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push-the-heartbrake · 5 months ago

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𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙔𝙤𝙪 (𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙈𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩) // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

First instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “I’m not supposed to do this, but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.” — or the one where Spencer really likes the library for its books, the chess, and the girl working the night shift.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.9k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Cm typical violence, Spencer gets injured but nothing major. Mention of bullying, sick parents, and addiction. Takes place sometime after he got clean, so S4 perhaps? No smut, but talk of sex. Spencer being an insecure virgin and reader having used sex as a coping mechanism in the past.

A/N: Hello!! New blog, new fic. I'm too dumb to write for Spencer, but I tried my best. Reader probably has too much personality and backstory but I stopped caring midway through. No physical descriptors used though, except for some wacky clothing. Tell me what you think? Please? Love ya, bye.

You wouldn’t think it was possible, given how most Americans viewed paying taxes, but for some reason, in some way, a very persistent person at some board meeting somewhere had managed to get through the idea that at least one library in D.C. should be open all hours of the day.

Spencer, for one, couldn’t be more pleased with that decision.

He had fond memories of spending long nights in quiet libraries when he was working toward one of his many degrees. Now, his longing for the silence and solitude stemmed from insomnia. He guessed most people his age spent sleepless nights out at nightclubs or in the never-ending search for love or just a one-night stand to suffice some sort of primal need. Spencer wasn’t like that. Never had, nor ever would be.

The library was a better place in every sense. He grew bored out of his mind by being alone in his apartment for too long, but he also got tired of having people around him. His job was social enough. The library was a perfect mixture of the two, requiring silence but still had people in motion so that he didn’t feel entirely isolated.

He’d browse the shelves, searching for things he hadn’t read. Quickly getting through many books in an evening with his way of processing words. It got to the point where there weren’t enough books about his usual interests, so he would pick up books about old cars that Rossi mentioned and learn about their engineering or read some wacky poetry that Emily had recommended that she loved as a teenager.

Sometimes he’d bring whatever knitting project he was working on and join some old ladies who met up at the library to knit and discuss romance novels. Spencer didn’t bring much to the conversation, but he liked hearing them talk. He wasn’t much for gossip, but made-up drama between fictional characters was surprisingly entertaining.

He would also borrow one of the computers and play online chess for hours until his eyes had grown tired from the bright light and he finally thought he might be able to go home and force himself to sleep. Eric, one of the chess players that he frequently met in a local park, showed up sometimes, when he wasn’t swamped with homework or had a curfew to keep. Maybe he should make some friends his own age that weren’t his colleagues, but Eric, at age fifteen, was also the best chess player that Spencer had ever met.

So, the quietness, the books, the knitting, and the chess were all perks of spending time at the library. The cute girl sitting at the front desk, working almost every night shift alone, was also somewhat of a perk.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure how it came about or why he was so enamored by even just the idea of you, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger for a little bit too long whenever he walked past the front desk or saw you organizing books at some shelf in the library.

That was a lie. Spencer knew exactly how it happened and why.

It started with simple people-watching. He liked to imagine wild backstories for people he only saw in passing. Probably a result of being a profiler.

With students he would wonder about what project they were researching late at night in the library and what their majors were and if he could notice patterns in their appearances and behaviors.

He’d connect the dots with the old women knitting and their opinions about the romance novels to actual experiences in their own lives. One had been cheated on in her youth and found any sort of love triangle to be awful, while another couldn’t understand certain writers fascination with sneaking in unplanned pregnancies because she had never wanted kids herself.

And while Eric and he played chess in silence most of the time, he still picked up on how Eric didn’t like how strict his mother was on him and how his sisters got treated differently, more easygoing, than him.

And then there was you, the only other person who would frequent—well, you worked there—the library so often that Spencer could start to piece together your backstory.

His first impression was that you were cute, in like an objective way. The same way people would look at Garcia with some sort of childlike awe of how uniquely herself she was. You had that same thing about you, with colorful cardigans and ribbons tied in your hair.

The second thing he noticed was that you probably didn’t work that much. You were sat at that front desk all night, organizing what needed to be organized and helping those who needed help, but then you were left to yourself for the rest of your shift. You read a lot, but Spencer never got close enough to see what exactly. You also had the news playing really quietly on a little radio, perhaps to not go completely insane from the silent nature of the library.

At first he thought you weren’t too talkative, but then he observed an interaction you had with a student. A young mother who came to the library to study while her child peacefully slept in their stroller. Spencer wasn’t one to judge. If the child got to sleep and the mother got to study, it was a win-win situation, although unconventional.

When he saw the mother and baby leave, going up to you to check out some books, he saw just how talkative you were, practically spewing out words about the subjects she was researching and cooing at the baby who was then awake, calling it adorable and quickly playing peekaboo.

Now, as Spencer sat in a chair, not too far from the entrance and the front desk, acting like he was reading a book he had already read through, he observed you inconspicuously.

You were fronting books on a display shelf that was the first thing you saw when you entered the library. Usually seasonal books, or that followed a current event or a theme. It was Halloween this time around, and you fought with the mess that was fake cobwebs. A garland of little black bats hung over the shelf and plastic jack-o-lanterns acted as bookstands. He could spot certain covers of books he recognized. Goosebumps, for the children. Stephen King, for the horror fanatics. Edgar Allan Poe, for the poetry lovers.

You quietly cursed under your breath as your fingers got stuck in the cobwebs, and Spencer had to cover his laugh with an unnatural cough. That was when he saw that your nails were painted a pumpkin-like orange and your black cardigan had a little skeleton pattern. You were going all out with the theme, even if you barely saw any people during the night shift, telling Spencer that you were doing it all for your own enjoyment.

As you stretched to place books on the highest shelf, he noticed your trousers, and Spencer was only a man—granted a little peculiar and different—but still a man, with working eyes and needs. You wore slacks so well-fitting he wondered what tailor you went to or if you could sew yourself. And Converse, always dark red Converse. You dressed like him, but in a more colorful, feminine way.

He saw you pick up a book and judge it by its cover, then instead of placing it on display, you put it in a tote bag placed on the cart you had to pick books from. He’d seen you use the same tote bag before, when you were organizing the shelves, placing books back or collecting ones loaned online. The album cover for Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside was on it, not because Spencer knew of the album but because the text was printed on it.

You used it to pick out books for yourself, Spencer noticed in the moment. While rolling the cart around with books for others, if you saw one that you wanted to read during your shift, you’d place it in the tote bag to not lose it in the masses.

You were filled and covered in idiosyncrasies, making you nothing but enchanting to watch. And cute, in both the aforementioned objective Garcia-esque way and also a subjective Spencer-esque way. Not in the sense that Spencer found himself subjectively cute, but that you were subjectively cute in a way that felt catered to him and his attractions.

Spencer thought all of this about you, while he had never even spoken a singular word to you. He would fantasize about what your initial interaction would be like, but he never had the courage to actually do something about it. He wouldn’t say that he was shy, and he normally didn’t find it that difficult to speak to someone, but something about your subjective cuteness made you terrifying.

And it didn’t come naturally. He had a library card; he didn’t need to talk to you to check out a book. And asking for directions to a certain book seemed pointless when he had the shelves memorized.

Spencer stood up from his chair to place the book he’d pretend to read back on the right shelf, passing by his favorite section of classics translated into their original languages. He was grateful that D.C. was multicultural enough and filled with diplomats and embassies so that the library found it necessary to take in books that weren’t in English.

He stopped to browse the Russian selection, his finger grazing the spine of Война и мир.

Wait… Certain rare books had to be checked out at the front desk.

And while he already had this book at home, annotated and analyzed, you didn’t know that. He could totally loan this to compare to the version he had at home. This was an earlier copy than his own, and maybe certain parts of the Russian language were different.

Yes. That could work. He was going to talk to you.

With the book in hand, he willed himself to approach the front desk you were now sitting at after finally winning the wrestle match against the cobwebs.

You looked up from the computer as you noticed him, the soft glow of overhead lights casting shadows over the high points of your face. A welcoming smile, although well-rehearsed in a customer service-like manner, stunned him as he placed the book and his library card on the counter.

“War and Peace… in Russian?” you asked, raising a brow as you grabbed the book to scan it. The way you viewed it showed that you recognized the book from the cover, but not the Russian language. And then you looked right up at him, not afraid of keeping eye contact.

Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how intently you were looking at him. “I’m rereading it to compare to the English version.”

“Are you by any chance from Russia?”

“No,” he said with an honest smile. “I’m from Nevada. But I know enough Russian to get by.”

You let out a low hum of appreciation, your fingers quickly typing something down on the keyboard after having scanned his card. Your nails weren’t only pumpkin-colored, but on them were also minuscule little pumpkin faces.

“To each their own. Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive.”

“Have you read it?” Spencer asked, his curiosity slipping through.

“No,” you admitted with a laugh. “I picked Infinite Jest as my designated brick of a book that I’ll never finish but still spew opinions about.”

The honesty of your response caught him off guard, and a small chuckle escaped before he could stop it.

“Which is embarrassing to admit to someone who actually can read said bricks,” you added.

“Even worse as a librarian,” he teased, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to second-guess them.

“Hey,” you said, your tone mock defensive. “I mostly recommend things to kids anyway. I know all about Daisy Meadows and Captain Underpants.”

That Spencer was twelve years old when he discovered Tolstoy was something he kept to himself. He understood that most kids wanted something funny or imaginative to read, like underpants or fairies��not Russian realism.

“How long until you gave up on Infinite Jest?” he asked instead, leaning slightly on the counter in a way that felt more natural than he anticipated.

“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” The quote escaped you easily, like you actually had it memorized, but the way your smile cracked through revealed that you were painfully aware of the ironic implication of it.

“That’s the opening sentence,” Spencer pointed out, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

“Captivating, right?” you quipped.

Spencer kept his smile tight as he enjoyed your sarcastic humor. He would’ve never assumed that Infinite Jest was the beast that broke you. Stereotypically, he thought it was stoners and annoying philosophy majors thinking the world was doomed who enjoyed that book.

You didn’t look like either.

But there was also the huge amount of guys who kept it in their bookshelves and had it on display when they had girls over, as a conversation piece, although they hadn’t read a word from it. Maybe you had fallen victim to one of those guys and decided to give it a try on your own, at least getting further than they ever had.

“So you’re more into modern literature?” he was quick to ask, keeping the conversation going.

He wasn’t even sure if David Foster Wallace was considered modern. Contemporary was probably a better word. In comparison to the Russian mellow kind of realism, Wallace was hysterical. Spencer had read it for the sake of saying that he’d read it. After all, it didn’t take him that long. While he was comfortable being the guy who read Tolstoy in Russian, he wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being the guy who had Infinite Jest as his holy scripture. It made some interesting points about substance abuse and addiction, but that was about it for Spencer, if he was going to give a literary review.

“Not really, I adore some classics,” you admitted, before pointing to a small stack of books behind the counter. The ones you’d snuck into your tote bag. “Now I mostly read poetry, though. All kinds, as long as it’s short and impactful.”

“Oh, you’d hate this then,” he said, like a realization, meaning War and Peace.

You scrunched your nose, nodding softly. “Mhm, and Infinite Jest too.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable but charged with the kind of potential Spencer wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“Alright, Tolstoy,” you said, sliding the book over the counter in his direction. “Enjoy your comparative studies.”

“Thanks,” he replied shortly.

As he walked away, book in hand, he couldn’t help but glance back once, catching you fiddling with the edges of your cardigan as you returned your focus to the computer screen. If you wanted to hide your smile from him, you weren’t doing that good of a job.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer wasn’t sure if he had overthought it, read too much into it, to the point where nothing was making sense. A conversation with a person loaning a book at a library that you worked at probably wasn’t that noteworthy to you, even if it left you dumbly smiling after he’d left.

So, he didn’t dare walk up to you again. He couldn’t justify it in his head. Maybe when his War and Peace loan expired, he’d find an excuse to check it out again, but until then, Spencer didn’t know how to talk to you.

On one afternoon, when the unit had just finished up a case in rural Virginia, Spencer had taken the train back home to D.C. and gone to the library earlier than usual. It was more crowded, with students cramming in some last-minute studying for their finals and parents taking their kids for a little after-school adventure.

He sought refuge in a quiet corner—a cluster of armchairs nestled between the history books and autobiographies—where he could read in peace even though it was busy. But on his way, he was stopped in his tracks. Walking past the kids section, a voice he had begun to recognize caught his attention.

You sat cross-legged on a colorful mat, a worn picture book spread wide in your hands. Your voice carried the story with a mix of humor and animation as you brought the story to life, reading aloud to an audience of tiny faces. Children leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with fascination, while a few younger ones had already succumbed to the comforting cadence of your voice, their tiny bodies sprawled across cushions in peaceful slumber. You held the book up for the kids to see the illustrations, pausing occasionally to add exaggerated voices that sent giggles rippling through the group.

Spencer lingered, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before he walked away to not get noticed.

As time passed, the library emptied out. He saw people leave, tired from a long day. For him it was the opposite. Now was when his favorite time of day began, if he wasn’t stuck in the limbo of trying to get himself to sleep. But he had the day off tomorrow and could spend all of it sleeping if he wanted to, so tonight he wouldn’t be anxious about the lack of sleep he was getting, and instead fully indulge in the quiet sanctuary that was the library.

Spencer sat in one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over fifteen minutes. Something heavy about the history of Nobel Prize winners in chemistry. He was lost in thought, the events of the day fading into memory.

Footsteps broke the silence, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor, growing louder until they stopped just beside him. He looked up to see you standing there, two steaming paper mugs in your hands.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” you began, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.”

You placed both mugs on the table in front of Spencer before flopping down into an armchair of your own. You had dungarees on and a soft maroon sweater underneath, matching your Converse. Spencer blinked, unable to form a sentence as he watched you get comfortable, picking up a book from the tote bag you always seemed to carry. He didn’t necessarily recognize the cover, but he knew of the author’s name.

“John Cooper Clarke? You’re into punk?” he heard himself ask before he could think twice about it. You didn’t even get the chance to start reading.

You tilted your head. “You know who he is?”

“I have a colleague who used to be goth in high school. Full on Siouxsie Sioux. And she has told me about JCC,” Spencer explained.

Emily. She was the reason he knew about the “punk poet”. He still couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her yearbook photos from high school. Even less so when she would quote the same poem every single time they had to wait for something—the jet to get ready, blood samples and lab reports, Rossi to catch up when they had to run somewhere. Whatever it was, she would quote Evidently Chickentown.

“Makes sense,” you replied. “He performed on the same bill as a lot of those early post-punk and goth bands.”

Spencer smiled, quietly reciting, “The fucking train is fucking late. You fucking wait, you fucking wait.”

“You’re fucking lost and fucking found. Stuck in fucking Chickentown.” You chuckled, picking up the line seamlessly. Spencer sounded like cursing was something alien to him, as if the crude words didn’t belong to his vocabulary. You found it sweet, yet unusual. “That poem is in this book! Along with the weird one about being someone’s vacuum cleaner, do you know that too?”

“Uhm, no. I don’t think I know that one,” Spencer admitted, silently begging for you to read it to him. He would be just as excited as the children hearing you read aloud earlier.

“If I’m annoying or distracting,” you said after a moment, “you can tell me to leave. I just sort of go insane spending all night here alone in silence.”

He’d been sitting by himself, looking like he was reading a book about chemistry breakthroughs, and maybe that didn’t come across as someone who wanted to be talked to. Spencer at least assumed that was your thought process when shyly admitting that you were seeking company.

“No, uhm, it’s okay. Thank you for the tea,” Spencer was quick to say before grabbing one of the mugs and taking a small sip. He didn’t want you to leave. If you were voluntarily talking to him, that was better than any made-up War and Peace-related plan he could come up with.

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added.

You told him your name in return, pointing to your name tag—a little yellow one with Winnie-the-Pooh on it—before reaching out your hand to him. He hadn’t noticed the tag before, and maybe that was because he didn’t want to get caught staring at your chest.

He looked at your hand, the germaphobe in him coming to life as he observed your dainty fingers. At least in comparison to his own. The orange nail polish was gone and replaced by a simple black coat. Even your hands were cute to him, yet covered in bacteria.

“Oh, I don’t do handshakes,” he said and took in your reaction, your smile fading as you retracted your hand and hid it in your pocket.

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss,” he felt the need to explain. It was a simple fact, yet he didn’t think of the implications. Spencer’s eyes widened at the sound of his own voice, and he stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, “Uh… not that you and I—I mean, you know what I mean.”

You acted like you didn’t mind, keeping the conversation going without noticing the huge bump in the road that Spencer thought he had created.

“But doesn’t the other person’s bacteria stay in you forever after you’ve kissed them?” you wondered, a crease forming between your brows as you thought about it. “Don’t quote me on it, but I’ve read that somewhere. It’s like eighty million bacteria exchanged on average in a french kiss, and that some of them stay and colonize, becoming part of your own… what’s it called?” Your voice trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Microbiome?” he supplied. “The community of microorganisms found living together in one habitat?”

“That’s the one!” You lit up with realization. “It’s horrifying and poetic that, after you’ve kissed someone, they become part of you forever.”

He thought of the bacteria, while you thought of the internal battle of someone you’ve kissed staying with you forever. He blamed his background in STEM and his lack of experience with kissing for not seeing the big deal.

“I’m sure it’s not in any way that’s noticeable to us. It’s modest at worst,” he tried to reassure.

He wasn’t sure exactly what research you were referencing when mentioning the eighty million bacteria, or if it even was scientific research. Knowing a little bit about you, it could possibly be poetry about clinging to something or someone for too long. But he knew enough about microbiomes and their complexity that one exchange of saliva wouldn’t alter them majorly. Maybe in a constant way, but never majorly.

“In the sense of bacteria colonizing?” you wondered, seeing Spencer nod. “Well, it’s still psychologically fucked up.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows at your frankness, urging you to keep talking.

“I would like to forget the fact that I made out with Cody Parker in ninth grade, but no, he’s stuck in my microbiome. That’s fucked up,” you laughed, gesturing with your hands in frustration.

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?”

You huffed before answering. “Captain of the football team. Is that enough of a reason to hate him?”

Spencer could’ve guessed it from his name. Cody. He could imagine what he looked like and why you would’ve kissed him. Hell, Spencer would’ve probably kissed a guy like him too if given the chance at that delicate age of self-discovery. Just to have it done early, and as a bragging right for the future. His first kiss had been at a college party that he was too young to attend really, with some girl who probably saw him more as a little brother to care for rather than someone she was actually attracted to.

“Do you also have a deep hatred for anyone that ever played high school football?” Spencer asked with a small, curious smile.

“You could say that,” you admitted, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “I lost my virginity to Cody the same night, and then he stole my underwear and stuck them to my locker with a note that said I was up for grabs.”

You laughed after you said it, but Spencer couldn’t help but wince. He understood why you laughed, a response to make something uncomfortable feel less serious, but he couldn’t believe that someone had done that to you.

