#like the description of how the gun felt in her hand but like. canonically (kind of)

[snowangeldotmp3]

i am so serious when i say i think nancy wheeler should get her own YA novel like max and robin and lucas.

[everythingelseisextra]

The Women Of Birmingham

Request: No Description: After years of ruling alone, your power comes into question with the return of the men from war. An attempt to bargain goes awry. Warnings: Language, Canon-typical violence, sexism Word Count: 1999 Author's Note: Similar story, just edited and improved

Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it was burnt in one. There’s a certain precarious paranoia to leading, a kind of constant worry that the life you built for years will be taken away. At the same time, there’s pride. Strong, running through your veins in a way you hadn’t felt before you took power. That a woman, low-born and considered hopeless, had taken over Birmingham, ran the streets without mercy. The underworld belongs to you, Hades or Anubis or Hel, and you live as judge, jury, and executioner. Finally, for the first time in your life, you feel as though you’d made it. 

Your women creep along the smoggy and filthy streets, sentinels in the constant tide of petty criminals and broken promises. It’s a small circle of trust you’ve created, one you regulate with an iron fist, because if someone questions you, tries to take over, they need to be gone. They need to be dead. Your reputation precedes you, and people bow their heads as you pass, murmuring greetings. Police avert their gaze. Drunkards stumbling away, worried they’ll disrespect you.

Before you took power, your mind was filled with fantasies, with helpless wishes of romance. The pattern on your wrist seems to match no one, and you’ve given up on checking. You don’t need a soulmate. You need the bloodthirsty stain on your soul, the lack of mercy in your hands, you need to be a bullet in a gun. Sometimes, while you’re sleeping, you get flashes; sooty, pale skin, terrified blue eyes, and claustrophobia. 

During the war, your rule was unquestioned. The remnants of the Peaky Blinders focused on staying alive in the brutality of Birmingham. Your women kept the city moving, culling the wild edges of personality, succeeding without fail at maintaining order. 

Then the men came home. 

Thomas Shelby demands respect in silence. He’s done nothing to earn it but expects it regardless, seeking the same treatment you receive without doing any of the work. He knows you from afar. His movement within the city has so far been respectful, keeping to himself, twisting the thoughts of others and slowly building his reputation. Now, though, you watch as his meddling fingers toy with the edges of your territory; the racetracks. 

You could lose them without taking a hit. That’s not your concern. As soon as he sets his sights on your territory, a war will start. It blossoms on the horizon, curling dark clouds into a hurricane, and you sit in silence and wonder to yourself how to nip it in the bud. 

“Kimber still follows your orders. You don’t need to do anything. It’ll take care of itself.” Mary, a small woman with eyes like a falcon’s and a mind like a steel trap, leans on the table you sit at, looking down at you. Your eyes flick up to meet hers, and she looks away, stepping back, realizing her mistake. 

“You don’t understand the Shelbys. If it’s not this, it’ll be something else.” You lean back, toying with the knife in your hand. 

“Okay. Yes. Sorry.” She bows her head and you smile faintly, running a finger along the edge of your knife.

“Speak with Grace. Confirm that tomorrow is Black Star Day. I don’t trust Campbell.” Your lip curls at the name. “Send me Rose on your way out.”

Mary nods and steps back, leaves the room without another word. You sigh, return to carving out symbols on the table, turning the dark wood into hollowed out flaxen. This restaurant you sit in, abandoned past sundown, appears ghostly in the hanging lights. All wood and smooth edges, grain hardly smoothed from the dark oak. The Dog House, it’s called, and it sits away from the chaotic ebb and flow, a station of rest for someone like you. Here, attention can shift from you, and you can blend into the shadows, sit away from the sights of those looking for guidance or orders. Usually, that is.

Rose wanders in. Of your women, she is most eloquent. A poet by nature, a liar by choice, she serves as your ambassador, your spokesperson, and your dealer. Talented and highly valuable, but fear backs even the bravest off their own skills. 

You speak to her without looking up, stopping her in her tracks. “How afraid are you of Thomas Shelby?”

She shakes her head, eyes respectfully on the ground in front of her. “I’m not.”

“You will meet with him tonight and request a meeting before daybreak. You’ll have backup hidden around you. Might be able to prevent a gang war.” You flip your knife around your hand, spinning it thoughtlessly. 

“As you want.” 

You smile faintly. “Always as I want.”

Afterwards, you wish you could’ve heard them speaking. Wish you would have listened in, been close enough to hear the words exchanged. Tommy, standing there, hands in his pockets, head tilted, lips slightly parted, cap pulled low over his brow. Mary, sturdy as always, dress swirling around her ankles, pale cream coat loose on her shoulders. Feet inches away from a brownish puddle of Birmingham muck. And, you, in an alleyway behind them, knife clutched in your hand, ready. The weight of a gun on your hip, touching your thigh, consoles you, protects you, assures you. Ready. Across the road, two more sit in wait, ready to defend your sister in crime, as she speaks to a giant of the city.

It happens quickly. Mary finishes a sentence, Tommy nods, says a few words. Mary’s hand drifts to within her overcoat, where a gun sits in ready, slow, methodical, as though he wouldn’t notice if she was casual. 

A gunshot. Tommy’s hand, clutching a gun, raised at his side.

A small body dropping, splashing, covered in mud and sewage and the stench of the city’s outflow. Pale dress splattered with ruby and earthy brown and stinking gray.

Without thinking, without planning, you dart out from the alleyway, come up behind him, and stab your knife into his shoulder, hard. Yank it out, go for another hit, then shoot back when he swings around. He takes two steps towards you, hand on his gun, then jerks back. Your backup has him by both arms, holding him almost off the ground in their grip. You pull your gun, prepare to shoot, line it up with his forehead. Stare without blinking into bright blue eyes.

His eyes widen, he squirms, tries to thrash out of the grip of the two women holding him, and fails. Then, he goes deadly, horrifyingly still. Not limp. Not a surrender. A steady, threatening wait, a predator biding its time, hunting. His eyes settle onto yours. You expect terror. You expect the flare of self-protective adrenaline to spark at you from the blue, expect something like begging for repentance in his expression. Instead, you meet ice. Your blood goes cold along with it, affected uncharacteristically by the lack of fear of death. What could push someone to stare the reaper in the eyes and not blink, even smile, prepared and ready? 

By the time you find yourself, he’s speaking. “Listen.”

You laugh and press the cold barrel to his forehead. But, out of sheer curiosity, you stay quiet.

“If it’s war you’re looking for, you’re in the wrong place.” Blood drips from his back, but he stays steady, his eyes staring straight into yours. 

It would be easy, so easy, to slit his throat. Watch the flesh separate, the blood spill out, all that brilliance inside of him wasted in seconds. You push your gun to his forehead, tilting his head back, and stare down at the vulnerable skin, pale and smooth, untouched. 

As if reading your mind, his low voice speaks, and you feel you have no choice but to listen.“The Shelbys, the Lees, whoever is left from France…Lot of enemies you’d be making.”

You pause, then, in one breath, speak. “Drop him.” 

His body hits the ground, hard, and you watch as blood billows out of his shoulder, stains the fine blue suit he wears. You step forward and kick him hard in the ribs. He grunts, curls into himself, stays down.

“An eye for an eye,” you say, just loud enough for him to hear it. “Don’t fuck with the women of Birmingham.”

“You’ve been meddling.” Campbell’s nasally, horrible voice bounces off your ears and hits hard against the cold walls.You stop in your tracks, stare at him in front of you, hair on the back of your neck raising as he speaks. “I thought we had a deal, though, I couldn’t expect the likes of you to understand loyalty.”

“Collateral damage.” You widen your stance in the alleyway as if prepared for a fight, blink through the fresh light of the dawn and focus on his silhouette darkening your path out. “Won’t happen again.”

“Oh, but it will.” He wags a finger at you, patronizing. “You… ladies have no self control. You understand me when I say, except for Grace, you aren’t meant for men’s jobs.”

You nod slowly, a sick feeling of disgust twisting around your spine, curl your hand into a fist, then relax it. “What do you want from me, Campbell?”

“‘Sir,’ to you. I’m doing you the justice of giving you a warning.” His smile turns his lips into thin slices of flesh, bulging where they meet the rest of his face. “I am tired of playing games. I plan to clean up this city and rid it of gangs and wild women like you once and for all.”

To a man who thinks himself a god amongst mortals, a warning and a threat are the same thing. You walk forward, continue your way through the alleyway, knock into his shoulder as you pass.

“I expected nothing less than a thank you!” He calls after you. 

You let his words roll off your shoulders, continue on. Down the filthy sidewalks, eyes on your destination, only a few blocks ahead. Building upon building, all the same gray, square formation, cobblestone roads and children running and playing, horses spooking, men heaving hammers in niches. Clanging, laughing, vomiting, yelling. You block it out, set yourself in order, start to try to focus. A plan settles in your mind without much thought, a child of the panic throbbing your heart in extra beats, toying with your perceptions.

Your stomach flips when the risk dawns on you, the gambit you’re preparing to perform. As always, an iron grit pushes you forward, stubbornness of making a choice urging you towards the building you’re quickly gaining on. Rather roll the dice, put your life on the line, gamble with everything you have, than wither away, sit and watch, give up the ground you’ve taken. Women nod at you from enclaves, smile through their work to greet you, stop and wave as they hurry their children around. You return their salutes, though never offer a smile.

You open the front door without knocking, slip under a curtain, make your way up into the betting house, where gamblers make their shout and squint at papers and talk in loud, unhinged voices, and a blackboard chalks horse’s names in mediocre handwriting. 

You find a man, any man, wearing a suit and pull him aside. He yanks his arm away from you as though you bit him, and you hold back a smile. 

“What?!” He speaks as though his mouth is full, though you know for sure it’s empty, given how gaping it becomes.

“I need to speak with Tommy Shelby. Now.” You look past him into the bustling room, full of shouting, sweaty men, grinning and excited to throw away their money.

“Give me one reason not to throw you out.” The man steps closer to you. “Didn’t you stab him?” 

Your hand slips into  your pocket, toying with the hilt of your knife. “An enemy of his enemy is his friend. We have an objective in common, I believe.”

[maybege]

... Stays In Quantico - FBI Part 2

Summary: Back in Quantico, you are reminded just how difficult your situation is. (Part 2 of the FBI Series)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.1k | Rating: T

Warnings: descriptions of an anxiety attack

Here we are! I am so excited to finally start sharing this story with you. Having binged through all 15 seasons, I just want to say now that (1) this story will be canon-divergent and (2) it will be a slow burn. It is my first longer story about Hotch and I hope I will do his character justice. As always, you can find the posting schedule linked in my masterlist.

Have fun reading and let me know what you think.

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

“I don’t know what to think.”

“This is not the kind of job where you don’t know what to think.”

“I know.”

“Hard to believe from someone who just told me she doesn’t know what to think.”

You shifted in your seat. The office you were in was colder than the bullpen of the BAU and you wished you had remembered to bring your cardigan with you. Now all you were wearing was your short-sleeved dress and heels.

To be fair, you had presumed this would just be a standard meeting with the in-house therapist. After the incident in Kansas City, it seemed like standard procedure and you were glad to have been offered this opportunity.

Now though, sitting in the way too soft armchair with the brunette older woman looking at you over her glasses, this felt more like an evaluation than anything else. And you absolutely hated it.

You looked at the still-life of a fruit bowl on the right wall, right next to a bookshelf full of framed certificates. A woman who was proud of her accomplishments.

The first and last time you had had an evaluation was when you had first started working at the FBI and back then you had been sure that you had failed it. You had been sure you had failed all of it.

Your grandmother always used to say that if you looked for flaws long enough you would find them.

Dr Johnson looked like she spent her life looking for flaws.

“Tell me again why you chose to work for the FBI – and the BAU specifically.”

You would not make it anyway. Fuck it.

“There is so much hurt in the world,” you started, watching her eyebrows rise over the frames of her glasses, “I would feel better knowing I am trying to do something against it. And as for the BAU,” you shrugged, “Chief Sector Strauss approached me about it and I thought I would be stupid not to take the opportunity.”

She hummed, looking down at her file. “You don’t have any official FBI training.”

“No.”

“Any formal police training?”

“No.”

“Gun training?”

You hid your smile at the thought of the recent debacle for the gun qualification.

“I took down an UnSub in Kansas City last week,” you reminded her, “That is why I am here.”

She did not react to it. “In fact,” she leafed through the papers in her hand, “You only recently finished college. How did that go for you?”

“Good,” you nodded, trying to keep your knee from bouncing, “It was good.”

“What did you major in?”

“English,” you replied and when you saw her raised eyebrow, tried to elaborate, “Um, English literature to be exact and I have a minor in law as well.”

“Why only a minor?”

“Pardon me?”

“Why did you only minor in law? Were you not good enough?”

To cover the unease from her question, you crossed your legs. “I had no interest in law,” you answered truthfully, “My passion was and is with literature.”

The full truth was, you simply did not like law students. That and the pressure they were under was, you were convinced, what brought many lawyers to an early grave. But she did not need to know that about you.

Ironic that you had ended up in the BAU after all this.

Totally not stressful.

She said your name, then, slowly, and leant forward. You tensed, knowing that look too well. Was this the moment she would tell you that you had failed the valuation? The moment Hotch would come into the office and hand you your resignation with that disappointed look in his eyes.

Maybe the way Kansas City had ended was just a way to disguise the true going-ons of your work here in Quantico?

“You have been here, what, seven months now, Agent?”

“Yes, eight months, coming February,” you replied, meeting her gaze and swallowing the dryness of your throat.

“Would you say you have adjusted to your life here in Virginia?”

You frowned, “What do you mean?”

Dr Johnson made a vague gesture as if encompassing everything and anything, “Do you have friends here? Family? How do you get on with your colleagues?”

Well, you certainly had not been expecting this kind of question.

“I live together with a friend,” you answered slowly, “My family lives in Idaho.”

“Idaho,” Johnson smiled, “A long way from home, no?”

“Yes.”

“Look, Agent, I am not going to lie,” she sighed, putting her pen down on the notepad, “I am not sure if you are the right fit for the FBI.”

You’re not the only one, you thought with a grimace.

“I am sure you are a good person, that your motivations for working here are true,” she elaborated, “But your lack of training? Your lack of … experience,” she gave you a pitiful look, “I am simply not convinced you are cut out for the work we need here.”

You had always thought it but hearing someone else say it to your face hit deeper than you ever could have thought. Your fingers started to tremble and you clasped your hands together, squeezing them to somehow force yourself to remain with as much dignity as you could.

“Okay,” you nodded, taking a deep breath in the hopes that it would keep your tears at bay, “What – what does that mean?”

“As there are no reasons for a suspension based on your mental health, the next step would be that I get in contact with your supervisor,” she threw a look on her paper, “SSA Aaron Hotchner, is that correct?” you nodded and she continued, “A written evaluation of your role at the BAU will be requested and then we will go from there. Best case scenario is you won’t leave at all, worst case scenario …”, she trailed off.

Of course, she did not need to finish the sentence for you to know what she was saying.

Worst case scenario: You would leave the FBI.

Realization washed over you and you smiled tightly at her. “Thank you, Dr Johnson,” you stood up, reaching a polite hand out to her which she took, “If you will excuse me, I should get back to my desk while I still can.”

Dr Johnson smiled kindly at you which only made it worse. She was pitying you. She felt sorry for you. Sorry for your incompetence, sorry for you not belonging in this place.

You felt like you would throw up any minute.

“Of course, Agent,” she said softly, “I will inform your supervisor of my recommendation. You will receive a copy of the protocol within the next week.”

You nodded, not meeting her eyes as you hurried out of her office.

*

The staff washroom on the third floor was always empty.

You knew that from the fact that you had often used it as a refuge after nearly dissolving into tears in the bullpen. That and the fact that the third floor was far away enough for anyone of the BAU to search for you here made it the perfect place to come after your talk with Dr Johnson.

You threw a look on your watch.

Six minutes. You would give yourself six minutes and then you would go to your desk and work on those reports and show Dr Johnson that you loved your job and that you were capable of doing it. You would show her that you were not the anxious, incompetent student she saw in you but someone who could be an asset to the team.

I am not sure if you are the right fit for the FBI.

Tears shot into your eyes and you locked the little cabin behind you, sitting on the edge of the toilet as you rushed to grab a few pieces of toilet paper.

The first sob echoed in the tiled room and you pressed the tissues to your mouth, hoping it would muffle the sounds somewhat. Your skin felt too hot and too tight and you could already see how your makeup would be ruined by the tears no matter how hard you tried.

And you had left your backup mascara in your bag at your desk.

Great. Just great.

Anxiety filled you at the thought of having to prove yourself even more than before. After Kansas City and Hotch’s encouraging words, you had somehow hoped that the hard part was over now. That you could focus on delivering good work instead of questioning if everyone doubted your belonging in the unit.

But maybe they were and they were just too polite to mention it? Maybe Dr Johnson was finally saying what they all wanted to spare you from?

Tears were rolling freely over your cheeks now, dropping onto your dress and you cursed, trying to wipe it away and somehow keep your face dry. There were still quite a few hours left in the workday and although you hoped there would not be a case coming in today, you were working along with a team of profilers.

You were like an open book to them even if there was the agreement to not profile each other.

A look on your watch told you it was nearly time to go and you took a moment to listen if anybody was there before stepping out of the little cubicle. It was completely abandoned.

Much like you had expected, you looked an absolute mess and just seeing yourself in the mirror brought fresh tears into your eyes.

“Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity,” you echoed the motto, gripping the edge of the counter and taking deep breaths, “Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity.”

*

“Hey, kid, how did it go?”

You entered the chaotic bullpen, just barely avoiding crashing into Anderson before making your way to your desk. Reid was seated across from you which meant that no matter how much of a mess you left at the end of a day, it still looked comparably neat.

Now though, it was nearly empty.

“Hi Derek,” you smiled tightly, your eyes still irritated from your impromptu cry session as you sat down at your desk.

You had splashed cold water on your face in hopes of somehow feeling and looking better. Still, you immediately went for your bag, scrambling to find your emergency mascara and lipstick to sneak back into the washroom before anyone noticed.

Especially –

“Agent,” Hotch’s voice boomed through the office and you winced, feeling the heat of tears collecting in your eyes again. You stayed ducked over your bag, hoping that maybe he did not mean you. Maybe he wanted to talk to Derek or Emily or Reid or –

Cleanly polished shoes appeared in your field of vision and you swallowed.

“In my office. Now.”

“Yes, Sir,” you mumbled, hastily wiping your cheek of a stray tear before straightening and following him up the stairs. You ignored Derek’s worried look, instead choosing to straighten your shoulders and stoically look ahead.

This was but an extension of the interview with Dr Johnson. You could do this even if the man terrified and intrigued you more than he should.

You had barely stepped foot in his office when he sat down. “Close the door. Sit down.”

You did, feeling much smaller than you had in Dr Johnson’s office. His lips were tight and he looked incredibly displeased, even for Hotch’s standards. You must have majorly messed up.

His hands were clasped in front of him and your eyes fell to his fingers. You swallowed heavily, hands wringing in your lap as you waited for him to start talking.

“Dr Johnson just informed me that a written evaluation of your performance on this team is being requested.”

“Sir, I can explain, I –“

He raised a hand, effectively silencing you and your mouth snapped shut.

“You do not need to explain anything,” he said calmly, “Dr Johnson is only doing her job and after what happened last week, it might not be such a bad idea.”

You nodded, trying to not seem as nervous as you were.

“Do not worry yourself over it. I meant what I said in Kansas,” he stated, facial expression unreadable, “You are a valuable addition to this team and I look forward to seeing your contributions in the future.”

“Yes, Sir,” you looked down on your hands, trying to hide your nervousness, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Call me Hotch.”

“Yes, Si- Hotch,” you corrected yourself with a sheepish smile. He was sitting at his desk, hands folded on top of it as he looked at you. And fuck, it should be forbidden to look this good. You froze, licking your lips and hoping you would be able to blame it on the dryness of your lips instead of you imagining what it would be like to feel his mouth on yours.

Not the time, a rational part of your brain reminded you, So not the fucking time.

*

Shuffling through the crowded metro you pressed your phone to your ear.

“I promise, it is all right, mom,” you assured her, letting yourself fall into one of the free seats, keeping your bag pressed against your chest. An elderly woman threw you an offended look and shuffled away from you as if you had any interest in stealing her dog off her hands.

“I am just worried, honey,” your mom said on the other side of the phone, “We are all worried. It is a hard job, isn’t it? And why do they keep putting you up for evaluations? You haven’t even been there for a full year!”

“Mom –“

“Are you okay?” she interrupted you in that voice that only your mom had, “Truly okay?

Your head fell against the window of the wagon, the heaviness of the day washing over you. You took a shuddering breath, “No, Mom, I – I don’t think I am.”

There was a sigh on the other side of the line. She was disappointed and worried, you could hear it already and it did not help to calm the anxiety raging in your stomach. You could almost see her in front of you, the pity in her eyes and the little furrow between her brows.

“You can always come home, hon, you know that, right?” she asked carefully and you cringed at how quiet she was being, “We can still find somewhere else for you to work. A nice option. You can come back home and dad and I will help you. I know it can take some time to find a good position. But you had so much fun doing literature, why not go back to it? You don’t have to stick there if it doesn’t make you happy.”

“But it does make me happy, mom,” you protested, wincing at how desperate you sounded, before adding quietly, “Saving people is what I want to do. And I can do it.”

“I am not saying you can’t, sweetie,” she assured you, “But maybe it is not what you should do with your life, hm?”

*

You could see that the light was on in the living room when you entered the small hallway. The sounds of the TV washed over your ears and you smiled.

“I’m home!”

A non-committal grunt answered you and you grinned, knowing that he was probably too entranced in whatever crime show he was currently watching. You let your keys fall onto the little side table and made sure to lock the deadbolt before making your way to Josh.

Your heels made clicking sounds on the floor and you took care to be as quiet as possible. “Hi,” you grinned, waving at him.

Josh was tall and lanky. And despite being offended if you ever told him that – looked exactly like one would imagine a law student to look. He was always well dressed and took great care when it came to all things cultural. He drank the best wine, read all the important books, watched all the niche movies to impress people.

Sometimes you joked that of the two of you, he was the one who could be expected to work for a government institution.

“It’s late,” he commented, nodding to the screen, “You’re usually here by the second episode.”

“I wanted to get some reports done,” you explained, shrugging out of your coat, “Had a chat with my boss today again. I thought it might be better to not give any more opportunities to criticize me. How was your day?”

“Boring,” he replied, “Attended that one event about intellectual property and want to lunch with a few friends from uni. You should come with us sometime, you will like them.”

You nodded, already thinking ahead of a day when you would have enough free time to join him and his friends. Dr Jones’ words about having a strong social life to fall back to echoed in your mind and you decided to make more of an effort to make friends.

It would be all right.

There was some Chinese takeout in Josh’s lap and you spotted a few grocery bags in the small hallway to your room and the kitchen.

“Did you get me the bananas like I asked?” you asked, slipping out of your heels.

Josh kept munching on his noddle, making a vague gesture that led you into the kitchen. And there, on the tiny dining table were two green bananas.

“They are not even ripe yet,” you called into the living room, “And I asked for four bananas, not two.”

“What do you need them for anyway?”

“I wanted to bake banana bread,” you said, turning to get out some flour and chocolate chips, “It’s an easy breakfast to have in the metro.”

Josh sighed, walking into the kitchen and throwing himself onto the black dining chair. “You barely eat at home anyway, that’ll just go to waste.”

“Which is exactly why it is nice to have something ready to eat on the go,” you explained, wondering if he had overheard your words.

Cracking two eggs into a bowl, you hummed. “I could bring it into the office,” you mused, starting to mush up the bananas, “I think JJ mentioned she liked it once.”

“To the colleagues that despise you?”

You frowned, “They don’t despise me. They are very nice to me, Josh.”

Josh took the last bite of his noodles, setting down the little container “By the way, Greg is coming over tonight.

“But it’s almost midnight,” you stated, throwing a confused look towards the clock, just to make sure, “Didn’t you say you will leave for that Seattle trip tomorrow?”

“Yeah, if it gets too late he will just stay on the couch,” Josh replied, shrugging. You nodded, not saying anything but knowing deep down that George would occupy the bathroom that morning so you would have to get up even earlier than normal.

That would be a stressful day.

[januaryembrs]

AD ASTRA - CHAPTER THREE

CHPT III. THE ALLIANCE

Description:  With a temporary alliance formed between you and the Mandalorian, you can take on the AT-ST as a team. The air is soon cleared when he seems to extend an olive branch to you.

Length: 6.5k

main masterlist

AD ASTRA MASTERLIST

Din Djarin x Jedi!reader series. Friends to lovers, (Somewhat) slowburn, female!reader, JEDI!READER, possible smut, jealous!mando, reader has problematic childhood, fluff, saviour complex!mando, canon star wars characters mentioned, Obi wan x padawan!reader, dad!obi wan, general star wars bloodshed etc

chapter triggers: use of gun/blaster. blood/violence. light gore.

AD ASTRA PER ASPERA

“To the stars through hardships”

PLEASE NOTE: There will be Mando’a words spoken in this fic and so it will be presented as:

“Word” [translation]

"Will you two cut the shit?" Cara barked at you, though she too was a little stunned at how accurate you were with a blaster. Having only witnessed you fighting using your bare hands, though you were exceedingly skilled in that too, she was still in awe of the precision in those shots.

It was then she realised that you were a lot more deadly than she had given you credit for.

"Listen, I get that there's some tension between you two. If you need to just hook up and get it over with then fine-"

"Cara," Your snappy tone warned the woman not to push her luck. That wasn't the reason you felt hostile towards the man, not in the slightest. Of course you had noticed how huge he was, and how his broad shoulders towered over you when he had taken that challenging step towards you, or even how the low timbre of his voice came through his vocoder like a shot of the smoothest, richest whiskey. Of course you saw the appeal, but your enmity came from a place of fear, not lust.

Besides, you revelled in the way he had shut up when he had seen just a fraction of what you were capable of. It made you feel like for once you had the advantage over him - like you had scared him almost. And you loved it.

You were both predator and prey to this man, as he was to you.

"I don't care what it is that makes you loathe each other so much. We are about to get our asses handed to us if I can't trust either of you to not try to kill the other before that damn AT-ST does, do you hear me?" Cara ordered, and it was at times like this you were reminded exactly why the woman had been a rebel. Her tone seemed to have diminished the rising tension between you and the Mandalorian as you both stood there like scolded school children. "You don't have to trust each other, okay? I just need to know you'll have each other's backs out there because this isn't going to work otherwise."

You sighed from behind your shroud, turning your head to meet the visor of the Mandalorian. You knew Cara was right, you wouldn't be able to focus on fighting the group of bandits if you were watching your back for the wall of a man in the Beskar suit. You stuck out your arm towards him, offering a handshake to settle your disagreement for the moment.

"Narudar," [your enemy's enemy. a temporary ally.] You spoke curtly, with a thick well-versed accent that Shenzi had spent years perfecting. Naturally you knew the old language of his people. The vicious woman you had been raised by had seen it fit to teach you infinite amounts of knowledge about her way with the same level of savagery as any other Mandalorian foundling.

Din's mouth parted at you for a second time, shocked that the word had just left your mouth so expertly. There was something you were hiding from him, that much was obvious. What kind of woman just knows the archaic language only taught to the people of his creed? He had only ever heard those words spoken through a vocoder from behind a beskar helmet, it felt almost a sin to hear them leave your lips.

Alas, you remained an enigma to him but one he was going to have to trust not to harm him nevertheless. He took your hand in his briefly, shaking it roughly and felt you squeeze his back. He nodded his head, and for the first time since he'd laid eyes on the woman in the bar, there was a sense of agreement in the air. You don't stab my back and I won't stab yours.

"Narudar,"

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

There was a brief moment, as your trio stood seconds away from starting chaos, where you realised just how dumb this plan was even with the experience the three of you carried. You were going against a thirty-foot walker, with little more than a black kerchief resting over the bottom half of your face standing between you and possible Imps. The Mandalorian and Cara had reassured you they just seemed to be a group of Klatooinians looking for trouble, but still you had a lot more to lose than they realised.

You pulled back the curtain to the raider's tent, gesturing Cara and the Mandalorian forward when you saw no one inside. You quickly noted the tanks of water where you guessed the raiders were keeping all the krill they had stolen from the villagers. You wished there was some way for them to transport it back to the settlement, but you was doubtful they had any time to think about that, nor did you think the aquatic little creatures would survive whatever action was about to happen.

"Thieving bastards," You muttered as the Mandalorian set a small bomb on the central pillar which held the whole shelter up, hopefully to tear the thing down while you made a sharp exit. Just as all had seemed overly quiet considering you were meant to be provoking an attack, your head snapped to the door of the shelter as two Klatooinians strolled in, clearly not noticing they had company until it was too late.

Cara punched the one closest to her, kicking the other one towards the bounty hunter who was waiting ready as he struck the thief across the face hard. You approached another two raiders that walked in as your acquaintances fought with their opponents.

You slid to the floor, tripping the first one over with one hard swipe of your leg before either of them could attack you. Getting to your feet quickly, you kicked the other one in the chest and sent him stumbling backwards, before reeling on your heel to punch the one now on the floor hard in the face. Once. Twice. The third missed its ugly green target however as you felt yourself get lifted in the air. You desperately grabbed at your assailant who had his thick, boil-covered arms wrapped around your ribs tightly, meaning you could barely twist into a position where you could fight back. The other one got back up on his heavy set legs, only to have you kick him in the stomach with both your feet, knocking him back to the ground and luckily giving you the leverage you needed to flip up over your attacker's shoulder. You pulled out your knife, stabbing him in the neck smoothly and hopping off before any of his disgustingly viscous, black blood could spurt onto you.

You hadn't even noticed more had come into the room until you saw Cara body-slamming one to the ground and the Mandalorian getting shoved against one of the bubbling tanks of krill. He was about to throw his own kick in the Klatooinian's direction when the foul raider fell forward to the ground, dead. Din stared in confusion until he caught sight of a delicately designed, silver blade protruding from his back. It looked almost too elegant to be a killing weapon, Din thought briefly, much like the woman that strolled over to retrieve it.

His eye caught something on the tip of the handle just as you reached down to pull it from the thick flesh, a signet of some sort, and for a moment he could have sworn it was a Mythosaur but he was sure he had perhaps seen it wrong. Then again, judging by your earlier conversation, he wouldn't put it past you to have any more surprises in store for him.

You looked at one another for a beat, you stood over him with a blade in either hand and those eyes he’d been haunted by for the past two days staring down at him. For a moment, Din considered your stance and the thought popped into his head that maybe this had been the chance you were waiting for. He was laying on the ground, head still ringing from where the Klatooinian had thrown him against the tank, and you stared down at him with the cold expression you seem to have mastered. Perhaps this was it. You could kill him.

You stared at him for a beat longer, and his brain told him to reach for his blaster before you could do anything. But yet, as you had been doing non-stop the past few days, you surprised him.

You simply nodded once, sheathing your blades. You had his back.

He hadn't the time to thank you yet, becoming increasingly aware that the timer on the explosive device was running short as the beeping got more and more rapid by the second. Before he could comment on it to his companions, two more raiders came through the tent armed with extended blasters themselves, leaving your trio to scramble for cover. Your small handheld things would no match for them, and the charges produced from those things would tear you two armourless women to pieces.

The warning signal from the explosive got louder and faster, alerting you all to how little time you had left to act unless you wanted to become nothing more than little pieces of human sprayed out across the forest floor. The three of you looked at each other, sharing the same thought of 'We need to leave now.' The Mandalorian shot a few times at the wall in a clear oval shape, making the structure weak enough that the three of you could bust through it.

"Come on, I'll cover you two!" He yelled, seeing as he had the best view of where the last remaining raiders were hidden, and a decent set of armour stopping him from getting shot too. Cara and you listened with no hesitation. Dodging the few charges sent your way and breaking down the wall, you barely had enough time to run away from the bomb before the inevitable explosion threw you forward, and the heat of flames warmed your back.

You heard Cara panting from the exertion, almost as heavily as you were. Turning to see your beskar clad comrade also laying beside you, equally out of breath judging by the rough gasping coming through his voice box.

"I hope the plan worked," Cara said just as a loud mechanical whirring caught your attention.

As if her words had materialized themselves, two piercing red eyes stared at you menacingly and the sound of the AT-ST activating sent chills down your spine. You swore you could hear it breathing a sinister wheeze as though some part of it had lungs, and the joints of its legs groaned, coming to life before your eyes.

"You think?" You commented sarcastically, muffled by your kerchief. You hurried to your feet, making sure your accomplices had done the same before you set off running back towards the village, reassured by the footsteps pounding into the dirt flooring right behind you.

You led the group, dodging the blaster fire the walker rained down on you. This wasn't just any blaster charge either. You saw entire sections of trees blown to mere chippings in front of you, hurling yourself out of the way before they sprayed at you. It was like nothing you'd ever seen, but you'd expected no less from a mechanism that size.

You luckily put some distance between the AT-ST seeing as you were small and nimble compared to the huge assailant, but the sound of heavy steps still followed your group ominously. You made it back to the stakeout area the villagers had created, running on the soft grass in between the krill ponds before ducking behind the barricade and waiting for the deadly walker to come close to the clutches of your trap.

"This is it. Once that thing steps in the pond, that thing is going down." Cara announced to the villagers as they waited with bated breath for what could possibly be their deaths, or better yet their victory.

Part of you couldn't help but think this seemed too easy. Though it had frightened you to your very core being shot at by a blaster of that size, you hadn't expected yourself to make it out of the raiders camp without more of them attacking. It seemed almost quiet, you thought, too smoothe.

Before you could mull over the thought pessimistically, however, the walker's piercing red eyes came into view, loudly crashing through the trees towards the villagers. They prayed that the barricade would hold intact. Though they doubted it would, they prayed.

"Weapons ready!" Cara called. You lifted up the bigger gun you had been using before, having reloaded it in preparation before you had left. You squinted down the scope lens to get a better view of the enemy in all its horrifying, mechanical glory.

The heavy thuds of the walker's large feet got louder with each step, shaking the earth beneath you in a way that raised the hairs on the back of your neck. While the Empire were conniving bastards, they sure knew how to make impressive weaponry, you had to give them that.

"Just a few more steps," The Mandalorian whispered beside you, his own pulse rifle raised at the droid. That blaster of his was likely your best chance at piercing the heavy armour that encased the walker; you could be as accurate as possible with your shooting but you knew the charges would be feeble against its defence.

You nodded silently, impatience rising at the AT-ST's slow pace. The pond was only a few moments away from its large, flat foot that was about to be submerged into the deep hole the villagers had spent all day shovelling for this very reason. This was it.

Fall, fall, fall, fall.

But then the walker stopped, foot raised over the calm waters ready to take one more step into their trap. It simply retracted it and stood still, watching the villagers intently, almost taunting them with their own failure.

Fuck.

"It stopped," Cara said, voicing everyone's thoughts. The silence that surrounded you seemed exceedingly loud for your liking, your heart beating out your chest at the sight of the cold machine staring back at you with an assessing yet murderous gaze. Something inside the machinery banged around for a second before a bright light blinded you.

"Get down, get down!" Din called, but you barely heard him. Whatever was inside this thing was spending way too much time thinking, meaning it was calculating exactly how it was going to wipe out this small village.

Just as you predicted, the walker caught movement over the other end of the barricade and, with a quick stream of red light, a harsh explosion rang in your ears from the impact of the blaster charge. You needed to get its attention off the villagers and get it moving forward again.

Before you could formulate a plan that would most likely get you killed (or at least seriously maimed) thirty or so more Klatooinians emerged from the tree line, roaring out in anger. No doubt they'd discovered what had happened to their fellow raiders and searched for revenge.

"Open fire!" Cara ordered the villagers, raising her own blaster to the perpetrators. Shots began firing from both sides, though the armoured tank did much more damage than the people of Sorgan did, unsurprisingly. Fire blazed behind you, feeling the heat of it licking your exposed shoulder blades delicately. You were running out of time and losing the advantage held over the raiders.

You had to do something and fast before the walker simply turned the village into kindling.

"We gotta get that thing to step forward," You said quickly, shooting two Klatooinians dead in the head, and then another advancing on the barricade, "New plan."

"What do you have in mind?" The Mandalorian asked, disintegrating an attacker that got too close to the hiding spot. You said nothing for a moment, and he watched your gloved hand reach into your pocket to reload your blaster quickly, an unsure look in your eyes. That hadn't exactly filled him with confidence but he wouldn't chide you for it - they needed all the ideas they could get.

"Something dumb, but amazing if I can pull it off," You stood up, exposing your torso to the possibility of fire before anyone could stop you and just managing to shoot one more of the ugly green bastards coming towards you.

"I'll cover you," Din said, though he couldn't help feel like this wasn't the best plan. While villagers had been practising shooting, there were still way too many attackers for you to make it to the AT-ST safely. It seemed Cara had the same thought, shaking her head as you ran headfirst into the danger, striking down Klatoinians in your wake.

"Dank Farrik. She's gonna get herself killed," The dropper muttered loud enough for the Mandalorian to hear from his place next to her. Truly, she had grown to care for you immensely. When she had first met you in the bar, she thought maybe she could spend the night flirting with a beautiful mystery of a woman, and that would be it. But instead, she found a friend.

She couldn't watch you run into the fire and just hope you didn't get burned. A rebel like Cara Dune had hope in the plenty, what you needed was a miracle.

"Give me the pulse rifle," Cara ordered, trading her blaster for his with no room for discussion in her tone. "She needs help whether she wants it or not,"

And so Cara ran after you, seeing you ducked in one of the ponds the villagers farmed their krill in. You had a much better view of the armoured walker here and were shooting at its line of vision in between defending yourself from the ground attackers coming at you. You weren't meaning to kill the AT-ST, you simply needed to provoke it into stepping into the trap.

Cara hopped down into the pond with you, the splashing startling you and making you swerve to aim at the sound. Frantic eyes took in the sight of your friend, the pulse rifle in hand and a tired smile on her face.

"Didn't think I'd let you have all the fun did you?" You laughed, shooting a Klatooinian trying to sneak up on her, "You take out the green rats, I'll get on the walker. This thing packs more of a punch,"

"Roger-roger," You mocked a droid's mechanical voice, setting to work on clearing a shot for Cara. You did the best you could, seeing as the AT-ST was still firing its heavy charges behind you, causing sparks to fly too close to your face for comfort. The bright, red light of its huge shots hurt your eyes but you not once took your gaze off your targets. You heard a loud battle cry and briefly turned to see the villagers had started taking on the Klatooinians themselves too.

Thank the maker for that. You were running out of charges.

Cara had lined up the shot perfectly, her finger on the trigger being halted when she had to quickly duck down, yanking you into the cool, salty water with her to avoid one particularly close strike. You returned to your positions after a beat, the scope hovering over the walker's equivalence of eyes. "Come to mama," Cara muttered, aiming the rifle at its angry-red, glass visor.

She took the shot, clearly doing some damage to its circuitry as flames flicked out of the gaping hole now in the droid’s bodywork.

The walker stumbled forward, leg slipping into the hole the villagers had prepared, meaning the huge metal body came crashing down to the ground soon after. You saw the Mandalorian rush forward from his place behind the barricade, attaching an explosive to the machinery before rushing to join you for cover in the water.

There was one final eruption of blazing hot fire as the AT-ST exploded into pieces of shrapnel, which you took the quick initiative to duck away from. The sound caused all the remaining raiders to look back towards the source fearfully, quickly beginning to realise they had lost their huge advantage. Their main weapon was no more than scrap and bolts now.

So the Klatooinians ran, each sharing the same thought of hopelessness at their situation and abandoned ship, back to their encampment hopefully for the last time. There was a beat of silence before the villagers erupted into cheers and whoops, raising their sticks above their heads in joy as you and your companions, chest-deep in krill water, looked at one another triumphantly.

"Was that the plan?" The Mandalorian asked you, standing in front of your two acquaintances, pulling off your now wet shroud to reveal a wicked smile.

"I don't think you'd believe me if I said yes," For the first time since you’d met you heard the man in the beskar let out something close to a laugh, and you couldn't help but chuckle yourself. Cara joined you, cherishing the quiet moment you were blessed with compared to the utter peril you had just been in.

For that moment, all seemed calm between the bounty hunter and you, the woman who'd spent a lifetime running. And in the small embers of trust that had been lit that day, Din allowed himself to appreciate how ethereal you were under your mask.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The villagers were all much too tired to celebrate right away, all craving the first worry-free night sleep they had in weeks. But the promise of festivity lingered in the air, and you were sure your ears had picked up the words 'Corellian Whiskey', but that may have just been pure optimism.

Sure enough, when the next day rolled around there was a plentiful supply of food laid out in the largest building in the village, much bigger than the other houses and with a single long, wooden table placed in the middle where the food sat tempting the cheerful eyes of the natives. It had been a long, long time since you had the pleasure of proper company, and you spent the morning eating delightful home-cooked food of all kinds; pastries, warm fresh loaves with various fruity spreads, a thick oaty mixture which you found went deliciously with the sweet tang of the jellies, an assortment of berries in varying shades of purples and reds, all washed down with a pint of blue milk someone had acquired from the main trading hub early that morning. You had only really had, at best, acquaintances for the past two rotations, so you revelled at the chance to spend time talking with Cara, Omera and some other women of the village in between mouthfuls of the glorious food.

Your kerchief was forgotten since the night of the raid, feeling somewhat more comfortable with the Mandalorian seeing your face. You had this odd unspoken level of concord between you now. Perhaps it had been the way you had stepped in when Din had been thrown to the ground, or even the almost joke when you were sat waist-deep in the krill pond. Either way, Cara wasn't complaining. She was just glad to hear the end of the tense silences that had been there before.

