#blood pressure 911 work

[confused-pyramid]

There Is More When You Let Go | s2

pairing: aaron hotchner x childhood bsf!reader

summary: Hotch and his childhood best friend working together at the BAU: a slow burn across the seasons.

word count: 18.8k

warnings: canon!typical violence, mentions of abuse, death of a spouse, kidnapping, torture, drug use, specific episodes mentioned in this part are 2x01, 2x05, 2x06, 2x13, 2x14, 2x15, 2x16, 2x18, 2x23

a/n: here's season 2 of the anchor series! I had a lot of fun writing this one (hence why it got so long lmao), and I included a lot more direct show content in this part, so I hope you like it. Also more flashbacks:) Title is from Benediction by Luke Sital-Singh

series masterlist

A gunshot. That's the last thing you hear before Elle's front door flies open, almost throwing you back onto the stairs. The shock of seeing the Fisher King standing right in front of you almost makes you miss the puddle of blood that has started seeping across the floor to your feet.

"Elle," you gasp, your moment of distraction enough time for the man to push you behind him and make a break for it. You fall forward with the force of his shove, but he's much slower than you are. If you ran after him now, you could almost certainly catch up to him, but the sight of Elle bleeding out in front of you makes you immobile.

Making the split second decision to abandon the chase, you throw yourself forward and press your hands against her wound to control the blood flow.

"You're gonna be okay," you tell her, even as her blood trickles out from below your palm. "I need to call for help."

Pressing one hand down harder, you try to ignore the sounds of her gasping in pain as you reach behind you for her house phone. After dialing 911, you hold the phone between your ear and shoulder and bring your hand back to apply more pressure.

The paramedics arrive within five minutes, and they pry you off of her as they pull out a defibrillator. You had been so focused on stopping her from bleeding out that you hadn't even noticed she had stopped breathing. How could you have missed that?

"Charging to 200."

You lean back against her couch as tears leak from the corners of your eyes.

"Clear!"

***

"They took her into surgery," you say when Hotch meets you at the hospital. Your eyes keep darting around, like you're looking for something, but you don't know what.

"What happened?" he asks, placing his hands on your shoulders to regain your focus. The pressure calms you down.

"I think he was waiting for her," you whisper, your throat tightening. "He had to have been. It all happened so fast."

His eyes stay on yours, as though trying to predict your next movement. "I'm glad you're okay."

More agents filter into the hospital and he begins to turn away to talk to them, but then you stiffen under his hands. "I had him, Hotch."

"What?" he frowns, looking at you again. "What are you talking about?"

You lift your hands to your face to brush away a strand of hair, barely noticing the stains all over your skin. "He was right there. The unsub. I could've grabbed him...but I didn't."

Anderson walks over with a question, but Hotch doesn't take his eyes off you. "You went to Elle. It's okay, you made the right choice."

"But the girl he took," you protest, shaking his hands off, "this could have lead us to her, but she's still-"

"You did the right thing," he cuts you off, waving Anderson away to speak with someone else. "It's not your fault."

You grit your teeth, your voice still tinged with guilt. "How do you know?"

"Because," he sighs, running a hand through his hair, "it's mine. I sent her home."

You open your mouth to tell him how unfair that is, but he cuts you off with an order to go wash up before he leaves to explain the situation to the other agents.

The only bathroom on that floor of the hospital is at the end of the patient ward, so you trudge down the hallway and into the single family restroom, trying to avoid the worried glances from all around.

You haven't seen your reflection since before leaving with Elle, and you know it can't be a pretty sight, but the face staring back at you in the mirror is still a shock.

The bottom of your shirt is matted to your skin, and your hands are covered in now-dried blood that looks flaky and dark. When you look up, you see a streak of blood smeared over your nose from when you swiped at your face earlier.

Grabbing a fistful of paper towels, you run them under the faucet before scrubbing at your face and peeling your button down off to rid them of any trace of Elle's blood. When you're sure there isn't anything left, you turn the faucet back on and stretch your hands forward, watching the warm water turn a muddy red color as it swirls around the drain.

Eventually, the water runs clear, but you can still see the blood in your mind. You are suddenly ambushed by a memory you thought you had pushed down long ago. Red blood, cold skin.

How was there so much blood in the human body?

Your department-mandated therapist told you at the time that you would be in denial for the first few weeks, but you weren't denying anything. You had seen his body, seen the blood pooling around him as the coroner snapped photographs for the crime scene report. You knew he was dead. You just couldn't get that question out of your mind.

The memory shifts and suddenly you're seventeen again. You're seventeen and you are reaching for your first aid kit for the second time this month as Hotch sits on your bed with what feels like a permanent wince fused to his lips.

"Hold still," you whisper as you pour rubbing alcohol onto a cotton pad and press it into the cut on his hand. There's also blood under his nose and in his teeth, but he doesn't seem to notice.

He hisses as the alcohol makes contact, but he doesn't pull away. He's used to this routine now. You both are.

"I'm sorry I came by so late," he whispers through gritted teeth as he watches your fingers peel open a bandage. You want to berate him for apologizing, for feeling so much guilt all the time, but it's fruitless. It's like he was born with it inside of him, always clawing its way out at the slightest inconvenience.

"Don't be." You shoot him a look that he knows to mean 'be quiet and let me finish this'. He heeds your unspoken order, but after a few minutes, it's you who breaks it. "How did this one happen?"

He looks down and you immediately want to take it back. "You don't have to answer."

He's quiet for a beat. "He was drunk and I cleared his bottle away before he was finished with it."

Your lips thin and you press your hand to his knee, desperately needing to connect yourself to him in some manner.

"I tried to keep him in the kitchen, so Sean wouldn't hear, but I guess the noise woke him up." He takes a deep breath, and you can almost feel the determination entering his body as he sits up straighter. "I couldn't let him get to Sean, so I finally did it. I fought back."

He looks down at his bandaged hand then, and you can see pride accompanying the blood etched into the lines of his face. "I finally fought back."

Your eyes refocus and when you look at yourself in the mirror again, there's no trace of Elle's blood on your body anymore.

***

When Elle is discharged from the hospital, you spend the rest of the break helping her move out of her house and into a new apartment. When you drove her back home, the blood had been cleaned off of her floors, but you could see in her expression that it wasn't enough. This place would always be a reminder of what had happened to her.

The apartment search was quick, only a week between finding a place she liked and signing the new lease, but she saved the actual move out for the last few days of your break, instead hopping between sleeping in your guest room and a motel in town.

That's why you find yourself in Elle's old bedroom on the final Saturday before you're due back at work, packing some of her clothes into a suitcase while she works on clearing her bathroom. She tossed out almost everything she didn't absolutely need, only packing up her basic clothing and a few other sentimental keepsakes from her past.

"What about these?" you ask, holding up a pair of dark wash jeans that you remember her wearing to the bars with you a few months ago. God, has it really only been a few months?

She peeks out of the bathroom for barely a second. "I told you, I don't care. Keep it, toss it, your choice."

You don't know how you feel about being in charge of her future wardrobe, especially since you tend to live in loose jeans and old tee shirts when you're not at work, but you can understand where she's coming from. The instinct to hand off every decision to someone else.

You remember how hard it was for you to even decide what to eat for dinner after Jeff died. You also remember Hotch slipping pre-packed meals into your fridge whenever he came over to keep you company.

It takes you a couple of hours to clear out her house, and another hour to drop her and her stuff off at the new place, with promises to visit whenever you can over the next months of her leave.

You don't realize how exhausted you are until your front door shuts behind you and you collapse onto your couch, still in your dirty clothes. The summer sun is completely below the horizon as you lean back into your throw pillows and grab the tv remote. You haven't used your tv in months, and you figure that a vacation from work is the perfect opportunity to dust it off.

The screen comes to life on a local news channel, where a young reporter with teased-up hair is announcing a recall on a vacuum cleaner brand you've never heard of. She finishes her spiel before handing the mic off to an older woman who starts reporting the details of a car accident that took place in a neighborhood a few miles from yours.

These reports don't usually get under your skin - you have seen enough to know that it happens everyday - but suddenly, you can't stand to look at the crime scene tape flashing on your screen. You don't wait long enough to see what caused the accident. Whether it was a simple mistake, or if it was a drunk dri-

Grabbing the remote, you turn the television off and stand up, shaking your limbs out in an effort to rid yourself of the anxious feeling that's been growing inside of you.

You make yourself a quick microwave dinner and wolf it down in a few minutes, before trudging upstairs and hopping in the shower. You take your time washing the dust off of your body, and only emerge when the hot water runs out.

Even after cleaning yourself off and climbing into a fresh set of sheets, sleep doesn't come easily. The minutes tick by slowly as you stare at the ceiling, and before you can overthink it, you grab your phone off your nightstand and hit the first number on your speed dial.

It rings twice before the line connects. "Is everything okay?"

"What happened to 'hello'?" you ask, huffing out a laugh as you sit up in your bed.

Hotch grunts quietly. "Hello." You can hear the tiredness in his voice, but he sounds alert. You didn't wake him up. "What can I do for you?"

"So I have to need something to call you?"

"Y/N."

"Sorry for wanting to talk to my friend-"

He sighs so loudly, you can practically see his eyes rolling. "Are you going to tell me why you called or not."

"I helped Elle move out today."

That gets his attention. "How is she doing?"

You shrug, even though he can't see you. "As good as can be expected. We threw out almost all of her stuff, you know. She ended up with just a suitcase and three boxes at the end."

"That's just her way of coping, I guess."

"When we got to her house, it was..." You pause for a beat. You don't know the correct way to bring this up. "Well, it was clean. The blood was gone."

He doesn't say anything, and you know you were right. "Hotch, it was you, wasn't it."

He exhales quietly, as though he's trying to control his volume. Shit, maybe Haley's sleeping next to him. This is why you don't call someone after midnight.

"She didn't need to see a crime scene in her own home."

You wonder if he knows how he sounds right now. How caring and compassionate he can be when he doesn't try to tamp down that side of himself.

"You're a good unit chief," you say, leaning your head back against your wooden headboard. "I don't know why you keep things like this hidden."

You do know why, but that isn't what's important right now. There's a small creaking sound over the receiver and you imagine he's getting out of bed and crossing the room. Then the click of a door closing. "All that matters is that it's done."

You can't control the exasperated sigh that leaves your body. "Who are you trying to kid, Hotch? This is me you're talking to. I know how you worry that you aren't setting a good example for the team, but it's things like this that go a long way. It really wouldn't hurt for the team to see you showing some emotion."

"That's what they have you for," he says, his voice tightening the slightest bit. "They don't need that from me. When my emotions get in the way, I can't do my job properly."

You scoff. "And what job is that, exactly?"

"Keeping you safe."

He doesn't need to raise his voice to make you feel his anger. "If I had kept my emotion out of it, I wouldn't have sent her home. I wouldn't have let you accompany her, and I wouldn't have put both of you in danger."

Your hand comes up, rubbing circles into the skin above your chest. "Aaron...that wasn't on you." You can sense his protests coming, so you try a different tactic. "It wasn't on me either. No one but Garner deserves any blame for what happened."

The line is silent for a few moments, and you take the little victory. "I'm sorry I called you so late."

"Oh, it's alright," he chuckles. "You know I was up anyway."

***

She came back too quickly. You can't get the thought out of your head as you watch Elle restlessly tap her foot on the ground as she waits for the final word on whether she will be acting as bait for the serial rapist.

You don't think she's ready, and you've made your opinion known to the team, but Gideon made up his mind quickly.

"You think Elle's ready for it?"

"We'll be there for her."

You watch her vigilantly from Hotch's SUV as she enters the house and drops her keys on the table by the window. She's wired, which is a small relief, but Gideon's instruction not to have her gun on her has you more anxious than you'd like.

"Why isn't she leaving?" Hotch says from next to you, echoing your thoughts.

A car driven by a man fitting the profile pulls up on the opposite side of the street and you hear Morgan dialing Garcia. After a few seconds, he's back on the line. "William Lee. It's him."

"Bingo," Gideon's voice exclaims through your earpiece. "She's on the move."

You turn away from the car and see Elle exiting the front of the house. She glances at the man on her way to her car in the driveway, and it's only then that you notice the gun stuffed in her waistband.

"Her gun's out," you whisper, mostly to yourself. "What's she doing?"

"She's panicking."

"We've got no reason to bring him in."

"Don't blow it, don't blow it."

A chorus of yells echo through your earpiece as Elle stomps down the drive and points her gun at the unsub. "FBI, put your hands where I can see them!"

You throw open the car door and run over to apprehend the man as he fervently denies all of her accusations. "I was just stopping to look at my map."

The police put him into an interrogation room back at the station, where Hotch and Gideon try to get him to confess by showing empathy for this motive. It seems to be going well until his lawyer shows up, putting an end to the conversation.

She's been tense all day, so you're not surprised when Elle blows up. "You're letting him walk?"

Gideon is the first to step in. "Back off, Elle."

"You don't know what he's done," she yells, as though trying to reason with the police. The pain in her voice is palpable, but you can't deny the truth, even if you aren't able to voice it to her.

Hotch doesn't face the same issue. "The only reason he's walking is because you panicked."

"I'm supposed to believe that you've got my back?" she fires back, her anger redirecting to fly in his direction.

"What are you saying to me?"

"The last time you sent me home, Hotch, it got me shot."

All of the air leaves the room. You grab Elle's arm and pull her back, expecting more resistance than you get. "Walk with me."

She follows you across the hall and into a little meeting room that's scattered with evidence bags and files from the case. You let the door click shut behind her before you start speaking. "You need to take a breath. I know you, Elle. I know exactly what you're capable of. You just need to give yourself time to heal."

The fury in her eyes hasn't abated since you apprehended Lee a few hours earlier. You're not sure it will in this environment. "Take a walk. Get some air, and then come back."

She doesn't meet your eye as she pushes past you and storms out of the station.

***

"There's no reason for us to stick around anymore, is there?"

Gideon shakes his head and you purse your lips, glancing at the doors behind you. You haven't been able to shake the feeling that something terrible is going to happen, but you suppose that's a common notion on this team.

"Wheels up at noon tomorrow."

You're walking out to the parking lot with the team when the feeling hits you again. The last time you felt this level of dread was right before you got the call from organized crime just over two years ago.

Your fears are confirmed when Hotch's phone rings with a call from the local PD that they have Elle at Lee's address. The drive over is silent, and even though you're always the first to call Hotch out on his guilt spirals, you can't get the thought out of your head that this is all your fault. You knew she had come back too quickly. Never mind that it wasn't your call. You should've fought it harder.

Lee's bullet-riddled body is like a beacon of your guilt as Elle insists it was cut-and-dry self defense. "I was having a conversation with him and he drew his weapon and I fired."

The police don't let any of you talk to her as they load her into the back of their cruiser, but you know what you have to do if you want to be able to sleep tonight.

"I'm going to the station," you tell Hotch before flagging down another one of the officers on the scene. He moves to stop you, but you sidestep him and level him with a glare that high school you would have been proud of. "I have to do this."

The station doesn't finish processing her until halfway through the night, but you couldn't fall asleep even if you wanted to. When they finally remove her cuffs and bring her out, you stand up from the plastic chair you spent the last four hours in and stretch out your legs.

She doesn't spot you immediately, but when she does, her body almost deflates. "I'm fine, L/N. You didn't have to come here."

She stops in front of you, her jacket hanging over her arm as she stuffs her badge back into her pocket. If you didn't know her so well, you would be surprised by how relaxed she looks. You wouldn't recognize the front she has had up since she stepped off the plane.

"What happened, Elle?"

That catches her attention, and you watch as the mask slips by a hair. "You don't believe me?"

You don't want to accuse her of something you have no evidence of, but you also can't ignore all of the signs in front of you. "Can you really look me in the eye and say you didn't go there hoping Lee would provoke you?"

She just looks at you, and you watch in real time as the mask slides back into place. Without another word, she turns around and walks out of the station.

***

The next case doesn't come until a few days later. Elle gets cleared by the bureau's internal investigation, but you can't imagine Hotch won't tack on a psych eval just to be safe.

"Nicholas Faye of Ozona, Texas, was beaten to death roughly 13 hours ago."

JJ clicks her remote and the screen in the conference room changes, displaying the crime scene photos.

"God," you curse, averting your eyes for a moment. "He's just a child."

"Blunt force trauma to the head," she continues with a forlorn sigh. "He's the second young boy in Ozona to die the same death in the last 2 months. Local hunter found his body in the woods."

Morgan looks down at the case file. "First victim's name: Robbie Davis. Are these boys connected somehow?"

JJ shrugs. "Ozona's population's roughly 2, 500. Everyone has some kind of connection."

"Well if they weren't linked before, they most certainly are now."

Hotch and Gideon's absences from the conference room don't escape your notice, so you keep an eye out for them upon leaving the briefing.

You spot them discussing something in hushed whispers by the coffee station, and you wait for them to finish before you approach Hotch.

"You missed the briefing."

His eyes pinch, and you notice that the lines in his forehead are more prominent than usual. "What is it?"

"Elle missed her evaluation."

Your breath releases like a sigh. "I can check her apartment."

"No," he says matter-of-factly, with a shake of his head. "Gideon wants all of you in Texas for this one. I'll go look for her."

You would normally argue, but the horrific images from the briefing are still imprinted on the backs of your eyelids. "Okay. I'll see you soon."

He leaves you with a nod, and you grab your go-bag before following the rest of the team to the jet.

"You guys see Elle's cleared?" Reid pipes up as soon as the plane takes off.

Derek nods, his lips thinning. "Self defense."

"So it was a good shot."

"She hit what she was aiming for."

Reid frowns. "That's not what I meant."

"I know."

"If they cleared her how come she's not here with us?" You glance up and realize Reid is looking at you. "Or Hotch?"

You don't want to reveal more than is necessary, especially when the situation is this precarious and personal, but you're saved from responding when Gideon turns around and yells, "Focus on the case!"

JJ turns the conversation back to the unsub's motivations, and you all discuss a possible profile until a new female victim emerges that strays from the previous victimology.

Gideon doesn't waste any time delegating tasks. "When we land, Morgan and Reid, go to the new crime scene. The little girl."

He turns to you. "We'll look at the scene where Nicholas Faye was found."

The murder site is so far into the woods, that you can't help but imagine what it would've been like to be the little boy who was brought all the way out here with no hope of return. You can't believe that a young child would come this far out of their way unless they trusted the person they were following. "I think the victims knew their killer."

Gideon seems to be on the same train of thought. "They followed him to this spot."

"What makes you think that?" the local officer asks.

Gideon looks at you expectantly, and you take the invitation with a grateful nod. "Well I guess they went this deep into the woods because they trusted him. He probably stashed his weapon here beforehand. This means we're looking for someone intelligent, methodical."

The police officer accompanying you doesn't look sure of your assessment. "He bashed the kid's head in, it looks like a moment of rage to me!"

"I agree," Gideon muses, turning away and looking further into the woods. "It doesn't make any sense."

After informing the town's parents of the five PM curfew, and the children of the new buddy system in place, you excuse yourself to go call Hotch for an update.

"Anything new?" you ask when he answers the phone.

"I went to her appartment to talk to her," he explains, "but she was leaving with an overnight bag."

Your heart collapses in your chest. "She's running."

"I don't know, I hope not." He pauses for a beat. "I'm following her."

"All right," you sigh, wishing there was more you could do from here, "I really hope I'm wrong about this."

He's silent for a second, and you realize your slip up. "I just mean, I don't want to- I mean, fuck."

"I know," Hotch whispers. You can hear his car starting in the background. "But Gideon's right. She's innocent until proven guilty."

He ends the call with a promise to keep you updated, and you head back to the station, where another child has been reported missing. The missing boy's little brother draws your attention to a local legend that leads you to a Mr. Fennigan's so-called "haunted" house up in the hills.

***

"Garcia," you say into your phone before putting it on speaker and setting it down at the table you're sitting at. After establishing that Finnegan's house was empty, you and team have been searching the property for any indications that he's the unsub. "You got anything for me?"

"Only that Fennigan's house on the hill is like the Bates Motel of Ozona, Texas."

You roll your eyes, even though she can't see you. "We heard the legend from that counselor, Charles I think."

"Be careful, though," she says, her voice going lower as though she's telling a campfire story. "People that go into that house supposedly never come out."

"Garcia."

"But then there is that matter of his missing wife."

Deciding to humor her, you clear your throat and whisper, "Do you think she's still on the premises?"

"I got two words for you, my friend: 'rear window'. That guy probably chopped that lady up into delicious bitesize pieces."

You suppress a laugh. "Pen, do you really think that's gonna scare me?"

She huffs and you grin, tugging open one of the drawers next to you and peeking inside.

"You're no fun. Reid was scared shitless."

"He's just afraid of the dark," you smile, before your eyes catch on something bright under the table beside you. "Garcia, I gotta go. And cut Reid some slack."

"No promises, Mama."

You tuck your phone away and reach below the table, where you find a small pink backpack with the last victim's name scrawled on top in Sharpie. "Guys! I found something."

The clues from Finnegan's house lead you back to Charles, the town's guidance counselor, and then to his son, who the police are able to catch in the act of luring away Tracey Belle, another young girl. You don't relax until she's back with her parents, and even then, there's still a tension in your shoulders.

Cases involving children never get easier, but you can't help the kinship you feel to little Tracey Belle, who had the same look in her eyes that you recognized in yourself when you were ten years old. You don't remember your mom's funeral much, mostly because you were so young, but also because the whole day was a blur. The few flashes that come back here and there are your father's eyes, red from crying, and the cold gray of the headstone that you visited with him every year on the anniversary until you graduated.

The plane ride back is morose, and no one looks up from their reading material until it's time to disembark. Hotch isn't at the office when you drop off your case file, so you rub the exhaustion from your eyes and drive home.

There's a figure sitting on your porch when you pull into your driveway, and you're a moment from panicking when her face comes into the light.

"I turned in my badge," Elle says after you lock your car and walk up the steps.

Something twists in your gut, but the one emotion you aren't feeling is surprise. "Do you want to come inside? How long have you been waiting?"

She shakes her head, and you give her some time to formulate her thoughts. After a minute, she meets your eye again. "You were kind to me."

You don't know what to say, but you can see the change in her since just last week. She already looks lighter, and you can't help but think about how heavy the job can be. It's a weight on each of your lives that never seems to let up, and while you're going to be sad to see her go, you understand. It's the right choice.

Elle presses her lips together before curving them into a small smile. "You supported me after...after Garner. I'm gonna miss you."

You smile at her, even as your heart fills with sadness. "i'm going to miss you too."

Her body shifts like she's making to leave but then she turns back one last time. "You're too good for him, you know."

You get the sense that you know what she's referring to, but it's not something you can acknowledge without sending a flare shooting up your spine. She nods once, like that's all she wanted to say, and turns away into the night. You blink your eyes closed, squeezing them tightly as though it will somehow make the last few months a nightmare you can wake up from. But that's not how this works.

You give yourself a minute to pretend, but when you open your eyes again, she's gone.

***

The case that takes you to Golconda, Nevada feels almost unique to Gideon, as he takes each of the unsub's decisions personally in a way you haven't seen before.

Once you give the profile to the local police, the sheriff, Georgia Davis, leads you to a woman with a story to match the previous victimology.

"Jane," she says softly as she walks into the holding area at the back of the station. "These people are from the FBI. I'd like you to tell them your story."

Her story takes you through a tale of alien abductions and young love, but the kernel of truth underneath sounds awfully similar to the unsub's M.O. Her eyes still shine with a childlike tenacity that you don't usually see in other victims of such prolific and disturbing killers.

"Her subconscious mind has created a delusion that she was abducted by an alien," Gideon sighs after Sheriff George sends you all out of the room to let Jane rest. "She didn't show him the fear he wanted, so he let her go."

When it becomes clear that he is still in town, you disperse around the local R.V. park in search of his vehicle.

Hotch pairs you with Emily Prentiss, the new agent who joined the team after Elle left, and you welcome the opportunity to speak with her more than you've gotten the chance to since she arrived.

"How have you been settling in?" you ask her as you both stroll along the edge of the R.V. park.

"The team has been very welcoming," she says as she continues to scan the vehicles around you. "I'm just glad to be joining such an accomplished unit."

"That's kind of you," you smile, noting the extreme focus in her eyes. Her intelligence and intense concentration on each of the cases you've worked made much more sense when you learned about her history. Her background must have sparked more than a few nepotism claims over the years, so you don't mind letting her overcompensate, if it means she will prove to herself that she deserves to be here. "Everyone seems to like having you around. I certainly don't mind."

She shoots you a smile that you return by patting her forearm comfortingly. You were worried it would be hard for another agent to settle into the space Elle left on the team, but Prentiss has made easy work of it. She has the same humor as Derek and Penelope, and you've seen how well she gets along with you and JJ. Even Reid has welcomed her with open arms.

"This team is kind of famous," she says after a moment, piquing your interest.

"Oh?"

She shrugs, turning into another row of vehicles. "You've all been through so much, but it just seems to have made you more of a family."

When you first joined the team, that was all you wanted. You were by yourself, completely alone, and the team had become your family in the blink of an eye. It was exactly what you needed. These days, you're not so sure anymore. More family just means more people to lose.

"Can I ask you a question?"

You look at her with a nod. "Yeah, of course."

"It's about Agent Hotchner."

You should've figured. Every new agent tries to vie for his approval, until they realize it's not something you can force. "Yeah?"

She sighs, and you can tell this isn't something she wants to be talking about. "I don't know if I understand him. You're the only person who seems to have his ear. I guess I'm just wondering how I can do the same."

"I got his attention and respect through decades of friendship," you say, watching her eyes widen as you speak. "But he's not the enigma you may think he is. Showing off won't help your cause, but working hard and doing your job well is all you can really do."

She nods, taking in your words. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

You smile, bumping her shoulder to lighten the mood. "Don't worry about him. He knows your worth, I can tell."

Prentiss leans against you for a moment before shaking out her legs and turning back to the lot. "I don't think the unsub is here. We should meet up with the rest of the team."