He was an annoying, know-it-all, little boy when he was in high school and had internally justified the bullying he had gone through by telling himself that football players and cheerleaders were just jealous and stupid, probably still stuck in their cliques, in Vegas working dead-end jobs. But you, you shone like light itself, and someone had still found a reason to humiliate you. It didn’t make sense.

“The football team at my school tied me to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of a girl I had a crush on,” Spencer shared softly. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing. Not to make it seem like he’d had it worse, but to show that you had similarities.

Your head turned sharply to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not that we’re competing, but I think you win the bully-off we just had.” You straightened up in your seat, lifting your legs to sit criss-cross. “But you’re cute, though. Was the girl at least nice to you?”

Spencer looked down at his hands, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. You’d called him cute.He thought you were cute. It shouldn’t be the other way around.

You stared at him like you were questioning his sanity while he reacted to the compliment. It wasn’t him you were questioning, but the eyesight of all the people Spencer had around him, because why wasn’t he used to being complimented? It didn’t even necessarily need to be about their eyesight. They had to be deaf too, because just from hearing him talk, you were fascinated by the way his brain worked.

“I graduated high school at the age of twelve, and she was like sixteen, so no, she didn’t care much,” he answered slowly, keeping his cool. He knew now that he never had a chance with the girl anyway, but twelve-year-old Spencer had been heartbroken, and, of course, humiliated.

Your eyes turned even wider as he spoke. “Huh? Is that legal? Are you some kind of genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory,” Spencer admitted matter-of-factly. He didn’t know why it felt like a secret to tell people just how smart he was. In an academic sense, that is.

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin.

“And I do introduce myself as Dr. Spencer Reid when I’m at work,” he added, emphasizing his name.

“You’ve got a PhD?” you asked. The crease between your brows seemed permanent at this point.

“A few.”

“More than one?”

“Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering. BAs in psychology and sociology,” Spencer rattled off, glancing at you cautiously to gauge your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “I would’ve hated you just as much as those football players.”

“Not in the sense that I would’ve tied you to a goalpost,” you added quickly, “but more so that I would’ve been insanely jealous. I might still be jealous; the jury is out on that until you explain further.”

Spencer gave a soft laugh, believing that you wouldn’t have been a mean girl. “Do you want to get into the reasons why certain people are smarter than others?”

“No, I just…” Your voice trailed off, and you paused to take a sip of your tea. “Do you ever get freaked out over how people’s lives are vastly different even though they’ve spent the same amount of time on earth?”

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“Like, we look similar in age but probably have very few shared experiences because you were born a genius and I was born…” you gestured vaguely, searching for the right words, coming up with nothing in the end.

You were born… how exactly? Spencer tried to fill in the blank, but his guesses seemed almost offensive. “You don’t appear to be dumb,” Spencer countered gently. “You seem to be socially smarter than I am.”

“Because I’m sat here oversharing high school stories with virtually a stranger?” you teased, almost self-deprecatingly, like your easy way of talking was a fault.

And maybe that was true. Spencer knew what it was like to say too much at the wrong time, or have people turn uninterested mid-sentence when he was speaking. But he thought that stemmed from how bad he actually was at talking with people. And you were good at it, with a fluidity and humor to your speech that not many people had.

“I’m not good with words, and you obviously are,” he settled on saying, earnestly.

“No, not really. I was never good at anything. Always a straight B-student. It’s a damn mystery how I managed to get this job without a master’s degree,” you said with a shrug. “When I realized my own mediocrity in high school, I stopped trying. I thought it was much more fun to do drugs and get railed in the back of some college boy’s car. Spoiler alert, it’s not.”

“R-railed?” Spencer stammered, nearly choking on his tea.

“Too crude of a word for you?”

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—”

“That I was a slut in my youth?” you retorted, staring him down. “I’m only messing with you, Spencer. Now I’m sober, and boring, and in on a three-year-long dry spell.”

“We’re more similar than you think, so you don’t have to be freaked out about our lack of shared experiences,” Spencer said softly as realization struck him.

“You also got railed by college boys?” you quipped, and Spencer let out an unexpected laugh, his cheeks reddening.

“No, uhm, I meant being sober from drugs, and the dry spell too,” he clarified quickly.

As the conversation stilled, Spencer noticed he still had the book on Nobel Prize winners opened in his lap. He shut it quietly and placed it on the table, carefully looking at you as you sipped your tea. Your own book was long forgotten too, sliding down the side of your seat. You ran your fingers over your knees, still sitting cross-legged, nails rasping against your denim dungarees. You weren’t scared to look right back at him, not scared to be with him in silence for a moment. He watched as your eyes drifted to his book, struggling to read the title upside down.

“What does an actual genius do for a living? And why can he spend so much time at a library in the middle of the night?” you asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity, turning the book to see.

“Do you want to guess?” he asked, not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because he sensed you were about to guess anyway.

“You’re probably some sort of professor, teaching and researching something I couldn’t even begin to fathom,” you speculated, resting your chin on your hand, flipping through the pages. “You’re also away for like a week at a time and then back here for a week, so you must travel. Maybe you go to conventions and guest lectures. Have you ever done a TED talk?”

You noticed his patterns. That he had noticed yours was no surprise. He noticed everyone’s. But you had noticed his, meaning that you cared enough to mind when he was at the library multiple nights a week and when he wasn’t. What did that tell Spencer? Absolutely nothing he could make sense of.

“No, I haven’t. And I’m not a professor, though I have done a couple guest lectures,” he explained, waiting for you to continue guessing.

“Do you work for some tech company then? Are you secretly a billionaire?”

“Nope, I make a humble living compared to the work I put in.”

“So, the public sector then,” you deduced at the same time as a bell could be heard.

You quickly whipped your head around, straining to see the front desk, where an awfully stressed-out student could be found, holding some heavy book on human anatomy that Spencer knew had to be checked out manually.

“Oh, fuck—” you muttered, quickly standing up, momentarily lost. “I should probably get back to work.”

“Don’t forget your bag,” Spencer hurried to say before you could leave without it. The Kick Inside. Was that a reference to pregnancy? Maybe Spencer should look into Kate Bush to have another thing to talk to you about.

You picked up your book and paper mug, slinging the bag over your shoulder, and gave him one last smile. “Do you know you have the face of a genius?”

“W-what?” he questioned, unsure of why you’d said that.

“It’s a lyric from a song on this album. It made me think of you,” you said, pointing to the bag, before walking away to the front desk to do what you were paid to do.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The next time Spencer talked to you was exactly two weeks and one day later. They’d been on a case in California, which naturally led to him not seeing you. But then when he was back, you weren’t working. He spent three days filling out reports at the office, waiting for time to go so that he could take the train home and go to the library, and when he showed up, you weren’t even there.

Two weeks he planned what to say to you. The last three days of those felt like torture, not knowing where you were. On the fourth day, you were finally back. And Spencer wasn’t shy. And he could justify his reason for talking to you. Two weeks and one day ago, you had talked to him first.

It was early December, and the first snow fell softly outside as he walked into the warmth of the library. He knew immediately that you were back working because you were the first thing he saw. Perched on a small stool near the front desk and the display shelf of seasonal books, you were stacking books into a makeshift Christmas tree. Carefully selected covers in colors of red and green were stacked into circles, narrowing as you built upward, creating somewhat of a tree shape.

You hummed softly as you worked, occasionally glancing down at the growing stack with concentration. As you reached for another book, you were stopped in your tracks by the telltale sound of footsteps against the library’s linoleum floor. Footsteps that could only be made by a pair of Converse.

“I listened to The Kick Inside.”

Looking over your shoulder, you found him standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a small smile on his face. Your hands paused mid-placement as you looked down at him, brows lifting in surprise. “You did?”

“Creative use of resources, by the way,” Spencer mentioned, picking up a book from the pile and handing it to you, his long fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. “Did a song about incest really make you think of me?”

“Oh, no. Just that singular lyric.” You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s inspired by some old English folklore, I think.” Balancing on the stool, you placed the book carefully onto the stack, leaning back to eye the structure.

“A murder ballad called Lizie Wan. Her brother got her pregnant, and then he killed her.” Spencer supplied, his tone instinctively slipping into lecture mode. He stepped closer and shed his coat to drape it over a nearby chair as he continued to hand you books.

You made a face. “Well, did you like it? The album, I mean. Not the incest.”

“I understand why youlike it. It’s very… you,” Spencer explained, hoping it made sense. It was theatrical and wacky. Feminine too, in a brutal way, only archivable in lyrics written by an adolescent girl. Spencer wasn’t a music lover by any means, but even he could hear that it was undeniably good, just not his taste. “Is Wuthering Heights perhaps your favorite classic novel?”

“No, not at all. I think it’s a stupid book and a stupid song,” you said.

Spencer handed you another book, his eyes darting between the growing tree and your face. The grin you put on betrayed your monotone voice.

“Okay, no. I adore it,” you admitted. “It’s a nightmare to read, and I fully believe Emily was clinically insane, but I can’t help but love dark and twisted women. One review at the time when it was first published questioned how she could’ve finished writing it without committing suicide. That’s badass.”

“Do you know that Kate hadn’t even read the book when she wrote the song? She just watched some TV adaptation, which is why the names are all messed up,” you continued as you perfectly balanced the book he gave you onto the others. You’d soon be done at this pace.

“I did notice that she sang Cathy instead of Catherine, and Cathy is the daughter, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “So if you know the book, the song totally reads like a love song between Heathcliff and his dead lover’s daughter.”

“That’s disturbing,” Spencer concluded. “I can’t help but think that Brontë would’ve loved it.”

Your lips twitched into a smile, but you didn’t comment further, too focused on your Christmas tree. He handed you another book in silence and saw how your nails were now painted red with little white snowflakes on some of them. He wondered if you painted them yourself. You were back to wearing your usual slacks and cardigan. This time a white one that looked terribly comfortable and wintery. In your hair you had a red ribbon tied into a bow, matching, as always, your red Converse.

After a moment, you spoke. “You were gone for a while, again. Who in the public sector travels that much? I hope you’re not a politician.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

You blinked, looking down at him in mild shock. “You’re a profiler?”

He nodded.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s scary as hell. No wonder you’ve got insomnia, probably messed up from all the murders you’ve solved.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” you added quickly. “I’ve obviously got it too; I wouldn’t be working the night shift voluntarily otherwise.”

Spencer handed you the final book for the top tier, his gaze steady on you. “You weren’t here for a couple of days either. I had to talk to Omar, and he’s not as good of a conversationalist.”

You snorted. “Period cramps from hell,” you said casually, knowing it was the fastest way to end questions.

Spencer also knew that it was a common lie told by women to men. And he wasn’t the kind of person to be grossed out by basic biology. He might have issues with pathogens and handshakes, but he had no issues talking about the human body.

“Bold move to lie to a profiler,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly.

“I didn’t necessarily lie—”

“But you didn’t tell me the whole truth.”

He waited, silent and expectant.

You sighed, and for once your gaze was scared to meet his. “I’m kind of…depressed. Probably just seasonal, I fucking hate the winter. Spent three days on my living room floor, in some sort of verbal shutdown, just staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m even human.”

Spencer’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you feel better now?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you said, forcing a small smile.

Before Spencer could respond, the precarious stack of books wobbled. You tried to steady it, but the entire top layer you’d just finished collapsed in a cascade of covers and pages, books tumbling to the floor in a loud crash. You stepped down from the stool quickly, and Spencer instinctively grabbed you by the hand so that you wouldn’t fall. He didn’t even have time to think about germs.

“You’re legally allowed to shoot me in the head,” you said with a disbelieving sigh.

“You can’t consent to murder,” Spencer replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“But you can consent to bodily harm, right? So maybe you can shoot me in the foot at least?”

“That’s more reserved for sports and medical procedures. Shooting you would still be a crime even if you coerced me,” he explained.

“Sadomasochism too, right? You can consent to sexually inflicted pain?”

“Ehm—” Spencer mouth got dry, and his cheeks flushed red. “Well yes, technically.”

“So you really can’t figure out a way for me to not have to work another day this year?” you asked, leaning down to pick up one of the fallen books.

Now, if Spencer was as socially smart as you were, he’d notice you were flirting. Maybe even insinuating that you’d be okay with a sexual injury that resulted in you staying home from work the rest of December. But Spencer was surprisingly dumb for having such a high IQ. And his ears sort of started ringing as soon as you mentioned sex, so he wasn’t sure he’d even heard you correctly.

“Not if you need the money, no,” he replied, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips.

“Some kind of genius you are, Spence,” you teased, shoving the book in his hands before crouching to start rebuilding the tree.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

After that conversation, Spencer helped you rebuild the Christmas tree. He’d handed you book after book with a quiet determination, his brow furrowing slightly as if the arrangement were a problem he needed to solve. Occasionally, he would pause to ask you a question about your favorite winter-themed books or share an anecdote about an obscure author. All throughout December, Spencer became a constant presence during your night shifts.

You found him fascinating to listen to, even if he seemed to doubt himself midway through every tangent. His voice would falter, and he’d look up at you with a quick, “Is this boring?” or “Am I rambling?” as if he needed reassurance that you were still interested.

You always were. At this point, he could probably recite the yellow pages, and you’d still find it captivating. Knowing him and his eidetic memory, he most likely could do it on the spot if you asked him.

December always moved slowly for you. Students crammed into every corner, poring over their textbooks and laptops as they prepared for finals. The library was busy, but there was a strange liminal quality to your evenings, the dark winter nights stretching endlessly as you walked the halls, organizing books and straightening shelves.

You wouldn’t admit it to yourself just yet, but because of this heavy feeling, you found yourself sat at the front desk, waiting for Spencer to walk through those doors. You now knew that he was a busy man—a brilliant, busy man with a job more important than yours, so you stopped expecting him to show up, getting positively surprised every time he did instead.

On the 23rd of December, Spencer walked through the entrance at exactly 9:32 p.m. You knew the time because you’d been watching the seconds tick by on the digital clock of the computer’s screensaver.

You straightened your back, softly smiling as he made his way up to you. Sometimes, you had to go on little treasure hunts to find him in the library, but today, he didn’t appear to be shy to approach you first.

With a soft thud he placed a heavy book on the counter, one you immediately recognized as War and Peace, in Russian. Your heart lifted slightly. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for the day the loan would expire, so that he either had to return it or extend it.

“Have you finished comparing them now?” you asked, eyeing the book.

“No, uhm,” Spencer hesitated, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Is it possible to extend it?”

“I’ll have to check,” you replied, tapping at the keyboard. “It’s quite a popular book. A lot of Russian diplomats in D.C.”

You pretended to eye the screen, searching for whatever you were searching for, when you already knew that it wouldn’t be an issue to extend the loan. He didn’t have to know that, though.

“Are you doing anything special for the holidays, Spencer?” you asked, to make it appear like small talk while you were tapping away at the keyboard, mindlessly clicking between pages of the software you used.

“I might make it to Las Vegas to see my mom. I don’t know if I’ll have the time, though.” Spencer’s lips quirked in a small smile. “What about you? How will you celebrate Christmas?”

You knew by now that it was a dumb question to ask if he had a lot of work to do. He didn’t have a normal schedule, sometimes getting called in the middle of the night to fly across the country.

“I’ll probably be here,” you admitted. “We’re closed for two days, and then over New Year’s, but otherwise I’ll be working. Might go see my dad if I have the time and he’s feeling up for it. Nothing major. Do you have plans for New Year’s, Spence?”

He opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head slightly. “I, uh— Sorry, what’s that on the radio?”

You cocked your head, listening to the faint news broadcast filtering in from the staff break room that had caught his attention. You always had it on to not go insane from the silence. All afternoon it had been occupied with the same emergency broadcast. “Oh, you haven’t heard about it? I honestly thought you’d be working the case.”

“What case?” Spencer asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Some senator was kidnapped, and another one was shot. Apparently no one heard or saw a thing, but they can’t figure out how since the neighborhood has, like, crazy good security.”

“Kidnapped in his own home?”

“Mhm. I think they used the helipad, but Janice and Charlotte didn’t believe me.” You gestured toward the corner where the two older women usually sat knitting and reading romance novels. “Y’know, the regulars?”

“You think the kidnappers used a helicopter, without being heard or seen?” Spencer asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “How would they even get access to a helicopter?”

“If you know how to find and operate one, certain helicopters are easier to steal than cars. No locks in the way or keys needed,” you explained as if it were common knowledge.

Usually, this was the point in a conversation where you would shut up, thinking that you’d crossed into boring territory. But by the look on Spencer’s face, he just wanted to hear more about it.

“And if the security guards are all at the entrance to the gated community, I think you could go unnoticed. It’s close to the air force base, there are probably aircraft flying there on the daily.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “This job gives me a lot of free time to overthink things.”

Spencer smiled in slight disbelief. “How do you know how to steal a helicopter?”

“My dad was in the air force,” you explained. “From Fork Union to Master Sergeant. With today’s standards he’d probably be diagnosed with autism, but back when he was working, he was mostly just known as the guy who knew everything about every type of aircraft.”

You scrunched your face at the thought of your dad. You adored him, you really did, but he hadn’t given you the easiest of childhoods. That meaning being stuck with your mother because he was away a lot for work.

“What was that look for?” Spencer asked, because of course he realized stuff like that.

“I have tried so hard all my life to not be like my mother that I unconsciously picked up my father’s personality instead,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Spencer’s expression softened. “I despise my father, so I’m doing the opposite. Turning into my schizophrenic mother.”

“My dad got sick too,” you said quietly. “That’s why he stopped working. And why my mother divorced him. He lives at a care facility by the coast now.”

Before Spencer could respond, a buzzing noise came from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

“Duty calling?” you asked.

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

“I don’t think I can extend this, by the way,” you said, picking up the copy of War and Peace, placing it behind you on a shelf with other returned books.

“That’s fine—” he began, but you cut him off.

“I do, however, have another solution,” you said, standing up from your chair to go into the staff room. With quick steps, you grabbed your tote bag, the one with the Kate Bush album on it, and walked back out. Spencer stared at you in confusion as you pulled out a book, not wrapped in paper or anything special, but there was a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around it.

Spencer recognized it immediately as the same type of fabric you often wore in your hair.

“I have no one else to buy gifts for, so I thought I might as well. You won’t have to keep loaning it over and over again,” you said with a shy smile, handing it to him.

Spencer stared at it, his hands hesitating before taking it. A Russian copy of War and Peace. A nice one too. Hardcover with gold leaf embossment. “Thank you…” he said softly. “I feel bad now. I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“You’ve made my night shifts a lot less depressing these last months,” you replied. “That’s enough of a gift to me, Spencer.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it again, nodding instead. “You know I’m not good with words,” he said after a pause, “or sometimes I think I might be too good with them. I say too much too quickly—”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you interrupted, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?”