Din had almost kicked himself when he realised what a beautiful woman you actually were. You still wore your hood, but from what he could now see of your face was those lips he had only taken a glance of before when he'd first approached you and Cara about this job. Those blushing lips pulled apart into a laugh at something Cara had said.

He realised you were a complete contradiction to Omera, the woman with whom he had been enraptured since he had gotten there. You were sharp where Omera was soft, predatory where Omera was peaceful. Your eyes screamed analysis and threatening, while Omera's soft, russet eyes whispered care and acceptance. You were a hunter. Omera was homely.

You couldn't be more different; and yet he found you just as attractive, he realised. If not more so.

The villagers tidied up the mess from breakfast, bellies stuffed and minds finally at peace. The whole village seemed to relax for the day, giving themselves a much-deserved reward after the ordeal they had been through the day before. You spent most of the day getting to know some of the people a little better seeing as they had been so kind to you and the others over your few days here and showed no sign of changing that as one woman had even offered you a beautiful sundress to borrow in the hopes you would be more comfortable than in your cargo-pants and hooded cloak. You had declined, not wanting to overstep your mark, but had been touched by the gesture nonetheless.

Of course you hadn't missed the way the familiar beskar helmet kept glancing over at the stunning raven-haired leader as he fed the child some of the grain mixture, but you decided not to bring it up and embarrass him. Things had just lulled between you two, you didn't need to run your mouth and ruin any chance you had of a quiet life.

Soon, the night rolled around and the civilians set up yet another array of food, a couple of them having hunted down a large, gamey animal of some sorts which was soon cooked to perfection and managed to feed almost all the merry people. There was a roaring fire pit in the centre, some logs dotted around for seating. You heard music being played from small little wooden instruments, some you blew into, some you banged on, others’ strummed. Villagers began dancing joyously with only the stars as spectators. The inky blackness of the night settled around the group, the only light coming from some small lanterns and the large, smoking fire helping keep the group warm. You had never seen such pure joy for life in your thirty something years, and it made your heart warm.

Then again, that could have just been the fact you had a drink in your hand and were back to your old tricks of card games with some of the grown-ups as your opponents. The Child sat at the Mandalorian’s feet clutching a small blanket over his lap to ward off the night's chill and happily watching the game ensue. You were enjoying sipping the hot, sweet spirit in your hand when the unthinkable happened.

"What?" You blurted, looking at the winning set of cards the Mandalorian placed down graciously, "H-how?" That was a stupid question, you knew exactly how he had won. He had simply played the game better than you. But it didn't stop the gobsmacked look on your face turning to an almost scowl at his stroke of luck.

"Ooh you got competition here," Cara teased, watching you grimace and grumble something under your breath, "Sore loser doesn't look good on you, baby" The dark-eyed woman mocked your words from a few days prior with a laugh kissing her teeth.

You swore at the woman colourfully, annoyed that you had been bested and even more so that your face was being rubbed in the dirt because of it.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Not everyone can keep up." Din added, a smug grin plastered on his face as he saw your face contort at the nickname you had given him just the day before.

A fire burned hotter in your eyes than it did in the pit behind you, as was in the pink of your cheeks. "Oh, so you can make jokes? Here I was thinking you were made out of beskar on the inside too." Cara and Din just chuckled at how frustrated you clearly were, only stoking the flame inside you more at their sudden mischief. "Whatever, you're probably a million years old under there. Bet you've had time to practice, old man."

You picked up a rock off the floor near you, one you knew was tiny enough to not scratch the surface of his helmet or cause a ringing in his old man-ears and threw it at his head. It dinked off the metal quietly as he made no effort to dodge it, and you two were left staring at each other.

"Ouch," The Mandalorian said, sarcasm clear in his tone. You didn't know whether it was the whiskey or the fact the man in front of you seemed to have an incredibly dry sense of humour that both surprised and suited you immensely, but the single word caused you to burst out laughing.

"I'm heading to bed before I cave in your skulls," You stood from your place near the fire, throwing your once-promising hand of cards onto the pile and slinking off to your hut.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You were drifting into the hazy middle between sleep and awake when you heard your friend and temporary roommate clamber in through the door, not alone. You shot up at the sound of muffled moaning, clear confusion and curiosity in your sleep coated mind. Squinting through the dimly lit room, your eyes widened when you saw two people you realised were Cara and Caleb embraced in a passionate kiss, working on removing each other's clothes. You were lost as to what to do, hoping one of them would notice you before they exposed themselves.

Just as you were about to speak up, it seemed Cara remembered that there was another bed in the room, one filled with the sleepy eyes of her friend, currently looking at her and Caleb in shock yet smug.

"Ash!" Cara yelped, releasing her mouth from the handsome man, who looked just as startled as the other two women in the room, "I- we-"

"I'm going for a walk," You said hurriedly, rolling out of bed and slipping on your socks and shoes haphazardly. The laces were undone, and you were pretty sure one of your socks was inside-out but you paid that no mind when you walked past the couple, both with a deep red tinge on their face. You grabbed your hooded cloak on your way, slipping the black material over your body as some menial defence against the outdoors. "Not that I expect you would, but don't wait up for me." You said teasingly before the woman practically slammed the door in your face for the comment, leaving you at the mercy of the bitter Sorgan night air.

You had been so preoccupied leaving Cara and her nighttime company, that you had barely thought about where this left you. Cold, lonely and looking around the village for somewhere to stay like some stray dog. While the villagers had been perfectly nice to you and you had risked your life alongside them not a day earlier, you felt you still didn't know any of them well enough to intrude on their homelife at this hour in the morning, not when most of them had young children that would be dead asleep by this time.

You sighed, crossing your arms over your body and walking back into the centre of the settlement where you had been sitting playing cards not a few hours prior.

Din had taken off his helmet, resting it on the window sill after double and triple-checking that the child was asleep. He huffed, the weight of the day calling for him to just head to bed and sleep but part of him enjoyed the time he got to spend next to the open window, knowing no one could see him as everyone had gone to bed by now. He knew he should too, but the feeling of the fresh air on his skin was welcomed after a whole day spent inside his thick armour.

It was then that he saw you.

The familiar black cloak was pulled up over your head, and you walked down the small dirt path towards the firepit, where barely a flame remained, just a few red hot coals providing very little warmth.

He knew he should just go to sleep. Turn and go to sleep, his body cried out for it, his head was heavy and weary after his long day.

But he watched as you sat down alone. He would have been suspicious if he hadn't seen the way you simply extended your feet out in front of you, legs bare and shivering, and turned your head down to your lap, arms crossed over your chest. You did nothing. You didn't move or speak, you simply sat there, clearly cold and attempting to fall asleep in the chilly night air.

He should go to sleep, Din told himself.

And yet, instead, he slipped his helmet back over his head and left the barn, heading towards the lonely woman sitting in the night.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Din didn't know what he was doing. You were barely comfortable with him, and yet he was approaching you as though he expected you to welcome him into your alone time with open arms.

He stopped a metre behind you when he noticed your head tilt towards him at the sound of approaching footsteps. He suddenly felt stiff and cursed himself for even thinking it was his place to approach you like this. He looked for the words to say, but came up empty and so you two sat in silence.

You turned your head the slightest bit, noting the small sound of thick breathing lilted through a vocoder.

It was him. But he seemed calm. "Cara had... company," You said simply, knowing he was probably here to investigate your reasoning for sitting here in the ridiculously short nightwear.

The man scoffed quietly. "So you're sitting here freezing your ass off? Why not just ask someone to bunk at theirs?"

Your head tilted towards him at his almost scolding tone. "Because I love sitting in the cold and on dirt, why do you think dumb ass? I didn't want to bother anyone at this time of night," you snipped.

There was a moment where you just stared at one another, and you were reminded just how thin the line was that you walked between acquaintances and distrust. You felt too observed when you saw the way he stood hands on his hips looking down at you, and it unnerved you that you couldn't see his facial expression through the tense silence. Would this be it? Would this be where he wrestled you to the ground and revealed his plan to hand you over to his guild?

Instead, he shocked you.

"Come on. There's an extra bed in the barn I'm staying in with the child," You stared up at him, eyes wide at the kind offer. He was extending an olive branch to you of sorts, but you remained on the floor, stunned into silence. He turned to walk away, noticing you weren't following him and called back to you, "Don't be so stubborn or I'll leave you to freeze."

You huffed out a bitter laugh. You hated that you were about to follow a man's orders and considered staying on the floor just to prove a point. But the night air nipped at your legs and you knew you would get no sleep if you were to stay there. The sound of a bed and rest called to you.

So you stood, walking over to join him, noticing he had waited for you, and fell into step with him.

You were both silent for a moment, before you broke it, feeling the need to respond with your own offer of peace.

"So, what do they call you?" You spoke quietly, not wanting to wake any of the inhabitants of the houses you strolled past.

"Most people just call me Mando" He replied simply, the tiredness was clear in his tone. You were almost touched when you realised he had come out of his hut just to see what was wrong with you. Either that or he thought you were up to no good. You chose to believe the first one in the interest of the friendly atmosphere he was clearly trying to create between you despite your rocky beginning.

"Okay, Mando." You repeated back to him, cocking your head in curiosity, "Where you from?"

You watched the armoured man straighten slightly, though his steps never faltered, "My parents were killed when I was young by the Empire. The Mandalorians raised me in their fighting corps on Nevarro until I swore to the creed," he said quietly, somberly. You nodded, forgetting that he couldn't see your movements as you mulled over his words.

It seemed you weren't all that different then, two loners raised by warriors in the cruel world that the Empire created.

"Tough start yourself then Mando," You repeated the words he'd said to you on the cart a few days ago, though the tone of the conversation left a moment of silence in which you winced. You hated how abrupt you could be sometimes. You weren't gentle and sweet like Omera. Perhaps you had been once when you were a young girl, but the seclusion of the past eighteen years left you somewhat inept emotionally.

You felt sympathetic and affectionate and passionate and loving and caring, you just had a tough-to-swallow way of showing it.

But then you heard something close to a breathy laugh leave his vocoder, and you thought you couldn't be all that bad.

————

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[candlewaxandp0lar0ids]

if I can never give you peace — one || Jungkook

Pairing: Jungkook x reader // Word count (chapter): 6k // Genre: Mafia AU, Hybrid AU, enemies to lovers // Ao3

↳ It starts like quite a few stories do, in your world. Girl meets boy, who happens to be a hybrid, girl buys him at an auction where hybrids are sold, boy falls in love with her, girl gets bored of him. Then it’s not so typical anymore, when the boy ends up forced into illegal fighting rings, until he makes a wrong move and the girl’s father decides he needs to be killed.

Where does that leave you? Well, you’re the one who handled Jungkook’s fight and generally organized his life, and, when the girl’s father, your boss and mafia leader, tells you he wants him ‘put down’, you’re the one who has to get it done. Except, instead, you let him escape, and everything turns out fine.

Until he comes back.

Warnings and tags (chapter): Descriptions of violence, Minor Character Death, Guns, kind of dark in general

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The first gunshot takes everyone by surprise. Unsure glances are exchanged all around, “did you guys hear that”, and disbelief is clear as day on people’s faces. There’s no way this would happen here, right? People are mostly aware of the fact that they’re technically working for a mafia leader, but this is the legal side of the business, and this building is in the middle of the town’s business centre. This cannot be happening.

You stay perfectly still, immobile where you were standing. Out of all the people here, you’re the one who is the most involved in the questionable parts of the family’s activities. In fact, you were just about to go up to Mr. X’s floor to discuss said questionable things — in this case, the smuggling of a large cargo of weapons.

The gunshot is still ringing in your ears when it is followed by another one, and then possibly more, but you can’t hear them because chaos erupts all around you.

People get up, start running around, some towards the elevators, some towards the stairs. Your brain tells you those choices are probably bad. If those gunshots are for the Family — and who are you kidding, they are — then whoever is firing them is coming up.

“Don’t use the stairs,” you order, and some people stop to look at you, unsure of what to do. They trust your decisions, to a degree, but you doubt it’s enough in this situation. “They’re probably coming,” you explain, even if three of the employees have already slipped through the door and left, “and I don’t think you should be in front of the elevator when the door opens.”

Blood drains from people’s faces. Downstairs, there are more shots fired. A woman starts to cry. Your brain is going in overdrive, processing everything, trying to come up with the best decision, and yet it doesn’t feel like anything is actually registering.

“You should barricade yourself in a room,” you say. Your voice is eerily calm, even to your ears, and it feels strange to hear it. It’s like a curtain has fallen between you and the world around you. You understand that this situation is terrifying, that you should have a reaction that is not apathy. You just don’t. “I don’t think you’re the main targets here. I’ll be going up to see Mr. X.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” a man shouts. “You just want to leave us here to be canon fodder! You—”

He’s shut up by your bodyguard pulling out a gun of his own.

“I suggest you do what she’s saying,” he orders, voice deep and gravelly.

On top of being armed, Hector is a bear hybrid you hired about a year ago. He’s tall and large, very impressive physically, which is generally enough to discourage any kind of altercation. He’s also a calm and gentle person most of the time. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him hold the gun he carries.

“You should stay here with them,” you tell him. He send you a disconcerted look.

“Are you sure? Even if they’re not the target, you might be.”

The statement shouldn’t take you by surprise. It’s something you should have considered immediately, and it takes you a second to figure out why you haven’t. If you are a target, that means the attacker knows about the workings of the organization. That would mean that they’ve been planning this for a while, and that they’ve simply gone completely under your radar all this time. Which is a lot more worrying to you than anything else.

“Stay,” you insist. When this is over, it will be better if people here think you had their best interest at heart.

If you make it out, that is.

Hector ushers people inside a conference room, and you walk towards the stairs. From there, you hear gunshots better than you did earlier, and you wince at the sound. You’re not used to it. It’s strange, since you’ve been working for the Family for years now, but you’ve very rarely heard people firing guns. You’ve never even had a gun pulled on you. You’d like to think it’s because you’re too careful, or too smart to find yourself in those situations, but the truth is you’ve just never been in situations where that sort of things would happen.

Sure, someone could send a killer for you — they have, actually — and then the carefully crafted net of precautions you’ve woven around yourself would — did — stop them, but you don’t participate in drug deals and you’re rarely out in the street, and that’s where those things happen most of the time.

You glance down. You’re on the fifteenth floor, so you doubt the employees who ignored your warning have made it out yet. You doubt they will, to be honest.

Glancing up, you wonder if you’ll make it to the twentieth before someone catches up with you and, since it’s a useless thing to think about, you begin your ascension. You’re not the most in shape, most of your daily exercise consisting in walking from places to places. That is a lot of walking, and you can do it without getting breathless, but you never take the stairs. Soon, you’re panting, and you’re about to take a break after three floors when you hear new gunshots that make you freeze.

These were in the stairwell. They echo deafeningly, and, for the first time since this all started, fear actually grips you. You swallow, heart beating loudly, and you keep going. You hear some screams, down there, and the horrible sound of flesh — bodies — hitting the floor, and then nothing. You’re sure someone must be climbing up those stairs, but you can’t hear them at all, and that terrifies you. You have no idea how fast they are, how soon they’ll catch up with you, how—

You slam open the door to the last floor. The time is not to discretion, and anyway, whoever is down there is probably coming for the twentieth floor.

The second you walk out, three guns are pointed towards you, and someone is screaming at you to stay where you are. You obey, until Mr. X’s bodyguards identify you. You had told him that hiring hybrids would be a good idea, since they rely more on their heightened senses and tend to have better reflexes, but you’d been ignored, so you had just shrugged it off and followed your own advice.

“Mr. X is inside,” one of the men tells you, pointing at the door, but not moving to take you there. You walk by him, and they all keep their eyes firmly on the stairwell’s door. That makes you assume the elevators don’t work, otherwise they’d have part of their focus on there.

“Mr. X, do we have any idea what— Miss Xanders, I apologize, I hadn’t seen you there.”

“It’s fine, (Y/N),” Anna says. “We really have more important things to concern ourselves with.”

“Do we know who’s attacking us?” you ask, giving your attention back to Mr. Xanders.

Mr. Xanders is an old man, you feel that he was already an old man when you’d joined. He had Anna quite late, when he was nearing his fifties, and he recently celebrated his seventieth birthday. You would know, you organized the party.

He’s looked old for as long as you’ve worked for him, using a walking stick, small eyes hidden behind large glasses, skin marked with wrinkles. But there was always something sharp and smart, cunning, in his eyes. Despite everything, he felt dangerous, and you had never doubted that he was not a man to underestimate.

Right now, though, he looks tired. Exhausted. He’s staring at his laptop screen and shaking his head, utterly confused.

“I can’t recognize anyone,” he says, and your heart misses a beat. Not good, that’s not good at all. “Can you?”

You walk around the desk quickly, examining the view you get from various cameras placed all around the building, and your hands involuntarily clench into fists as you see how dire everything is. On several different floors, men with machine guns are walking around, and you know for a fact they’re not working for you. You can’t see what’s happened to your people in the low-resolution, but you can guess, and your stomach tightens at the thought.

“How is that possible?” you whisper. “How has no one intervened yet?”

You know the police isn’t too keen on coming here, but this is genuinely insane. The only explanation you can think of is that they’ve been paid-off, and again, you don’t know how you wouldn’t have heard about that.

“That’s not what I asked you,” Mr. X says harshly, and you wince, focusing again on the men on the screen. You scan the men again, quickly. Some are wearing masks, but a lot of them are brazenly showing their faces, and that is one more thing that is not good. They should want to make sure no one would recognize them. If they’re confident enough to do that…

“I don’t know them,” you whisper. Some look vaguely familiar, but you just can’t place it, so you’re sure they aren’t big names. You have definitely not been on the look-out for them.

“Dad, we should really go up to the helicopter,” Anna says urgently.

Mr. Xanders hesitates, then nods, getting up in a movement that is slow and clearly painful. You help him out without thinking much about it, holding his arm and giving him his walking stick.

“How will you do that? The elevators aren’t working and the stairs don’t go to the roof.”

“We’ll reactivate the elevators,” Anna explains with a shrug, and you stare at her in disbelief.

“That will mean those people will be able to move freely in the building. I don’t think—”

“They are already moving freely,” Mr. Xanders barks.

“Still—”

Then, a lot of things happen at the same time. You were standing in front of the elevator, Anna calling it with a special key, the bodyguards surrounding you, eyes and weapons still directed at the stairwell door.

The elevator opens with a ding. And the door slams open.

There are gunshots everywhere. You dive to the ground, or maybe you’re pushed down, you’re not too sure. You look up to see two men falling down around you, the third guard ushering Anna and her father in. You try to push yourself to your feet, but the door is already closing. You call out, you can’t hear your own voice, ears ringing from all the noise.

You meet Anna’s eyes, filled with indifference and a complete lack of remorse, and then the door is closed, and you know they’re gone.

And someone, someone who wanted them dead and just killed two men, is in this room with you.

Slowly, oh so slowly, you turn around. As you do, you feel your lower lip starting to tremble, and you sink your teeth into the flesh to stop it. You push yourself on your elbows, and your eyes fall on a man with bleached blonde hair pushed back with a bandana, a round face that makes him look younger than you suspect he is, and a mocking smirk. Once more, you’re struck by the fact that you don’t know him. He’s alone and he took out two trained guards, not to mention the people he must have killed to get there, and you have no clue who he is.

His eyes confuse you, at first, and then you realize it’s their color that is throwing you off, an unnatural yellow, and the slit of his pupils. He’s a hybrid, you understand, and you curse yourself for how slow your brain is at the moment. You don’t have time to wonder if he’s part cat or part snake before he takes a step towards you. Fear grips you, and you consider crawling back, but you force yourself to stay unmoving. You don’t let emotions control you. That’s not who you are.

Instead, you stare at him straight in the eyes, even as you feel tears well up in yours. You’ve never been afraid of death, and yet it seems that you can’t stop your body’s reaction as you understand that this is it. This is how you die, where you die, this is who kills you.

The man crouches down in front of you, and lifts his gun to press the barrel against your forehead. He looks at you like an animal playing with its food. The situation seems to be amusing to him, and you think he is waiting for you to beg. You have no intention of doing that.

“Just make it quick,” you say.

You don’t recognize your own voice. The man’s smile widens, revealing pearly white teeth and a set of fangs. Tears start to roll down your cheeks, and you’re completely unable to stop them. You don’t feel sad or afraid, you just feel empty, but the tears keep falling. Still, you hold the man’s gaze. You won’t beg for your life.

“What if I let you go?” he drawls, and you can’t help the way your eyes widen at the possibility. Then, he laughs, pleased by your reaction, and you’re horrified to find out that this had an effect on you. The treacherous hope you’d just felt makes the reality of your imminent death crushing. A sob escapes you before you can get yourself under control again.

“Please,” you whisper. “Just get it over with.”

A pout forms on his face, and he shrugs. Then, to your surprise, he removes the gun from your forehead. The next thing you feel is the grip of the weapon, violently connecting with your temple, and then you don’t feel anything at all, not even the floor when your head hits it in your fall.

You wake up to the sound of soft, muffled sobs. It takes you a few seconds to piece things together, your head throbbing painfully and your mind in shambles. You lift your head with a groan, trying to take in your surroundings. Your thoughts are slow and you hate it. It makes you feel so vulnerable and defenseless.

Of course, that gets worse when you realize your hands are tied behind your back. That sends a jolt of adrenaline through your body, and you manage to look around you. It seems like you are in some warehouse, which, in your experience, is not a good thing. That’s where executions happen. They’re places that are accident prone, so the presence of blood could be explained easily, and they aren’t inspected that often anyway.

There's another sob beside you, and when you turn to look where it’s coming from, you find Anna, not just tied up but gagged, tears streaming down her cheeks. You assume that means her and her father were caught before they made it to the helicopter. On the other side of her is Mr. X, who seems to be in the same situation as her.

I’m here to be killed, you think. You can’t see another explanation. Mr. X and Anna are definitely here for that reason, so if you’re there with them— it means you’re here to die. You hope it will be quick, like you had asked that man, but you doubt it. If they took you here, it’s probably because they intend to make an example out of you. Intellectually, you don’t blame them. If this is a takeover of the family, they’ll probably need all the intimidation power they can get to keep the situation under control. It’s a ballsy move, certainly, and you would be at least a little impressed if you weren’t thinking about the creative and painful ways they can choose to get rid of you.

“Is she awake?” a voice asks. You turn your head quickly, too quickly, and another groan escapes you as your head painfully reminds you of the blow you just took.

You meet the mocking eyes of the man who knocked you out, before he looks away from you, at a large man you don’t think you’ve seen before.

“He wants to see her.”

The man nods, and then he’s on you in just a few steps, roughly forcing you up, his grip tight around your arm. You groan again as he drags you through the warehouse, to a large black car. You have just the time to think that someone must not want to be seen, if they’re in that, before you’re pushed into it. You lose your balance and land on your knees, and that’s when legs appear in your field of vision. They’re clad in black suit trousers.

You slowly look up. First, you discover elbows resting on spread knees, tattooed hands joined between them. Then there’s an elegant white shirt, unbuttoned at the top, muscular shoulders, a strong jaw, an amused, mocking smile and—

Your mouth drops open. Today is definitely proving to be a trying day for your reputation of never expressing your emotions, no matter the situation.

“Jungkook?” you ask, in disbelief.

Because it’s him. There’s something harsher in his eyes, his hair is longer, dark locks falling down to his jaw, and he’s lost any remaining softness he still had two years ago, when you last saw him, but it’s definitely him. He looks confident, and he’s more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him, clearly knowing that he’s in full control of the situation.

“Hey,” he says. “Wanna take a seat?”

He watches you struggle to get to your feet, something that turns out not to be that easy when your hands are tied behind your back, and doesn’t make a movement to help you. When you manage to sit opposite him, you’re still watching him like you’ve seen a ghost.

“What are you doing here?”

You know you should be able to piece things together to get an answer now. The deferential tone the man had when he talked about him earlier, everything that happened since these first gunshots… In another situation, it would be obvious to you. But because it’s Jungkook, you can’t bring yourself to come to the natural conclusion.

Jungkook had an out. He could have left this world behind altogether. So why wouldn’t he?

“Come on, you’re supposed to be smart,” he says, mocking, and his smile is harsh and condescending. “I’m taking over for the Xanders family. I think that should have been pretty clear.”

There’s a moment of silence, a long moment, as he waits for it to sink in. He’s in no hurry.

“But why?”

He shrugs, lean back against the leather seat.

“Because I can. Don’t you wanna why you’re here?”

That… would be a good idea, actually, and you’re bothered by how long it took you to think about it. You’re also bothered by how you lost track of that the second you saw Jungkook. You blame it on the surprise and on the fact that you’ve known him since before you became as— you’d like to say ‘efficient’, but the right word is probably ‘emotionless’. Empty.

“Why am I here?” you ask, frowning. If he wanted to kill you, he would have done it outside. It could be that he just wants to gloat, but something tell you he has—

“I have an offer for you,” he says, and then he grins and reveals his teeth. “It’s my way of saying thanks for how generous you were when you gave me five minutes to save my life.”

His tone is so abrasive it almost makes you wince, but you’re already falling back into your normal self. ‘Offer’ is a good thing, it means negotiation, conversation, things you can do, things you’re good at, things you can focus on to block out everything else, like the pain in your head or the guilt that settles in when he describes your actions.

“What offer?”

The grin disappears. He doesn’t seem happy he didn’t get a reaction from you.

“Work for me.”

That… makes sense, you suppose.

“I’m taking over for Mr. X. You know everything around here, and some people say you’re the best there is at what you do.” Then he shrugs, and casually pulls out a gun that you think was tucked in his back pocket. “That, or join him out there. I’m not sure you’ll like the outcome for that though.”

Despite the obvious threat, you can’t help but seriously consider the offer. If there’s one thing you’re sure of, it’s that it’s not a good one. Even if he manages to replace Mr. X, you doubt all the people who work for him will obey him. Stabilizing the whole thing will be a titanic task, but that’s not even what worries you — you can appreciate a challenge. No, the issue is that if you switch your allegiance, people will remember it. You will make a lot of enemies, and that doesn’t even include the people who simply will not trust you because you used to work for someone else. It’s a poisoned gift, really, and you’re sure Jungkook knows it.

“How do you plan on making the families follow suit?” you ask with a frown.

He rolls his eyes.

“Do people ever tell you how boring you are?”

They do, actually.

“This is not the only coup happening today. Some people who have already agreed to work for me will get in power. And the others… will take some convincing, but I’m sure they’ll come around.” He gives you a joyless, aggressive smile.

You’re still focused on his first words. You were already so puzzled that you wouldn’t have heard about what’s going on today — about how Jungkook is back in town, about how he’s been planning an entire takeover — but this is on a whole other level.

“How did you do that?” you ask, and when he lifts an eyebrow, you know you didn’t manage to keep your surprise out of your voice.

“Which part?”

“How did I not hear about that? I mean, Mr. X could sneeze and I would have known about it. People couldn’t open speakeasies without getting approved by me first — and they tried more than once.”

Jungkook looks at you, and disbelief passes on his face. This is what gets you? You couldn’t be bothered to give a shit about anything earlier, now you seem barely affected by the fact that he was threatening to kill you, but that caught your interest. Not just that, but you almost look impressed.

Okay, maybe you’re not as boring as he’d said, but you sure are fucking weird.

“We can smell you,” he says, tapping his nose. “It’s not too hard to figure out who you’re in contact with. Just had to make sure to avoid them. There were a few close calls, but we took care of it.” Then he shrugs. “It wasn’t as hard as you think it was. You’re not as cautious around hybrids.”

You stare at him for a while. He starts picking at his suit, looking annoyed by the turn the situation has taken, and you think about what he said. He’s right, you realize. You fucked up here — badly. You should have taken hybrids’ senses into consideration. You’d like to tell yourself that you didn’t think about it because there were no hybrids in high places, in the organization, but that’s not a good excuse. You file the information in your brain. You’ll do better.

“I’ll do it,” you say, and Jungkook glances at you.

“What changed your mind?”

“I’m— curious, I suppose. I’d like to see where this thing is going.”

Jungkook considers taking back his offer. He didn’t know what he thought would happen, but he expected it to be more interesting than this. Instead, you sat there, face as stiff as ever, and now you’re talking about being curious, which sounds wildly out of character, if you ask him. Yoongi’s told him you cried when you thought he was about to kill him, but he doubts it right now. It doesn’t look like anything can get through that thick shell of yours — and even if it did, he doesn’t think there would be a lot underneath it.

But the thing is, he was telling the truth earlier, when he said you were rumored to be the best there was at your job, and Jungkook is nothing if not a perfectionist. He likes to surround himself with the best. Which, unfortunately, means you.

“Suga!” he shouts, opening the door.

The man with the slit pupils jumps in easily, and looks at you with a disapproving twist of his lips.

“I’m not killing her, am I?”

He sounds disappointed.

Jungkook shakes his head in response.

“That’s Suga,” he tells you, pointing at the man. “He’ll explain how we work to you.”

You nod.

“I think he should kill you,” Suga informs you off-handedly, dropping on the seat next to you. “I think you’ll betray us.”

“If she does, I’ll kill her, if she fucks up her job, I’ll kill her, ” Jungkook says, and you have no doubt he means it. “Consider this your five minutes. Let them go, and you won’t have another shot.”

“That’s fine by me,” you say evenly. Betrayal has never been an option for you. You had no loyalty towards Mr. X, but the threat over your family was too big to risk it. And now, with Jungkook— you guess you’ll have to wait and see. You don’t think you’ll betray him, but if things turn sour… You suppose you’re not above it.

Maybe it should worry you, how little you value your own life, but you brush it off quickly. Thinking about it too much could compromise the way you do your job, and you can’t have that.

“So,” Jungkook says, leaning back, eyes watching you carefully. “What do you suggest we do with the Xanders?”

Suga opens his mouth, but Jungkook lifts a hand, signaling that he wants your answer. You wonder if this is some kind of test.

“Killing them would be the best decision,” you say, somewhat reluctantly. You know your decisions in the past, your suggestions, have lead to the death of people, but you’ve rarely been so direct about it. Then again, death is part of the game, when you work this kind of job. Mr. Xanders is about as close to an actual monster as it gets. And Anna… Well, maybe Anna isn’t. You don’t like her, and you absolutely believe that she was happy to enjoy everything that came with what her father did, but she’s not him. Which is a low bar to clear.

“She’s not wrong,” Suga echoes, sounding annoyed.

“Letting them live would be seen as a proof of weakness and they would try to come back. It’s just— a bad idea.”

You can see Jungkook’s jaw tensing. Next to you, Suga starts to make his leg shake. You suppose he has the same kind of bad feeling you do.

“What if we kill Mr. X but not Anna?” he asks, and Suga groans. Jungkook rolls his eyes and develops. “Yoongi, we’re not taking over the legal part of the business. We can just— leave that to her, and not bother about it.”

“We’ll have to figure out something else to launder money,” you say, because that was the main point of that side of things, legal just in name really. That is not your biggest concern, though. “But if you kill her father and not her—”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Yoongi snaps. “She needs to die.”

He’s right. It’s just the smart thing to do.

“People here aren’t impressed by mercy,” you insist, and that’s when you realize you’ve lost that fight already. Jungkook knows it. There’s no way he doesn’t. He’s made his decision, even if it’s a bad one, and trying to change his mind is useless. So you’re quick to jump to the things that need to be done if he lets Anna live. “You need to get her to sign emancipation papers.”

Jungkook tenses suddenly at the suggestion and a low growl comes from his throat as he bares his teeth at you threateningly. Yoongi barely moves, but you see his hand settling on his hip, near his gun, which you guess serves as a reassuring gesture. The car fills with tension, and you swallow. You feel small and defenseless. It’s not that rare a sentiment, but you suddenly become extremely aware of the fact that you’re alone with them, hands still fucking tied behind your back, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do.

“Anna doesn’t own me,” Jungkook snarls.

“Legally she does,” you explain. You’re choosing your words carefully, making sure not to anger him any more, but you’re still staring right at him. “You may have forged an ID or something, but if she lives and she can prove she hasn’t freed you— the consequences will be bad.”

There is a second that feels like an eternity, Jungkook just staring at you, lips now in a tight line, before he shrugs and you can breathe again.

“Okay. Let’s do that.”

Yoongi groans and sends you a furious glare that you don’t understand. You agreed with him. What did you do to deserve that?

“I’ll take care of Xanders,” Jungkook adds. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

“Can someone— Can someone untie me?” you ask as they’re moving towards the door.

Jungkook glances at you.

“We’ll see when we come back.”

A grin flashes on his lips when your lips twist into an offended expression, and then he jumps out of the car, followed by Yoongi, and leaves you alone in there.

Fuck.

What an asshole.

Jungkook walks towards his captives with long, confident strides. Yoongi is right behind him, of course, his shadow, the perfect killer. He may disapprove of Jungkook’s plan, if you can even call it that, and he sure doesn’t like how easily you dropped the topic, but he’s still loyal to him. If he fucks up, he’ll clean up after him.

Jungkook savors the moment when Anna’s eyes fall on him. He can tell she recognizes him immediately by the way they widen and how she tries to speak through her gag. It’s been years since the last time he saw her. Much longer than the last time he saw you, which leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s thought about this so much. A long time ago, he dreamt of her telling him she wanted him back, but over the years, it mostly turned into him finally taking revenge, and he intends to fully savor it now that it’s happening.

He removes the gag from her mouth, and takes an unhealthy pleasure from the way she sobs out, loud and desperate.

“Jungkook, Jungkook, baby, please, please…”

Jungkook only needs to glance at Yoongi for him to set her free, albeit after an annoyed roll of his eyes. The second he does, Anna falls from the chair, right into his arms. Jungkook knows that she’s only trying to save her life, doubts she’s thought of him for more than a split second since he’s disappeared, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to enjoy it.

“Hey baby,” he grins, and he watches as she winces when she sees his sharp teeth. Right, she didn’t see him after that.

Fuck. It’s been a long, long time. She really didn’t give a fuck about him, huh?

And yet he can’t kill her. And yet he knows her bright, pleading eyes, the light weight of her body, the curve of her neck by heart.

“I’m going to need you to do something for me,” he says, voice deep and eyes boring into hers.

She blinks.

“And if I do you won’t— you won’t kill me?”

Jungkook’s opinion of Anna is far less charitable than yours. He thinks she’s an opportunist, will do anything to preserve herself and, sure, she’s not personally involved in her father’s business, but she wouldn’t bat an eye if she was. She likes to play the innocent girl who’s horrified by what’s going on with her family, but she just isn’t. As simple as that.

“Nah. I won’t.”

It doesn’t take long before Anna is kneeling on the floor, writing down what Yoongi is dictating to her, reading from his phone. Jungkook could do it, knows the text by heart, learned it a long time ago when he still hoped for it, but he just stays there immobile instead, watching her at his mercy.

It’s not as nice as he’d imagined.

Finally, she hands him the piece of paper with trembling hands, a small smile forming on her lips as she thinks that her nightmare is over.

Jungkook takes it, reads it over, and nods. Then he pulls his gun out, and Anna’s smile vanishes. Jungkook thrives on her reaction, on the idea that he has complete power over her in that moment. It feels dark and twisted, but fuck, it also feels good.

“But I—”

He shoots and Anna yelps, protecting her ears in reflex.

It takes her a second to realize he wasn’t aiming at her, and relief washes over her, before she understands what it means. She turns around, slowly. And screams.

A clean shot, Jungkook decides, looking at Mr. X. The man had been glaring at him the entire time, and he doubts he would have groveled like Anna had. Now, his blood is splattered on the floor, head thrown back, mouth open, staring at the ceiling with empty, dead eyes. Jungkook doesn’t care when Anna runs to him, sobbing, calling for him, trying to shake him awake.

“We’re going,” Jungkook announces to Yoongi, who finally seems a little less angry with him.

He doesn’t look back at Anna as he walks away.

You rub your wrists, then your shoulders after Yoongi has cut you free. Jungkook doesn’t say anything about it, just sits back in the luxurious car. You thought he would look content, happy with himself. He doesn’t.

When the car stops in front of your building, you’re not sure what to do. Part of you still can’t believe he’s letting you live.

“We’ll come and get you tomorrow to get things started,” Jungkook informs you while staring out the window. “You know, you probably should have moved two years ago,” he adds, and for some reason, that really rubs you the wrong way.

“I changed the locks,” you answer, and he grins.

“You still haven’t figured out how I did it, right?”

You frown. You haven’t.

He looks genuinely pleased by that.

“What should I call you?” you ask. “Do you want to be the new Mr. X?”

He growls at the suggestion, but seriously thinks about your question.

“Call me— Call me Mr. Jeon,” he decides spontaneously, without explaining his decision, and you nod. This should help make things more professional, isn’t if this isn’t actually a professional setting.

“Fine, Mr. Jeon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You’re pleased to find that your voice is back to normal, calm and even, not letting anyone know of whatever you’re feeling.

Except Jungkook and Yoongi can probably hear how fast your heart is still beating, but that’s a problem you’ll have to deal with some other time.

You step out, and linger there a second too long, the door open. Finally, you gather the courage to turn around and look at Jungkook.

“Why are you back?”

You mean a lot by that. In the city, sure, but also in that setting. You’d always thought— you’d always thought Jungkook was better than that. You’d always thought he should get the opportunity to get away and he’d be fine. That’s something you can’t shake away, can’t push under the rug.

He couldn’t escape.

He stares at you blankly.

“Where else am I supposed to go?”

Then he leans in and closes the door, and you’re left alone on the pavement.

Tagging list: @chaiwivluv​ @mintyrae​

[watermelonlipstick]

Stabbed

This was written following an anon request that read as follows:

Hello sweetie, can I please request a dean x reader one shot in which she gets stabbed during a rough hunt and it's a race against time to save her (maybe Sam is the one driving and dean gets in the backseat with her?) And dean is scared of losing her and he has a panic attack after she wakes up but she manages to calm him down?

Obviously everyone’s experiences with panic attacks are different, but I tend to think if Dean had one it might manifest more externally as a violent outburst; I think he would subconsciously feel like it’s a more acceptable way to express ~freaking the fuck out~. This fic is sort of loosely set during early season 3, partly because that contextualization made sense to me with what you were describing and partly because I feel like that tenderhearted, slightly-less-jaded Dean would be more likely to allow himself to be perceived as vulnerable in such a fraught moment. 

I’ve also taken a couple liberties with the medical situation described for literary purposes. 😋 Don’t @ me, I know this isn’t exactly how hypovolemic shock plays out.

Title: Stabbed

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4206

Summary: Dean’s anxiety gets the best of him when the reader appears fatally injured on a hunt, and is soothed only after the danger is gone. 

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence, description of panic attack, swearing

           Sam slammed the door once Dean had hauled you into the backseat, propping you up like a mannequin next to him on the bench. Your vision was starting to fade in and out, but the sense memory of the muscles in Dean’s side and the leather seat underneath you were comforting anyway. It seemed like the car started flying before Sam had even closed the driver’s side door and you tried hard to focus on Dean’s babbling.

           “You’ll be able to give me shit about this one forever, right, kid? Should’ve listened to you, you said they would’ve left the barn by the time we got there. Always so smart, when am I going to learn?” He was trying to chuckle but it came out breathy and wrong, Dean never quite able to actually hit the casual affect he wanted in moments like this. Honestly, it made you more nervous, knowing that for injuries he wasn’t worried about he wanted to look over you with clinical precision, chastise you for being careless. He only did this pretend calm when he was trying to keep it together—you used to think it was only for you or Sam but after a few years and more than a few bad scares you started to understand it for the defense mechanism it truly was. Not that you needed extra evidence that this was bad; you could feel the life leeching out of you like a water balloon with a pinprick leak.

           “Hey, come on—open your eyes for me, lemme see those stunners,” he said, guiding your chin up where you had begun to slump onto his shoulder. “Perfect, yeah, just like that. Hey, stay with me—”

           You mustered up everything you had to swim to the surface of the sleep-darkness your body so desperately wanted and straightened your spine to take a deep breath. Bad idea, the wounds in your side feeling like they were splitting you clean in half even through the haze. At least it woke you up for a moment to catch Dean’s eyes, fiery with panic even as he tried to smile.

           “Dean, I—” you started, feeling like your throat was full of broken glass.

           “Babe, don’t try to talk, it’s okay, you can tell me whatever it is when we get to a hospital.”

           Sam turned his head away from the rural highway the Impala was absolutely sailing down to look back at his older brother. “We’re hours away from a hospital, we’ve gotta go back to the motel,” he said, low and serious.

           “If we’re hours away from a hospital then I guess we’re driving for a couple hours, aren’t we, Sammy?” Dean was getting worse and worse at covering the hard edge of fear-driven anger in his voice as the seconds ticked by.

           “Dean, we—she’s—we don’t have a couple hours.”

           Dean closed his eyes tight and set his jaw firm. “We’re going to a fucking hospital.”

           His brother swerved deftly around a giant pothole, somehow able to turn the wheel so slightly that the car’s path barely changed. “Listen to me. She can’t bleed like that for long enough to get to a hospital. We have to try to handle this one ourselves or there’s no chance—”

           The whole conversation felt like it was happening to someone else, your senses starting to detach from your body, and you couldn’t hold onto those trains of thought for long enough to process them. You were forced to expend all the energy you had on what you needed to say, and reached for Dean’s hand with a weak grip.

           “Dean, look at me.”

           He sounded like a hurt puppy when he said, “please,” and you knew he was asking you not to make him listen but you were worried you were out of options, out of time. That frantic smile looked almost crazed as it started to quiver on his face, eyelashes clumping with moisture.