Once Gideon puts it together that the unsub is hiding out somewhere in town, Hotch suggests that you all turn in for the night, but the older man doesn't want to listen.

"We could wait till first light, Gideon," he stresses, turning his body to stand between him and the officers. "It's gonna be dark soon."

"Do what you like," Jason grunts, shoving past him. "I'm gonna find him."

Hotch starts to go after him, but you step forward and put your hand on his shoulder. "Let him go. Maybe the walk back to the station will help clear his head."

He sighs heavily, and you know it's all the agreement you're going to get right now. "Let's head over there too. He needs our help if he wants to crack this before morning."

The stress lines on his forehead are almost as noticeable as they were the day Elle left the bureau, and you grab his wrist as he tries to turn away. You raise your eyebrows, knowing he'll be able to read the question written in the ridges of your face. How are you holding up?

Hotch rolls his neck to the side, stretching it out after what has been a very long day. When he looks back at you, you wait for a nod that comes after a moment. Alright. Been better, but alright.

Back at the station, the work is slow going, and you don't feel like anyone is helping with how uptight Gideon is acting. The air inside the small building has started to feel suffocating, and you finally get your chance to escape when Sheriff George grabs her car keys.

"I'm gonna take Jane home," she tells you when you approach her at her desk. "It's been a long night, and she needs to sleep in her own bed."

"You need to rest too," you say, noticing the droop of her eyes from sheer exhaustion. "Go home, Sheriff. I'll take her back. I remember her address from earlier."

She doesn't look convinced, so you lean in with a smile. "It's getting really stuffy in here. I need some air too."

That's all it takes to satisfy her, and she pats your arm with a nod before handing you the keys to the cruiser and walking to the exit.

You only see Morgan as you pick Jane up from the holding area, so you tell him you'll be back in a half hour and head out to the back lot.

"How long have you been living in this town?" you ask Jane as you make the short drive to her house.

"Since I was a teenager," she says dreamily, her eyes gazing out the window.

"You never wanted to live anywhere else?"

She shakes her head profusely. "Why would I? This is where I can be found."

You frown at her words, but it's not the oddest thing she has said today. When you arrive at her house, you park the cruiser out front and lead her up the porch steps, where she slowly unlocks the front door. "Do you want to come inside?"

You figure it wouldn't hurt to scope out the place, so you accept her invitation and follow her inside. "This is a beautiful home, Jane." Trinkets are scattered everywhere, and rudimentary sketches cover the walls.

"Thank you," she responds from another room. "You're very nice." You follow the sound of her voice to her kitchen, where she is struggling to lift a pitcher of juice from her fridge.

"Here, let me help you," you say, taking it from her and setting it down on the little breakfast table in front of her stove. "Do you have any cups?"

She walks over to a cupboard across from you, and you unclip your side-holster and set it on the table until the sound of a footstep behind you makes you spin on your heels.

You're assaulted by the sight of a tall, white man, who you immediately recognize from Gideon's profile earlier that day.

"Jane!" you yell, inching toward the table where your gun is. "I need you to run."

"Come with me, Jane," the man says, ignoring you completely. You use the moment of distraction to reach for your gun, but he's quicker than you. A sharp pinprick of pain shoots down your neck as your hand knocks over the pitcher of juice and your limbs suddenly feel like they weigh a million pounds.

"Jane, he's a murderer," you yell, hoping your voice doesn't sound as quiet as it does in your head. Your vision is already blurry, and you wish Reid was here to distract you by spouting off a list of fast-acting drugs from memory. "Jane, run!"

The last thing you hear before you black out is the sound of hurried footsteps receding into the background.

***

None of this makes sense. As each minute ticks by, he can't shake the feeling that they are missing something that's right under their noses.

"JJ just called," Morgan says, walking back into the station with his phone waving in his hand. "Apparently an anonymous caller called the tip line and claimed they saw an R.V. driven by a man who fits the description we gave to the media."

Hotch frowns. "Claimed?"

"Well, not a single R.V. or trailer has passed through any of the roadblocks."

Morgan's words click in his brain, and he instinctively glances beside him as an idea forms, but you aren't there. Now that he thinks of it, he hasn't seen you in over an hour.

"Who does the number belong to?" he asks, shifting his focus back.

Morgan is about to respond when Deputy Silo runs into the office, shoving past the other cops in his way. "We got a call from outside Jane's house. I think it was from the unsub."

Hotch stands up immediately, grabbing his jacket and gun, but next to him, Morgan stills, his face going slack.

"We need to head over there now," Hotch says, listing off a few instructions to the deputies nearby. Where are you?

"Hotch."

"And have some of your guys check in town," he continues, "in case he took her with him."

"Hotch."

He turns around. "What is it?"

"L/N drove Jane home."

His heart drops.

***

Just stay for a few more minutes, Jeff implores, his fingers dancing over your arm as you try to sit up.

You laugh as he tries to pull you back into the bed. I can't, I have to go into work.

Just five minutes, I promise. He pouts as you slide your legs out from under the covers. Three. One. One minute, please. I miss you.

I miss you too, you sigh, pressing a kiss to his lips. I'll see you tonight.

His hands reach up to caress your face, like he always does in the mornings. Cupping your cheek with his palm and running his fingers through your hair.

You settle into the feeling, wishing you had more time to just lay in bed with him. But you don't. Because Jeff's not here anymore.

Your eyes snap open right as the unsub tapes your mouth closed.

***

His hands grip the steering wheel as his SUV barrels up the small country road leading to Jane's house. He can't seem to press the gas pedal hard enough, and Reid's incessant foot-tapping in the backseat is driving him crazy, even though he understands the anxiety coursing through his body.

He beats Deputy Silo to the house, and flies out of the car without waiting for the other agents to open their doors. He's not sure what he's expecting to see inside as he pulls his gun from his waist holster, but he doesn't give himself a chance to think about it before kicking the door in.

"What the hell are you doing?" Morgan yells from behind him as he checks around the door and makes his way through the small hallway. The house is silent, aside from the footsteps of the agents behind him, but the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears is almost deafening.

"Clear," he shouts after checking each room up to the kitchen. When he steps inside, there's juice all over the floor, and he spots the pitcher on its side beside the fridge. Juice, not blood.

His eyes flash to the table and his breath catches in his throat. He would recognize your holster anywhere, especially since he was with you when you bought it.

What do you think? It's not too bold, is it?

I definitely wouldn't mess with you.

"Why didn't she reach for her gun?" he wonders out loud.

"Because she couldn't." He turns around to see Reid holding up a large, empty syringe he found under the table.

He can't take his eyes off the juice on the floor, splattered everywhere as though someone had knocked it off the counter. The image of Elle's blood spilled all over her living room is still fresh in his mind, and he can't get over how easily the dark red cranberry juice seeping into the floorboards could have been yours.

Growing up, it was a common occurrence for you to patch him up and wash the blood off his skin, but there was only one time when he had to return the favor.

He still remembers the proud glint in your eyes after you had literally head-butted a man who had grabbed you in a college bar by Georgetown. Already a year into law school, he would've thought you'd have more forethought than to injure yourself in the hopes of getting back at the jackass, but once he saw your bloody grin, his annoyance had fizzled away.

"What on earth were you thinking?" he had asked as you stuck a scrap of napkin up your nostrils to control the flow after the head-butt broke a few blood vessels in your nose. He hadn't seen you much throughout undergrad, but he was glad that you hadn't changed too much, even if it meant you were just as wild as before. "I'm getting you ice."

A few minutes of angry haggling later, he returned to your side with a small bag of ice that he held to the bridge of your nose. Nothing he said could have ruined your mood that night, especially since the man had been kicked out of the bar and banned for life.

"Did you see the look on his face?" you had asked, your eyes twinkling behind the quickly melting ice.

"I did," he sighs, before breaking into a grin. "I'm just glad that your future law degree will give you another method of retaliation against scumbags like him."

You had laughed then, causing a few drops of blood to spray out of your nose, but all he could think about as he jerked back to avoid the mess was how happy he was that you were back in his life again.

Hotch flies back to the conversation happening around him, his brain refusing to let him imagine the worst case scenario.

"Those footprints," Morgan is saying as he starts listening again, "they got to be Jane's."

Reid nods, following along. "They go to the back."

"She escapes. The unsub knows the ketamine's gonna wear off, so he's got to act."

"No," one of the deputies says. "He hasn't got what he came here for."

His voice returns to him all at once. "So he took Y/N for leverage."

"He thinks we have Jane. Which means he wants a trade."

"Whatever he wants, we need to find Jane and your agent fast."

His agent. He feels sick at the thought of whatever that man is doing to you. "Garcia can track the phone number from the anonymous caller. You go to town, we'll find Jane."

***

Your eyes are blurry as you try to clear the fogginess in your head from whatever he injected you with. You can see the shape of the unsub moving around the room, and you squint your eyes to get a better look at the anatomical posters and drawings on the walls.

When your vision begins to focus again, the man comes toward you with a smile. "You're awake." He reaches forward to check the tape on your wrists and you try to jerk away from him, but your body is still flowing with the drug. You can't move as he brushes your hair behind your ear and smiles down at you, a sinister lack of emotion in his eyes. You stop trying to move, realizing it's no use. He's been doing this for years. Mutilating women. Cutting them to pieces.

You can feel your heart rate increasing, and you try not to look at the knives and saws littering the tables around you in an effort to keep yourself calm. Your team is looking for you. Derek knows where you went.

When he grabs your arms and starts lifting you off the makeshift operating table you were lying on, you try to scream, but the tape just pulls at your lips, tearing at the thin skin underneath.

Your eyes widen as he drops you into a metal coffin-like box, but he just looks at you with a shake of his head. "No need for that," he tsks before closing the lid over you, enveloping you in eery darkness.

***

Reid and Prentiss help him inspect Jane's house further for clues as to where the unsub could've taken you. The wind chimes of rib bone blowing in the breeze on the front porch catch his attention almost immediately.

His chest feels tight and he clears his throat. "He's obviously been here before and left these gifts for her."

"How romantic," Prentiss grimaces.

"Well, his version of romance."

Prentiss frowns. "What, are you trying to say you think he keeps coming back here because he's in love with her?"

"That's impossible," Reid interjects. "A sexual sadist can't feel love."

"Well," he says, "define love." He doesn't know if he can. He knows he loves Haley and Jack. He likes to think he always wants to be with them, but when a particularly excruciating case arrives on his desk, his desire to catch the bad guy trumps everything else in his mind. He knows he will always try to protect them from anyone or anything that wants to do them harm, but is that love?

It must be, because he feels the same instinct to protect you, but it manifests in him differently.

"Chemically, it involves surging brain elements called monoamines, dopamines, norepinephrine, and serotonin."

Of course that would be Reid's answer.

He continues rattling off a list of foods that contain these chemicals, and Hotch tunes him out, turning back to the house. They're missing something, they have to be. It's not until they spot a small trailer out back that it clicks.

***

You don't know how much time passes until the effects of the drug finally wear off enough for you to rub your wrists together to loosen the tape around them. The noises outside the coffin stopped a while ago, and you assume the man has left, likely to resume his search for Jane.

When the tape finally breaks, you let out a relieved gasp and let your arms rest for a few moments, before you begin slamming your fists into the bottom of the lid. It doesn't budge, no matter how hard you pound at it, so you change tactics, instead clawing your fingers at the seams in search of a hinge or screw you can loosen.

You're still trying to pry open the lid when you hear a muffled voice speaking outside the coffin. Despite your determination to stay calm, your heart squeezes in your chest as you bring your hands up to fight back in case he opens the lid. You feel someone slide your box across the floor, before opening the top and flooding your eyes with light.

When you adjust to the brightness, you see the familiar faces of Hotch, Reid, and Prentiss standing above you, and you almost cry with relief. Hotch reaches down with a small "thank god" and pulls you up and out of the coffin. Prentiss carefully peels the tape off your mouth, wincing as some of the skin of your lips comes away with it.

When you're standing up again, your legs give out as the fear leaves you, and you collapse into Hotch.

He catches you easily, holding you against him tightly as you shake from the sheer relief of being found before something irreversible happened. You're acutely aware of your teammates watching you hang onto your unit chief as though your life depends on it, but you can't bring yourself to let go.

It's only after your hands stop shaking that he finally pulls away.

***

When you return from Texas, most of the team heads straight home, but Gideon hangs back, calling you into his office.

"How are you doing after today?" he asks as you shut the door behind you and take a seat in front of his desk.

"Fine," you say simply, looking him straight in the eye. You're not sure exactly what you're feeling, but it definitely isn't fine. The few times your eyes fell closed on the flight back, you could still feel Frank's fingers pressing the tape onto your face.

Gideon scrutinizes you for a moment, his brow crinkling as he waits for you to elaborate. You can appreciate his intention, but you really don't feel like talking about it right now. Not when the memory of the cold metal on your skin is still fresh.

"Okay," he concedes after a minute of silence. It's not really a concession - you can already hear him recommending you for a psych evaluation - but it's enough for the moment. "You don't have to do it right away, but you need to eventually fill out an incident report. I can get you the paperwork now, but I mean it, take your time."

He reaches into his accordion file folder and pulls out a sheet of paper that's mostly blank, except for a few lines at the top. "Just hand it in to me or Hotch when you're done."

You accept the paper and leave his office, with a promise to head home soon. You heard his suggestion to finish it in your own time, but you can't imagine coming back to this at a later date.

Dropping into your chair, you lay the paper down on your desk and read over the form. The first section is the same as every other form you've had to fill out at the bureau: name, date, badge number.

The second half is just one line of instruction before a vast sea of white space. Describe the incident in detail.

Images from Frank's workshop flash in your mind. A roll of silver duct tape. A bloody washcloth. A rusted scalpel. Nothing you can effectively put onto paper.

The words don't come, even as the lights in the hallway automatically turn off, and the hushed voices from the nearby offices go silent. You eventually stand up to shake out your legs and get another coffee, not because you need it to stay awake, but because it feels like the normal thing to do. The idea of sleeping just takes you back to the darkness of the coffin, and a shudder runs through you as you pour yourself a cup and dump the muddy remains of the pot in the sink.

You're about to head back to your desk to fruitlessly stare at the form for a little while longer, when your eye catches on a small lamplight from Hotch's office at the top of the stairs. Gulping back a mouthful of stale coffee, you toss the rest in the trash and grab your report before hiking up the stairs.

"You're still here?" he asks when you knock on his door and push it open. "I thought you left hours ago."

The same question Gideon asked you earlier is etched into his face, but you know he won't voice it just yet. He was always good about knowing your boundaries (and when to push them).

"I could ask you the same thing," you smile with a shrug, before flopping down into the chair by his desk. "You really need to replace this chair, by the way. It's horribly uncomfortable."

He snorts quietly. "It's a perfectly fine chair."

You laugh, the sound quickly turning into a yawn.

"Go home," he stresses, dropping his pen and fixing you with a pointed stare.

"You first."

"I have work to do."

"So do I."

He looks down at the paper in your hands. "Gideon gave you the form already? I was going to give it you in a few days."

"I'm glad he gave it to me today," you say, before dropping your eyes with a sigh. "I've just been having some trouble finding the words to describe what happened."

"You don't have to do it now..." he starts, but you cut him off.

"I do. I don't want to come back to this later. I need to finish it now, while I still can."

"Okay," he accepts after a moment. "Then take your time. I'll be here."

You fall into a comfortable silence as you bring your pen back down and start writing.

***

He doesn't finish his own paperwork until well after midnight. When he looks up from his reports, you're asleep, your head resting on your crossed arms over his desk.

He would normally wake you and tell you to head home, but you look so peaceful for the first time in too long. Haley and Jack would have gone to bed hours ago, so he figures it won't hurt to stay with you for at least a little while as you get some much needed rest. He can't imagine that sleep has been coming easy - he saw you shaking yourself awake each time you closed your eyes on the plane - so he lets you slumber.

He still hasn't gotten the image of you with your hands and mouth taped out of his head, and he doesn't know if he ever will. When your legs had given out, his arms had instinctively shot forward to grab you before his brain could catch up. He can barely look at the bandages on your wrist now, where the tape rubbed your skin raw.

Standing up from his chair, he slides his suit jacket down his arms and steps around his desk. Being extra careful not to wake you, he drapes it over your shoulders and lets you sleep.

***

Hotch gives you the next week off, but the quiet solitude of your house is too much to bear with all of the memories swirling through your brain. You know he would have called you if there was a case out of town, so a few evenings later, you find yourself in your car, driving over to the Virginia field office.

When you walk into the bullpen, it's empty aside from Reid at his desk and Prentiss at the coffee station. It's late, and you assume Reid is just taking some notes down from the last case, but you aren't sure why Emily is still here.

"Hey," she says when she sees you sit at your desk. "Don't you have the week off?"

She looks exhausted, but you understand where she's coming from. The urge to overcompensate for being new. For not being the agent you're replacing. You felt it with Gideon when you were transferred here. She likely feels it with Elle.

"I needed to get out of the house," you explain, adjusting your seat and settling back.

"I hear that," she says, before putting a lid on her coffee cup and grabbing her bag. "I should actually go home for once, but I'll see you in a few days."

Spencer doesn't look up from his notepad until the sound of the door closing behind Emily jerks him from his stupor.

"You're here," he states, as though he's not sure if he is supposed to be asking a question or not. "What are you doing here?"

You shrug, smiling at him. For a genius, he can be kind of clueless sometimes. "I wanted to see you guys."

"Oh," he says, placing his pen on his desk, "well, it's just me here."

You grin. "Works for me."

That makes him smile slightly, but it falls in an instant. "I'm glad you're okay."

Your heart leaps into your throat. "Thanks, Spence, me too."

You expect him to return to his notes, but he just looks down and back up again. "Are you? Okay?"

You frown, more out of a lack of understanding, but he starts backtracking immediately. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't press-"

"It's fine," you reassure, pressing your lips together. "It's what everyone's thinking anyway."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, so you continue to fill the silence. "You just can't let the stares get to you."

"How, though?" he says after a beat. You're not sure what he's asking, but the confusion you're feeling must be mirrored in your expression, because he elaborates. "Ever since my mom came here for the Garner case, I feel like everyone has been looking at me, with all this...pity."

Your chest squeezes as you think about all of the lingering stares that followed him around in the week after Garner killed himself. Even Morgan couldn't hide his shock when Mrs. Reid showed up at the field office. "Have I?"

He shakes his head, and your chest relaxes with relief. Spencer glances up at you, and he looks so young for a second. "You're one of the few who hasn't."

"I guess I just understand the stares better than anyone," you sigh, feeling the familiar ache as your memories return to you in flashes.

You hear him suck in a breath as the realization dawns on him. "Agent Adler..."

You nod and Reid gives you a second to take a breath before he continues. "He was my instructor once, you know. At the academy."

You smile as your eyes shine with unshed tears. "Yeah, I know."

There's this kid in my hand-to-hand combat seminar.

Kid?

He can't be more than 20, maybe 21 years old. But the kid has guts.

You remember those nights before Jeff joined organized crime so fondly these days. The calm before the storm.

"He never treated me differently."

You look up with a sad smile, the memory receding as Spencer shares his own. "Hotch made me take a few physical training classes at the academy after I joined. All the other instructors acted like I was a joke, or a prank being pulled on them...but he never did."

That doesn't surprise you. Jeff was so nurturing and kind, much better than you ever were before you met him.

"I really miss him sometimes," he whispers softly.

You reach forward and press your hand on top of his. He doesn't pull back. "Me too, kid."

***

You can't remember the last time the team went out together. There was one night, what feels like years ago, when you all got dinner together after an especially cut-and-dry case that ended within the first day you arrived on scene. When the cases are long and hard-fought, it's not the same; everyone bolts the minute the jet hits the tarmac.

Tonight, something feels different. There hasn't been a new case in a couple of weeks, and everyone seems lighter.

"I'm back," Haley smiles, carefully setting two drinks down on the little high top table you are crowded around. "Spicy marg for Emily, and mojito for me."

You're still nursing the old fashioned you ordered a half hour ago, and Hotch is only halfway through his pint of Guinness.

"How are they treating you at the BAU, Emily?" Haley asks, before putting the straw in her mouth and taking a large sip.

"She means is he being nice to you," you grin, cocking your head at Hotch as he shoots you a look of mock-offense. You know I'm right.

He flashes his eyes. And?

"Everyone has been incredibly nice," she says with a smile as a waitress approaches you with a drink in her hand.

She sets it on the table in front of you and glances behind her. "That man over there bought this for you."

Haley starts hooting before the waitress has a chance to leave the vicinity. She's definitely starting to feel her mojito, but you would never judge her on her one night away from the baby.

"That was weird," you say, hoping you don't look as awkward as you feel.

Haley leans forward and grabs your hand, an earnest smile on her face. "You should go talk to him! Only if you want to, of course."

"Yeah, it's your night off," Emily agrees, shooting you a smirk over the rim of her margarita.

"I don't know, guys," you say, sliding the drink to the center of the table.

You can tell Haley isn't done encouraging you to have a wild night, so you brace yourself for the pounce, but thankfully, Hotch stands up just as she's opening her mouth, and takes her hand. "Come on, honey, let's go show them how it's done."

"Oh!" she smiles, her face lighting up as she follows him onto the dance floor. "You ladies don't have too much fun without me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," you grin, before downing the last of your original drink.

Emily watches them shimmy into the crowd, her chin resting on her palm. "They are so sweet."

"They've been that way forever," you agree, glancing back over at them as they dance lazily in the center of the dance floor. Haley's movements are a bit looser as she slides through his arms, but he keeps a firm grasp on her hand, keeping her upright even when it looks like she may fall.

He still looks at her the same way he did in high school, when he saw her at that first rehearsal for Pirates of Penzance. There's so much wonder in his eyes, like he's seeing her for the first time, every time.

***

You should be happier right now. You're done with high school, sitting in a sea of green caps and gowns with all of your friends, but all you can think about is how soon he's going to be gone.

You're going to be at different schools next year. Him at Harvard, you at UCLA, opposite ends of the country, for four years. The gravity of what that means didn't sink in until this very moment, the worst possible timing, because you're supposed to be happy right now.

"High school couldn't end fast enough," the girl next to you grins, her cap decorated with the glittery letters of the school she will be attending next year. "I'm so ready for all of this to be over."

You're not. You force your lips into a smile and let yourself glance a few rows up, just for a moment. When it's just the back of his head, you aren't confronted by the confusing emotions that have been swirling around your brain for the last few months. Of course you would realize you're in love with your best friend a semester before school ends. But that isn't the only reason your timing couldn't be worse.

You wave at your dad in the crowd, you is wearing more school colors than even you are, and he waves back enthusiastically. It distracts you for a moment, but then you face the front again, and your eyes are drawn back to the same place.

He turns back then, with a grin meant just for you, and your heart flutters like it's in a butterfly enclosure. You smile back, more genuine this time, but his attention shifts behind you after a quick nod. You don't have to turn back to know who he's looking at in the stands.

You shouldn't be surprised they got along so well, you practically set them up. After their first date, he seemed lighter than air, giddy with the impatient brush strokes of a first love. The look in his eyes now is the same as it was that day.

How did it go?

I'm gonna marry that girl one day.

You don't know why you had just assumed he was joking around. Hotch never joked about things like this.

Eventually, he turns back around in his seat, and you stare at your hands as you clasp and unclasp them over and over and over again until you no longer feel the cavity in your chest where your best friend used to be.

***

The next case comes in as you're working on your second drink. JJ corrals everyone at the bar into taxis, and sends you all off to the airport where the jet is already fueled and waiting.

"You missed a fun night," you note as Gideon climbs into the plane, a few minutes after the rest of you arrived.

"I had a good time," he says simply, before sitting by himself a few rows over. He hasn't spoken to you since he gave you the incident report, but you know it's not about you. Being forced to let Frank get away was hard on him, but you don't know how to assuage his guilt about your kidnapping if he won't even look at you.

Derek flips open his case file and huffs out a breath. "Well, good time's definitely over."

"The Kyles," JJ says, beginning the briefing as the plane takes off, "Dennis and Lacy were murdered an hour ago in their suburban Atlanta home."

You look up, assuming you heard her wrong. "Only an hour ago?"

"Police were on scene unusually fast," she nods.

Derek frowns. "Why?"

"One of the unsubs called them and told them that the other was about to murder the victims."

Prentiss lets out a humorless laugh from across from you. "You're kidding."

"From inside the house."

JJ scans the file again. "According to the dispatcher, the first male sounded terrified and begged them to get there before the other, who they both identified as Raphael, was about to kill the sinners that lived there."

Gideon enters the conversation with a confused frown. "Sinners?"

"Also, when they arrived, the police found this displayed prominently on the bed." She holds up a photo of a page that looks torn out of a book.

"Revelations, chapter 6, verse 8."

Gideon sighs. "They're on a mission. And mission-based killers will not stop killing."

***

Gideon was right, as he usually is. The killings don't stop, and videos of the murders are posted online, spreading the killers' message for them.

"JJ, why don't you and Reid go out there, see if you can find Mr. Hankel and see if he remembers something."

"On it."

Garcia calls almost immediately after they leave. "There's a new video from our psycho."

Hotch stills. "Get it on the monitor here as soon as you can."

The police officer you met at the first crime scene joins you, Hotch, and Morgan in front of the computer as the video appears on the screen. The first thing you see is the dirty mattress. Then come the dogs.

You avert your eyes as the woman's screams for help fill the room.

"Jezebel's death," Hotch whispers, almost to himself.

"My god," Morgan grimaces. "You can turn it off."

The officer suddenly leans forward. "Oh, wait."

"You haven't seen enough?" Morgan asks, disgust coloring his tone. He has two sisters, both of whom he protects fiercely. You can't imagine what he's thinking about as he watches the screen.

"Those dogs," he says, his voice growing in strength as he speaks. "Those three dogs attacked someone a couple of months ago. I would have had them impounded, but the victim knew the owner."

"You have the owner's name?"

He checks his notepad, flipping through it rapidly. "Hankel."