“Y’know, we go somewhere, maybe get some food, and then we talk. And if it leads somewhere, it leads somewhere.” You hesitated, your confidence wavering. “If I misread this entirely, that’s fine. You don’t have to say yes. But I’d like to keep your company during my night shifts, if I haven’t ruined that completely now by admitting that I find you attractive.”

“No, no, uhm—” Spencer stammered, his cheeks now fully pink. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked out this directly before.”

You held your breath as he gathered himself.

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

A grin broke across your face. “Good, so how about those New Year’s Eve plans?”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The D.C. police office buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Phones rang, officers rushed past with files in hand, and the muted hum of fluorescent lights filled the air. Spencer stepped into the building, his scarf still loosely draped around his neck and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold December air. From the side of his messenger bag, a red ribbon could be seen peeking out.

“Spencer, where the hell have you been?” Morgan’s voice rang out from across the room. He strode toward Spencer, his brow furrowed with equal parts concern and frustration.

“At the library,” Spencer replied, unwinding his scarf as he spoke. His tone was calm, almost as if the answer were obvious. “I came as soon as I heard.”

Morgan crossed his arms. “At ten at night?”

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before meeting Morgan’s eyes again. “There’s one open all hours of the day.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Spencer’s lips twitched as if suppressing the grin threatening to break through. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat in an effort to sound composed.

Morgan tilted his head, his smirk growing wider. “Uh-huh. Sure it is. Library must’ve gotten a whole lot more interesting since the last time I was there.”

Spencer ignored the comment, shifting the conversation back to the matter at hand. “We should look into stolen helicopters in the area. I think that’s how they got in.”

Morgan’s smirk faded as his professional demeanor returned. “Helicopters? That’s a hell of a theory. What makes you think that?”

Spencer adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers fidgeting slightly. “The location of the kidnapping is close to an air force base. Certain small helicopters are relatively easy to steal—no locks or keys required. If the neighborhood security was focused on the main entrance, a helicopter could bypass them entirely. Given the proximity to the base, it’s plausible they used the airspace to their advantage.”

Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Alright, genius, I’ll get Garcia to pull up any reports of stolen aircraft in the area. Nice ribbon, by the way, really pulls your outfit together.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

If December in general was slow for you, the holidays were fucking dreadful. Your dad had a cold and could not receive visitors, so you ended up spending Christmas Eve at a party—two hours sober between drunk friends, and then you had enough. Christmas Day was spent on your couch, watching all five hours of Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, eating your body weight in Chinese takeout.

You did get a postcard from your dad, a pretty coastal view on it that was of the beach he lived by. He also sent a pair of hand-knitted socks, a hobby you knew had been forced upon him by the older ladies he lived with at the care facility. His squiggly writing was harder and harder to decipher with every year that passed, but it still filled you with immense joy that his mind seemed to be bright even if his body wasn’t.

From your mother you also got a postcard. A pretty coastal view was on it too, from Bali, where she was spending Christmas with her new partner. Hers wasn’t handwritten, instead only printed with a generic Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. No thought put behind it.

You placed your father’s on the fridge, hung with a magnet you knew he’d gotten you when he was abroad for work in England. Your mother’s ended up being a perfect makeshift and temporary coaster on your living room table. Within days you had to throw it out because the paper had been ruined by tea stains.

When you were back at work, the library was even quieter than normal, which honestly was to be expected. Janice came by to borrow some new romance novels to have over New Years. Some poor students had deadlines due first thing in January. But still, so calm you might even call it boring. And you loved this job.

You sat at the front desk, flipping through a worn-out copy of a poetry collection by Patti Smith. You’d fallen down a hole of punk literature ever since you talked about JCC with Spencer. He didn’t seem like the kind to like said literature, but he had talked with you about it anyway. It was a tradeoff maybe, quid pro quo; he got to geek out about Tolstoy and Nobel Prize winners, and you got to talk about British bands and Vivienne Westwood. He’d actually really seemed to enjoy the irony of her bringing French 18th-century aristocracy into clothing worn by the most alternative and radical people in punk-era London.

Deep down in thought, you barely heard when the entrance door opened. It was a gust of freezing cold wind that made you look up from your slouched position. In walked a man, obviously bothered by the weather, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room as he walked forward. He was followed by…

“Spencer?” you wondered, standing. “You should be in Vegas.”

Spencer didn’t even have time to answer before his companion did. “Serial killers don’t care about the holidays, miss,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “SSA Derek Morgan.”

“You’re working the senator case, aren’t you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s turned into a serial case?” you rambled before shaking your head. “You probably can’t tell me the details anyway.”

Morgan gave a tight smile. “Not exactly.” He gestured toward Spencer. “We need your help with a quote. Spencer said you were the only person he could think of who might know it.”

“I didn’t say that—” Spencer tried to explain.

“Don’t you have search engines and databases for things like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We do, but nothing came up,” Spencer replied. “And I don’t recognize it for the life of me.”

“Must suck to be a genius, Spence,” you chuckled. “What’s the quote?”

Morgan pulled a photograph from his pocket and placed it on the counter. Written in bold, smeared letters that looked disturbingly like blood were the words: Whoever is strong must also be good.

“Jeez, give a girl a warning,” you muttered, grimacing slightly as you studied the photo.

It answered your question about whether or not it had turned into a serial case, because this was a place where someone had been murdered, and it wasn’t some fancy senator mansion this time, but more what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“Ehm… I honestly don’t know. I mean, it’s a very simple quote. I could come up with that.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. You weren’t sure why Spencer had thought of coming to you when faced with this problem. You knew of a bunch of books and quotes, sure, but you were honestly mostly known around your workplace as the one who knew all about children’s bo—

“Oh, oh! It’s sort of similar to a quote from a children’s book, but very badly paraphrased in that case.”

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?”

You were already walking out from behind your desk when he asked, making your way to the children’s section with quick steps. The two taller men following. “Ever heard of Pippi Longstocking?” you questioned over your shoulder as you walked.

Morgan looked skeptical and Spencer for once, too, like he didn’t recognize the name at all.

“I would assume that you had a more refined taste in literature as a child and did not waste your time with translated Swedish fairytales about the strongest girl in the world,” you added, finally reaching the right shelf, filled with thin books with bright yellow covers.

As you ducked down, you practically disappeared out of view for the two of them, squatting on the floor while picking out the right book.

Spencer perked up, smiling gently. “My mother is a professor in 15th-century literature. She used to read to me a lot.”

“That’ll do it,” you concluded, flipping through the pages. “We use it sometimes for kids’ reading hours, that’s why I recognize it. Popular with bilingual and immigrant children too since it’s been translated to over 70 languages.”

Spencer knelt down beside you, reading over your shoulder. You knew he was a quick reader, but when you knew what you were looking for, you were quicker.

“Here!” you pointed out on a page, disturbed by the look of your chipped red nail polish. “The quote in English is ’If you are very strong, you must also be very kind’.”

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed.

“It might be translated. I can look into our non-English books.”

You didn’t even wait for an answer before you started walking again, forcing Spencer and Morgan to follow suit. Down a corridor of shelves with children’s books, around a corner, to a new shelf, and then you ducked down on the floor, quickly scanning the spines. It was all children’s books divided into different languages. You picked whatever yellow spine you could see, collecting them in your arms before you sat down right on the floor. You knew the cleaning lady, she was great at her job.

“The story is from the 1940s but still relevant. Pippi is an orphan living in a big yellow house with her horse and monkey, and has to fight with adults and authorities, saying that she can’t survive on her own. Honestly quite progressive,” you explained as you gave Spencer a copy in Russian, trying to hand a different one to Morgan before realizing that not all agents had the skills of Dr. Spencer Reid.

“How’d she get the house?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“Her dad is a sea captain and a king over some fictive island. She’s rich,” you replied matter-of-factly.

As you sat there on the floor, books spread around you, searching and comparing to the English version, talking about the pure feminism and boldness of a female author creating such a character during that time period, Spencer found you fascinating. Like a dancer, you had moved through the rows of shelves, with a grace and a crazy smile, firing you up.

He had sensed it as soon as the unit stumbled upon the issue with finding the quote, that if someone was going to know this simple, moral-of-the-story quote to feed down the throats of children, it’d be you.

“I don’t think it’s Russian,” Spencer said after finding the right page. ‘Kind’ didn’t turn into ‘good’ like it had in whatever way the unsub had paraphrased it.

Morgan gave Spencer a sidelong glance. “Do you even need me here for this conversation?”

You ignored the comment, pulling out a book and flipping through its pages. “The missing senator has a German surname, right?”

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces.

You shrugged. “I watch the news, okay? I’m alone here all night!”

With the German version in your hand, you scanned the pages for the quote. “Oh, look! My high school German might finally be paying off.” You read aloud, “‘Wer stark ist, muss auch gut sein.’”

You stood up and showed the book to Spencer, pointing to the quote. “‘Kind’ turns into ‘gut’, which can translate back to ‘good’,” you explained, even if you felt like he probably didn’t need it. Morgan might’ve found it useful at least. “Whoever is strong must also be good, right? That make sense?”

Morgan leaned against the shelf, rubbing his chin. “So, the quote is from a Swedish children’s book, translated into German, and then badly paraphrased into English? What do we do with that?”

You shrugged, closing the book. “I just know what it says. I don’t know what it means.”

Spencer paced as he thought out loud. “The unsub has to be a woman.”

“Who speaks German?” Morgan added, mostly out of confusion.

“And she most likely identifies with the abandonment issues of the girl in the book, and having to be independent at a young age,” Spencer added, a light in his eyes shone like the stereotypical picture of a lightbulb turning on when an idea was formed.

Morgan glanced at Spencer. “Reid, didn’t the senator have a daughter?”

You watched them as they spoke, unsure if this was even new information to them or something they were reciting to jog their own memories of the case.

“So, wait, was I helpful?” you asked a little self-consciously, looking around, seeing the mess of bright yellow children's books on the floor.

Spencer nodded, his excitement bubbling over. “Yes, yes, your brain is unbelievable! Thank you so much.” Without thinking, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you in a brief but firm hug. You felt him stiffen slightly, his germaphobe instincts clearly battling his enthusiasm, but he didn’t pull away immediately. You knew he didn’t do handshakes, so the thought of him hugging you felt even more abnormal. His voice was soft as he added, “I mean it.”

Before you could respond, Morgan cleared his throat, a teasing grin on his face. “Alright, Romeo, we’ve got to get moving.”

Spencer stepped back quickly, fumbling with his feet. “Right, of course.”

You hesitated, looking up at Spencer’s flushed face, before softly hurrying to ask, “Are our plans for New Year’s Eve still on?”

He grinned, walking away. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer did miss it. Or in thirty-two minutes he would. He watched the clock on the wall in his hospital room with an anxious feeling. The fragments from a bullet had just been removed from his arm, and yet his biggest worry wasn’t the lingering ache in his arm—it was you.

“Your first date with her was supposed to be in a park at midnight? Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” Prentiss’s voice broke through his thoughts as Morgan had just explained why the first word they heard from Spencer as they had been allowed to enter his hospital room was your name.

“Could you stop yelling at me while I’m literally in a hospital bed?” Spencer shot back. He wasn’t one to complain, and he could hear the humor in her voice, but if he were to complain, now wouldn’t be an awful time.

Morgan leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on his lips. “They’re both insomniacs and were going to watch the fireworks. It’s sort of sweet.”

They hadn’t been able to just get the unsub when they figured out who it was. It had taken them days to plan their attack, knowing that the daughter would kill her father if they ambushed the place. A senator being killed because they had rushed their strategy wasn’t a defense that would hold up in any internal investigation.

So they waited and waited, mapping out the place where he had been taken, trying to get the daughter to leave. But she persisted, and an ambush was in the end the best choice anyway. Spencer hadn’t been shot directly. The daughter’s boyfriend had fired a shot, landing in the wall behind him, which left fragments flying all over. Some grazing his right arm, leaving it now fully bandaged. He’d also managed to hit his head on a beam while being lead out of the building afterwards, so he had three stitches on his forehead and blood in his hair.

It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounded. He’d been through worse. Which was why he now felt restless in the hospital bed, just waiting to be discharged. He wouldn’t make it in time to see you anyway, but maybe he could at least call you and tell you what had happened so that you didn’t wait outside in the cold for him.

He didn’t even have his phone on him, now that he thought of it. Or your number.

Restless and impossible, the situation was.

He had Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia all in his room. Just restlessly waiting too. Hotch was somewhere talking to a nurse about getting him out of here. Garcia was anxiously knitting. Rossi was half asleep while standing. Prentiss and Morgan were bickering about whether or not his date plans were cute or creepy. There was a radio in his room playing some sort of New Year’s program, almost taunting him by mentioning how time was closing up on the clock striking midnight. Some sort of reverse Cinderella, that was what he felt like.

With a slow knock on the doorframe, Hotch announced that he was back. “They don’t know when they can release you, and, uhm…” he began, poised as usual, though he was fighting a smile. “Look who I stumbled upon in the reception,” he continued, stepping aside as you appeared in the doorway.

It was probably all over the news that the senator case had been solved and that officers and agents had been harmed in the process. And you listened to the news, like religiously.

“You got shot…” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you took in the sight of him, pale but upright in the hospital bed.

“Oh, oh, is this her?” Prentiss asked as the entire unit watched as you entered the room.

They already knew your name. Now they knew what you looked like too.

You were all done up. Date ready. For Spencer. You had on a black coat, covered in little snowflakes from being outside, but underneath he could spot a dress that sparkled like diamonds. You had red ribbons in your hair like usual and your Converse, squeaking from being wet against the hospital floors. No tights, and while Spencer worried you might be cold, he also knew from Garcia that you just couldn’t wear tights with certain dresses.

“You’re gorgeous,” Garcia said, practically swooning. She nudged Spencer playfully. “Spencer, she’s gorgeous.”

Rossi stepped forward, clapping a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Maybe we should give them some time alone.”

Hotch, ever the professional and hopeless romantic, nodded. “We’ll be down the hall if you need anything, Reid.”

“Or pressed up against the door to eavesdrop,” Garcia added, earning a pointed look from Hotch as they all filed out, leaving you and Spencer alone.

The door shut with a click behind you as you stood flat on your feet in the middle of the room. You looked almost scared to move.

“We were supposed to go on a date, and you got shot, Spencer.”

The words left your mouth in nothing but shock. You didn’t even have time to be embarrassed over his colleagues being there and almost making fun of the situation because all you had in your head was the ringing sound of a gun firing and Spencer being the target.

“I’m okay, I promise,” he reassured gently, reaching out his unharmed arm to you.

You tentatively moved forward, almost in an inspective manner, seeing where he was hurt and not. With his hand reached out in your direction, you assumed he was fine with you touching it. You grabbed it gently, and Spencer spotted that your nails were just as sparkly as your dress.

“You. Got. Shot.” You emphasized every word, scooting to sit on the side of his bed. “Like a bullet penetrating your skin kind of shot. That’s insane.”

“It didn’t actually penetrate the skin, more like grazed me with fragments after it hit the wall behind me,” Spencer tried to explain. The bandage looked dramatic but all that was under it were scratches, basically.

“But still—” you began, but he cut you off.

“You look very pretty.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Don’t change the subject.”

“But you do. I like you in red,” he insisted, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

“And I guess I always like you then,” he replied simply.

You tilted your head, a teasing grin forming. “Did they give you something strong for the pain? What kind of smooth talking is this?”

“I, uh— I got nothing for the pain, y’know—” He gestured vaguely.

“Drugs and that?” you filled in.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t press further. He figured you understood. Not that you had talked about it more than briefly. But you were sober, and he was sober, and breaking a sober streak even in a hospital setting was nothing easy. The pain from the fragments being removed was only temporary. The aftermath of any sort of prescription painkiller was a long-term thing for people like him. And maybe you.

In silence, Spencer moved to the side of the bed, a way of notifying you that you could come sit higher up beside him. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you grabbed his, and when you scooted to sit so that your right arm touched his left one, he felt himself tense up at the closeness. While you still had your coat on, it was like a fire spread through it to his hospital gown and in turn his skin.

You toed off your shoes, kicking them on the floor, as you lifted your legs to place them alongside his. “So, was it the daughter? Did she shoot you?” you asked, turning to look at him with wonder in your eyes.

“Her boyfriend did. Helicopter pilot, by the way,” Spencer answered, gaze stuck on how your hand held his, perched in his lap over a thin blanket.

Your eyebrows shot up. “No fucking way. I was right?”

“You’re smarter than you realize,” he replied, his tone earnest.

You looked like a child on Christmas with the way happiness spread across your face. A happiness of being right, not over the situation. That was a given.

“It was the same old tale about a rich man abandoning his child and them later seeking financial compensation for it, thinking they’re entitled to their parents wealth after they’ve practically been left to live on the streets,” Spencer explained. Journalists would’ve figured out the motive as soon as it was public that is was the daughter, so he didn’t think he was breaking any protocol by telling you.

“And those are the good kind of senators,” you quipped, earning a small laugh from Spencer. You could see that his tired body didn’t react particularly well to the sudden vibration in his chest.

Your hand dropped his, only momentarily to soothingly caress his chest. He moved to hold yours again, keeping his held against his ticking heartbeat. You were so close.

The second he could think that, you whipped your head around at the sound of a thud. It was outside, a flashing light coming through the window.

“Oh my god, you can see the fireworks from here too,” you whispered, jaw dropped.

Spencer turned his head, following your gaze. Bright colors lit up the night sky, faint booms audible even through the thick hospital walls. Both hands on the clock were on twelve.

“It’s also a lot warmer in here than the park would’ve been,” Spencer mused, squeezing your hand in his.

He could almost feel you relax as you watched the colorful explosions go off in the night sky. You leaned into his side, the side of your face carefully placed on his shoulder. In this cold, sterile hospital room, you filled him with tepidity. He glanced down at your face; cute was the only word that came to mind. The subjective Spencer-esque way of defining it. You had silver glitter on your eyelids that twinkled whenever you blinked. Your lips had been glossy but were now mostly bitten raw from being anxious.

Spencer could only think of one thing as he took you in.

“Would you mind me becoming part of your microbiome?” he whispered.

You blinked, startled by the question, looking right up at him. He hadn’t even wanted to shake your hand when he introduced himself that first time. But kissing was, according to him, more sanitary anyway. You hadn’t been nervous for a kiss since you were in high school, yet this paralyzed you. It was terrifying, looking at him, feeling an invisible force pulling you towards him, towards his face, towards his lips.

“W-what if some bacteria from Cody Parker becomes a part of you now?” you joked, buying time to collect yourself.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied easily, his face now dangerously close to yours.

Your breath caught as he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours. You were both tentative at first, his hand still holding yours clasped over his chest. With your other hand, you pushed his hair from the side of his face, cradling his cheek as you deepened the kiss, touch by touch.

Spencer had never had a New Year’s kiss before. He wasn’t sure this was considered one either. The clock was probably 12:07 if he were to estimate.