           “Sam, can you hear me too?” you asked, frustrated in an abstract way at how frail your voice sounded.

           He gave one tight nod in the rearview mirror with a jaw set firm as iron, and when he said “Yes—yeah,” it was choked.

           “I love you idiots so much. These last—ow, Jesus—however many years have been some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Sam, I—you’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I—fuck,” you winced, something about the breath you took to keep from crying sending an electric jolt of pain through you and doubling you over.

           “It’s okay, I know,” Sam said up into the rearview mirror, and you couldn’t tell if the way the headlights were falling on the trees impossibly fast was something about your sight being distorted, because if it wasn’t then you were surprised the Impala hadn’t broken some kind of land speed record. You made a mental note to tell Dean to start drag racing before remembering you might not tell him anything ever again. What you were nearly positive you weren’t imagining were the break in Sam’s voice or the reflection of tears on his cheek as he locked eyes with you in the mirror.

           By the grace of whatever higher power the Winchesters were on the good side of at the time, you connected with him in the reflection, were able to absorb some fraction of the bone-crushing, pick-you-up-off-your-feet hug you wanted so badly from Sam in that moment. You tried to be thankful for what you got and drifted back to Dean’s gaze.

           “And Dean, baby,” you continued, some bizarre flutter of second wind giving you enough force to clench your hand tightly around his and remember to keep your breaths shallow, keep talking even if your eyes couldn’t quite focus. “This was not your fault, you gotta—promise—me you know it wasn’t.”

           “I, ah—” he faltered, throat vibrating as he tried to keep the inevitable tears down.

           You gripped his hand tighter, felt your fingers going numb, and tried to smile hoping it didn’t look too grotesque on a face almost certainly drained of lifelike color. “C’mon, gotta obey a last wish, right?” The grief-stricken chuckle of surprise that dark joke punched out of Dean opened the floodgates, and tears burst forward to stream down his face. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

           You’d thought of some goofy punchline to try to give, some ‘no sleeping with random girls for at least a year, want you guys to pour one out for me every day’ bullshit but seeing the love and pain in Dean’s eyes as your vision came in and out zapped it away. “I love you baby. I just—thank you for—everything—and—”

           It was getting too hard to take even those shallow breaths, your hearing gone fuzzy around the edges, and the last thing you remembered was seeing a streetlight on the edge of town as Dean took your face in his hands, “I know, kid, I know, come on—please,” fading out like he was being zipped away through a long tunnel.

           You were completely motionless in Dean’s arms, pulse gone thready enough that Dean was having a hard time finding it through the rumble of the car.

           “Fuck, Sam, FUCK!” Dean screamed, one hand wrapped up in the hair at the back of your neck as he fought desperately to keep you upright.

           Sam muscled through the lump in his throat and tried to stay focused. “When we get there you need to be ready to go, okay, Dean? HEY, listen to me. Don’t quit on me like this,” he barked, trying to catch his brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror without taking his focus off the road, terrified at the speed of the Impala and the potential of repeating what had happened the last time he’d had someone he loved bleeding out in the backseat.

           The car skittered around two corners and Sam prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything that there weren’t any Keystone cops looking to meet their month’s ticket quota by hanging around dark parking lots with radar guns, willed Dean to stop punching the window of the car with the hand that wasn’t clutching your head to his chest. He couldn’t decide if he thought it would’ve been better to have Dean drive, if he would’ve been able to hold it together any better than Dean was right now, if Dean could’ve focused if he was driving and not feeling you drift in his arms. There wasn’t time to figure it out and it ultimately didn’t matter, his brother turning into a bomb in the backseat and Sam needed to figure out a way to funnel Dean’s sheer panic back into the denial that would fuel him to keep moving, do anything to keep you alive, regardless of whether there was any hope left.

           “It’s not over, you’ve gotta keep it together. She needs you. See, we’re right around—"

           But he didn’t get to finish through the flurry of action as he pulled into the motel. He careened the Impala straight up to the door of the room, more than half of the car parked over a strip of grass intended to make the nondescript building feel more homey. By the time he’d torn the keys from the ignition Dean was practically leaping out of the backseat, carrying you into the room a quarter step after Sam half-busted the door open, laying you on a bed and tearing your t-shirt off with his bare hands like a cheap wrestling gimmick.

           Sam didn’t bother closing the motel door, moving too fast to care as he ripped a cork out of whiskey bottle with his teeth and poured it all over your now-exposed side, grimacing with nausea at the way it didn’t make you draw back in pain even a little. Dean tried his best to thread a needle with floss and remember whether it was better or worse that the blood was still flowing fast and bright red out of those stab wounds rather than slowing or oxidizing—this is bush league shit Dad pounded in years ago why can’t I remember fucking any of it? His hands shook with too much adrenaline to get the floss through the needle but Sam was already working on patching the biggest wound, tying knots with the rapid precision of a surgeon.

           It was only when he started getting in Sam’s way that the younger Winchester said anything more, encouraged that Dean was at least trying to pull himself together. He began talking through the stitches, muttering when he had to pull one tight with his teeth.

           “We—Dean, look at me.” Sam drilled into him with those brackish eyes, struggling to maintain the appearance of being in control that his brother needed of him when he could feel you going cold underneath his fingertips. “We’re going to need to give her a lot of fluids when she wakes up; all we have is beer. Go get some stuff for her to drink—electrolytes, she’ll need electrolytes.”

           “I’m not going to fucking leave, asshole!” Dean was strung out and not even pretending to hide it anymore, voice taking on that juvenile squeak Sam had only heard a handful of times since Dean was a teenager.

           He took a deep breath in an effort to soothe himself before speaking as clearly and firmly to Dean as possible, no room for negotiation. “Dean. This is not helping. The best thing you can do for her is to go get some fluids. Gatorade, OJ, bananas too, if they have them. She’ll need iron but we can deal with other food once she wakes up.”

           “What if she doesn’t—” Dean half-moaned, sounding like he’d been struck by something that was sucking all the oxygen from his lungs, looking like he was on the last ten feet of a hundred-mile race.

           “She’s going to wake up.”

           And Sam’s stubbornness actually did help Dean a bit in that moment, knowing that even if his life was about to change radically, that never would. “Go get some fucking Gatorade.”

           By the time Dean came back—arms filled with so many bags of sports drinks that it would be comical in any other context—his brother had stitched up every wound, cleaned off most of the blood, and put all your limbs atop high stacks of pillows in an attempt to get as much blood to your vital organs as possible. Dean was near catatonic with the singular focus of a task, which was Sam’s intention. One thing at a time.

           After about five minutes of sitting alongside Sam watching you, thick, viscous panic bubbled back up to the surface.

           At first, he was muttering like he was talking to himself. “She told me, she fucking told me they wouldn’t be in the barn anymore, I didn’t listen. I should’ve been right behind her, Sam, what the fuck was I thinking—she was—she—she was alone, they wouldn’t have—” and then the way his voice built to a fever pitch matched his body, Dean perched on the mattress like a sailboat in a tempest, slammed against invisible waves of panic.

           “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. You couldn’t have known—”

           “She was alone against five of them, Sam, do you get that? I left her fucking ALONE!” Dean wailed, springing forward from the bed with eruptive energy and bashing the nightstand lamp hard enough that its base shattered against the opposite wall, coming clean out of the socket as easily as if it hadn’t been plugged in. Sam flinched but didn’t get up, instead taking a quick visual inspection that no shards of ceramic somehow bounced back to cut your still body. By the time he glanced up again he only had a millisecond to react as Dean threw a chair from the kitchenette against the wall, exploding the mirror there into shimmering beads of glass and ricocheting back, forcing Sam block it with a forearm lest it hit him or you.

           “DEAN, enough!” he yelled, crossing over to his brother with a few powerful strides and grappling with him, battling to keep Dean still as the older of the Winchester brothers fought to destroy the room to match the chaos in his mind. Sam knew exactly what was going on, the way Dean’s brain converted fear to rage, but hated when his brother got like this, not only because it cut so deep to see him in pain but because the explosiveness was so similar to the knock-down drag-outs they’d grown up with, made it impossible to try to fix the root of the problem.

           Sam tackling Dean to the ground was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes.

           “Do I pull this shit when you guys are sleeping?” you croaked from the mattress, trying to sit up and immediately abandoning that plan, stilling yourself and holding your breath until the pain settled a fraction.

           Sam and Dean scrambled to get to their feet and ran over to you, hovering over the bed looking like their backs had a light dusting of glitter rather than a million tiny shards of glass.

           “What’re—are you okay? What do you remember?” Sam blurted out, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade out of a plastic bag and cracking it open for you. He snatched a pillow and helped you sit up slowly, jamming it under your head so you could drink.

           “Well, I’ve definitely felt better,” you tried to chuckle, but the tension it caused in your abdominal muscles made you wince. “I’m really sorry, you guys, I shouldn’t have—” you began, immediately stopped by the way Sam and Dean shook their heads, sucked on their teeth.

           “I’m—ah,” Sam started, smiling self-deprecatingly through the shake in his voice and looking down at the ground for a beat with his tongue in his cheek. It was like his body knew that the worst of the crisis had passed and refused to let him hide his emotions for one second further. After a second he met your eyes again, faintest hint of tears in his eyes. “I’m really glad you’re up.”

           Behind him, Dean collapsed into himself, his expression simultaneously complete relief and like he’d seen a ghost. You peered around Sam to meet his gaze. “Hey, dork,” you breathed, unable to come up with anything to match the weight of the moment.

           He opened his mouth a few times and couldn’t find anything either, wincing and biting his lip hard as he rubbed the back of his head nervously. “I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out.

           As always, Sam knew what Dean needed and snatched the car keys off the table as his brother tried in vain to keep his restless limbs still. He gazed at you with such naked thankfulness it made you smile involuntarily. “I’m going to see how much red meat I can find you, I’ll be right back, okay? Drink as many of these as you can and don’t stand up alone.” You nodded gratefully to him as he backed out the door.

           When Sam left, Dean still shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands until he ultimately jammed them deep into the pockets of his coat with enough force that it shook loose almost all of the glass, sending it floating to the ground around him as if he was a mirage. You could see, even as he stood a few paces away from the bed, that his breathing was quickened from the rapid, shallow movements of his chest and neck. “I’m—ah, I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—” he stammered against a jaw locked shut tensely enough to make the muscles bulge out of his cheeks, and the lack of the self-assuredness that was normally so Dean to you made him seem unbelievably young, made you want to leap across the room and wrap him up in your arms. As it was, you beckoned him over with a shaky hand.

           He walked over to you hesitantly, only sitting down on the side opposite your injuries when you patted the sheets next to you. Awkwardly trying to move your torso as little as possible, you tossed the pillows on that side to the floor and motioned for him to lay down.

           “I don’t want to hurt—”

           “I’ll be fine. Please?”

           Reluctantly taking off his coat and dropping it unceremoniously to the ground, he gingerly tucked himself under your arm and laid his head on your chest. You faintly dragged your fingertips down his back, waiting for his heartbeat and uneven, shallow breathing to slow down. When they didn’t and all you felt was a spreading wetness on the remaining upper half of t-shirt you still had, you twisted laboriously to see Dean’s face.

           Tears streamed down onto you, Dean biting his lip so hard to keep quiet you were shocked you couldn’t see blood, the whites of his teeth almost matching the pressure-blanched skin.

           “Oh, Dean,” you hummed, pulling him close to you with your one arm. “Babe, I’m here, I’m right here. Everything’s okay; I’m okay, you get to treat me like a princess for a few days and I’ll learn for the hundredth time that I shouldn’t go off by myself.”

           “I—I thought you were gone,” Dean whispered between stunted sobs breaking the words off in short staccato, still fighting to speak as though he wasn’t crying even as his tears soaked you.

           You craned your neck slowly to kiss the top of his head. “Not gone, right here. Always going to be right here.”

           “You were bleeding so mu—just like Sam, it was just like when Sam—” he faltered, speaking slowly to try to grab the reins of his voice as it shook.

           “Not just like Sam, baby, I’m still here. Everyone’s okay. And Sam’s okay too, right?” You waited for him to confirm what you knew was true and emphasize your point, drawing back to meet his gaze when he didn’t. “Right?”

           Reluctantly, Dean nodded. The redness around his eyes made his irises seem almost unreal in electric green contrast and you couldn’t believe you were so close to never seeing them again. His lashes were even darker than normal, spiky black frames formed with salty tears like cartoonish mascara. You waited a beat then let him settle back into your chest before continuing, feeling the choke-hiccupping of his breath stop even if it stayed rapid. “Everyone’s okay. You’re okay,” you hummed into his hair. “You’re okay, baby.”

           The two of you stayed like that until Dean’s breathing finally steadied, waiting past the clearly forced long held breaths and through to the point that he genuinely seemed like he’d hit the smooth rhythm you knew so well. “How are you feeling?” you murmured.

           “Like a bitch,” he grumbled softly against your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, thankful beyond anything for the glint of humor back in Dean, that shimmer of normalcy returning.

           “Sorry for scaring you.”

           “I’m never fucking letting you out of my sight again,” he said, words still sticky with swirling emotion and muffled by his cheek pressed against you. You knew he was only partly joking but also that now was not the time to push back, just kissing his hair in response.

           There was no way it took Sam an hour to get you a diner burger but you were thankful for his intuition nonetheless, because by the time he got back Dean was calm enough to get up and had even helped you to put on a new t-shirt—one of his black ones; he said it was because it was looser but you suspected it was some kind of metaphor, covering you with part of himself—and shimmy into a pair of mesh athletic shorts. Standing up for a shower was still too ambitious, but the fresh clothes made you feel a little less gross. He was trying his best to clean up as much broken glass as possible when his brother opened the door and tossed him a paper bag with a bubbly illustrated hamburger on it.

           Walking into the room without taking his jacket off, Sam set your food on the nightstand and grabbed a motel binder of local attractions (minimal) as a makeshift tray for you to eat off of before carefully helping you to sit up a little more. “Double cheeseburger—eat it before the fries, you need the iron. Oh, and I almost forgot—couple of these too.” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two bottles in one big hand that appeared to be acetaminophen and an iron supplement.

           “You’re the best, Sam.” It was nice to hear your voice sound more normal, lubricated with two bottles of Gatorade already, and you tried not to imagine how awkward or painful it was going to be to try to get up and go to the bathroom later.

           The Winchesters sat on the other bed, still in their boots because of the rug of broken glass no one wanted to acknowledge, and Sam turned on whatever dumb comedy he could find first. For a fleeting moment it felt like any normal night on the road, nursing an injury and eating greasy food in a room you’d never see again past tomorrow morning, and you almost forgot that (minutes? hours? you still didn’t know how long you’d been out) earlier you thought you were saying goodbye to the two people you loved most, who’d moved heaven and earth and miles of rural highway to bring you back, whose superhero resilience you’d seen start to crack at the thought of losing you. A searing jolt of pain when you reached for another Gatorade reminded you all too much, and when you hissed both Sam and Dean leapt off the bed with faces contorted in concern.

           “Just stretched too far, I’m okay.”

           Watching them take twin deep breaths could’ve been funny and you hoped it would be in a few days—hoped in a few days laughing wouldn’t feel like being impaled. For now, you tried to drink in this little moment of peace and made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t take another one for granted ever again.

-

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

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[whosscruffylooking]

The Purest Things-A New Home

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

a/n: this is a repost considering it didn’t show up in any of the tags yesterday. have i mentioned how much i despise tumblr sometimes :) again, i want to give a special shoutout to @avengersbau for giving me a second set of eyes on this one.

word count: 2k

warnings: canon-typical violence and descriptions of injury.

The Purest Things Masterlist

gif is not mine! credit goes to @hqtchner

au! october 2007

Bookend: “It’s never too late to become who you want to be. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald

++++

"I am SSA Hotchner. Welcome to the team Agent Y/L/N," his voice reminds you of the transatlantic accents of Hollywood stars of old. The kind you used to hear in the old black and white movies you would watch as a child.

"It's an honor to be here sir," you stare directly into his brown, soulfully deep eyes.

"J.J., get us started, please," SSA Hotchner suggests.

Sitting down, you look to the screen that displays the frightful footage of bombs detonating in various locations.

"Yesterday, an 81-year-old woman was severely injured when a bomb exploded in the toilet of a women's restroom," J.J. informs.

"Interesting spot to hide a bomb," Agent Prentiss sneers.

Jennifer flips through the slides and shows another bombsight located in a subway station, "Last year a similar bomb that had been attached to a phone box detonated. No outstanding injuries were reported. However, the bombs' similar makeup alerted detectives to dig into other bombings throughout the years. They have positively identified attacks over the past twelve years as perpetrated by the same bomber."

Spencer adds, "His M.O. is similar to George Peter Metesky, better known as the Mad Bomber. He terrorized New York City over a period of 16 years. He planted bombs in theaters, subway stations, libraries, and offices. They were left in phone booths, storage lockers and restrooms."

"Do you think we are looking at a copycat?" Derek questions.

"If we are, we need to stop him soon," declared David.

"He's escalating-becoming bolder and more vicious," you say, scanning the report.

"Tell Boston we can be there by 9:30," Hotch notifies J.J...

++++

"It seems like he's a textbook paranoid schizophrenic. People suffering from this disorder may think that other people are regulating them or plotting against them. They tend to be reclusive, antisocial, and obsessed Hwith hatred for their presumed enemies," you twist a loose string from your shirt around your finger, unwind it, then repeat the process.

It's a nervous tick you developed over the years that has worn down numerous tops before achieving their intended lifespan. You glance at Agent Hotchner, seeking a sign of approval. His eyes meet yours, and he poignantly nods.

Did I say too much? No. Don’t overthink this. They can probably smell fear.

"In his letters left at the bombsights, he uses words like 'broad' and 'chick' to signify women," Dr. Reid chimes in.

"Do you think the unsub is motivated by hostility towards women? "

"It's possible," he continues, "These speech patterns age him significantly, however. Phrases such as these were mainly used in the 30's, 40's, and 50's."

Agent Hotchner begins to delegate tasks before the jet lands, "Morgan and Reid, I want you to head to the bombsights and see if you can't work out the motive. J.J. and Prentiss talk to the victim's families, determine our victimology. Y/L/N, Rossi, and I will head to the precinct and familiarize ourselves with the lay of the land and see if we can't formulate a geographical profile."

++++

At the precinct, you observe Agent Hotchner's ability to singlehandedly transition an entire police force's obligation to under his jurisdiction.

"Captain Moreno, this is SSA David Rossi and SSA Y/F/N Y/L/N," the Unit Chief introduces you.

The captain tilts his head at you, "Aren't you a little young to be in the FBI? How old are you anyway?"

You nail him with a you're-full-of-crap look. 

Everyone gets to be young once; your turn is over, old man.

Choosing to take the high road, you say, "I'd like to get my hands on the bombers handwritten notes. There has to be something in those letters that can give us a clue into the who, what, when, and where of this case."

Skeptical of your request, he narrows his eyes and looks to David and Agent Hotchner.

"You hear her," Dave exclaims, "Lead the way!"

Your enigmatic smirk no doubt gives away the great pleasure Dave's gibe brings you.

++++

"Agent Hotchner," you hand him your preliminary geographical profile. With his arms crossed, he intimidatingly peers into your research.

Don't burn a hole in my paperwork; I worked hard on that.

He is impressed by your work, taking in your comprehensive outline of proof that details the unsubs point of origin. For someone so young, your attention to detail puts even his most observant profilers to shame. "How did you come to this conclusion?"

"My family is from Chicago. When I was little, I used to read through my grandfather's old newspapers that he collected throughout the 1950's. On the jet, I knew some of the phrasings that Dr. Reid was using sounded familiar, so I cross-referenced it with some of the particular articles I remember from my childhood and found his wording to be exact iterations of the Chicago Crier."

Without taking his eyes off of the paperwork, he commends you, "Impressive use of your prior knowledge. Often, the information drilled into us through education is lackluster compared to that of real-world experience."

You turn to walk back to your makeshift desk when he calls out to you, "And Y/L/N, call me Hotch."

Your shoulders relax from the tension you hadn't even realized you'd been clinging onto, "Alright. Hotch."

++++

You immediately regretted your decision. In pursuit of the unsub, you had wandered off down an abandoned subway tunnel and cornered him.

"Harold Watts, FBI. Gently place the remote detonator on the ground," You shout. Grappling to keep your gun from slipping between your clammy palms, you grip the weapon tighter.

Ordinary people's first days of work are uneventful; they're given a series of mundane tasks at most. Me? Of course, my first day involves being secluded in a subway tunnel facing down a man decked from head to toe in explosives and wires.

"D-don't come any closer. I have my finger on the trigger! I'm not afraid to die, and I will not hesitate to take you up in flames with me," he stammers.

The stampede of footsteps, no doubt from your colleagues and half of the Boston police force, resonate through the echo chamber you're standing in. Watts spooks and loses his balance. You begin shouting for the people behind you to stand down.

"The tracks are live, one wrong step, and we all blow up. I repeat, stand down!"

Turning your attention back to Watts, you attempt to soothe his irrationality. You slowly return your gun to its holster, raising your hands up in surrender. Hotch yells something unintelligible from behind you, but your focus is on the unsub and trying to prevent any more casualties.

"Harold, let's just talk this through for a couple of minutes. My men behind me will leave us alone. It's you and me now. Before this, you never wanted to hurt yourself. You wanted to be heard. All of your life you felt like you were forced into the shadows, and you began to fester there in your pain and rage."

He tenses up; you have his attention now.

"Those girls who teased you and ripped your masculinity from you needed to be taught a lesson. But you didn't just stop there; you decided to do all women a favor and demonstrate to them the kind of pain they could cause, hoping to prevent them from making the same mistakes. In fact, you helped me to see what I can do better. I never want to make someone feel the way you did."

"Y-you learned that...f-from me?" Harold quietly sobs.

You nod, "Yes! Yes, Harold. And you can still be heard, but not if you die today. I could be your greatest advocate. If we walk out of here right now, think of how famous you could be. Harold, you will never be stuck in the shadows again."

It is crucial to your survival and your teams that you are brave just long enough to analyze the situation and keep your self-control. Panic won't do anyone any good right now.

Your mouth dries as you await Harold's next move. Suddenly, he hunches over, extending the hand gripping the detonator. Pausing for a moment to be sure he isn't making any drastic moves, you promptly hurry to his side and gently pull it from his clutch.

As the police officers and your colleagues rush to your aid, Harold looks up at you with hopeful eyes.

"Make me famous," he murmurs with a grin that churns your stomach.

Hotch ushers you away from the unsub, backing you up against the wall of the tunnel, "You actively defied my orders."

Searching every inch of his face for an accurate reading of his emotions, you are unsure of how to respond.

"I'd like to think it won't happen again," his eyes studying you just as intently.

You swallow hard, aware of the lump in your throat and take a deep breath, "You have my word, Agent Hotchner."

"Good," he affirms, eventually freeing his hold on your arm.

You let out a shaky sigh of relief and relax your spinning head against the wall.

Opening your eyes, you observe your new team tieing up all loose ends. They're safe. You are safe. Despite this first day not being as mundane as others, you wouldn't have it any other way. This feeling is what you signed up for, and it's already fulfilling you in ways you couldn't fathom before stepping inside the BAU office this morning.

++++

Aboard the jet, you tuck your legs underneath you and open up a book to read.

A cup of steaming hot coffee appears on the table in front of you.

Hotch sits across from you with a similar cup and offers you a subtle smile, "Impressive work out there today. I'm sorry your first day of work couldn't be more eventful."

A joke? I didn't take him as the joking kind.

Rolling your eyes, you put on a disappointed tone, "God...if you guys drag your feet like this every day, I might have to consider a transfer."

In a more serious nature, he asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Alright, I guess. You were right, you know, no amount of studying or lectures can truly prepare you for what it's like when you're staring into the eyes of a killer. I've learned the negotiation techniques and memorized the textbook 'put the gun down' speech, but all of that flies out the window when you're in the moment."

"You will find that improvisation at times is the key to success in this job. Just know that this team is a family. You will never face this alone or be at a loss for anything. Your career is in its infancy, but I can tell you have a long and triumphant journey ahead of you. We will do whatever we can to ensure that you are at home here and can use this team as an opportunity to refine your abilities. All I ask in return is that you work with us, not against us. You have nothing to prove. They see your resourcefulness. So do I. You are one of us now."

Some gazes are the promise of protection; his is all that and more. The words "at home" resonate in your mind. You've spent your whole life searching for a home, and here it is, its doors being opened to you. After a lifetime of running from place to place, perhaps this is where you can finally settle down.

"Get some rest," Hotch whispers to you. And with that, you lean your head against the chilled window and shut your eyes.

++++

Tag List 🏷

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[kikis-writing-world]

Love is Blind

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (her hair is described in that it is long enough to braid, and it is brushed by another character. Sorry if that alienates anyone)

Word Count: 8.4k

Rating/Warnings: Mentions of dead bodies and glossing over of canon-typical violence, injury leading to temporary blindness, talks of medical procedures (vague descriptions cause idk what I’m doing,) mentions of pregnancy (Whiskey talks about his dead wife) If I missed anything please let me know. It’s a long one and I tried to mark down anything that might need warning.

Summary: The mission was going perfectly until you were caught by a stupid trap, spraying some kind of toxin in your face. Now you’re (temporarily?) blinded and have to find out what that means for your future with Statesman.

The dust settled over the room as the chaos gave way to silence. You waited a beat, taking a deep breath before speaking out.

“Clear.” You spoke softly, knowing the message would be transmitted to your partner. Despite your confidence that you’d taken out the men on your side of the room, you kept your pistol firmly in your grasp.

“Clear.” The response came through your ear piece, the voice tinny in your ear. The bass tones were missing, but it was unmistakably Agent Whiskey’s southern drawl. You stood from your cover behind a large, leather sofa and surveyed the mess. Whiskey was standing behind the bar in the corner of the room doing the same.

“Nice work.” You nodded at him, noticing several bodies elegantly cleaved in half from his lasso.

“Same to you, ‘Rhett.” Whiskey returned the compliment, stepping around the bar. You glared at him for shortening your name - he knew you hated that - but you were stopped from responding as a third voice joined the conversation through your earpieces. “Intel puts the plates in a safe behind the painting. The landscape behind the desk” Ginger’s voice instructed from HQ, watching the scene through the micro-cameras you were both wearing: Whiskey’s in his bolo tie and yours on a broach on your vest.

You and Whiskey both turned to look at the large painting on the far side of the room. It, and the desk it sat behind, were riddled with bullet holes and other damage from the fray. It was still hanging askew on the wall. You crossed the room easily, stepping over the various bodies on the way. Whiskey let you take the lead, keeping a watch while you turned your back to the room.

The painting fell with a nudge from the barrel of your gun, revealing the safe tucked into the wall. A 10 digit keypad with a small screen kept it locked. You leaned in, making sure your broach was pointed at it. “Ginger?”

“Got it Amaretto. Analyzing.” You could picture the woman typing away, executing different commands as she analyzed the image you broadcast back to her computer. You knew she was using possible heat signatures, wear on the numbers, oil deposits, not to mention the tech you didn’t understand to crack the code. You could hear Whiskey shifting around the room behind you as you waited.

“7298,” Ginger instructed. You entered the code and the lock clicked, the door swinging ajar.

“Thanks, Ging.” You acknowledged before addressing Whiskey. “We’re in.”

“And?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at you, but keeping himself angled out into the room in case of trouble.

You pushed the safe’s door the rest of the way open seeing a large, black briefcase inside. If the intel was right, inside it would be counterfeiting plates. A small time counterfeiting ring had somehow paired up with a large terrorist ring, laundering the fake money into real profit to fund their plans. Taking down this ring would be a big, although likely temporary, hit to the terrorists.

You pulled the briefcase out of the safe, setting it onto the desk. There were no locks on the briefcase, just the latches keeping it closed. While that should have been suspicious, your excitement of completing the mission had you pushing forward. You unlatched and opened the lid.

Before you could see what was inside, something shot out of the case. You were sprayed in the face and neck with a cool, goopy liquid. You yelped in surprise, wiping frantically at your face to get it off. You stumbled backwards into the wall, falling onto your ass.

You heard Whiskey call for you the same time Ginger did through the earpiece. Whiskey was beside you quickly, pulling your hands away from your face by the wrists. “What happened?”

“I-I don’t know.” You stuttered, feeling him wiping at your face and hands with some fabric. “I opened the case and it shot out at me.”

“Ginger?” Whiskey called out.

“I’m checking the footage now, running it through our databases.” The tech responded, voice level as always. “Keep a sample, but find some water to get it off her. I’m sure it’s some kind of safety measure.”

“Stay here.” Whiskey ordered before he left your side.

You nodded, trying to remain calm as the substance started to sting your eyes. You relayed that information back to Ginger.

“What else can you tell me about it, Amaretto?” She asked.

“It’s viscous. Like syrup.” You told her, feeling the slimy coating it still left on your skin after Whiskey had tried to wipe it away. “Cool to the touch. Smells like… flowers? Definitely floral.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s helpful. Anything else, let me know. It will help us identify it quicker.”

Whiskey returned as Ginger spoke. You jumped at his sudden presence beside you.

“Sorry.” He mumbled. “Got the water and a cloth.” He narrated as to not spook you when the wet rag touched your skin.

“Flush out her eyes and get out of there.” Ginger instructed as your partner wiped your face clean. The cloth disappeared and Whiskey’s large hand was on the back of your head, leading you to lean over.

“I’ve got you. We just gotta wash out your eyes.” He kept talking, although you couldn’t quite tell if it was to keep you or himself calm. “Open.” He instructed.

You listened, opening your eyes and whimpering at how much it hurt to do so. The room seemed so much brighter than it had been before. You only had a moment to think on this before Whiskey was pouring the water into your eyes. You reached out for him, steadying yourself with your hands against his chest.

When the flow of water stopped, you told Ginger. “Light sensitivity. Add that to the list of symptoms.”

“Got it.” She responded. “Whiskey, grab that case and get to the jet.”

Your partner’s hands were on your arms, helping you to stand. He left you momentarily and you heard the briefcase snap closed. His arm wrapped around your waist as he led you away from the wall. You stumbled a few times over the bodies on the floor, but Whiskey did a good job of leading you. Any misstep you took or slight fumble, he never let you fall. You were lucky the two of you had dispatched everyone in the house before making it to the office. There was no one left alive to stop you as you left.

“It’s really starting to burn.” You told them, feeling tears falling from your eyes. The burning was also translating into a headache as the pain spread. It was getting harder to focus on Whiskey as he navigated the two of you out of the house.

“Stick with me, pick up your feet. I got ya.” Whiskey continued to instruct as you moved.

You knew you’d made it outside the second the sunlight hit your face. Even through closed eyelids, the light was too much to bear. You cried out in pain, shielding your eyes with your hands. You would have fallen to your knees if not for Whiskey’s firm grip on you.

“I can’t.” You cried, holding your head in your hands. “It’s too much.”

Whiskey cursed under his breath before you felt something slip atop your head and you were lifted off the ground. “Keep your head down,” Whiskey ordered, the vibrations of his voice moving through his chest against you. You could feel the bouncing of his footsteps as he ran. You removed your hands from your eyes to hold onto him, and you assumed you were wearing his hat by the way it kept the sun off your face. You buried your head into his neck to shield your eyes even more from the light.

“We’re almost there.” He promised as you trembled in his arms. 

When Whiskey had landed the jet earlier, it hadn’t seemed too far from the cabin - far enough to not alert them to your presence of course, but the trek there hadn’t seemed far. Now, it felt like he might as well be carrying you to Canada as the pain grew worse. You could hear Whiskey and Ginger talk, but it grew harder to hear them over your own groans of pain and the blood rushing through your ears. You were crying in earnest into Whiskey’s shoulder, fighting the urge to claw at your eyes.

You felt his gait change as he ascended the stairs into the jet. You could hear his voice but the words were lost on you as he set you down into a sitting position. Without him to grip onto, your hands flew to your eyes. Your arms were quickly restrained, making you yell and thrash. It was too bright. It hurt too much. The stinging was unbearable now.

You felt a single hand wrap around both wrists as you pleaded for him to let you go. You needed to do something to stop the pain.

You barely felt the pinprick to your neck. As it got harder to fight him, you realized he must have given you a sedative. He dropped your arms as your muscles grew sluggish and you felt him buckling you safely into the seat. You tried to mumble a thank you to him, but you couldn’t be sure if the words made it out of your brain as you lost consciousness.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Your surroundings came to you slowly. The feel of the stiff cot under you, covered with scratchy linens. A few quiet beeps from different machines. The sensors attached to your chest and your arms - you must be in the medical wing back at Statesman HQ. It took you a moment to remember what had landed you in medical but once you did you were pleasantly surprised to not feel any pain. 

You couldn’t remember anything after stepping outside the cabin. The last vivid memory you had was the sun hitting your face and excruciating pain shooting through your head. Whiskey must have gotten the two of you back safely.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting a dark room. You were thankful for that, remembering how severe the light sensitivity had gotten. Introducing you to light slowly was a good idea.

“You’re awake.” The voice made you jump, even though you quickly recognized it to be Ginger. You didn’t expect her to be waiting in the dark for you. “How do you feel?”

You heard the heart rate sensor beep a little quicker as you clutched your chest from the scare, laughing softly. “You scared me. I feel okay, actually. No pain.”

“That’s great.” You could hear the relief in her voice. “And your vision?”

The question gave you pause, wondering how you were supposed to test your vision in the dark. “Turn the light on and I’ll tell you.”

“What?” Ginger’s voice was clipped, fallen from the relief it held moments ago. You weren’t sure exactly what the tone was but you knew you didn’t like it.

“Turn the lights on, Ging.”

“The lights are on.” She explained. You could hear the clicking of her footsteps and the rustling of her clothes as she moved closer. A hand on your right arm made you flinch.

“That’s not funny.” You scoffed.

“I’m not joking.” She replied seriously. She was silent for a moment, the faint rustling of fabric moving again before she asked “you don’t see that at all?”

“See what?”

“I’m shining a flashlight into your eyes.”

“No you’re not.”

“Ginger!” You heard Whiskey’s drawl, echoing like it was in a different room. Footsteps, heavier than the ones you had just heard, accompanied his voice as you figured he must be entering approaching your room. “She awake yet?”

“Whiskey, tell Ginger to stop joking around.” You begged, starting to freak out. The increased beeping beside you accompanied the anxiety you were feeling spread through your body.

“What’s going on?” The cowboy asked, worry coating his voice as it moved closer.

“She can’t see anything.” Ginger admitted, her hand leaving your arm. You heard Whiskey exhale to your left, a loud breath that sounded like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

“Why not?” He demanded.

“I don’t know.” Ginger admitted. “We’re still analyzing the substance. So far all we know is it seems to be made from orange blossoms and some kind of berry-”

“It won’t be permanent, right?” You asked, cutting Ginger off. Your voice sounded so small compared to the other two in the room. There wasn’t an answer right away, footsteps approaching from the left before a large, warm hand covered yours.

“We’ll figure this out, sugar.” Whiskey told you as he laced his fingers with yours.

“We will.” Ginger confirmed. She sounded confident, and you knew she was nothing if not capable, but you still felt tears roll down your cheeks as the fear crashed over you.

You heard Whiskey tut beside you before he was brushing your tears away, his large palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed your skin.

“I’ll get to the lab. See if we’ve got anything new.” Ginger excused herself and you could hear her footsteps fade as she left the room.

As the two of you were left alone, you felt the cot shift underneath you as Whiskey sat down. He pulled you into a hug, letting you cry into his shoulder. She rocked you gently back and forth, telling you it was going to be okay. He let you cry until you felt numb, like there were no tears left. He didn’t move away until you lifted your head.

“I’d offer you my handkerchief, but it’s in the lab too.” Whiskey told you, voice light like he was trying to make you smile. He shifted away for a brief second, leaning back as you felt him press a scratchy fabric into your hand, which you quickly identified as a tissue. You used it to blot at your cheeks and nose.

You thanked him, your voice hoarse from crying. “Not just for this,” you waved the tissue in the air. “For getting us out of there.”

“It’s part of the gig, sugar.” It sounded like he was grinning when he spoke. You hoped he was. Even more, you hoped you’d see the grin for yourself again soon.

The next several days revolved around tests. Scans of your head and eyes, tests being done on the limited amount of the substance the lab had collected from Whiskey’s handkerchief and the briefcase. You didn’t even realize there were that many different tests they could perform, but everyday they brought you new results. Unfortunately, none of the results so far had led to any answers about why you’d lost your sight. As the lab identified more ingredients of the goo that had sprayed you, they tried different medicines and remedies but nothing had changed. They also told you how the substance had left you with a light rash on the skin of your face and hands where you’d been exposed. You were hardly worried about the rash. They said it was fading naturally. You wished your sight would return naturally too.

Between tests, you were hardly ever along. Whiskey visited you more often than not. Ginger spent a lot of time with you during tests as well as socially for meals. The team of doctors and junior agents working with her to help heal you all came and went. Tequila, Champ and other Statesman agents came by to check in on you when they could.

It was getting easier to identify who was coming as you started to hear differences in their footsteps. Whiskey had a long, slow gait, his boots slapping the floor with a dull thud. Tequila’s steps were quicker, and his boots snapped a little lighter against the floor. Champ’s steps were slower, like Whiskey’s, but there was an irregularity to the pattern. His left hip making him have the slightest limp that you had never noticed by sight alone. Ginger was easiest, being one of the few women who came to see you. Her steps clacked as her heels hit the floor.

You were also surprised to start noticing the different scents everyone held. Tequila, bless that boy, smelt obnoxiously like axe spray deodorant, reminding you of a high school boy’s gym class. Champ smelt of vanilla, cloves and the cigar smoke that clung to his clothes. Ginger smelt like clean linens, a hint of tropics in her detergent but seemed to be content staying largely scent-free, no perfumes that you could pick up on.

Whiskey’s smell was more complex, but maybe that was because he was the one who would sit next to you on the bed, giving you a chance to really breathe it in. Hints of spiced citrus hung to his clothes, along with the smell of leather and smoke - not smoke like Champ, but the kind from a freshly fired gun. When he got close enough, his musk had you remembering being cradled in his arms as he carried you away from the cabin, his hat atop your head.

You were thankful for the ways you were picking up to identify people. Your years as an agent had you trained to survey your surroundings, to avoid being caught off guard. It was unsettling to have your primary sense for that taken away from you. Most people were learning to announce themselves as they approached your room, giving you a heads up someone was nearing. Not everyone did. Tequila was particularly bad at it, and you suspected he enjoyed watching you jump.

You expressed your worries to Champ when he came to visit, on the fourth day of no progress. He chuckled and patted your back in a fatherly way.

“Let’s give them some time to figure this out, Amaretto. We don’t need to start plannin’ a retirement party just yet.”

You supposed he was trying to help you worry less, but it didn’t help. Would you have to retire if your vision wasn’t restored? You could hardly imagine a position at Statesman that you could easily navigate without sight. If you ever learned braille, and how to type, maybe some kind of administration or archival job, but who knew how long it would take you to master those skills. It was hard enough to accept what this meant for your career, let alone the rest of your life.

The agents that came to visit tried to help take your mind off of it, but it was hard when there was no true reprieve.

“Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

“You know, I’m startin’ to remember why I wasn’t so fond of this book in school.” Whiskey interrupted his recitation. “How Mr. Twain managed to turn the absolute boredom of paintin’ a fence into the written word with such lucidity is an artform in itself.”

“Oh stop,” you laughed, reaching beside you to swat at him. It was an easy thing to aim for, feeling the warmth of him on the bed next to you, his arm pressed to yours.

“I’m just sayin’ that I’ve had better adventures before breakfast than these so called adventures of Tom Sawyer.” He complained.

“Tom Sawyer wasn’t a senior agent of a secret spy organization.”

“And good thing too. He’d have burnt this place to the ground by now with his behaviour.” He harrumphed, making you laugh.

“Just keep reading.”

He sighed, a long, annoyed sigh.

“Please.” You sang, smiling up at him as you leaned into his arm. These were the moments you could really smell the spice and leather on him.

He was silent for a beat. Although the two of you were joking, you almost worried he wouldn’t keep reading. It was much harder to read people’s moods without seeing their facial expressions. No smile or eye roll to go by had you guessing by voice tone alone. Silences had you absolutely puzzled.

“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own business—she ’lowed she’d ’tend to de whitewashin’.”

“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a a minute. She won’t ever know.”

“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’ tar de head-

“I’d be able to follow a lot easier if you did different voices for the different characters.” You interrupted.

“Don’t push your luck.” He grumbled, but you were pretty sure you could hear that grin in his voice again as he kept reading.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Keep your eyes closed.” You were instructed by Tonic, a junior agent who worked under Ginger. You felt the dampened towel being lifted from your eyes. You’d just spent 40 minutes laying back, letting the medicinal solution on the towel soak in. You had done the same thing the day before, and would likely be doing it again tomorrow.

“Just dimming the lights. Hold on.” Tonic explained as you heard his shuffling footsteps through the room. It was a good thing he had a knack for medicine because he’d be an awful field agent with the way he never picked up his feet.

“Okay, open.”

You did as instructed, blinking as your eyes adjusted to being open again. Just like the day before, you only saw the familiar inky blackness.

“Nothing.” You shook your head.

“That’s okay.” You could hear the forced optimism in his voice. “Ginger said it could take up to five treatments for this to work. We’ll do it again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” You gave the poor kid the best smile you could muster, but you were definitely losing hope. It had been nearly a week now with no progress. It was getting time to face facts.