Your blood runs cold. "Hankel?"

"Tobias Hankel."

You're on your feet before he can finish saying his name.

***

The drive to the Hankel farmhouse is filled with hand wringing and nervous leg bouncing. You keep catching Hotch glancing over at you, but you don't care. You just need him to drive faster.

When he pulls up in front of the house, you and Emily throw your doors open before he can come to a complete stop. Hotch and Gideon head toward the house, so you lead Prentiss and Morgan over to the barn, where you can hear the faint sound of panicked breathing.

Lifting your gun and flashlight, you push open the barn door and are greeted by the sight of JJ pointing her gun at you. "JJ, it's L/N, Prentiss, and Morgan. You're okay."

She looks frenzied, her hair and clothes covered in a layer of sweat and grime. When her flashlight comes down, you notice the dead dogs on the ground.

"Tobias Hankel is the unsub," she gasps, stumbling over to you.

"We know, honey," you whisper, taking her arm and leading her outside, before glancing at Emily behind you. "Call an ambulance."

She nods and rushes over to the clearing in search of better cell signal as Derek steps forward, his face still twisted into a worried frown. "JJ, where's Reid?"

"They just completely tore her apart," she babbles, her eyes still frantic even as you put your hands on her shoulders to steady her. "There's nothing even left-"

"JJ, look at me."

Her eyes snap over to Morgan, and he brings his voice down again. "Where's Reid?"

"We split up," she says, her voice still tight, but slightly calmer. "He said he was going to go in the back."

"House is clear," Hotch calls from behind you, making you spin around, your mouth twisting with dread.

"So where is he?"

JJ's eyes glance back at the cornfield behind the house, and suddenly you're running. You can hear someone calling your name, but all you can think about is Spencer with an unsub who's idea of torture is biblical and cruel.

There are two sets of footprints in the dirt by the edge of the field, but after a few feet, they turn to drag marks. Oh no, oh god no.

***

The whole team - except for Reid, your brain keeps reminding you - sets up in Hankel's house, with even Garcia joining you on the scene to limit communication time.

You can't sleep as you alternate between reading Hankel's journals and hovering over Penelope's shoulder as she pores through his downloaded images and videos. Even as exhaustion pulls at your eyes, you periodically splash your face with water from the bathroom to keep yourself up. If anyone can understand how terrifying it is to be taken by a psychotic killer, it's you. Succumbing to sleep feels like a defeat, like you've given up on him.

You don't find anything useful until after Emily and JJ return from meeting with Tobias's N.A. sponsor, but in the sixth hour of scouring his journal, your brain clicks with a realization. "Guys, some parts of this journal match his father's handwriting. But they were written after he died."

"The bedrooms upstairs..." Gideon mutters, his eyes shifting up like they do when he's thinking. "One of Tobias's personalities may be his father."

Your brow furrows and you look down at the journal in front of you even as your eyes burn with fatigue. "Then who is Raphael?"

"My guess," Gideon sighs, "a mediator between the two."

Hotch looks at you, and you can see the concern etched into his face. "We need to start profiling Tobias's father. He may be the one who chose where to take Reid."

Morgan nods. "I'll get Garcia on it."

He leaves the room and Hotch comes over to the table, where you're still staring down at one of the journals. Your hands are covered in pink half-moon indentations where your nails were pressed, and he fights the urge to take you away from here, to save you from this hurt. "You should get some rest."

"I'm fine, Hotch," you whisper through gritted teeth. He can hear the worry in every word that leaves your mouth. The terror at the prospect of losing the team's youngest profiler.

"You didn't sleep at all last night," he points out gently.

"Neither did you."

You're not wrong. He didn't get a chance to shut his eyes either, but he's used to the sleepless nights. He supposes you are, too.

Your focus returns to the journal, and you don't notice as he slips out of the room and finds Gideon by the front of the house.

"Reid's brilliant," the older man sighs when he notices Hotch, almost like he's trying to convince himself. "He'll make it."

"I take advantage of Reid for his brain," he says softly, "but I never teach him how to handle things emotionally."

Jason shrugs. "Lead by example."

"What kind of example is that?"

For a bunch of criminal psychologists, you all still have no idea how to truly deal with losing people. Maybe that's just how life works. He thinks about the weeks after Jeff's death, when he wasn't sure if you would ever be okay again. Even as he held you while you cried, and promised that you would feel okay someday, he's not sure if he ever actually believed it.

But then one day, your eyes stopped shining at the mention of his name, and you no longer fell apart after each time you had to question a victim's widow.

Even after your mother's death, you were stoic. He remembers holding your hand at the funeral, but your grip was almost stronger than his, like you were holding him up with your sheer willpower to stay upright.

Seeing you now, he's not sure what will happen if Reid doesn't come back. He just knows he doesn't plan on finding out.

He and Gideon rush back inside when Garcia's voice frantically calls for everyone to look at Hankel's monitors. His eyes squint inadvertently as the video feed of Reid tied to a chair lights up the screens in front of them, almost like his brain is trying to block out the image.

Your hand flies to your mouth, but not before a small anguished sound escapes. "He's been beaten."

"This is for us," Garcia whispers, tears streaming down her cheeks. "He knows we're here."

"I'm gonna put this guy's head on a stick," Morgan spits out, before turning around and slamming his fist into the room's wooden door.

Gideon leans closer to the screens, clearly trying to take in any detail he can from the scene. "Why can't you locate him?"

"He's rerouting to a different I.P. address every 30 seconds," Garcia explains, her voice thick through the tears. "I can't track him."

***

The screens shut off and the video feed of Spencer is gone. Penelope starts frantically typing away at the keyboard, likely in an effort to regain the signal, but it doesn't seem to be working.

Your body feels heavy, like there are weights on all of your limbs. Realistically, you know it's mostly the stress and exhaustion, but you can't stop thinking about the frightened look on Reid's face and how he must be feeling.

When you walk back through the house, the sound of a hushed argument in the kitchen catches your attention.

"JJ, what do you want from me?"

You recognize Morgan's voice, and you almost turn away to give them some privacy, but something in JJ's voice as she responds keeps you at the door.

"I just...I want someone to tell me the truth."

"The truth is one of you is here, and one of you isn't. You gotta figure the rest out for yourself."

You're walking inside before you can stop yourself. "Morgan, go help Penelope with the video file."

He looks surprised when he sees you, but he doesn't argue before leaving the room.

JJ rakes a hand through her hair as you approach her slowly. She doesn't shy away as you stand next to her, so you reach out and squeeze her forearm once before pulling back. "I was terrified when Frank took me in Texas."

She looks up with a shocked expression, her eyes finally meeting yours for the first time all day.

"I was terrified," you repeat, "but I never lost hope, because I knew you guys would come for me, no matter what."

Her eyes crinkle with sorrow and you pat her arm again, almost as much for you as for her. "I didn't blame anyone for what happened to me, JJ. Reid isn't blaming you either."

Her lip trembles, and you pull her into a hug as the tears finally come.

***

"Your team members...choose one to die."

Spencer gasps on the grainy computer monitor. "Kill me."

"Tell me who dies."

"No."

The back and forth continues as Hankel stalks toward him and lines his revolver up with Reid's forehead. "Choose."

"I-I choose Aaron Hotchner."

The room stills.

"He's a classic narcissist. He thinks he's better than everyone else on the team. Genesis 23:4. 'Let him not deceive himself and trust in emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense. In emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense.'"

Reid's words sink in and you unconsciously reach towards Hotch, but he's already walking out of the room. You follow him into the other room, the rest of the team on your heels.

"I'm not a narcissist," he says, his voice lighter than you're expecting. He grabs a Bible from the table and quickly flips through it, landing on the verse Reid mentioned.

"Come on, look," Gideon urges. "You can't think anything from that. He's not in his right mind, Hotch."

He waves away everyone's concern. "No. Stop. Stop. All right, everybody right now- what's my worst quality?"

No one says anything. You can feel Morgan revving up, so you jump in to start things off. "You're a workaholic."

Your mind flashes back to your hometown's library, all the late nights where you would fall asleep in your chair as he worked away into the early hours of the morning. His home was a trigger after his father died, and you could see the guilt eating away at him as he realized he didn't miss his dad as much as he was supposed to. As much as Sean did. The guilt that wore him down as he struggled to figure out how to be there for his brother, when he couldn't understand his pain.

He nods at you then, and there's nothing but determination behind his eyes.

"You're a bully," JJ chimes in.

Morgan adds, "You can be a drill sergeant sometimes."

Hotch is still nodding. "Right."

"You don't trust women as much as men," Emily says, her voice wavering slightly.

"Ok, good," he says, tapping the page with his finger. "I'm all these things, but none of you said that I ever put myself above the team, because I don't, ever."

"Hotch, what's your point," you whisper, chewing your lip as you anxiously glance back at the screen.

He shushes you with a wave of his hand. "Reid and I argued about the definition of classic narcissism, and he knew that I would remember that, and he also quoted Genesis, chapter 23, verse 4. Read it."

You lean forward, taking the book from him. "'I am a stranger and a sojourner with you. Give me property, forbear a place among you that I may bury my dead out of my sight.'"

"He wouldn't get it wrong unless it was on purpose."

"Bury my dead," Morgan repeats, his eyes widening. "He's in a cemetery."

***

Hotch heads to the nearest cemetery with Morgan and Gideon, while you follow closely behind, with JJ in the seat next to you and Emily in the back. The drive is short, and you all throw yourselves out of the SUV when you park, as everyone spreads out to search the cemetery.

"Come with me," you tell JJ when you see her eyes flit around the darkness, a slightly panicked expression on her face. "We'll find him."

The wet mulch of the graveyard sinks under your quick footsteps, and you keep your eyes peeled as his name choruses around you, from all of the officers milling around.

The search ends with the sound of a gunshot, and when you get to the source, you nearly collapse with the relief of seeing Hankel on the ground as Reid kneels beside him.

"Spencer," you gasp as the other agents examine Hankel's body. He looks up at the sound of your voice and his face contorts for a second as you kneel in front of him.

A small sound leaves his mouth and suddenly your arms are crushing him to you, your panic ebbing away with the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "You're okay. You're okay."

Hotch reaches out when you break apart and helps him up before Reid pulls him into a tight hug that surprises everyone. "I knew you'd understand."

Hotch tightens his arms for a moment, before they both pull back and JJ throws her arms around Reid. "I'm so sorry."

He pats her back, and for a split second, you can almost imagine he's comforting her, instead of the other way around. "It's all right. It wasn't your fault."

She steps away from him and he asks for a moment alone, so you all move back a few paces, allowing him the time to come to terms with the death of the man who somehow both tortured and saved him. You use the second of space to catch your breath as you will yourself not to let the tears of relief fall.

When Spencer finally stands up, you grab onto his shoulder as he wraps his arm around you, and you help him over to the ambulance that is waiting by the edge of the cemetery.

"Thank you," you gasp as he sits on the edge of the vehicle, suddenly unable to help yourself.

He frowns, his hair hanging in sweaty pieces in front of his face. "For what?"

"For staying alive."

***

The next case takes you to New York, where you find yourself hyper-vigilant as you watch Spencer try to acclimate to the job again. You can't help but notice the small changes in his demeanor, including the snappiness in his tone as he responds to everyone's questions, but you attribute it to the shock of his kidnapping.

After returning from the city, you decide to take some time to complete the paperwork you've been letting slide. Hotch managed to head home at a decent hour for once, and JJ and Prentiss are no where to be seen, but you spot Morgan twiddling his thumbs at his desk, his eyes darting over to peer at Reid almost as often as yours do.

An hour into scribbling out a case report, you head over to the coffee station to refill your mug. It has cooled down since you made it a couple of hours ago, but it still tastes just how you like it.

Burnt, Hotch's voice grumbles in your head. Even when he's gone, he won't leave you alone.

Topping off your mug, you turn around to get back to work and end up bumping into Reid, who looks worse for wear than he did on the jet.

"Shit, sorry," you smile, trying to get him to meet your eye. "I didn't see you there."

"Watch where you're going," he snaps, before stepping around you.

You don't let him get away that easily. Grabbing his arm, you hold him in place as he tries to wriggle away. "Spencer, don't do that. You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

"I'm fine," he says simply, his expression almost emotionless as he glances back at you over his shoulder.

"I'm serious," you say, putting extra emphasis on your words. "I know what you're feeling. I can help."

His expression shifts into one of animosity and something else you can't place. "You don't know anything about what I'm feeling."

His words are like a slap to the face, and he uses your break in focus to tug himself out of your grip and stalk over to the bathroom around the corner.

You press your lips together, willing yourself not to take it personally. He's just been through a horrifying ordeal. No one can expect him to continue on like normal, at least for a little while.

"Something is up with him," Morgan says from his desk, before spinning in his chair to look at the spot where Reid walked away. "He's acting...hostile."

"He's just adjusting," you say quickly, your protective instinct coming out in full force. You close your eyes for a moment to calm your voice down. "This is a normal reaction for what he went through."

Derek doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't press the issue. You don't even know if you're convincing yourself, because you know why this kind of hostility and irritation manifests: when you're hiding something.

You weren't a particularly crazy teenager, so you didn't have much to hide from your parents, but there was one secret you held until you left for college that manifested in your daily interactions. One secret that changed how you acted around your best friend, how you spoke to him, how you even looked at him.

You push the thought away before turning to stare at the bathroom door as it falls shut behind Reid. You know Morgan's right. You just don't know what to do.

***

"Hey, Reid," Derek says, looking at him with a small smile. "What's going on up there?"

He shrugs. "Just thinking of this old friend of mine from Las Vegas, Ethan. Pretty sure he lives in New Orleans now."

JJ called you at home a few hours ago with the briefing and an instruction to pack for warm weather. Wanting to pack light, you threw on the tank top you planned to wear, and a button-down for the flight. A few cursory glances around the jet tell you that almost everyone else had the same idea. Of course, Hotch is still in his suit, and Reid has on a sweater vest that you're sure he won't take off, even if the temperature skyrockets.

"Really?" Derek asks. "You going to give him a call?"

Reid shrugs again, and you absentmindedly wonder if his shoulders hurt from the number of times he has used that motion over the past week. "We grew up competing against each other in absolutely everything. Spelling bees, science fairs. We also both had our hearts set on joining the Bureau but first day at Quantico he backed out."

Emily, who is sitting next to you, looks up with a grin. "He probably just couldn't take the heat."

"It's not really for us to judge, is it?" Reid states, and her face falls immediately.

"Right. My bad."

He hasn't been as irritable in recent days, but sometimes a random response will rub him the wrong way. You find Emily's hand on the armrest and squeeze it once. She looks down at her hand and then at you, a grateful smile on her face.

JJ directs everyone back to the images that were recovered as you approach Louisiana.

"A slaughter like this takes time," you note as you examine the depth and shape of the wounds on the dead man in the photos before you.

"Andrei Chikatilo fantasized that the men he killed were his captives," Reid adds, chiming in from across the cabin, "and that torturing and mutilating them somehow made him a hero."

Gideon nods, looking up from his file. "This city's barely back to life. Something like this could cripple its psyche."

"So," you say, looking at JJ. "Where do we start?"

She sighs. "All of the records were washed away in Katrina."

"With no case files, there's only one place we can start," Hotch says, drawing your attention. "Square one."

The plane lands soon after, and you disembark into the midday heat, heading to the latest crime scene immediately after dropping your bags off at the station.

Instead of a body, there's a very alive man waiting for you all at the scene.

"You must be BAU," he says, reaching out to shake JJ's hand. "Will Lamontagne."

She smiles at him, accepting the handshake. "Hi, Jennifer Jareau, we spoke on the phone."

The detective is looking at her so intently, you almost feel like you're interrupting something by bring here. "Okay, then. I pictured you different."

You glance over at Emily, who is already looking at you, a smirk on her face.

"These are Agents Gideon, Morgan, Prentiss, and L/N," she introduces. "This is Detective William Lamontagne Jr."

He nods at you. "Appreciate you guys being here."

"Of course," you say, trying to keep the smile off your face as you shake his hand. Beside you, JJ has turned a light shade of mauve that you presently allow her to pretend is just from the heat.

***

"Morgan called," Hotch mentions when you finally meet him back at the station. He hasn't seen you since you got off the plane. "He and Prentiss think the unsub is a woman."

You ponder the idea, your eyes lighting up as the gaps in the profile get filled. "All straight male victims, killed while on a night out at the bars. Always in groups of other men, drinking. A woman would be able to lure them away. That makes sense."

He nods, turning back to the letters from the unsub. He's about to call the rest of the team back in when he notices your forehead crinkle out of the corner of his eye. You look up at him. "Wait, you said Prentiss and Morgan think it's a woman. What about Reid? Didn't he fly out with them?"

He sighs, mentally kicking himself for letting that slip. He doesn't want you worrying about Reid any more than you already have been, but he knows there isn't anything he can do to stop you. "Apparently he missed the flight. They couldn't get ahold of him."

"What?" Your brow furrows with concern, and he quickly interjects to keep you from spiraling. "They will be back from Texas any minute now, and Gideon said he spotted Reid heading over here a few minutes before you arrived. Nothing has happened to him."

"What are you talking about?" you exclaim, before bringing your voice down. "The worst thing happened to him. He's hurting more than any of us can possibly imagine. I just don't know how to help him get through it."

He doesn't correct you. He doesn't say that almost every single member of this team can at least somewhat relate to what Reid may be feeling, including you. Instead, he puts his hand on your arm and says, "You're doing all you can."

You sigh. "And what's that?"

"You're promising to be there when he's ready for your help." He sees the tension visibly leave your shoulders, and he pulls his hand back. "That's all any of us can do."

***

When another body is found in the French Quarter, the plan changes. Everyone disperses in pairs to cover the streets in the hopes of catching the unsub in action.

Even as night falls, the temperature doesn't, and you strip off your over-shirt, leaving you in a pale pink tank top. When you emerge from the bathroom, Hotch is the only one waiting for you outside, with all of the other pairs already patrolling Bourbon Street.

He gives you a funny look when he sees you tying your button-down around your waist, and you bump your shoulder against his with a laugh. "What are you looking at?"

He exhales in a quick burst, before meeting your eye. "You look different."

"That doesn't sound good."

"No," he shakes his head, his eyes blinking shut as he clearly regrets his choice of words, "no, it's good...uh, you look good."

Your stomach flips and you turn your face down to hide the smile that's threatening to appear. "Thanks, Hotch."

He huffs out a laugh before leading you up to the bars, where tourists are bustling around in large groups. The sounds of buskers playing their accordions at the street corners loosens a memory from your brain, and you turn to him with a bright smile. "Remember your first performance of Pirates of Penzance?"

He frowns. "I remember it being my first and last foray into the world of theater."

"No," you giggle, glancing around you periodically even as you continue the story. "I mean, do you remember how that one accordion player tripped and almost fell into the orchestra pit like ten minutes into opening night?"

His eyes light up at the memory and he laughs. "I thought it was hilarious, but Haley was so stressed out the whole performance. To this day, I've never seen that vein in her forehead get so big."

"You were pirate number four," you chastise him with a grin. "She was one of the leads. I hardly think you can compare experiences."

He shrugs, his eyes still scanning the vicinity. He looks like he wants to say something, but then you both notice Morgan and Reid rushing towards one of the side streets and your conversation halts. "Let's go."

***

With help from Detective Lamontagne and his late father, the team is able to catch the unsub right before she kills another man. Once she's in custody, you wait outside by the ambulances, watching from afar as JJ and Will talk by his car.

After a few minutes, she hands him something and walks back over to where you're standing. "I can't believe I just did that."

"What did you do?" you ask, trying not to laugh at how freaked out she looks.

She puts her face in her hands for a second, before looking at you with a sigh. "I gave him my number."

"That's good!" you smile, squeezing her arm. "That's good, right?"

"I don't know," she says softly, her eyes squinting as she looks at you. "He seems really sweet. And he's clearly great at his job. I think the distance just worries me."

"You can take it slow," you tell her earnestly. "This doesn't have to be any more serious than you want it to be."

"What if I want it to be serious? Eventually, I mean."

You can't help but smile at the look on her face. You recognize it on yourself from when you first met Jeff: the excitement of possibility. "Then that's up to you too."

She nods, and you let out a smile. "Let loose, JJ. He seems like a good one, and you definitely deserve something good."

JJ glances over at the police cars, where Will is talking to one of the paramedics. "I hope so."

***

You sit by yourself on the flight home, giving yourself a bit of time to unwind from the case. You don't encounter female unsubs often, but the ones that arise always have a tendency to get under your skin. Maybe it's because their motivations seem so different from the others. Or maybe you just feel bad for them.

You're so zoned out that you don't realize Spencer is sitting next to you until he taps your arm. "Hey."

"Hey, Spence," you smile, trying to keep your tone light so he doesn't think you expect too much. "What's up?"

He looks down for a beat before meeting your eyes. "I'm sorry."

Your heart twists and you press your lips together to keep from speaking too quickly. "You never have to apologize to me."

"I do," he says, shaking his head. "Please just let me."

He looks so strong all of a sudden. You haven't seen him look so steady in months, and it makes your chest feel lighter. "Okay. I forgive you, Spencer."

He nods, making a move to get up, but you don't let him get away just yet. "Just promise me something."

He purses his lips, like he's unsure of how to respond, but eventually he dips his chin into another nod.

"Promise me that next time you feel this way, you'll come to me."

He looks at you with an expression you can't decipher, but it quickly falls into contrition. "I promise."

***

"What are you thinking about?" Hotch's shoulder bumps yours as he sits down on the edge of the desk next to you.

"Nothing," you say quickly. He's not sure why you're lying. He can sniff out your dishonesty from a mile away.

"I thought you and Reid got a chance to talk on the plane last week," he frowns, following your line of sight.

You sigh, turning your gaze away from the younger agent. "We did. I just keep thinking about what he said about the unsub at the last scene."

He's like a drug addict.

It would be almost impossible for him to quit without help.

"All of us knew," he says softly, his eyes turning up, searching for something he can't see. "To some extent, we knew. But he's doing a lot better now. We just have to give him time to trust us with the truth."

Your eyes find his. "How did you know you could trust me? When we were kids, I mean?"

Your question takes him aback. He wants to say something profound, to mention a specific moment when he realized that he could share the worst parts of his life with you without the fear that the world would end, but it wasn't that poetic. All he knows is that you were a kid, and he was too, and the first time you saw the splotches of black and blue painting his skin, you didn't turn away. You looked at him, not with pity or sorrow, but with a strength that he still draws from to this day. "I think I just knew you would always be there."

You ponder his words, your eyes traveling back to Reid, who is flipping through a book he brought with him. He knows there are a lot of ways you could take what he said, but he believes you'll take what you need, because he was telling the truth.

You really were always there for him. Even when you weren't - either because of physical distance or because you were in a fight - he never doubted that you would be there if he needed you.

"Come on," he says after a beat. "Let's head back."

You nod, your mind still a million miles away. "Okay."

***

Friday nights used to be your date night. Jeff would promise to be home by seven, usually with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers, and you would cook something special together before watching a movie or falling into bed.

After he died, Friday nights became your least favorite time of the week, serving as a constant reminder of what you should have, and no longer do.

Today, for the first time in over two years, you think you might be ready to remember those nights you used to love. Grabbing a bottle of cabernet from your pantry, you pull out a thin-stemmed glass and pour yourself some wine. Your heart thuds heavily as you swirl the wine around, and you are willing yourself to bring the glass to your lips when your pager goes off. You feel a shameful sense of relief as you set your glass down and reach for your purse.

181 Arthur Street. Why does that look familiar?

You wrack your brain for a second before it clicks. It takes you less than a minute to toss your wine into the sink and grab your coat.

***

"Where's Gideon?" you ask when you spot Hotch and the team standing in his kitchen.

"He's not here," he replied. "It seems he left in a hurry."

Morgan looks at him with an urgency you recognize in yourself. "PD thinks he did this?"

"They have six witnesses who saw him running down the street covered in blood, wielding a gun."

"Okay, he was probably chasing the son of a bitch who did do this."

Hotch shrugs, and you can feel the momentary helplessness in the motion. "Either way, we're under strict orders not to get in the way of the investigation."

"Gideon's a suspect," Emily nods, "we're his colleagues."

"Conflict of interest," JJ agrees. "There's no way they'll ask for our help."

"Which he needs badly right now."

You turn into the bedroom to look at the crime scene for the first time. The mutilation of the victim's body brings a familiar nausea to your stomach that you swallow down. "Do we know who she is?"

Hotch comes in behind you. "An old school friend." He turns back to spout off a list of instructions to JJ, but you can't take your eyes off of the woman.

Evisceration of the torso. Removal of various organs. No defensive wounds.

Something in her hand catches your attention and your eyes flicker down to see what she's clutching. Using one of your gloved hands, you pry open her fist and reveal a broken piece of bone. A rib bone.

"Frank," you whisper, almost to yourself. "It's Frank."

"What did you say?" Morgan asks, stepping up next to you. You unfurl your hand to reveal the bone, and he swears under his breath. He turns around to address the rest of the team. "Frank's back."

After JJ snaps a dozen photos of the crime scene on her phone, you all head out into the night air to regroup and formulate a game plan. You hang behind the team on the walk out, your mind spinning with memories of hands and voices you still see sometimes when you're trying to fall asleep.

"Y/N." Your eyes snap up to Emily's as she strolls alongside you. "You okay?"

She looks sincere, and you find yourself wanting to talk all of a sudden. You nod, heaving out a sigh. "Yeah, it just feels very fresh all over again."

"I can imagine." She takes your hand and gives it a small squeeze. "You can come to me if you need a break from all of it."

She leaves you with an earnest smile, and you realize, not for the first time, how glad you are that she's on the team.

***

You aren't able to save Rebecca Garner this time. Frank kills her, and you once again feel that familiar bitterness of nausea rising in your throat as you see her mutilated body.

When you realize he's going to go after children again, you join Hotch and Morgan as they go to Tracey Belle's house.