From the hallway, Garcia’s voice could be heard through the door. “Oh my god, he kissed her.”

“Shut up, Garcia, I’m trying to see,” Prentiss whispered harshly.

You pulled back, laughter bubbling up as Spencer’s cheeks flushed deep red. Despite his embarrassment, a shy smile lingered on his face. The fireworks outside continued, unnoticed by the two of you, as you leaned in to kiss him again.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The apartment was quiet as you stepped inside, the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows the only sound accompanying your footsteps. Spencer moved carefully, his movements stiff and hesitant from the pain radiating from his arm. Two pairs of Converse stood on his doormat. One pair of simple black ones. Another pair of smaller, red ones.

“You need to shower, Spencer. There’s coagulated blood in your hair,” you said, setting his bag down on the floor before reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, it all sticking together in a knot.

He groaned softly, glancing toward the bathroom, then at the inviting sight of his bed just a little bit further down the hallway. “When I, for once, feel like I could fall asleep just looking at a bed?”

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look.

“No, you’re right. I just—” He hesitated. “How am I going to do it with this on my arm?”

“I’ll help you,” you offered immediately, then Spencer could see the realization hit you. “O-or maybe we can call Morgan, or someone else that you trust—”

His face twisted in mock horror. “I’d rather die than have Morgan wash my hair.”

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, firmer than intended.

“You don’t have to pretend around me.” Your expression softened. “When was the last time you were naked in front of someone?”

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Ehm, I—”

“Never?” you asked, far from in the teasing manner he was used to.

“Do doctors count?” he muttered, his face flushed.

“Okay,” you said, putting your hands together, stepping back slightly. “We’ll work around this to make you comfortable. Do you have swim shorts?”

“Yeah, that could work.”

Spencer retreated into his bedroom while he saw you go into the bathroom. It wasn’t easy for him to get out of his clothes and into the shorts, but he managed in the end. He spotted himself in his full-length mirror just as he was about to exit the bedroom. Tall and scrawny. Bandaged all over his right arm. Dressed in light blue shorts with flamingoes on them that Garcia had gotten him, as a joke he thought or she could have been completely serious. You never knew.

This was about to be the closest he’d been to another person while wearing so little clothing. And that was terrifying. No other word for it. It didn’t matter that you had kissed. Twice at the hospital. Once in the taxi home. Another small one as you helped him unlock his front door. Still terrifying.

It wouldn’t get easier the longer he waited, so he stepped out of his bedroom, too self-conscious to look at you, already rambling before you even noticed him.

“Don’t laugh, Garcia bought them for me when we had a case in Florida—”

“They’re cute,” you simply said, sat on the edge of his bathtub.

When he lifted his gaze to see you, you’d also changed. Or maybe undressed was a better word. Your dress was gone, and left were a pair of spandex shorts he imagined you had on under for comfort and warmth, maybe? And your bra. A simple black bra.

“You—” Spencer couldn’t form a sentence.

“I thought I’d make it even,” you shrugged, standing up. “Can you get in the tub without hurting yourself further?”

Spencer pressed his lips together to keep his posture. He nodded, as he at least though he’d be able to sit down on his own. But no. His balance betrayed him as he had both feet down on the porcelain, trying to lower himself down into a cross-legged position.

You were there within seconds, your hands trying to help him from falling. With an ungracious thud, he was sat down.

You sat halfway on the edge of the tub, turning the water on, waiting for it to get warm. As you did, you reached to comb through his hair with your fingers, but he stopped you before you got the chance.

“Just wait,” he said quickly, putting his hands up so that you couldn’t touch him. “For a second, will you?”

“Cause you’ll pop a boner if I touch you now?” you teased, shockingly how easy dirty words fell from your mouth.

A baffled laugh escaped him. “You’re so…”

“Rude?”

“Honest,” he replied. “I’ve been having a hard time keeping it together since you kissed me.”

“Nuh-uh, you kissed me,” you shot back with a grin. “You’re a good kisser, by the way.”

Spencer didn’t say another word as you started to wash his hair. Feeling slightly pathetic, he sat there in the bathtub, water falling from his head like a wet dog. He didn’t know how to make the situation less awkward, so he just accepted the way it was.

At least it was comfortable, having your fingers untangle his hair and massage his scalp with shampoo. When you were done, you helped him stand up, handing him a towel, but not before quite obviously eyeing his body up and down.

“You’ve turned pink all the way to your stomach,” you pointed out, and before Spencer could react, you added, “Don’t worry, it’s hot,” like that would make it any easier for him to process.

Later, Spencer was sitting on the edge of his bed, his damp curls sticking to his forehead as you helped him dry his hair. You moved gently, careful not to jostle his injured arm.

He’d been able to change into a t-shirt and pajama pants on his own, with you trying to hold in your laughter from the other side of his bedroom door when he would stumble and hit his shin on his bed frame due to the lack of balance he had with only one working arm.

“I can sleep here, right?” you said, tossing the towel into his hamper of dirty laundry. “It’s like 3 a.m. and I totally get if you wanna throw me out—”

“I want you to sleep here,” he said softly, looking up at you. “With me.”

No words left your mouth, but the smile that cracked through was unmistakable. He gave you a t-shirt to sleep in, something with an old college logo on it, and then he watched as you swiftly removed your bra from underneath it, like magic.

He settled under the covers, making room for you on the side where he didn’t have his injured arm. Spencer hadn’t shared a bed like this with anyone before, so to say he was surprised when you laid beside him, snuggling into his side like you’d done it a million times before, would be an understatement.

“Am I hurting you?” you mumbled, your head resting in the crook of his neck.

“No, not at all,” Spencer squeaked out, trying to find a natural spot for his hand under your body.

As you took in his room, your gaze landed on his nightstand, and your breath caught. Sitting neatly on the surface were three copies of War and Peace. One was pristine, the Russian copy you’d gifted him. Beside it was a well-worn English version, its pages annotated and creased. And then there was… another Russian copy, similarly worn and filled with notes.

Your hand rested lightly on his chest as you began to laugh. “You—” you started, glancing up at him with a soft smile. “You only loaned it from the library to talk to me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered between you and the nightstand as he realized that you had realized. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered with a smile.

You chuckled a little, reaching up to kiss his cheek before relaxing back down again. He’d been so tired before, as were you. But now it was like he could feel every nerve in his body, running through him like electricity. Just because you were here with him.

“Is it—” Spencer whispered, unsure where his words would lead him. “Is it weird to sleep in the same bed as someone without having experienced the sexual aspect that is usually the reason couples share a bed for the first time?”

Shit, he’d called you a couple. Maybe not directly, but definitely indirectly—

“No, not at all,” you hummed against him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“I haven’t exactly done this before, so everything feels new and weird.”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, makeup-free and squeaky clean. “Most men that I’ve been with never made me feel like a woman—like a ladylike presence they cherished. I’d sleep with them too quickly and they’d get bored, or I wouldn’t put up with it, and they’d call me a prude.”

Your voice sounded fragile in a way he’d never heard before. He’d picked up on little things where he assumed you weren’t exactly inexperienced, but the fact that experience could be something bad wasn’t necessarily something he’d thought about before.

“Whatever this is, whatever weird order we are doing stuff in, feels better than anything I’ve ever felt before when it comes to love,” you continued, stuffing your face back in his neck to hide.

Shit, you’d said the word love. Not even indirectly, like fully pronounced it, no mumbles.

“It’s not a dry spell if you’ve never done it, by the way,” you joked, and he melted at the sound even though you were trying to embarrass him. “You’ve never gotten it wet for it to become dry.”

Spencer stared up at the ceiling, biting his lip. “Can you not make fun of me?”

“I’ve used sex as a coping mechanism all my life, allow me to be a little amused about someone going over 25 years without it.” You gently laughed again. “It’s sort of sweet.”

On the side of your body, you found his unarmed arm placed all limp. With a bold move, you intertwined your fingers with his, taking both of them up to place against your chest. He was now embracing you, and he couldn’t even begin to think about the soft, ample flesh that could be found under your t-shirt.

He let out a faint groan, mumbling, “You’re not making it any better.”

Your expression softened further as you tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “We’ll get to it,” you said, your voice low and steady, “when or if we both feel like it. Don’t stress about it, okay? I don’t care.”

Spencer swallowed, his eyes darting to yours before quickly flickering away. His voice came out quiet, uncertain. “That’s something—” He hesitated, his brows furrowing as he searched for the words. “Is that something you’d want to do with me?”

You smiled, kissing his cheek again. “You just indirectly called us a couple, and I mentioned the word love, so don’t act clueless. I know you’re not.”

His face turned a deeper shade of pink, and he ducked his head, letting it rest on his pillow as the ceiling yet again became very interesting. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt warm. He felt at home in your presence, no matter how foreign it was. His hand was still grasping yours, tucked against your chest. He could feel you fiddling with his fingers.

“Can’t sleep?” Spencer asked after a long moment of silence.

“I like ’em,” you murmured, lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles.

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly.

“I like everything about you,” you answered simply before closing your eyes.

Can we all pretend I posted this on New Years? Yes? Thank you. And thank you for reading. Title and beginning quote is from Purple by Wunderhorse btw <3

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #dr spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #mgg #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #spencer reid imagine

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megalony · 5 months ago

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Pre-Exposed

This is a new, angsty Evan Buckley imagine requested by anon. I'm sorry it took me so long to write this for you.

I hope you will all like it, please let me know what you think.

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Evan Buckley Masterlist

Summary: (Y/n) and Evan have a son together, and when he becomes unwell, hidden family secrets begin to surface. And Evan isn't sure he can forgive his family for the secrets they have kept from him.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hooking her bag onto her shoulder, (Y/n) took a deep breath and walked away from the car. Her tongue darted out to run across her dry lips as she made a brisk walk through the school gates and followed the winding path towards the reception doors.

It wasn't often that (Y/n) got a phone call from the school. Jack wasn't like other boys. He wasn't one for getting into fights or playing up, that wasn't him and he loved his school work. He was involved in lessons and had a passion for learning.

The only times (Y/n) ever got a call from the school was regarding school trips or to be made aware of something that was happening. And those calls were rare and few.

When she left work just after lunchtime, (Y/n) hadn't been expecting to get a phone call from the school telling her that Jack had fainted. Sometimes he tripped or got a graze when he hurt himself playing games during break and sometimes he was sick, but it rarely happened.

(Y/n) could count the times on one hand when she had needed to come and pick Jack up from school. That told her that this had to be worrisome.

Her hands started to clench and curl into fists as she headed through the double doors and turned towards the reception desk.

"Hi, I got a call to come down for Jack Buckley?" (Y/n) couldn't stop herself from tapping her fingers against the reception desk as she waited for the woman to look at her notes to know where Jack was.

Things like this always made (Y/n) nervous. Whenever she had to take Jack to the doctors or to any appointments, Evan was always there with her. She didn't know what to do with herself or how to stop the tension and stop from feeling so uneasy.

"He's just through here."

Rolling her lips together into a thin line, (Y/n) nodded and followed the receptionist down a short hall towards a row of rooms. (Y/n) recognised a few of them to be the teacher's offices, a supply cupboard and finally a small nurse's office.

The room wasn't very big, it was about the same size as a walk in wardrobe with two chairs in front of a computer desk and a small bed in the corner for examinations. It much resembled a compact GP room at the doctors. And there, perched on one of the chairs to the left, was Jack.

The ten year old looked worn out. He was slumped forward with his arms resting on his knees and his head bowed down. His body was jittering and lightly trembling and he looked pasty like all the colour had been drained from his body. When he tilted his head up to see who had walked into the room, a small smile pulled at his lips but it didn't make him look much better.

There was a drowsy look in his eyes that made (Y/n) fear he might be on the verge of collapsing again. He looked like he wanted to go to bed.

She hurried into the room and set her bag down on the chair next to him while she crouched down so she was in front of him. Her hands rested on his knees and she tried to smile as she looked him up and down, checking for any injuries or anything that didn't seem normal.

"What happened?" (Y/n) glanced back over her shoulder to look at the receptionist but she was surprised when Jack slumped forward until his head was resting on her shoulder. And he shakily looped his arms around her neck and leaned against her chest like he was a toddler again who wanted to be carried around.

"We're not quite sure if he fainted or fell asleep at his desk, he dropped and hit his head on the desk. And he's very lethargic."

That didn't sound good.

(Y/n) knew instinctively that Jack must have fainted. He wasn't the kind of child who would fall asleep just anywhere and not once had he ever fallen asleep in school. He didn't take naps when he was at home, Jack was such a hyper, wired boy that naps weren't something he seemed to be able to do.

And if he had slumped down and hit his head on the desk then it made sense that he would have fainted. By the looks of him he seemed like he might be within range of fainting again.

(Y/n) kissed the top of his head before she moved her hands to his shoulders and gently tried to reel him up so he was sitting straight again. But her head tilted to one side and she frowned when she watched him grimace.

"My back hurts." He muttered quietly while he kept one arm around (Y/n)'s neck and moved his other hand to point round to his back.

When (Y/n) glanced back at the receptionist, she shook her head with a blank expression and her hands tightly knitted together in front of her. He hadn't mentioned that to her or said anything about falling and hitting his back or having anything happen to his back.

(Y/n) pushed up on her knees so she could lean over and carefully roll Jacks shirt up towards his shoulders so she could check what he was talking about. Her breath caught in her lungs and her chest seemed to seize up when she looked at his back. There were bruises scattered around his lower back like splatters of paint. Some were fading from purple to pasty blue and others were a dark yellow with a green tinge, suggesting they had been there a while.

"Jack, baby, what have you been doing? Did you play-fight with someone?" Some of the bruises looked old, but others looked new.

What had he done? Had some of the other kids been picking on him? (Y/n) dreaded that thought. She didn't want to learn that other kids had been bullying Jack or else she would have to tell Evan and get him to come down to the school and have a stern word with them.

"I fell playing football with Chris." He winced as he spoke and clicked his spine into place whenhe straightened up and (Y/n) pulled his shirt back down.

He didn't see how his words caused his mum to frown in confusion. He had played football with Chris last week when they all went to the park together with Chris and Eddie. His back shouldn't be bruised this badly and the bruises should have all started to fade out by now.

Was he trying not to tell her that something else had happened? Had he forgotten that he might have bumped into something or fallen at some other point during the week?

"Okay baby, let's go home."

(Y/n) slung her bag back on her shoulder, muttering a soft 'thank you' to the receptionist while she curled her arm around Jack's shoulders and tucked him into her side. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, observing him as they headed out to the car.

He was walking like he was sluggish. If (Y/n) didn't know any better she would have thought he hadn't had any sleep last night and was running on last reserves. But she knew he had slept well, he barely managed to get out of bed this morning he had been in such a deep sleep.

The nerves building up inside (Y/n) only got worse on the drive home. Jack didn't sing along to the radio like he usually did. He wasn't nodding his head to the music or tapping his feet. He didn't try and make any conversation with her at all. He slumped down in his seat and blearily looked out the window like he had been stuck in a trance.

Once they got home, Jack turned to look up at (Y/n) with those tired blue eyes that made her want to cry. "Can I watch a movie?"

"Sure baby." She kissed his temple again, noting that he wasn't running a temperature which was one good thing at least.

She followed him inside and watched him from the living room doorway for a few moments. Jack slumped down onto the sofa with a thump and set about finding a movie on the kids channel, but he didn't look fussed. (Y/n) knew he had to be feeling unwell because he wasn't watching a new movie, he put an old one on that he had seen many times before with Evan. Clearly he wasn't interested in watching a movie, he just wanted the comfort of having something on in the background.

Her heart shuddered and squeezed tightly when she watched Jack flop onto his side a few moments later. He stretched out on the sofa with his face burrowed down into the pillow and when (Y/n) leaned over to look at him, she noticed he had his eyes closed.

He was going to sleep. He really wasn't well.

"Hey babe- buddy?" A frown pulled on Evan's features when he jogged down the stairs and caught sight of (Y/n) heading into the kitchen. But when he noticed what movie was playing on the tv and the shoes that had been kicked off near the sofa, his face morphed into confusion.

He leaned over the back of the sofa and rested his hand on Jack's arm, watching as his boy mumbled his name but didn't bother to open his eyes or look up at him.

Evan trailed his fingers along Jack's cheek and ruffled his hair before he headed into the kitchen to find (Y/n). He had expected her to be home around now, but he hadn't expected to see Jack with her. Evan was supposed to be picking him up from school in two and a half hours.

"What's he doing home, did something happen at school?"

(Y/n) felt a small swell of relief when Evan's arms encased around her middle and he pressed his lips to the back of her head, giving her a tight hug as his chest merged down against her back.

"He fainted in class this afternoon, and he's so tired." The worry was clear in her voice and by the expression on her face when she looked up over her shoulder to glance at Evan.

"Is he sick?" It wasn't like Jack to be ill at school, and Evan couldn't remember the last time he had known their son to faint for any reason.

"I don't know… can you go look at his back for me, see what you think?"

A quiet "His back?" whispered into her hair as Evan made sure he heard her right before he untangled his arms from her and trudged back into the living room. He could feel (Y/n) hovering close behind him and his brows furrowed in confusion when he noticed Jack was already fast asleep, breathing softly into the cushion his face was squished into.

Crouching down beside the sofa, Evan took care to be gentle and slow as he lifted up Jack's shirt. Thankful his boy was laid on his stomach so he didn't have to turn him over and disturb him.

"Jesus, what'd he do? Has someone hit him?" The anger was present and bubbling up inside Evan's voice even as he whispered towards (Y/n) who was stood in the doorway, biting her nail out of anxious habit.

If anyone had hurt Jack or done this on purpose, there would be Hell to pay. Evan would march down to the school right now and demand to see the child and their parents if someone had done this to Jack. They had never had to worry about him being bullied before, he wasn't exactly one of the popular kids but he was gentle and kind and funny and he had his own small group of friends who he got along with.

With a deep breath, he pulled Jack's shirt back down and grabbed the cover to drape it over him if he was having a nap. He was clearly feeling sick if he was going to sleep at one in the afternoon.

When he walked back over towards (Y/n), Evan reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist, anchoring her into his chest with his lips meshed up against her temple. He could feel (Y/n)'s hands gripping his biceps and her head tilted down until her lips were pressing against his throat, causing his Adam's apple to bob up and down.

"He said it's from football, when he was playing with Chris last week, but he fell on the grass. Babe I don't think he's well, all he wants to do is sleep and he's forever got that cold."

It wasn't just today, (Y/n) had noticed Jack being sluggish and without his usual burst of energy for a while now. And he had been suffering with a cold for more than two weeks, which also wasn't like him. He seemed to be under the weather a lot just lately and (Y/n) didn't like it.

She could feel Evan's arms tightening around her as he sighed against her temple. Neither of them wanted to brush this off when something clearly wasn't right with their boy. He could just be suffering from a bad cold or the flu, but it could be an infection or a virus or an underlying cause like anaemia. They had to get him looked at.