“Don’t worry, Agent Amaretto. We’ll figure it out.” The boy told you, a soft pat on your shoulder accompanying his attempt at comfort.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen Tonic around Statesman. You might have walked by in passing, but you were never introduced. It was weird to be spending this much time with someone and having no idea what they looked like. You were almost tempted to ask, but kept it to yourself. You'd have to get used to not knowing what new people looked like.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You shuffled out of the bathroom with your hand on the doorframe to help guide you. You had showered - your first true shower on your own, not just a quick wash-up in the sink or a sponge bath - and it made you feel slightly more human again. The robe was soft and plush against your skin, wearing only a tank top and underwear under it. The towel you had half-heartedly wrapped your hair in was falling out of the twist - you hadn’t quite mastered that skill without seeing yet.

You opened your mouth to dismiss the junior agent who had been tasked with waiting for you - sitting outside the washroom in case you needed to call for help - but you were interrupted.

“I sent her on her way, sugar.” You immediately recognized Whiskey’s twang. He was the best so far at announcing his presence, and you truly appreciated it. You still jumped slightly, not expecting him to be here. “Sorry.” He chuckled.

“I’ll get used to it eventually.” You waved off his apology, not actually knowing if you would ever get used to it.

“C’mon, none of that.” Whiskey tutted. Your uncertainty must have shown on your face. “Want a hand?”

“Yes, please.’ You confirmed, holding your arm out towards his voice. You heard him approach, footsteps and fabric, before he looped his arm around yours.

“Where to?” They had set up a table and chairs for you in the room, trying to make you feel more at home than in a hospital room. All it did was reaffirm that you weren’t any closer to finding a solution and that your stay was going to last even longer.

“The bed, please.”

He led you to the bed easily, not taking his arm away until you were sitting comfortably. You felt the towel fall even further off your head as you sat.

“Can you pass me the brush?” You asked him, holding your hand out.

You waited, hearing Whiskey move around, but instead you felt him pull your hair free from the towel. With your wet hair falling down your back, you felt him run the brush through it.

“What are you doing?” You chuckled.

“You just relax, sugar.” He ordered. He started at the ends of your hair, brushing the tangles out before moving closer to your scalp.

“I can brush my own hair.” You argued even though you were grinning.

“Just let me take care of you, Rhett.” He huffed, smacking you on the shoulder with the flat side of the brush.

“Fine, Whisk.” You huffed playfully in response, leaving him to brush your hair.

He was surprisingly gentle, only once did your hair pull painfully at your scalp to which he mumbled a quick apology. You hadn’t had someone brush your hair for you in a long time. Outside of a hairdresser, it probably hadn’t happened since you were a child. As much as you were trying to maintain your independence with your new loss of sight, it was very relaxing.

You hadn’t expected it when you felt him part your hair into sections and start weaving them together.

“Are you… braiding my hair?” You asked curiously.

“Yes, ma’am.” He hummed, clearly concentrated on his task.

“Okay, the brushing I could let go, but are you going to tell me how you know how to braid?” You laughed.

“I’ve made my own whips before, sugar.” He explained, his drawl even more pronounced as he spoke slowly, keeping his focus on the hair. “Part of that is just fancy bradin’.”

“You make your own whips?” That surprised you.

Whiskey chuckled, his fingers brushing lower and lower on your back as the braid progressed. “Not the ones I use on missions, but I have some at home I made. I’m not too up on the electricity part, but a good ol’ fashioned bullwhip? I can throw one of those together in a few days if I have the time.”

“So which came first? Using the whip or making them?”

“Been usin’ them since I was a boy, on the family farm. Started makin’ em ‘round the same time, maybe a few years between. Although those first ones were nothin’ to celebrate. I got better at it. Decent hobby to have, if you’ve got scraps of leather hanging around.”

You felt him end the braid as he spoke, tying an elastic around the end. You lifted your hand to your hair so you could feel the braid. It was surprisingly sturdy and didn’t feel like there were any messes of bumps.

“Thank you.” You turned, smiling in his direction.

He was silent as he pushed the braid over one shoulder, his fingertips grazing your neck as he did. The sensation left goosebumps on your still-damp skin.

“I also used to braid my wife’s hair.” He admitted quietly. “Especially when she wasn’t feelin’ well. Braided it up to keep it out of her face.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. You knew a bit about Whiskey’s past, about his high school sweetheart and that she’d died, but it was hardly ever discussed between the two of you. Before you came up with something to say, he continued.

“When we found out she was expectin’,” he grunted as you felt the mattress dip. You scooted over to make room for him to sit. “I was braidin’ her hair all the time. For one, the mornin’ sickness that first trimester, hoo-” he chuckled softly, lost in the memory. “It really kicked her ass. Spent most her time huggin’ a bucket or praying to the porcelain gods. But before we found out she was carryin’ a boy, she wanted me to practice. ‘Case we had a little girl.”

You bit your lip, reaching in Whiskey’s direction. You wanted nothing more than to take his hand in yours, but you fumbled in the air clumsily. He brought his hand up to yours, letting you grip it tightly.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

“Thank you, sugar.” He answered back. “Was another life. Wasn’t meant for me, I guess.”

You gave his hand another squeeze, really wishing you knew what to say. Something to make the pains of his past a little… less. His hand stayed in yours, but you heard something rustling off to the side.

“What are we readin’ tonight? We’ve still got some of Tom Sawyer’s adventures to go through, or we can start Pride and Prejudice.”

You leaned back, getting comfortable in the bed. “Tom Sawyer. Besides, you can’t tell me you actually want to read Pride and Prejudice.” You grinned, letting him change the subject.

“I could be persuaded, but if the lady requests Tom Sawyer…” He trailed off, likely picking up the book based on what you heard. He got settled in beside you and you heard the pages turning as he found where the two of you had left off. As he read, his hand stayed firmly in yours.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Lean back.” Ginger instructed. You did so, keeping a firm grip on the arms of the chair to keep your equilibrium. They had uncovered a new piece of whatever had attacked you, leading them to coming up with another possible cure. Ginger had explained this to you as she prepared you for the eyedrops. You were glad they were eyedrops this time because last time it had been a gel. Even without your sight, the feeling of gel in your eyes was incredibly unpleasant. That being said, you’d do it everyday for the rest of your life if it meant you could see again.

“Ready?” She asked, placing her hand on your shoulder.

“Mhmm.” You held your eyes open as much as you could, waiting for the liquid to hit them. If you thought eyedrops were bad before, they were worse now that you couldn’t see them coming.

The first drop hit your eye, making you jump despite being ready for it. You felt one more drop in the left eye before she moved to your right.

The cooling effect was almost immediate, the strange tingling making your eyes water. You fought against blinking until Ginger gave you the go ahead. You kept your head tilted until a tissue was pressed into your hand.

You leaned back upwards, wiping the residual drops from your cheeks. There were tears too, your eyes watering from the sensation.

“How does it feel?” Ginger asked as you heard her click a pen.

“Tingly.” You told her. “It feels like minty, maybe? Like chewing mint gum with my eyes. Or menthol.” You tried to explain. You heard her scribble something down as she hummed in response.

“Let me know if anything changes. It could take up to an hour to work.” She explained.

You blinked continuously, having no choice as the reflex tried to deal with the feeling in your eyes. It wasn’t unpleasant or painful, just very foreign.

Ginger ate lunch with you while you waited for something to happen, but nothing did. You swallowed down your thoughts of ‘I told you so,’ instead agreeing with her that maybe the next thing would work.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“We gotta start making plans, Champ.” You told him plainly, hands clasped in your lap. “I can’t stay here forever.”

“‘Course not!” The man agreed with gusto. “Forever is out of the question.”

You sighed, knowing he was deflecting. “Nothing is working yet.”

“Somethin’ will.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“What if it does?”

“Agent Champagne-”

“You sound like my wife.” He snarked.

“Your wife calls you Agent Champagne?” You asked with a smirk. You couldn’t resist taking that bait.

“A gentleman wouldn’t kiss and tell.” He joked, but it did little to lighten your mood. “But what I mean is the tone of voice. That’s the voice she uses when she thinks I’m being as dumb as a bag o’ hammers.”

You wouldn’t have quite put it that way, but you did think Champ was avoiding dealing with the situation at hand.

“So I’m gonna tell you what I tell her when she starts usin’ that particular tone of voice.” He took a pause and you waited for him to continue. “Trust me.”

You sighed, dropping your head. “I trust you, Champ.”

“Then why are we havin’ this conversation? Is it Ginger and her team? Do you not trust Ginger?”

“Of course I do-”

“You don’t trust Statesman or Statesman technology or medicine?”

“That’s not what I’m saying-”

“Then you stop worrying ‘bout what we’re gonna do with you, and focus on gettin’ better.” He instructed, his tone firm. His accent grew thicker as he went on. “I won’t hear anymore about plannin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re going to get back out there, Agent Amaretto. This piss poor attitude ain’t helpin’ nothin’! If we thought this was a lost cause, we’d tell you. You’d get a gold watch and we’d set you up with a good pension and probably a little desk job at some library somewhere to keep you busy, but that’s not in the cards for you.”

You couldn’t help but tear up as Champ went on. You weren’t even totally sure why. You felt so alone, like no one was hearing your concerns - but at the same time, it sounded like Champ had been thinking about possibilities. A librarian? You didn’t want to end up a librarian. You almost wanted to go back to not talking about the future.

“You, missy, are a Statesman Senior Agent. Now, I’ve already got Tequila climbing up the walls and causin’ trouble, I can’t be worryin’ about herding two cats. Suck up that booboo lip and act like the Agent you are. Understood?”

“Yessir.” You mumbled.

“I didn’t hear you, Agent Amaretto.”

“Yessir.” You repeated, louder this time.

“Good.” You could hear the finality in his voice before the ice in his drink clinked together as he took a sip. “‘Cause if that didn’t work… well, the next tactic I use on the Missus is a little inappropriate to try with you, Agent. No offense.”

Now that did get a laugh out of you.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The podcast played from the speaker beside you, but you were only half listening to it. You were thinking of taking a nap, more out of boredom and lack of anything better to do than tiredness, when you heard familiar heavy footsteps approaching your room. You couldn’t help that it lifted your spirits to know Whiskey was on his way.

“‘Rhett.” He greeted, that signature tone in his voice letting you know he was grinning.

“Whisk.” You responded with a sigh. “You know, if anyone else called me that, I might have to kill them.”

“Not interrupting, am I?” He ignored your warning, stepping into your room.

“No. Wasn’t really listening to this anyway.” You told him. You turned your head in the direction of the speaker and asked it to stop. The room fell into silence as you sat up on the cot.

“That better not have been a book on tape.” He warned.

“Now why would I listen to one of those when I have a real life book on tape at my beck and call.” You smirked.

“Walkin’ talkin’ book on tape, huh? If that’s all I am to you, I think I might just take this present back home with me then.”

“Wait!” You stopped him, hearing his feet retreating back towards the door. “You didn’t say you had a present.”

“Thought that might change your tune.” He chuckled.

You scooted to the side of the cot, patting the mattress beside you. It only took him a second to sit next to you, that familiar spiced citrus and leather scent taking over your senses.

“Hands out.” He instructed. You held your hands in front of you, waiting impatiently for them to be filled. He placed the gift in your hands, but you had no idea what it was yet.

It was circular, but it seemed to vary in width - no, it wasn’t circular, it was just looped. You ran your hand over it, feeling the smooth pattern adorning it.

“What is it?” You asked, finding the end of it - a strong, heavy piece, the texture similar to the rest of it, although the pattern was different. The very end came to a bulbous tip.

“That’s a bonafide, one of a kind, handmade by yours truly, bullwhip.” He explained, taking your hand in his and wrapping it around the handle to hold it properly.

“For real?” You smiled, feeling what you now knew to be leather under your fingers.

“For real.” He chuckled.

You tested the weight of the handle, feeling the drag as the rest of the whip pulled against the sheets. Your fingers ran over the design, following the lines of the handle carefully woven and etched throughout. You regripped the handle and ran your other hand over the tail of the whip, pulling your hands apart to get a feel for how long it was.

“What does it look like?” You asked, leaning into him.

“It’s brown. Medium brown, the colour of gingerbread, maybe. Right along here,” he took your hand holding the handle and guided you in tracing the designs. “It’s stained red, just to make it pop. Not blood red, just tinged red with the stain. Gives it some detail, you know?”

“What else?” You asked, feeling breathless as he helped you to see the details with your hands.

“Well you can probably guess it’s made of leather.” You nodded. “But it’s actually made of kangaroo leather.

“Kangaroo?” You asked in shock. “Where’d a farm boy get kangaroo leather?”

You felt Whiskey’s laugh against your side. “I made this one a year or so ago. Just so turns out that kangaroo hide is one of the strongest in the world and well, when you have a hobby that requires leather, you start gettin’ creative with what kind of leather you’re usin’. Gotta keep it excitin’.”

“You don’t get enough excitement at your day job?” You teased.

“Nah, I’ve got this great partner who always has my back.” His voice made you shiver, despite the fact that his comment had your face heating up. He was leaning heavily against you now, his breath fanning over your cheek.

You swallowed the lump that had appeared in your throat, finding your voice to ask him to tell you more.

“About my partner? She’s a great gal. I’m sure I’d be dead twice over if she wasn’t there to pull my ass outta trouble. She’s a great shot, and there ain’t nothin’ sexier than a woman who can handle a pistol.”

His hand was on your opposite cheek, turning you to face him. The gentle touch made your breath stutter in your throat. 

“She’s got this amazing smile that can make a mark fall in love from 40 paces, and it can light up a room from even farther.” He continued, the breath from his voice dancing across your face. His breath smelt like the spiced Whiskey he was named for, and a slight hint of cherries.

“She deserves better than me for her partner, that’s for damn sure. A broken man with a messy past who’s been too scared to tell her how special she is. I thought it was best to keep it professional, but I don’t know if I can anymore.” His nose brushed against yours. You gasped softly at how close he was.

“She’s always in danger, we both are, but once she was in danger I couldn’t help her out of… that made me realize how important she is. If she’ll let me though,” he whispered. You could feel his lips brush against yours as he spoke, his mustache tickling your upper lip.. “I’d like to spend all my time makin’ that up to her.”

“Jack-” Your whisper was cut off as he pressed his lips to yours gently. It was so gentle, almost hesitant. The man was such a loud, boisterous personality and this kiss was so contrary to that. 

You dropped the whip, bringing your hand up to rest on his hand on your cheek. You followed his arm past his shoulder and up his neck to tangle in his hair. You felt his breath hitch from the light tug on the strands.

“I’m gonna stick by her side,” he muttered, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “No matter what happens. I’m gonna do everything I can to help you.”

You pulled him into another kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips together. He hummed softly into the kiss, brushing your cheek lightly with his thumb. His other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, like he was scared you would disappear. You nipped his bottom lip, trying to reassure him you weren’t going anywhere.

He hissed softly at the sensation and your tongue darted out to soothe the skin. His own tongue met yours, his moan at the contact matching your sigh.

He pulled back and you chased his lips. You were stopped as his nose brushed against yours, his shaky breath flitting across your face.

“Say it again.” He requested, so quietly you almost didn’t even hear.

“Say what?”  You hummed, distracted by his nuzzling and the strong urge to have his lips against yours again.

“My name, sugar.” He was close enough that you could feel his cheek flex with a lopsided grin. “I ain’t ever heard you call me by name before now.”

You smiled in return, biting your lip. It was true. You’d called him Whiskey most of the time. Agent Whiksey when you were being formal. Whisk when he annoyed you. Numerous different names while undercover…

“Kiss me, Jack.”

He growled, low and deep in his chest, before he obliged. Now this was the kiss you expected from Whi- from Jack Daniels. His tongue, pressing past the seam of your lips. It felt like he was marking his territory, all you could do was let him. He swallowed your moans as you matched his hunger. He kissed you with passion, both experienced and unrefined. Unbridled. He kissed you breathless, until you had no choice but to part.

You pulled back, panting softly as you leaned your forehead against his. You wished you could see him. See if he was just as affected by the kiss as you were.

You slid your hand from his hair to his cheek. His skin was warm, you could almost imagine it tinged pink, flushed from being so breathless. You continued exploring, finding his mustache next. The coarse hair felt askew, likely mussed from kissing and not the neat, groomed thing you were used to. You felt the uptick of his lips in that signature grin, and you couldn’t help but feel those too. They were warm and moist. You wondered if they were swollen, like yours felt.

Jack held your hand still, kissing each finger tip one at a time. The tickle of his mustache made you giggle.

“I mean it, sugar.” You could feel his lips move against your fingertips, his voice vibrating through your hand. “I’m here with you. Whether they figure this out or not. We’ll get through it.”

It was the first time someone other than yourself acknowledged that your sight may never return. It didn’t bring about the hollow defeat you’d been feeling anytime you thought of being blind the rest of your life. It finally felt like you had someone in your corner. Of course it would be Jack. He’d had your back for years, working together in the field. You should have known it would be him, in the end.

“Thank you.” You dropped your hand from his face to wrap both arms around him, hugging him as you rested your head against his chest.

You felt him press a kiss against your forehead before he pulled you to lay down. He held you, cradled into his side as you burrowed your face into his neck. You heard something fall, probably the whip that had been forgotten on the sheets.

“Oops.” You winced, not having meant to be so careless with his gift. You moved to sit up, wanting to pick it up, but he held you firm.

“Leave it there,” he instructed. You relished the way his deep voice vibrated against you. “It ain’t gonna fall any further.”

“I don’t want something to happen to it.”

“If it does, I'll make you a hundred more.” He promised.

“Fine.” You ceded, snuggling back into him with a deep inhale. Leather and spice.

The arm that was draped over your waist left your side. You felt his muscles move under his shirt as he stretched out. It only took a minute before the released, relaxing again. You heard the fluttering of paper before he started to read.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. 

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The pressure from the device around your head was unpleasant, but not unbearable. The way it pressed down on your eyes made you want to squirm. Instead, you squeezed frantically at the stress ball Ginger had offered you before you’d been strapped in. You knew Whiskey was standing with her as she ran the test, but you wished he could be here. You’d take his hand in yours over the foam smiley face any day.

“Almost done, Amaretto.” Ginger’s voice echoed through the speaker, barely audible over the hum of the awful machine.

“You’ve got this, sugar.”

“Whiskey, don’t tou-”

“-tell me not to-”

“-my lab, my buttons-”

“-OW!”

The bickering coming through the speakers was almost enough to make you laugh. The clicking of the microphone engaging and disengaging had you picturing the two fighting over whatever button turned the feed on. The two had spent hours bickering the past two weeks, Jack becoming increasingly more involved in your treatment as the two of you shifted from partners to...  well, there was no set term put on it yet, but you were very fond of kissing him. You couldn’t quite imagine the cowboy in the other room being called a boyfriend. It felt very middle school.

It was another few minutes of the machine humming, pressing awkwardly against you, until Ginger finally announced you were done. You heard the door between you and them open, two sets of footsteps approaching. One set of hands started to release the device from your head, while the other took the stress ball away. It was replaced with a large, warm hand that lifted yours until a kiss was pressed to your knuckles. The mustache prickled against your skin.

“Okay, you can sit up. Go slow, though.” Ginger instructed once you were free. You did, feeling your head swim.

“How’re you feeling?” Jack asked.

“Light headed.” You answered honestly, waiting for the feeling to pass. You leaned into Jack, letting him support you through the dizziness.

“Almost done.” He cooed, petting your braided hair. “We’ll get you back to your room soon.”

You heard Ginger moving around the room before she came to a stop in front of you. There was silence for a beat.

“Any change?” She asked.

You blinked a few times, but there was nothing. “No.”

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump with defeat, but Jack stayed strong next to you.

“That’s okay.” He hummed, not letting on any disappointment he might be feeling. He never tried to dictate how you should feel about your condition, but he stayed strong for you throughout. It was still so hard to deal with that you may never see again, but he made it a little easier. “Let’s get you back to your room. I for one am dyin’ to know what happens to Elizabeth next.”

You scoffed as he helped you to stand. “Sure you are.” His hands held you steady until you found your footing, his arm wrapping around you to guide you out of the lab.

“I am.” He argued. “I’m invested in it now.”

“Oh, well I guess I didn’t need to ask Champ to track down some Louis L’Amour books.”

“To hell with Elizabeth.” Jack declared, making you laugh.

You roused slowly. It took you a moment to realize you had fallen asleep while Jack read. The last thing you remember in the story was the caravan was going to be attacked. You wondered how long Jack had read for before realizing you’d fallen asleep. You were pressed tightly to his side, you could feel his warm body next to you. His head was leaning against yours, his deep breaths tickling your ear. He let out the tiniest snores anytime he exhaled. It made you smile.

“Jack, wake up.” You hummed, pressing a kiss to his neck. He hummed in response but didn’t fully wake. You called his name again, nuzzling into him.

Your name left his lips in a soft moan as he told you to go back to sleep.

“You’re going to have an awful kink in your neck if you keep sleeping like that. Come on.” You argued quietly, poking him lightly in his side as you sat up.

“Alright,” he groaned. You felt his body stretch out beside yours before he too sat up. You felt something hit your leg and you instinctively opened your eyes to see what it was.

You saw the book had fallen off Jack’s lap-

You saw.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

tagging: @wickedfrsgrl​ @driedgreentomatoes​

A/N: The books that are mentioned being read by Whiksey are The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, and The Walking Drum by Louis L’Amour

[caesthetix]

A LITTLE FEAR — Ep. Prime Real Estate

↪Jean Kirstein mini-series

���content; canon universe, description of violence, season 4 spoiler, forbidden love, marleyan!reader, scouts!jean, chapter 139 spoiler

You stopped whatever you were doing in an instant, both hands freezing midair as a flock of birds suddenly landed beside you. That was strange, you never saw this type of bird flying around your house before. Those birds had silky white feathers and beady black eyes, some had their gaze fixated on you.

But then again, perhaps you shouldn't have been surprised that you never saw them before.

It was not like you have been living here for years, no. For the last three years, you were here as a new citizen in a world where the fear of titans finally gone. Everything was at peace for years as this newborn country strengthened its military — under the command of the Queen.

Yes, the Queen, Historia Reiss. Never once you ever thought you would be living here of all places in the world, tending flower beds and watering plants. A Marleyan like you, the mortal enemy of those Eldians somehow slipped inside the society and even lived inside the innermost part of the country.

You lived in prime real estate located in the countryside; a medium-sized house with huge land, different compared to those gigantic and majestic buildings in the downtown area. The atmosphere was unique and you preferred this kind of house instead of the luxurious, blinding one. For you, this is home, and you couldn't wait to share it with your lover.

"(Y/n)! Don't stay too long in the garden!"

A familiar shout rang through the open area, making you turn your head to face them. She stood there with her comfortable white dress, maroon-coloured apron draped in front of her figure to make sure that any specks of dirt didn't smear her dress while her brown hair sticking out from her tight ponytail.

"I will be there in a few minutes, Ma!"

You shouted back at the top of your lungs, knowing full well that her hearing was not as sharp as yours. She just shook her head in amusement at your answer since she could predict already that your few minutes could turn to an hour or even more. Just a habit of yours, though she wouldn't force you to stop since it took your mind off things.

Just as she did by cooking some omelette and comfort foods as she too — waiting for someone to come back.

She had a separate house near the Queen's residence, assigned there by her majesty herself. But ever since you knocked on her front door and introduced yourself to her, she decided that it would be better if she lived with you for a while, at least until her son came back. Until your love came back to your arms once again.

There were letters after letters being shared despite how out of reach he was from you. You lived every day in hope that his mission to make peace with the outside world resulted in success. Lots of prayers have been sung to whatever deity existed in this world, never once stopped for every day you woke up.

And today was just like any other day as you waited for him by occupying yourself with daily chores and a new hobby. You used to wake up to strategize the next move and train in the military, being a normal citizen was still a little bit bizarre for you.

Though you already told the Queen that if in case she needed assistance regarding the air force, you would be ready to be called.

Yet three years had passed ever since your arrival, and never once she called you to the military. You had a gut feeling that your lover might have something to do with it, so you could only hope he didn't try to pull any strings behind your back and become the reason why you were never once interrupted.

Well, it was not like you didn't want this. When you finally wake up without fear, without being afraid that you had to see another bloodshed, without being afraid to love whoever you wanted to love. This was the world that you have been dreaming of, so maybe, it's fine to just enjoy it as long as you can.

Your fingers used to be covered with blood, now only covered with dirt and soil. Sometimes you couldn't believe it yourself as you were afraid to go to sleep, not wanting to wake up and realise all of this was just a dream.

But it was not a dream.

It was all real — ever since that day.

Your whole body felt so numb as you stared into the distance, back leaning to the old building behind you, not understanding what actually unfurled in front of your eyes right now.

Everything was still replayed so vividly in your mind. His ash-brown strands dishevelled from the war he had been partaking of, chocolate orbs that filled with love and regret as he took another look at you, his voice — oh his deep, comforting voice that sung like a lullaby every time he spoke.

And then bright yellow light blinded your vision.

The impact of the explosion threw you off, back arching as your body hit a concrete wall. Your vision blurred, your head pounding from the impact. But you could still see the gigantic feet right in front of you — gigantic feet that belong to a titan, replacing where your lover once stood.

You saw it, the long, familiar strands of hair that you loved to caress, those eyes that now turned into the darkest shade of brown stared at you with an emotion that you couldn't fathom. Then he jerked his head to the other side, jumping off the cliff with the other titans like a puppet whose strings were pulled.

There goes your love, that is what you already believe. Everyone knew about how once someone turned into a mindless titan, there was no way for them to change back as a human except if they ate the nine titan inheritor. And you didn't put any hope over that, just slumping your body and surrendering yourself to the situation.

You didn't know since when you drifted off somewhere as black filled your vision. But in your mind, you see him standing in front of you as he reaches out his hand for you to take. In your dream, you saw him playing around the backyard with a little kid that looked so familiar with him. In perhaps a distant future, you welcomed him home after a day full of hard work.

Then you opened up your eyes, disappointed as it was the same as what you saw before. The blistering heat attacked whoever was unfortunate enough to be outside right now, dealing with the monstrous creature as the fate of the world was in their hands.

But it was silent now, the roar of those mindless titans, booming footsteps that rumbling the ground, two enormous titans who fought each other before — it all stopped and gone as the only thing that welcomed you was a quiet, somewhat peaceful atmosphere.

With your legs still wobbling from the impact before, you looked around as you wondered what happened now. Finding no one in sight, not even from the Marleyan Military made you raise your eyebrows in confusion. Was it all done? The war between Eren Yeager and the alliance of Paradis and Marley? What happened now and where are they?

There were so many questions popping in your head as you forced yourself to check out the land near Fort Salta, finding some of your troops pointing all of their guns to the Eldians that somehow — turned back into a human.

That was the only thing you needed before you ran to where they were, ignoring the pain that surged your body for every movement that you made. You were fine, this couldn't stop you from knowing the truth, this would never stop you from reaching out to the Eldian, to someone that introduced you to what it felt like to love someone.

Surely the Marleyan was just bluffing, you knew that all of the guns were already shot towards the sky before. But there was a possibility that they had another, and you couldn't bear to see another bloodshed, not when you felt like there was no need to continue this war if the main enemy was already gone.

"If we did still have the power of the titans, wouldn't we be using it to resist you?" Ah, was it true? That titan power was already gone for good from this world? "But the fact that we continue to be powerless even as you point your guns at us is the greatest possible proof of our humanity."

He made sense, even as you stopped a few steps behind the Marleyan Military, you could hear the sincerity from his words. Yet somehow, your race still couldn't accept the fact, not daring to lower their gun just yet. You couldn't really blame them for doing so, knowing how much terror that they have seen just for the last couple of hours.

So you stood forward, dragging your feet as you ignored the surprised gasp from your troops.

"Everyone, drop your guns to the ground." You still couldn't hear any movement as you said so, and you clicked your tongue over that. "Now!"

Then one by one, you heard how the metal weapon fell to the ground like a symbol of peace. There were around twenty troops behind you, the survivors of the explosion before, the only people who lived from Marleyan Military after such a horrendous event. And they obeyed your command, believing in you that you would make the right choice.

You turned to look at your troops, giving them a reassuring gaze one by one that from now on, everything would be alright. Some of them were crying, some of them fell to the ground as they screamed out, out of frustration or relief for being alive, you couldn't differentiate it anymore, maybe a bit of both.

Your job was done, for now, so you had to know what happened. You needed to know who was the man who stood in front of you now as his ocean blue eyes gazing at you with respect and gratitude. He gave you a firm nod, and you followed after as you straightened your posture.

"Then, who are you?"

"I am Armin Arlert, an Eldian from the island of Paradis. The man who killed Eren Yeager, the attack titan."

The way he said it was absolute. Certainty was there and somehow you wanted to just let your sore body fall to the ground as relief started to fill your heart. But not yet, you had to be the commander of the air force unit, probably the only higher-ups left in the military here.

"Greetings then, Armin Arlert." You started, giving him a Marleyan salute as he answered it by balling his right hand into a fist, resting it right in front of his heart after that. "I am the commander of the air force unit of Marleyan Military, my troops and I would do anything we could do to assist everyone here."

For the next few hours, everyone who was healthy enough was assigned to take care of those who had injuries or any other casualties. You as the commander, trying to call and inform the military base in the capital. Solace flooded over you once again when you received the news that more than a half part of Marley was still intact.

You immediately called for backup, informing them to tell the whole world what happened in Fort Salta. This needed to be distributed now, that they didn't have to worry anymore, that the world was finally free from titans. You told them all the little details about those who fought in the battle, you told them that it was thanks to the Eldians themselves that the rumbling stopped.

"It's..." You trailed off as the chief on the other line asked you the name of the war that shook the world just now. "It's the battle of heaven and earth."

Today marked the three years of the world's victory against titans. Eldians finally freed from the curse and lived a normal life like humanity in the rest of the world. Though, of course, doubt and fear still lingered in the heart of the people. That was why those soldiers who directly fought with the attack titan became the ambassador of peace, travelling around the world to tell their stories.

They were the ones who lived, the heroes who chose to fight humanity who always treated their race like an insect. They were those who chose humanity over their own life, the ones who cast their feelings aside and killed their best friend because that was the right thing to do.

And your lover was one of them, he was an Eldian, a soldier who was ready to sacrifice his life in war.

Jean Kirstein, the man that you met in a bar back then in Marley, the only person who could make you feel so bare as he painted you with affection.

The person who you would wait a thousand years if you had to, so long so you could be together.

You subconsciously touched your left fingers, tracing your coarse skin as you absentmindedly remembered the reunion that you had with him. Not the one where he shouted at you to stay back, not the one where it filled with painful tears as you saw him transformed into a titan in front of your eyes.

But it was the one that made you feel so full. After calling the capital and making sure the Eldian would be treated fairly, you finally could take a breather and sit just outside the tower in Fort Salta. The sun slowly turned into an orange hue that time, your body was all aching as the adrenaline from before started to wear off.

You didn't turn your face away from the horizon as you felt someone sat beside you on the ground, not saying anything for the next couple of minutes as you and the mysterious figure just basked yourself on the peaceful atmosphere, something that was never there with how war and violence always filled the ground.

The orange hue slowly reddened as the sun hid behind the mountain, letting the moon take over with thousands of stars adorned the night sky.

There were no words being spoken as two bodies decided to scoot closer to each other as if there were strings that bound them together. You dropped your head on his shoulder, letting out a long sigh as the realisation finally sank in.

"I am back, (Y/n)." His voice was still filled with disbelief. "Just like what I promised you." But it sounds the same as how it used to, lingering with something that you knew as love.

You lifted your head a little, wanting to take a look at him and scrutinizing his face. He was here, Jean Kirstein in a flesh. He was not a titan anymore, he was just an Eldian from the island of Paradis, a normal human, just like you.

There was a dingling sound as he fetched something from his pocket, your eyes never left his as you felt a warm metal slipped on your palm. He closed your hand after that, wanting you to know that he was real, that he finally could give back the silver key that he brought with him ever since in Marley.

You felt like you wanted to burst at the moment. You wanted to cry, screaming at him for fighting the attack titan despite being a mere soldier who didn't even inherit the nine titans, you wanted to ask how he felt right now and what actually happened, there was so much that you wanted to say, so many words that you wanted to tell him.

But there would be a time for that, you were certain that you would have a lot of time after all of these were done.

So you just curled your lips into a smile, orbs glistening with tears as it shone with adoration, palm gripping the key a little tighter with his hand on top of yours.

"Welcome back, Jean."

You patted the excess of the dirt in your hand on your black apron, finally done repotting some of the plants. When your eyes fleeted to the side, you tilted your head in confusion as the bird from before was still there, so loyal as it accompanied you for the last hour.

This one was different compared to the others. The birds that you saw before only had one solid colour, but this one that stayed with you had brown feathers on some of their features.

The bird just looked at you with wonder, tilting their head to the side as they jumped from the flower bed and landed beside you. Your lips immediately shaped into a smile, wondering why the bird decided to stay with you when the others left already.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

You cooed at the bird, careful not to move your body too abruptly, afraid that they would fly again. Of course, you didn't expect them to chirp, but maybe you could talk to them a little. And you could write it down in the letter that you sent for Jean later on.

"I don't know why you are here, but don't you think you should go back though?"

Those beady black orbs fell upon your face as if they understood your words. "You must have a family, right? Perhaps maybe a lover?" So you decided to keep on talking, throwing some random questions, conversing with them like an old friend. "Bet your lover is so beautiful like you, and they must be waiting for you, you know?"

"Like you wait for me?"

Silence. On the first second, the bird was in front of you. But now, they flapped their wings and flew, leaving you there with both pupils widened as a familiar voice rang through your ear. You didn't understand why they suddenly left, but maybe, maybe it was because of the fact that you were not alone anymore.

That maybe because they knew your lover came back.

And so they would do the same and flew to where their lover was.

"Jean?"

No, he was not supposed to be here. From the letters that you got last week, he was supposed to be in Marley right now with the others. He told you that through the words that he scribbled down on the old paper, and you remembered how he would come back next month.

But of course, your eyes wouldn't deceive you, of course, your ear could never catch the exact voice that belonged to him if he was not really here.

He stood around five feet apart from you with a cheeky smile that made you want to just slap it away from his beautiful face. His ash-brown locks slightly got longer, looking neat despite the wind that swayed some strands of his hair, and you wondered how many times he combed his hair to make it look like that.

Though you didn't care about it, you didn't care about how he was here right now when you were certain he should have been somewhere else. You didn't care that you stumbled on some of the gardening tools as you ran towards him. You didn't care if your apron could leave some dirt on his expensive suit.

What you cared right now as your feet brought you closer to him — was to feel his embrace once more.

You jumped right into his arms, chin resting on his shoulder as you wrapped your arms around his neck, not wanting to let go. Right now, you just wanted to shout and announce to the world that you wanted him for yourself, at least for just a few minutes, at least for a moment.

Everyone could call you selfish at this point you didn't care anymore. For all your life you never wanted anything but a world without fear. And now as you achieved it, the only matter that could complete it was to spend it all with the one that somehow had half of your heart anywhere he goes.

You have waited for him for far too long. You always waited for him afraid that he wouldn't come back to your apartment, you always waited for him with distress lingering at the back of your mind that he was not alive anymore when he was there on the other side of the sea.

But now as you felt the warmth within his touch, now as you felt his smile as his lips planted on the side of your face, you finally knew how it feels to live in a world without fear since from now on, you were free to love him.

He was too — free to love you as his real self, an Eldian, a war hero, Jean Kirstein from the island of Paradis.

"I am home."

And as the two bodies basked in the warmth of a loved one, hand intertwined that clashed a silver metal band next to each other, they both knew that from now on — they were going to wake up every single morning and live their dream.

In a world where there was no fear, spending it in prime real estate with a significant other.

Earning the right to live a happy life for hopefully, a long time.

"Welcome home, Jean."

↪Back to Wall Maria

↪Citizen; @yumaryko @may-machin​ @cuteissei​

↪Send an ask if you want to be a citizen of Paradis (taglist)!

[noladyme]

La Cuervo - Chapter 9

She is used to the biker-life, having grown into a woman in the familiar embrace of SAMCRO. A bad decision and a gun-shot later, she gets whisked off to Santo Padre, and put under the protection of another club. What is supposed to be a short stint in the Mayan headquarters just north of the border to Mexico, turns into something more; when la quervo begins to develop feelings for el angel - and he seems to return them in kind...

TW: violence, blood, drug use, alcohol, smut, fluff, angst

In the spirit of "The Crown Princess of Charming", this is a story about O.C. Nina and Angel Reyes. It is obviously non-canon, as characters who have passed on on Mayans M.C. are present in it, and others have been excluded completely. Nina is written as a cis-female, but I have tried to keep her race and looks as ambigous as possible. Should you find any of this story offensive, please let me know.

9.

Bishop leaned back in his seat, and took a drag of his cigar. “Go on…”. “What I’ve been paying Alvarez so far, I’m willing to pay you, for information on any woman who might have crossed to Mexico, who fits the description of Gael's killer”, Palo said. “Which is…?”, Angel asked. “Asthmatic prostitute", Sala declared with a hoarse laugh, and ran a finger up Daniella’s thigh. The blonde smiled flirtatiously at him, before shooting Angel and Nina a dirty look.

Nina began shifting on Angel’s lap. He responded by stroking soothing circles on her back. “Coco, Gilly and Angel are our border-runners", Bishop said. Palo looked towards Angel and Nina, and Nina almost felt it as a gush of ice wind to be under his gaze. His eyes were so similar to Gaels, it was difficult to remain calm. “Yeah, but we haven’t seen nothing “, Angel said. “Still, you might at some point”, Palo said. “We could make some business together if you do”. “What is it you want?”, Bishop said. “I want you to find the girl, and bring her to me, so I can do to her what she did to my cousin… after I spend some time paying her back for the pain and money she’s cost me trying to find her”.

Nina looked down at her drink and realized she hadn’t touched it. The talk of the Mayans tracking her down for Palo, so he could kill her, was getting to be more than she could handle. Topping that of, was the promise of whatever torture he had planned. She downed her drink quickly, and coughed a little, as the burning liquid made its way down her throat. Filip straightened in his seat. “This conversation is between your two clubs. Now if you don’t mind, the young lady here seems to be in need of a dance”. He looked at Angel. “Unless you have a problem with that”. Nina looked at Angel almost pleadingly. She needed to get away from the situation, but keeping up appearances meant that Angel needed to give his permission – though they both knew that if the situation had been different, and she wasn’t trying to blend in, this wouldn’t have made a difference to her. Angel gave her a quick kiss. “Can’t say no to the SAMCRO prez, can I…?”, he said. “Go on, mami”. Filip reached out his arm, and Nina took it; doing her best not to make it too obvious how much she needed to lean on him, as they walked away.

“How are you feeling, luv'?”, Filip asked, as he led her over towards the evening's designated dancing-area. “Do you need your inhaler? Where is it?”. “In the trailer… But no. It’s not that. I’m just… scared”, she admitted. “Everything is fine. The Vatos don’t suspect anything”, Filip said. She put her hands on his shoulders, and Filip put his hands on her waist; and they began moving together to the song that was playing.

“You look beautiful", he said. “Bullshit”, she said, her voice shaking. “You’re just trying to make me feel better”. “When have I ever lied about the way you look?”, Filip frowned. “Remember that pimple on your forehead?”. Nina let a smile find its way to her lips at the memory. “You called me The Creature from the Black Lagoon for a week”, she said. “It was humongous! Terrifying…”, Filip exclaimed. “But it’s true. You’re breathtaking tonight. Though, it might just be because you look happier than you have in years”. They swayed together for a long moment, before Nina replied. “I am… I think", she said. “And Mr. Sharp-as-a-marble over there did that?”, Filip grunted. She scowled at him “Sorry…I suppose he has a certain Neanderthalic charm to him, and seeing as you more or less grew up in a club, it makes sense for you to fall for a patch… I just thought we’d lose you to one of our own charters. You have first lady potential, my love. It’s not too late for us to get out of here. We could drop you off with SAMDINO”. “Packer?”, Nina gasped. She shuddered at the thought of the San Bernadino president. “That man eats nails for breakfast”. “So do you. And you wash it down with coffee blacker than the night”, Filip chuckled. “Yeah, well; that’s not happening”, Nina muttered.

They danced for a moment longer. Nina locked eyes with Angel, and he shot her a warm smile. Filip noticed them looking at each other, and chuckled to himself. “He’s… It feels right", Nina said quietly. “Jackie-boy would be happy for you”, he said. Nina looked at him, and swallowed thickly, to wet her throat. “And you? Are you happy for me?”, Nina asked. “I’m not as smart as he was”, Filip said, and gallantly made her twirl under his arm. Nina giggled at the motion, and when he pulled her back in, she threw her arms around his neck; hugging him close. “Thank you… For being my family. For taking care of me…”. “But… it’s time for you to make your own life”, Filip said, cutting her off. She winced at his words. “Don’t do that… It feels like you’re saying goodbye”, Nina said. “Aren’t I? You’ve got yourself a new family”, he replied. “You’re my family… SAMCRO is”. She felt tears beginning to form in her eyes. “And now these people are as well, it seems”, Filip replied. He moved a finger under her chin, and lifted her head to look into her eyes. “We will always be your family, Nina. And we will never make you chose; you got that?”. Nina nodded, and Filip placed a covert kiss on her temple.

The song was over, and Nina quickly dried her eyes. Coco came up to them from somewhere, his expression worried. “Yo, where’s that mouse-cabron?”, he asked Filip. “Ratboy? Haven’t seen him in a few”, Filip replied. “Why?”. Coco cursed below his breath. “I can’t find Letty. He was checking her out earlier”, he grunted. Nina shook her head. “Coco, I told him to keep away. You don’t have anything to worry about”. “Yeah? Then where the fuck are they?”.