"We need a crime scene team," Hotch barks into his comm when the home comes up empty, no trace of anyone inside.

"That's my house!"

You turn around and see Tracey's parents running up to the entrance, panic reflected in their eyes.

Hotch steps forward to block them. "Mr. Belle..."

"You have to let us in. My daughter's in there."

He turns to the mother. "Ma'am, you can't go in right now."

"Where's Tracy? Where is she?"

You can see the interaction pulling him down, like a ship anchored to the sea floor.

"What's important to know right now is Tracy is alive, okay? Your daughter's alive."

S.W.A.T. takes the parents aside to explain the situation to them in more detail, and you go to Hotch's side as a pained expression crosses his face. More than anything, you want to comfort him. To tell him that Tracey isn't Jack, that this won't happen to him...but how can you?

Gideon's girlfriend was murdered tonight. Jeff was killed while undercover. Your mother was killed by a drunk driver. No one is ever really safe.

Your eyes flash back over to Mr. and Mrs. Belle, and your chest tightens almost uncontrollably as you imagine how scared Tracey must be.

When Emily and JJ find Jane in a holding cell at the local precinct, her knowledge of Frank's backstory provides more clues about his whereabouts. You go with JJ and Reid to his mother's apartment in Manhattan, while the rest of the team heads to the train station to find Frank.

The idea of Tracey being all alone, frightened for her life, plagues your every thought as the three of you drive to the city. You try to clear your mind as you push through the front door and check for any sign of life. Instead, what you find is the dusty corpse of Frank's late mother.

"Guys, over here." Reid points to a latched door. Stepping around the bed, you immediately unlock the door and throw it open, revealing the tiny, shivering form of Tracey.

"Oh, sweetie," you gasp as sits up in fright, her posture only relaxing once she sees the FBI vests. "You're okay, honey."

You undo the ties on her wrists and she all but falls forward and into your arms. You pull her into a tight hug, making sure to be careful of any possible injuries she could have sustained. The feeling of her chest rising and falling against yours brings you a familiar comfort, and you squeeze her tighter, before finally letting go.

***

He finds himself in Strauss's office again as he explains what happened with the Frank case. How he killed himself and Jane, but he can't bring himself to take that as a failure, because he knows she never would've found the strength to leave him anyway. "Once again, the team has battled a monster and won."

"The future of the BAU is not in the balance here." Her eyes are brimming with scorn. "The residual impact as a result of the investigations into the crimes and criminals you pursue is. Every cause has its effect."

He almost scoffs. "You think I don't know that?"

"I believe you are no longer effective in your post."

There it is. He knows she never liked the way he handled his team. The next words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "The modern furniture, strategically placed magazines, the framed diplomas, the art on the wall are all in conflict with your family photos."

Her eyes widen but he just continues, undeterred.

"You have three children, but you favor the middle one, your son."

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Of course you love all your children," he shrugs, "but not like your son."

Strauss twists her hand into a fist. "That's enough."

"The bonsai that you obsessively nurture is to compensate for feelings of failure as a mother..."

"Agent Hotchner," she says, her voice bordering on rage. "I said that is enough. My position is not in question here. As your superior I am questioning your ability to lead your team."

"My team?" he scoffs, unable to keep the malice from his tone. "Let me tell you about my team. Agent Morgan fought to protect his identity from the very people who could save him. Why? Because trust has to be earned and there are very few people he truly trusts.

"Reid's intellect is a shield which protects him from his emotions and at the moment his shield is under repair.

"Prentiss overcompensates because she doesn't yet feel she's a part of the team. She needn't worry.

"Every day, Agent Jareau fields dozens of requests for our team. And every night she goes home hoping she's made the right choices.

"Garcia fills her office with figurines and color to remind herself to smile as the horror fills her screens.

"Agent Gideon in many ways is damned by his profound knowledge of others, which is why he shares so little of himself. Yet he pours his heart into every case we handle.

"And Agent L/N," he pauses finally, taking a moment to find himself again, "she has taken the immense loss that life has handed to her and transformed it, not into cynicism, but into empathy, for her team, for the victims, for the world."

Strauss doesn't say anything, and he can't help the vindication that shines through his voice as he says, "I stand by my actions and I stand by my team. And if you think that you can find a better person for the job, good luck."

"Agent Hotchner," she emphasizes, making him look back at her one last time.

"How do I know you favor your son?"

She simply looks at him, a mixture of irritation and shame on her face.

"I'm good at my job."

***

"What's wrong?" Hotch looks up in surprise as you sidle up next to him. He was staring at the portrait of the FBI director, hanging in the hallway outside the bullpen, and he only does that when he's professionally stressed.

He looks like he wants to avoid the question, but you fix him with a glare that makes him sigh. "We're being evaluated."

"Doesn't that happen every year?" you ask, still not understanding.

"It's six months early."

You take a deep breath. This past year has been tough for everybody, but you think the team has come through the other side better people. "So they're assessing our unit. It'll be fine, we did great work this year."

"The only file they didn't request was mine."

That sends a spike of anxiety through your bloodstream, but he doesn't need your fear. "They could never fire you. You stepped up to the plate when Gideon left. You helped make this unit what it is."

You're the reason I joined at all, you want to say. You made this unit my family. I can't imagine being here without you.

But that isn't fair. He doesn't need to carry this with you. This burden of having no one else.

So instead you just smile at him, bump his shoulder with yours, and say, "You're going to be fine. This team wouldn't be the same without you."

TAGLIST: @citrusiove, @distortionbobble, @sanayikes (message me to be added!)

[poppadom0912]

Holding on

Warnings: Guns, shootings, blood/injuries, hospitals and lots of angst.

Summary: When going to visit your older brothers, things suddenly take a turn for the worst.

Submitted by @lokiswife18

A/N: I'm so sorry, this was sent in ages ago but with some free time now, I can finally get all of these done. There's multiple medical inaccuracies so I apologise in advance. I somehow ended up writing over 2k words, so this is a long one. Hope you enjoy this, it feels like i haven't written angst in a hot minute so this was super fun to do. Enjoy!!

Today's dinner had been planned for months now and every single time, something came up and it had to be postponed.

First, Jay was unexpectedly gone undercover, and you and Will didn't want him to 'miss out'. The second time, you were pulled in last minute to supervise the annual school camping trip. The third time Will had been unavailable to what you guys later found out was a massive pile up at the hospital that he didn't reply till two days later. And the other four times after that were all results of mainly your brothers work lives getting in the way.

Today had been the day where nothing would go wrong. You'd all messaged earlier on and nothing had come up to change your plans. There was going to be nothing in the way to stop this dinner from taking place tonight.

The high school you worked at was having their parent teacher meetings today, your last one being half an hour before the reservation Jay booked.

Your work best friend who you always drove with had a later meeting and so you were taking the train, your make up in your bag. Your clothes were good enough for restaurant you three frequented growing up.

Waving the other teachers goodnight, wishing them luck with the remainder of their parents, you made your way to the train station, phone in hand as you updated your brothers that you had left work.

It was dark out, the sun had almost fully set, and it was at that time during the autumn when the sun started setting earlier. But the station was close enough and having a detective as a brother meant that he taught you things that would be useful just in case.

Rummaging through your bag looking for your card, you cursed yourself for how messy your things were and with the addition of your makeup, searching for your card that wasn't in its purse was very difficult.

Stopping in your tracks, you huffed in frustration at not being able to find your card. Taking your bag off your shoulder, you used your dominant hand to dig deep. You definitely put it in this morning, you never left the house without it.

Finally finding the card, you resumed your walking, rounding the corner from the train station when you heard very familiar popping sounds went off.

Ducking around the corner, you stood still as you waited for the shooting to pass. Your hands trembled slightly as you dialled 911.

But before you could press the call button, a wave of immense pain washed over you.

Time seemed to move in slow motion. Your surroundings all started to blur; the shootings no longer audible to as a ringing sound drowned your ears.

Following such intense pain was numbness. Your phone and card fell from hand, pins and needles enveloping your fingers as you lost all feeling in your entire body but your chest.

In the far back of your mind, you could hear Will's words from a night he taught you and Jay first aid. At the distant thought, you tried moving your hands to put pressure on your chest, but nothing moved.

Your breathing was now shallow, gasping out of rhythm the more you struggled. Everything was becoming so blurred to the point the flowers on your dress were no longer visible.

Coughing increased your pain tenfold; blood was now trickling out your mouth. With whatever consciousness remained, your panic sank in even further.

What had been a good day at work and a supposed even better evening spent with your brothers had taken a sudden turn for the worst when you'd been caught in the crossfire.

Here you were, bleeding out in the dark in the middle of the street with no one nearby.

Forming any sort of thoughts became even more difficult the more time passed. While thinking about what was going to happen next, your inevitable thought were your brothers who were completely oblivious.

And they were the last thing on your mind when you were no longer able to fight against your heavy eyelids.

*****

Jay arrived first. Everyone was still at the precinct but after asking very politely, Voight let him off early. Jay was sat at the reserved table for twenty minutes before Will showed up, apologising for his tardiness as surgery ran over a little longer than expected.

They had put off ordering till you arrived, only asking for drinks as they waited for you.

The first ten minutes they simply thought you got caught up with more parents but then ten turned into twenty and they were concerned.

You were usually very punctual so being this late was out of the ordinary but to also not tell them in advance that you were going to be late. Something was clearly wrong.

Confused, they both took turns messaging and calling you, both of which you didn’t reply or answer.

Now they were concerned.

Luckily, all three of you were sharing your locations with each other after leaning from many past experiences. Quickly checking your whereabouts, they found you not too far away from your school near the train station but looking at your movements for five minutes, you remained put.

Without any words, both brothers were out their chairs and apologising to their waiter who had been so patient with them. Getting into Jay’s truck – Will being dropped of by Natalie – they drove towards your location, their concern transitioning into anxiety at the unknown.

It didn’t take too long to get there. Jay parking his truck on the side and Will getting out without waiting for the car to stop.

Walking around the corner, they weren’t too sure what to expect but it definitely wasn’t this.

There you were, unconscious, leaning against the side of a building, legs sprawled out forward and your head tilted to the side, blood trickling out your mouth. Your hands were limp around your abdomen where your floral dress was clearly ruined, drowning in blood.

Instantly, Will sprung forward, kneeling besides you as he called your name several time. You never responded nor did you even move an inch.

“Y/N? You with me?” As Will switched into ‘doctor mode’, Jay wasted no time in calling it in, relaying his badge number and stressing the importance of this emergency to dispatch before calling Voight, knowing the man and a few of his colleagues were still working.

Placing his fingers on the side of your neck, Will tensed up as he felt your weak and irregular pulse. Swallowing harshly, Will took inventory of every injury, not matter how big or small.

He addressed the obvious first, your chest that was still bleeding profusely. Taking off his jumper, he ripped it in half, wrapping one around your chest as tight as possible to try stop the bleeding. You had lost so much already and even with the clothing around your chest, his jumper was already soaking in so much blood.

“I’m so sorry Y/N.” Will apologised before tightening a knot, wincing when you finally whimpered. Your whimper was ever so soft that if he wasn’t so focused on you, he wouldn’t have heard it.

“Hey- Y/N, open your eyes for me please.” Will’s resolve was struggling at the sight of his little sister bleeding out and there only being so much he could do to help. But Jay, he felt even more helpless, standing back only being able to watch as his brother did his best to help with so little resources.

Surveying the area, Jay tried looking for anything out of the ordinary, but it was fully dark now, no people out as they all got ready for bed.

Turning on his phone flashlight, Jay easily caught sight of several stray bullets littering the road and pavement. With this new lighting, you looked even worse for wear, your bloody chest even more alarming now that they could actually get a good look at you.

“Shit. Will what- “

“I’ve got her Jay.” Will said firmly, looking him in the eye but his own were watery. That didn’t assure Jay as much as he wanted it to.

All of a sudden, before Jay could say anything, Will’s head snapped back towards you, his fingers going back to your pulse before moving even more forward, ducking his ear near your nose.

Will’s fast movements could only mean one thing. Before Will could even do anything, Jay already knew what was happening.

You weren’t breathing anymore.

Laying you flat on the pavement, Will winced as he placed his hands on your chest, apologising before he started chest compressions.

Each compression produced more blood, Will’s hands absolutely coated and dropping in your blood. It made him feel sick.

“Jay, I need you to take over.” Will said after some time had passed, his arms slowly starting to aching, knowing he had to take a minute before he could continue.

Kneeling on the opposite side of Will on the other side of your body, Will counting him in before he took over.

As soon as Will’s hands were off your chest, they were immediately replaced with Jay’s, almost as if it wasn’t two different people.

Will’s fingers were sticky, your blood dripping down his fingers, glued under his nails and coating his sleeves. It felt so surreal.

“Alright Jay, swap back with me on three.” Will told his brother after two minutes, not wanting him to get too tired either.

Jay’s hands were in the same state when he stopped.

“Will, its so much blood.” His voice was shaky, reality setting in as Will continued chest compressions when nothing changed.

Will only looked up at Jay with a certain glint in his eyes that he hadn’t seen since their dad died-

“Will she’s-“

The blaring sirens cut him off, blue and red lights blinding them as the appeared around the corner.

Jay got up, walking towards the newcomers when he recognised the cars in front.

“Jay, what happened?” Hank asked, approaching his detective first. His eyes clocking Jay’s bloody hands before asking “Who-“

“It’s Y/N.” Jay said, leading Intelligence and the paramedics towards the scene. “She’s been shot. I think she got caught in a shooting- she’s lost so much blood and she’s not breathing anymore but there’s no culprits anywhere and-“

“Jay, it’s okay, we’ve got this.” Hank physically had to stop the younger man, looking him straight in the eye. “We’re gonna get them, I promise.”

Hank never made promises, it was sworn off by every first responder but everyone knew that Voight never broke his promises.

“Alright Desmond, on my count I need you to take over for me.” Will said, taking charge as soon as the familiar paramedics joined him.

Instantly complying, the paramedic took over the compressions, letting Will sit back on his toes. “We need to shock her, she’s gone without a pulse for nearly thirteen minutes.”

Both paramedics looked up at him knowingly, their sombre faces ones which Will purposefully ignored even with the bitterness heavy on his tongue.

“Will I’m sorry but…”

*****

You were now connected to the portable monitor in the ambulance and to hear the repeating beeps, signalling there was no heartbeat only made things more real. But Will hadn’t given up, even with the sympathetic looks he received from the two paramedics.

Jay had joined them in the back of the ambulance, leaving the crime scene in the capable hands of Intelligence and with the promise that he’d be kept in the loop.

In what felt like recording breaking speed, they arrived at Med. Wasting no time, the stretcher was pulled out the ambulance, Desmond swapping places with Will on top of the stretcher over your body, who now took over the chest compressions.

“Maggie, is Baghdad open?” Will asked, raising his voice as they rolled into the ED, his back to all his colleagues.

“It’s all yours. Connor, Ethan!” The two men were already moving before Maggie had even called out their names.

“She’s been shot in the chest, the bullets still inside. Pulse was weak before it was lost, been doing CPR ever since and was shocked twice in between.”

“How long Will?” Connor asked, looking at the redhead worriedly, eyeing the bloody states of all three Halstead siblings. “Will, how long has she been unconscious?”

But Will never replied. “Ethan, come here and take over.”

The Korean shared a knowingly glance with the trauma surgeon but obliged anyways.

Stepping back, Will stood besides Maggie who was hooking you up to all the monitors necessary.

“The bleeding finally stopped en route.”

“When was she shot?” Connor asked, surveying the rest of your body for any other bullet wounds.

“We, we don’t know.” Will’s voiced cracked from the emotion and uncertainty. “Gosh, it’s been over fourteen minutes since.”

Will physically couldn’t find it in himself to finish the sentence.

“Okay, paddles Maggie.”

*****

Both brothers were forced out the treatment room and Will could not convince Maggie to change her mind one bit.

“She’s in good hands. Ethan and Connor will be in surgery for hours so I need you two to rest.”

Will and Jay were way too tense, their faces grim at the unknown future of their younger sister.

“Let’s wash your hands first and get into a change of clothes.” Maggie was as gentle as she would be with kids, smiling softly as she helped the brothers somewhat get their shit together.

The blood wouldn’t wash away. It remained stuck under their nails, speckles stubborn like glitter. Knowing your blood was on their hands, it was gut wrenching.

Will always kept a change of clothes in his locker. He and Jay rid of their stained shirts with whatever was left in the locker but even in a new change of clothes and washed up, they still felt disgusting.

“Will…” Jay softly called his name, clearing his throat when his voice cracked. “What did they mean about not breathing for more than fourteen minutes?”

The doctor screwed his eyes shut at his younger brothers question. His tone insinuating that he knew but was in denial and wanted confirmation that his suspicions were wrong.  

“There’s-“ Will struggled to face reality, ripping off the bandage for his brother. “There’s a very low chance she makes it. And, and if she does there will be consequences- like, really bad side effects.”

Jay clenched his jaw, turning his head away to look out the doctors lounge window into the surprisingly mellow emergency department.

“We broke our promise.”

“I know.”

“What are we meant to do?”

Several beats passed before Jay received a reply, one in which caused silent tears to finally start falling.

“I don’t know.”

[astrophileous]

Hey hey, it's me~

If I could, I would like to request a Derek x Reader or Spencer x Reader, how you feel it better. Maybe where the Reader is someone working with kids (in a nursery, childcare center, if possible ? If not, no problem at all). I wonder how they would react with someone like this 😇

Bonus point if the Reader is short 🙈

I'm weak for your fluff stories, and any of you works if I'm being honest so a fluffy one would be nice.

Again, no pressure if you don't feel writing this. Congratulations for your almost 1k, you'll get them I'm sure of it ❤️

Have a wonderful day sweetie 🌸

val, my love, tysm for the request and the kind words 🥺💞 I'm so happy you entrusted me with this request! Idk if this is what you were looking for, but I hope you're happy with it ❤️ (p.s. you can just send more requests if you weren't satisfied with this one lol)

Warning(s): derek morgan x fem!reader, stalker, break-in, typical cm stuff, swearing (?)

This blurb was written as a part of the "Zara's Birthday Bash and Road to 1K" celebration.

Zara's Birthday Bash and Road to 1K Masterlist / Criminal Minds Masterlist

Seeing all the flashing red-and-blue lights outside the building he had grown to know intimately for the past couple of months was perhaps the closest thing to a heart attack Derek Morgan would ever experience in his life.

Derek ignored the shouts of his name from his fellow teammates as he ducked beneath the yellow police tape, along with the curious glances people threw his way as he stalked towards the building with purpose. Once inside, he thoroughly checked every room he passed by, stopping only when he spotted the familiar figure sitting on one of the chairs in the pantry.

"Derek? What are you—"

You didn't get a chance to finish your question before Derek was enveloping you in a bear hug.

A wave of calm instantly flooded over his entire being. Derek buried his face deeper into you, breathing in the smell of your body wash and the addictive tang of your perfume. Your own arms wrapped around his muscular frame once the shock evaporated, letting the warmth of Derek's body seep into you as you listened to the rhytmic beating of his heart.

"Are you okay?" Derek asked once he could finally find his voice again. "Did you get hurt? He didn't do anything to you, did he?"

"No, Derek. I'm fine," you convinced him as you pulled away. "I called 911 right away. He broke through the back door but ran as soon as the police arrived."

Derek rubbed his palms up and down your arms, an appeasing gesture for you as well as a reassuring one for him. He needed to make sure that you were fine.

"Good. That's good. You did the right thing, sweetheart."

"All thanks to you, Derek." You smiled. "I wouldn't have known what to do if you didn't warn me beforehand. We're all safe because of you."

Derek's heart sat fifty pounds heavy inside his ribcage. Before he could pull you back towards his chest, an interrupting cough sounded from behind him. Derek turned around to see Rossi standing in the doorway.

"Everything alright in here?" the older agent asked.

"Everything's fine," Derek replied. "Rossi, this is (Y/N). She works here."

Rossi wasn't blind. He knew you meant something more to Derek despite the younger man introducing you as an employee of the daycare center where all of you were standing in. Nonetheless, Rossi made no mention of it as he shook your hand and offered you his name.

"Are you the one who called 911, Miss? Can you tell us anything about the man who did this?"

"Yeah, I did. I've told pretty much everything to the officer over there," you said, pointing to the uniformed policeman standing outside in the hallway. "It was before lunch, so the kids were having outdoor playtime. One of the kids, George, suddenly came crying to me about someone being hurt. His hands were red. It looked like blood at first, but after a closer look, I realized that it was paint. That's when I told everyone to gather inside."

Rossi jotted down everything you said in his little notepad. "And that's when the man barged in?"

"Yeah. He tried to go through the front door at first and became aggressive when he noticed it was locked. I called 911 after that. He just barely managed to break down the back door when the police finally got here."

"And then he fled the scene," Rossi concluded. You nodded your head in confirmation. "Same MO as the school and the orphanage. This is definitely our guy."

"Did you happen to get a look at his face, sweetheart?" Derek asked.

"I, uh, I think so? But everything happened so fast, I don't know if my memory is reliable."

"You should still sit down with our sketch artist, Miss. We'll take any help we can get," Rossi responded.

For the next hour, Derek proceeded to investigate the crime scene with his team while you sat inside with a sketch artist who brought your hazy memory of the perpetrator's face to life. Derek eventually reunited with you again on the front porch of the daycare, approaching just in time to see you bidding a goodbye to one of the kids you were caring for.

"Can I get a one? And a two! A three? How about a four? Now a five! And a high five!" The little girl in front of you laughed wholeheartedly as she gave you a high-five. Derek's chest constricted at the sight. "Good job, Bee! Now, go to your mother. I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay!" Bee exclaimed, throwing herself into your arms to give you one last hug. "I love you, Ms. (Y/L/N)."

"I love you, too, honey."

Your eyes never strayed from Bee as the little girl dashed towards her mother. You looked up to see Derek staring at you from across the porch, the tilt of your lips stretching even wider when you caught sight of his face.

"Hey, you."

"Hi, beautiful." Derek smiled before taking your hand in his. "Are you ready to go? C'mon, let's get you home."

"Wait, you're taking me? But you're on the job!"

"The team can survive a couple of hours without me. 'Sides, there's no way I'm letting you take the bus all by yourself after what happened here."

Your insides melted into a goo at Derek's statement. You wanted so desperately to kiss the living daylights out of him at that moment, but knowing that there were so many prying eyes around—including those belonging to his team—you decided to settle for a quick peck on his knuckles instead.

Ten minutes later, you found yourself sitting inside a standard FBI SUV with Derek driving next to you. The two of you arrived at your building in no time, where Derek insisted on walking you all the way up to your front door before offering to stay with you for the rest of the afternoon.

"I'm telling you, Derek, I'm fine! You should get back to your team."

"But, what if—"

"No what ifs, Mister. I'm okay. Besides, if anything happens, I will call you immediately."

"You promise?"

"Promise. You have nothing to worry about," you assured. "Now, go! Before I kick your sexy butt out of here."

Derek's eyes twinkled mischievously. "You think my butt is sexy?"

"Go, Derek!"

"Fine, fine! I'm going!"

You turned towards the apartment door to unlock it, but just as you were about to step inside, the sound of your name stopped you in your tracks.

"Forgot something."

You yelped in surprise when Derek pressed his lips to yours without warning. The kiss was over too soon before you could react, but the ferocity alone was still enough to send you soaring high towards the stratosphere.

"D-Derek?"

The man grinned after seeing your dumbfounded expression. "I'm going, sweetheart. I'll see you soon, 'aight?"

And just like that, Derek Morgan was gone, leaving your entire world whirling over the remaining taste of his lips on yours.

[elcvatedhorror]

Can you do a request where Tara comforts reader from a nightmare they had? It mostly involved losing Tara

"i'm right here" - tara carpenter

summary - (takes places after the events of scream 5, you have a nightmare about that one night. the night you still feel guilty about.)

sorry if the writings a little bad, but.. i'm back!!

you were laying on the couch watching a movie. you hadn't been able to see tara because you had work today, so you opted to see her the next day. you had called her as you left work and made sure she was okay, and assured her that you two would see each other tomorrow. she really wanted you to come over after work, but you were too tired, you told her. she tried to get you to come. you loved tara, but she was really really clingy at times, you didn't mind though. you didn't love her any less.

you had started to drift off to sleep, but you jolted awake as your phone rang. it was tara.

"tara? are you okay?" you asked, your mind immediately saying something was wrong from how late she had called you, she never called so late.

a voice was heard.

"y/n! i think.. i think someone's in the house, they called me just a few minutes ago saying they were going to kill you, and i said it was bullshit until they sent me a picture of you in your living room and.. and.."

"what?" you said, taking the covers off of you and you glanced at the window not too far from you, scanning to see if there was anyone outside, but there wasn't. "tara.. slow down, okay what's wrong, who called you?"

"i don't know! some guy.. he said he was from my mom's group, and i believed him until he started going off track and started asking me about my favorite scary fucking movies! and -"

the line went dead.

"tara?"

"tara?"

shit. you grabbed your keys that were in front of you on the table and bolted out of the front door without a second thought.

on the way to tara's, you tried to call the landline, and her phone, but each went to voicemail. you were panicking. frantic. you didn't know whether tara was alive or not. you didn't want to hope for the worst.

soon enough, you pulled up to tara's house. every light was on. upstairs, downstairs, you name it.

you shut the car off, and ran to the front door, banging on it.

no answer.

you banged again, harder this time.

still no answer.

"goddamnit!" you said, sweat starting to cascade down your head.

'wait' you thought. tara always had a spare key incase you came over. and sure enough, it was under the mat below your feet.

with sweaty hands you grabbed the key, and unlocked the door.

"tara?" you called out. "tara! tara where are you?" you turned the corner nearing the kitchen and you saw blood.

it was everywhere. you searched the room for any sign of the attacker, but he was gone.

you were too late.

"tara!" you yelled, kneeling down beside her. it seemed as if she had more then eight stab wounds in her torso. she was bleeding out horribly.