"I'll book him in at the doctors in the morning."

***

A cold slither of dread crept down (Y/n)'s spine from the base of her neck right down to her lower back when she and Evan walked into the doctor's office.

She couldn't help but feel like something was wrong, like something was amiss but she couldn't tell what it was.

Her hand tightened around Evan's until she was sure she was about to cut off his circulation and her free hand curled around his bicep, gluing herself up into his side. She tried to smile when the doctor looked up towards them and motioned his hand towards the seats in front of his desk, urging them to sit down.

Once they were sat down, (Y/n) leaned herself to the left, pushing more into Evan's side as she tucked up against him in a vain attempt to stay calm.

"Thank you for coming in so promptly, Mr and Mrs Buckley."

"You said you had some results to talk about?" Evan looked between the doctor and (Y/n), a placid expression on his face.

He and (Y/n) had been worrying all morning about this appointment. They had gotten a phone call two days ago after they had taken Jack to the doctors last week and he had some bloods taken and an examination by the nurse. (Y/n) had been expecting to talk over the phone, she thought they would tell her Jack had a virus or he was anaemic and would need some medication.

When she was told to make an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible and come down for a chat about the results, she knew. She just knew this meant something was serious.

Their only relief was that they didn't need to have Jack here at the appointment, he could go to school none the wiser that his parents would be going to an appointment with the doctor about him. He was only ten, he didn't have to be there for the consultation. But needing a chat with a doctor meant that this was serious.

"Yes, we've had the blood tests back for Jack. We ruled out anaemia and pneumonia, but there were a few anomalies so I sent them across to a colleague at the hospital in oncology for a consult."

"Oncology?"

Evan didn't like the way (Y/n) stiffened beside him and when he looked down at her, he was frightened to see the panic bubbling up in her eyes. He felt her nails scratching into the back of his hand and he leaned in closer to her side as his lips parted and a shudder ran through him.

He found himself muttering "What is that?" towards (Y/n) because clearly she knew what that meant. Evan wasn't a nurse like Maddie or a paramedic like Eddie and Hen. He didn't know all the medical jargon and that word had already gone over his head.

"No, b- but that's for cancer." (Y/n) shook her head as she spoke and she felt Evan bristle in his seat like he was turning to stone.

And when she looked up at her husband, Evan looked like all the colour had been drained from his features. He had gone positively grey as a blank look flooded his face and his baby blue eyes started to deepen as tears welled up in his eyes.

"Yes… I'm sorry, the results have come back positive for acute leukaemia. It's a form of cancer in the blood, I'm afraid it's serious."

"No, oh no."

Bile rose at the back of (Y/n)'s throat and she felt her stomach churning as she turned to the left and pressed her face into Evan's shoulder. Each strangled breath she took fanned against his shoulder and into his cotton shirt. She could feel him leaning into her, his lips merged with the top of her head and his hand curved round to cup the back of her neck like he thought she was about to break into hundreds of little pieces.

She could feel Evan's hand clenching around hers, pressing so tightly he was squeezing her knuckles together and threatening to pop them out of place.

Each breath Evan took mingled in with (Y/n)'s hair and he knew a tear or two had trickled down his face into her hair.

This wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

How could this be happening to their Jack? The results had to be wrong, but deep down, Evan knew they wouldn't be. It was a rarity that the hospital ever got any results wrong or mixed up, contrary to what some people liked to believe.

"This form is usually seen more in children, it's destroying his white blood cells which will weaken his immune system, along with affecting the way his body functions. The tiredness, easy bruising, stiff joints, long sickness, it's all symptoms."

But those were such common symptoms. They could all be accounted for by a common cold or a lack of vitamins or being anaemic. Those symptoms were relative and could be due to a number of simple, little things. Why did Jack have to have something as serious and deadly as cancer? What had he done to deserve this?

"Wh- how do you treat it?" Part of Evan found it strange that this could be considered cancer when it wasn't a lump or a tumor in Jack's blood. It was an inefficiency to produce the right cells and destroying the few good cells he did have.

Did he still need chemo or radiotherapy for something that was happening in his blood?

How were they going to explain this to him? Evan didn't want to tell Jack that he had cancer. That was the last thing any child wanted to hear and it was going to freak him out. But they couldn't exactly keep this a secret from him when they would be bringing him to the hospital for appointments and whatever form of treatment he was going to need.

"Chemotherapy is always the most direct and effective route, getting rid of the affected blood cells so proper ones can form. We'd also like to do a bone marrow transplant after chemo. All the blood is made in the marrow and if he gets healthy marrow, he can make healthy cells much quicker that way and get his body back on track."

A guttural sound emmitted from Evan's lips as he dropped his head forward into his hand. His fingers scratched into his scalp, tugging at his curls and scraping until he was sure he was drawing blood along his hairline. He could barely feel his other hand that was tangled with (Y/n)'s, they were squeezing each other's hand so tightly that there was no blood supply to either of their hands anymore.

Their boy was going to need chemo. Jack would have to come to the hospital, he would have to miss out on school and do his work from home or the hospital. He would become sick- sicker than usual. He would be run down, he wouldn't be himself. He was going to lose his hair, become weak in himself.

And they were going to have to put him through all of that if they wanted to give him a chance at surviving this.

This was going to be agony for Jack. Evan had heard about bone marrow transplants, he knew what that meant. Thick needles right into the centre of the bone to inject marrow and hope that the body would take to it and start using that marrow to produce proper cells.

That was going to be a big procedure for a ten year old. How were they going to explain any of this to him? How were they going to get Jack through this?

"So, so what, he goes on the list, for that transplant while he's in chemo? When does that have to start?"

(Y/n) kept her right hand curled around Evan's bicep and she leaned her cheek onto his shoulder, letting him do the talking as she felt like she was in some kind of bubble or trance.

Tears were silently pouring down her face and soaking into Evan's shoulder while he sat hunched forward with his left hand cradling his chin and jaw. His mind was starting to go on overdrive, something that always happened when he was nervous or panicked like this.

"We need to start chemo as early as next week, but the good news is we don't need to put him on the list." The doctor could see that this was a lot to take in, but he seemed somewhat glad that both parents were up to talking it through here and now.

It was better to talk through everything now and try to get some consultations and dates booked in as soon as possible for Jack's health. They couldn't wait and let him deteriorate, they had to get him into treatment now to give him the best chance at recovery and pushing through this.

"Why?" (Y/n) sniffed and brushed her sleeve beneath her swollen eyes while she stayed leaning into Evan's shoulder.

Was there a donor at the hospital who happened to be a match for Jack? Not needing to wait was a good thing, it meant Jack could be helped sooner rather than later and doing all the treatment now would be the most effective method for his treatment and recovery.

"Mr Buckley, your records show you are a complete match. If you'd be willing, we could use your marrow when we're ready to do the transplant."

(Y/n) swallowed deeply as she watched Evan sit up straight rather than being hunched over his knees. There was a solemn expression on his face but a faraway look in his eyes, like his body was sitting here with her but his mind was wandering somewhere else completely.

It was as if a wave of calm had washed over him and he nodded his head. If Evan was a match, then that's what they would do. It was much better having a relative donate, especially Jack's dad because that meant there was a bigger chance of his body accepting the marrow and taking it.

Evan would do anything for his boy. He would give him blood transfusions, bone marrow, he would give him a kidney if he needed it. Evan would die for him. He would do absolutely anything for his son and making Evan a full match was like fate was trying to make up for what the wrongs that they were now imposing on Jack.

"Do it."

***

(Y/n) felt like she was walking in a trance. It was how she had felt for the last few days, really. Everything she did made her feel like she was on autopilot. She cooked without really noticing what she was doing- and it was a miracle she didn't burn or cut herself with her mind being so distracted.

She tried to watch tv with Jack but the voices just turned into static in her ears and her mind started to drift off without really looking at the tv. And she could see that Evan was doing the same when he was home, it made her wonder what he was like when he was on the job.

Her hand tightened around Evan's as they stood on the doorstep and waited tiredly for Maddie to open the door.

She had been the first person they spoke to after they got the news from the doctor. They didn't know who else to call or what to do. After a lengthy chat, they had agreed to come round to see Maddie today while Jack was at school. As of next week he wouldn't be back at school, he would be spending his days at the hospital getting his first round of chemotherapy. Just the thought made (Y/n) cringe and cower down into Evan's side.

They both knew they must have looked a state when Maddie opened the door to greet them. Her eyes were glistening with tears when she looked up at her little brother and sister in law.

Maddie cocooned an arm around each of them and brought them into her chest for a hug that instantly made Evan feel a tiny bit better. Maddie always had that effect on him, she had always been that comforting, parental figure he went to whenever anything was wrong.

"Come in." She pressed a kiss to Evan's cheek before she pulled back and guided them both inside.

They were expecting to be led into the kitchen, that was always the first place Maddie went when they came over. She would either put the kettle on or source out a bottle of wine, but today she turned left and headed for the living room instead.

A cold shiver ran down Evan's spine when he walked into the living room and noticed two people sitting on the sofa. His feet became rooted to the spot and his skin started to bristle and the hairs on the back of his neck stuck up like needles. He found his fingers tightening around (Y/n)'s hand and he leaned into her side as his chest tingled and started to tighten.

"Mum? Why're you here?" Surprise flooded Evan's voice and managed to mask the uneasy discomfort that he felt at their presence.

He hadn't expected to find his parents here.

He could feel (Y/n)'s shoulders slumping down and her cheek pressed into his arm as she leaned into him a little more like her energy had suddenly been drained to nothing.

"You told them, about Jack?" There was no anger or betrayal in (Y/n)'s voice, there was hardly any emotion at all. She nodded when Maddie gave her a timid look, clearly thinking she might have overstepped a mark but if anything, (Y/n) was relieved. She wouldn't want to be the one to break this news to anyone in their family and she knew Evan would of had a hard time trying to explain this to his parents.

It had been bad enough when Evan had to tell his parents that he'd gotten his girlfriend pregnant when he was seventeen. His parents hadn't been best pleased that Evan was going to be a teenage parent, it wasn't something they had in mind for him and it didn't go with the modern family image they tried to pass off to friends and neighbours.

That was why Maddie had been more involved in Jack's life and why Evan's parents only started to get involved with him over the last few years.

Telling their parents only made this more real. (Y/n) hadn't told her own parents yet, she was waiting until next week when they were going to be coming over for a visit. This wasn't something she could tell them over the phone.

With a sigh, Evan trudged into the room and moved towards the armchair while Maddie squashed herself down next to their mum on the end of the sofa. Evan heaved himself into the chair, trying to sit up straight but all he wanted to do was melt down into a puddle and disappear. He spread his thighs and moved his hands, silently indicating for (Y/n) to sit with him rather than sitting across from him on the other armchair. He didn't want her sitting alone.

She obliged, relieved at the invitation and sank down on the end of the chair between Evan's thighs. Her back moulded up against his chest and she felt his arms curve around her waist and lock together in front of her abdomen like he was caging her in and refusing to let her go again.

"Maddie rang us, and we came straight down, oh Evan… how is he?" Margaret leaned forward and set her cup down on the coffee table before she tried to pat Evan's knee, but she could tell that the comfort wasn't welcomed.

He stiffened in his seat and shifted his leg until his mum retracted her touch. She had never been very good at comforting Evan or truly caring when he was upset and starting now simply made him feel unsettled.

He thought it was good of them to show some sort of support now though. It hadn't taken much for them to come down and see if they could help. That was more than two years ago when Evan had been in an accident and got his leg crushed by the fire truck. His parents had come down after Evan's third surgery when he was practically at the end of his recovery.

Evan wasn't sure if he was happy or enraged that they were caring about Jack more than they ever did for him. It meant they were trying with Jack, trying to get that connection and be in his life and that was good, but it reopened the wounds Evan had tried so hard to heal. The wounds they inflicted when they constantly pushed him aside and showed him how he would always be second best to them.

"Petrified." Evan nudged his nose against (Y/n)'s hair and closed his eyes, breathing in her scent to try and calm himself down a bit more.

"We've told him it's a blood disorder, we don't- we don't want anyone telling him what it is." (Y/n) tried her best not to burst into another fit of tears and she steeled her expression to try and remain calm.

They didn't want anyone telling Jack that he had cancer, not right now anyway. That would overwhelm him and scare him and they didn't want that. They wanted this treatment and recovery to be as easy as possible for Jack so they had sat him down and tried to explain that he had a blood disorder where his blood wasn't producing the right cells.

He knew he was going to the hospital from next week and he would be having medicine to try and sort it out. And when they had explained that he would have a bone marrow transplant- which they tried to explain as a blood donation to make it easier- Jack had been relieved to know Evan would be the one giving him the blood and he would be with him through the procedure.

It made Jack feel comforted to know that his dad would be experiencing something similar in the way of a donation and that his dad was helping him.

"Evan… we have to tell you something."

He didn't like the sound of that. His arms tightened around (Y/n)'s waist and his cheek pressed up against the side of her temple as he narrowed his eyes at his parents.

It wasn't often that Evan saw his mum look anxious like this. She was always uneasy, stern, usually unhappy and prickly, but she never looked worried about anything, at least not when it was concerning him. But even his dad looked uneasy right now, with one hand drumming along his thigh and the other hand entwined with Margaret's to comfort them both.

But when Evan glanced over to Maddie, his brows furrowed and he noticed his sister looked unsettled too. She was trying her best to sit still but she was starting to fidget. Maddie only fidgeted when she was hiding something, Evan knew the signs and he could see the way she had both hands tightly clasped on her lap and she was spinning the ring around her index finger. A nervous habit she had never gotten out of.

Suddenly, Evan wasn't so sure that he wanted to hear whatever they had to tell them.

"This leukaemia, it- it… little Jack might have it because it runs in the family." Margaret couldn't find it in herself to look at Evan, the guilt was evident in her eyes and so she looked down at her hands instead. Noticing how much she seemed to have aged in the last few years.

Had this moment come round already? Since the moment Evan had been born, Margaret had been dreading the time when they would have to tell him the truth about his birth and his life. She always thought that this moment was so far away, but it had finally caught up to them.

"What? Who else had it?" Confusion plastered across Evan's face as he tried to wrack his brain to work out who in the family had ever had leukemia.

Aunt Lisa had breast cancer, Evan remembered that vividly from childhood because his mum had spent two weeks out of town to look after her sister. And he was sure Phillip's dad had suffered with some ailment before he died, but Evan couldn't think what exactly had been wrong with his grandad.

Evan never saw his grandparents very often, Maddie had always been closer to the rest of the family than Evan was. But he didn't know of anyone close who had this form of cancer, and it had to be someone close in the family for his parents to think that it was why Jack now had this too.

"Your brother."

(Y/n) couldn't help the smile that pulled at her lips and she huffed, looking between Maddie and her in-laws with disbelief welling up in her eyes. If this was them trying to make light out the situation then (Y/n) didn't find it helpful nor amusing.

What the Hell were they talking about? (Y/n) had known Evan since he was fifteen and not once had he, his parents or anyone in their family referred to any brother.

"Look, if this is some kind of joke I don't find it very funny."

"No Evan, this isn't a trick. We, we had a boy before you, when Maddie was two. Daniel."

"Maddie please…" The desperation in Evan's tone had tears welling up in Maddie's eyes and she coiled her arms tighter into her waist as she winced.

He was begging for her to tell him that this was some kind of sick joke that clearly wasn't funny. He wanted her to explain, to say that their parents were having some kind of stroke and none of this was real.

How could they have had a son before Evan and not told him? How could they have kept this from Evan his whole life? No pictures around the house of him. No acknowledging his birthday or his memory. No mourning or griving for him over the years. Not even telling Evan one memory about him. That was sick.

If Evan and (Y/n) had more kids but lost Jack, they would never just erase him from their memory and pretend he hadn't existed. He was their son, he was their world and if something happened to him they would want to keep his memory alive, not bury those memories along with him.

It took all of Evan's effort to stay sitting and stop from bolting up from the chair and walking away. He had to tighten his arms around (Y/n)'s waist and pin his chest into her back until he could scarcely breathe in order to remain in control of himself and stop from exploding.

"He got diagnosed when he was seven, we tried chemo, but it was aggressive. He needed marrow, and stem cells, so we, well, it was a hard decision, but we…"

"Evan's a donor baby?" Shudders crept up and down (Y/n)'s spine as she glared at her in-laws who she barely recognised.

"Yes."

How could they do that to him?

(Y/n) had always seen it. From the moment she met Evan's parents, she had seen how they treated him. He wasn't abused, but he wasn't loved or treated with much respect either. (Y/n) saw how Evan hurt himself, he purposely fell from trees, had skateboard accidents and broke his bones in order to get some ounce of love from them.

It was clear to see that they valued Evan as an ornament in their family, but as a son, they couldn't love him like they did with Maddie. When Evan told them (Y/n) was pregnant, they had been less than understanding. Evan was ruining their image and the ideals they had about the life he would lead.

And now it all made sense. Evan hadn't been a child they longed for, he was a tool to protect and save their other son. He had been a remedy that didn't work and they couldn't bring themselves to grow to love him when they never really wanted him in the first place.

"And it didn't work?" Evan unlocked one arm from (Y/n)'s waist so he could run his hand up and down his chin and jaw, tracing the stubble he was beginning to grow.

"We were heartbroken, and we didn't want you knowing the real reason why we- why we had you… so we thought we best not tell you."

"Are you sick?"

The cynical tone to Evan's voice made his mother visibly flinch and caused his father to shake.

What did they think they were doing? Why did they think keeping this from him was the 'normal' thing to do? Surely they would have known that they couldn't hide this from Evan forever, this couldn't have been kept a secret for his whole life.

If Evan had known the truth, he would have understood. He would have realised why his parents couldn't love him like they did Maddie. He would know why looking at him made them flinch or brought an old sense of sorrow to their eyes. He would never have tried to hurt himself to gain their love if he knew the reason why he was alive and the brother he never knew.

Evan would have let them treat him badly, he would have accepted that they couldn't love him and he would of had more respect for himself. He wouldn't have grown up believing something was wrong with him if he knew.

"Buck, he died." Maddie's voice broke as she tried to stay calm and collected. "When you told me the other day about Jack, I had to tell them in case he has it because of Daniel."

"You let me grow up believing I wasn't good enough, and all the time you knew why I was treated like that?" Evan's voice rose with every syllable until he was practically shouting at his sister, the woman who had raised him since he was a toddler whose parents couldn't be bothered with him.

All this time. All his life, Maddie had known. Every time Evan asked what was wrong with him, what he did to upset their parents, why they couldn't love him. And all those times Maddie told him he hadn't done anything, she lied and said they did love him in their own way. She even said she didn't know why they were sometimes cold-hearted towards him.

She had lied to Evan every day of his life.

All this time Evan felt like such a burden on Maddie. He felt like she had been forced to become a teenage parent, that she was forced to love him and bring him up because their parents simply wouldn't do the job themselves. Evan felt so guilty and bad for Maddie. He never needed to feel like that.