They began searching the premises. Coco was fuming; almost shaking in rage. Going into the clubhouse, they found a couple of girls knocking on the door to the bathroom. “Come on. We have to pee!”, one of them cried out. “What’s going on in there?”, Nina asked. “One of those Charming guys went in there with a girl like 15 minutes ago”, the girl replied. Coco strode over, and pushed the girls away, before pounding the door. “Letty…? Leticia!”, he roared. The door was almost shaking from the force of his fist. “If this thing with VM doesn’t start a war; Rat’s dick might…”, Filip muttered to Nina. He walked over to Coco, and pushed him away. “Rat?”.

The door opened, and Quinn came out; zipping his jeans. “What man? I was in the middle of something”. Coco’s eyes widened in rage, before a strange brunette with an embarrassed grin came out behind Quinn; wiping her lips. “Fuck…”, Coco snarled. “Sorry, brother”, Filip said. “We’re looking for his kid. She might have slipped off with Rat”. Quinn nodded in direction of the door. “I saw them going towards the office building”. Coco almost ran out the door, bumping in to Angel as he passed. “Letty…”, Nina said to him, as he looked confusedly at her. Angel rolled his eyes, and followed Coco; Filip and Nina at his heels.

They ran across the yard, through the crowd, and made it to the office, just as Coco pulled his gun; and kicked in the door. “What the fuck?”, he yelled, as he stood in the doorway. Filip and Angel rushed over to stop him, but halted in their steps; and both laughed out loud. “What”, Nina asked, and ran over to see what was going on. She pushed her way past the men, and found Coco aiming his gun at Rat, who was blowing his nose in some tissue. He and Letty laid on their stomachs on the floor, watching The Notebook on her iPad. “Coco? What the fuck?”, Leticia said. “My bad. I thought you were… What the fuck are you doing?”, Coco asked. “What does it look like?”, Letty snarled. Angel patted Coco’s shoulder. “Put away the gun, man”, he said. Coco clenched his jaw, and groaned. “Letty, go home”, he said. Rat looked at him pleadingly. “Can we finish the movie first?” Filip chuckled, and shook his head. “Finish the movie, and then take this young lady home, Ratboy”, he said. “No hanky-panky”. Rat nodded, while Letty rolled her eyes.

They left Rat and Letty to it, and walked back towards the party. Filip led Coco in front of him, with a hand on his shoulder. Angel slipped an arm around Nina, and made them fall behind. “Come dance with me”, he said. Nina looked at him disbelievingly. “You dance?”, she chuckled. Angel smirked at her. “I do a lot of things you don’t know about yet”. He led her towards the dancing area, and wrapped both arms tightly around her, holding her close. Nina merged her fingers behind his neck, and let him lead her to the rhythm of the music. Angel danced like he rode his bike; confident, and showing off just the right amount. He knew how to move, and was beyond needing to prove himself, but he was also a smug bastard. At one point, he decided to sweep a leg behind her, and dip her so far to the ground she could almost feel her hair brush the ground. She laughed at the move, and shivered in pleasure as Angel placed a soft kiss to her neck, when he lifted her up again. Nina felt comfortable and safe in his arms, and let herself swim away in his deep eyes.

“Have a nice chat with your brother?”, Angel asked. “Yeah… It was nice to not have to pretend not to know him for just a couple of minutes”, Nina sighed. “I get that”, he replied. “Did he say anything… interesting?”. Nina raised a brow at him. “Nosy…”, she grinned. Angel shrugged embarrassedly. “No, nothing interesting. Just relaying a job-offer”. “Yeah?”. “Yup. First lady of SAMDINO”. Angel’s eyes widened. “Fuck. That’s a good offer. Sure you don’t wanna take it?”. Nina laughed, and punched his shoulder. “You sick of me already, Mayan?”. “Not possible, cuervo”, Angel smiled, and dipped his head to meet her lips. She inhaled him as he kissed her; the mix of liquor, cologne, musk and pure Angel filling her nose and her entire being. He pulled back, and looked down at her; and without using his voice, it was as if he spoke the words she was beginning to think she felt herself.

Angel drew in a breath, and was about to speak, when he chuckled and shook his head. ��What?”, Nina said. “We should split”, he said. “Why? Is something wrong?”, she asked. He placed his lips to her ear. “Nah, but the way you’re moving, ma’; my dick is hard as a rock”, he growled, and pressed his groin against her to prove his point. Nina giggled, and turned to press her lips to his again. “But I didn’t have any of the chorizo yet”, she breathed. “I’ll give you the fucking chorizo”, Angel said, and moved his hand down to squeeze her butt, sending shivers through her spine. “You’re disgusting”, she smirked. He raised a brow at her, and moved his hand covertly under the skirt of her dress; ghosting her folds. “Disgusting is making you wet, ma’”, he whispered. Dipping his finger behind the fabric of her panties, and just inside her, Angel smirked as Nina let out a soft moan.

They quickly caught up with Filip and Coco, who had calmed down by now. They were at the bar with Tig, Bishop and Palo. Nina did her best to ignore the Vato. “I’m taking my girl home”, Angel said. Filip nodded, and shook his hand. “Alright, brother”, he said, and turned to Nina. “It was lovely to meet you, sweetheart”. “Will you be sticking around?”, she asked. “We head out tomorrow”, Tig replied, and winked at her. We’ll say goodbye then, he way saying.

Angel gave Coco a hug, and Nina kissed his cheek; before they headed towards the trailer to get her things. While she rushed to pack up her belongings, Angel waited in the doorway; tilting his head to look up her skirt every time she bent over. Nina couldn’t help but smile at his wanton glares, but frowned when she turned towards the table. The gun was there, but the inhaler was gone. “What’s wrong?”, Angel asked. “My inhaler… It’s gone”, she replied. He shrugged. “You probably already packed it”, he said. “No… It was right here”. Angel crouched down to check under the table. “You sure? Maybe you lost it when you were getting stuff ready for tonight”, he said. He got up to stand, and took her hand. “Are you ok? Do you need it right now?”. “No, but… Angel, I left it right here!”. Angel frowned, and something unreadable ghosted his face. “I’ll take you to get a new one tomorrow, yeah?”. Nina sighed, and nodded. “Yeah… ok”. She put her gun in her bag and grabbed her helmet. “Let’s go”.

Once back outside, Angel nodded at Bishop, Palo and Filip, who were standing on the porch. Bishop waved at them, and they went to get on Angel’s bike. Soon after, they were driving off the lot. Nina felt a wave of relief wash over her, once they were out of eyesight of the yard.

---

The vibrations of the bike didn’t do anything to calm the building tingling sensation in Nina’s lower belly; at the anticipation of what awaited her. She tightened her grasp on Angel’s waist, and did her best to avoid moving her hands down to his crotch, so that she wouldn’t distract his driving.

They hardly made it inside the house, before Angel had pulled her bag off her back, and thrown it on the floor. He attacked her lips while his hands roamed her body. His fingers travelled up under her skirt, and found their way down her panties; tracing her lower lips for a second, before his middle and ring finger plunged in to her. Nina threw her arms around his neck, and gasped. “Oh… shit… Oh my god…”, she panted, as he scissored them against her front wall. The heel of his hand rubbed deliciously against her clit, and she was finding it hard to stand. “I got you…”, Angel breathed. Nina could only moan in reply, and moved her hips to ride his fingers. “You like this? You want me to make you come like this, mami?”. “Fuck… yes”, Nina pleaded; her feet slipping on the floor. The sounds of Angel’s fingers working on her were obscene, with the slick noises of her wetness against his hand. His other arm went around her back, and held her in place. “Then fucking come for me. Come on my hand”. Her legs were already shaking, and when Angel made an especially hard thrust of his fingers, they gave in; and all that kept her horizontal was her arms around neck. She cried out as her climax hit her, and heat spread through her body. She would have fallen backwards if it wasn’t for Angel’s hold on her.

He lowered her to the floor, and quickly shed his cut and top. With shaking hands, Nina pulled off her panties, and threw them in a corner somewhere. Angel got down on the floor, and crawled over her; kissing her with a passion. She pushed at his shoulders, making him lay down on his back, and straddled his legs; yanking at his jeans, while he laughingly tried to open his belt. “There’s my greedy girl…”, he grinned. She finally managed to get his pants and boxers pulled down; and gasped in pleasure as his erection sprung free. Scooting forwards, and lifting herself, she then grabbed a hold of him, and held him to her opening; sinking down while she let out a mewl at the delicious stretch. “Fuck…”, she whimpered, and began moving on top of him.

As Angel grabbed her hips to guide her movements, Nina unzipped her dress behind her, and pulled it over her head. She then unhooked her bra, and threw it behind her; knocking over a half-drunken beer on the table. Angel was holding on to her so hard that she was sure to have bruises on her hips. She was grinding against him, desperately trying to reach her high again. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this”, Angel groaned, and moved his hands to her breasts; kneading them, and pulling at her nipples. The sting was equal parts pleasurable and painful, and Nina threw her head back in extasy. He was so deep inside her – filling her so perfectly – that she felt like they were growing in to one being. Leaning her hands on Angel’s chest for leverage, she began moving up and down in stead of grinding. Every time her butt hit his thighs, and his dick bottomed out in her, she let out a gasping whimper. “You feel so good…”, she panted. “Don’t stop, mami. Keep moving like that”, Angel demanded. She clenched her muscles around him, and his expression became almost animal, as he let out a growl. “Fuck me!”.

Nina grabbed his lower arms, and he held on to hers, so she could use him as leverage while she leaned back. She managed to get into a position where Angel was hitting her g-spot at every thrust of her hips; and she sped up her movements, beginning to feel another climax nearing. “Angel!”, she cried out, as she came for the second time; her body shaking and heart feeling like it was trying to pound its way out of her chest. Angel sat up, and wrapped his arms around her; putting his hands on her shoulders to keep her pinned to his cock. She kept moving, dragging out her pleasure; and felt his abs tense up against her belly, letting her know he was close as well. “I’m gonna cum”, he announced. “Don’t stop!”. Nina was almost crying from the intense waves of the orgasm still washing through her. Angel cried out, and spilled himself inside her. She felt her body calm down, and began relaxing against him. Angel buried his face in the crook of her neck, and laughed. “Fuck, Nina…”. He looked up at her, and released his arms from around her. Cupping her face, he kissed her deeply. “That was…”. “Yeah…”, Nina smiled.

Panting in each other’s arms for a while longer, Angel finally put his hands on Nina’s butt, to gently lift her off him. She whined in disappointment at the loss of their connection, when he made her get off his lap. “Come on, ma'. Move your ass. I need to get something to eat", Angel chuckled, and patted her butt-cheek playfully as she moved to sit on the floor. Nina grinned at his words, and spread her legs, to invite him in. “Well, if you want…”, she said. Angel laughed, and leaned over to kiss her softly, before getting off the floor, and pulling his pants up, without closing them. “Real nourishment, querida”, he said, and walked into the kitchen to search the fridge for something edible.

Nina huffed in annoyance, and got to her feet; grabbing her dress, and beginning to pull it over her head to cover herself up. Angel appeared in the doorway, and gave her a displeased once-over. “What are you doing? Who said I was done with you?”. Nina’s eyes snapped up at him, and she nearby felt her knees buckle from the sheer machismo of his stance. His jeans hung from his hips, giving her just enough of a view of his pubic-bone, to make her shiver in lust, and his gaze was proud. She dropped the dress and stepped towards him, and Angel put his free hand on her hip, as he put a carton of juice to his mouth. A droplet escaped his lips, and she got on her toes and licked it from the corner of his mouth. Angel set down the juice on the counter, and snatched a packet of cereal from a shelf, before smacking Nina's butt to make her turn around again.

His juices were beginning to run down her leg, which was really the only sign that he’d already come tonight; as, when he walked behind Nina, his penis poked her in the back. He was still hard, horny, and – as he’d said – not done with her. Once in the bedroom, Angel threw an arm around Nina, holding the packet of cereal against her belly. His other hand went to her throat; forcing her back against his chest. She turned her head, and managed to draw a kiss from him, before he pushed her down on the bed; landing on her chest. Angel grabbed a pillow, and made her lift her hips, so he could place it under her; lifting her backside for him. She lay there with bated breath, and anticipating his entering her at any moment; but time dragged out, and she was beginning to wonder what he was waiting for.

Suddenly, she heard a crunching noise. “What are you doing?”, she asked. “Don’t move”, Angel replied. She felt his fingertips making small dips on each of her butt-cheeks, then up her spine. She began to turn her head. “What…?”. Angel took a firm hold of her head, and turned it forwards again. “I said; don’t move”, he growled. Something fell off her butt, and landed on the bed. “Look what you did…”. Then she realized what he had been doing. “Is that cereal?”, she chuckled. Angel replaced the little oat-ring on her cheek. “Said I was hungry”, he said. She could hear the smile in his voice.

Placing the packet on the floor, Angel placed his lips on first her left cheek – kissing it, and sucking the cereal into his mouth. He did the same thing on her other cheek, and Nina found it hard to lay still from the feel of his lips on her body. Angel travelled up her spine, kissing her skin, and sucking the cereal trail into his mouth. She felt goosebumps forming in the wake of Angel’s lips, and her tunnel clenched around nothing; wanting him inside her so bad. He made sure not to put his weight on her. All she felt of him where his lips and tongue; though his body radiated heat which contrasted delightfully with the coolness of the wet spots he left in his wake up her back.

Finally reaching the last piece of cereal at the nape up her neck, Angel left a lingering kiss, and licked his way down to the spot bellow her ear. Here he suckled for a millisecond, before plunging his cock inside her; and laying down on top of her, pressing her into the mattress. Nina cried out at the sensation of being full again. Angel began a brutal pace, slamming in to her hard with every thrust. She was being squeezed under his weight, and loved every second of it. A stray tear left her eye. “You good, mami?”, Angel panted. “Harder!”, Nina demanded. Angel laughed, and fucked in to her with even more vigor.

Nina felt her scalp sting, as Angel grabbed a hold of her hair, and made her turn her head, so he could kiss her. The sounds of her gasps and moans mixed with Angel’s groaning, and his hips hitting her backside continuously. She felt her climax approaching, and Angel wrapped his hand around her throat again, carefully squeezing it. She felt dominated and used, and at the same time safe and cared for beyond belief. Her tears of pleasure mixed with tears of joy, as she exploded into an orgasm. “Oh… god!”, she almost screamed, her voice ragged. Angel let go of her throat, and used her clenching tunnel to reach his own high. Making a ragged groan, he finally climaxed, and came inside her.

He kissed the nape of her neck, and pulled out; collapsing next to her on the bed. Too overwhelmed to move, and still shaking from her orgasm, Nina couldn’t turn around, and simply whimpered. Angel smiled softly, and pulled her into his arms, letting her settle against his chest. He grabbed the packet of cereal, and picked an oat-ring out; before holding it to Nina’s lips, and letting her eat it. “Thank you…”, she smiled. “Right back at you. Do you wanna go clean up?”. “No…”, Nina yawned. “But I have to. UTI’s are not sexy”. Angel kissed her temple. “Go…”, he said, and helped her sit up. She crawled off the bed, and went into the bathroom.

She found Angel on his phone, when she reentered the bedroom. He looked serious as he spoke. “Did they say they’d be back…? What lead…? Yeah, ok… Nah, we’ll be there before reaper heads out again… Yeah, see you then”. He hung up, and looked at Nina. “Vatos Malditos just rode out”. Nina crawled under the sheets, and curled up next to him. “Is something wrong?”, she asked. Angel frowned slightly. “Sala told Taza they had a lead on Gael’s killer…”, he muttered. “This is good. It means they don’t suspect you”. Nina sighed. “Yeah… maybe”. Angel pulled her into his arms, and pressed his lips to hers. “You’re good, cuervo. You’re safe”.

She nodded; not sure if she agreed.

---

Angel was still asleep when Nina woke in the morning. He had a blissful expression on his face, and she didn’t have the heart to wake him; but her bladder was craving her attention, so carefully she slipped out of his embrace to go pee. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she saw that the two hickeys on her neck were almost gone. It was strangely sad, and she almost wanted to ask Angel to make another one.

Grabbing one of his t-shirts from the bedroom, and putting it on; Nina moved into the living room to look around. The quietness of the morning was almost deafening, but not uncomfortable. Angel’s house was strangely homey, in spite of its macho clutter and the bike-parts on the worktable by the door. She slipped into the kitchen to check for coffee, but came up short. He had a coffeemaker, but no beans. If Angel planned on having her around, that would not fly in the future. She found a can of coke in the fridge, and decided it would have to do as a caffeine-shot for now; before walking back into the living room, sipping her beverage.

There was a picture on a small table by the couch, and Nina sat down; picking it up to look at it. A kind looking woman was holding a baby in her arms and laughing at the camera, while a little boy with dark, expressive eyes had his arms around her neck, and was grinning at the baby. “My mom…”, Angel said. He was standing in the doorway, wearing only a pair of black boxer-briefs, and rubbing his eyes. Nina quickly put down the picture, feeling like she’d been caught touching something sacred. “Sorry”, she muttered. He walked over and picked up the picture. “It’s ok…”, he said, smiling a little at the frame, before setting it down again. He joined her on the couch, and pulled her legs over his thighs, before leaning in for a soft kiss. “She died”. “I’m sorry”. “Me too”, he replied. “It was a hit…”. Nina swallowed thickly. “Because of the club?”, she asked. “Nah… Some other shit. Much older”. She took his hand, and brushed her lips over his knuckles. They were still bruised after his cagefight the night before. “Do you wanna talk about it?”, she asked. He looked at her again, and smiled sadly. “Yeah… Some day. Not now”. Nina knew how that was, and simply nodded.

He grabbed her waist and pulled her fully onto his lap, so that she sat sideways on it. “You’re saying goodbye to your family today…”, he said. His words stung in her heart, but she decided to take the fact with a raised head. “Not all of it. You’ve all taken me in as well”, she said. Angel kissed her shoulder. “Just don’t call me your brother. That’s weird”. Nina grinned at him, and tugged at his beard. “Nah… Papi works…”.

---

[mdawritings]

Wanna Be Yours: Ch. 12

II.I

Masterlist

Warnings: References to violence, canon-typical descriptions of violence, crime scenes, and death.

Song(s): "Bruises" by Lewis Capaldi and "I Almost Do" by Taylor Swift

It’s almost eight years until you hear the name Aaron Hotchner again.

You’re anxiously awaiting the call about your reassignment within the FBI. You had completed your year of mandated leave, gone through the required psych evaluations, gone through the training protocols. You’re ready to get back into the action, or, at least, you’re ready enough to get back to work. That’s when you receive the final message.

Your reinstatement was to be within the Quantico headquarters. This way, the brass could keep a close eye on you, while still utilizing your skills in the best possible way. So you flew into Quantico late Saturday night, moving into the cheapest apartment you could find. It was in a terrible area but being out of work for a year leaves you without much spare cash to live lavishly. Without your government-issued weapon, you check the deadlock every time you turn your back to the door for too long.

You have hardly any furniture in the apartment, most of the decor being the piles and piles of boxes in the center of your living room. You’re exhausted, in every possible way, so you settle for a fast shower, during which you’re entirely paranoid someone is going to break into your apartment. You collapse onto your bed, barely having the energy to even put the sheets on the bed to make it. The call comes through your phone shortly after you fall asleep, which means you don’t check your messages until early Sunday.

“This is Erin Strauss of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m calling to inform you that the council has processed your psych evaluation and administered a new gun registration and badge for you. You will now be working under me as a profiler within the BAU. It is my understanding that you’ve taken quite a few profiling classes in your training as a negotiator and you’re well equipped for this job. There will be a slight adjustment period but nothing that I do not believe you are capable of handling. You will start in your new position on Monday. Meet me at my office and I can brief you about the basics and then Agent Aaron Hotchner, BAU Unit Chief, will take it from there.”

You practically drop the phone. Your hands shake slightly, as you click off the phone and place it back onto your bedside table. You write Strauss an email in response, apologizing for missing her call, accepting the position, thanking her for the opportunity, and expressing your immense gratitude for such an esteemed position with such a great team. But that’s a lie. For a split second, you believe it's possible that this Aaron Hotchner is a completely different one than your Aaron Hotchner. You’ve never been a believer in fate or destiny. But for this to be a coincidence is simply unbelievable. Isn’t he supposed to be tormenting more students, torturing more girls, breaking more hearts? How did he end up as the BAU Unit Chief within the FBI?

You’re in shock, Strauss only leaving you about 24 hours to process it all and prepare for a new job. There’s no way you could request reassignment to a different unit. You’ve already been given your second chance. It’s now or never to get back into the FBI.

You’ve been out of work for a year. For a year, you’ve been struggling to cope with the loss of coworkers and innocent people. A loss that’s completely on your shoulders. Blood that’s on your hands. It was enough of an adjustment to get back to normal. Well as close to normal as can be. Your government-issued therapist, as you like to call her, attempted to dismantle this idea. She tried her best to remove the guilt from your mind, but after the government aid for the sessions ran out, you abandoned all hope of restoring yourself to the mental state you were in before. Everything in your life now is the after. You can’t live in the before. It’s too painful.

But now? Now it feels like all the work you’ve done to heal, to move on, to continue your life is rapidly unraveling in front of you. How would you adjust to seeing Aaron Hotchner once again? You hope that by now, he won’t have as much of an impact on you. You’ve experienced so much life, so much living, so much loss since then.

You’ve had other relationships, loved other people, slept with other people, but the impact that Hotch had on your life is permanent. When you think about it too long it feels ridiculous, the fact that a silly little fling in your early 20s has managed to change you so much. So much so, that now, at 29, you can still sense remnants of his impact on your life. They’re small moments, in which you realize that your behavior has changed so drastically over the years because of him. Your tongue is sharper. You stand up for yourself more often, and you never ever let anyone walk all over you the way he did.

You spend the day worrying yourself sick about the new position. You can’t turn it down. This job is your last chance.

Monday morning, your alarm rings wildly next to you in bed, but your eyes are already open. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past hour unable to sleep. You’ve been tossing and turning restlessly, unable to focus on anything else but the last few memories you have of Aaron Hotchner. Your mind first goes to that last day of classes, thinking about the way he smiled at you from across his desk. The way that damn leather-bound book felt in your hands. The way that he kissed you. He made you feel so special. Your mind then travels to the rest of that weekend, one in which he managed to rip your heart out of your chest and tear it into a million little pieces.

You think of the last thing you heard from him. Those same words he had spoken to you once before, but spoken to someone else. At that moment, you realized that you were nothing special. You were just another girl Professor Hotchner used for sex.

You’re hopeful that you will be able to move forward with professionalism. There’s a second where you consider the possibility of becoming friends with Aaron Hotchner, but you know that’s impossible. You can’t look at him and ignore all the hurt he caused you. You can, however, be professional. You know you can work with him. It might just tear you up inside, but you can do it. You have to.

However, you wonder what kind of person he’s become in the past eight years. You know you’ve changed dramatically, but what has happened to him? How has his life gone? How did he end up in the FBI?

You wonder if he’s learned to love. The man that you knew was one who was seemingly incapable of ever loving anyone. It’s clear to you that back then he was too selfish, too wrapped up in his own head to dedicate anything real to anyone else. And if he ever did feel anything real for you, he was too emotionally damaged to handle it, work through it, or to tell you about it.

Your alarm rings again. You snooze it again. What will you say to him? What do you want your first words to be to him? Will you tell him off? Should you even acknowledge the past? Or should you just put on your best air of professionalism and approach this as you would any new job? It seems impossible to push aside the past and treat him as a new person. Because he’s not a new person. He’s a man who has shaped every decision you’ve made in your life since knowing him.

You eventually convince yourself to get out of bed, reminding yourself that it’s pointless to fight inevitables. You dig through the moving boxes, pulling out your coffee maker and a thermos, filling it up to the top, already expecting the Quantico office coffee to be bad. You haven’t worked in a year, but you do remember always having to make your own coffee before work.

While the coffee brews, you pack a go-bag, an item that Strauss heavily emphasized the importance of for this job. You would be traveling a lot for each case, and you have to be ready to leave at any moment. You’re not sure why your reassignment is with the BAU. Your therapist emphasized a lifestyle of structure and predictability. If there’s one thing you’ve heard about the life of these profilers, it’s that the hours are irregular.

You get dressed, slipping on a clean pressed, black pair of slacks and a white button-down blouse. You slide on a comfortable pair of boots, ones that look nice and professional but don’t hinder your movement in the event that you get called away on a case.

One benefit of the irregular hours is that your personal time is limited. If you can occupy your mind with work, you can avoid getting sucked up into your own head. Like right now. You grip your bag as it jostles against your side on the bus. You drink your coffee a little too fast, which doesn’t ease the unnatural level of fear coursing through you.

This shouldn’t scare you so much. But the old wounds that you fought so hard to turn to scar tissue are reopening and they hurt just as much as the day Hotch inflicted them upon you.

You get to the Quantico headquarters a few minutes early, giving you enough time to get your new ID from the front desk. You get into the elevator, rocking back and forth on your toes anxiously. He’s here. He could be anywhere. Every time the elevator doors open to a different floor, you fear that you’ll come face to face with him. You’re sure that he’s probably on the sixth floor. The BAU floor. He’s probably in his office waiting to welcome the new agent. Does he know that you’re the new agent? Does he know who you are? Does he know what’s happened to you this past year?

You were assured that most of the details of your ‘leave’ were kept confidential. All that was publicized was a tragic bombing. The bomber sacrificed himself for the cause. Only a few people were able to escape, but all with severe injuries. The FBI didn’t want to admit their involvement. Their failure to save those people. Your failure to save those people.

You get to Strauss’s office, struggling to pay attention as she walks you through the basics, hands you your new badge, and a new gun. You holster the weapon, pulling your go-bag onto your shoulder, fiddling with the straps nervously.

Strauss finishes her introductory speech and takes a moment to look you over, “Agent, are you sure you’re ready to get back to work?” It doesn’t take a profiler to notice your nerves. Ever since the start of your leave, nerves and anxiety aren’t an uncommon occurrence, but this is more than usual. Your body is practically vibrating.

Despite the sick feeling in your stomach, you manage a nod, “I’m sorry.” You apologize for appearing distracted, “Yes ma’am. I’m ready.”

You can tell she’s unconvinced. Strauss leads you through the relatively crowded bullpen. You spot an empty desk across from a woman with long black hair, who is too busy laughing with the blonde sitting on top of her desk to notice that the tall skinny one across from them has just spilled coffee all over himself and his paperwork. You assume that the empty one is to be your desk. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as you glance up at the two offices on the catwalk. One of them has the blinds tightly drawn and through the other, you can just barely see an older gentleman working on his laptop. David Rossi. You know him. You read just about every single one of his books on Sunday in preparation for this new job.

Your profiling skills are mediocre at best. Strauss argues that out of all possible candidates you had the most office experience and field experience. You’re really not sure how that helps. How could a traumatized and failed crisis negotiator who hasn’t been in the field in nearly a year provide anything helpful for the BAU?

Old habits resurfaced and you buried yourself in published literature and textbooks and research. You weren’t about to walk into a new job feeling unprepared, especially not one in which Aaron Hotchner would be your new boss. Now, at this moment, trailing behind Straus, as your body seems detached from your mind, dreading the moment that she opens that door to Aaron’s office, no amount of studying or preparation seems sufficient.

Rossi steps out of his office just as you and Strauss reach the top of the stairs. You lock eyes with him and despite not even knowing who you are, he gives you a reassuring nod. Damn profilers. Your body language is probably a dead giveaway. Strauss knocks on the door.

“Come in.” That voice. You could never forget it. Strauss reaches for the handle and you’re tempted to run away. Turn around and walk away. At least then you could leave with your sanity semi-intact. However, your curiosity has been piqued at this point. You have to know. You have to see him. You step through the doorway into the office and finally get a good look at the man.

He's hunched over, body turned slightly away from the desk. He has a phone pressed to his ear and he’s speaking in a gentle, hushed tone, "Yeah I know buddy." He glances over at you and Strauss. As if out of a movie, he does a double-take. It’s almost as if it takes a second for his eyes to really process what he’s really seeing. And what he’s really seeing is you. The look on his face tells you that he barely recognizes you, now eight years older, in professional clothes, and a face that’s just a little more weathered from all that you’ve been through.

Your memories of him are not faint as your eyes stay locked with his. They’re not just faded remnants of your moments together. Staring at him, eyes drinking in every inch of him, it all comes back more vivid than ever. You can practically feel his fluffy hair tangled in your fingers. From your position, you can just faintly smell his cologne. That’s a scent that hasn’t changed. The sensory memories are overwhelming. The passion, the secrecy, the pleasure. But that quickly changes, making the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach grow at an all-consuming rate. That night. That night he grabbed you by the front of your shirt, the way he snapped at you, the completely ice-cold manner in which you spoke those last few words to him, I’m done.

That Aaron Hotchner is not the man sitting in front of you. You barely recognize him. His hair is shorter, more strictly gelled in place. His white shirt is buttoned all the way up. He has a suit jacket on. His tie is done up perfectly. You can’t help but take note of the bags under his eyes, the increase of lines on his face. Obviously, he’s aged, but the way his face has changed, it’s not just age. You can see his eyes are dull, glossed over. For as neatly put together he is from the neck down, his face looks tired.

Hotch seems to forget he was just on the phone, entirely taken aback by the fact that you’re actually there, standing in front of him. "I’m sorry I can’t be with you right now but get a lot of rest and I’ll be home before you know it. I have to go. I love you too." He hangs up and you try to hide the shock on your face as those words come out of his mouth. Words you dreamt of him saying. Words that haunted you for months nearly a decade ago.

"Agent Hotchner, this is the crisis negotiation transfer I was discussing with you," Strauss nods at you, and Hotch stands up, smoothing out his tie, placing his hands flat on the desk. "This is Agent—"

"Y/N." His voice is firm. Hearing his name fall from your lips is enough to send you running in the opposite direction. Fear and anxiety overcome you, your legs going weak as he sticks out a hand to shake yours, but you can’t seem to get yourself to move forward to touch his hand, "I’m sorry, Agent Y/L/N." He corrects his mistake.

His hand hovers in the air for a moment, waiting for you to reach forward to shake it. Your shoes drag across the carpet, as you reach forward to shake his hand. His warm, rough hand envelops yours. At one point in your life, just the touch of his skin against yours would send sparks up and down your arm. Just that handshake would’ve been enough to ignite your skin and make you feel alive.

You feel nothing. Just a simple handshake. Your heart is attempting to jump out of your throat, beating rapidly and pounding against your ribcage so hard you think your chest visibly moves. However, his touch no longer thrills you. Maybe you are finally over Aaron Hotchner.

"You two know each other?” Strauss gestures between the two of you.

"No," You reply without missing a beat. You shake your head, finally able to get words out. You have to force your eyes off of Hotch and look at Strauss, "Well, yes. Agent Hotchner lectured at my law school a few times. When he was a federal prosecutor.”

Strauss gives a small nod of acknowledgment, “Agent Hotchner can show you the ropes from here. I expect updates from the field,” Her eyes shoot over to you. Updates about you, she means. In case you manage to fuck up again.

You watch as Strauss leaves the office not turning your eyes to Hotch at the desk in front of you. You look out the window, gesturing to the agents in the bullpen you passed, “I’m assuming the extra desk in the bullpen is mine?”

Hotch tilts his head down, letting out a small breath, “Yes. Agent Y/L/N—”

“And everyone in the bullpen, is that the whole team? I know Agent Rossi’s office is next to yours and I only saw three agents in the bullpen but I assume there are more?”

“Yes. We have a technical analyst and another member of the team. You’ll be introduced to them shortly, however–” that’s not what he really wants to talk to you about. Its clear that there’s so much he wants to say, but you don’t give him a chance to speak. You keep your mind focused on the important questions on there about the job. You know that a conversation with him about anything else just might break you.

“And in terms of training, you can see I passed my gun qualifications again. Are there any other evaluations or training protocols? Or will my time from the academy be sufficient preparation for this position?” You rattle off your questions. His face is a mixture of shock and frustration. He has his arms crossed against his chest. He tucks his bottom lip in, biting at it lightly.

“Y/N,” He places his hands firmly down on the desk. This time he doesn’t answer your questions. He’s tired of your avoidance, “What are you doing here?”

You take a pause at the sound of your first name, swallowing slowly, “I’m here on reassignment from crisis negotiation. I’m supposed to be working as a profiler on your team in the BAU.”

“You know what I mean,” Hotch presses the issue a little further.

“With all due respect, I’m not sure what you are searching for from me but if the implication is that I am here for anything other than the job then you are sorely mistaken,” You huff out and cross your arms against your chest, mirroring his closed-off body language. “Sir.”

“That’s not what I was implying,” Hotch places a hand on his forehead, rubbing roughly, trying to ease his frustration. You’re not quite sure where he gets off being so short and snippy with you. “I’m just… The last time I saw you, you were on track to be a lawyer and now you’re standing in front of me, in my office, joining my team. It just all seems very—”

“Sir?” You turn and see a different blonde standing in the doorway. She has a bright pink floral dress on, two large flowers in her hair, a file in her hands, and a pink fuzzy pen tucked behind her ear. “Sorry to interrupt,” She steps forward, stumbling a little in her high heels, sticking her hand out to shake yours, “Penelope Garcia, technical analyst, computer geek, and all-around wizard of the keyboard.”

You smile at her and stick your hand out to introduce yourself, “It’s great to meet you.”

“Sir, you remember that the Indiana PD contacted us about a possible serial?” She lets out a shaky breath, squinting her eyes and looking away as she opens the file, holding it out to Hotch, “Another body.”

Hotch has to reach past you to take the file and you audibly suck in your breath as his arm glides past your torso. “Same signature?” He looks over the photos.

Garcia lets out a small shudder, “Yeah the victim’s hands… the unsub he… don’t make me say it, sir.” She squeaks out.

“Gather the team,” He gives a nod before finally looking back at you, “You think you’re ready to get back to work?”

“Yes Sir,” You sigh, pull your go-bag further up your shoulder. You start to follow him out the door but he stops short in front of you.

“We’ll talk later,” He stumbles over his words a little. You’re making him nervous. You see his hand at his side. His fingers rubbing against one another. There’s one thing that hasn’t changed in years. He still has the same nervous behaviors.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” You mumble under your breath as you follow him to the conference room. You speak quietly but from the way he tilts his head, stretches his neck, and takes a deep breath, you know your comment was loud enough for him to hear.

You take a seat at the roundtable, watching as the three agents from earlier are now joined by a tall, muscular black man who ruffles the top of the skinny kid���s head, messing up his hair, “I’m just teasing kid, I like the haircut. Makes you look young.”

“Yeah like I need anything to make me look younger. Everyone already thinks I’m a teenager,” The skinny one tries to smooth his hair back into place, but it doesn’t really help, leaving small strands sticking up in the air.

“Everyone this is Agent Y/L/N, she’s joining us from Crisis Negotiation,” Hotch pulls out his chair, right next to yours. You feel your whole body tense up, as the close proximity really allows you to smell his familiar cologne. Eight years and he still hasn’t bought a new one. Great.

“Joining us?” The muscular one stands just a bit behind you, making himself a cup of coffee but turns and walks to take a seat, giving you a slow once over. It’s not a flirtatious one, but a wary scan of your body. You’re becoming acutely aware of how exposed you feel in a room full of professional profilers.

“Strauss thinks we need the extra help, especially with the recent increase in requests for BAU help, and I don’t disagree with her,” Hotch looks around the table at his coworkers before looking to you, “Agents Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau, Rossi, and Dr. Reid.” Hotch points out each member, who all give you small nods and waves of acknowledgment as he introduces them.

“Crisis negotiation, huh?” Morgan continues to push the subject. You can tell he’s not really happy about a new addition to the team. You’re guessing it’s coming from a place of protectiveness of his team. You understand his hesitance. The team probably works well together, a new person is a whole new dynamic. If you could pick any other position you would, you have no specific interest in the BAU, but it’s a second chance and you’re not going to screw it up, no matter how much you wish that anyone else in the world besides Hotch was unit chief.

“I think the job took a small amount of profiling,” You shrug and give Agent Morgan a smile, hoping to get in his good graces soon, “Obviously not as much as this but it did take a level of interpretation of the behavior of criminals who take hostages in addition to a complex understanding of intergroup dynamics and how that might impact a situation.”

“There’ll be time to play nice and get to know each other later,” Hotch cuts the introductions short. “Garcia, the case?”

“Right,” She clicks on the monitor at the front while Hotch slides a tablet over to you. You take it from him, your fingertips just brushing against his. Everything about the interaction feels like eight years ago. He manages to keep his best poker face, all the while you feel the small sparks shoot across your skin. Those damn sparks. Except you’re very quickly realizing that the Hotch in front of you is nothing like eight years ago.

There’s something deeply broken about his eyes. You could never forget those eyes. When you first met him you thought they were deep brown. Then you spent enough time watching him, studying every detail of his face and learned that they were a beautiful light brown. Small golden flecks in his eyes become more pronounced in the sun. His eyes are different now. First of all, the deep undereye bags that frame them make him look years older than his actual age. His brow seems permanently set in that furrowed position. It’s a familiar expression of his. You had the joy of seeing that brow lift when the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. Smiling seems to be the last thing this current Aaron Hotchner wants to do.

You realize you’re staring a little bit too long and tune back into Garcia’s case briefing, “All three victims were undergraduate students. Indiana’s campus hosts both undergrad and grad students from the law school and med school.”

“Which means a huge suspect pool.” Hotch points out.

“How are we sure that the unsub is from inside the community?” You look around the table. You can see the way that Morgan’s brows raise at the question. How else are you going to learn without asking questions?

Rossi, however, swoops in to save you from embarrassment, “The first victim had mace in her backpack, however, she never used it. The second victim had no defensive wounds on her body. The third victim—”

“Was killed in an office meeting room. To gain access to that building you need a school ID,” You nod, filling in the gaps. “I forget that technology and security have dramatically improved since I was in school.”

“Come on, kid, at least you had cell phones in college,” Rossi gives a small smile, nudging your arm.

“And how do we know these are all connected?” Morgan gestures to his tablet in front of him.

You scoff slightly and look up at Morgan, “I’m sorry, I know it’s important to find common victimology, MO, or signature before connecting the crimes but how many violent crimes occur on college campuses in this short of a time? They have to be connected.”

“Statistically, some of the most dangerous and violent college campuses report that nearly 10 students for every 1000 will be a victim of violent crime. However, that statistic seems to include any form of violent crime meaning murder, negligent manslaughter, aggravated assault, robbery, but most prevalent on most college campuses is rape as a form of violent crime. In terms of how frequent—” The tall skinny one, Reid, rattles off a series of facts at you and you can’t help but smile. He’s cute. He looks about your age, “That was more of a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?”

You fight a smile at Reid’s confused face and nod. “All the victims had the same cuts on their hands,” Prentiss points up at the monitor.

“Weird,” You mumble under your breath.

“What?” JJ turns to you.

“Oh. Nothing it’s just… hands are a weird thing to mutilate. Damage to the face shows high levels of rage and a deep hatred for the victim, removal of eyes or ears or damage to the mouth could symbolize the removal of a sense in order to punish the victims for some misuse of those senses. But hands… hands are different.” You tip your pen back to your mouth, placing the end on your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly as you think. You can feel Hotch’s focus on you. If you turn, you’re sure you’ll just catch him as he looks away.

He’s profiling you. You don’t need to look at him to know that. He was always good at reading you, not that you did much to hide your feelings back then. You felt everything so openly. You were so full of passion, so determined to be the best at everything you set your mind to. Hotch made you realize that feeling everything so deeply, so freely, opens you up to a world of hurt. You put on your best poker face, keeping your body language neutral while you still feel his eyes on you.

“Hands are not inherently symbolic of one thing.” Reid agrees with you.

“So we have to try and decipher why this mutilation is a compulsion for the unsub,” Hotch nods, “Wheels up in 30.” Everyone tucks all their belongings away. Hotch is quick to stand up from his seat at the table, storm down the catwalk back to his office, closing the door loudly. You try to ignore the weird looks from the team as you introduce yourself to all of them.

You watch as Morgan is one of the first to leave the conference room, walking after him, “Hey, Agent Morgan!” You run to catch him at the top of the stairs, “Look I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off so rude in there.” You shake your head.

“No problem,” He states simply, intending to walk down the stairs.

“I get it, I’m new, I’m throwing off the team dynamic and you don’t seem like the type to trust me immediately.” You stick out a hand to shake his, “But I’m committed to this team and I want to earn your respect in time.”

He nods, giving you one of those judgmental once overs again, “From what I can tell, Hotch doesn’t seem too pleased about you being here. Now just because he’s my boss, doesn’t mean I have to always agree with him, but if he’s wary, then I’m wary.” He avoids shaking your hand. Your suspicions about Morgan seem to be proven before your eyes. He doesn’t trust easily. He’s been burned by someone he trusted in the past. You can relate to that. You’re not a very open or trustworthy person anymore either.

“Agent Hotchner and I knew each other a really long time ago. A lifetime ago. Way before his time at the BAU. I’m sure he’s just not thrilled about his past colliding with his present,” You nod taking a few steps back to let Morgan continue down the stairs, “I just hope… I hope you can learn to trust me, and I, you.” You smile softly. Morgan seems stuck in his place. You can’t tell whether or not he’s surprised by your manners, or if you’ve just driven further the wedge between you two.

“See you on the jet,” He speaks up as he walks down the stairs, scooping his go-bag from under his desk and disappearing around a corner down the hallway.

When you turn to walk back to the conference room, you catch Agent Hotchner’s eyeline through the blinds of his office. He’s watching you, studying you, trying to read you. However, he definitely does not get access to you anymore.

You’re determined to keep your animosity towards Hotch private. No reason for the team to detect that anything is wrong. But throughout the case, there are moments it slips. First, it was on the jet...