"no.. no..no.. tara? it's.. it's okay.. i'm here.. i'm gonna get help.. shit!" you tried to add a bit of pressure to stop the bleeding, but it was no use.

"y/n?" you heard. it was a whisper but you heard.

"i'm gonna get help tar, don't speak, okay? just.. just hang on!"

you pulled your phone out of your pocket, tears streaming down your face, with blood all over your hands. it was hard to even type in the passcode, let alone dial 911. but you did, thank god.

"hello? please.. help! my girlfriend she.. she got stabbed!" you tried to get the words out but you couldn't, your chest heaving up and down.

"tara? tara stay with me okay, help..help is on the way, i promise! just stay with me... stay with me."

you cradled her head in your hands, bringing yours down to meet.

"oh god.. i should've came.. i could've..."

"y/n..."

'y/n...."

"Y/N!"

you jolted awake, scanning the room, your shirt wet from sweat. your eyes then landed on the figure next to you.

"tara?"

"y/n.. it's okay, i'm here.. was it a nightmare again?" she asked her hands cupping your face as you melted into them, eyes closed.

"yeah.. i.. you're okay.." you said, panting.

"i'm okay, see?" she grabbed your hand placing it on her heart. "i'm okay, i'm alive, and i'm breathing." she chuckled.

"do you want to talk about it?"

"i.. maybe tomorrow. can i just hold you.. please?" you asked, finally opening your eyes.

"of course you can."

you pulled her close, needing to hear her every breath as she slept, needing to know that she was close by you for the rest of the night.

[impala-dreamer]

So, yesterday... I died (almost)

No, seriously.

I've been powerwashing the house... back patio/back deck/sidewalk, etc... yesterday, I wanted to move the machine upstairs to my side deck where the birds hang out. I move the machine to the front of the house, and some of the hose was wrapped around a shrubbery... so I go to untangle it...

And was instantly stung by a bee.

Ok... no biggie.

Then another. Then one on my forehead... then I was swamped by the entire nest. And stung by like 12 bees.

....

I'm not allergic so I'm not worried, just pissed. I run inside, take my shirt off, deal with the bees and take stock. I'm OK, but lemme go take a benadryl anyway. I have one on my nightstand. I go get it and take it to the bathroom bc I'm gonna shower anyway, so I turn on the water and try to open the blister pack of benadryl. My hands start shaking and I can't open it. No way will it open. I start getting dizzy like I'm going to faint (I have a fainting condition so I know the early signs) so I'm like.. ok... if you're gonna have to sit down. And the shower has a seat. So I strip and go into the shower, sit down.

Normally, cold water stops the fainting so I'm like... this is a good idea.

It didn't help. Ok. I'm gonna faint, go lower. So I sat on the shower floor and I'm in the water and

Passed out.

Woke up disoriented, still in the shower. Ok. Get up.

Passed out.

Again. Get up and get out of the shower.

This went on for apparently, 35 mins of me losing consciousness and trying to climb out of the shower to call for help.

Finally, my brain is like.. if you don't get out of the shower you are dying here. So I'm talking outloud to myself as I crawl out of the shower unable to stand or really move my legs. (Btw.. 5 inch shower ledge to crawl over) I somehow get out, slide the phone off the counter, and text my brother 911. (Hubby at work). Then, I lay down kinda twisted on the floor like a chalk outline and keep talking to myself.

Bro comes in... freaks out...

Then the next 40mins are a blurr, but the cops came... 2 shots of epipen, and oxygen before the ambulance got there.

Another shot of epi, a shot of benadryl, another tank of oxygen...

My BP was 57/14.

They couldn't let me sit up even or I'd instantly pass out. Not that I could move.

So they carried me on some sheet thing out of the house, downstairs, into ambulance.

Apparently there were 4 cop cars and 3 ambulances on my lawn...

They got me in and couldn't start driving until they stabilized me..

I started major convulsing bc of all the adrenaline. Like full seizure shaking bad. They couldn't find any veins on me bc small veins and BP deathly low... so we were on my lawn for a while trying to get me ok enough to move.

Finally, I joked "you want me to drive?" Proving that my comedy is pure and part of me, even while on my literal deathbed. ;)

So we got me another shot of benadryl and a shot of steriods...

Drove 20 mins to the closest hospital ... bc I live in the middle of nowhere...

Guy calls in "critical incoming"... which is never great to hear.

We pull in and the hospital guys meeting us looks at me and says "you officially have the lowest blood pressure I have ever heard of on a living person."

Gee thanks! Let's fix this!

So I spent the next 5? Hours in the e.r. critical section hooked up to wires and ivs and ekgs and oxygen.

In the end I had 3 shots of epipen. 3 benadryl shots. Steroids. 2 bags of fluid. 4 panic attacks. 3 tanks of oxygen.

And a hospital turkey sandwich.

So... yeah, if I hadn't talked myself out of the shower with the dregs of my strength and will to not die naked on my shower floor...

I'd be dead.

I'm feeling a ton better today but still not good. I am on the couch and not gonna move.

Also having some theological thoughts about the lack of diving intervention or feeling of godly care.

Basically, my life was saved by myself, my brother, that cop, and Madision and John, my e.m.t.s.

Hope you are all doing better than I am lol

Happy Sunday 💖

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 22

PREVIOUS

Y’know how sometimes you have something that you need to do or something that you know is going to happen but you just keep…putting it off? Like you know at some point it is going to happen but you put it off over and over and over and over again? You’re getting increasingly anxious every time you put it off because you know it has to get done but you also know that the longer you wait the worse it is going to get. Finally, FINALLY, the anxiety is just a little too much and you end up having to deal with it.

You finally deal with it and the whole ordeal takes maybe five minutes tops and it was in no way shape or form worth the level of anxiety that you put yourself through. Like you worried about this for a good and long while and it wasn’t even that bad?

That is currently how FF feels about being stabbed by Andrew Minyard.

This is what he was so worried about that he had lost sleep, had nightmares, had lost weight, and had exacerbated his stress ulcers over.

Getting stabbed wasn’t anywhere near as bad as he had thought it was going to be. Maybe it was the fact that it was just a single stab wound instead of the Psycho levels that he had been imagining (Wow, showers were going to be so much less stressful now that he didn’t have to confirm Andrew Minyard’s location before triple checking the lock). Maybe it was the fact that he is PUMPED full of adrenaline from his fights against Jackson and Romero but the stab wound didn’t even really hurt at the moment.

This isn’t even the worse thing that had happened to him this year!

That honor still goes to the joint winners of when his Step Family and mother found out that he had a full-ride to Palmetto and when he had tripped up the same step on the stairs at school three times in a row as people watched and laughed.

(Maybe also the solitary congratulations from his Grandma in regards to his graduation but FF doesn’t let himself think about that, won’t think about it.)

He wouldn’t necessarily call being in a state of ‘stabbed’ a pleasant time but Andrew was being so NICE about it.

“Stop trying to sit up you fucking idiot!” Andrew shouts at him.

Well….Andrew’s version of nice.

(This is the same version of nice that he had misunderstood for months at this point. Maybe FF is just enough in shock from the stab wound in his stomach that he’s starting to grasp the basics in the difficult language of Andrew Minyard’s niceness.)

Andrew had gotten off the phone with 911 and then started pulling off his own jacket before draping it over FF’s upper body, wedging his phone between his shoulder and his ear, and then Andrew started to apply pressure to his stomach wound.

Ow.

That is not a great feeling. This stabbing may eke out past the great triple trip of March 2010.

“No, take back your jacket. You’ll get cold if you don’t have it on.” FF argues because his own jacket is barely doing the job. Maybe it’s the cold pavement of the alley, maybe it’s the blood loss, or maybe it’s the cooling sweat he’d worked up but he is shivering pretty badly.

A thought occurs to him as he feels the weird wet stickiness of his own blood sticking to Nicky’s shirt. “Can you help me get my jacket off?” He asks looking pleadingly at Andrew, “It’s my dad’s. I don’t wanna mess it up with my blood.” He clarifies when Andrew looks at him like he’s a lunatic.

Except his second call must connect right then because Andrew’s answer is non-sensical to what FF had asked, “Neil, let Roland know the police and ambulances are en route.” There’s a brief pause and the pressure against his stomach increases as a muscle in Andrew’s jaw jumps. “Smith got stabbed.” He says and he looks angry, angrier than FF had ever seen Andrew when he’s talking to Captain Neil. There is another pause, more than likely Neil saying something or asking a question, “No, it wasn’t them.” Andrew grits out and the pressure on FF’s stomach hurts, “Just get out here, I need help with smith and making sure these two assholes don’t go anywhere before the police come and grab them.” He says before he pulls one hand away from Smith’s stomach (wow he really is bleeding isn’t he?) to hang up the phone.

Andrew’s gaze turns back to him fully, “You’re not moving an inch Smith, your jacket can be cleaned.” He hisses. “Now stay still and don’t fall asleep.” He orders.

Andrew seems stressed so FF complies. He can’t help but notice how Andrew’s hands seem to be shaking as the press down on his stomach. He kind of wishes he had a pillow or something for his head because he’s starting to feel a little dizzy. Andrew’s jacket would be safer from his blood if it was a pillow instead of a blanket. Still, FF would sooner die than spit on any of Andrew’s current efforts to make him more comfortable.

He looks at the knife sticking out of his stomach. Well, he might die regardless of whether or not he spits on Andrew’s efforts.

He needs to take his mind off this.

“Should we take it out and pretend the Dundee knife stabbed me instead??” FF asks letting his mind go to the first thought in his head so that he could be distracted from his own mortality. “I think it’s still under the dumpster over there.” He moves to point one of his hands towards where the knife had remained throughout this entire ordeal.

Andrew’s knee pinned his arm before he could move it, “Stop moving Smith.” Andrew reminded him before moving his knee. “We have to leave the knife in. You’ll bleed to death otherwise.” Andrew reminds.

“I guess that’s true, so do we just say that Romero got a handle on your knife and stabbed me?” He asks fighting his own shivers since he’s a little worried that any shaking on his part would just make the stab wound worse.

“I stabbed you Smith.” Andrew says looking at him with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah, I know,” FF agrees, “but we’re not going to say THAT to the cops.” He says and shock really is one HELL of a drug because he thinks he might have actually given Andrew Minyard an incredulous look with his atrophied face muscles. It’s either Shock or the knowledge that even if he irritates Andrew, what’s Andrew going to do about it?

STAB HIM?

“You’re going to lie to the cops?” Andrew asks, “I STABBED you Smith.” Andrew repeats.

“Yeah, I know!” FF repeats back, “You stabbed me on ACCIDENT.” FF makes sure to use the same intonation that Andrew had used to emphasize the word Stabbed. “Jackson wanted to stab me on PURPOSE. You saw that knife Andrew.” He tries to gesture towards the knife again but again Andrew’s knee pinned his hand.

He could use his other one but the reminder to stay still is enough.

“I still stabbed you.” Andrew says removing his knee again when it’s clear that FF wasn’t going to try and gesture again.

“Well, if I was going to get stabbed by anyone, I guess I’m glad my first time was with you.” Andrew let’s out a bark of a laugh that sounds more like it was punched out of him than anything, “Honestly, I don’t think Jackson would have given me his jacket afterwards or try and help me keep my blood in my body.” He says and it feels like a victory (not a both hands in the air victory cry level victory but it was close) when Andrew’s face settled into one of faint amusement.

“Probably not.” Andrew agreed, “He doesn’t seem big on Aftercare.” He says.

FF doesn’t know what that means but nods like he does, “So, Romero got a hold of your knife during our tussle and he’s the one who stabbed me. Okay? That’s the story I’m going to stick with no matter who asks me.” He looks Andrew in the eye.

“Alright Smith,” one of Andrew’s hands leaves his stomach and clasps around his shoulder and FF can’t help but notice how neither of Andrew’s hands are shaking anymore. “We can lie to the police.” He squeezes FF’s shoulder.

“Nice.” He says and lets his head fall back onto the concrete. He hears a siren in the distance and hopes it’s coming for him.

They sit in silence for maybe 30 seconds before the door slams open and only Andrew’s hands on his stomach and shoulder keep him from shooting straight up in a panic. Captain Neil seemed to take in the scene at lightning speed but it was Andrew who spoke first, “You left Aaron and Nicky with Roland?” He asks.

“Yeah I did,” Captain Neil confirms and FF can see the moment that his eyes land on the knife handle jutting out of FF’s stomach, “Andrew, what are we going to tell the police?” Captain Neil asks and FF could already see Neil crafting a lie to cover Andrew. That’s one of the things that FF likes about Captain Neil and Andrew’s relationship. He thinks it’s nice that both of them have someone who no matter the circumstances would be there with a shovel to help bury a body. He even thought it was nice when he thought it’d be his body!

“The second guy stabbed me.” The lie comes out smoothly which is good because he is planning on committing to it and Captain Neil blinks and looks at him, “He got hold of Andrew’s knife during the tussle.” He adds.

Captain Neil looks to Andrew, “You said it wasn’t-“

“I guess Smith can lie to a liar.” Andrew interrupts.

Captain Neil’s eyes widen before a wicked grin spread across his face that made FF just a little uncomfortable but only because Andrew’s grip on his shoulder suddenly tightened and his nostrils flared the way they did before the two usually started speaking in Russian.

He can handle being stabbed, he cannot handle being in shock and pretending that he doesn’t know what the two of them are saying to one another.

“Can you tell Nicky I’m sorry I got blood on his clothes?” He asks and both Captain Neil and Andrew’s gaze snap away from eye-fucking each other. He looks down and the clothes are black and they haven’t moved the knife so the wound is plugged still but yeah there’s definitely blood seeping into the shirt, not to mention the hole. “Could you tell him I’m sorry about that?” He asks.

“You are going to tell him yourself Smith.” Andrew hisses, “You are going to be fine. Do you understand me?” He asks before turning to Neil, “Can you bunch your jacket under his legs, it’s better to keep them higher than his head and heart?” He asks.

Aw.

Andrew is just so nice.

He can’t BELIEVE he thought Andrew wanted to hunt him for sport.

He’d apologize for thinking that but he thinks it’d be better to just let that particular misunderstanding go unmentioned.

Captain Neil bunches his jacket up and puts it under FF’s legs before he goes over to check on Romero and Jackson. In the corner of his eye he sees Captain Neil pause at the sight of Romero before moving over to Jackson.

“Why is he in these?!” Neil asks baffled.

“It’s a weird sex alley Captain Neil! I don’t know WHAT to tell you!” Yeah he’s definitely going into shock. The sirens are getting closer though so he’ll probably be okay.

***

The cops all have a bit of a laugh about Jackson’s cuffs until Neil tells them exactly who they are taking into custody. Neil could admit that he’s a little irritated with Andrew that at no point did the man clarify that the people who FF and Andrew were dealing with were Romero and Jackson.

Those are his father’s goons.

“They were here for me.” Neil says to the police officer and Andrew’s hand tightens in his, “They tried to take Smith because he’s my friend.”

They had decided on their story before the cops came. FF had no idea who any of these people were and was just defending himself. He’d gone out to catch his breath in the alley when Jackson had shown up. Neil had asked how in the world FF had handled Jackson on his own but FF must have been getting kind of loopy from blood loss because all he said was, “He told me to sing so I did.”

Neil can find out the full story later.

The important part is.

“Jackson went after Smith but Smith won the fight.” Neil says looking at where the cops are trying to decide how to get the fuzzy pink handcuffs off of Jackson to get him in the far more secure police issued handcuffs.

“Your friend said that you and he took out Romero together. That Romero is the one who stabbed him with your knife.” He says.

“Yes.” Andrew answers simply and Neil squeezes his hand as a reminder, “I went out to grab a smoke and Romero followed after me. Romero got hold of one of my knives in the struggle and stabbed Smith.” Andrew says with his usual deadpan affect.

“Yeah that’s what your friend Smith was saying too.” The officer says. “Well, I’m sure the FBI will want to talk to you all further but for now it’s a pretty clear cut case of self defense and no one but your friend has any serious injuries.” The officer pats Neil on the shoulder and Neil manages not to shirk away from the touch. The officer retracts his hand, “You guys are free to go tonight.” He says and turns back towards the car where a dazed Romero is in the back seat.

“Where did they take Smith?” Andrew asks since they’d been shepherded away from Smith the moment the ambulance had come. They hadn’t been able to ask which hospital Smith was going to be taken to so they could go and get updates.

“Lexington.” The cop answers, “Go on and see your friend. He seemed pretty loopy he kept talking about some beauty contest thing when he was getting loaded into the ambulance. I’m sure he’ll be a riot on painkillers.” The cop goes for a joke but it twists something in Neil’s stomach to think of FF so out of it that he’s talking nonsensically.

He feels Andrew’s hand stiffen in his and knows he’s not alone.

“Thanks.” Neil says before they head towards the front of the club. The club had been emptied out when the cops had come so Roland was babysitting Aaron and Nicky for them while they talked to the cops and FF was loaded out to the hospital.

In a way it’s almost a blessing that Nicky and Aaron are both so blasted that they aren’t comprehending any of what’s going on. They’ll have to drop them off back at the house before they go to the hospital. They’ll beat Wymack there easily even after the interrogation and drop off.

FF had asked them to call Wymack to let him know what was going on “I gave him the rights to make health care decisions for me if I’m incapacitated.” FF had said so Neil texts Wymack the hospital and the address after Andrew rattles it off for him.

“I don’t like that you hid it from me.” Neil says in the car.

“They wanted to kill you.” Andrew won’t apologize.

They still hold hands on the drive back to the Columbia house.

Andrew takes care of getting Aaron into bed while Neil helps Nicky.

Nicky who looks at Neil with a loopy smile and Neil hurts knowing that tomorrow when Nicky finds out about tonight and how he was too blasted to do anything to help FF.

Andrew and Neil reconvene in the Maserati and make their way to the hospital before either of them realize the issue.

“What is the name of the patient you’re looking for an update on?” The receptionist asks.

Both Andrew and Neil freeze.

Fuck.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

NEXT

Per your requests:

@i-have-three-feelings​ @blep-23​ @dreamerking27​ @andreilsmyreligion​ @belodensetdust​ @rainbowpineapplebottle @yarn-ace @iwouldlikesometea @lily-s-world​ @obscureshipsandchips​ @booklover242​ @whataboutmyfries​ @sahturnos​ @pluto-pepsi​ @dreamerthinker​ @passinhosdetartaruga​ @leftunknownheart​ @aro-manita-muscaria @hologramsaredead​ @Chaoticgremlinswishtheycouldbeme @tntwme​ @tayspots @nick-scar​ @crazy-fangirl2524​ @blue-jos10​ @stabbyfoxandrew​ @splishsplashyouropinionistrash​ @sammichly​ @the-broken-pen​ @bitchesdoweknowu​ @very-small-flower​ @ghostlyboiii​ @its-a-paxycab​ @bisexual-genderfluid-fan​ @cheesecookie​ @theoneandonlylostsock​ @foxsoulcourt​ @blueleys @adverbialstarlight​ @elia-nna​ @can-i-just-stay-in-the-corner​ @nikodiangel​ @foxandcrow-inatrenchcoat​ @hallucinatedjosten​ @satanic-foxhole-court​ @vexingcosmos​ @chalilodimun​ @insectsgetcooked​ @angry-kid-with-no-money​ @queer-crows​ @lillyndra​ @themugglemudperson​ @readertodeath​ @apileofpillows​ @mortalsbowbeforeme​ @hellomynameismoo​ @next-level-mess @youreonlylow​ @interstellarfig​ @notprocrastinatingatalltoday​ @percyjacksonfan3​ @queenofcrazy27​ @bsmr261 @ghostlyscares​ @spencellio​ @adinthedarkroom​ @harpymoth​ @sufferingjustalilbit​ @anxietymoss​ @oddgreyhound​ @ohno-myhyperfixation-itsbroken​ @ken22789​ @atiredvampire​ @isoldescorner​ @not--a--pipedream​ @azure-wing​ @bushbees​  @roonilwazlib-main​ @crumplelush​ @foldedaces-paperbirds​ @thesenseinnonsense​ @let-tyrants-fear​ @ketchupandfries​ @legowerewolf​ @deadlydodos​ @but-we-respect-his-craft​ @cariniqe​ @zanypersonapricotbiscuit​ @lesbian-blackbeard​ @lesbiansupernatural​ @silvermasquerade​ @thepeachfuzz​ @minniemariex @kazoo-the-demjin​ @gaypomegranate​ @ji-nk-ies​ @neilimfinejosten​

The requests to be added to the tag list keep being spread out across a few different areas. If I missed you please just ask again in the replies I promise I just missed you.

As stated before if you’re up here and I spelled it right but you didn’t get a notification there might be something switched around in your settings that won’t let me tag you properly?

[shiorimakibawrites]

Cat Man Do - Part I (Daredevil Fan Fic)

This started out as a one-shot but has just kept growing. It will be at least two parts long now.

Cat Man Do

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Secondary Pairings: Foggy Nelson x Marci Stahl, implied Karen Page x Frank Castle Word Count: 9600 Summary: Matt Murdock is having a bad night. He has been turned into a cat with a blizzard is coming in. Lucky for him, you came walking by. And you love cats. Warnings: Animal transformation, idiots in love, unresolved sexual tension, spicy dream (voyeurism kink, office sex, fingering, dirty talk), referenced sexual acts (female receiving oral sex, , fingering, female masturbation, hand-job, PIV sex, office sex) General Masterlist Matt Murdock Masterlist Tag List: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer , @beezusvreeland , @indestructeible , @what-i-call-men , @reblog-reblog666 , @flynnethenerd , @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment , @yarrystyleeza , @bellaxgiornata Also posted on AO3

June 8: Attempting to fix the tags along with tagging those I missed after temporarily misplacing my tag list.

Part 1

Nothing about the situation seemed all that unusual. Man putting his hands where they were very much not wanted. Victim’s tearful pleading only being met with a slap and a harshly whispered demand to shut up. Sour odor of fear. Coopery scent of blood through it didn’t smell like human blood. Herbs, both familiar ones used in cooking but a few that he didn’t recognize. The only peculiarity was the scent of ozone clinging to the man.

Matt yanked the man away from his victim who, rather sensibly, took the opportunity to flee. At first, he thought that the fight would be short. Very short. The man obviously didn’t know how to fight. He heard the distinctive cracking of bone, then the man desperately shouted something. The smell of ozone increased and suddenly there was . . . something between him and the man. Something he didn’t recognized – hitting it felt like the oddest combination of a pillow, cling film and static electricity. Whatever it was softened his punches to the point that he doubted the man was even feeling them.

Before he could puzzle that mystery out, the man began to speak again. Matt didn’t recognize the language but he recognized the cadence of a chant, the anticipatory menace. The sharp scent of ozone began to rise again. Pressure not unlike the air right before a lightning strike raised the hair on his body. Instinct screamed danger, threat. He couldn’t say why but he just knew that he couldn’t let this man finish whatever he was saying . . .

The man’s inexperience with fighting came back to bit him. Whatever he was doing to protect his torso, it didn’t extend down to his legs. Matt dropped down to use a low kick to sweep his legs out from under him. The follow-up throw kick to his head showed that he was also too stupid to protect his head. The man hit the ground hard and didn’t move.

Matt listened, then nodded to himself. Unconscious. Good. He opened a pouch on his belt and removed some zip ties. He secured the man, then send off a quick call to 911. He scaled the fire escape of the closest building and started putting some distance between himself and those approaching sirens.

He decided to call it a night. It was after one in the morning. He had work tomorrow. Besides there had been very little crime tonight. Probably too cold. And a big snowstorm had been predicted. When they closed up the office, Foggy said sky was completely covered with heavy dark clouds that made the twilight almost as dark as nighttime. Which matched with the shifts in pressure that he associated with oncoming storms. The smell of snow had been building all night. It hadn’t started snowing yet but it would any minute now.

But before he turned in, he would do a loop to make sure his people were safe and sound. One by one, he checked off the list. Maggie and the others at St. Agnes, Brett, Foggy and Marci, Jessica, and Karen. All good. Last but certainly not least was you, the assistant that he and Foggy had hired so Karen could concentrate on law school, by the virtue that your apartment being rather close to his own.

Matt had almost forgotten about the oddities of his last encounter when he started feeling . . . off. Lightheaded, dizzy, like he had gotten clocked in the head without his helmet on. Except he hadn’t, not tonight. Or other time recently. At first the feeling was mild, easily shrugged off. But soon it could no longer be ignored. When his world on fire dangerously flickered and he misjudged the distance between two buildings, he decided that maybe walking on the ground would be safer.

It was in the sense that he was no longer at risk of falling six or more stories. But he was so dizzy, it felt like the ground was swaying under his feet. It was nauseating. Worse, his world on fire was flickering dangerously. It was hard to tell where he was, where the buildings were, where the sidewalk ended . . . He took out his billy clubs, extended and snapped them together. It was too short to really substitute for his cane but it would do until he could get somewhere safer.

It took far longer than he was comfortable with but he managed to orient himself. He knew where he is. It was the faint odor of old smoke that helped clue him in. That building that was torched this summer. Not far from his apartment but another wave of dizziness warned him that he wouldn’t make it that far. But your apartment was very close. There was only one building between his location and your building. He would probably make it before he passed out.

This was not at all how he wanted to tell you about Daredevil but there was nothing he could do about that.

Placing his hand on the burnt building to help keep him oriented, he walked toward. He had just reached the corner when a new sensation arose. Sudden, burning pain. He bit down on his lip, trying not to scream. He collapsed, letting out a scream as he felt his bones start to bent and twist like he was doll being pulled apart by an angry child. Then everything went still and silent . . .

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

You were walking home. It was later than you preferred to be out. Much later. Especially when you had to work the next day. But your best friend’s boyfriend had broken up with her. Via Twitter. So she needed someone to bring over the ice cream and the booze. So you ignored the weather reports of the big snowstorm and headed out. First to the store, then to her place.