If he knew the truth he wouldn't have been craving love and attention so much, he wouldn't have relied on Maddie so much. He wouldn't have felt guilty because Maddie was the one with the guilt. She was the one who felt guilty for lying to him, she chose to care for him, she chose to comfort Evan when he was upset.

"I couldn't tell you-"

"Bullshit Maddie." The snide words snapped at Maddie and caused her to quiver and sink back into the sofa.

Evan felt himself starting to shake when (Y/n) slithered out of his arms and stood beside the chair instead. She had far too much adrenaline rushing through her to sit still and she could feel Evan bubbling up like a volcano that was about to explode.

"Why did you watch?" Evan's words confused Maddie who frowned and shook her head, for she didn't know what that implied. "You watched me hurt myself. You watched me break my ankle, my arm, I cracked my ribs, I got concussed. I nearly got fucking runover and you watched! You watched me do that for their fucking love. You think I would have tried so hard if I knew the truth? I wouldn't have done any of that."

If Evan knew the truth he would never have hurt himself. He would never have played so dangerously as a child. He wouldn't have skated on the roads, he wouldn't have climbed the tallest trees, held his breath and then allowed himself to fall. He wouldn't scrape his knees and break his bones and cry his heart out to get some sort of love from their parents.

If he knew the truth, Evan would have let things be as they were. He would have accepted the fact that their parents couldn't bring themselves to love him. He would have realised that hurting himself would make their parents fret and fear rather than making them care. They were worried they would lose another son, they weren't suddenly loving Evan like he believed.

Maddie should have told him, but instead she watched him. She stood by and allowed Evan to be reckless and hurt himself and scream and beg for their parent's love and attention.

Evan was sure that Maddie tried to whimper "I'm sorry." But it came out as a blundering cry more than a few broken-hearted words.

He pushed up from the armchair, hands balled into fists and his whole body reduced to trembling as he tried to decide whether he wanted to stand here and argue or turn and walk away. Leaving might have been a better option, but there was still so much more that Evan wanted to say, and he might not have these feelings and this courage to speak again.

Nothing passed Evan's lips when he glanced over towards his wife and realised (Y/n) was silently crying. Tears were streaming down her face and her eyes were starting to swell as she bound her arms around her waist and looked at his parents with such torment and anger in her eyes that Evan barely recognised her.

His hand reached out for her arm and he was relieved when (Y/n) moved her hands and clung to his arm rather than pulling away from him. But she wouldn't look at him. Her eyes were solely focused on his parents who were turning redder by the second and who were starting to cry too.

"You… don't- don't you see what you've done?" She did her best to steel her voice but it didn't work very well. "We didn't know t- the symptoms. If you told us we might have been more aware, more cautious… Evan, he… he's been so sick, and we…"

She couldn't finish her sentence.

They hadn't known.

Jack's symptoms were so generic and easily misconstrued as a simple cold or illness. But if they had known that leukaemia ran in the family, that Evan's own brother had died from it, then they would have been more aware. They would have known what symptoms to look out for.

They could have told their doctor when Jack was born and at his check ups, it could have been on his file as something to be aware of and look out for. He could have gotten help before now if they had known they were pre-exposing him to this form of cancer.

Guilt dwelled in Evan's stomach like hundreds of stones settling in his abdomen and crushing everything inside of him.

He turned to the right, cupping the back of (Y/n)'s neck as he pressed a wet, shaking kiss to her temple. He had pre-exposed Jack to this and he had no idea. Jack had gotten this from Evan, from his side of the family. Evan should have known, he should have been more aware.

"It's not your fault-"

"No. It's yours."

Tears continued to fall down Maddie's face as she gasped and pressed one hand to her chest where it felt like her heart was physically breaking into thousands of little pieces. It felt like a glass heart had shattered and each fragment was now coursing through her blood, splitting her apart from the inside out.

She hadn't meant any harm. She had been told not to tell Evan and how could she go against their parent's wishes?

"Someone should have told me."

This wasn't about Evan anymore, this was about Jack. Evan could just about grasp the fact that they had lied to him all his life, but when they knew that Evan could potentially expose Jack to this illness they should have spoken to him. He was seventeen when they had Jack, he was more than old enough to understand and to take in all that information.

He should have been told so he knew how to protect his son and what signs to look out for so Jack could be kept safe. Chances were that Jack did have this because it ran in the family and had been passed down.

"We kept this secret for so long-"

"When we had Jack one of you should have explained this to me! You all watched him grow up, you knew I was pre-exposing him to this and you didn't tell me. We could of had him tested! We could of monitored him a-and had some kind of awareness. But you just stayed silent and watched from the moment he was born."

Evan's right arm was encased against (Y/n)'s chest, but he moved his other hand to grip the back of his neck. He could feel his short nails puncturing through the skin, scratching at the short hairs and gathering flecks of skin beneath his nails. But it didn't do much to calm him down.

All of Evan's life, all of Jack's life, they had been lied to. Ten years, they had sat by and let Evan raise Jack in blissful ignorance that there could be anything wrong or underlying with him. They watched for a whole decade as Jack grew up and they never once told Evan that something might be amiss, that there could be something passed down to him.

If Evan kept a secret from Maddie he felt like his intestines were churning themselves into knots and he always felt his body prickling with heat and his heart had palpitations when he thought about what he was hiding from her. He thought she felt the same. But how could she when she had gone over twenty years without telling Evan the biggest secret in their lives?

When Maddie stood up, Evan glared down at her. His upper lip curled into a tight grimace and his nose crinkled as he wondered who on Earth was stood in front of him right now.

Whenever she tried to comfort him growing up, Evan always felt like he was home, like he was safe. Not this time. This time, as Maddie brushed her hand along his arm and tried to cup the sides of his neck, all Evan could feel was dwelling uncertainty and revulsion.

As Evan grew up and started to grow taller, Maddie started to loop her arms around his neck or she would pull on his shoulders to drag him down to her height for a hug. They both secretly loved that he was the little brother and yet he was tall and broad and could envelope Maddie in a hug.

But as Maddie tried to nudge Evan's neck and pull him down for a hug like she always did, her lower lip wobbled and a broken sound left her lips when Evan didn't budge. He tensed his neck and tilted his chin back, fighting off more tears as he refused to look at her.

She couldn't hug away the guilt she felt and she couldn't expect Evan to sit down and accept this like he accepted every other wrong-doing in his life.

This was different; this involved Jack.

Reaching behind his neck, Evan held Maddie's hand with a strange tenderness but she hated how he pulled her touch away and dropped her hand back towards her. He didn't want her to hug him. He didn't want their parents to try either because he could see they were now both stood up and trying to inch closer.

The slightest touch of Margaret's hand on Evan's shoulder made him recoil and stumble into (Y/n) as he tried to step back. Her touch had never been comforting since he was a child and right now it repulsed him.

"Don't touch me." The way Margaret uttered his name in despair didn't make Evan feel anything but anger. She had no reason to be so upset when she had brought this on herself. All three of them had.

His hand tightened around (Y/n)'s and he nudged her back until she took the hint and started walking towards the doorway with Evan close behind. They weren't staying here any longer. They needed to go home and talk and process this before they had to collect Jack from school and act like their world hadn't just been twisted into an alternate dimension.

"We're leaving. And don't think you're gonna see Jack on this shitty little visit, not after this." The way Evan pointed at his parents made both of them stutter and gasp and his mother seemed to clasp her hands in front of her like she was suddenly going to pray for his forgiveness.

"Evan, please!"

He had never heard his father say his name in such a desperate manner or sound like he was begging him. It was so strange that Evan almost felt like he was in a dream. But he wasn't going to relent and he knew by the way that (Y/n) squeezed his arm and kissed his shoulder that she felt the same.

They had come here solely to drop this bombshell and explain what they had done wrong. They weren't here to see Jack or ask how he was or what kind of treatment he needed, that came second. What they prioritised was earning Evan's forgiveness minutes after unloading their guilt onto him.

That wasn't how it worked. They couldn't do this and then expect they could still see Jack. Evan wouldn't let them near his son, not until this had all cleared up and Evan found a way to forgive them. Maddie, he would forgive. In a day or two, he would see reason and allow his guard to drop, but he wasn't sure when- or indeed if, he would ever be able to truly forgive his parents for this.

Evan was about to walk through the doorway when he turned after a second thought and glanced over his shoulder at the three of them. "You know, I may not have been good enough to save this brother I never knew, but I'll be damned if I can't save my boy. This time, my blood's gonna be enough."

Evan's sole purpose when he had been born might have been to save his brother, but his purpose now was to save his son.

And he wouldn't let Jack down.

#imagine #911 imagine #evan buckley #evan buckley x reader #evan buckley imagine #buck imagine #buck x reader #maddie buckley han

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kittyminion · 3 months ago

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spoiled rotten bodyguard!sevika x spoiled!f!reader

-explicit 18+, smut, dom/sub sex, reader is a bit annoying, modern au, reader teases sevika -you're spoiled rotten, but sevika makes you sweet again. -word count: 2.2k

Your father had hired Sevika a few months ago, found her guarding the shipping ports in your city and said she was just so good at her job, good enough to protect his sweet, innocent daughter.

But, little did he know, every single night, like clockwork, you snuck out. Sometimes it was to your friends' houses, or bars, nightclubs, or even just a restaurant, just for a bit of freedom.

You were well over legal age, but your father still treated you like a child, and you hated it. It was even worse now that Sevika was at your heel every second of the day.

You ate breakfast with her a few feet away, when your mother asked you to get groceries from the store, Sevika would drive you there, despite you having your own license and car.

But, you could admit that you were entirely independent. You didn't have a job, your parents paid for everything you had, and you were extremely sheltered and privileged. It seemed like Sevika resented you for that, especially when you complained about dumb things.

Like now, you were at home, talking to your father about a trip you wanted to go on with your friends.

"It's just for a few days, Dad! Just to the lake and back, nothing crazy." Sevika was standing outside your father's office, but you know she heard every word that was said, which made it all the more embarrassing.

Although you were very used to her presence by now, you still became embarrassed when you had to beg your father to do anything.

"No, and that's final. I don't want you getting hurt or kidnapped just because you wanted to go on a trip with your friends." He continued typing away on his computer and you rolled your eyes, standing up with a huff, "you don't let me do anything! You might as well lock me up in this stupid house!"

Your father ignored your tantrum, calling out for Sevika and you ignored their hushed talks, knowing it was all about you and keeping a keen eye on you.

You tried your hardest to lose Sevika on your way to your bedroom, but it was no luck, because she was right on your tail, wearing that damned all black uniform, her hair cropped short and those gray eyes bored but attentive.

You rarely talked to her, unless it was about simple things like you going to take a shower or her relaying something your father said. Often times, you'd ignore her completely, but she didn't seem to mind, completely focused on doing her job.

Sevika stood by your bedroom door, scrolling on her phone endlessly, her eyes lifting to glance at you every once in a while. You were gathering your clothes inside a small suitcase, muttering things to yourself about your father and all the endless rules he had for you.

You knew Sevika was aware of your packing, but you didn't care, you needed to get out of the fucking mansion ASAP.

Just as you zipped the suitcase up and placed it by the door, Sevika immediately grabbed it and placed it on the bed, continuing to unzip it and remove all the clothes you just put inside.

"What the hell are you doing?" You spat, ripping the clothes from her hands to throw them back inside and Sevika stared at you with a glare, "if you think you're going anywhere, then you're wrong."

"And who are you to stop me?" You questioned, rolling your eyes at her, trying to pull the suitcase away from her, but her grip was too strong and you realized how muscular she was as she removed your fingers from it easily and tossed it off the bed, all your clothes tangled into a messy ball on your bed.

"Your father said you aren't going, so you're not." Sevika grabbed all your clothes and threw them inside your walk-in closet, her lips screwing up in frustration as you pushed passed her, your hip bumping into her thigh, but she barely moved.

"I don't give a fuck what he said! He's a terrible father for keeping me locked up in this house!" You shouted, spinning around to meet Sevika's eyes, but she just laughed in your face.

It was a hearty laugh, her head thrown back, hand against her belly while she gasped for breath. As she wheezed at you, you shook your head, forgetting all about your clothes to watch her.

She'd never shown this amount of emotion before, so you were honestly fascinated, but then she opened her mouth.

"You are a spoilt brat, you know that? You live in this huge fucking mansion, drive a multi-million dollar car, all your friends have celebrities for parents, and you've never worked a day in your fucking life, but you complain because your father won't let you travel five hours away to a fucking lake when you have a huge fucking pool in your backyard? Fucking pathetic." She walked away and you stood there, your jaw slacked open in shock.

No one had ever spoken to you that way.

"You can't talk to me like that!" You shouted, chasing after her, and Sevika snorted, sitting at your vanity and picking up your makeup bag, "all of this costs more than my fucking rent."

"Do you hear me talking to you, Sevika? You work for me and I won't let you disrespect me like that!" Sevika froze at your words, dropping your makeup bag on your vanity as she spun towards you, a humorless smile rising on her face as she stood.

She easily towered over you, her eyes staring down into yours as she pressed her body against yours. "I don't work for you, princess. I work for your father, and if you speak to me disrespectfully again," Sevika reached up to grip your jaw, leaning closer, her minty breath flowing against your face.

"I'll put you in your place. Understand?" She asked, pouting playfully as tears welled up in your eyes, but she didn't care, continuing to grip your jaw and await your answer.

Sevika shook your face gently, cooing as a tear rolled down your cheek, "Understand?" She repeated and you finally nodded, pushing yourself away from her as you rushed into your bathroom and slammed the door shut behind yourself.

As you stared at yourself in the mirror you couldn't help but blush, your cheeks red and hot, your belly fluttering with butterflies, and your panties soaked with the evidence of your pleasure.

You braced yourself against the counter, staring down at your chest, your nipples peeking through the fabric of your shirt and you reached up to your boob, twisting your nipple, a sharp moan exiting your lips as you dragged your hand down your body and reached into your panties.

You were surprised at the way you felt. Sevika had completely dominated you within a single second, but all you could feel was pleasure and the hope of something more with her, but of course that wouldn't happen.

Right?

Your hand paused right before you pressed a finger against your clit, and you let out a frustrated huff, shaking your head and inhaling deeply.

"Fuck her."

𐙚

The next morning, your father was gone for a small business trip to another state, which left you alone (with Sevika) inside the house. Of course, your father had told her to keep a watchful eye on you to make sure you didn't leave and go off on your trip with your friends, which you were still trying to sneak off to.

But, as soon as you woke up the next morning to go eat breakfast, Sevika was waiting on you outside your bedroom door, leaning against the wall, a bored look on her face.

You rolled your eyes at her presence, pulling on a pair of slippers as you made your way downstairs to the kitchen. Sevika followed you loosely and sat at the bar in the kitchen, running a lazy hand down her face as you made yourself breakfast.

As you reached up into the cabinet, attempting to grab yourself a fancy glass for your orange juice, Sevika spoke up, "ask for help why don't you?"

She was still sitting at the bar, and you saw her shake her head as you flicked her off, climbing up onto the kitchen counter to grab the glass.

The nightgown you were wearing was a short, silky thing, just barely falling down to your knees, and it was worse when you hopped down from the counter, your lack of bra causing your boobs to bounce, your nipples brushing against the silk of your gown and pebbling into hard mounds.

Sevika, who had been watching you the entire time, seeming to visibly take a breath as you poured your juice, her eyes locked onto your body like a fly on a meal.

You enjoyed the attention, feeling her gaze rack up and down your body, your skin prickling while your ears were hot and red. A small smile rose on your lips when you saw Sevika move in her seat, her hand reaching down to grip her thigh, and once she finally looked away, you promised to yourself that you'd do anything in your power to torture her with your body.

You didn't know how you'd get away with it, but your short nightgown was a successful start.

"Hungry?" You called out to her, placing down your plate of toast and scrambled eggs as you sat down at the bar and sipped your glass of orange juice.

Sevika shook her head, glancing over at you, her attention latching onto your boobs for a second, but then her gray eyes connected with yours and she blushed, realizing that you'd caught her ogling your tits.

"I ate at home." You nodded at her response, standing up once again to grab the remote for the living room TV, but as you were returning to the bar with it, you purposefully dropped it.

"Shit, I'm so clumsy." You said with a giggle, bending over to grab the remote, but you already knew Sevika could see your panties. When you finally grabbed the remote and turned around, Sevika was staring straight ahead, legs crossed and cheeks red.

𐙚

Later on that day, you'd decided to get in the pool. Sevika was sitting on one of the lounge chairs, watching something on her phone while you sat nearby, removing your shorts and untwisting a bottle of sunscreen.

You were wearing a cute green swimsuit, the top just barely covered your breasts while the bottoms were slightly too small and hitched up on your hips.

"Sevika, can you help me put on my sunscreen?" You questioned innocently, a slight smile on your face when she glanced over at you, frowning.

She was silent for a few seconds, eyes struggling to look solely on your face, but when you stood up, walking over to her and moping out a please, she said yes.

"I can see what you're doing." Sevika muttered, watching you lay on the lounge chair, your arms resting under your chin as Sevika squeezed sunscreen onto her hands and rubbed them together.

"What do you mean? I just need a little help."

She scoffed. "just a fucking tease." When her hands finally touched your back, you shivered, a miniscule moan escaping your lips.

Sevika ran her hands up and down your back, rubbing gently, leaning one knee against the chair, pressing against your side.

When she placed her hands against your thighs, rubbing firmly, you felt your heart jump. Within seconds, you'd gone from controller, to controlled, Sevika in charge like she'd never left.

Her hands ran up your thighs to your ass, squeezing and groping as she straddled your back, keeping you in place. "Does that feel good, princess?" You responded with a moan, Sevika's hands grabbing the strap of your swimsuit bottoms and moving it aside to reveal your cunt.

"Think you can tease me and get away with it?" You shook your head, "Sevika, please!"

"Please, what?" She ran a finger up your cunt, then finally removed your bottoms, "please, fuck me."

She listened, spinning around and lifting your legs, her mouth latching onto your cunt with a strong suction, tongue flicking at your cunt so fast that you could barely breathe.

The cool wind outside cooled you down easily, but your skin was moist and sticky with sweat, you ass propped into the air. "Don't stop!" You begged, reaching back to grip onto Sevika's ink black hair.

Your stomach coiled in anticipation and Sevika plunged a finger into your cunt, your arousal soaking her face. "I'm about to come!" You squealed and Sevika chuckled against your cunt, stuffing another finger inside of you.

When you let out a god awful moan, you body convulsing with the evidence of your orgasm, Sevika pulled away, coming around the lounge chair to watch you gasp.

"Gonna tease me again?" She caressed your face, leaning in close to kiss your cheek and you smiled, reaching up and groping her tit. You pulled yourself up and grabbed the bottom of her shirt, pulling it up and over her head.

"Anytime."