You step onto the jet, looking around, taking the entire environment in. You were never blessed with a private jet in your time in crisis negotiation, just stuck with driving from place to place. Morgan reaches across you, taking your bag and stowing it away in the back for you. It’s a simple gesture, but from the look in his eye as he does it, you can tell Morgan is already reevaluating his judgment of you.

You’re one of the last on the jet and you see everyone settled around the table and surrounding seats. The only available seat is the one next to Hotch by the window. You’d have to ask him to get up… or squeeze past him. You try to cover it up but nearly everyone notices the way that you eye the seat before deciding against it. You end up leaning against the arm of the sofa that JJ is sitting on. Once again, Hotch’s gaze lingers on you as you do. He’s taking note of the way you’re actively avoiding him, and he’s right. You’re actively avoiding any alone time with him. Minimize the alone time, minimize the pain.

You run through the facts of the case again, Reid rambling on about the significance of hands throughout different cultures, the importance of sensory neurons on the skin of your hands, and how hand size is an indicator for a lot of things. You share a small smirk with Morgan, who is clearly warming up to you because you both know the one thing that hand size is rumored to correlate with.

Morgan shoots you a small smirk before saying what you were both thinking, “That’s interesting and all kid, but any knowledge in that big brain of yours about whether hand size is related to—”

Hotch cuts off Morgan, “Focus, please.” He gestures with his hand to stop the conversation and you have to hide your smile. It’s nice to smile. You weren’t expecting to feel anything but pain today. Hotch puts a fast end to that feeling of happiness.

“When we land, JJ and Rossi head to the local police and talk to the families of the victims. Prentiss and Morgan, you’ll head to the ME, get a better evaluation of the state of the body,” Hotch pauses for a second. He takes in a slow breath as if preparing himself for what he’s about to say. Once he says what’s coming next, it’s all official. You start your first case. He’s your boss, you’re his subordinate. You’re in each other's lives again whether you like it or not. “Y/L/N, Reid, and I will go to the most recent crime scene,” Hotch nods and you feel the blood drain from your face, that sick and twisty knot growing in the pit of your stomach. You knew you’d have to work with him, that’s part of the job, but he’s already keeping you close to him. Maybe he doesn’t trust you.

From the way he spoke to you in his office, it’s clear he thinks you’re here as some sort of revenge. Some convoluted vindictive scheme to ruin his life.

“You look terrified,” Prentiss tries to tease you.

You look around at the team and shake your head, “College campuses,” You scrunch up your face in disgust and shake your head, “Undergrad sucked because I was younger than everyone, so I missed out on all the fun.”

“Damn, we got another kid genius on our hands, don’t we?” Morgan reaches out a hand to high-five you. “Like our own female Einstein.” Your eyes immediately flick to Hotch. That nickname. No one’s called you any form of that nickname since him. “Watch out Reid, you’ve got competition.”

“I was 14 when I was in college,” Reid states in an attempt to one-up you, but it’s clear that he’s just joking. He knows he’s smart but he doesn’t seem like the cocky type, at least what you can tell so far.

“Don’t worry, brainiac,” You laugh at him, “You are the only genius on this team.”

“And grad school?” JJ pipes up, catching onto the way you dropped the sentence.

“I dropped out of law school after my first year,” You clear your throat uncomfortably, “Wasn’t for me I guess.” The air seems suffocating. Your face is burning hot. You feign extreme interest in the crime scene photos on your tablet, knowing that if you look up, your face will give you away to Hotch. The last thing you want is for him to know how much he affected you.

He said it himself: So in 10 years from now, when you're at the top of your career, know that it's all because of me. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Everything that has happened for the past eight years happened because of his impact on your life.

You remind yourself yet again to try and keep the conversations focused on the case. The team wants to get to know you, but every personal conversation seems to lead back to Hotch.

The second slip-up comes when you arrive at the crime scene...

“She told her roommate she was coming here to study, that she had booked the meeting room just for herself.” Reid lifts up the crime scene tape, holding it up for you to slip under. You give a small smile at the gesture.

“But she told her friends she was meeting with her professor here for extra help.” Hotch shakes his head, pulling on a pair of gloves. You glance over at Reid as he does the same.

He looks at you for a second before he raises his brows in realization, letting out a small ‘oh.’ He digs into his pocket and hands you a pair of gloves. “I usually grab them from the crime scene team,” He nods.

You take them from him, “Thank you.” You like Reid. He’s kind and smart and polite. He’s your age, but you can see that he’s worlds ahead of you in terms of knowledge. You wonder just how much is going on inside that brain of his. When you look at him you can see the gears constantly turning, he’s always working over something in his brain, forming theories, or running through facts.

“She was stabbed in the back and the back of the head, correct?” You glance over at Hotch for confirmation.

“Yes.” He plays with the fingertips of his gloves, paying more attention to you rather than the scene. Without the body, there’s not much to go on, it’s your average office space. You see a log on the wall with the names of who has scheduled the room. They haven’t wiped away the victim’s work from the whiteboard. It looks like some form of math.

“Linear algebra,” Reid speaks up as he sorts through some of the papers left on the table in the center of the room.

You nod and smile, “Math never was my strong suit in school. I was definitely more entranced by a book rather than formulas and numbers.”

Reid’s face lights up with joy, “If you ever want any book recommendations, please do ask. I just finished an absolutely amazing biography about Albert Einstein. It’s not that long of a read. It’s only about 1200 pages. You know I’m sure that I have a copy…” He catches sight of Hotch’s stern expression, stopping himself mid-sentence.

You both go silent as you skim through the pages of work scattered on the floor. You then analyze the writing on the whiteboard, leaning in close. Hotch speaks up again tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in confusion at your behavior, “What are you thinking?”

“It wasn’t random. This was planned out. The unsub specifically sought out her.”

“How do you figure that?” Hotch questions you, but not in the hostile accusatory way you’re expecting.

You hesitate, losing your train of thought the longer you look at Hotch, so you look back to the whiteboard, “When you’re waiting to meet someone, you expect someone to come in, right? So if she had her back turned, writing up equations on this whiteboard, she wouldn’t think twice of the door opening. If you’re not expecting someone and you hear the door open.” You point at the whiteboard.

“You would turn around to see who it is,” Hotch finishes your sentence.

“That’s why all her wounds were to the back,” You fall into a rhythm with Hotch. He’s following your train of thought.

“So the unsub had to know she would be here ahead of time,” Hotch sighs and digs in his pocket for his phone, “Garcia, I need your help.” He clicks his phone onto the speaker and places it down on the table.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Her chipper voice comes through the phone. You can picture her office probably matches her appearance. Probably bright, full of color. For a technical analyst, she probably still has a hefty collection of colorful and funky pens. You remember the octopus mug she was holding when she walked into Hotch’s office this morning.

“This building has a key card access system. Can you access the log of everyone who swiped into this building on the day and around the time of the third murder?”

“Sir, it’s not a matter of can or can’t. You know I can,” Her voice is laced with a smile.

“Check that list for the professor that she claimed she was meeting with,” Hotch adds.

“He…” She trails and you hear the ambient sounds of her rapid typing and clicking. There’s a pause. Her voice grows small, “He accessed the building around the time of her death.”

“He’s our prime suspect. We need to bring him in,” Hotch concludes, “Garcia, you’re the best.”

“Aw I know,” She giggles softly, “PG out!”

“Imagine that,” You chuckle bitterly, “She comes in here to meet her professor, someone she trusts, and she gets stabbed in the back.” You shake your head, the words slipping out before you even realize the weight of what you’ve implied.

Reid doesn’t catch on to the look that you and Hotch exchange. Hotch looks as if he’s seen a ghost. He’s not shocked by what you’ve said, but by the fact that you even said anything. It’s the first sign of hostility towards him. The first crumb or clue into how you feel about him after all these years. The answer is betrayed. You still feel betrayed.

“We should deliver the profile.” Hotch leaves the crime scene at a brisk pace, leaving Reid clueless, and you and that damned twisting knot of anxiety in your stomach.

The rest of your interactions with Hotch are limited for most of the case, restricted to only group discussions that are entirely professional. No more slip-ups, no more sideways glances. What all your interactions were rife in, was that intrusive look of his eyes. Every few minutes you can feel his eyes on you, scanning your posture, your facial expressions, searching for any idea of what you might be thinking or feeling.

You try your best to avoid it, opting to go check out every lead, just for the opportunity to get some space from him. You feel smothered and suffocated. You’re so on edge, you’ve torn your nail beds to shreds. He is seemingly unfazed by your presence. That is if you don’t consider how often you catch him rubbing his fingers at his side or up by his face or biting his bottom lip. Every time you catch him, however, he stops.

You’re having a difficult time reading how he feels about you being here. You just want to know how he feels about you after all these years. Does he still harbor feelings for you? Does he still care about you? The sleep deprivation from working so hard and the excess caffeine you’ve consumed don’t help to slow down your thoughts which seem to be moving at a million miles a minute. At least while you’re working you can put all your energy into solving the case, helping the team, and parsing through evidence.

It gets worse at night when you’re alone in the hotel room. You try to bring the case file back into the room, working on it in bed until you can barely keep your eyes open, but you find that you don’t get any work done, your brain a continuous stream of questions.

You’ve been able to profile every member of the team pretty efficiently. You have a good understanding of how Reid’s brain works. The comfort that he has with numbers and facts. He uses his intelligence to cover up for his social insecurities. Morgan puts on a tough exterior, but really he’s hesitant to let people in and trust them. Prentiss, similar to Morgan, seems to keep everyone at arm's length, preferring to be the confidant rather than the one doing the confiding in someone else. JJ struggles to separate her emotions from the work, a quality that is not in and of itself a flaw, but you can tell it weighs on her heavily. Rossi has the most experience and constantly feels inclined to be a figure, a leader while trying to balance cooperation rather than individualism. He’s used to being a lone wolf, doing the job on his own.

This new Aaron Hotchner is a mystery. He’s closed off. He is entirely business. Even when Garcia cracks a joke or embarrasses herself. You all laugh and smirk at her, but his face never changes. When you all get off track, he sternly reminds you of the importance of the case at hand. That’s his job, but there’s something more to it that you can’t quite figure out. There’s a sense of urgency, as there usually is with these cases, but almost this feeling that he’s constantly running out of time.

Even his office provided you with very little to profile. You remember a few photos from Hotch’s office. One of him and a small boy. A son, possibly? There was another of him and a blonde woman hugging the little boy. Your first guess is wife, but you don’t remember him wearing a ring.

You can’t profile him. He’s closed himself off to that. Yet you find yourself coming back to the same question over and over again, does he still care about you? You get a glimpse at the answer as you and the team track down the location of your unsub, three days into the case.

You lean forward from the backseat of the SUV, looking between Morgan and Hotch in the front, “What does the profile say about this kind of unsub’s behavior once faced with police and authority like us?”

The two men exchange knowing looks. You have your suspicions but you really just want them to vocalize what you’re thinking, “He won’t let us take him in without a fight.”

“Suicide by cop,” You mutter frustratedly, “Great.”

“It’s likely, but that doesn’t mean we don’t try to talk him out of it.” Hotch clarifies, gesturing with an outstretched palm that he takes off the wheel temporarily. He pulls up to the small house, sirens off. “A big show will just scare him into making sudden moves to get us to shoot to kill. Morgan, you head around the back. Y/L/N and I will take the front.”

You nod, knowing the rest of the team isn’t far behind you all, but they’ve all been instructed to try and appear as discreetly as possible. You get out of the SUV, watching as Morgan runs around back. Both you and Hotch approach the door. Hotch kicks the door down. The unsub sits casually in an armchair, holding a gun that he twirls in his fingers. He knew you were coming.

Then Hotch does something that complicates your questions about him. It’s subtle but you notice it immediately. He instinctively moves a little in front of you. He doesn’t block your line of fire, but he blocks the unsubs. He’s shielding you with his body.

Your profile is right, the unsub doesn’t want to be taken in peacefully, resulting in Morgan putting two bullets in him from behind when he raises his gun to you and Hotch. AT first, you think Hotch put his body in front of yours by accident.

It wasn’t an accident. He gave a small look over his shoulder at your location before taking a few steps right, to block you. Then you assume it was purely because of his status as team leader. He doesn’t want the members of his team to get hurt. That also doesn’t seem to make sense to you. No matter how much he wants the team to be protected he wouldn’t do that. He would trust Morgan to get the shot if you two couldn’t.

So why would he shield you?

Almost everyone but you, Rossi, and Hotch are sleeping on the jet home. You have a book out in front of you, but you’re barely reading, just attempting to look deeply enchanted by the novel to avoid any awkward eye contact or conversation with Hotch. The only sounds in the plane are the whirring of the engines, the wind outside, and Hotch’s typing on his computer as he finishes up the report for the case.

Rossi sits down across from you on the jet, placing down a small glass of some amber liquid, which you assume is whiskey, in front of you.

“Trying to get me drunk, Agent Rossi?” You tease him, tearing your eyes away from the book you weren’t reading.

He laughs heartily, taking a sip from his own glass, “I thought I’d welcome you with something from my own personal stash.”

“Where do you keep it hidden in here? You know… just in case I’m curious,” You smirk and reach for the glass. It’s nice of Rossi to sit with you and talk to you.

Rossi just smiles, shaking his head a little, “You did well out there, kid,” He puts the glass down, to roll his ring around his finger. You’ve noticed he does it a lot when he’s thinking. “You can read all the books in the world, but profiling in the field, thinking on your feet, analyzing a crime scene, it’s all much different than the words on a page.”

“I’m realizing that,” You trail your finger around the rim of the glass, “My previous position incorporated a lot of what you guys do here.”

“I’m sure that makes this job a lot harder. You probably want to put the past behind you.” Your head snaps up to look at him. No one told the team where you came from. Even Hotch doesn’t know. “I remember hearing about the incident.”

“The FBI tried to bury their involvement,” You sigh and finish off the glass, noting how smooth the alcohol goes down. You’ve learned how to handle alcohol really well this past year. “They keep all the details top secret. However, that didn’t stop them from throwing me under the bus.”

“What happened in New York was not your fault.” Rossi’s voice drops in volume as he leans closer, keeping your conversation more private, “The brass has a habit of blaming agents instead of criminals. You couldn’t have stopped it. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

You exhale loudly, air rushing over your teeth as you give a little shake of your head in disagreement, “Agent Rossi, I’m sure you’re experienced enough to know this, but as reassuring and comforting it is to hear you say those words it doesn’t necessarily—”

“It doesn’t change how you feel. I know. I understand,” He pauses, “Don’t let it consume you. All of us have been where you are right now. Some of us are currently where you are right now, constantly consumed by guilt over something that wasn’t even our fault.” You get the sense that he isn’t talking about himself. You don't need to reply. The both of you sit in silence for a while.

You start up a conversation again, this time about Virginia and DC, where you’re living, when you moved, what you studied in school, where you grew up. Rossi loves to tease you and every few sentences he’ll simply reply, ‘I already knew that’ acting as if he could profile every fact about you.

You like him a lot. You like everyone a lot. Just as the jet lands and you’re all packing up your desks back at Quantico, Rossi offers to drive you home.

“Let me just check in with Agent Hotchner before I leave,” You glance up at the office. You know you have to check in with him, it’s your first case finished, you’re new, he’s your new boss, but so far, you’ve managed to avoid being alone with him and you’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.

You knock lightly on the open door, to which Hotch responds, “Come in.”

“I just wanted to check-in, you know, with it being my first case and everything,” You nod, taking just a few steps into the office, leaving as much distance between you and Hotch. He stands at his desk, focusing intently on your face. You know he’s trying to read your intentions. He’s searching for the hidden meaning behind your words. And for once, in the past few days, you don’t have any meaning behind your words. You have had enough small slip-ups and double meanings. This time, you truly just mean to check-in.

“You did really good work out there, Agent. You’re a fast learner, you pay attention to details, you work well with the team,” He rattles off a series of compliments, “Strauss is going to request a formal evaluation with me and I’ll be sure to report how quickly you’ve adapted.”

“Thank you, sir,” You try your best to function with the utmost composure.

“Hotch,” He corrects you.

You ignore the correction, “Is that all, sir?”

“If you need anything… I mean I’ve read through your psych evaluations and I know the details are classified but–“ Hotch is struggling with his words. You know what he’s trying to say. He wants to tell you he’s here for you. Funny. Really, it is. Funny that he doesn’t realize the one thing that might send you spiraling is being around him. “I just mean if it all gets to be too much, it’s okay to take a step back. I… I understand.”

“You do?” Your words come out more bitter than intended. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. You had gone this whole case without snapping. It’s childish and immature. You can be professional. But right now, you can only see one thing: boiling hot rage at Hotch. How could he possibly understand how you feel? You pause to take a breath, “Thank you, but I’m okay. Goodnight, sir.” You walk to the door, wanting to get away from him as fast as possible.

“Y/N—” Hotch calls out, his voice softer, less firm, less professional. “Please,” You beg, finally breaking. Your voice is raw with emotion. You’ve been holding all the pain in for the past three days and your plea comes out sounding more broken than you intend to. You don’t turn around but place a hand on the doorframe. “Please… don’t make this harder than it already is.” You wait for a moment, hoping, praying, that he doesn’t try to talk to you anymore. A moment of silence serves as confirmation that he isn’t going to keep pushing you to talk.

You get down the stairs, meeting Rossi at the elevators. “Thank you… for driving me home.” You try and hide your face from him, hoping he doesn't see the sheen in your eyes as you fight away the tears that have been fighting their way out for the past three days.

“Anytime,” He nods, holding an arm over the elevator doors for you as they open. You think he can sense something is wrong. He’s probably been able to sense something is wrong between you and Hotch since the minute you made eye contact with him your first morning. If he does, however, he also knows not to ask or press the issue.

You flick the lights on in your apartment. You look over the boxes, still left unpacked. Not much of a home yet. You have no place of safety, of comfort yet. You feel like a guest in your own place. However, the thought of unpacking all the boxes right now is way too intimidating.

Deep steady breath in. Shaky breath out. You bite at your lip harshly. You haven’t cried over Aaron Hotchner in years. You drop your bag by the door, kicking your shoes off. You turn to close the door and everything starts to bubble up inside you. The anger, frustration, sadness, heartbreak. It’s all too much. You’ve been through so much these past eight years. This shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. But fuck. It hurts.

You let out a frustrated yell. It’s a scream that feels good to let out but ends up scratching your throat. You slam your fist against the door, ignoring the way it sears your knuckles. You pace your apartment, trying to steady your breathing.

You’ve been suffocating the past three days. Three long days of close quarters with Aaron Hotchner. Even after all these years, he manages to suck all the oxygen out of the room, leaving you breathless. In another life, you remember thinking how much you loved suffocating around him, but now, it tears you up inside. Your chest burns and aches, your head is fuzzy, and his presence is dizzying. It’s not exhilarating. It’s not exciting. It’s not all-consuming in the way you remember. You’re just trying to keep your head above water, but the current is strong and the rapids are relentless. You’re sinking under the surface quickly and you don’t know how to pull yourself up out of it.

You walk over to the stack of boxes, pushing them aside until you find the exact one you’re looking for. You rip open the top, tearing the tape off. The box is full of books, one of many that you brought with you. It’s organized perfectly so that when you unpack it you can set up your personal library just the way you had it back home in New York. So it doesn’t take you long to find that book. That damned book. The cover is faded. The dark brown leather is weathered and much lighter. The spine has lost all structure and the pages have changed color.

You sit down exactly where you stand, cross-legged on the floor, you open to that first page. You look at the all-too-familiar note. You were tempted, over the years, to burn the book, tear that first page out, cross out every one of his notes. But you never could do it. Deep down, no matter how bad he had hurt you, the book seemed to remain separate from that.

Maybe it’s because it’s a constant reminder that you weren’t some naive, foolish, young child. You hadn’t deluded yourself into thinking Hotch cared for you. He did. There was some sense of care and attention to detail. The book is evidence of that. However, it forces you to hold on to an image of Hotch that clearly is not the prevailing personality. Looking at the book reminds you of the bashful, almost embarrassed, man who handed it to you in his office so long ago. The careful way he traced your jawline, the way he tangled his fingers in your hair, pushing it out of the way to really get a good look at your face. That image of him sometimes wins out when you think of Aaron Hotchner. You want to remember him that way, but that only seems to prolong your pain. It makes you want him back.

You lay down on the floor pressing the book close to your heart. You could simply pick up the phone. You could just call him, tell him you want to start all over. But you can’t start all over. Being with Aaron Hotchner was a lifetime ago. That doesn’t change how vividly you can remember being with him. For the first few years, you hated him with every fiber of your being. You thought about what would happen if you ever saw him again. You would scream at him. Tell him off, curse him out. But as the years passed, you stopped hating him. There’s a fine line between love and hate. And as you know, Aaron Hotchner has always been good at keeping lines blurry.

Everything in you is screaming at you to pick up the phone. You’ve dreamed of hearing his voice tell you, “Let’s try again... please.” But you fight the urge. You close your eyes, the cold floor of your apartment sending a chill through you, enough to keep your wits about you.

——

Hotch runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes forcing himself to stay awake, forcing his attention back to the case report. His attempts to work fail, his mind always traveling back to you. He knew you would be a different person. It’s been eight years. He’s a different person. What he didn’t expect was how much of you is still the same.

That bright look in your eyes while discussing the case was one he had seen so many times while you poured over a novel in his office. You still talk with your hands, punctuating every sentence with a little shake or gesture of your fingers. You crack your knuckles when you’re thinking.

The differences are clear to him too. You don’t hold your tongue. You’re blunt. Brutally honest, almost to a fault. You seem to have pushed aside any attempt at politeness, or social niceties. You no longer feel so openly. He finds it much harder to read your face and body language. Your thoughts are not as clear to him as they used to be. He used to know exactly what you were thinking. He can tell you’ve practiced your poker face. He tried his best the past three days to get a read on how you feel about him. He doesn’t want to dwell on the past. All of that was before Haley. And indulging in thoughts of before is just simply too painful for him.

He walks to the window, looking out at the city. He wonders where you are tonight. Are you thinking about him? Are you hurting? Or has it been so long that he’s unimportant to you? Is someone holding you close to them, pressing soft kisses to your lips, whispering comforting words?

He could just pick up the phone and call you. He could profusely apologize. Not that his apology would mean anything, but it’s a speech he’s been rehearsing for years. He loved Haley with his whole heart. She was his whole world, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret how he treated you. Haley showed him a world of love, yet he managed to ruin that as well. He prioritized the job over her. Look where that got him.

Hotch knows you will never forgive him. He has never forgiven himself, but he can’t help but think about what would happen if he showed up on your doorstep. Would you immediately turn him away? Or would you let him in? Would you hear him out?

He shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the lights of DC. He walks to the kitchen, pouring a fresh mug of coffee. He can’t call you. Too much has happened. He thinks about the sleeping little boy upstairs. Every night he’s tormented by memories. He can still remember what it felt like to hold Haley’s lifeless body in his arms. When he does get sleep, visions of Haley’s dead eyes, his bloodied clothes, Foyet’s knife, invade his dreams. He frequently wakes up coated in sweat, the scars on his chest and stomach stinging with the same intensity as the day Foyet inflicted the stab wounds.

Which is why he feels immense guilt over the fact that three days ago, he shook your hand to welcome you to the team, and it ignited every nerve in his body. Everything has changed, but your hand in his made him feel alive.

Chapter 13: II.II →

[flightrules]

Which Kind Do You Want to Be?

Summary: You’re from a deeply sex-positive culture. He hasn’t gone unarmored in front of another human in... It’s been a very long time.

Three days on board the Razor Crest featuring moments of angst, domesticity, kindness, explicit consent, and Din doing his best to be a conscientious parent in the midst of everything. Heads up for descriptions of canon-typical violence, mention of past dubious consent, and a moment of (unintentional) violence between our protagonists. Din/cis female OC, on the hetero end of the scale. Ending is bittersweet.

Rating: Mature? Explicit? Anyhow, grown-up sexy stuff in later chapters. Please be old enough to be reading this kind of thing.

Watch for upcoming chapters here, or read the complete story on AO3. 

Chapter 1

He's sitting there looking at you, head tilted, and it's like somebody needed an illustration of curiosity for a children's book so they drew this Mandalorian and stuck that on the page.

"Isn't 'stop' good enough?" he says.

"Sometimes people like to say that and not mean it. Having a different word lets you both know you don't want what's happening anymore."

"If I say stop, I'll mean it."

There's something about that voice modulator that makes everything he says sound final.

The two of you are sitting across from each other on the floor, in the cramped hold of the Razor Crest. You're dressed in your usual practical trousers and shirt, but you've kicked your boots into a corner and your rifle's propped against a nearby wall.

He's still wearing the beskar.

The child is spending the night with Peli, who took him delightedly, crooning about getting him some decent food and a nice soft place to sleep. 

She also spared a moment for you, looking you up and down before shooting a pointed look at the armored man beside you. "It's about time."

"Can you trust her?" you asked on the way up the ramp, as Peli and the child disappeared into her shop.

He shrugged. "With my life? No. With his? Yes."

How exactly does this man decide whom to trust with his life? 

You've known each other, what, a few days? The acid burn on your right shoulder is still raw, the skin still peeling away in shreds. Interesting lesson, that. Gark-vipers don't bite, they spit. 

The scar will be your souvenir from a three-day trek through the jungles of Silicaria. One day in to snatch the little green rug-rat back from the bounty hunters who took him, two days back on tired legs, without food and no idea if the water in the streams you passed was safe.

You were hired help at the beginning. 

By the end, between fighting off hungry jungle creatures, sharing watches through pitch-black nights, and taking turns carrying the kid, you and this man were something like friends. 

Not that you didn't still collect your credits. A girl's gotta eat.

But you also didn't turn down the chance to get cleaned up in his ship's refresher, or to bunk down in a corner of the hold for a decent night's sleep.

He got the baby to bed first, briskly bathing the yawning little creature in the galley sink, then wrapping him up in a clean blanket and tucking him into a hammock in what looked like the man's own sleeping quarters. 

Then he indicated the refresher and sonic shower for you to use. "I'll wait upstairs." 

It was nice of him to give you privacy to get cleaned up and changed, even if it seemed a bit odd to you. Where you come from the human body's nothing to be ashamed of. But not all cultures see things that way.

Clearly his did not. You'd think after what you'd both been through, he'd want to get into some comfy clothes and leave the armor in storage for a while. But no, he switched places with you in the cockpit, disappeared down into the hold, and came back up a little later smelling a heck of a lot better but fully decked out again.

"I promise I'm not dangerous," you said, teasing.

It was a little insulting how easily he said, "I know." But he added, "I have food. If you're still hungry," and that felt like something a friend would say. So you bit back the temptation to remind him that if you wanted to, you could be dangerous, indeed.

The Razor Crest's food stores were nothing to write home about. Your body was going to make good use of the calories though, whether they tasted good or not. You leaned against the galley cabinet and gnawed on a protein bar. He started working on cleaning weapons and putting them away in what looked like a small but impressive armory.

"So what's the deal with the outfit?" Curiosity wasn't a sin where you came from, either.

"What do you mean?"

"You're home, right? We've agreed I'm not dangerous. Who are you planning to fight?"

"I'm not," he said, settling a blaster in its place next to an array of grenades. 

"So?"

"Mandalorians don't go unarmored around anyone but family."

You were struck by a sudden image of him with the kid, the two of them playing tag or something down here among the crates and stowed weapons. The kid in his little brown robes and the Mandalorian in, what? A pair of soft trousers, maybe a shirt that showed his arms. Barefoot, maybe. Probably hair all a mess. If he had hair. Or would he shave his head?

You had to shake your own head to get the image to clear.

"Huh," you said in reply. "Really? I crossed paths with some guys like you, a couple years back. They didn't seem to have any issue."

You were surprised to hear a sigh. "There are different kinds of Mandalorians."

"Do you get to choose?"

He didn't answer. 

You finished up the protein bar and looked around for somewhere to toss the wrapper. There wasn't an obvious wastebin, so when he looked back your way again you held it up, inquiring.

"Behind the door, lower left," he said. And then, "You don't get to choose."

"Who chooses for you, then?"

He turned back to the armory. It looked to you like everything was in its place now, but he lifted out the grenades, turned them over in his hands, put them back. "I was a foundling," he said. "They raised me in the Way."

How he said "the Way," you could hear the emphasis, like it was a sacred word. "A foundling? Like your kid?"

"Yes."

"So, you're going to teach him to live like this, too?"

The answer came quickly: "No." He closed the armory doors. They latched with a clicking sound. "We should go."

"We?"

"The child and I need to get off-world. Someone knew we were here. Where do you want to go?"

What made him think you didn't already belong in the village where he met you?

"You're not from here."

No, you weren't. The place you're from isn't there anymore, though, thanks to the Empire. 

It wasn't a story you cared to tell right then. 

"Sure, yeah, wherever you're headed next." Anywhere you could find work would do. "I'll jump off at the next port." You indicated your shoulder, where the acid burn still stung. "As long as they don't have gark-vipers."

You slept cozily enough that night, wrapped in a blanket he gave you and using the bivy bag from your own pack as padding beneath. At one point you woke to the sound of the child fussing, followed by the man's voice softly singing. The child quieted down and you found yourself lulled back to sleep, too.

“Are you sure the kid’s safe down there?” 

“He’s safe.”

You’re picturing the dusty repair yard, the bare-bones shop behind it, the handful of repair droids who were probably great with wrenches but not so much with guns. Peli looked like she had some wiry strength to her, but she was on her own. “She a former soldier or something?”

“She has a safe-room behind a hidden panel with a ten-centimeter durasteel door. They’ll be fine.”

Your eyebrows go up. Mos Eisley looks like a shambling backwater town. 

“Tatooine has wildlife. Some of it has guns.”

You glance at your own rifle, leaning against the wall nearby. You’ve fought off some of that kind of wildlife before. 

What a strange family you’ve fallen in with. 

“All right,” you say. “Good. I guess you know what you’re doing.”

You expect him to nod, confirm, like he did when you said you weren’t dangerous. Instead, you see pauldrons and breastplate shift as his shoulders sag a bit. “Sometimes.”

This thing you’re doing now, or about to do. It started with a joke. Well, mostly a joke. A victorious mission, the child safe, the two of you safe now too, and alone behind closed doors. The sweat of the mission washed away, guns laid down, a chance to rest. Back home, you said, as you took the blanket he’d found for you, a man and a woman would celebrate. 

You hadn’t expected him to take you up on it, but you also hadn’t expected him to freeze like that, one hand still holding the blanket. Until this moment, he’d looked like that armor was part of him. Suddenly, somehow, the way he reached out to you looked awkward, pauldron and vambrace no longer in line, and that helmet turned the tiniest angle, like he didn’t know where to direct his eyes.

“Never mind,” you said, smiling to let him know it really was ok. “We’re not where I come from, are we.”

Something shifted back now, and the shapes of his armor made sense again. He let go his grip on the blanket as you took it. “No.”

As you went to shake the blanket out and make up your bedroll, you noticed that your shirt was sticking a bit to the burn on your shoulder. “One thing, though, I could use from you. Do you have a medkit?”

“Sure.” He turned in the small space, graceful now, broad shoulders under the beskar pauldrons shifting as he reached up to open a high cupboard. You couldn’t help noticing how trim his waist looked, even under all that steel and fabric. Oh well, some things were not for you. 

The medkit had burn ointment and bandages, but no bacta. You’d have been hesitant to use any, anyhow. It would heal that wound in a day, but you knew what it cost. You’d never had the credits to buy it yourself. 

He started to turn his back, to let you undo your shirt in private and get a bandage over the oozing burn. But the acid had dripped far enough down your shoulder blade that you couldn’t quite be sure you’d covered it. “If I promise to stay decent, can you help here?”

He made quick work of anchoring the gauze to your skin with strips of steritape, while never putting pressure on the places that still ached and stung. Those were hands that had bandaged up wounds before. You’d wondered already what was underneath the armor, but suddenly you found yourself wondering what pattern of scars you might find. On a man who clearly fought as easily as he breathed, maybe almost as often--and apparently didn’t have the credits for bacta, either. Unless he went through it so fast, he couldn’t keep it stocked. 

He flipped the medkit closed. He stowed it back on its high shelf, then crossed to the little room where the baby was still sound asleep, curled in that tiny hammock. “Sleep well,” he told you, before lowering the room’s metal door. 

When you woke in the morning that metal door was up and you were alone in the dimly lit hold. You took advantage of the refresher and used your fingers to comb down your hair, where you could feel it was standing on end. No mirrors in here. You’d been too tired last night to notice. 

Well, if you really wanted to know what you looked like you could check your reflection in that armor.

You made yourself at home in the galley, poking around until you found some caff powder and another of those protein bars. Then, mug in one hand and bar in your pocket, you climbed the ladder to the cockpit.

The Mandalorian was in the pilot’s chair, helmeted head framed by the lights of hyperspace beyond the windows. The little green child was nowhere to be seen. You made your way forward to settle into the passenger seat, meaning to ask if one of you should check on the baby. But there he was, after all, perched on one armored thigh, staring wide-eyed at the lights while his tiny hand held fast to the man’s gloved index finger. 

Neither of them looked over at you, but neither one seemed startled when you spoke. You addressed the child, because why not. You’d been through a lot together, the past couple days. You figured you’d reached an understanding. “Does he sleep in that armor, too?”

The baby looked your way for a second, cooed cheerfully, and returned his gaze to the sky. 

You took a sip of caff, appreciating the spark it sent straight to your brain. Caff was a rare treat for you at the best of times, and on that jungle planet, where every bean had to be imported, it had usually been out of your reach. “Well? Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Last night?”

“Last night you might have needed something.”

“But most of the time, you don’t have to. You said, family.” You gnawed off a corner of the protein bar and washed it down with another sip of caff. “So where are the rest of them?”

He reached forward to adjust something on the console, a smooth movement of arm, shoulder, and back that left the baby peacefully balanced in his lap. “This is my clan,” he said. “Until I find the child’s people and return him to them.”

“He’s your whole family?” You needed another gulp of caff to process this. “And when you’ve dropped him off you’re just going to--” That couldn’t be right. People couldn’t go their whole lives walled off like that, beskar steel and cloth padding between them and the whole entire world. “Are you sure you don’t get a choice, here?”

He was silent for a long time. During the quiet, the baby looked up at him, then looked your way. The man disentangled his hand from the baby’s grip and rested it on the tiller. “This is the Way,” he said. It was hard to hear emotion through that helmet and whatever the electronics were doing to his voice, but--he sounded quieter than usual. A little slower. He sounded sad. 

“Well,” you said. “There’s got to be other Ways. Those other Mandalorians I met, they sure had a different way. Pretty sure they weren’t flirting with the barmaids because they wanted to keep their armor on.”

“There are different kinds of Mandalorians,” he repeated, same thing he said the first time you asked. 

You wrapped both hands around the mug you were holding, enjoying the warmth against fingers that still ached a bit from the punches you’d had to throw. “Which kind do you want to be?”

For some reason, you couldn’t let it go. You didn’t push, exactly. That wouldn’t have been right. But there wasn’t much else to do as the ship sailed through hyperspace. He was making a couple jumps, he told you, right-angle turns at out-of-the way nodes, to make it harder for anyone to guess the ship’s trajectory and follow. 

In between setting the next course, there wasn’t much to do besides watch the sky, play with the baby, and talk. After a while, he started asking you questions, too.

“What’s it like?” was one of them. What’s it like to walk around exposed all the time, nothing between your fragile skin and the world but a thin cotton shirt and trousers. You’d never thought about it all that much, but he had a point. The knife scar just below your ribs was a testament to that. 

“What’s it like,” you asked him back. He told you about the electronics in the helmet that make it hard for anyone to sneak up on him. He showed you a few of the hidden weapons, although you’re certain there are many more you haven't gotten to see. He explained the history of some of them, how he’s wearing not just the latest technology but a thousand years of Mandalorian history. He said, in a way, it’s like always having your own backup. Like never being completely alone. 

It wasn't until much, much later, when the ship was on its last trajectory, the baby was in bed, and the two of you were sitting side by side on the floor down there in the hold, a jar of bitter ale in your hand and him still stone-cold sober, that he admitted it was lonely.

And that’s how, after a couple more hours of talking and a night of much more restless sleep, the child’s ended up with Peli as a babysitter and the two of you are alone up here in the Razor Crest, sitting cross-legged across from each other, knees almost touching but with space and several kilos of beskar definitely still between you. 

“All right,” you say. “The word for stop is, stop. You sure you still want to do this?”

“No.”

You’re disappointed, but it’s got to be up to him. You start to scoot back, ready to stand up, to give him some actual room. 

A gloved hand closes around your calf. “Yes.”

You cover that hand with your own. When he doesn’t pull away, you lift his fingers gently from your leg, find the cuff of that glove, and slide it from his hand. 

His hand is trembling.

“You’ll remember? The word for stop?”

He laughs, short and sharp. It makes a faint sound of static through the helmet’s modulator.

Carefully, slowly, you use your own hand to guide his fingers to the bottom edge of that helmet. “How do I…?” He lifts his other hand to help you. There’s a soft, electronic sigh as whatever holds it in place loosens. And then, all on his own, he lifts the thing from his head.

He’s got curly hair. It’s the first thing you notice, as you run your fingers along his scalp and those curls, flattened by the shape of the beskar, spring back into ringlets. You’ve no idea what color his eyes are because they’re closed, and his head is bowed down as, fascinated, you wind one of those curls around a finger. You slide the other hand down to his neck and lean in to plant a single, gentle kiss against his temple. 

It takes him two tries to gasp out the word. “Stop.”

You drop your hands and rock back from kneeling to sitting, putting space back between you.

He huffs out a short laugh again, catches his breath, then raises his head to look at you.

His eyes are dark brown, almost black. Tiny lines at the outer corners hint at how old he might be. The paleness of his skin reminds you, it probably hasn't seen much sun. You might look the same age, but you bet he's got a few years on you.

"Was that a stop for now, or a stop altogether?"

"I don't know," he says. "No one's done that since…" His voice trails off. 

"Do you want to get put back together? We can try again later. Or not."

He's so solemn when he says, "There's no going back." He adds softly, as if to himself: This is the Way. And then, looking at you again, "Do you mind if I…?" He indicates the vambraces covering his forearms, moves as if to take one off.

You can't resist. "Can I help?"

The whole thing is more complicated than you might have thought. It's not just the individual steel plates. Each piece connects into an underlying electrical array, woven into the fabric of his clothing. He shows you first, on one side, then lets you follow his hands with yours to do the other. 

It's probably good you're helping, actually, because his hands are shaking again. By the time you get to the shin guards above his boots, he needs you to undo the catches. 

"No wonder you never take this stuff off." You're kneeling at his feet now, and you reach over to set the second boot next to the pile of beskar that has now joined your rifle against the wall. You worried briefly about just stacking it up like that, but he shrugged. The stuff was made to take blaster bolts. You weren't going to hurt it.

"How long does it take to put it all on again?"

He's watching the tremor in his hands. "It's faster when I'm alone."

"I can go," you offer. "Climb up to the cockpit for a bit and let you…" Let him what? This whole thing got started because he was tired of being alone.

"No," he says. "Stay."

All right. "You've still got a lot of… machine going on there. Am I going to break something if I touch you?"

He looks down at his own body, as if surprised to realize he's still wearing anything. 

"Where do we start?"

The bodysuit array turns out to be a single piece with a diagonal seam across the chest and down to his waist. You work together to undo the line of hook and loop tape that holds it shut. His hands, so capable with fists and weapons, have gone clumsy, and as you help slide the array from his shoulders you can feel the shaking has spread. The man's whole body is trembling.

Underneath, he's wearing a simple, soft shirt with sleeves down to his wrists and black leggings that you can't help but notice cling to slim hips and defined quads.

You knew he was fit. You spent three days fighting beside him. It's still fun to get to see, even if he also looks like he's not going to last much longer on his feet.

You step closer and reach a hand out, and although you can't see his face well now--he's still almost a head taller than you, even with you both now standing in stocking feet--you can hear his breathing quicken as you lay your palm against his chest. His heart is pounding like you've been in battle. 

He's proven he knows how to say stop when he wants to. You move closer again, thighs up against his, belly to belly, your chin against his collarbone, and wrap your arms around him. You're not sure if the sound he makes is a grunt, a laugh, or a sob.

Before long you've sunk to the floor and you end up half in his lap, tangled together, and usually by this point with a new partner you'd be laughing and reaching for bare skin beneath each other's clothes. Here, he's now holding you so tight you couldn't get free if you tried. His face is buried in your neck and there's no mistaking it now. He's absolutely sobbing.

Where you're from, the human body was nothing to be ashamed of. And that includes all the awkward things that bodies do. You slide one hand from his back, up his neck, to rest your fingers in those lovely curls again, and you let him cry.

When he finally winds down, the shaking has stopped too. Gradually his hold on you loosens, and you find yourself shifting against him so you can see his face. His hair's plastered against his forehead now and those warm brown eyes are lined with red. He looks awful, and the thing you want most in the world right now is to kiss him.

He doesn't smile, but he gives another of those short laughs. 

You bring a hand to his face, curving your palm against his cheekbone, using your thumb to wipe away some of the wetness below his eye. You lean in slowly to try a kiss against his temple again, and then his cheek, and then, gentle as you can manage, against his mouth. 

He's already warned you this would be new for him so you're careful, slow, pressure first and then tracing his lips with your tongue. One hand still caressing his face, the other against the back of his head, and you can't resist a gentle tug on those curls. 

But when you do, suddenly he's not responding, until he chokes out your safeword. Stop.

You do, of course, disappointed until you see he's gasping to catch his breath. "That good, huh?"