You held her while she cried. You listened and nodded while she vented and swore off men. You both ate way too much ice cream. You didn’t ended up drinking much. Mostly because you’d rather not be hangover at work. But also because the store hadn’t much selection in the booze department – apparently the delivery truck hadn’t shown up. So said booze was limited to one six-pack of wine coolers and a good-sized bottle of peppermint schnapps.

Which wasn’t ideal. Especially since your bestie didn’t really like peppermint schnapps. Said it always tasted too much like mouthwash for her. Which was fair. But after downing three of the wine coolers to your one, she decided to give the schnapps another chance . . . it might be the wine coolers and the wine she finished earlier talking but she said it wasn’t half bad.

You had a little but found peppermint too strong of a flavor all on its own. The mint-chocolate chip ice cream was more your speed.

You loved your bestie but you were glad that she had finally fallen asleep. She had offered to let you stay at her place. But she snoozed like a chainsaw when she was drunk. Also you had tried sleeping on that couch before. It had been uncomfortable. There was a broken something or other in the middle that had poked you in the kidneys all night. So you appreciated the offer but no thank you.

You were walking as fast as you could. Which wasn’t very fast. The sidewalk was rather precarious right now. It had snowed last week. Almost all of the snow had turned into gray slush but it was cold enough that several patches had frozen into near-invisible puddles. Puddles that were very slick.

You had slipped and fallen several times this week. You had started carrying clean, dry clothes in your work bag so you didn’t have to sit in wet clothes all day. Your poor butt had more than one bruise. It would have more bruises but if your boss was nearby when you slipped, he caught you.

Your very hot boss Matt. Not that your other boss, Foggy, wasn’t pretty. He was. Just in a totally different way. But the big factor was that Foggy was engaged, to someone he very obviously loved dearly. You weren’t that kind of girl. But Matt was single. Therefore you were free to admire his good looks and daydream about him all you wanted.

Which you did. Often. Maybe too much. You were pretty sure, with the exception of Matt himself, that everyone who frequented the office had caught you checking out his ass. It wasn’t your fault. He had the best looking ass in the tri-state area. Every suit he wore flattered that ass. He also, quite unfairly, bought shirts that were a size too small. The buttons strained to contain those big muscles . . .

‘Stop it,’ you scolded yourself. Walking at one in the morning was not the time to start daydreaming about your boss and speculating that he could hold you up against the wall while he . . .

You shook your head, feeling yourself flush despite the cold pinching your cheeks. You needed to keep your mind on the here and now, eyes and ears alert for any signs of trouble. You might be only a short distance from home. This might be Hell’s Kitchen where the Devil prowled nighttime streets for nefarious characters but . . . that didn’t mean you should act recklessly. Something could still happen. And while being saved by Daredevil sounded very exciting, it also sounded really scary.

A cry pierced the night air. It sent your heart racing, hands gripping the strap of your backpack while your eyes frantically darted around trying to locate the source of the cry. You couldn’t see anything. The street was eerily deserted for Manhattan, even for this time of night. Maybe it was too cold. The whistling wind was biting, even in your thick winter coat. Even when the air was still, it was beyond frigid. If it was above freezing, you’d eat your hat. Without mustard.

You kept looking but it was so dark. There had been some kind of problem with the streetlights on your block this week. The news said something about a short. You hadn’t really been listening. But the end result was that at least half the streetlights weren’t working. The building that had gutted by a fire was black and silent, looming over the street like giant gargoyle. Many of the windows in the surrounding buildings were dark. The few that were lit did very little to illuminate the darkness.

Then you heard it again. But this time you recognized the noise. It was cat making that distressed yowl. And it sounded like it was coming from the side of that burned building. While the building gave you all of the creeps, you loved animals. Better than you liked most people. You couldn’t just leave it here. Out here in the freezing cold with a blizzard on the way at best. Hurt or trapped at worst.

But to find that poor animal, you needed more light.

You reached into your bag and took out your phone. Dead. The battery was so low that the phone didn’t even try to turn on. You had forgotten to charge it. Again. What were you going to do . . . then you remembered the little flashlight on your key-chain. Something your mom had gotten you when she learn you were moving to big, scary New York City. It was a nice gesture but the cheap thing wasn’t very bright. But some light was better than no light. You pulled your keys out of your pocket and gripped the flashlight in your hand. With a soft click, it turned on.

As expected, it didn’t do much to pierce the gloom. But you walked toward the building anyway. The building looked even creepier and emptier up close. The crack-crunch of your boots on the thin sheets of ice and salt felt inordinately loud to you. Which only made your heart beat faster. You were starting to feel like you were in a horror movie. One of the dumb girls who ignores all the obvious signs of danger and gets chopped into pieces with an ax or something. Or one of the those people in the cold opening in an episode of Supernatural, going into creepy building blithely unaware that they just made themselves dinner . . .

Something crashed to the ground with a loud metal clang. You shrieked, wildly swinging around your flashlight. What . . . then you saw it. A rat messing with a can below a window with a row of similar cans on the still . . . You squinted, cans of food. The kind that wasn’t particularly tasty but cheap and filling. Both of which was more important than flavor if you didn’t have much money. And infinitely better than no food at all.

“It’s just a rat,” you told yourself. “Calm down.”

As if in answer, the cat meowed again. It sounded close. You looked around . . . garbage bags that had been torn open and their contents scattered, piled up frozen slush, a dumpster. Wait, there was a flicker of movement on the other side of the dumpster. Giving a silent prayer that it wasn’t another rat (or something worse), you walked over. As you got closer, your nose wrinkled. The smell wasn’t nearly as ripe as it would be during the summer but it was by no means a pleasant aroma.

By your efforts were rewarded. On the other side and slightly behind the dumpster was a cat. You crouched down, not wanting to loom over the animal and scare it. It didn’t look very frightened right now – it wasn’t puffed up, it’s ears were perked up, or hissing at you. But you’d like to keep it that way. In your experience, a scared cat was a biting cat.

You looked over the cat as best you could. It didn’t look hurt. Just cold and a little wet. Probably wouldn’t need a vet tonight. Beautiful cat, it looked a lot like a Havana Brown with a thick-looking coat of brown fur and that muscular little body. Smaller ears through you were used to seeing. All the Havanas you had seen had those adorably large ears like a Siamese.

The cat remained calm during this inspection, just sitting on something leathery and dark red lying on the ground.

“Hello there,” you said, your voice soft and low. Animals might not understand words but they did understand tone. You carefully extended your hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to scratch me.”

The cat meowed but allowed you to touch it. You ran your hands over the cat. It didn’t react like your searching hands had found anything tender. Still you frowned.

This cat looked cared for. Had obviously been socialized from a young age. Healthy coat and well-fed all added up to beloved pet. If it . . . he, you corrected after another look, was a stray, he hadn’t been one for very long.

“Did you get lost?” you asked the cat. “Or did someone abandon you out here in the cold?”

Despite your best efforts to avoid, you couldn’t keep the anger out of your voice at that second possibility. Nights this cold could easily be fatal, even more so with that blizzard rolling in. especially for a pet that was used to warm shelter during harsh weather. You just couldn’t understand the sheer cruelty of doing something like that. If someone didn’t want a cat anymore, fine. There were far more humane options than abandoning them to die in the winter streets.

Well lost or abandoned, you weren’t leaving this little beauty out here to freeze. “It’s awfully cold out here, kitty cat. Did you want to come home with me? At least for the night?”

Of course, your only answer was more meows. But they sounded positive so you decided to take them as a yes. You didn’t have a carrier with you. But your backpack would work as substitute. You opened up your coat just enough to remove your scarf which you piled into the bottom. Your previous fur babies liked something soft to snuggle into when transported like this. It would get your scarf dirty but it was washable.

But when you placed the cat in the backpack and tried to zip it, the cat jumped out. It didn’t run away. Just went over and sat on the red thing. After this happened two more times, you let out an exasperated sigh. Looking down at the cat, looking up at you from its apparently beloved red thing. Maybe you should purrito him . . . then you did a double-take. Blinked. Rubbed your eyes. But it didn’t change.

You had only ever seen it in grainy photos on the news or in the papers. But you still recognized it. The red leather armor of Daredevil. You supposed it could be a replica. Every hero in this city had fans who did cosplay. Daredevil was no different. But if this was a costume, someone had spent a lot of time and money making it.

Your earlier frown returned. No fan who had gone to all that effort would leave this by a dumpster to get ruined. And if it wasn’t a replica but the real thing . . . you couldn’t think of why Daredevil would leave his suit by a dumpster either. Like the costume, leaving it outside in this wet weather could severely damage it.

“Curious and curiousier,” you murmured to yourself. A look uncovered the horned helmet, gloves, and armed boots nearby. Not the sticks, however. There was a holster on leg where they ought to be. You cast your flashlight around and spied something red laying a short distant away. You went there and discovered the missing sticks.

Or rather a staff since it seemed to be be only one. It looked rather long for that thigh holster and you could have sworn there was supposed to be two . . . but maybe you were wrong. You never actually seen him. Just pictures. And Daredevil didn’t exactly stand still in excellent lighting to be photographed with a high-quality camera.

You picked it up and frowned. The staff seemed rather heavy. It wasn’t so heavy that you couldn’t swing it around easily but it was weighty. A person could do some real damage with this. It was not a prop. It was a real weapon.

“Holy shit,” you said, staring at the staff with more than a little awe. Because as crazy as it sounded, you were starting to think this was really Daredevil’s staff and that was really his suit back there. But you had little time to bask in that wonder. Because a big flake of snow landed on the stick. Followed by another and another. You looked up.

It had started snowing. You hurried back over to the suit, carrying the staff. You pulled your scarf out of your backpack, looping it around your neck for the moment. You picked up the suit and started getting into your pack. Assuming he didn’t leave it here in purpose, Daredevil was going to want this back and probably would appreciate not having it damaged by the wet weather.

How you were going to get to him was a problem for Future You.

Also it seemed like the cat wasn’t coming without the suit. Why he was so obsessed with it was another mystery for Future You to untangle. When you weren’t outside in a blizzard. You managed to fit most of it into your pack, which was a little tricky since you couldn’t put down the flashlight but you managed. You zipped it closed, glad that you had grabbed your hiking pack earlier. You’d never be able to fit this much of the suit in your regular pack. The staff didn’t fit. You’d have to carry it. Hopefully you wouldn’t run into anyone before reaching your apartment.

You propped the stick against the side of the dumpster before swing the pack onto your shoulders. You left the hip belt undone. Daredevil’s suit wasn’t anywhere near as heavy as the full pack for a long hike.

“Okay, Trouble,” you said, reaching for the cat. “Let’s go.”

The cat meowed but allowed you to pick him up and place him against your chest. His front paws rested on your shoulder while you supported his body with your arm. The hand was still holding your key-chain flashlight. Which would make holding onto him if he got squirmy difficult. You gave him a stern look. “No jumping out of my arms or being a wiggle worm, Trouble. Or I will purrito you with my scarf.”

He meowed again. It sounded like an objection.

“Don’t meow me, mister. You are clearly trouble, trouble, trouble,” you said, almost singing those last words. You blamed your best friend. I Knew You Were Trouble was one of her favorite songs. Therefore you had heard it several times tonight and the lyrics were kinda stuck in your head.

Carried in your arms, Matt suppressed an irritated huff. He wasn’t upset with you. He was upset about the situation.

The cat made a grumpy noise but stayed where he was and didn’t scratch. So you just laughed as you collected the staff and headed toward home.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He wasn’t entirely sure how he had been turned into cat. He had an idea. That scumbag he left knocked out and left tied up for the police. Even if the only explanation for that thing that shielded the man from his blows and turning him into a cat was magic. Danny had sworn up and down that magic was real. His heart had been steady as drum but Matt hadn’t entirely believed him.

Or rather he didn’t want to believe him. People developing random powers – sometimes from exposure to chemicals or radiation – and aliens was enough weirdness for one planet. Earth didn’t need magic to be real too.

But Matt tried not ignore reality when it smacked him in the face. Someone had spoke some words and now he was cat. Magic was real. He would accept that and hope that other stuff straight out of a fantasy or horror novels weren’t also real. The last thing he needed running around his city was vampires. Or dinosaurs. Or something equally ridiculous.

He also had no idea how he was going to get himself back to being a human. His only working theory was that maybe, just maybe, Danny could do something. Or would know someone who could do something about it. It was long shot but he was the only one that Matt knew who knew anything about magic.

Assuming he could get in contact with Danny in the first place. Rather big assumption there. Until and unless he could, his only other option was wait and see if the spell wore off on its own. Matt didn’t like this plan. For one, he had absolutely no idea if the spell would wear off at all. Or if does, how long that would take.

A few hours would be ideal but when was Matt ever that lucky?

No, it was much more likely that he would be stuck like this for days. If not longer. Foggy was going to worry. And when he couldn’t find or contact Matt, he was going to get scared. And when he checked Matt’s apartment and found the suit gone along with Matt, he was going to assume the worst.

He hated the thought of putting Foggy through that. But there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t turn himself back. He couldn’t talk. These paws couldn’t hold a paw. He might be able to type but unless you had a braille keyboard or a refreshable braille display, he couldn’t tell what keys he was pushing. Randomly hitting keys was unlikely to produce a coherent message that would clue you into the fact he wasn’t a cat.

The only semi-positive he could find about this situation was that you had been walking near enough to the dumpster he had collapsed behind to hear his meowing. Through Matt couldn’t say he was thrilled that you were out this late. It was dangerous. Granted, most criminals had seemingly opted not to be out in the freezing cold but not all.

His heart had lodged in his throat when you had shrieked. His mind racing how he had missed someone beside you being outside and nearby. What was he going to do, he couldn’t protect you like this . . .

It was immense relief to discover it was just a rat.

But despite his desire to get yourself somewhere warmer and safer, he was unwilling to leave his suit behind. One person impersonating him and slaughtering innocent people was already one too many for his tastes.

Furthermore replacing it would be a headache. Jacobson wouldn’t be happy to learn the suit he had designed and made for Matt had been left behind a dumpster. Which was fair. He wouldn’t like someone treating his work in such a chevalier matter either. He might fix or replace it but in the meantime, Matt would be back to the black suit.

Which tended to make Claire and Foggy unhappy. They preferred he fight crime wearing something more protective. Which Matt couldn’t really argue with. Nor that the red suit was warmer than the black. Which was nice this time of year but not so nice in August.

He had felt a little silly hopping in and out of your backpack like that but it accomplished his goal. The suit hadn’t been left behind.

You had recognized the suit, of course. And seemed to realize that it was the real thing, not one of the costumes his fans made. Well, Foggy claimed he had fans who dressed up like him for something called Super Con. He hadn’t been lying but . . . why? Didn’t people find him scary? Too violent? Why not someone nicer? Like Spider-Man? Sure, he was snarky and a smartass kid but otherwise he oozed friendliness . . .

Warm air hitting his fur startled him but not as much as realizing that he was coated in snow. He hadn’t even noticed. Had he really been that much in his head? Apparently.

“No jumping down yet, Trouble,” you said to him, the arm holding him shifting a little. “We’re not quite home yet. I will still purrito you.”

Purrito? That was second time you had said that word. He didn’t know what it meant and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Closing and locking your door behind you was a relief. Besides the fact that you were carrying was likely the real Daredevil suit (which was probably illegal in some fashion), the snow was really coming down. Even the distance between the dumpster and your building was very short, it was getting close to whiteout conditions by the time you arrived.

You propped the staff against the wall before kneeling down to let the cat go. He didn’t go far. Curious. Cats often hide when in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people. Despite the fact he left you carry him without any trouble, you still kinda expected the cat to make a beeline for under your couch. Or your bed. But nope, just sat at the edge of entrance way, in a growing puddle of melting snow.

You quickly took off your pack and winter gear. The pack, the coat, and gloves were both waterproof so they were more or less fine. But your scarf and hat were just as wet as the cat. You’d have to hang them up in the bathroom to drip dry. Later. First, you needed to get the cat dry. Then get both of you warm.

After taking off your boots, you went and grabbed a towel from the stack still sitting on the coffee table. You had been in the middle of putting away your laundry – something along with folding it that you often procrastinated – when your best friend had called crying. You checked but the cat still hadn’t moved from his spot. You walked over to him and knelt down.

“Let’s get you dry,” you said and started towel-drying him. He was remarkably tolerate of this process. Marshmallow (may she rest in peace) would have been singing you the song of her people. Despite the fact, as a Persian, she had been groomed literally her entire life. Pumpkin or Oreo (may they rest in peace) would have tried to fight with the towel.

You had long ago developed the habit of talking to your cats. It made your apartment feel less lonely. So you didn’t think anything of telling him how much better behaved he was compared to those three of your previous fur babies.

“Trying to prove you aren’t trouble, trouble, trouble?” you asked. The cat meowed as if in answer. You laughed and checked on his coat. It was as dry as you could get it without using a blow dryer. But with the exception of Marshmallow, you had yet to meet a cat who didn’t try to run away from the thing making the scary, painfully loud noise.

And that was because Marshmallow couldn’t hear the scary noise. To her, it just warm air blowing on her which she had seemed to find wonderful.

Despite all that drama, you missed Marshmallow, Pumpkin and Oreo. Maybe it was time for new furry friend. Maybe this one, you thought, petting the cat’s fur. It was soft as velvet. In the better light of your apartment, you could see the reddish tones to the over dark brown color.

“If you don’t already have a home,” you said, thinking out loud. “Maybe I should call you Cinnamon. It matches with the color of your coat. But Trouble is so just perfect . . .”

The newly dubbed Trouble meowed. You laughed again. You couldn’t help it. He sounded so grumpy.

After another moment of consideration, you decided against the blow dryer. Thanks to the thickness of his coat, he hadn’t gotten wet down to the skin. He probably wouldn’t get matted if you let him air dry for the rest.

You mopped up the puddle on the floor with the same towel, then hung it up in the bathroom along with your hat and scarf. You walked deeper into the apartment, into your bedroom. There you retrieved your heating pad, the comforter from your bed, and one of the extra blankets from the top of the closet. It was time for part two – getting warmed up.

You carried the load out to the living room. The comforter was sat on one cushion but you made a little nest with the heating pad and blanket on the adjoining seat. Trouble seemed pretty comfortable being close to you but you couldn’t assume that he was a lap cat. You turned on the pad and went back to him

He still hadn’t moved very away from the entrance. Peculiar. You’d think a cat this confident would have started exploring. Cats are curious. Maybe he was more nervous than you thought. Through you’d think a nervous cat would be hiding somewhere. But Trouble wasn’t hiding and he didn’t run away from you. And you picked him up, his body wasn’t stiff. No tension in the muscles. He didn’t go limp like a Ragdoll but was still relaxed in your hands.

Hmmm . . . maybe his (previous) home was one where he regularly met strangers? Like he was a shop cat or something like that. Or his (previous) owner worked somewhere that allowed people to bring in their pets as long as they didn’t cause a disruption? Or traveled regularly like a show cat. He was pretty enough for a show cat. Any of those might explain why Trouble seemed so comfortable with a stranger in a strange place.

Or maybe he was just a people cat. Each cat was an individual after all.

You placed Trouble down in the nest. He didn’t immediately jump off. Which had been a possibility. Cats often didn’t like things that weren’t their idea. But this cat seemed willing to explore the nest instead of rejecting it outright. Giving everything a sniff, feeling the blanket under his paws. Not quite making biscuits but close.

Judging by the purring, Trouble seemed to be enjoying himself.

You would have loved to keep watching but you wanted something hot to drink. Normally you’d make coffee but it was already stupid late. Not the time to start drinking something with caffeine. So herbal tea it was. While the water heated, you remembered that you needed to charge your phone. But after that brief detour, you started shifting through your tin of herbal teas . . . what sounded good . . . you picked out the one calling itself Apple Spice.

You poured the water over the tea bag and enjoyed the rising aroma as the tea seeped. You couldn’t remember which spices were supposed to be in this tea. But it smelled like apple pie so you’d guess mostly cinnamon and nutmeg. Tasted more like apple cider than pie but you still enjoyed it. You carried your mug over the couch.

You sat the mug down on the coffee table for a moment so you could wrap yourself in the comforter and sit down. You pulled your legs up onto the couch under the comforter, shifting until you were sitting cross-legged. You leaned toward and grabbed the mug.

You had only taken a few sips before you felt paws on your leg. You looked down at Trouble. He was looking up at you beseechingly.

You smiled and lifted the edge of the comforter. “Come here, Trouble.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He crawled onto your lap, circling a few times before settling down. The low purr only got louder when your hand couldn’t resist the urge to pet. And scratch him behind the ears and under the chin. Despite the name you had given him, Trouble really was such a sweetheart. How could anyone abandon him on the streets to die? You just couldn’t imagine it . . .

‘Maybe,’ you thought. ‘It wasn’t on purpose. Maybe something happened to his humans . . .’

You yawned. You still didn’t know how Daredevil tied into this abandoned (or lost) cat. It was possible that was just a coincidence. That both Trouble and the suit just happened to be in the same place. But maybe the suit smelled familiar to the cat . . . maybe this was Daredevil’s cat . . .

.

“What would Daredevil name a cat?” you murmured to yourself. “Lucy Fur? Holy Terror? The Lord of Felines? Hiss the Devil-Cat?

A soft meow jerked you back to alertness before you could spill tea on yourself. But if you were falling asleep sitting up, you should put that mug down. You had drunk most of it. It was fine. You sat down the mug, leaned your head against the back of the couch. You just needed to rest your eyes. In a few minutes you’d tidy up, start unraveling those mysteries . . .

Just a few minutes . . .

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Matt listened as you fell into a deep sleep and contemplated life’s little ironies. When he had pictured laying on your lap, this was not the scenario he had in mind. It had been more like using your lap as a pillow while your hands ran through his hair. Sometimes the fantasy was a lazy afternoon where you two were wearing comfortable clothes and simply enjoying each other’s company.

Sometimes the fantasy turned dirty. One where the only clothing you were wearing was a shirt and panties. And he was unable to resist being so close to your core. Kissing and touching until you were squirming and his nose was filled with the scent of your arousal. Then he’d slide off the couch, then peeled off those panties hiding his prize. He’d kneel between your spread thighs and . . .

He shook his head. He couldn’t think about that. It was never going to happen. Before, he would have had a chance. You were attracted to him. More over, he had once (unintentionally) overheard you telling your friends that you liked him. In more ways in one. One of those was the ‘I want him to fuck me on his desk’ way. Your words, not his. And Matt would be liar if he said he hadn’t thought about exactly the same thing. Imagined your soft skin under his hands and your pretty moans in his ear while he buried himself deep inside you . . .

‘Never going to happen,’ he reminded himself. Even through you had also made it clear in that talk with your friends that you always dreamed being with him like (again quoting) ‘one of those disgusting adorable couples who snuggle every chance they get and give each other forehead kisses.’

But in his experience, people either interested in Matt Murdock or the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Not both. Never both. He didn’t expect you to be any different. Not once you knew that mild-mannered blind attorney Matt Murdock was Daredevil.

You were going to find out. You were too intelligent not to figure out that something was going on with your boss. You probably already had some questions. He knew you hadn’t missed those days when he had injuries that couldn’t be hidden by his day suit. Even when his injuries were completely hidden, you had noticed that he was moving wrong and asked if he was alright. So far you hadn’t questioned his excuses but he didn’t think you entirely believed them either.

Sooner or later, you weren’t going to placated by those (he was told rather flimsy) excuses. You’d want the truth. Perhaps you would draw your own conclusions about what was going on with him. Become worried about addiction or abuse. Perhaps you would confronted him about it – you were rather shy but concern for others seemed to bring out your courage.

This incident would drop all kinds of clues into your hands. Especially if you got the chance to inspect his suit more closely. He didn’t have his name sewn into the collar or anything as obvious as that. But his burner phone was in one of the pouches. Finding Foggy and Karen in the contacts was going to give you all kinds of questions.

He doubted you would make the leap that the cat you had rescued was Daredevil, rather than his pet cat or something. Which was understandable. If he was in your shoes, it certainly wouldn’t be his first theory. Or his second. He was living it and he was having difficulty believing it.

At least this time he had time to prepare for the upcoming conversation. Judging from past history, it was going to be unpleasant – yelling, tears, suspicions that he was more or less faking his disability. Followed by new distrust warring with previous affection. If he was lucky, enough of that affection would survive. And if that luck continued, you would accept his nature and agree to remain friends.

If he was unlucky . . .

And if he was very lucky, you’d break the pattern. You’d accept him for who he was, man and devil. The discovery of his darkness wouldn’t kill your attraction to him. You’d say yes when he asked you out, the first date of many . . .

Through Foggy claimed he was already dating you. Which no, he wasn’t. He would know if he had asked you out and you had agreed. And you would have kissed, at least, by now if you were dating. Foggy had rolled his eyes and muttered something along the lines of ‘Oh great, both of them are idiots.’

That aside . . . Matt knew he would never be that lucky. It was a beautiful dream. But that’s all it was. A dream. It was far more likely that he was going to be stuck as a cat for the rest of his life.

‘Through,’ he thought as he started to fall asleep. ‘Being your cat wouldn’t be so bad . . .’

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

You let out a frustrated whine.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he whispered in your ear, his deep voice rich as honey. “You don’t want anyone to walk in and see you like this, do you?”

Like this meaning on your boss’s lap with your skirt hiked up around your waist, your legs splayed wide so anyone who walked in that door would get a good look at your panties. That wasn’t only thing they’d get an eyeful of. Your blouse was unbuttoned, the cups of your bra pushed down to expose your breasts. One of your boss’s large hands was fondling a breast, rolling the taut nipple between his fingers. His other hand was teasing your covered cunt, pressing far too gentle and fleeting touches to yourclit.

“Or is that exactly what you want? For someone to see you like this? Did you want everyone to know? That I’m touching you like this?”

You squirmed, feeling your face flush worse than it already was. The hand on your breast gave it one last squeeze before sliding down to grip your opposite hip.

“I think you do. You want someone to see how wet you are. For them to know how eager this pussy is for my cock.”