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milkingtonthethird · 3 months ago

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GAMER!BSF!GRAYSON who has a massive crush on you.

WARNINGS: gn!reader, fluff (just in case you thought there wasn’t)

- He was never really into Minecraft, but you suggested a server to decompress from competitive online games.

- He loves it.

- Would definitely break your bed and put it next to his, saying some cheesy shit like, “I get lonely.” You don’t humor him, though eventually you give up because it resets your spawn point.

- He sees it as you liking him back.

- He would have a diverse playing style, but that’s only because it’s you. Oh, you want flowers? He’s spending an unholy amount of time getting the right ones. Need a lot of iron? You won’t see him in a few hours.

- He leaves you cute little signs if you aren’t on at the same time.

- Will learn how to build cool things just to see your reaction. He’d deny any remarks about him watching a tutorial.

- He isn’t sure why, but seeing you in a Nightwing skin has him flustered. A lot of bonus points if you have no clue that it’s him.

- He definitely has a mouth on online games. It’s honestly surprising how many insults he can come up with.

- Though, if you do some dumb shit, intentional or not, he wouldn’t utter a word. It wasn’t your fault you walked into an obvious claymore.

- If you’re doing good, expect praise. Or really, really questionable things.

- “Oh my God, you’re so hot,” with an unneeded breathy tone or, “Please kiss me.”

- He’d convince you to get matching gamertags.

- If you verbalize wanting anything, like skins or even a game, he’ll get it for you. It doesn’t matter that you don’t want him to waste his money on it, you’re getting that overpriced Valorant bundle.

- Sometimes, you both just sit in Discord calls, talking or watching something.

- Or falling asleep.

- Well, you specifically. He loves it. Loves when your voice gets noticeably softer, more tired. He always talks more quietly, as if he’s trying to lull you to sleep.

- He’s a night owl—usually you aren’t. He’d just busy himself with things, keeping his headset on just in case.

- He perks up like a dog when you unexpectedly mumble something, asking him how he could let you fall asleep.

- He’d just grin.

- Obviously you come over to hang out, or vice versa.

- Who knew he’d lose a game of Mario Kart just so you can tease him?

- He likes when you both do your own thing, barely any words uttered. He’d lounge on his bed, Switch in hand, while you play on his computer.

- He’d get distracted, though, opting to just stare at you. How your hands work on his keyboard, how your brow creases in focus. You honestly forgot he was there, so yes, he’s going to observe you with little hearts in his eyes.

- They aren’t often, given his busy schedule, but sleepovers. You don’t plan on it; you keep saying you can pull an all-nighter.

- Ends up with you “resting” your eyes for a moment.

- And Grayson, being very smart, would sit close enough just in case your head fell onto his shoulder. When he knows you are absolutely knocked out, he’d press a soft, light kiss against your head, shifting carefully to get you more comfortable. It’s hard to continue playing when you’re not doing it, too.

- He’d take you to any nerd-related event.

- He isn’t sure why you keep bringing your wallet—he’ll pay. It’s all worth it to see your giddy smile.

- Though, he can’t complain if you get him the giant Lapras plush he’s been eyeing the entire time.

- No, he doesn’t think it’s your child. And he definitely doesn’t cuddle it at night. Nope.

- Super busy conventions means hand holding. It’s also an excuse to put his hand a smidge too low on your back.

- He looks confused when you point it out. Do you want to get lost?

- Expect a ton of pictures. Moreso of you. He’s just too lazy to ask someone to take one of both of you.

- He’ll stand in a long ass line for a signature from whomever you want. He’s only pissed off because VIP passes slipped his mind. Silly Grayson.

- If you happen to be a cosplayer, he’s in charge of fixing your clothing, taking pictures of you with fans. Hell, he’d even touch up your makeup, if you want.

- You didn’t ask. He’s good at his makeshift job, nonetheless.

- A touchy person holding you a little too personally? A glare. A touchy person still holding you a little too personally? He’s still going to take the photo, just after he moves their hand off of your waist.

- God forbid anyone harasses you.

Note: I lowkey want to do a NSFW version of this but idk 😭

#dick grayson #richard grayson #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #richard grayson x reader #richard grayson x you #dc comics #dc universe

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rumisgf · 1 year ago

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DENKI BOYFRIEND HEADCANONS

summary: here’s some denki headcanons if he was your boyfie bcs i rlly love this boy sm and he don’t get enough love for my liking :[

warnings: college!au, suggestive, crack, feminine terms for reader used, black!reader ofc and always

✧ you’ve earned yourself a himbo gamer bf congrats

✧ denki is so loud about how much he loves you and he makes it very known that you’re his

✧ while it annoys people like bakugou when he constantly goes on tangents about you, it’s honestly such a green flag

✧ by nature, denki’s a very flirty person so you assumed you’d have to work that out with him a lot

✧ not only that but as denki got older, ladies (and boys) definitely started flirting with him first

✧ it definitely irked you when yall were js talking/in a “situationship”

✧ sometimes you genuinely wanted to rip the hair out of not only your scalp and his

✧ it was only because you wanted him so bad

✧ surprisingly tho, if you bring it up to him he stops immediately

✧ and when you do start dating he pretty much tunes out anyone who even tries to make a move on him

✧ he definitely owns one of those “i love my girlfriend” shirts and will genuinely style it

✧ overall, denki’s one of the most reassuring partners you could ask for after y’all make it official

“i promise i’m literally obsessed with you.”

“you’re the only one i see, princess”

✧ if yall see the way he talks in the show, he definitely is in tune with his feminine side

✧ and in the best way possible, the only reason he might have a lot of friends who are girls is because girls feel so comfortable around him

✧ and i’m a huge believer in the ‘denki with an older sister’ headcanon so that’s definitely where he gets it from

✧ he always helps you with outfits and he even knows how to do makeup to an extent

✧ the first time you were running late but still had to do your makeup so he just came over and did a perfect winged eyeliner, you were just like ‘…..someone cooked here.’

“kaminari….what the fuck.”

“what?”

✧ he always calls you “girl” when you say something weird or dumb and it really just slips off his tongue

✧ denki also loves gossiping. he’s so messy

✧ if he peeps something, you’re the first person he texts and y’all definitely make fun of people together

✧ when he’s gaming you’d think he’s one of those dudes who just completely ignores their girl

✧ which sometimes is a habit when you’re on the phone

✧ but usually, he’s able to have a full conversation with you and play the game with bakusquad on a seperate instagram or discord call (yes, he has this talent because of his adhd)

✧ besides he makes up for it when you get to take facetime photos of him with his camera set up, his bedroom lights off, the lights from his computer monitor/tv and his led lights highlighting his features so beautifully

✧ if you ever need his attention, he’ll get off in an instant with the excuse ‘i wanna go hang out with my girl’

✧ and he also loves gaming with you. it’s 50/50 though, sometimes he’ll let you win and sometimes he’ll absolutely obliterate you then laugh in your face

✧ it’s ok though because you get kisses after :)

✧ in person, kaminari’s always is touching you in some type of way

✧ whether it’s you sitting between his legs on the floor, his hand on your thigh while you sit next to him, occasionally hugging your waist if you stand up next to him

✧ his favorite though is definitely having you sit in his lap

✧ he’ll play with the hem of your pants or your shirt, wrap his arms around your waist while holding the controller, or let you bury your face in his neck and fall asleep

✧ speaking of, he loves when you fall asleep on him

✧ even around other people, he always likes pulling you on his lap or having your head rested on his shoulder

✧ both of y’all’s friends definitely take pictures whenever this happens but he honestly loves it and doesn’t care when bakusquad sends it into their groupchat

✧ he’s just like yeah, that’s my cute lil girlfriend what abt it?

✧ he really does think you’re so adorable and he loves babying you

✧ yk how the one episode where he said nejire was cute because she was kinda stupid (😭) ? yeah, he loves when you have little dumb moments because he likes to make fun of you and tell you how adorable you are

“awww, you’re so adorable baby!”

“IT’S NOT FUNNY!”

✧ besides, it does make him feel better for him to not always feel like the “dumb” one in the relationship, it makes yall more balanced out even if you are smarter than him

✧ he also really likes flustering you. he’ll grab your belt loop, let his hands go a bit too low when you hug him, randomly pull you onto his lap, give you kisses all over your face, and purposefully stare into your eyes while you talk

✧ though, he does equally enjoy being babied. he loves when you play with his hair, laying his head in your lap, and being little spoon when y’all cuddle

✧ which is often the case unless you’re laying your head on his chest, his only other favorite cuddling position other than you being big spoon

✧ he loves playing guitar for you and if you can sing, he’ll play a song to have you sing the lyrics along with him

✧ denki is just a music lover in general, it’s often what’s in the background if y’all are making out or just chilling together

✧ if you like dying your hair, he will practically beg to help you do it because he thinks it’s a great bonding experience

✧ he’ll even dye a strip of his hair to match yours

✧ based on the ova where the big three were playing as villains and class 1-a were the heroes, i like to think denki was one of the first out of his friends to learn how to drive

✧ so he definitely was eager to make you his passenger princess. he loves taking you out to eat, driving you home, picking you up from places, and taking you shopping

✧ even if he barely has the money, he’ll spoil the hell out of you and (sometimes you gotta remind him to be responsible with his money 😭)

✧ his lock screen is definitely a picture of you in his passenger seat or you holding his hand while he’s driving

✧ he loves showing you off and he puts all your instagram posts on his story within seconds, and he will spam your comments

✧ he’ll also convince you to do tiktoks with him

✧ his favorite dates are at arcades, he just loves having fun with you and watching you get competitive with all the games

✧ he also loves when there’s a photobooth and will practically drag you to take cute pictures with him, which he’ll later put in his room on full display

✧ in general he takes tons of pictures of you and you take up a lot of his storage, his phone is really on its last leg.

✧ this also means he as the worst bangers of you imaginable. his birthday story posts are lethal.

✧ overall dating him is like having a built in best friend, except yall kiss a lot

✧ 10/10 boyfie

@ rumisgf

#denki headcanons #denki kaminari x reader #denki kaminari #kaminari headcanons #mha #denki x black reader #my hero academia #mha spoilers #mha season 7 #bnha 421 #denks !!

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seeingivy · 6 months ago

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it's nice to have a friend

eren jaeger x f!reader

**part of my canary mate fic

previous part here

[lizontopoftheworld]: you know i’m about to do something huge today?

[busstopbilly]: We’re finally getting married?

[lizontopoftheworld]: NO

[lizontopoftheworld]: okay wait that sounded mean

[lizontopoftheworld]: like i was against the idea

[lizontopoftheworld]: not that i’m for the idea

[lizontopoftheworld]: not that i’m not not for the idea

[lizontopoftheworld]: ANYWAYS

[lizontopoftheworld]: you have to stop flirting this type of thign is not good for my brain

[busstopbilly]: Everything alright?

[lizontopoftheworld]: …

[lizontopoftheworld]: just have a lot on my mind

[lizontopoftheworld]: kind of scatterbrained

[lizontopoftheworld]: i am going to confront the prick.

[busstopbilly]: Wow, what gives?

[busstopbilly]: Give him hell.

[lizontopoftheworld]: nothing serious actually

[lizontopoftheworld]: it’s just a thing for something we’re doing together

[lizontopoftheworld]: BUT it’s a big deal because i’ve never really given input on this thing because i’ve assumed that he doesn’t necessarily want my input on this thing? granted i don’t think he takes advice from anyone but still

[lizontopoftheworld]: i know what i’m saying is right and that i should so i’m going to

[busstopbilly]: :)

[busstopbilly]: Proud of you.

[busstopbilly]: Are you nervous?

[lizontopoftheworld]: i’ve prepared three counter arguments

[lizontopoftheworld]: he literally will not catch me lacking and i’m going to try and keep my cool so that he knows that his dumb comments aren’t getting me

[busstopbilly]: This is as much rehearsing as it takes for you to speak to your sister-in-law.

[lizontopoftheworld]: god that’s a lost cause don’t even bring that up

[busstopbilly]: Sometimes it feels like you’re a little harsh on her.

[lizontopoftheworld]: SHE’S INSUFFERABLE BILLY

[busstopbilly]: I’ll table that comment for another time. You’ve got to keep your wits about you.

[busstopbilly]: Good luck, pretty girl.

[lizontopoftheworld]: what’s up with you?

[busstopbilly]: I am all types of frustrated.

[busstopbilly]: It’s really hard to figure out what to do with what I’m working on. It’s aggravating because I know that it’s something that is entirely within my capabilities but I just can’t.

[busstopbilly]: I’ve been working non-stop, been staring at my computer, and just getting so fucking frustated. It’s like I’m defective. Doesn’t help that it’s unreasonably high pressure at this point, but…

[lizontopoftheworld]: UGH im so sorry i didn’t mean to just start ranting at you with my own stuff

[lizontopoftheworld]: you know, you’re very smart and capable. you’re going to figure it out eventually.

[busstopbilly]: It’s weird. I was annoyed that I had the role I did before, but I fear I’m getting way too involved. I’m starting to care too much, which is never a good sign.

[lizontopoftheworld]: it’s a good thing that you care

[lizontopoftheworld]: and isn’t this close to like real medical stuff that you wanted to do?

[lizontopoftheworld]: just a sign that it’s something that’s actually stimulating. that you care about and want to work towards.

[busstopbilly]: You always look for the positives.

[lizontopoftheworld]: you should take notes, sweetheart

[lizontopoftheworld]: and you shouldn’t demand perfection of yourself. you are not defective if something doesn’t work out. you’re still a regular person, it’s okay to get stumped or struggle with it a little bit.

[busstopbilly]: You know, my dad DOES demand perfection of me.

[lizontopoftheworld]: and that’s why we hate your dad.

[lizontopoftheworld]: i know you demand perfection of yourself too, that wanting to do well is natural, but be a little bit nice to yourself.

[lizontopoftheworld]: you’re going to figure it out.

[busstopbilly]: Check back in at the end of the week. Hopefully, I’m still put together.

[busstopbilly]: By the way.

[busstopbilly]: Sweetheart?

[busstopbilly]: Do you mean that in a patronizing way or am I really your sweetheart?

[lizontopoftheworld]: patronizing

[busstopbilly]: You’re killing me.

[lizontopoftheworld]: i’m sorry, sweetheart <3

you find eren in the main conference room, early in the morning on thursday. you can tell that he’s hard at work – old scans from sessions printed against the wall that he’s made notes on, intelligible jargon on the glass whiteboards, and his hair an uncharacteristic mess – surely from the amount of times he’s run his hands through his hair.

you clear your throat, recalling all the talking points that you had rehearsed in the mirror the night prior, as you knock on the door and cautiously enter the room. you note that the smell of coffee is overwhelming – the freshly brewed cup sitting two feet away from you – and that the trashcan seems to be overflowing with empty energy drinks.

eren doesn’t even notice your presence, his green eyes still fixed to the scan that he’s staring at, his hand raised in the air with the pen. you note that he’s wearing his glasses, that it looks like he hasn’t slept since you saw him yesterday, as you walk up to his side.

“working hard, hm?” you ask.

eren’s startled by the sound of your voice, jumping in the slightest, as you widen your eyes and feel your cheeks flush. way to start off on a good note.

“sorry! sorry, i figured you noticed that i was here when i walked up to you.”

“were you saying something to me?” he asks.

you shake your head. you can tell that your presence has shattered some semblance of his concentration – that he’s annoyed with you because of it – as he sets his pencil down and basically collapses into the chair across from you. you follow suit, sitting down in the chair too, as you uncomfortably shift against the worn out foam.

“i’m too fucking tired to have a fucking conversation with you right now.” he utters.

you fight the urge to scoff.

“does talking to me truly take so much effort?” you retort.

eren rolls his eyes, before slumping back down into the chair.

“when you’re so hellbent on arguing, it does. and you don’t seem to talk to me otherwise.”

“you don’t have to argue if you just agree with me. and why on earth would i be so hellbent on arguing with the most insufferable person that i know?”

eren shrugs, clearly irritated.

“you tell me, y/n.”

you clear your throat, cracking all the knuckles in your hand.

“i’ve come to talk to you about colt. the trial. you can’t tell falco that he’s on the verge of getting kicked out.”

eren pinches the bridge of his nose.

“well, obviously –”

“his brother means a lot to him. his accident was really traumatic for his family, and even though he promised he wouldn’t get so self-involved, he obviously is. i mean, it’s his brother. he can’t help it. and there’s a lot of hope that this is giving him and i’d be scared to prematurely stop him in his tracks if we didn’t need to. they both talk about it so much that it would demoralize gabi too.”

“oh, it definitely would, and -”

“and they’re both sweet kids. their sincere passion and interest in the project is so sweet, i would hate for them to feel like it’s not working, to think that all of their work, our work, has amounted to nothing. i think that you and i could figure out which treatment we should do this upcoming week on our own, if you’ll take my help, and then we can go from there.”

“well, i - “

you can’t help but ball your fists in your lap.

“look, i know you don’t really like me, that you probably think that i’m being stupid and soft-hearted and whatever right now, but this means a lot to me. and i know that basically means nothing to you, but i’m just asking you as your colleague? friend? whatever it is that we are to just do this for me. i’ve never asked you for anything before, i don’t think i ever will again, and i’d just…really appreciate it if you could –”

you’re promptly cut off from giving your entire spiel because eren reaches forward, placing both of his warm hands on your cheeks, in efforts to get you to stop talking. you look forward, noting that his eyes are so deeply green – that he really does look exhausted – as he applies a firm pressure.

“stop talking please.” he murmurs, his tone soft. almost like you’ve pained him my rambling for so long.

“what?” you whisper.

eren lets go, the warmth retreating from your face, as he leans back in his chair.

“you didn’t hear a word i said, did you?” he asks, his tone rather soft.

you frown.

“did you say something?”

“i pretty much agreed with you after the first sentence, y/n. don’t know what the fuck you’re blabbing on about.” he murmurs.

“oh. really?” you murmur, slightly embarrassed. you wouldn’t have put so much effort if he was going to give in that easily.

eren gives you a thoughtful nod, before leaning his head against the back of his chair, and rubbing at his eyes.

“i’m well aware that you think i’m not capable of being fond of anyone. but i am, very fond, of both falco and his brother. i would hate to let either of them down or cause anyone unnecessary stress, especially when this entire thing is my idea, so i would like to keep it between us. i was actually intending on having this conversation with you when i arrived.”

“i’ve been here for five hours. it’s almost one in the afternoon, eren.”

eren groans.

“it seems that time has gotten away from me.”

“how long have you been here?”

“since yesterday. i can’t seem to figure out which region to target next.”

you swallow hard.

“did you really stay here the entire time?” you ask.

he nods.

“biked here so that you wouldn’t go out of your way last night.”

you sigh, as you flip through the stack of papers on the table. he’s highlighted a bunch of sentences, underlined and circled random words with questions on the side, as you reach for the closest pens.