"It is." And then, he shakes his head. "I don't think I can. I don't know what to do with it all."

You've never been shy around men. Where you're from, a tumble is so normal you don't even count partners. This is new for you. Usually, they keep asking for more.

All you can think to do is say, "You got any more of that bitter ale?" It's not for him exactly, you wouldn't want him making decisions he'd regret. 

It's for you.

He does, indeed, have a whole stash of the stuff, although the dust on the lids suggests he doesn't get into it all that often. You end up sitting side by side on the floor again, backs against a row of cupboard doors. 

When you get up to get you both a second round, your own judgement's fuzzy enough that you plunk back down right next to him, hip to hip, and rest your head a moment on his shoulder. 

A little later his hand finds yours. 

You sit there, side by side, fingers twined together, until both your ale jars are empty. By now you're tired, you're a little bit drunk, and you're still turned on. And you can't do a damn thing about it because the last thing he said was, stop, and now he's probably a little drunk, too.

"I should get some sleep," he says beside you. "You should, too."

You end up back in your makeshift bedroll, while he's a whole two meters away in his sleeping quarters. You lie awake for a while, wondering if he's lying awake too, until the combination of ebbing hormones and the effects of good ale finally lead you to sleep.

It's easy to lose track of time on the Razor Crest, where sunlight doesn't make it down into the hold. But the ship's chrono wakes you with its loud, annoying buzz. 

He's already up. He hits a control panel to silence the noise, then takes the few steps from the galley to bring you a cup of caff. He crouches beside your bedroll to hand it to you.

He stays there a moment while you sit up, drag your fingers through your hair, then take the mug from his hand.

He's dressed now in a pair of black trousers and a black shirt that shows off chiseled arms. The color makes his brown eyes look even darker. Overall, the effect is making it hard for you to think.

"I need to pick up the child," he says. "You'll be all right here?"

You rub your eyes, trying to clear your head. "Give me a minute, I'll come with you. I need to figure out where to stay tonight. Look for some work. Maybe your friend can point me in the right direction."

You've gotten so used to having to read him through the armor, it's startling to see the expression of surprise on his face. Like he'd forgotten he only offered you a ride this far. I'll get off at the next port, you'd told him. Tatooine is it.

He settles down beside you, now, watching you sip at the caff. You're halfway through the mug and thinking you'd better get up and get ready, when he reaches out to rest his hand against the side of your head, then draw his fingers through your hair. 

"We didn't get to finish, did we," he says. "Will you stay?"

Tatooine's twin suns are making complicated shadows on the ground of the repair bay. You have to squint against the bright light as you and he make your way down the ramp. 

You're wearing the same clothes as yesterday--it's all you've got that's anywhere close to clean--but you've made yourself presentable, checking your hair in the shiny surface of the beskar breastplate that's still propped against a wall. 

You made sure he looks presentable too, finger-combing tangled curls into submission before you let him out the door. 

Peli emerges from the shop with the child perched on her hip. As soon as he catches sight of the man beside you, the little arms reach out and he's bouncing to be let down.

Peli looks up and lets out a whoop of surprise. "Well how about that! I always wondered what was under there." She finally notices the child's struggles and sets him gently down. "You go ahead to your papa."

The little creature toddles across the yard to be scooped up and examined. "Did you have fun?" He tucks the child in the crook of his arm and crosses the rest of the way to Peli. "What do I owe you?"

She's staring at him unabashedly. You can appreciate her appreciation for how that shirt fits.

"I don't know how you did it," she says to you, "but I'd say this is an improvement. Although," she confides, as if he's not standing right there, "there was something appealing about all that--" she gestures to her own shoulders, hinting at the shape of pauldrons-- "all that shiny.

"Now go on." She's waving the three of you back toward the ship. "I've got a freighter coming in here any minute, and he's actually going to pay me. If you can get that thing off the ground," she adds as if to herself, and then to you, "You tell him if breaks that thing again he better bring it here to be fixed. No more of that Mon Calamari nonsense."

You've got no idea what she's talking about, but it's nice to know that somebody else cares about this man and his odd little child. 

You'll go along with them for a while, you think, see where things lead. Offer to do what you can around the ship, help out wherever they're headed next. 

Mostly though, you're looking forward to seeing what happens tonight, once the baby's tucked in and you're alone together again.

[rainythefox]

Nightfall (CH.16)

Synopsis: Pre-Resident Evil 1, slight-AU/Canon Divergence. Claire Redfield comes home to visit her  brother Chris for the holidays but gets caught up in a dangerous game of  cat and mouse with Albert Wesker, the Captain of STARS, after stumbling  upon dark secrets. She can’t call the law; Wesker is the law, and she  can’t tell Chris. She is trapped…Claire/Wesker & Slight Chris/Jill (There’s Wesker & William Bromance too lol). Rated M for smut, language, violence, adult content.

AO3 Link

Chapter 16: Mine

Warning: this chapter contains lots of smut. You’ve been warned, okay? Okay! :P Because of this, only the first section of the chapter is available on Tumblr. Please follow the link to AO3 to read the rest. Thank you! :)

Okay, she knew her luck had taken a big dump recently, but this was ridiculous! If she thought the university job was difficult, she promptly changed her mind. That was a walk in the park compared to this. Claire stared at all the people. The exquisite party was happening at the ritzy Orient Restaurant on the second floor of the most luxurious hotel in the city, Central Hotel.

There had to be close to a hundred people here! The whole restaurant was closed to cater for the invitation-only event. Why did she even assume this “Christmas Party” was going to be just a group of rich, old dudes bragging all night? With how her luck has been, she should've known better!

Claire gaped at the man beside her who was unfortunately the closest thing she had to a friend at the moment. She recalled William’s little “briefing” on the drive over here.

“The party’s not gonna be that big. Just a simple “get in, get out”. You’ll be home in no time! Actually, you’ll probably be at Al’s home in no time!”

He was still rubbing his arm where she decked him.

“This is nothing like how you explained it!” she hissed.

But the mad scientist only half-heard her, his eyes lit up as though he was a kid about to enter his very first amusement park. Something in here was on his kill list because Claire overheard he wasn’t a stranger to parties, at least not to parties like this that could get him something he wanted. 

William was actually quite handsome all cleaned up in his suit. Claire had grown accustomed to his usual disheveled appearance that made him attractive in his own way.

He grinned slyly. “Oh relax, sweetheart. You’ll be fine. Most of these people are total bores…losers just out trying to feel important. They got nothing on you!” He winked at her. “You know what to do, who to find. Ada’s on your earpiece and Al and I are here to watch your back. Don’t worry. Al _definitely _won’t let you out of his sight. Just…don’t distract him too much. I need him focused tonight.”

“Are you fu-”

“Erica!” William nearly squealed, waving both arms and abruptly abandoning her. “Is that gown designed by Broca’s aphasia? Because I’m speechless!” 

Claire glared at the fickle bastard as he ditched her to join some other people standing around talking and drinking. She was on her own for now.

“Forget about him, Claire. Just focus on getting to Bennett. Best not drag this out longer than we have to and risk exposing ourselves,” Ada said on her earpiece.

“Okay,” she mumbled, and got into character, her natural Redfield bravado and assurance making it easy to stroll through the party like she owned the place.

It was a beautiful Asian restaurant. Most of the dark tables were accented with candles and glasses. The lounge-like chairs were colorful and comfy, and the tall ceilings gave way to soft LED string lights, oriental paintings and sectioned lattices. In warmer seasons, the same kind of setup could be seen on the massive balcony, but it was currently closed off.

She felt many eyes on her as she started her objective. But she only cared about one set of eyes as she discreetly scanned the place for them.

This many people here was both a blessing and a curse for her mission, and it could go either way real quick at any time. More people meant no room for mistakes, too many eyes. But on the other hand, this many people distracted amongst themselves could make it easy to get away with nearly anything.

Claire soon found the eyes she had been seeking, felt the familiar, pleasing burn on her skin they always caused. She traced them to an area with more people, where a grand, gold statue of Lord Yama sat. Directly in front of the god of death, Wesker was encircled by a small group, mostly beautiful women, and he charmed them effortlessly.

The younger Redfield had to keep herself from staring, also charmed by his chameleon smile, good looks, and striking black suit. Her nerves tingled from simmering blood. She couldn’t believe it. She was actually jealous?! Claire was angry with herself. How could she possibly feel anything of the sort over the man that was blackmailing her?

Besides...she knew Wesker well enough by now to know that it was all pretense. She was sickened and enthralled by how easily he could deceive and influence people. Ada was right. His calculating mind, his clever tongue, those were his deadliest weapons; not his hands, not his gun.

The statue of Yama was simply a backdrop to the true god of death in the room. His admirers probably had no clue and listened intently. The women batted their eyes, pushed out their chests, even the ones who had dates. And those men did nothing about it, perhaps too enthralled themselves or maybe it was the fact that Wesker had an uncanny ability to make most men around him submissive.

He may have looked like he was paying attention to them, his eyes concealed behind black shades, but Claire knew he was watching her. All of her. Every breath, every step, he was in complete tune. Something about that lit a fire in her belly so fierce, she trembled.

The jealousy she felt instantly crumbled. It didn’t matter if those women were rich or prettier or dressed in nicer dresses. They meant nothing to him. Not like she did.

And why was that, exactly?

Claire frowned, faltering mid-step, eyes still locked on Wesker across the room when she should've been moving on. She had some suspicions, if her gut and Ada and William were anything to go by. 

More importantly, why do you care?

“Claire?! Earth to Claire, hello?”

“Huh?”

“You aren’t exactly being inconspicuous staying in one spot drooling over Albert.”

Claire’s face flushed and she briskly walked away with a huff. “I’m not drooling!”

The first place she needed to check for her target would be the bar. Typical. It was in the back of the restaurant, low-lit, a massive, semi-circled bar with a marble countertop up against an airbrushed wall depicting a dragon floating through the clouds.

“Whatever you say, hun.”

Claire bit her tongue, taking a deep breath. “I was just happy to see him chatting up other women. Less problems for me.”

Ada sighed. “Claire, fishing is beneath you. First, they aren’t his type. More importantly, Albert detests easy women.”

That wasn’t her intention. “I wasn’t-”

“Unfortunately and fortunately for you, you are his type and are as difficult as they come. I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but you’re as close to obsession as he’s going to get romantically.”

The only fortune she could come up with was that it was unlikely Wesker would kill her. But obsession through people with sociopathic and psychopathic tendencies like Wesker were never a good thing. Her life might be spared at the end of all this...but at what cost?

Claire briskly pushed that thought aside, something cold and heavy dropping in the pit of her stomach. She needed to focus on finding Bennett and getting this over with. That was her excuse. After all, she wasn’t ready to acknowledge that her own growing infatuation would likely veer her into her captor’s arms for good.

She looked around the bar area. There were all kinds of high-status people attending Bard’s Christmas party. Doctors, politicians, city officials, even Mayor Warren and Chief Irons were here.

She recognized Mueller from Raccoon University having a casual conversation with the man that had to be her target. A picture was never granted, but a detailed description allowed her to quickly analyze him. It had to be him. Tall, average build, auburn hair and an anchor beard. He chatted with Mueller with a drink in his hand.

Just as Claire stepped their way, a strong grip snatched her wrist. She was spun around, coming face-to-face with Nathaniel Bard. He looked fine since the anaphylaxis she put him through with the shrimp, but the creep wasn't happy one bit with her, still keeping a painful grip on her arm.

"I knew I'd see your face again, girl. What happened at the university is all your fault."

Claire glared at him. "You're gonna be hurting more if you don't let me go right now."

The music and all the guests chatting around them helped conceal her threat from eavesdropping ears but the Spencer Memorial doctor heard her clearly.

He considered challenging her, lips pursing, but soon let her go after his eyes scanned the numerous faces within the party. "I know you're working with those two bastards. You have no idea how much harm you’ve caused me and several of my colleagues. Lowery was a good man, understand? He had a family. And now I’m trapped doing those two psychos’ bidding.”

“Maybe you aren’t the only one who is trapped.”

“Well then there’s more to your pretty face, isn’t there? They wouldn’t risk it otherwise.”

Who the fuck did this guy think he was? Claire clenched a fist, as it took all of her willpower not to break his damn nose. She had a job to do here. If she caused a scene in the middle of this party, especially with the man hosting it, then she could kiss her freedom and potentially Chris’s life goodbye.

She did let him in on what he was narrowly missing out on by grabbing his hand and twisting it slightly, squeezing hard on a pressure point. Just enough to make it really hurt, just enough to get her point across while looking like she was just holding his hand to nearly everyone else. “If my life didn’t hinge on fulfilling this job, you’d be on the floor with a broken fucking face, do you understand me?”

“Damn, Claire. I like your style,” Ada chimed in.

The younger Redfield ignored her and smiled, showing the guests they were having a pleasant conversation. Bard hissed in pain, quickly nodding. Claire released him and he jerked his hand away, shaking it off with a grimace.

“Listen, I’ll make the job easy for you. Just...do what you need to do and get out of here. Take those assholes with you. And never show your face at one of my social events ever again.”

“I’d love to, but it’s not my call. But...I have a feeling you know exactly who you can talk to about that.”

Bard scowled, rubbing his injured hand. He muttered something under his breath and motioned her to follow him, heading towards Bennett and Mueller in the back of the bar. “C’mon, and follow my lead.”

“Ugh, he better not screw this up.”

Bard put on a welcoming smile once they reached Mueller and Bennett’s table. Mueller recognized her, but didn’t say anything. She barely got a moment’s glare from him before he flashed Bard a guarded look, as if asking “what are you up to now?” The two men stood and the doctor shook their hands.

“Mr. Bennett! I trust you are enjoying the party? What kind of host would I be if I was neglecting my honored guest?”

He looked to be in his thirties maybe. His smile was warm as he nodded. He noticed Claire nearly right away, and there was a definite reaction of some kind. Attraction, she guessed, immediate infatuation. Great…

“Oh yes,” he said in a European accent. “I am grateful to you and Greg’s hospitality. You’ve made being so far from home much more bearable.”

“Good, good! It’s a shame your business partner couldn’t join us this evening. But I’m sure he had his reasons. You two are busy men, after all!”

Bennett nodded, composed yet amiable. “That we are. I’m sorry, but I have to ask, who is this beautiful young lady you have with you?”

Bard didn’t skip a beat in his front, presenting her with a grin like she was a piece of treasure up for auction.

“I know, stunning right? This is Elza. She’s one of my...assistants.”

The European man held out his hand with a handsome, friendly smile. It could’ve fooled anyone, and it almost fooled her. But her gut constricted at the last moment, her first indication something wasn’t right about this guy.

He took her hand and kissed it softly. “It is my utmost pleasure, Miss Elza. I’m Stephan Bennett. Please, just call me Stephan.”

Claire put on the sweetest smile she could muster, batting her lashes. “The pleasure’s all mine, Stephan.”

He looked her over, and although he was an attractive man, it made her skin crawl.

“Has Greg taken you up to your suite yet?” Bard asked cordially. “I’ve left you a little treat as a thank you for choosing to stay the night in Raccoon City’s famous Central Hotel!” 

Bennett ripped his eyes from Claire and shook his head at the host. “No, sir. I got the keycard to the room earlier, but wanted to check out the party before retreating for the night.” He presented a friendly, almost sheepish smile. “Honestly, I’m still a little messed up with the time zone changes. I didn’t think it would affect me this much.”

“That’s not a problem. My assistant and I will escort you up there. There’s a little bit of business I’d like to discuss with you anyway,” Bard replied.

“What about your party?”

“Eh, they’ll entertain themselves! Greg will take care of things while I’m gone. It won’t be but a few minutes.” Bennett glanced at Claire, expression unreadable, and Bard quickly added. “My assistant is completely trustworthy, don’t worry. She knows about our research.”

Bennett nodded, relieved. “Alright, lead the way, Nathaniel.”

Claire was uncertain what to do as Mueller shook hands with Bennett and bid them good night before heading for the bar. Her job was to stick a bug on the European businessman, probably so Wesker and William could track him straight to Aaron Roth. Leaving the party just tossed her whole plan into the garbage. This just got way riskier.

Nothing like winging a mission where my life’s literally at stake. What’s the worst that can happen?

“Great,” Ada whispered in her ear, not helping Claire’s gut feeling. “Wesker’s watching and listening through your piece. He says it’s fine. Just get that bug on Bennett without him knowing.”

Was that supposed to make her feel better that Wesker said it was fine? And how exactly was he able to do that anyway? That just made her earlier conversation with Ada a lot more awkward...

With a slight tick of her jaw, Claire composed herself with a friendly smile and followed the two men out of the restaurant and into the fancy, historical hotel.

They went to the lobby, a grand room with high ceilings, bright lights, and expensive carpet and decor. The elevator ride to the fifth floor seemed extra crowded, even though there were just three of them. Bard and Bennett chatted normally about their lives and careers. Claire didn’t like the frequent glances Bennett gave her. She waited for an opportunity, stayed vigilant with that inkling sprouting in her gut.

It got worse when Ada told her she lost visual on her from their location.

Wesker’s making you do this alone because he wants to see how you do, said a small voice in the back of her head. She didn’t have proof, but she wouldn’t put it past him.

She gave vague answers when Bennett asked her something, either curious and flirting or digging and deceiving. She wasn’t exactly sure.

Bennett scanned his card and held the door open to the big, two-bedroom suite. Bard strolled right on in but Claire hesitated, not wanting to put her back to these men. When she did, she felt his eyes all over her, and when he closed the door, he purposely brushed her to get by.

They stepped into the spacious living room first, accented with a bar and impressive kitchen. There was a home theater set up in the den, opposite a wall of glass that displayed downtown Raccoon City. Dark buildings silhouetted within soft glows of lights of all colors. Speckles of white rained down softly outside.

“You meant it when you said this suite had a view,” Bennett stated, drawn to the panorama.

Bard gave her a look, dipped his head in the direction of his “guest”, as if urging her to get her business done. Claire glared at him as he turned off to the bar instead.

“Yes, I did! And over here, something just for you, Mr. Bennett. Your favorite wine. All the way from home!”

“I don’t like this. Are you okay? Cough if you are.”

“How thoughtful of you, Dr. Bard. Thank you. You’ve gone out of your way to make me feel at home here.”

Claire didn’t like it either. She looked around, keeping up her appearance as she joined the men at the bar. She didn’t see any danger, but something like it was lurking about. Whatever it was, she was fine for now.

She coughed. “Oh, excuse me.”

Bennett watched her more than Bard, but she still couldn’t read his expression. Bard took the fancy bottle out of the container of ice. “Shall we have a glass while we talk?”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

That clicked an idea in her brain. Claire put a hand on Bard’s arm, mustering up the realest fake friendly smile she could handle, looking between the two men under thick lashes. “How about you gentlemen take a seat, get comfortable? Let me serve you.”

Bennett’s smile held something darker, but it was gone in a flash. Bard looked at her funny, but composed himself and slowly put the wine down on the counter. “Of course, Elza! You’re always the sweetest thing! Come, Stephan, over here.”

“What do you have planned, exactly?” Ada asked. “Ugh, I hate going by sound alone.”

Her cohorts had lied to her, she realized. William promised Wesker wouldn’t let her out of his sight and Ada said she would watch over her. Wesker didn’t say much to her before the party, but disclosed if she did what she was told, she would be fine. She was alone here and certainly felt something other than “fine” was coming her way.

The doctor and his guest went to the lounge chairs nearby, sitting across from each other. It was the perfect way for Claire to bug Bennett without him knowing. She opened the white wine and poured their glasses, giving them time to get settled in their seats and start talking. The more distracted they were, the better. It also gave her a moment to get the tiny tracking device ready.

The younger Redfield served Bennett first. She caressed her fingers up his arm, across his shoulder, stopped at the back of his neck, squeezing his collar gently. Her flirtatious smile was enough to distract him from Bard when she handed him his drink. She didn’t remain long, crossing to Bard and giving him his drink with the same smile, the same caress that made her skin crawl. She left them and returned to the bar, gathering up the wine bottle and ice bucket and placing them on the table in between the two men.

Claire eavesdropped on their conversation, but a lot of it made no sense to her. Big research, Sheena and Rockfort Island, Roth, Ashfords, prototypes, T-series. All similar topics that Wesker and William discussed and were involved with.

“You know, it’s strange how all of our business associates keep coming up dead or missing since we’ve been in town,” Bennett said after a long sip of his wine.

Bard grew quiet, confused, his fingers clenching around his wine glass. “What…do you mean?”

The European man looked at Claire, like he knew all of her secrets, not near as charming now. “You know what happened to them...don’t you, Miss Walker? Or should I call you Miss Redfield?”

Claire stiffened, nails digging into the chair arms. She dared not blink, glaring at him, keeping calm, but reeling underneath on how to react. He knew her name. Her _real _name.

Shit!

“Shit!” Ada echoed in her ear. “Claire, don’t do anything rash. Hang in there.”

It wasn’t as though she had much of a choice. She was on her own. Bard’s alarmed face told her everything. He was just as surprised as her, but would be too much of a coward to help her.

Claire took a deep breath. “I don’t know what happened to them.”

“I think Dr. Lowery would say otherwise.”

“How do you know my real name?”

The European businessman crossed one leg casually, swishing the wine in his glass, sharp eyes on her. “All it took was a little digging. You really shouldn’t use your mother’s maiden name as an alias, darling. Especially one as unique as hers.”

Cold steel bumped the back of her head. A gun.

Wesker had told her the same thing. Warned her.

She was careless to use it after not being prepared at the university. Now she was in real danger. The other wolves that Wesker claimed he was protecting her from had stalked her right into a corner. Then again, maybe he wasn’t expecting _this _pack. Or maybe he had and was ready to give her up as tribute for his own motives…

“Uh, Stephan, what’s going on, is t-this necessary?” Bard asked.

“Quiet, or you’ll have one to your head also.” Bennett motioned for Claire to stand. “My business partner, Aaron, would like to speak to you one-on-one, Miss Redfield. You have the time, right? You can help fill the gaps on what’s been happening to our dealings. We’re getting warm, but it seems as though everyone is too afraid to give us answers. Whoever you’re working for, we’ll cut you a nice deal if you expose them.”

Claire kept his gaze, defiant, silent. She had no choice but to comply. She had no weapons on her, no way to hide one in this dress. She slowly moved her hands down to her sides, preparing to push herself up, and felt it. The cold, metal coil of a corkscrew. She forgot she had brought it with her while serving the drinks.

Snatching it up between her fingers, she stood. The man who had the gun to her head pulled her out away from the chair. Bennett rose from his seat, finishing his drink and setting the empty glass down.

Bard shot up as well, looking between Claire and his guest, panicking. “Wh-What are you doing?”

There were two other men in suits now. They must’ve been hiding in the suite this whole time. Although they didn’t have weapons drawn, they were probably packing like the one behind her.

“Nathaniel, lying to me that she is your assistant? After what happened to Simon, I’m shocked. Someone’s got you cowering and afraid, just like Greg. Just like our friend the Police Chief.”

“I-It’s n-not what you think.”

Bennett nodded to the other men. They grabbed Bard by the arms, containing him. The European man pulled a gun equipped with a silencer from his suit jacket.

The doctor fought his captors. “Wait! No!”

Claire stabbed the man behind her in the groin with the corkscrew. He cried out as she spun, disarming him and shoving him away where he tumbled to the floor. She grabbed the bottle of wine and threw it at Bennett’s head just as he switched his gun on her. The bottle shattered on his face.

She didn’t get far with running. Not in that dress, not in those heels, before she was snatched by his men. A bash above her temple instantly made the world spin. Still, she fought, as weak as she suddenly felt.

Bennett was soaked, his face earning a few gashes from broken glass, blood mixing with golden-colored wine. He cursed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He grabbed her neck, squeezing hard.

“You little bitch! You’re lucky Aaron wants to speak with you, or you’d be dead!”

That’s when his arm snapped. Like a twig. He screamed. Claire, her vision still hazy from the blow to her head, realized he was attacked. His men were attacked; she was let go. A few blinks and she saw Wesker using some sort of martial arts to swiftly dispose of them. Not Bennett though. He raced away to his escape while holding his limp arm that flopped uselessly as he ran.

The STARS Captain had killed the other three. In seconds. With his hands. He paused, looking to the door where Bennett had fled, as if deciding whether to pursue him. He was over it in seconds though, grabbing her and pulling her to him. Not as rough as she had expected, but gentle wasn’t really in his nature.

“Hold still,” he commanded. She felt his hand on her head. He must’ve been examining the clout she had received. “Are you alright?”

There was some blood on his hand when he withdrew it, and she felt it trickling in her hair. It must’ve been just a small cut, otherwise it would’ve been all over her face by now.

“Yeah,” she said. And she was. It had only made her light-headed for a minute or so.

The nearby chair squeaked as it scooted on the carpet, and a muffled curse came from the other side. Wesker finally looked away from her, jaw clenching. He marched over to the furniture and kicked it. The chair crashed and skidded several feet away. Wesker seized Bard by the collar and picked him up, slamming him into the nearby bar counter. The sound his body made hitting the granite countertop made her flinch, and Bard’s yelp confirmed it.

“Wesker, wait, please! I d-didn’t know! I didn’t! I swear! He was gonna kill me too!”

“He was,” Claire confirmed. 

She had no idea why she defended the asshole, especially when he didn’t offer her any help before. But she could tell he was telling the truth. Wesker paused, but didn’t look at her, probably contemplating what to do with the doctor as he shuddered in his hands.

“Consider your...contract extended indefinitely,” Wesker growled, and shoved him over the other side of the bar. He put a couple fingers up to his ear, the same hidden piece she had. “Ada, William, we’re finished here. Ada, track Bennett. William, tell Irons he has a mess to clean up with Bard and Mueller.”

Bard got to his feet, shaken, his surprised eyes finding hers. The younger Redfield glared at him, a silent message he understood. She had spared him a cruel fate from the Devil. But she wouldn’t do it again.

She returned her gaze to the three bodies around her feet. The one she stabbed with the corkscrew had a snapped neck. The other two looked as though they had suddenly dropped dead, nothing to attribute to the hands of the STARS Captain. But she had seen it with her own eyes. And although it shouldn’t have, it lit a fierce fire in her lower belly, spreading when his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her towards the door.

The flames were fanned when he whispered in her ear, his hand squeezing her hip. “You did exceptionally well, dear heart. You make me proud.”

When Ada told her Wesker would want to take her home after seeing her in her dress, she had denied wanting him to, denied she wanted to go home with him willingly. But after what she saw, how he held her close to him like she was his, and his alone, how his breath upon her ear titillated her, made her receptive to him only, she could no longer deny it.

Claire wouldn’t be able to stand the drive there. She wanted him. Wanted him to take her. She was a liar; it wasn’t just a one-time fling or a mistake. It was going to happen again. And she wanted it to, and would do nothing to stop it.

[flightsoffandom]

Co-Conspirators Part 4

Pairs: Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Words: 7558

Summary: Strauss forces you and Hotch to talk to an UnSub that you would be much happier to forget existed. Even with Hotch’s protests Strauss orders you both to go. Once there things don't go exactly how either of you expected.

Warnings: Canon Criminal Minds level violence, Stalker-ish and creepy UnSub, vague mention of non-depression related self harm, and cussing.

Notes: Left completely gender-neutral. Was a good chunk of this chapter inspired by Season 3 Episode 14, ‘Damaged’, the scene where Hotch is ready to fist fight an UnSub to protect himself and Reid? Yes, yes it was. Took me a minute to write this because I wanted to do certain feelings in this chapter justice, hopefully it all came through and makes sense. Feel free to tell me if it didn't turn out as good as I intended it to be.

Continuation of Co-Conspirators – Part 1–Part 2–Part 3–Part 4*–Part 5–Part 6

After Aaron and Jack spent the night, your relationship progressed further. Not much changed, considering how busy you both were. But any extra time you both had was spent with each other. You knew that your feelings for him had grown, approaching the realm of love. You weren’t going to express those emotions, though. At least not first since you weren’t sure exactly what Aaron’s feelings were. While you knew Aaron was serious about this relationship, you wanted to wait for him to take the emotional confession lead. After all he had been through Aaron deserved to take things at whatever pace he needed too.  It was a good thing you and Aaron had going. Even with having to keep the relationship a secret, it just worked between you two. You started staying at Aaron’s apartment more and more. Jack really seemed to enjoy having you around more often. You relished spending more time with Jack as well. Seeing him and Aaron interacting together and being able to spend time with them both was enough to make you forget about whatever horrible thing you had seen while on a case. Between hotel stays, while traveling for work and staying with Aaron, you barely made it back to your apartment anymore. You didn’t find yourself missing your place all that much. You did manage to get Aaron and Jack to stay the night at your place again once or twice, but it felt more like a vacation home of sorts than your own. Staying at Aaron's had become your happy little normal over a handful of months that helped relieve the burdens of work.

You were currently sitting in Hotch’s office with the door closed. Usually, this could have a chance at being a fun time, but considering Strauss was closed in here with the both of you. It was far from a good time. Hotch was irritated and couldn't completely hide it from his voice, “We won't be going.” You bounced your leg nervously, just listening instead of interrupting the conversation. Both Strauss and Hotch were staring each other down as he continued speaking, “The team has another case. We are needed there.” Strauss still hasn't sat down yet, a power move on her part, “You both have been specifically requested. He refuses to talk to anyone else.” Hotch tenses up and is about to argue. Strauss cuts him off. She starts walking out, “That’s an order.” Strauss opens the door and stops, looking back at both of you, “For BOTH of you.” The door slams closed behind her, leaving both you and Hotch sitting together in silence. Your leg had not stopped bouncing even after Strauss left. Which Hotch easily noticed even as he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Hotch sighs, “You don't have to-” You stop him, “Yes, I do. WE both do.” You weren't happy about this. You were extremely anxious. With anger right behind it, trying to fight to be your dominant emotion. Hotch looks up at you. His face had softened since Strauss left. However, his brow was still furrowed, and he looked beyond annoyed. Hotch watched you, “We don't have to give him the satisfaction…” You stand up, “I don't plan on letting him scare me into not being able to do my job. Let’s go pay Ben Monte a visit and see what the asshole has to tell us.”

Ben Monte. Ben was a particular sore spot with you. He was an unsub from a year or so ago. Ben had killed eighteen people before the BAU got called in. He was tricky because he didn’t care about race, age, or sex. Ben enjoyed cutting people up while they were still alive and toying with their organs while they could feel it. He chose victims seemingly at random. Only later to find out that Ben liked taking people with strong and stubborn personalities. Unfortunately, that means Ben set his sights on you after you and Hotch pulled him in for an interrogation but didn't have any evidence to hold him on. Luckily for you, though, by the time Ben tried to make his move to get you, the team was ready to arrest him. You willingly agreed to go as bait to lure Ben out, and he fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker. But Ben Monte shot you moments before the team could grab him. Ben had never used a gun before, so you hadn’t been wearing a vest. You spent a few days in the hospital but were able to recover without too many issues. There were some nightmares, but you had put the whole thing behind you. That was until Ben Monte claimed he had other unfound victims and refused to speak to anyone but the team who originally interrogated him. Meaning you and Hotch. You weren't thrilled about it, but if Ben was telling the truth and you could get the information out of him. Then you would suck it up and talk to the monster again.

After the first in-prison interview of sorts, that's when you learned just how much Ben Monte ‘liked’ you. Ben was disgustingly infatuated with you. Since he had only gotten a chance to shoot you and watch you bleed, Ben clung to a fantasy of making you suffer more like he did with all his other victims. Which Ben loved describing in vivid detail to you in between answering the questions you asked him. Ben was so descriptive at times that you could picture the plans he had for you, and it made your stomach churn. You had enough self-control to keep yourself composed during that horrible conversation, but it took a toll afterward. Those scenarios Ben described to you had burrowed their way into your head. Hotch had witnessed you live through this before. Hotch had even seen the aftermath of that interview when you became so tired from the nightmares stopping you from sleeping. Seen the agitation that followed that had caused you to start more than a few fights when anyone questioned you. It took some mandatory therapy to get through it. So you could understand why he was so upset for you. While you appreciate him being so protective of you, you weren't going to let something like this stop you from bringing closure to the families of the victims.

Hotch went to tell the team where you both were going. You went right down to the van, getting into the passenger seat. Normally you wouldn't mind driving, but you didn't think it was a good idea at the moment. Trying not to think about it too much, you try forcing yourself to think about anything else. Aaron gets into the car, takes one look at you, and decides not to start the vehicle. He looks at you, “Do you want to talk about it?” You make a curious humming noise, trying to feign ignorance, “Talk about what?” Aaron scowls at you, “The reason you're holding your side and who we are about to go talk to?” You look down, and indeed your hand had gravitated to your side. You were pressing right on the scar Ben gave you. Consciously realizing what you were doing makes the dull pain in your side come to the front of your senses. You let out a long sigh, “I don't want to talk about it right now…” You frown and look out the window as you finish speaking, “After this little… interview… I’ll probably still not want to talk about it, but I will need to.” You feel Aaron’s hand wrap around the one covering your long healed wound. Your breath catches in your throat, and you tighten your hand around his. Your emotional composure wavered a bit. You knew you couldn't bury your feelings inside forever. You wanted to make it through this accursed trip. Knowing it will at least turn into temporary anger, which would work to your benefit while talking to Ben Monte.

Aaron left his hand in yours even as he started driving. It was silent for a while. Since it was going to be kind of a long drive, you didn't want it to stay quiet. That would give you too much of a chance of getting lost in your thoughts. So you turned back to Hotch, “Let’s talk about something.” Aaron quickly glances at you with an eyebrow raised, “What’s strategy should we go in with?” You laughed when Aaron went right into talking about work, “Nope, we aren't going to talk about work. Not right now.” Aaron flatly states, “We are on the clock.” You roll your eyes, “We've never needed a strategy while interrogating together before.” You lean your head back, “Plus, what kind of work are we supposed to do in a car for like three hours?” Hotch glares over at you. You respond with a whine, “Please just indulge me… the person you happen to be dating by the way…” Aaron’s face softens even as he rolls his eyes, “Resorting to emotional blackmail?” You nod and give him a smug smile, “Anything to get my way.”

Aaron chuckles, shaking his head, “What would you like to talk about then?” You let out a pleased hum, “We should go see a movie soon, take Jack with us and completely turn our phones off. Maybe even leave them at home or in the car, so we don't get called in…” You let yourself trail off. Aaron’s hand tightens around yours, showing some concern. You look out the window, watching the scenery as you add, “Maybe we could take a vacation… somewhere fun…” You can feel his eyes watching you, so you turn to look at him, “What?” Aaron tries to study your face while still driving safely. After a moment, he finally speaks up, “Coming from the person who was so intent on going back to work after being shot that the hospital practically begged me to get you out of there? I think you can understand my cause for concern.” You sigh and nod, “Well, I’m a work-a-holic…” You smile, “But… Since being in a relationship with you, I find it a lot easier to push work aside so I can be with you and Jack.” A smile spreads across Aaron’s face. You playfully roll your eyes, “Don’t let it go to your head. I still enjoy catching bad guys, and I don’t see that drastically changing anytime soon.” Aaron brings your hand up to his face to place a kiss on the back of your hand, “I wouldn't have it any other way.” You smile as you and Aaron start talking about mundane potential plans.

Whatever pleasant conversion you were having with Hotch abruptly stopped when you saw the sign on the side of the road, stating that the prison was only a few miles away. Even if you wanted to continue talking, you couldn't have. Considering your mind went completely blank about what you had just been discussing. Your whole body tenses up, feeling the meeting looming over your head. Your leg starts to bounce. Letting your anxiety out now so you can focus when you get inside the prison. When Hotch parks, your hand separates from his. You practically leap out of the car. Taking a deep breath of fresh air in order to calm yourself. Hotch walks over and waits, letting you take your time. You close your eyes. Pushing all your emotions down and bringing your professional demeanor to the surface. Once you feel as prepared as you’ll ever be, you head up to the prison's main door. You can't help but comment, “I don't understand Ben Monte’s obsession with us.” Hotch follows behind and scoffs, “Unfortunately, he just has an obsession with you. He tolerates me because he knows I won't let you talk to him alone.” You sigh, knowing Hotch was right. Once through the door, you are the one who takes the lead on the introductions, “SSA’s [Y/L/N] and Hotchner.” The guards look over the sheet checking for your names. You start pulling the gun off your belt before they even ask, knowing the drill. Hotch does the same, even taking his second gun out and handing it over.

You felt a bit exposed and vulnerable, but you didn't let yourself dwell on it. Hotch already looked more tense than usual, which was saying something. The guards guided you through the signals to get in and out of the room you would be interviewing Ben Monte in. Once that was understood, both you and Hotch were led into the room. As soon as you saw Ben’s face, you internally started panicking, but you knew how to control every expression and your demeanor. So you kept yourself in check. The door closed behind you both, locking the three of you into a room together.

Instantly Ben Monte lurched towards you, his chains getting caught on the table, “My, My. Look at you. My favorite little canvas.” You stare Ben down, showing only indifference at his statement. You pull the chair at the table out and sit down, “I’m not here to play games… You said you had information for us. If you're wasting my time, then I will leave.” Hotch was standing behind you, glaring down at Ben. Ben looked from Hotch to you, “Ohh… I have so much information for you, but I’ve missed you so much. I’ve only had crime articles you were featured in to sustain me. They don’t take enough pictures of you. I’ve only been able to collect maybe a handful. I like to keep you close to me.” Ben reaches towards you, trying to touch you. You firmly respond, “No.” Ben freezes before pulling back, “You’re such a tease. Only showing me a little blood and then throwing me in here.” You continue your blank stare, “Information or I walk.” Ben grumbles, shifting about in his chair, “You are no fun.” When Ben starts giving you usable information, Hotch sits next to you and takes notes.

Ben stays mostly on topic until he starts talking about what he did to the victim. Ben looks you dead in the eyes, “With that little work of art, I worked too fast. Wasn't as fun.” Ben grins at you, showing all his teeth menacingly, “I learned after that. Taking my time. Like I am with you.” Every part of you wants to tense up and hit Ben in the face, but you control yourself. Ben keeps talking, “I have so many plans for you. Peeling your skin away nice and slow. Maybe even giving it time to grow back. Scars can be exciting things…” Ben lets himself trail off, staring right where he shot you. Hotch tenses up, staring daggers at the serial killer in front of you. You sigh, “This is tedious Ben, if you really called us out here to just play with us, then I will make sure you aren't allowed visitors for the rest of your life.” Ben glares at you this time, “I like the mouth on you, but it only goes so far. Do you think you could still bitch this much if I cut your tongue out?” Hotch speaks up for the first time during the interview, “You will watch how you speak to my agent. We are here as a courtesy to the families of your victims. Not to be part of whatever sick fantasies you have.” Hotch’s voice was loud and stern, intimidating enough to get Ben to comply again. Ben begrudgingly gives you more details about a few other murders he committed.

After giving you some more useful information, Ben slowly gets off topic again, “I've never been one for guns. You're the only work of art I’ve ever shot.” You glare at Ben, “I’m not a work of art, and neither were your victims. You don't own or control anyone.” Ben starts laughing, “Are you sure about that? Maybe I don't own my other playthings… but you… I think me and you share a special connection.” You scoff, rolling your eyes, “We don’t have a connection. You're not the first person who has shot me, and I am sure you won't be the last.” Ben laughs louder, utterly pleased with himself, “I am sure that's true, but me and you share a mark.” Ben doesn’t elaborate further but instead goes into talking about other things, “After you locked me into this place, I’ve had loads of time to think about what I would do to you when I get out of here.” This actually pulls a laugh out of you, “You’re not getting out of here… ever.” You cross your arms, smirking, “I made sure the court gave you life without parole.” Ben doesn’t look overly pleased about your attitude, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing, “I was thinking about cutting you open and poking around inside you.” You show no expression, trying not to think about what Ben says, “Are you done telling me about your other victims then?” Ben doesn't answer. He just continues his psychopathic rambling, “Think you would feel it if I pulled some of your insides to the outside?” Ben went into further detail, being graphically descriptive as he kept going. You felt your stomach churn even as you stared Ben down like you weren’t affected.

Hotch, however, was finished with the games, “That's enough. We are done here.” Hotch stands up quickly, pushing himself away from the table and going to the door. You make no additional acknowledgment to Ben. You just casually raise from your seat and walk to the door. Hotch presses the button to get out. The tone plays, and you wait. Nothing happens. Ben starts laughing again, clapping as he does, “It’s lunchtime. The guard who is supposed to be out there has a real problem of being a chatty Cathy after he gets his food. So you're both stuck with me a while longer.” Hotch tenses up again but turns around ever so slowly, “Is that supposed to scare us? We have dealt with much worse than you.” Ben shrugs, “It should at least unnerve you both. Since I get to keep talking about what I want to do with our favorite little agent.” You turn around, ready to speak up, but then you notice Hotch’s behavior. Hotch went from tense to calm, which wasn't a great sign.

Hotch confidently takes his suit jacket off, before pulling off his necktie in one solid motion. He stands on the outskirts of the room, watching protectively. Hotch stares down Ben the whole time. You couldn't lie to yourself, Hotch’s overly aggressive behavior did make you feel better. Aaron would have never let anything happen to you before when you were just co-workers and friends, but now that you were more than that, there was no way in hell Aaron was going to sit by and watch someone treat you like this. Ben was still smirking and didn't even bother looking at Hotch. Ben just kept looking right at you, “Do you remember when I shot you?” You look at Ben and shrug at him, “It wasn't really that memorable. I’ve been shot before, so you shooting me isn't anything special.” Ben menacingly chuckles, “I remember every second of it. You bleed so well.” Hotch steps closer to him, ready to restrain Ben if need be. He tilts his head, gazing right through your shirt to the spot of the scar he gave you, “I only wish I could have watched for longer…” Ben looks back up at you, “It was hard to manage in prison, but I was able to give myself a little souvenir…” Ben stands up. Hotch, in one quick motion, pins Ben to the wall. Hotch had Ben held to the wall with his forearm on Ben’s throat. Hotch practically growls as he speaks, “I’ve had enough of you threatening my agent.” Ben seemed to enjoy Hotch’s reaction causing him to laugh.

