going in,” he said softly, “removing more and more to keep me from losing you. You consented to it, every time.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, your lip trembling. “They erased me. Over and over.”

His fingers curled gently behind your back, holding you steady as you shook. “Because every time the memories got erased, the Void started waking up and ruining everything. And every time I saw what it did to you, I begged them to take it all away. Because I thought—I thought I was saving you.”

You choked on a sob. “I murdered someone. I helped them build the thing that’s been killing me, and went behind your back after I said I wouldn't. I let them put you in that position. I kept lying to myself—”

“Stop.”

“I hurt you, I lied to you, I betrayed you—how can you still love me after all of that?”

He pulled you closer, cupping your face in both palms. You tried to look away, but he held you still, like you were so frail that you could disappear right before him.

And he said, low and certain:

“Do you truly think I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference?”

The silence afterward was deafening.

Your breath hitched, lips parted. Your whole body trembled in his arms.

“I remember everything,” you whispered. “All of it.”

“I know,” he said.

“I asked them to erase it.”

“I know that too.” His hands never left your skin. “You deserved to recover on your own, I interfered with it, and for that I am infinitely apologetic to you.”

Your forehead pressed to his collarbone. He held you as your body sagged in defeat. His fingers stroked the back of your head, soothing. Always aiming to sooth, to be your happiness once more.

You broke again—just sobbing now, raw and endless.

And he held you through it, like he had every other time, silently praying this time would be different.

I don't have much to say as I updated a few hours ago as well, but thank you to everyone who has gotten this far in the story. I appreciate all of you and hope that you enjoyed the reveal. Two chapters STILL remain in the story, so stay tuned and comment below to be added to the taglist! I'll be at work when this scheduled update goes up, so there will be a slight delay in the taglist for this one. ps. did any of you catch that little doctor who quote reference that i snuck in there? in the spirit of this going up on the day of the season finale!! <3 xoxo -woni

link to part seven (coming soon)

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