“are you okay with me helping? more than i already am? maybe i can try some machine learning with the data we already have and use some of the analysis you’ve been using so…so we can feel more confident? i know that you don’t like me but…”

“stop fucking saying that.”

“what?”

“that i don’t like you. you’re prickly, but i don’t hate anyone.”

prickly?

“i’m consulting a bunch of people who do the stimulation, have a few meetings with specialists this week before i pick what we’re going with next week. we have to make our best chance at an educated guess.”

you nod.

“that’s smart.”

“you..you can join in the meetings, if you’d like. might mention stuff for analysis that would be useful for you to hear in real time instead of repeated from me.” eren offers.

you can’t help but smile.

“you’re really nice when you’re tired.”

“don’t get used to it.”

[busstopbilly]: Hi princess.

[busstopbilly]: Sorry I haven’t messaged in a while, I hope you know I wasn’t ignoring you.

[lizontopoftheworld]: no problem

[lizontopoftheworld]: been working myself to the bone so hard i didn’t notice :O

[busstopbilly]: Tell me about it.

[lizontopoftheworld]: any luck with your project?

[busstopbilly]: Well, I’ve somehow elicited help. She actually offered, but it’s helping things move along. I’ll be able to rest after Wednesday, I guess.

[busstopbilly]: How about you? My pretty girl’s not working too hard, right?

[lizontopoftheworld]: i fell asleep on my laptop the other day. while i was still here. but that’s besides the point.

[lizontopoftheworld]: worried about one of my children in the lab

[busstopbilly]: Your children? With who?

[busstopbilly]: We’d make cute children.

[lizontopoftheworld]: you don’t know what i look like. i don’t know what you look like.

[busstopbilly]: Oh, so you think I’m ugly?

[lizontopoftheworld]: NO

[lizontopoftheworld]: you probably think i’m ugly, you didn’t even oppose that part of that statement

[busstopbilly]: Shut up.

[busstopbilly]: You think you’re SO funny for that one.

[lizontopoftheworld]: it was kind of funny

[busstopbilly]: I know you’re beautiful. Anyways, who are these children? Why are you worried about them? Are they okay?

[lizontopoftheworld]: idk

[lizontopoftheworld]: sitting on some news that would destory them. shit at keeping secrets so i’ve been tryign to keep it together

[lizontopoftheworld]: just want to keep them from being hurt when they don’t have to be?

[busstopbilly]: Awful kind of you to take that all upon yourself. Are you talking to someone about it?

[lizontopoftheworld]: you.

[busstopbilly]: Liz.

[busstopbilly]: Besides me.

[lizontopoftheworld]: you’re enough, you know?

[lizontopoftheworld]: talking to you always makes me feel better

[busstopbilly]: Me too, Liz.

[busstopbilly]: I’d also feel better if I knew you were confiding in a friend. That someone was checking up on you if you’re stomaching something big, which knowing you, you probably are.

[lizontopoftheworld]: you are my friend

[lizontopoftheworld]: and you literally checked up on me today

[busstopbilly]: Liz.

[busstopbilly]: You stress me out sometimes.

[lizontopoftheworld]: no one asked you to invite all this stress on my behalf.

[busstopbilly]: Someone has to do it.

[busstopbilly]: Plus, it’s you.

[busstopbilly]: Kind of just comes naturally. Worrying about you. Wanting to make sure you’re okay.

[lizontopoftheworld]: you’re so cute i wish you were real

you eye the schedule that eren gave you at the end of yesterday that’s taped to the wall of your cubicle. there’s nearly seven meetings crammed into three days, each of which you’re both preparing an exhaustive list of questions for. it’s been back and forth – eren leaving comments on your document, you dropping an article into the chat between the two of you – as you read up on every last thing that you can find.

“we brought you a peace offering.”

you look up to find gabi and falco standing at the side of your cubicle, with smiles on their faces. you return the gesture as they extend their hand out to you, with a cinnamon roll slightly squashed into a napkin, that you gratefully accept from them.

“a peace offering for?”

“well, first of all, we can tell that you and eren have been working tirelessly for the grant.” falco states.

right. the grant that you already have.

not that they needed to know that.

“and no one likes to spend time with eren more than they need to. especially you.” gabi jokes.

you laugh.

“we just have a small request to make.” gabi states.

you shoot them both a look.

“gabi has to talk to pieck when we go to marley for the conference at the end of the month. and well, these type of things make her really nervous. also, i kind of told gabi that you’re not that fond of pieck and now she’s even more nervous to go there, so she really needs you there.” falco rambles.

you glare at the two of them.

“she’s not some demon you have to be scared of, guys.”

“didn’t you say that you avoid going home because of her?” falco asks.

you groan.

“i didn’t tell you that for you to use it against me, falco. and…and she’s really nice actually, it’s just me having an issue with how hard she tries to be…nice sometimes. i’m sure that she will be a perfect picture of kindness when you meet her, it’s just…”

you sigh, gesturing for the two of them to pull up chairs. the two of them give you an excited smile, both scattering to pull up chairs into your space, as you eye the cinnamon roll. it smells sweet, enough to make your stomach growl, as they attentively wait for you to talk in their seats.

you and falco had a close mentor-mentee relationship. and by that, it meant that the two of you were really just friends, and you just gave him advice here and there.

granted, you’re sure half of that is a byproduct of the fact that falco’s been alone in the dorms almost every single day since he’s one of the only students on the fellowship, that you’re the only person around to talk to, but it’s ultimately lead to some very serious conversations you should most definitely not be logging as work on your timesheets.

“well, i’ve told falco a lot about pieck. but not you gabi.” you start.

gabi offers you a smile.

“i have an older brother named porco. he’s…he’s really plucky but you’ll like him when you meet him. he works at my parent’s business back home.”

you smile.

“when porco was in highschool, he started dating pieck. she kind of freaked me out because she was super preppy. captain of the cheer team, on the student council. she went the whole ten miles and we were just…i don’t know. serving people pizza in our free time. begging our teachers to tutor us during lunch. i never really understood what they saw in each other. they have nothing in common. can barely understand each other, from what it seems like.”

“it’s romantic! opposites attract.” falco adds.

you narrow your eyes at him.

“anyways, she went to some big shot law school in a different country. i thought that she was going to break up with him to be honest, but they…they got engaged instead. did long distance their entire first year of marriage because my brother can’t really leave my parents. and she was really sweet through the entire thing, but…but i don’t know. her family wasn’t into it. the fact that we were immigrants. and even after we became citizens, they just thought that we weren’t worth their caliber. pieck didn’t seem to care, not even in the slightest, and she lives in our house now. practices in our city.”

gabi gives you a thoughtful nod.

“she gave up her entire family for your brother? is he cute? ”

you shake your head.

“yeah. i mean, i know they still send her money here and there, but they don’t speak to her at all. guess that’s their way of making sure that she’s taken care of, since they know we can’t.” you murmur.

gabi frowns.

“is she rich?” gabi asks.

falco shoves her in the side.

“you can’t just ask if she’s rich.”

“no, no. y/n’s chill, i can ask her.”

you fight the urge to laugh as you lean closer, giving gabi a coy look.

“super rich. she has a nice cushy job and again, she still gets the money from her parents. she offered to buy me a car when i moved out here so that it would be easier for me.”

gabi gives you a bright smile.

“that’s a good fucking offer. i would ask her for hundreds of things if i were you.”

you shrug.

“it’s weird. it’s just kind of…i don’t know. she offers me a lot of things like that – money, advice – she tries really hard to be a big sister to me. porco’s sweet, but there was a lot of things that he didn’t do. i’m sure he’s told her that i work hard, that i don’t really take help from people, and i guess that’s why she’s so eager to try sometimes. but it just…i don’t know, i can’t bring myself to take help from her when we don’t know each other like that.”

“she’s your sister.” falco deadpans.

you shake your head.

“it’s weird. i’m not saying that it makes sense. and she’s my sister-in-law.”

gabi gives you a nod.

“i know what you mean. you got here on your own, you’re convinced that you can get the rest of the way on your own too.”

“exactly! and i’d owe her something at the end if i did take her help.”

falco frowns at the two of you.

“you know, you both have the same individualistic behavior. i’m not sure that it serves you any purpose. you know you won’t die if you rely on people. maybe she’s just trying to help you because you guys are literally family.”

gabi shakes her head at falco.

“that’s where you’re wrong falco. sometimes, the only person you have is yourself.”

“that sounds awfully morbid.” eren states.

the three of you turn your heads to find him standing at your cubicle, backpack strung over his shoulder, as you give him a nod. you drop your laptop into the backpack, zipping it up, as gabi takes her opportunity to argue with eren.

“that’s literally something that you’ve said to me before.” gabi retorts.

“right. but i have reason to say that. you’re young. you should be at the club or something.” eren responds.

that earns him a laugh from falco, who eren shoots a wink to, before turning back to glare at gabi.

eren’s able to snag the two of you a meeting with one of the people at the forefronts of trans-cranial magnetic stimulation research. you have a sneaking inkling that eren elicited some sort of assistance from his dad to get this arranged – or that his last name was enough of a segway in the first place – and it makes you slightly nervous.

being on such uneven footing, meeting with people who are so important, when you can barely muster your one on one meetings with levi sometimes.

nile dok. he’s got a nice office in an office building downtown, one of the soaring skyscrapers embedded in the middle of the city.

“have you ever met nile dok?” you ask.

eren’s taken aback by the question as the two of you walk in through the roundabout doors, waiting in the small line at the front desk.

“yeah, uh…i’ve known him since i was a kid. he’s friends with my dad.” he murmurs.

you give him a nod, mentally deciding that you deserve a sweet treat later for being able to predict that one, as the two of you walk up to the front desk. the girl sitting at the desk has a short bob and an almost pinched smile as she looks up at the two of you.

“we have a meeting at four with nile dok. the last names are l/n and jaeger.” eren states.

she gives eren a curt nod as she quickly types the names on her computer, before giving you a satisfied smile, indicating that she’s found the appointment. she reaches to her side drawer and slides two badges across the desk, with a small paper for parking validation. but before you can reach for yours, eren snatches it out of your hand, his eyes narrowed in frustration as he holds it up in front of her face.

“what is this?” eren asks.

“her badge?” the girl retorts.

eren shakes her head.

“no, no. this is a guest pass. get her a real one.” eren asserts.

you put your hand on eren’s shoulder, squeezing hard to get his attention, as he drops the guest badge onto the desk and looks over at you.

“it’s not a big deal, eren.” you murmur.

he glares at you.

“why the hell do i deserve a badge with my first and last name on it? did i do something special to deserve that that you didn’t?” he asks.

you shrug.

“well, you were the one who got us the meeting.”

“yeah, i got us the meeting. not just me, you’re part of it too. i don’t entertain any of this guest pass bullshit, so just drop it. print her a real one, please.” eren murmurs.

he turns back to the girl sitting at the desk, who is now shooting him an apologetic grin, as she types almost frantically on her monitor. you can tell that she’s avoided confrontation too much, that eren’s eyes are a little too piercing, because she’s basically pulling the badge out of the printer to speed up the time.

and at the end of the excruciating minute, moreso for her than you, she slides a newly minted badge with your name embellished in bright bold letters. it can’t help but enrage eren more for some reason, as he turns to her one last time.

“was that so hard?” eren asks.

“it’s standard practice, i apologize. he’ll be on the third floor, last door on the right.”

eren gives her one last nod before gesturing to you to follow him, to the long glass door at the end of the hallway. the elevator is empty as the two of you step in, a sweet sugary smell – like the remnants of someone’s perfume were left over – and you clear your throat.

“thank you. for the badge.”

“just prepare yourself, that’s only the half of it. he may be useful to us now, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to act like an asshole when we meet with him.” eren mumbles.

the elevator whirrs to a stop and you follow eren down the hallway, your eyes whizzing past all of the certifications and awards that are printed on the wall. you note that eren’s dad’s name is included on some of them, that there are pictures of them standing on big stages – cutting ribbons together, holding glass awards – as you wait in the two chairs at the end of the hall.

“he’s an asshole now?” you whisper.

eren looks over at you, almost like he’s pissed that you’ve even stomached the courage to ask that question, before he slightly slumps in his chair. his hand is shaking at his side in the slightest, his fingers curled into a fist, as he gives you a nod.

“he’s been an asshole. maybe even bigger than my dad.”

you memorize that sentence and catalog it to your memory.

the disdain in his tone. you never realized that eren wasn’t particularly fond of his dad. and figure that it must be irritating every time he comes around the lab.

the door opens, a girl gesturing for the two of you to follow her into the office. eren gives you one last tight lipped smile as you enter the room, overwhelmed all together.

the first thing you note is the smell. it nearly burns your nose – the sharp smell of the alcohol mixed with the heavy smell of the cigarette smoke – as you sit in the chair closest to the door. eren’s at your side, taking his jacket off, before handing it to you and whispering under his breath.

“cover your legs.”

you can feel your stomach churn as you listen to his instructions, draping his jacket over the exposed part of your legs, and balling your fists underneath the fabric.

the second thing that you notice is that nile dok doesn’t look nearly as good as he did in the photos outside. you have a small inkling that the photos outside have to be photoshopped, that he didn’t look half as haggard as he did right now, slumped over his desk chair, and that most of the things that were in this room, were meant to keep up appearances.

the designer suit that he was wearing. the embossed stationery. mahogany wood.

“is this your girlfriend, eren?” nile asks.

you swallow hard. surely he couldn’t be serious.

“she’s my colleague. why would i bring my girlfriend to a work meeting?” eren seethes.

“your dad used to do that before he married carla. thought you were taking notes out of his playbook.”

eren rolls his eyes.

“i would rather roll over in my grave before i did that. and my mom was his colleague too. she wasn’t his girlfriend back then.” eren notes.

nile gives him a boisterous laugh, smacking one of his fists down onto the table – enough to make nearly all of the belongings shake on the desk – before turning over to you. you immediately divert your eyes, noting that the carpet has some very dried out stains, one that take a trained eye to notice, and that he must knock over things quiet often.

and force someone to clean it up.

“what’s your name, pretty?” he asks.

“y/n l/n.” you respond.

“l/n? are you from around here?” he asks.

you shake your head.

“i’m from marley.”

nile gives you a nod.

“what do your parents do research in?”

you bite down on your lip, enough to draw a pool of warm, metallic blood into your mouth.

“they’re business owners back in marley. they don’t do research.” you note.

“oh. what type of business?”

“they own a pizza parlor.”

nile gives you a strange look, one that’s enough to summon eren back into the conversation again.

“they’ve probably worked more in one day than you’ve worked in your entire life, nile. but that’s besides the point. we’ve come here to ask you some questions. both of us.”

“i can drive.” eren offers.

“sorry, what?”

“i can drive. you seem tired.” eren states.

you shake your head.

“i’m fine.”

“you don’t have to be so self-sacrificing all the time. i can tell that you’re tired, that the meeting was more jargon that was really relevant to us because that dumbass was trying to show off, that him being an asshole gets tiring very fast, so just let me drive us home.” eren states.

the tone in his voice indicates that what he’s saying is final, enough for you to relent and place the keys in the palm of his hand before walking around to duck into the passenger seat. and you’re not sure what it is – the fact that eren seemed to be arguing on your behalf, that he seemed more approachable when he was so tired, when the two of you had a common goal – that you ask.

“nile seems very close with your dad.”

“what?” eren asks.

you shrug.

“the pictures and the certificates and stuff. your dad was in all of them.” you murmur.

“oh, right. nile’s kind of his prodigy. he used to live in my house.”

you frown.

“nile is younger than your dad? and he lived in your house?”

“y/n, he’s only a few years older than us.”

“what? why does he look so…ugly? and old?”

eren coughs out a laugh. you look over to note that he’s smiling, that he’s got a dimple on his left side, and that he looks awfully attractive when he does that.

“that’s what being an asshole does to you.” eren notes.

you nod.

“he’s into the exact type of research that my dad does. he came from…from basically nothing and my dad helped him. gave him money for his projects, invested in the company. now, nile’s got a bigger head than he knows what to do with and he feels indebted to my dad so he kisses his ass whatever chance he gets.” eren states.

“why were you so upset about the badge?” you ask.

“they’re doing that to purposely undermine you. because you’re a woman.” eren notes.

you can feel your throat dry.

“really?” you whisper.

“i’ve met hundreds of people like nile. you’re going to meet hundreds of people like nile too. and they do shit like that – purposely choose to omit your name from badges so they can call you sweetheart, act like you’re just there as an accessory and not there to actually make conversation – that stuff. just think about it. i listed your name first on our appointment. and yet they still chose to put my name on the badge and not yours.”

you slump down into your chair.

“oh. i didn’t realize.”

“even down to the very principle, learning someone’s name is a simple sign of respect. the bare minimum of what you can do when you’re conversing with someone. and yet they can barely even humble themselves to do that, because they think they’re more important than you.” eren finishes.

you decide that it’s enough of your curious questions. only because the rest of your curious questions are ones that you sincerely can’t ask.

did they do that to your mom?

is that why it annoys you so much when other people do it to me?

is your mom still a researcher?

you reach for the aux cord that’s hanging in the middle of the seat, before navigating your way to the playlist of scores that you had made to share with eren. the music is quiet, the instrumental nearly lulling your overwhelmed brain to sleep as you press your forehead against the window.

“i like alan. from this score.”

“you’ve watched the imitation game?” you ask.

eren gives you a nod.

“it’s a good movie.” eren responds.

you smile.

“that movie makes me feel better sometimes. to know that women were part of the forefront of science, even back then. and they had hurdles, endless hurdles that i couldn’t even begin to understand, and they’ve paved the way for me.”

you take a deep breath.

“just a reminder that i shouldn’t give up when things are hard for me because they didn’t either, you know?” you whisper.

eren takes a beat before responding.

“granted, it’s unfair you’ve got so many hurdles when you’re already so brilliant to begin with. it’s honestly kind of fucking ridiculous sometimes.”

you can’t fight the urge to smile.

“you think i’m brilliant?” you jest.

eren rolls his eyes.

“oh, come on. you know you’re brilliant.” eren responds.

“what?”

“you’re the only person in the program who got in without doing the bridge program. you must have some insane work under your belt for erwin, levi, and hange to trust you after meeting you just once or twice. over people they’ve known and taught for years by the way.”

you narrow your eyes at him.

“i’m not the only person in the program who got in without doing the bridge program. you’re forgetting someone quite important.”

eren rolls his eyes.

“still. you’re brilliant. would do you well to realize that now before some idiot like nile dok tries to make himself more important than you.”

you look over at him and smile.

“okay. okay, yeah. i promise.”

“and hell. you know how to argue with people. i know you’ve got it in you. you’ve been doing with it since you’ve met me. maybe redirect some of your irritation with me towards people like him.”

you lean back.

“oh, i’ll doubt i’ll be able to do that. you just bring out something special in me, eren.” you deadpan.

“oh, i’m sure.” eren retorts back.

an: anyways

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