He pushed himself upward, a pale mimicryof thrusting you craved. But it did remind you of the hard, eager cock pressed tightly against your ass. It would be so easy. Just take off your underwear and let him get his pants off. Or at least enough of his pants off to free that cock. Your cunt clenched desperately. You didn’t care if he fucked you in this chair or on his desk. Just as long as he was inside you . . .

“Or even just my fingers.”

Fingers hooked around panties, pulled them away from your cunt. A single finger ran through your folds, coating itself in your slick. Tracing the entrance before the tip dipped inside. But rather than sinking deeper, it withdrew. Before you could protest, it dipped back in. Then back out. Again. And again. Always just the tip of his finger. Nothing more. You needed more. You tried to thrust up. But the muscular arm across your torso with its hand gripping your hip kept you pinned against him. All you could do was squirm . . .

“Matt,” you moaned, burying your burning face against his neck. “Please . . .”

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

You jolted upright. You were trying to get to your feet before what had woken you even registered. Unfortunately for your dignity, your comforter had gotten twisted around your legs so your attempt only resulted in you falling on the floor. More fortunate you managed to avoid smacking your head against the coffee table. As you tried to get yourself loose of your own comforter, you sleepily wondered why you were sleeping in the living room.

Then everything came flooding back. The visit . . . the cat . . . the suit . . . the dream . . . you felt your face flush. Then you realized what had woken you up. Your phone was ringing. As you got yourself to your feet, you muttered unkind things about the phone. It had shattered the dream just as it was getting really good. And the place between your legs throbbing with need. It was tempting to ignore your phone in favor of slipping your hand inside your underwear . . .

But in the end, responsibility won and you got your phone. It had gone to voice mail before you got to it. You unlocked it and checked the phone ID. Foggy. Why would Foggy be calling you . . . then the time registered.

Your heart almost stopped. The office had opened two hours ago. You were late! Your fingers frantically hit the call back, praying that you hadn’t just gotten fired. You needed this job . . .

Foggy’s cheerful hello was a promising start.

“Sorry, I know I’m late,” you started before Foggy interrupted you.

“No, you aren’t. The office is closed today.”

“Huh?” You said, trying to remember Foggy or Matt saying anything about that yesterday. You couldn’t remember . . . but your brain didn’t exactly work before its’ morning caffeine hit. And thinking about Matt only made you think about the dream. Which made the wet heat between your legs even worse. “Why?”

“Because there is roughly three feet of snow? With more still coming down? And high winds that have already knocked out power in parts of Manhattan and might do the same here any minute now?”

You immediately went to the window and peered out. You didn’t have the best view but it was as Foggy reported. Snow piled high on the streets below while more swirled across the window, day not looking not much brighter than twilight despite already being mid-morning . . . “Wow, you aren’t kidding about the weather.”

“I never kid about the weather,” Foggy said with mock seriousness. “The city powers that be don’t recommend going out in that mess. And even if they did, I’m not walking in that for anything less than a life or death emergency. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” you said.

“I called you earlier but you didn’t answer and didn’t call back. I just wanted to make sure that you knew not to come today. Probably tomorrow too. More depends on how long this storm last and how long it takes to get things running again.”

And to check that you were alright. Both of your bosses were worry-warts. Matt was worse than Foggy in that regard. Always got that worried furrow in his brow when you were going to be walking home alone, right before he offered to walk with you. Often you accepted. Mostly because it gave you an excuse to spent more time with him.

And he knew all these little hole-in-the-wall restaurants with the most amazing food . . . Through whenever you talked about those little side-trips, everyone – your friends, Foggy, Karen, your mom – always asked you if you were sure that Matt wasn’t your boyfriend . . .

Yes, you were sure. Those weren’t dates. If they had been, you would have been kissing Matt. And you definitely wouldn’t have been able to resist having sex with him this long if you were dating. So they were just a side-trip taken with your friend and employer.

“Okay,” you said, shuffling away from the window and toward your small kitchen. “Thanks for checking on me. Everyone else okay?”

“No problem,” he said. “Karen’s bunkered down with . . . er . . . a friend. Matt hasn’t call me back yet. I was just about to ring him again.”

You didn’t know Karen had a boyfriend. Odd that she had never brought him to Josie’s with the rest of the group . . . but then the second part of that statement caught your brain.

“Matt hasn’t called you back?”

“No,” Foggy said. “But I’m sure he’s fine. Probably just didn’t hear his phone ring. Matt sleeps like the dead sometimes.”

Not hearing something didn’t sound like the Matt you knew. Who seemed to hear everything. No matter how quietly you moved, he always knew you were there. But Foggy knew him better than you did. And he had lived Matt for years. If Foggy said Matt was a heavy sleeper, then he was a heavy sleeper.

Still his voice sounded odd. Like maybe he was worried but trying not to show it. But maybe you were just protecting your own worries onto Foggy.

“Okay. I’ll let you get back to that. Bye, Foggy,” you said, trying to keep those worries out of your voice. ‘They were unnecessary,’ you reminded yourself silently. Matt was blind but he was also a grown man. He could care of himself. He was fine.

“Bye.”

You tucked your phone in your pocket. Ugh . . . you were still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Your work clothes since you hadn’t changed before getting that tearful phone call. You had wanted to get that laundry finally put away before you found another excuse to avoid doing it. You needed a shower. Especially since the power might go out – who knows when you’d get the chance for another one?

You put on coffee and tried not to worry about Matt.

“Matt doesn’t need you fussing over him. Even if he does come in looking like he got into a bar fight sometimes,” you told yourself sternly. Like last Friday, he had been sporting a set of spectacular set of bruises across the right side of his face. Which he said was the result of missing a curb and tripping. Which sounded rather peculiar to you. Yes, he couldn’t see the curb but he seemed pretty skilled with that cane of his . . . and Matt moved with the cat-like elegance of a dancer.

Maybe even graceful blind men had trouble with two left feet sometimes.

Speaking of trouble . . . where was that cat? You hadn’t seen him since you woke up.

“Trouble,” you called out. “Where are you? Here kitty, kitty,”

You heard a meow. Not close by. But the coffee was on so you could look around. It took several minutes and more meows to find him. Trouble was in your bedroom closet, on the shelf above the clothing rod. You weren’t sure how he he managed to get up there but cats were like that. It was amazing the places they managed to climb up or squeeze themselves into. It seemed he had started exploring while you were sleeping.

Looking at Trouble, you frowned. Something was . . . off. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what . . . no, wait. You raised up your phone. You had been using the flashlight app to look in shadowy places like under furniture. You ran the light across the cat’s face, watching closely. Once, then twice to make sure you were really seeing what you were seeing. But you were. His eyes weren’t reacting to the light.

You raised one finger, then moved it back and forth in front of Trouble’s face. He wasn’t tracking the motion through his whiskers tilted forward, his little nose twitching. He was paying attention, his ears were up and pointed toward you. But his eyes . . .

“Are you blind, Trouble?” you asked, reaching back up to pet the cat. It was impossible to resist that sinfully soft fur.

He gave a soft meow as if answering your question.

Well, Trouble being blind didn’t change your plans. You were still going to adopt him if he didn’t already have a home. You made a mental note to have the vet check your theory about his vision when you took him in to make sure he was healthy as he looked. You were tempted to get Trouble down from his perch. You were pretty sure that he could back down without hurting himself. Without making a mess by accidentally pulling something down with him . . . that was another kettle of fish. And while most of what on the shelf was soft, some wasn’t and that stuff could hurt Trouble if it got knocked off while he tried to get down.

On the other hand, getting a cat out of a hiding spot could be tricky. Trouble hadn’t been aggressive with his claws even once but he might make an exception for getting grabbed and pulled out of somewhere he was hiding. Normally you’d purrito him but that high shelf wasn’t the easiest location to purrito a cat . . . the beep of the coffee maker interrupted your train of thought.

You decided to have some coffee, then consider how to get Trouble down from there. But halfway through that first mug, you heard a thump. One that wasn’t, thankfully, followed by any crashing noises. Just Trouble strolling into the kitchen, very casual. He stopped a few feet away from you, head turned you – ears alert, upright tail curled into a question mark.

“Yes, Trouble?” you said. Then thought about it for a minute. “You hungry? Breakfast?”

Another answering meow. But then you had another problem. You didn’t have any cat food. You had given the last of Oreo’s special food to a friend whose cat had the same dietary restrictions. But you did have some baked chicken. That should work. Cats usually liked chicken. Fingers-crossed that it wouldn’t upset his tummy. Or make him very sick because he needed a special diet.

You cup up the chicken and put some of it into a small bowl. You sat it down in front of the cat along with a second dish with water. After giving both bowls a very thorough inspection with his nose, the cat seemed to accept the offering and started eating the chicken. You put the rest away and made a mental note to set up the litter box. You might not always have cat food on hand but you had encountered enough unexpected cat acquisition to keep cat litter in the house. Muddling through a night without cat food was one thing. Without cat litter was something else and not an experience that bears repeating.

You drank your coffee and considered your own breakfast. You didn’t really feel like making anything complicated right now. Maybe scrambled eggs? With toast? That would be quick and easy. You nodded and made yourself breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast didn’t take long and soon you were seated at your little kitchen table, listening to one of your regular podcasts while you ate and made plans.

First, your shower. Get yourself clean and put on some clean clothes. Something comfortable since you weren’t going anywhere and there wasn’t anyone to impress. At the very least, fresh underwear since your current pair was uncomfortably damp. Along with your thighs. You were alone but the thought still made your face feel warm. Maybe, while you were in the there, you should take care of the still almost-painful ache between your legs . . .

Tidy up your apartment. Pull your emergency kit from under your bed. The Daredevil suit and all its mysteries . . . your fork scrapped the plate. The sound this produced made Trouble flinch.

“Sorry Trouble,” you said. You had been so in your head, you hadn’t realized that you already eaten all of your eggs. You moved the plate to the sink, left your mug by the coffee pot – you’d drink more when you were done with your shower – and headed toward your bedroom.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Matt might actually be in hell.

He thought it was bad earlier, when you started dreaming and his nose was filled your heavenly aroma. And when he heard you moan out his name, begging him for something. Something he couldn’t give. Not while he was like this. He had scurried out of the comforter and hidden himself before he did something . . . rash.

But this? Listening to you touching yourself? It was worse. Far worse. When there was nowhere in your small apartment where he couldn’t hear the beautiful sounds you were making. Couldn’t smell the mouth-watering scent of your arousal. Couldn’t escape the knowledge that it was always his name being moaned out.

It was torture. Pure torture.

He wanted so badly to be himself again and in that shower. Holding your naked body against his own, fingers pumping into your cunt and toying with your clit until you begged him for release. After you shattered under his hands, would he fuck you against the shower wall? Or would you turn the tables on him? Push him against the tile and start working his cock with your hands until he was the one begging?

Would that be enough to satisfy you both? Or just the beginning?

He buried himself further into the pile of blanket and comforter in a futile attempt to muffle your gasping recitation of his name as you chased your release . . .

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

You walked out the bathroom feeling refreshed.

Your eyes searched for Trouble. You didn’t worry when you didn’t immediately find him. There were a lot of places in your apartment for a cat to hide. And when you went to collect last-night’s tea mug, you found him.

Or rather you found his tail. He had apparently attempt to hide himself in the pile of blankets but his tail was sticking out. You giggled as you reached out and tickled his tail. He meowed, squirmed around in the blanket until the tail disappeared into the depths.

“Not planning to come out of there, Trouble?”

The responding meow was loud, like a very firm no. which only made you giggle harder. But you left him in his blanket cocoon. He wasn’t harming anyone. If he wanted to hide for a while, you’d let him. At least he wasn’t trying to ‘help.’

TO BE CONTINUED . . . in Part 2

NOTES

The kick combination that Matt uses against the magic user is from capoeira, which is an Afro-Brazilian cultural practice that is both a martial arts and a dance. The movements require great bodily dexterity. It’s very cool.

Purrito means wrapping a cat in a towel, small blanket, or similar like they were burrito. It’s way of holding the cat without getting scratched since the paws are all inside in the burrito. Some cats find it calming as they like the gentle pressure all around them like a hug. But some don’t.

Havana brown is a cat breed developed from mixing the Siamese with brown domestic short-haired cats. They are brown to reddish-brown – right down to their whiskers – with green eyes. Very pretty cats.

Jacobson is Luke Jacobson, the fashion designer from She-Hulk. In this story, Matt saved him one night when he was in New York. He was appalled by Matt’s homemade supersuit. He demanded to make him a better one as a thank you for saving his life. And wouldn’t take no for answer.

Melvin Potter, his old suit guy, Matt has been representing as a way of apology for the trouble Melvin experienced during Season 3. Matt might introduce Melvin to Jacobson who is curious about his other red suit.

[devirnis]

hi advance apologies for bombarding your inbox but also these all seem so GOOD

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Hi Zesty! Never apologize!! I hope you're okay with me using this as my WIP Wednesday and showcasing what I'm actively working on :3

bthb/trail of blood

Tommy beelines for the bottom drawer where he keeps his cleaning cloths. As he hustles past the kitchen island, he gets a good view of the scene of the crime. There are crimson smears all over the countertop, like Evan had hastily tried to clean up while trying to tend to his wound, and the sight makes Tommy’s stomach churn unpleasantly. He’s never been squeamish when it came to blood before – couldn’t afford to be, between the army and firefighting – but something about the fact that this is Evan’s blood has Tommy fighting back nausea.

summer stalker fic

“Buck. Stay.” Eddie fixes him with a glare. “If you hear anything, I need you to call 911.” Reluctantly, Buck lowers himself back down onto the bed. He grabs his phone off the charger on the bedside table and unlocks it. “Okay, just – be safe?” Nodding tightly, Eddie adjusts his grip on the bed warmer and creeps down the stairs.

restaurant au sequel

Making sure her movements are telegraphed and deliberate, she puts her bag down on the kitchen counter. Her fingers itch to reach out for her phone – she had her text thread with Chimney open, it would only be four keystrokes to send him a simple SOS – but she’s not willing to risk Buck’s life taking that chance. Chimney will be over soon. He’ll figure out something happened. Until then, Maddie just has to keep herself and Buck alive.

polyfire cnc fic

“Please,” Buck whispers. “Pl-please let me go.” Both men ignore him. They finish tying his legs down and then straighten back up to admire their handiwork. Buck’s heart rate quickens as their eyes roam over him. He’s clad in nothing but a pair of dark briefs, and the desire to cover himself – protect himself – has him tugging futilely against the restraints.  “Please,” he tries again. “I won’t – I won’t say anything. I swear.”

no pressure, tagging @bigfootsmom @homerforsure @princessfbi @spaceprincessem @sibylsleaves @eddiebabygirldiaz @honestlydarkprincess @jeeyuns @bvckandeddie @eowon @freewayshark @shitouttabuck @exhuastedpigeon @queerdiazs @lemonzestywrites @underwaterninja13 @father-salmon @monsterrae1 @watchyourbuck @tizniz @smallandalmosthonest @jesuisici33 @middyblue @alchemistc @daffi-990 @bidisasterevankinard 💜

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Provider Discretion (LU in Healthcare)

(Lots of technical jargon in this one, lovelies, hope you don’t mind)

Something wasn’t right.

The patient herself was… okay. Mostly. She had called 911 because she’d had back pain that had just been getting worse, and she’d said she couldn’t even get around anymore.

Mo and Hyrule often exchanged a somewhat exasperated look when someone called an emergency line for something that had been an ongoing problem, but today this… was different. She just didn’t look well.

“I’m really sorry,” the patient apologized for the fourth time as Hyrule and Mo loaded the stretcher into the ambulance.

“It’s okay,” Hyrule quickly reassured her. His heart ached a little at how much this woman wanted to seem to shrink into oblivion. Even Mo, who, despite his big heart, often came across a little standoffish, had tried to make her smile multiple times. “This is what we’re here for.”

With a chief complaint of back pain, there wasn’t much to do outside of check vital signs. Mo could easily take this call. But Hyrule just… this felt wrong.

“Let’s get a 12-lead,” he said, already grabbing the cables for it while Mo got vitals. His partner didn’t argue, helping him place the leads in the right positions.

Vitals looked mostly fine. The patient’s blood pressure was high. She said she had a history of hypertension, so perhaps between that and her pain that would explain it. Though 180/98 did not make Hyrule particularly happy. But he couldn’t treat that.

The 12-lead showed normal sinus rhythm. Nothing wrong there. But something just didn’t feel right.

Grabbing the blood pressure cuff, Hyrule checked it again, but on the opposite side.

There was a discrepancy.

Hyrule and Mo looked at each other, eyebrows pinching. Mo took a manual on the left. Hyrule took a manual on the right.

They still didn’t match.

Feeling dread fill him, Hyrule told Mo, “I’m taking this call. Let’s get going. We don’t need lights but… just drive expediently, ok?”

The transport was blessedly uneventful. But the discrepancy remained. Her blood pressure was high, but higher on one side than the other. Coupling that with back pain…

Her aorta. Hyrule was worried about her aorta. The biggest artery in this woman’s entire body could getting ready to tear apart.

When Hyrule texted Warriors later, he got his answer.

Dissection. They rushed her to the OR. You pointing out the BP difference really tipped off the doc. Good catch.

Mo whistled. “Good thing she didn’t rupture in our truck.”

Hyrule blew out a breath. He was just thankful he trusted his gut.

XXX

The dispatch information had been for diabetic emergency. Fire had gotten there first, which Aurora was thankful for since she and Dawn were coming from the hospital and therefore farther away than if they’d responded from the station.

When they arrived, the house was a nightmare. The street was so narrow that the ambulance and fire truck blocked the road entirely, the stairs were so narrow Aurora felt like she had to squeeze her arms in just to climb up them, and the turns were so sharp she wasn’t sure how any kind of equipment could get up there. The patient was lying on his bed, altered, and unable to move.

According to the patient’s friend, he’d heard him fall and came up to check on him. He knew he was a diabetic and figured his blood glucose had to be low. Fire had already checked it, saying it was over two hundred. As the firefighter paramedic gave information to Aurora, he said, “He could be acting like this because of his sugar. Could be a stroke. We’re not sure.”

Honestly, Aurora couldn’t see the patient all that well from her vantage point. Dawn had already walked in and started assessing, they’d handed a reeves stretcher to the firemen, and they were working on loading him on to it. The girl went downstairs to prep the stretcher for their arrival. Once they managed to get the patient into the ambulance, Aurora stared.

This man’s entire right side of his face was noticeably drooping. He was moving his head a little to the left, eyes somewhat moving, pupils equal. Aurora quickly asked him to look at her, to follow her finger. While he could stare at her, he couldn’t track at all, and his eyes wouldn’t move to the right. He blinked once while attempting, and was only able to blink his left eye.

Who the hell thought this could be his sugar??

Once Dawn got in the truck, they were quick to get vitals and a 12-lead. He was hypertensive, all other vitals fine.

“We need to stroke alert this,” Aurora immediately said.

“But he was last seen normal three hours ago,” Dawn said uncertainly. “Isn’t that outside the window? Or is the window four hours now?”

“I think it’s four,” Aurora answered. “And it doesn’t matter either way. This is absolutely a neuro issue. Drive us hot, okay?”

Dawn nodded, heading to the front. She drove to the hospital with the lights and sirens on, allowing them a faster transport time, while Aurora called it in to the hospital. As they progressed, she tried to get the patient to follow commands, but he couldn’t. He held up his right arm but couldn’t hold his left up at all, and he still didn’t really track any movement.

When they arrived at the hospital, they were placed in a major room, transferring him quickly to the hospital bed. Warriors was charge that night, working on coordinating all the help they’d need for this patient. The ED physician entered, looking the patient over, and then turned to Aurora, asking, “So what makes you think he’s having a stroke?”

Aurora stopped in mid motion, looking at him with the most enraged and bewildered expression. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you think he’s having a stroke?” The doctor repeated.

“What makes you think he isn’t?!” Aurora snapped, completely mind blown that this was even a debate. “His face is drooping so low it’s hitting the earth’s fucking crust, he’s altered, not tracking movement, blinking with one eye, down on one side, is hypertensive, and you’re asking why I—do you even know what a stroke is??”

“Let’s just alert it,” Warriors said calmly as he walked into the room, clearly sensing that the paramedic was about to explode. “It’ll get us a CT to rule it out.”

Aurora was fuming, and she stormed out before she could hear a response. Dawn tried to gently check on her, only to be subjected to her ranting for the next hour.

Later, Warriors texted Hyrule, who relayed the message. “You were right.”

“OF FUCKING COURSE I WAS!”

XXX

Legend wasn’t particularly a fan of working triage.

There were aspects of it that were exciting - he was the one to make first contact with patients who didn’t come in via ambulance, and he determined their acuity. But there was also a public relations aspect to it, a patience dealing with impatient people, a kindness and sympathy for those who were genuinely hurting or needing help but had to wait anyway. It was understandable, but public relations… was not Legend’s forte.

There was a reason he was put in triage, though.

It wasn’t always obvious, what was wrong with someone. But there were times when a patient just didn’t look right. Legend saw the man limp over, listened to him as he explained that he had some leg pain that had been going on for the last few days, how he thought maybe he’d strained a muscle but the pain hadn’t improved.

There were always signs to look out for. Little things, cues that something was off. The man looked resigned, reluctant; he clearly had been talked in to coming to the hospital, and he commented that his wife insisted on it. Legend saw the clothes he wore, heard the accent he spoke with, saw his muscles, and pieced together that he was probably a farmer.

Farmers never came to the hospital.

“We’ll get you back as soon as we can,” he finally said after completing his assessment. Usually, this patient would be low on the acuity scale—a muscle spasm or strain was not nearly as important as a heart attack, pneumonia, sepsis, strokes, traumas—but Legend made him a yellow rather than a green. Just to be sure.

That higher acuity score got him a room far faster. That faster room made a doctor assess him and notice that his left leg was bigger than his right. That doctor made sure he got an ultrasound of his leg, found clots in his leg. She also learned the man was short of breath sometimes, which his wife insisted was new, and got a CT scan.

Legend glanced at his chart later to see him being admitted. Confused and curious, he did some digging.

The man had a pulmonary embolism.

Huffing with a small smile of satisfaction, Legend closed out of the chart as another patient approached.

XXX

Time had to admit, he did not spend as much time assessing his patients as he should. His hours were stolen away in the OR, unpredictable and chaotic as his line of work was. So sometimes he didn’t get to round, sometimes he didn’t have a chance to walk in and chat with the patients and the nurses and the licensed independent providers who took charge of their care.

Today he was glad he did.

The patient was actually calm and pleasant, had little complaint of anything except for some lower back pain. In the world of uncomfortable hospital beds, it wasn’t a huge surprise.

But Time saw something. Some staining, bruising, around the patient’s groin. He peeked around their gown, turned them a little, and saw it.

Their groin was purple. He asked the nurse, who said they were told this had been baseline for a day or two, and that the independent providers over them had acknowledged the finding and moved on.

Time walked into the doc box where the providers were. “I want a CT abdomen for room 3. She’s got some bruising that’s concerning. Her H&H has been down trending steadily.”

“Her JP drains haven’t put out much,” the physician assistant noted, looking over the patient’s chart.

“She might have a retroperitoneal bleed,” Time pointed out. “Let’s just be sure.”

Years of education and even more years of experience had taught the trauma surgeon well. The war was especially humbling and educational. So when he got a text from the PA that the patient did indeed have a retroperitoneal, he wasn’t surprised. But he was disappointed that he had to be the one to notice it.

Sometimes, he supposed, it took the leader to point out the problem.

XXX

Four… didn’t like this.

Report had been bad enough. The day shift nurse spoke of how the patient had been previously septic and was recuperating well before her pressor demand had gone up during the day. She looked… not great. She was so edematous they were constantly changing the sheets underneath her arms because her body was leaking fluid from every inch of itself - they had dumped fluids into her over the last few days just to maintain her blood pressure. She was on a lasix drip to get her lot o pee off the fluid as best as possible, and her kidney function was… decent, but not great.

As Four assessed her, the clenching his chest only worsened. She was alert, oriented, a little miserable but trying to be in good spirits, bless her. She was peeing a decent amount, her pulses were present despite the swelling, her lung sounds were a little coarse but overall mostly clear. Her abdomen was soft and non-tender, her pupils were equal and reactive, and she didn’t have much complaint of pain aside from being sick of laying in bed, which Four could understand.

But still. This just… didn’t look great.

As the night progressed, the woman’s pressor need climbed. Four continued to increase epinephrine, increase norepinephrine. He tried not to increase the vasopressin too much as it had such a profound effect on vasoconstriction that it could cause necrosis. Also, the woman had a history of heart failure and had a pretty weak heart.

Four eventually went to the resident in charge of the patient for the night. “Hey. Can we maybe give 11 some albumin? She has plenty of fluid to give, but clearly it isn’t in her vasculature - she’s peeing ok but her pressure isn’t tolerating it. I feel like it could help.”

The resident shuffled on his feet uncertainly. “The surgeon really wants to make sure we can get this fluid off. I’d rather keep her negative and not give her more fluid, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that,” Four greed before continuing, “But albumin is only 250mL, and if it helps suck in the fluid that’s third spacing, it’ll still help. We’re dumping fluid in her through the pressors anyway.”

The resident continued to waffle, before the night attending asked, “She’s on vaso, right?”

“Yes.”

“Just go up on that.”

Four stared a moment longer, starting to doubt himself. He hadn’t been a nurse for long, and if an attending physician was saying this, then… it had to be true, right?

Sighing, he went back to the room and did as he was told. The patient’s blood pressure improved well enough, and the night progressed fine.

The next night was not as fine. At rounds, Four suggested that perhaps she should be lined for CRRT, a continuous dialysis that would allow for Four to control how much fluid they were pulling and would likely be better for the patient to tolerate. The night doctors shrugged, saying they’d mention it to the day team.

Again, the woman’s blood pressure was tanking. Again, Four had to increase pressors. Vaso had been turned down and was told to be left alone because the woman’s systemic vascular resistance was so high the attending was worried about her heart. (Four couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about it, because he knew that was going to happen)

This time, though, she went into atrial fibrillation as well. As Four called the resident and attending into the room, they deliberated the matter, muttering, “Maybe we should line her for CRRT.”