Ben’s laugh was a spine chilling sound. It didn't help that it echoed in the concrete interrogation room. Hotch kept Ben in place, but that didn't stop Ben’s hands from moving. You quickly stood up, ready to help restrain the monster if he tried anything. Ben, however, had another plan in mind. A huge toothy grin spreads over Ben’s face as he lifts the fabric for his prisoner uniform shirt. Revealing practically a mirror image of your own scar on Ben’s body. Your blood turned to ice, and you couldn’t control the fact that your eyes widened. Ben reminisced and traced his fingers over his scar, “It took a lot of effort to get a gun from one of the guards and shoot myself. It was worth it, though…” Ben looks up with his eyes meeting yours, “Now we are connected…” Your so far maintained composure started to shatter. Hotch pushed his arm harder against Ben’s throat. You dug your fingernails into the palms of your hand, hoping it will help keep you grounded as you spoke, “We are not connected. Clearly, you put a lot of thought into wasting your time.”

The best you could do was temporarily dissociate with what was happening, so you didn't give Ben the satisfaction of your emotional response. You stare blankly at the prisoner pinned to the wall, “Prison hasn't been good for your memory… That’s not even where you shot me.” It was a bold-faced lie, but it had the desired effect. Ben’s grin falls off his face, and he glares at you, “Prove it.” You stick your hands into your pockets, scoffing, “I don’t have to prove anything to the likes of you… I already proved you were guilty in a court of law. That's good enough for me.” You are able to force a smile onto your face. This causes Ben to get belligerent, starting to fight against Hotch’s hold. Hotch doesn't flinch and keeps Ben in place. Ben keeps struggling, “Show me then! Prove it!” You didn't know how much longer you could keep the act up, so you decided to give the exit door another shot. You press the buzzer and hear the sound, waiting a moment.

By some miracle, the guard had come back. The guard looked more than confused, “What the hell happened?” You moved out the door without saying another word. You hear Hotch drop Ben to the ground. Immediately Ben starts screaming, and the guard has to restrain Ben. Hearing Ben’s chains yank against the table, “SHOW ME! PROVE IT!” Ben Monte kept repeating this. Even after the room door closed, you could still hear his voice through the walls. Hotch stays behind for a moment, and you overhear him yelling at someone, “Get your damn employees in line. When two agents… fuck when anyone is in a room with a prisoner, you NEVER leave that room unsupervised!” You stopped at a gated checkpoint to wait for Hotch while listening to what was going on. There was a short pause which could only be for the person making an excuse. Because Hotch went right back to yelling, “Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?” There was another pause before Hotch spat out, “Good.” Then you heard him walking down the hall. While you were waiting, that’s when you first noticed it, the dull pain in your side. You press the heel of your hand into your scar in hopes of stopping the pain somehow. You look back when you hear Hotch walking up to you. Hotch still looked stiff, with his suit jacket and tie thrown over one of his arms. The crumpling pad of paper in his hand showed that Hotch was beyond pissed, but when he saw you were looking at him, he automatically softened up.

While waiting for the guard on the other side of the gate to let you through, Aaron looked down at you, “Are you okay?” You stared at him for a moment, “I don’t know how to answer that right now.” It came out in a much flatter and distant tone then you had planned. You felt a bit numb like you hadn’t fully processed what you just experienced. So you didn’t know how you felt. The only thing you knew for sure was that no matter how much pressure you put on your scar, the pain was getting worse. Aaron further furrowed his brows, and he tried to gauge your overall well being. The automatic door swung open and you walked through it before Aaron had too much of a chance to study you.

The rest of the walkout was silent until you reached the last checkpoint where you could collect your guns before leaving. While the guard was giving you back your items, Aaron stopped before collecting his, “I need to go talk to the warden.” Even feeling as weird as you did, you knew Aaron shouldn’t need to talk to the warden. It didn’t take long for you to figure out Aaron was trying to protect you from further dealings with Ben Monte. Aaron was about to order the warden to ignore any future requests from Ben Monte to speak with you. So you look over and question him, “Why?” Instead of answering, Aaron tries to hand you the car keys. You don’t take them. You narrow your eyes at Aaron, but he doesn’t say anything. So you begrudgingly take the keys. When Aaron walks down the hallway, you wait for a minute before following him. You stay outside the warden’s office door. It could be considered eavesdropping, but it pertains to you and your job, so you didn’t see it as a bad thing.

You could hear the conversation through the walls. Hotch spoke first, “Starting today, you will be restricting Ben Monte’s media access. No more crime articles. Certainly, no information about the BAU. He said he has pictures of Agent [Y/L/N]. Find them. Make sure he is never able to get ahold of anything like that ever again.” You were glad about that part. Knowing Ben had pictures of you made your skin crawl. The warden responds, taken aback, “I… I’ll get that taken care of right away. Were you able to get any useful information out of him?” The pain in your side ramps up, causing you to wince. Hotch responds, “Maybe. We will have to look into it.” There is a short pause, “I will no longer let the BAU answer any requests to speak with Ben Monte. His obsession with my agent has been out of hand for long enough. Ben sees it as a reward of some kind. Strauss will be informed of the situation. Don’t even think about trying to go over my head again.” The warden stumbles over an apology of some kind before they can say anything else Hotch leaves. Hotch sees you and sighs, “You were supposed to go to the car.” You scoff and roll your eyes, “It involved my career, so I was going to listen in. Also, you know I’m a stubborn ass and have issues doing what I’m told.” This was able to pull the slightest smile out of Aaron. It doesn’t last long as he quickly spotted both your hand holding your side and the slight wince still on your face. The worried look falls back onto Aarons’s face.

Despite your surroundings, Aaron gently grabs the back of your neck. He leans down and pulls you closer to him, planting a kiss on your forehead. Surprisingly he holds you there for a second. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to relax a little bit. Some of the previous emotional numbness starts to leave you. Your body lets you become more emotionally vulnerable since you felt safe with Aaron. Feeling yourself go into the early stages of crying, you gently pull away. Aaron lets you go. Blinking rapidly, you were able to stop yourself from crying for the moment. The grimace that covered Aaron’s face was a giveaway that he saw the emotions on your face, not that you were doing particularly well at hiding them. Aaron gives you a gentle nudge so you can both finally leave this horrible place. You head out to the car while Aaron gets his firearms back from the guards.

Your subconscious mind seemed to know that prisons were a work area, so you had to control your emotions, but outside was a whole other story. As soon as you step outside the threshold, a new wave of emotions hit you. Your subconscious completely shuts down the emotional barrier that was letting you stay professional. The first feeling that hit you was nausea. You quickly get away from the prison before moving around the corner of a building so you could have a sliver of privacy. You were able to keep the nausea at bay. That was until you remembered the fact that you now had a brand linking you to Ben Monte. That’s when you lost it. You could handle a lot of the job. You had handled so much, but this made you feel violated. You got sick right then, bracing yourself on the wall. It took a few minutes for your body to stop. When your body ceases shaking, you stand there for a moment to regain your baring and catch your breath. Looking yourself over, you were lucky enough not to have gotten anything on you. You spit a few times to try to get the taste out of your mouth. You wanted out of here. You wanted to shower for more reasons than one. You turned the corner and saw Aaron automatically watching you as he stood by the car. You were catching the tail end of a conversation Aaron was having on the phone.

Aaron’s eyes followed you, “It was worse than I anticipated.” There was a pause, and you walked around to one of the car's back doors, opening it. Crossing your fingers that you had your go-bag in the vehicle. Aaron let out a sigh, “If you guys have the case handled, I don’t think I’ll be bringing them into work today. They need some time off.” You peaked up and glared at Aaron. He was still monitoring you through the car windows. You roll your eyes and finally find your bag, pulling it to you to dig through it. Aaron gives a slight nod as he responds, “Of course, I’ll stay with them to make sure they are alright.” You find what you were searching for, your bag of toiletries. You pull out your travel toothbrush and toothpaste and start brushing the awful acidy taste out of your mouth. Aaron keeps talking on the phone for a moment. You finish up by using your travel-sized bottle of mouthwash to rinse out your mouth. Spitting it out when you’re finished. You get into the passenger seat. Aaron was still on the phone and kept watching you. You glared at him as he did, but Aaron was utterly unfazed by it. When he finished talking, he got right into the car.

You immediately argued with him, “Aaron, I am not going to sit at my house while you and the team go and do work.” You sigh, “I will go stir crazy.” Aaron looked very unamused, “You need to take some time off. At least a day. I would prefer you to take more off.” You glare at him, “I am fine to go back to work. It wasn’t that bad. I don’t need any time off.” You were already more agitated than usual, and you knew it. But sitting at home by yourself with only your thoughts sounded like pure torture. Aaron stares you down, the stern face he normally wears at work showing, “You are taking today off.” You grumble, “Is that an order?” Hotch nods, “Yes.” He answers in a very stern tone, not leaving a whole lot of room for argument. You knew you were being entirely unreasonable, but that didn’t stop you, “As my boss or as my boyfriend?” Hotch closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Both.” Aaron sighs before looking at you with soft eyes, “Please.” You had more fight in you, but seeing Aaron’s face made you readily concede. You nod and huff, “Fine.” Moving in your seat and looking out the window. Silence filled the air as Aaron turned on the car and started driving.

Aaron didn’t let it stay silent for too long. Knowing you well enough that you would retreat into your head if it was quiet for too long. So Aaron was the first to speak up, “You know, I never said I was taking you to your place.” You had zoned out. His voice had pulled you back into reality. Not catching his whole sentence, you look over at Aaron and ask, “What?” Aaron looks at you, the ghost of a smile on his face, “I didn’t plan on taking you back at your apartment.” You make a confused face, which turns to annoyance. You immediately get belligerent again, “Ohh, yes, because sitting alone at your apartment would be so much better than sitting alone at my apartment.” Aaron glared at you, his annoyance starting to show again. You wish you could have said this was the first time you two talked to each other like this. It was admittedly one of the reasons you both got along so well. A pair of hard-headed assholes who could yell at each other without too many hard feelings. You glared right back at Aaron, “I appreciate the thought, I suppose, but I might as well just be at my place if I’m going to be all alone anyway.” Aaron’s glare intensifies, “Like I would leave you to your own devices even if I wanted to right now.” You narrow your eyes at him, trying to figure out what he means, “Isn't that what you were just saying?” Aaron’s voice became more stern, even raising his voice, “Would you just listen to me?” You let out a defiant huff but stay quiet. Aaron keeps the stern tone but lowers the volume, “You will be coming to stay at my apartment, AND I’ll be there with you.” Now you were a bit surprised, “You would ditch work just to babysit me?” Aaron’s face softens, “I wouldn’t call it babysitting. Offering emotional support, maybe?” You frown, “You’re not worried about someone on the team connecting the dots?” Aaron shrugs, “Actually Rossi brought up the idea first when I told him about the situation.” You whine and sigh, “How much did you tell Rossi?” Aaron glances over at you, “Enough.” You let out another whine and sink into your seat. Aaron watches you for a moment, “The team is worried about you. They care about you.” Being immature became one of your defaults when you were emotionally drained. So you made a fake disgusted noise, “Gross, feelings.” Aaron lets out a slight chuckle, “I care about you too.” You let a small smile slide onto your face, “That’s less gross.” Aaron adjusts his hands so he can drive with one hand on the steering wheel while his other hand reached over to you.

You took Aaron’s hand in yours. He gave it a comforting squeeze before getting serious again, “I’m going to have to write a report about what happened.” You groan, “Break the rules just this once? Pretend it never happened?” You knew Aaron would never, but you wanted to playfully give it a shot at least. Aaron shakes his head, “Unfortunately not. Especially since I am going to have to convince Strauss never to send us to see Ben Monte again.” At the mention of his name, you tense up. It wasn’t hard for Aaron to notice, your hand had tightened around his. Aaron gives you a worried look, “We should talk about what happened.” You groan, not wanting to but also knowing you need to. You give in, wanting to get this over with, “Will I be telling this to my boyfriend or my boss?” Aaron looks down at you for a moment, “Your boyfriend.” Aaron gives your hand another squeeze, “I’ll keep anything you tell me out of the report.” Aaron lets out a sigh before adding, “Unless it's something that could compromise your safety or others while you’re on the job.” You nod. Understanding that Aaron couldn’t bend the rules that much just for you and you were completely fine with that. You look out the window, “I know I shouldn’t be this affected by him, he only shot me. I feel like I have dealt with a lot worse. I feel stupid for letting him affect me this much.” Aaron starts running his thumb over the back of your hand, “You’re not stupid. He is overly obsessed with you. That can be very alarming.” Aaron lets out a long sigh, causing you to look over at him. Aaron had a sad look on his face, “Even before Foyet broke into my apartment and…” Aaron let it trail off, letting out another sigh. He skipped over whatever he was about to say to continue with the rest of it, “I was anticipating him making a move at any time. Knowing that someone like that is so fixated on you is not easy to handle mentally.” Aaron glances down at you, your eyes meeting for a moment, “I didn’t admit it to anyone even myself at the time, but it sure as hell affected me. I was only able to keep so much of it under control.” This time you give Aaron’s hand a squeeze returning the gesture he gave you earlier. Emotions were neither you nor Aaron’s strong suits, but you did find it much easier to be open around him. You’d like to think he felt the same way about talking to you as well.

Talking about Ben Monte made your old wound hurt. You just brushed it off as a subconscious correlation. Aaron seemed more worried about it, “You should get it checked out by a doctor.” You make a face, “It’s fine. I know it's just a mental reaction.” Aaron shook his head, “I think it's much more than a subconscious reaction, it had been hurting you since before we got to the prison.” You wave your hand at Aaron, ignoring him. You change the subject, “What I need is a shower and a change of clothes.” Aaron lets out a slightly annoyed sigh but lets you avoid the matter, “We will be home shortly.” You give Aarons hand another squeeze, “Good.” You let it stay quiet for a minute, “When you pick Jack up from school, let's do something fun.” Aaron glances over at you, “What are you thinking?” You shrug, “Anything to forget about today…” You think for a minute, “What about dessert for dinner and a lazy movie night?” Aaron narrows his eyes at you, “Dessert as the main meal?” You could tell he was going to shoot it down, so you decided to take the low road. You pout, “Please? It's been a really tough day. And imagine how cute Jack’s face will be when we tell him.” Aaron glares at you, “Really?” You stick your bottom lip out to pout more. Aaron shakes his head, a smirk on his face, “Fine. But…” You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. Aaron adds, “Only if make an appointment with your doctor.” You grumble but accept it, “That seems about fair.” You smile at Aaron before falling into ideal chit-chat for the rest of the drive.

The car had to be dropped back off at the Bureau, but Aaron was kind enough to drop you off at his apartment first so you could shower. The time you spent alone was only twenty minutes, but it was enough time for the dark thoughts you had been suppressing to come back to the surface. It didn’t help that your scar practically taunted you the whole time you were showering. The healed skin was a mirror of what Ben had done to himself, creating a twisted connection with you. Sure, you had lied to Ben and taken away his satisfaction of being connected to you, but you knew the truth. You took a long shower, trying to wash away the sickening feeling that lingered over you. It only helped a little but not enough to lift the weight you felt in your chest. You got out of the shower and lazily dried off. You were more than ready to get dressed. Then you caught a glimpse of your scar in the mirror. It completely stopped you. You got stuck staring at your old injury, running your fingers over it as you tried to figure out what to do. You didn’t want it to look the same. You wanted to change it.

You got more absorbed into that train of thought then you would care to admit because you didn’t hear Aaron get back home or even hear him open the bathroom door. Aaron’s voice pulled you out of your own head, “Please don’t.” You startle for a moment before glaring over at him, “Don’t what?” You wrap your towel around yourself again and push past him. Aaron gives you a bit of space even as he keeps an eye on you, “I know what you’re thinking.” You were still on edge, so you just scoffed and started getting dressed. Aaron continues, “I can’t stop you. At least don’t do it yourself.” You huff and tug on your pajama pants, “Don’t do what myself? I wasn’t thinking about anything.” Aaron sighs and crosses his arms, “You were thinking about ‘correcting’ the look of the scar yourself.” He was dead on which shouldn’t have surprised you, but it still stopped you for a second. You shook your head before starting to pull your shirt over your head. In an attempt to ignore the fact he was right, you stayed quiet and turned away. It doesn’t take long for Aaron to walk up behind you and wrap his arms around you. He pulls you into him, “I don’t want you to cause any more damage to yourself.” You sigh and lean back into him. Closing your eyes tight to hold in your emotions as you nod. Aaron kisses the top of your head, “Let’s go relax and forget about this for the moment.” You offer another nod. Aaron gently lets go of you, and you wipe away wherever tears were forming in your eyes. Aaron starts changing, and you take this opportunity to pour both of you a drink. By the time you got back out to the living room, Aaron was already sitting on the couch, watching something on tv. You set his drink down for him. Then you proceed to drape yourself over him pathetically. Straddling his lap as you sat down, leaning into his chest. Aaron just wrapped his arms around you and let you stay there as you lazily sipped at your drink. You stayed like that for a few hours until it was time for Jack to get off school. You kissed him before peeling yourself off of Aaron. Flopping back onto the couch so Aaron could grab his son. You lazily watched tv finally feeling more relaxed after spending some time with Aaron. When you heard the front door unlocking, you immediately perked up.

As soon as Jack ran into the house and saw you, all the events of the day seemed like a distant memory. Jack tackled you with a hug, excited that you were here. You found yourself smiling again as you and Aaron talked with the little boy about how his day was and what he learned. You broke the surprise to Jack about dessert for dinner. Jack was practically bouncing with excitement at the news. After dishing out healthy bowls of ice cream for all three of you, it was time to sit on the couch. It was such a lovely time as the three of you enjoyed each other’s company. Typically Jack always curled up with his father when he got tired, but as the night wound down this time, Jack came over to you. Jack climbed onto you and cuddled up with you. You looked down at him and held him close, rubbing his back as he started to drift off. For the first time today, you felt yourself getting emotional for a good reason. You slowly moved, so you were resting against Aaron. Aaron wrapped an arm protectively over the two of you, and you felt an overwhelming feeling of comfort and safety. The three of you sat like this for a few more hours until it was officially late enough to go to bed. You gently woke up Jack and helped him get ready for bed. Once Aaron had tucked Jack into bed, both you and Aaron went to lay down yourselves. You laid down, and Aaron wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in close to him again. Feeling safe and secure, you were able to fall asleep with much more ease then you thought.

Continuation of Co-Conspirators – Part 1–Part 2–Part 3–Part 4*–Part 5–Part 6

@dr-reid-ismyspiritanimal @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @winterparkers

@thosesteelblueeyesaremysafeplace

[caesthetix]

KIDS IN LOVE — Pt. 2 Second Chances

↪Porco Galliard mini-series

↪content; canon universe, description of violence, unrequited love, admiring from afar, season 4 spoiler, manga spoiler 127

"I know I once told you that no one will save you at war."

You seared the blade to a tree, chopping down some of the branches with precise cut, wanting to get used to the feeling that was still so foreign to you. Days ago, the only sharp equipment that you ever used was just a chef's knife.

"But, I will."

Who would have thought that now, both of your hands were occupied with the Eldian Military's gear? Two pairs of steel blades, with the first purpose, were used to kill titans, now could be used to kill humans too.

"And what makes you change your mind, eh, Pock?"

Just like cutting down meat, you knew how it was to use knives, stabbing another human with it or seared it deep within a titan's nape would be easy. Like cutting open a bread, yes, just think of it that way.

"Hmm? You tell me, kid."

Using the blades was one thing, but getting used to the manoeuvre gear was something else indeed. You felt like throwing up at some of your first tries, but you kept reminding yourself of your goal.

"Maybe because now, you are worth saving for."

"Fuck!" You cursed as you kept practising, didn't back down even though your hands were now bruised with how much you held the blade. Mikasa, one of the Survey Corps was kind enough to give you some pointers. Of course after Hange told them how you pleaded to be a part of their mission.

"But promise me here, (Y/n)."

You couldn't back down without a fight, and being in a military branch got you some skills. Including hand-to-hand combat and gun use. But you needed more than that, you had to be stronger. You needed to fulfill a promise that you made a few months back.

"No matter what happened, I want you to keep that mindless dream of yours."

"That's enough for now, (Y/n)."

You landed on the branch not too far from where you flew through before. Letting out a sigh, you were sure that you still had a lot of energy to spare. You needed to be more than this, if you were going to survive in this world, you had to be like them. "Your blades started to get dull, that's enough."

Looking down your hand, you examined the hard steel, finding a lot of pitted metal along the edge of the blade. You frowned, the downside of practising was of course another loss for the supplies. But the commander was kind enough to let you stay with them, and even command the others to teach you to fight.

"I am sorry." You turned to face Mikasa before you sheathed your blades. Even though it started to get dull, you could still use it to practice your hand movement later on. Getting down from the branch, you hopped down in front of the ravenette who gave you a firm nod.

"There's nothing to be sorry for." Her voice was calm as she dismissed your apology. "I am certain there are enough supplies for all of us." She gave you a small smile and a pat on the shoulder before beckoning you to follow her.

Today, you were going to meet other people that would join the team. There were only eight people in your group right now; seven from the survey corps, including Annie, and then the misfit, you. And if they wanted to have more chance in succeeding this, it would need more than this suicidal group.

Your gaze fleeted towards the ravenette as you flew a few feet behind her. You felt warm in your heart as you realised how she started to treat you like a comrade. With a few reassurance smiles, small pat on the back and shoulder, it felt like this was a place where you belong.

She was intimidating before. You remembered how the survey corps eyed you with caution as you walked behind Hange a few days ago, with Jean and Mikasa trailing behind to keep an eye on you. You were not going to blame them over that, your people had put so much misery to those demons in Paradis after all.

But as you gave them a perfect salute, proving them that you were not going to be a deadweight, that you would put your life on the line to fight alongside them — slowly, they started to see you as more than a hopeless chef from Marley.

From a little kid to a military chef, now a soldier.

Not even your past self would believe that.

"Come on, you can punch me harder than that!"

Porco roared as he swung his fist on your ribcage. You gasp and cough with the impact that you just received, cursing under your breath as you got pushed to the ground by the force, face planted to the dirty ground.

"Porco that's enough!" Colt was eyeing the sparring with worry. From how you and the jaw titan inheritor interacted, it sure looked like the two of you were trying to kill each other. "For God's sake, you are too much!"

"I am fine!" You gritted your teeth, trying to stand up with your already trembled arms and legs. This was nothing, if you were going to be in a war, a mere bruise on your body was nothing. "I am fine, Colt. Don't worry." And you finally stood up, perfecting your stance once again with your eyes locked to your opponent.

Your old friend was smirking by now, a little bit sadistic, yet you could see a glint of pride dancing inside his grey eyes.

"There you go, kid." He chuckled, spitting some blood that occurred from your punch on his jaw before. "Now go on, try to—"

"I am not a kid!" You charged, a lot faster and pliant as you punched his face once again. He did not expect that, and you surely wouldn't think that he would be stumbling backward from your punch.

It felt like everything happened in slow motion as he fell to the ground, cursing and muttering how you were getting good in this. Your mouth gaped with awe from your own force. "Holy shit, I did that." You laugh, a little mocking as you see Porco still laid on the ground, as if processing the fact that he was knocked down by you. "Colt, I did that!"

"You did that!" Colt piped up and raised his arms to cheer at you, hyping the little victory while ignoring the glare that he received from his fellow warrior. "You smacked him down with your power!"

"Oh, shut up." Porco could only groan as he sat up, glaring daggers at you from being so full of yourself for just a punch.

You just continued to laugh and shout with Colt, just like a kid you were. It didn't surprise anyone that you would be so close with him with how similar your personality was. Porco wanted to snarl at you, or maybe challenging you to another round.

Yet he couldn't help but smile as he saw your face written with so much pride.

And he thanked God that you didn't focus on him at the moment.

"Stop." Mikasa settled down on one of the branches with you following right after. The two of you were hidden from plain sight, your eyes followed where she landed her gaze, black orbs observed like a hawk. "They are here."

Your pupils dilated as you saw the new ally. You knew who they were, and you were pretty sure that your new comrade had made an acquaintance with them from the infiltration in Marley and the attack a few days ago.

The ravenette eyeing you, trying to understand what was happening in your eyes. She waited for you to do something, perhaps rushing to them from your longing of home.

But you stayed still, calm demeanour was taking over you as you waited.

"Why don't you go to them?" She asked with pure curiosity in her voice. You blinked, raising one of your eyebrows as you turned to face her. "They are your people. Why are you not rushing to them?"

"What—" You cleared your throat, somehow understanding her point for asking that. You looked down once again to take a look at General Magath talking to Commander Hange. "Because I am a soldier now." You stated, gripping the operating device in your hand a little tighter. "And I haven't got a command to be dismissed."

Mikasa gave you a small hum, satisfied with your answer and somehow approving your behaviour. She rested his hand on your shoulder, gripping it slightly before gesticulating for you to follow her.

"Then come on." She aimed the hook at the tree in front of you. "Let's get you to meet your old friends."

"I still don't like the fact that you are here."

The sky was dark blue right now as you stood and leaned your body on the railing. All the other warriors were partying inside, celebrating their winning over a war of another country. You had enough of the alcohol and endless chant, deciding to catch some fresh air on the balcony.

You enjoyed the silent moment, just you and the moonlight that shone your vision. Until he suddenly walked outside and decided to join you.

Closing your eyes, you let out a long sigh to calm yourself down. This was not the first time you heard your old friend throwing his snide remark.

"Hm, I am here anyway. So you better get used to that."

You answered him without bothering to turn your body around. Twirling the glass of water in your hand, you focused on it instead of him who thought it was a good thing to join you. He didn't make any space as he leaned to the railing right beside from where you were. Weird, he never liked to be around when you were chatting up with the others.

Yet here he was, arms grazing yours, so comfortable as if standing beside you was his favourite spot.

You didn't complain though as you lifted your glass and gulped down the water. You subtly look at your left side, choking up in an instant when you meet with your gaze, resulting in you coughing uncontrollably. Porco had been staring at you, a pinkish hue could be seen on his cheek to tell you the state he was in.

Then he laughed, he dared to laugh at you. A full, ridiculous laugh that made him snort here and there. "You looked so stupid!"

"Goodness, Galliard, what the hell are you doing here anyway?" You scoffed, hiding how flustered you were on the inside by acting annoyed. At your words, the laugh subsided down. He cleared his throat, deep in thought as if he was trying to form the right word inside his mind.

You waited, knowing better not to push him. He would never tell you anything if you were not patient, that was what you knew by befriending him throughout your life. Until that day he pushed you away, of course.

"First of all, call me Porco." He huffed, puffing his cheek like a kid. "And I am here because you are alone. I don't want to see Colt take advantage of it." That statement made you raise your eyebrows. You and the future Beast Titan were close, there was nothing wrong with befriending a warrior.

And just like always, he knew what probably clouded your mind. "You do know that Colt takes a liking to you, right? In romantic light?"

"Huh?"

"For God's sake, you are so oblivious."

He grumbled before muttering profanities and some mockery under his breath. His cheeks that were pink before now turned into a darker shade of red. Thinking about it by now, you tried to recall how Colt always was the one who greeted you at a meeting, he was caring and putting extra effort to protect you on a mission.

"Oh," That was your only answer. Well, you couldn't blame yourself for not seeing that sooner. No one ever took a liking toward you, at least not in that way. "I-I don't know what to say." You whispered under your breath, frowning as you felt lost.

There was no time for love, that was what you believed with the path that you had right now. Sure it was good to have someone that cared for you with all of their heart, sure it would be good to have a reason to live. But then again, you already had.

And you cursed yourself for being such a hypocrite when it came to love for having your old friend to be the reason.

"Ah, and this is Mikasa Ackerman. I swear all of you are already acquainted with her." Hange's voice was as cheery as ever, ignoring the tensed atmosphere as the ravenette walked to them. "All of you already met with the rest of the team before, but—"

That was your cue, hiding your face a little while wearing the survey corps cape, you walked forward and stood beside Mikasa. "We have a new soldier, and I dare to say that she has become a valuable member from just a few days joining us."

"Soldier?" You tried not to flinch when you heard General Magath scoffed. "She is our chef, and she is a citizen of Marley. So no, she is not a soldier." He said that while still glaring at you as if seeing you on the other side was something humiliating and disgraceful.

Hange hardened their gaze at the word, they had grown protective over you, just like how they always acted for everyone that they considered as a fellow soldier.

"With all due respect, General Magath," You started, voicing yourself first before the commander spoke up. "I may be a chef from Marley, but not after I lost everything." They should have known who you refer to by that. "And so, I decided that I would pursue my freedom while being a part of the survey corps."

Your gaze locked with the older man, refusing to look away as you didn't want to see how Pieck and the others looked at you. The tension was even higher from before because of your action. But then you remembered your place. "I am sorry for speaking up, Commander."

"Hey, now. I told you that you can just call me Hange." They butted in, wanting to keep everyone civil if they were going to work together. "Though regarding her, Magath," Turning his face to the Marleyans, their voice went to a low intonation. "Doesn't matter if she is a soldier or a chef, she is one of us."

Somehow, those words made your heart swell. Sure you were a part of Marley Military before. But they never treated you the same, you were just a chef that was supposed to treat warriors, doctors, and professors. Nothing more than a slave in the kitchen.

If it was not because of your friends and the dream that you had, you might have abandoned your place and resigned.

Now though, hearing the fact that you were a valuable member of them, to be treated like comrades even though you were a new addition, you laughed in your head as you thought about it. How funny, that you even feel more belonged while you were with these so-called demons.

If only you knew that people in Paradis were just a human like the rest of you, you wouldn't want to be a part of the Marley Military itself. But now, it was too late to fix things. So the right thing to do — was to achieve both your freedom, and theirs.

↪Back to Wall Maria

↪Send an ask if you want to be a citizen of Paradis (taglist)!

[sxveme-2]

Strawberry Pancakes // Bucky Barnes

MASTERLIST

SEQUEL TO BLUEBERRY PANCAKES

DESCRIPTION: Lily Osborne and Bucky Barnes were never blessed with an easy relationship. Whether it be emotional trauma, or Lily's parents trying to be evil scientists. But they somehow made it work, after coming together once again after the birth of Lily's nephew. They were smooth sailing for a while. He proposed, they got engaged, but have yet to marry. While also juggling raising a teenager together as Hunter reaches the age of 16 now. All the while struggling with adjusting to their new lives in Long Island, balancing careers. Meanwhile, Lily struggles with the new found fame of being the fiancé of The White Wolf; and handling the tabloids critiques on her life and gossip columns digging up any information they can on her. While trying to maintain a low profile; and handle her life as it is. And becoming parents. Lily for the second time, while Bucky, well, this is his first attempt at a biological child. All the while a new threat from their past rises up once again, blind siding the family. Bringing forward old hatchets that had been buried, and putting their relationship at risk once more.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any original Marvel characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else

STATUS: Unedited

NOTES: Takes place after endgame. I have elected to ignore Tony's death and Steve's leaving. Did not happen. Quick Reminder! My works are only published here, AO3 and on Wattpad, thank you.

Chapter Five: The One With Her Uncle

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 2286

     "Keep five feet away," Lily snapped, eyes not wavering from the man that stood on her porch, "Bucky go keep the kids upstairs."

No one argued with Lily as she grabbed a shoe and stepped out onto the sandalwood porch where the man stood. Her eyes stayed glued to his, though hers burned with a fiery rage that could only be described as murderous. The light spring breeze of Long Island danced along Lily's exposed legs as the door shut behind her. Everything inside of her wanted to grab the gun that Bucky always kept near the bed and threaten the man within an inch of his life, seeing as he deserved it.

But what kind of sister would she be then?

"Surprised you're even giving me the time of day," Cedar whispered, stuffing his hands deep within his pockets, "After everything that happened."

Lily stayed silent, eyes lowering as she continued to kill her brother a thousand times over in her head. He had nerve showing up at her home, where her kids were. Of course, he had no idea Stella even existed. She didn't bother keeping in contact with him or her parents when they were in prison. The only way he would have known about Stella, or Leo for that matter, would be if Rose had told him. But as far as the eldest Osborne knew, she didn't bother seeing them either.

"You have five minutes to explain how you're here before I call the police because you're trespassing," Lily stated, face blank as she stared down her brother, "Any longer and I'll throw this shoe at your head."

"Awfully small shoe for you, Bucky, and Hunter," Cedar joked, seemingly attempting to lighten the mood.

Glancing to the side, Lily noticed she had grabbed one of Stella's Crocs. She smiled softly at it before returning to her stone-cold facade. As far as Lily was concerned, Cedar had no business knowing that he had a niece sitting in the house they were both standing in front of. He had no business knowing what was going on in Lily's personal life. And she had no intention of telling him anything explicit.

"I'm going to guess that you've had another kid," Cedar sighed, "Can I at least ask her name?"

"Stella. You have three minutes," she sighed, shifting her weight.

"I was released because they dubbed me a victim," Cedar shrugged, rocking back and forth on his feet, "I have to attend court-mandated therapy and I'm on probation for a bit just in case. I got in contact with Scott and asked him where you were living now. I don't have anywhere else to go."

Lily felt her heart long to embrace her younger brother. But the rational side of her reminded him of the terrible trauma he had caused her and Hunter. The things he said to her the day he was arrested. They still haunted her at night, kept her wondering what else she could have done to help him. To protect him from the terrible things her parents forced him into. He was her baby brother, her only brother. And there he stood on her front porch, asking for help. What could she do? Say no?

"Try Rose," Lily stated simply, turning and walking back into the house without risking another glance at the frail boy on her porch.

When she shut the door, Lily saw Hunter and Bucky standing on the landing of the stairs. They both looked crestfallen and upset, but Lily didn't know what else to do. He had hurt her and her son more than words could truly describe. She used to drop everything for Cedar. And yet there she was, standing on the other side of the door where she knew he was still standing. Hoping and praying for his big sister to change her mind. He had been released on probation and as a victim. The legal system trusted him enough to let him walk free. Why couldn't she?

"He can stay in the guest room," Bucky whispered, squeezing Hunter's shoulder, "Rebecca's heading back into the city today."

Lily let out a breathy sigh before twisting the doorknob once again, opening the painted wood. Stepping around the other side, she noticed he was still there, just as she had predicted. His eyes were soft and his cheeks were hollow. It broke Lily's heart to see him in such a solemn state. This wasn't her brother. This was the same shell she had seen all of those years ago when he had asked her for help. When he needed her the most. And she used that against him.

"She's asleep, but you can meet her when she wakes up," Lily nodded, opening the door wider for her brother.

-----

An hour or so later, Lily found herself terrified for Stella to meet her Uncle. It was just the week before when she had asked if she'd ever get to meet him. It was ironic timing, to say the least. She knew that Stella would be overjoyed to meet Cedar and she was sure he'd be a dotting Uncle. But it didn't help the fact she was terrified that he would use her and manipulate her family to work in his favour.

After getting dressed in a pair of loose jeans, a flowy gray t-shirt and one of Bucky's flannels, Lily raised her daughter from a dead sleep. The young brunette whined as the light hit her eyes, earning a gentle laugh from her mother. Dressing Stella in a white shirt with frills at the top and a pair of red overalls, Lily prepared herself for the man downstairs to meet her. She brushed out her long dark hair before placing a gentle kiss on the girl's forehead and scooping her into her arms and shutting the door behind her.

"There's someone here who is very excited to meet you," Lily whispered into Stella's ear, earning a giggle from the girl, "Any guesses?

"...A new puppy?"

"You won't give that one up will you?" Lily laughed as she landed on the main floor of their home, "No. Chandler and Joey are enough as it is. Plus Alpine. The best I could do is get you a fish."

"Fish smell," Stella cringed, "Hunter and I went fishing. I don't like them."

Lily shook her head and laughed at her daughter's story before rounding the corner of the living room where the rest of the family sat, attempting conversation. Even from the threshold, Lily could feel the awkward tension that laid heavily in the room. Pursing her lips, the blonde continued her entry, Cedar watching her with a sad look in his eyes as he admired Stella.

"Stella, this is your Uncle Cedar," Lily cooed, placing the four-year-old down on the floor, where she ran into Bucky's legs beside her mother, "Remember you were asking about him last week?"

"Well aren't you so pretty," Cedar cooed, bending down from the couch so that he was at eye-level with the girl, "It's nice to finally meet you, Stella."

Lily watched carefully at her daughter's reaction. The best judge of character were dogs and young children. And the dogs were in the backyard, so Lily was selfishly relying on her young daughter to see. If Stella was uncomfortable with Cedar, there would be no questions. He would have to find somewhere else to say. If Hunter even showed an inkling of discomfort around his Uncle, Lily had no issue book a hotel for the man. If anyone, and she truly means anyone, found issues with Cedar, there was no doubt in Lily's mind that she would have him leave without a second thought.

"Everything alright, darling?" Bucky said in a hushed voice, running his flesh hand down Stella's, "He's your Uncle it's okay. I promise, nothing will ever hurt you. As long as I live."

"Yeah, remember meeting Aunt Mary for the first time?" Hunter piped up, "You were so confused as to why she was black and white in all her photos, same with Aunt Frances. You thought they were ghosts. But then Dad told you that we'd protect you from everything, even ghosts," he cooed, bending down so he was face to face with Stella, "Uncle Cedar won't hurt you. I promise."

Lily felt tears gather in her bottom brim, threatening to pour over as she watched her two boys comfort the young girl who was clearly hesitant with new people. She chuckled softly as Hunter raised her pointer finger, prompting his little sister to make the same promises he and Lily used to make before he went to Scott's. Lily's heart grew ten sizes as Stella wrapped her smaller finger around her big brothers before turning and walking over to her Uncle with her arm outstretched.

"I'm Stella Barnes."

-----

"You let him in your house?" Rose scoffed as she took a sip of her wine, almost spraying it all over Lily.

Lily pursed her lips as she glanced between her sister and best friend. She knew they wouldn't take it well when she told them she and Bucky agreed to let Cedar stay with them. It was only a natural reaction. Even Lily was still hesitant to let him stay. But Bucky seemed confident that it was okay and that Cedar would be fine. It surprised Lily, how much faith he had in the law and the legal system. Especially after the life he has had.

"And Stella actually went up to him?" Gen asked as she took a quick sip of her wine, "It took that girl almost a year before she even let me hold her."

It was true. Stella and Gen did not have the best start to their relationship. Despite being the baby's godmother, Stella despised Gen for the first bit of her life. If Gen even attempted to pick up the newborn, Stella would scream bloody murder. Lily was terrified that her daughter had an innate dislike towards her best friend. Luckily, the Barnes child was able to outgrow the distaste towards Gen and now looked forward to the times her 'Auntie Genny' would babysit her. Which wasn't often, seeing as both Lily and Bucky were homebodies. But it happens every once and a while.

"I was just as surprised as you guys," Lily admitted, shrugging as she leaned back in her seat at the table, "I almost cancelled dinner tonight because I was too worried to leave everyone home with him."

"Yeah but Bucky and Sam are there, so is Hunter," Rose sighed, crossing her legs and shaking her head, "I would have told him to get lost."

"I did at first," Lily chuckled, running a hand through her blonde hair, "Told him to go to you. But when I went back inside...I just couldn't do it."

She knew it wouldn't be forever. There was no way in hell she was letting Cedar squat at her home and live off of her and Bucky's hard work. He had managed to get himself into the mess. But that didn't mean Lily wouldn't be a loving big sister and let him stay for a bit. She knew Bucky agreed, seeing as he was the one who gave her the look that convinced her to let him stay.

"You said he got your address from Scott?" Rose asked, smiling as the server placed the three women's food on the table, "Wonder why that was the first place he decided to go."

"Well, it's not like he would have the nerve to show up at your place." Gen shrugged at the younger Osborne sister.

"I would have thrown one of Leo's toys at him without a second thought," Rose sighed, twirling pasta onto her fork, "The audacity he has to just show up at your doorstep though."

"He was released by the court," Lily sighed, shaking her head, "I don't trust him fully but I couldn't just toss him out onto the street. No one could survive the streets of Long Island."

"You're nicer than most people though, Lily," Gen sighed, taking another swig of wine, "I'm with Rose. Honestly surprised Bucky didn't stare him down so much he ran away in fear."

Lily chuckled softly as she cut into the chicken parmesan she had ordered. A light conversation ensued as the girls began each of their dinners, all now a bit relieved that the elephant in the room had been talked out. Lily still wasn't entirely confident in the decision she had made to allow Cedar to stay with them. She worried that he was just using her to his advantage. If that were the case, Lily had just put her entire family in danger. But it was Cedar...he was her baby brother.

Lily lifted her gaze from her food and felt the air escape from her lungs. Just across the room sat two people Lily would have killed to keep apart from one another. They were talking in hushed voices, each glancing from side to side constantly as if they were ensuring that their surroundings weren't listening in on whatever conversation they were having.

She could have gone her entire life without having to see the two of them together. Sharing a meal and talking back and forth. She wondered what on earth they could have been talking about. The only thing that they had in common was Lily. And barely so for one of the parties. But there the two sat, leaning over the table and speaking with one another as though there were unspeakable secrets being shared.

"You alright, Lil?" Gen asked, placing her hand on her best friends.

"Walker's here. With Scott."