Four blinked. Stared. Was he… losing his mind?? Was he invisible? He’d suggested this earlier!

Ultimately, Four had managed to keep the patient stable enough so that it wasn’t needed. Ultimately, the shift ended uneventfully.

But when Four came back for his third night, he could hear the woman’s breathing from the door, he could hear how she was drowning in fluid because she couldn’t tolerate losing fluid but had too much for her lungs and heart to handle. The day team had lined her for CRRT, but her pressors were almost maxed out at their dosage, and she was so hypotensive that the renal nurse who had set up the machine was hesitant to start it up, saying it would further bottom out her pressure.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight, the provider in charge of making decisions and orders was a nurse practitioner, someone who was used to this unit. She walked in, saw the issues Four had seen, and she walked right back out, making a call.

Four struggled to keep the patient alive long enough for the ECMO team to arrive as the patient fell apart. He felt frustration boil his blood as he had to hand off her care after fighting for her, had to watch as the CV ICU nurse came in to take over while surgeons put large cannulas into the patient’s body to redirect blood flow around her heart so she could still perfuse her organs. He watched as they wheeled her out of the trauma ICU to go to the cardiac ICU where she would remain while on such extreme support, and he threw his pen on the desk, burying his face in his hands, fuming.

They should have listened to him.

[wildlife4life]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday

Tagged by the lovely @exhuastedpigeon, @hippolotamus @wikiangela @disasterbuckdiaz @daffi-990 @jamespearce9-1-1 @jeeyuns @hoodie-buck @theotherbuckley and @ladydorian05 Thank you all so much!

I am in a very generous mood today, so for this tidbit Tuesday I am sharing several teases from different wips. Enjoy!

NFL Buck: Athena hits the intercom above the code box, taking note of cameras that swivel slightly towards her way. A deep voice seeped with weariness comes through the speaker, "What can I do for you officer?"

In the back seat of her cruiser, Eddie immediately perks up and cries out, "Buck! She arrested me and I don't like it and I swear those tiny humans put her up to it! But I didn't do it! I swear!"

4+1 Buck is too nice: Eddie is actually contemplating stealing Bobby's nice knife set away from the firehouse. Stolen knives for Eddie's stolen boyfriend. Seems fair. Sort of.

When in reality Eddie more than understands. Athena is working, Bobby is covering for Captain Royce, and trying to get any sort of non-familiar (free) transportation from LAX was a disservice to May.

Kidnapped Mpreg Buck: Eddie grips his tiny newborn daughter tight to his chest. Its too quiet. Buck is silent, no longer screaming in agony. Their baby has gone quiet after her first cries. Doug will never make a sound again, lying dead by the fireplace. He can barely hear Hen muttering under her breath, pumping her fist hard over Buck's chest. Chimney hasn't said a word since announcing the loss of Buck's heart beat, frantically working to try and stop the omega from bleeding out. And Maddie...is slumped against the wall near the bed where her brother lays dying, covered in blood from Doug, herself, and Buck. Catatonic. Quiet. Too quiet.

Parental Chimney w/ Teen Buddie: Chimney does a double take when he see's Eddie standing just a step inside the bay doors. The older teen is wringing his hands together, looking nervous and very lost.

Tapping Hen on the shoulder, he motions towards the kid and Hen nods in understanding. "Yell if you need back-up." She jokes somewhat serious.

Chimney rolls his eyes, "Doubt he's here to cause harm."

Hen shrugs, "Your new to this parenting thing, and so am I, so asking for help won't hurt." She glances over to Eddie, "Just don't be too hard on him. From my understanding, kids been through enough and losing Buck must feel like rock bottom."

Return of sperm donor kid: “Carson, Connor is your dad, okay?  I just-well-um” Buck was floundering to find the right way to explain to a beginning 5th grader how sperm donation works. 

“He’s not my dad! I heard my mom say so!” Connor shouted, anger and frustration starting to take over.

Buck raised his hands up in gentle defense, “Okay. Okay.  Let’s just,” He sighs in frustration, looking upwards.  Buck didn’t really pray, but he did believe in the universe and Eddie would be his entire paycheck that he was cursing it right now. “I’m calling your parents.”

Carson opened his mouth to object, but Buck immediately cut him off, “I am calling your parents, and that includes your dad, the same man who has fed you, clothed you, LOVED you since the day you were born. I am calling them and then we are all going to sit down and talk. Understand?”

Hope you all enjoyed!

Tagging (no pressure): @bekkachaos @prosperdemeter2 @spotsandsocks @malewifediaz @elvensorceress @bigfootsmom @watchyourbuck @jesuisici33 @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie @giddyupbuck @devirnis @eddiebabygirldiaz @loserdiaz @spaceprincessem @thekristen999 @lizzybizzyzzz @homerforsure @sibylsleaves @spagheddiediaz @try-set-me-on-fire @monsterrae1 @lover-of-mine @rogerzsteven @eowon @honestlydarkprincess @911onabc @911-on-abc @cowboydiazes @vampbuckley @brokenribsdiaz @buck-coded @housewifebuck @arthursdent @glorious-spoon @buddierights @athenagranted @rainbow-nerdss @gayhoediaz @gayedmundodiaz

[injuryprompts]

how would you go about treating a sword through the abdomen?

Heyyy, I am so sorry for the long response time! I would not be surprised if you've forgotten about sending this in the first place.

To answer your question it's important to know if the sword is a through and through or not. Because you said "through" i'm going to treat it as such.

Then it's important to know if 911 is available. Because most sword wounds happened pre-emergency services, i'm going to write it like you'd 100% treat it yourself. Otherwise step 1 would be: call 911.

IF ANYTHING LIKE THIS HAPPENS IRL, ALWAYS CALL THE EMERGENCY NUMBER AND DO AS THEY SAY. THIS IS FOR FICTIONAL USE ONLY.

Now for the treatment of a stab wound to the gut:

First and foremost, DO NOT PULL OUT THE SWORD until you're ready to deal with the bleeding.

Step 1: Make the stabbed person lay down. Because the stab wound is probably front to back, make them lay on their side. This reduces the risk of falling after the adrenaline stops. Which could cause more damage, think head trauma, or disturbing the sword making the wound worse.

Step 2: Remove the clothing around the wound. This gives better access to assess the damage done and get a clear working area.

Step 3: Put on gloves. Easy to forget, but it lessens the chance of infection in the wound. If you can't at least wash them as thoroughly as possible.

Step 4: Prevent bleeding. Severe blood loss will cause shock or worse death. So any blood that can stay inside, should stay inside. If the sword hit a (major) artery the person could die within a minute when the sword is pulled out. WHICH IS WHY YOU LEAVE IT IN FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE.

Arterial Bleeding: The blood will be SPURTING out. It will be a bright red color.

Venous Bleeding: The blood will be oozing out. The blood will be a darker color.

Capillary Bleeding: The blood will slowly come out. It will eventually stop on its own.

To prevent bleeding, apply pressure. You can still apply pressure when the sword is still through the body. Just put pressure around the blade from both sides. and since the knife went through. pressure on 4 sides basically. Be careful not to move the blade too much as you do this.

Chest wounds should be sealed with a credit card/plastic bag/duct tape etc, that sticks on 3 sides, leaving it so air can go out but it cant go in. This helps prevent a collapsed lung.

Step 5: Remove the sword. Get ready to put real pressure on it as soon as the blade is pulled out, because it will probably start gushing. If its not that bad, you can wait until it stops. If not, the wound will need to be sealed/stitched. Now the abdomen has a lot of nasty things called organs in it. Lets hope we missed all of those, because if not, intestine contents can do horrible things to the rest of your body.

Close the Wound Under These Circumstances:

The wound is large and refuses to stop bleeding

The wound penetrated through the entire skin (you’d be able to see underlying tissues)

The wound has been open for less than 6 hours

The wound is over a joint or moving part of the body and won’t close by itself

The wound is gaping open and won’t be able to close without your intervention

You close a wound only when it's dry, preferably with butterfly bandages or adhesive tape, (sutures only by profesionals or in dire circumstances). Or if you want to go for dramatic, cauterization as absolute last resort.

Open or closed, it's now time to cover the wound. You should first use any form of antibacterial treatment, preferably conventional medicine, but if you don't have that, use honey. Its antibacterial too. Then you can cover the wound with a bandage, make sure to change it every so often for a clean one. Every 12 to 24 hours.

Open wounds should be covered by wet dressing. Closed with dry. Make sure to pack around the puncture wound. If you can't find sterile bandages you can boil rags before using them.

ENDING THIS WITH: I AM NOT A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL. ONLY USE THIS INFORMATION FOR FICTIONAL PURPOSES. IF YOU FIND YOURSELF IN A SITUATION PLEASE CALL YOUR LOCAL EMERGENCY NUMBER. THEY WILL TELL YOU WHAT TO DO.

[thewolvesof1998]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Tagged by @spotsandsocks @alyxmastershipper @wildlife4life @wikiangela @loserdiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @mangacat201

Here's part 3 of my heatwave fic, Part 1, Part 2 (by the way this is seven sentences 😂 I might need to work on sentence length)

His jaw doesn’t drop in shock but it’s a close thing, “What?” “I feel like we’ve been dancing around each other for months, if not years, and tell me if I’m reading this wrong, but I really want you to touch me and I think you want to touch me too,” Buck’s rambling now, like he does when he gets nervous, “I mean, I want to kiss you too, like a lot but, gods Eddie I can’t stop think about your hands, I just need you to touch me.” Eddie's hand is on Buck before he can really think it through, he’s pretty sure he aimed for his usual shoulder squeeze but his brain short circuit between deciding to move and reaching Buck and now his hand is on his peck and by god it takes everything in him not to squeeze.  Eddie can’t look away from his hand, lines of black ink peaking in between splayed fingers, heat is radiating off of Buck, his skin slick with sweat, mixing with coarse chest hair to create sensations that Eddie’s never experienced before, something he never knew he wanted to experience before Buck. His hand slides down until his fingers brush against Buck’s pink nipple, his breath catches, and Eddie’s gaze flickers up to Buck’s face, he’s biting his bottom lip so hard that he’s surely going to draw blood.  “Should I tell you how much I’ve wanted to touch you, how much I’ve wanted to get my mouth on you?” Buck moans, “Eds please.”

No pressure tagging: @try-set-me-on-fire @jesuisici33 @bekkachaos @buddierights @forthewolves @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @eddiediaztho @your-catfish-friend @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @fortheloveofbuddie @sammy-souffle @steadfastsaturnsrings @theotherluciferr @cowboy-buddie @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg

[rowanmccutcheon]

after quite literally almost dying in the hospital last night, all i can think about is how ellie would react when you’re not doing ok.

you’re her whole entire world so she’d admittedly not be doing great at all. she’d get the call that you had to be taken to the hospital via ambulance and she’d be out the door before anyone could blink.

once she got to the hospital, she’d be panting from running. she’d yell your name at the receptionist, not even staying long enough to thank her for giving her your room number. when she finds your room, she’d barge in, not bothering to knock. you’re laying there asleep with a couple ice packs strewn on your body and three IV’s in each of your arms and 1 in your hand, dripping clear liquid into your body. your skin is slightly red and you look uncomfortable.

“baby? baby girl, you okay?” she’d gently put her hand on your leg, not wanting to jostle the multitude of tubes in your hands and arms. you’d slowly blink your eyes open and smile at her, because all you wanted was her while she was away.

“hi, els. missed you” you’d whisper. you still felt weak. all you wanted was ellie and she was finally there with you.

“what happened, mama? i got the call at work and i ran out of the shop mid tattoo. i’m sure i’ll have to comp my client’s whole piece since i bailed.” she tried to joke with you but it didn’t cover her worry.

“i was at the beach with dina ‘n jesse ‘n i didn’t realize how hot it really was because i was in the water most of the time. when we left, i started gettin’ all lightheaded ‘n i couldn’t breathe or stand up. dina called 911 and when i was in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, they said my blood pressure dropped from heat exhaustion and severe dehydration. ‘’m so stupid.”

you’d be beating yourself up about it, because duh it’s hot at the beach. duh you need to drink more water when it’s that hot. and DUH you shouldn’t be in the direct sun for that long anyways!

ellie noticed the tears welling up in your eyes. she knew what was going on in your brain.

“hey hey hey, stop that. you said you were in the water? no wonder you didn’t know it was that hot, baby. the water kept you feeling cool. that doesn’t make you stupid. my sweet girl just wanted a fun day at the beach, huh? playin’ mermaids and looking for pretty shells?”

she’d lean over to kiss your forehead, nuzzling her nose into her hair.

“my smartest girl. people make mistakes, doesn’t make you dumb. you’re perfect baby. all i care about is that you’re okay. you scared me.”

you’d obviously preen at her words, feeling better about yourself. you’d look up and quickly peck her nose, feeling so much better that she’s here with you now.

“mkay. love you so much, els.”

“i love you more, baby girl.”

YES this was self indulgent and YES this is basically what happened to me except mine had ✨chronic illness✨ thrown into it.

[chronic-gastro-illness-culture]

Dealing with Chronic Gastro Pain

Explaining Pain Levels

The pain scale actually has standard explanations which divides pain into three categories ranging from mild for lower numbers, moderate to cover the middle numbers, and severe for numbers above seven. Even this isn’t very clear, however, because as previously stated mild or moderate pain means different things to different people. Most of us need a way to break down those categories a little further:

⚠️ Mild Pain. On the pain scale, this level of pain ranges between numbers one and three, and can be categorized as nagging or annoying. You are aware that it’s there, but it doesn’t necessarily interfere with life on a daily basis and you are able to carry on with most of the activities you enjoy. Pain at the level of 1 is barely noticeable, at level 2 it’s a little stronger and can be annoying, Level 3 pain can be distracting but you can adapt and manage despite it.

✴️ Moderate Pain. At this level, pain starts to interfere with daily life. At level 4, it’s distracting but you can ignore it when you are very interested in something else. At level 5, it’s hard to ignore and takes a lot of effort to work or mix socially with friends. With level 6 pains, you have difficulty concentrating and it stops you getting on with normal daily activities.

🚨 Severe Pain. Severe pain is that which is disabling, preventing you from performing normal activities during the day or night. At level 7, pain stops you sleeping. Either you can’t get to sleep at all or it will wake you during the night, and keeping up with social relationships is very difficult. When it intensifies to level 8, pain makes even holding a conversation extremely difficult and your physical activity is severely impaired. Pain is said to be at level 9 when it is excruciating, prevents you speaking and may even make you moan or cry out. Level 10 pain is unbearable. You will be bedridden and possibly even delirious.

[ SOURCE: https://ercare24.com/understanding-pain-levels/?amp=1 ]

When To Use The Emergency Room

🚨 Signs Of An Emergency

How quickly do you need care? If a person or unborn baby could die or be permanently disabled, it is an emergency.

Call 911 or the local emergency number to have the emergency team come to you right away if you cannot wait, such as for:

Choking

Stopped breathing

Head injury with passing out, fainting, or confusion

Injury to neck or spine, particularly if there is loss of feeling or inability to move

Electric shock or lightning strike

Severe burn

Severe chest pain or pressure

Seizure that lasted more than 1 minute or from which the person does not rapidly awaken

Go to an emergency department or call 911 or the local emergency number for help for problems such as:

Trouble breathing

Passing out, fainting

Pain in the arm or jaw

Unusual or bad headache, particularly if it started suddenly

Suddenly not able to speak, see, walk, or move

Suddenly weak or drooping on one side of the body

Dizziness or weakness that does not go away

Inhaled smoke or poisonous fumes

Sudden confusion

Heavy bleeding

Possible broken bone, loss of movement, particularly if the bone is pushing through the skin

Deep wound

Serious burn

Coughing or throwing up blood

Severe pain anywhere on the body

Severe allergic reaction with trouble breathing, swelling, hives

High fever with headache and stiff neck

High fever that does not get better with medicine

Throwing up or loose stools that does not stop

Poisoning or overdose of drug or alcohol

Seizures

If you are thinking about hurting yourself or others, call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org. You can also call 1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK). The 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline provides free and confidential support 24/7, anytime day or night.

You can also call 911 or the local emergency number or go to the hospital emergency room. DO NOT delay.

If someone you know has attempted suicide, call 911 or the local emergency number right away. DO NOT leave the person alone, even after you have called for help.

✴️ When To Go To An Urgent Care Clinic

When you have a problem, do not wait too long to get medical care. If your problem is not life threatening or risking disability, but you are concerned and you cannot see your provider soon enough, go to an urgent care clinic.

The kinds of problems an urgent care clinic can deal with include:

Common mild illnesses, such as colds, the flu, earaches, sore throats, migraines, low-grade fevers, and limited rashes

Minor injuries, such as sprains, back pain, minor cuts and burns, minor broken bones, or minor eye injuries

⚠️ If You Are Not Sure, Talk To Someone

If you are not sure what to do, and you don't have one of the serious conditions listed above, call your provider. If the office is not open, your phone call may be forwarded to someone. Describe your symptoms to the provider who answers your call, and find out what you should do.

Your provider or health insurance company may also offer a nurse telephone advice hotline. Call this number and tell the nurse your symptoms for advice on what to do.

✅ Prepare Now

Before you have a medical problem, learn what your choices are. Check the website of your health insurance company. Put these telephone numbers in the memory of your phone:

Your provider

The closest emergency department

Nurse telephone advice line

Urgent care clinic

Walk-in clinic

[ SOURCE: https://medlineplus.gov/ency/patientinstructions/000593.htm ]

Visiting the ER for Chronic Pain

How to reduce stress and suspicion when seeking chronic pain medications.

1. Make sure that you have a regular physician who treats your chronic pain.

That’s a relationship that all chronic pain patients should establish before they ever set foot in an emergency room, Blumstein says. But many people don’t have a doctor, he says, “and it looks really bad from a doctor’s point of view when a patient comes in and says, ‘Oh, I have this terrible chronic pain,’ and the doctor says, ‘Who’s taking care of this terrible chronic pain?’ and the patient says, ‘Oh, I don’t have a doctor.’”

“Before you get into a situation where there’s an exacerbation of your condition, make sure you have a regular doctor treating you,” he says.

2. Show that you’ve tried to contact your regular doctor before you go to the ER.

If you’ve been in pain for five days and have not alerted your doctor, the ER staff will question how bad your pain really is, Blumstein says. Even if the pain struck just that day, make an effort to contact your regular doctor first, he suggests.

ER staff will be more sympathetic to patients who have called their doctors and been told to go to the emergency room because the doctor was unable to see them, Blumstein says. “At least you’re showing you made an effort. You’re using the emergency room as your treatment of last resort, as opposed to the primary place you go for pain medication.”

3. Bring a letter from your doctor.

“A letter from your physician, with a diagnosis and current treatment regimen, is a reasonable thing to carry with you,” Fraifeld says. “Particularly if you’re on chronic opioids in today’s atmosphere, I would highly recommend that to patients.”

Make sure the letter has your doctor’s name and phone number, Blumstein says. That way, if ER doctors want to contact your physicians, they can. A letter is especially useful if you’re traveling or going to a hospital that you’ve never visited before.

It’s fine to bring medical records, too, Fraifeld says. But don’t overdo it, Blumstein says. “I’ve had patients come in with tons of records -- I mean, you could measure the stack in inches. It just looks like you’re going overboard.”

4. Bring a list of medications.

Bring a list of your medications, instead of relying on memory, Blumstein says.

Fraifeld takes it one step further and suggests that patients bring the drugs. “Take all the pain prescriptions with you -- the actual bottles -- not just the list,” he says. “[Patients], I’m sad to say, highly contribute to their own problems by not even being able to tell physicians exactly what they’re getting and when they got it and whom they got it from.”

5. Work cooperatively with emergency room staff.

“It might not be fair, but if a patient comes in screaming and shouting that they need pain medication right away, the staff isn’t going to like it. It calls negative attention to yourself,” Blumstein says. “And it is unfair, because you might be having agonizing pain, and why shouldn’t you speak up for yourself, right? But a lot of staffs don’t like it and they don’t respond well to it. So rather than demand things, try to work cooperatively with the staff.”

[ SOURCE: https://www.webmd.com/pain-management/guide/whats-causing-my-chest-pain ]

Stomach Pain

For mild abdominal pain, call your doctor first. If the pain is sudden, severe or does not ease within 30 minutes, seek emergency medical care.

Sudden abdominal pain is often an indicator of serious intra-abdominal disease, such as a perforated ulcer or a ruptured abdominal aneurysm, although it could also result from a benign disease, such as gallstones.

Continuous, severe abdominal pain—or abdominal pain accompanied by continuous vomiting—may indicate a serious or life-threatening condition, such as one of the types described below.

Symptoms of appendicitis may include severe pain (usually in the lower right abdomen, but may start anywhere in the abdomen), loss of appetite, nausea, vomiting or fever. Treatment generally requires urgent surgical removal of the appendix. Long delays in treatment can cause serious complications resulting from perforation (rupture) of the appendix, which can lead to a life-threatening infection.

Symptoms of an ectopic pregnancy include severe abdominal pain and vaginal bleeding. In an ectopic pregnancy, a fertilized egg has implanted outside of the normal site in the “womb” or uterus, such as in the fallopian tubes.

Symptoms of acute pancreatitis usually include pain in the middle upper abdomen that may last for a few days. The pain may become severe and constant, or it may be sudden and intense. It may also begin as mild pain that gets worse when food is eaten. Other symptoms include nausea, a swollen and tender abdomen, fever and a rapid pulse.

[ SOURCE: https://www.emergencyphysicians.org/article/know-when-to-go/stomach-pain ]

[reyesstrand]

beginnings week

thanks for the tag @lonestar-s5countdown & @herefortarlos :-)

which 911 lone star season premiere is your favorite?

ooh this is tough….i really do think the pilot is such a solid episode and i love all of it, but i think 3x01 might just edge it out? the way we’re dropped into the action with so many fractured relationships and the rising tension of the threat of the ice storm with grace being so pregnant and the knowledge tk would be in peril again was so good.

which character do you think had the best introduction or first scene in the show?

normally my answer would be everyone because they all have such good introductions, especially throughout the pilot, but i think i’d say tommy actually!! watching in real time as gina was announced during the hiatus was so interesting and i loved how they made her a seasoned captain going back to work to support her family while also just making her so so endearing and complex and fun to watch.

what is your favorite moment of 1x01?

i love so much of it…. the montage of everyone being recruited, the quieter character moments like tk and owen’s rooftop conversation and judd and owen’s ptsd talk and grace seeking out owen outside the honky tonk. and the honky tonk!!!! i love that as a moment where everyone starts meshing. (i also will neither confirm nor deny that them ending the episode unironically with old town road made me realize i had already signed over my life to this silly show)

when did you first start watching lone star and how did you find out about it?

i saw gifs from the first three episodes, but specifically the call with the bigoted woman and the 126 dealing with her and the police station scene, and decided to binge those episodes all in like one day. started watching live with episode four, now here we are!

what is one wish you have for the season 5 premiere?

i just hope we get to see some slowness and some light-hearted moments thrown throughout the episode before the high-stakes drama of the train derailment starts! i’m pretty sure we’re going to see a time jump of some sorts so it would be cool to see the immediate aftermath of the end of season four before that jump. i’d love to see a couple just truly happy moments for tarlos before they undoubtedly Go Through It (which i’m here for!! but just let them be all mushy and husband-y at least once ajdnsjd) and i’d love some fun 126 moments :’)

no pressure tagging @strandnreyes @paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @butchreyes @theghostofashton @carlos-tk @lutavero @captain-gillian @whatsintheboxmh @heartstringsduet @pelorsdyke @nancys-braids @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @alrightbuckaroo @corsage @tellmegoodbye & open tag!!

[captainjunglegym]

WIP Wednesday - 17/04/2024

Hello friends. Wednesday again huh? Like grace said in her post, i too am rotating blorbos like rotisserie chickens. I might've even started writing something for my 911 blorbo because who'd have thought a bisexual clearly neurodivergent himbo of a man with a tragic backstory would capture my attention???

Anyways thanks for the tags @eusuntgratie @onthewaytosomewhere @thinkof-england @nocoastposts and @agostobuwan

I have posted my Angst fics, one being a study on Henry and Catherine, the other being the winter of discontent as henry and alex navigate their relationship after discovering their diverging opinions on having children. Find both these fics in this angst series: Lilacs Out of the Dead Land

For my next trick, my longfic is going to be my plane crash au:

After a plane crashes in the English countryside a UK based agency (the AAIB) and a US based agency (the NTSB) have to work together to solve the cause and to keep it from happening again. Henry and Alex have a healthy interagency rivalry that spirals into more.

“You’re uh…” Alex says as they both look out over the field. He clears his throat, “You’re Arthur Fox’s son?” Henry’s blood turns to ice in his veins. He’d hoped he could get through this investigation without someone bringing up his father. He wonders who it was who told Alex. Or if he somehow worked it out on his own. The wind rushes impatiently past them and Henry pulls his clipboard closer to his chest. It’s old-fashioned to have paper and a pen, he supposes, but it’s comforting to have something so solid and unbreakable to hold onto. “Yes,” is all he offers. Henry feels Alex look at him, but he doesn’t turn away from watching the police conduct their search. “I’m really sorry, Henry. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like.” Henry huffs out a laugh. “Well, imagine if your father killed two-hundred-and-twenty-eight people. It’s like that.” “Henry, he made a mistake-” “-Can we not talk about it?” Henry interrupts, hoping Alex hasn’t caught the tears burning his eyes. “It was a long time ago and it’s not relevant here.”

Tags under cut

No pressure to: @bigassbowlingballhead @anincompletelist @magicandarchery @firenati0n @getmehighonmagic

@violetbaudelaire-quagmire @sparklepocalypse @wordsofhoneydew @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @happiness-of-the-pursuit

@cactusdragon517 and as always open tag for anyone else!