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butyoudidthis4what · 6 days ago

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No Man's Land Part 3

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

You can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here!

25.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: mentions of blood, mentions of guns/shootings/gunshot wounds, mentions of suicide/suicidal ideation, CPR, mentions of jack's injury and losing his foot, anxiety about partner's safety, angst (kind of), very emotional, probably incorrect description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, reader wears Jack’s clothes, self-hate, Robby has been to therapy, fighting/arguing (no raised voices), unprotected PIV sex (BC implied with their committed relationship), allusions to sex and oral sex, discussion of end of life wishes, descriptions of nightmares, discussion of someone dying in front of reader, panic attacks, vomiting (very brief, not reader), discussion of scars/wounds, grief, mention of UTI, myrna, reader likes candles, Jack is the best, I had this idea and started drafting before we knew Jack was a widow so in this world he has never been married, no use of y/n or related, not really proofread.

Summary: Healing is hard. Emotions abound. Somehow life goes on. [Author continues to suck at summaries.]

AN: I am so sorry this took so long 😅 The vignettes have a bit of a different feel here because the way we are moving through time is much different and on a larger scale. But each vignette 'happened' before the scene it precedes. Part 4 is already like 75% of the way done so it will not be as long of a wait, I promise 😭 I know some wanted it all at once and I'm sorry it isn't, but I can offer as an apology the fact that because we're getting another part we're getting more content both in Part 3 and in Part 4!! Also I promise Quiet Part 2 is next up after Part 4. Thank you all so much for your patience and support and for reading!! Your replies and likes and reblogs mean so so much to me and I know we're all busy so I really appreciate you taking the time to read whatever it is I do here ♥️

After the housewarming party, life is good. You and Jack are still home together while you recover, in love and soaking each other in and planning France and dreaming out loud about your wedding. And healing. Individually and together.

Things get harder though.

You’re both in therapy, yes, but you’ve been through a lot in the last month and a bit, and an hour a week only does so much. You’re both struggling, struggling a little harder now that the kind of honeymoon period of you getting home from the hospital has passed.

You and Jack talk about it sometimes, about how things feel harder in a way all of the sudden now that you’re not focusing on being home finally and getting your place painted and all moved into. You think it’s just because you have lost some of that distraction. The reality of what happened starts to sink in deeper. Especially because things are ostensibly returning to normal but not really.

Because normal isn’t being at home together while you’re recovering. You’re back to that hospital feeling of waiting. Waiting for you to recover enough for the next step to get taken. Jack going back to work. You going back to work. The return of your true new normal.

So things get a little harder, emotions more intense. Some days it feels like you guys are taking more steps backward than forward. But you’re taking those steps in whatever direction together and you have each other and are in love and that’s all either of you need at the end of the day. Each other and your love.

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

It’s day four.

Four days now you’ve been in a coma. Four days with no signs of waking up soon, even after they weaned you off the meds that had been keeping you under to help you heal. No twitch of your fingers or toes, no flutter of your eyelashes, no little grunt, no breathing over the vent. Nothing. Just you laying there in a hospital bed. Technically still alive and with him, but are you really?

Jack stretches out. He hasn’t left the hospital since you got shot. Literally has not set foot out of the building, hasn’t gone to the roof or out into the ambulance bay or gone through the main doors to stand on the street.

Dana brought him in clothes and toiletries. She brought some for you too, telling Jack that you’d want them as soon as you were awake. Half of Jack wanted to scream at her for tempting fate like that, now that she brought them there would be no use for them because you’d never wake up.

And half of him wanted to just sob into her because he knows that as much as she did bring them for you, she brought them for him. To give him the option of smelling like you, or just smelling your shampoo to smell you for a second. To give him a shirt of yours to keep near his head when he tries to get an hour of sleep. It helped once. He was actually able to grab a couple of hours.

It’s not the same though, because those products haven’t mixed with your body chemistry to become the unique scent that is you. But it’s better than nothing. Because until Dana had brought it in for him he’d forgotten what you smelled like.

He’d forgotten what you sounded like too. The sound of your voice, the way you say his name. The way you say you love him. Your laugh. He just couldn’t hear it in his head. He cracked on day three and listened to a voicemail you left him, watched a video of the two of you that you’d taken one day. It was comforting to be able to remember what you sound like and what you look like when you smile, to have those little pieces of you back in his mind. But it was also a devastating reminder of what he might lose.

Your things, the voicemails you’ve left him and the videos and photos you’ve taken together might be all he really has left of you at the end of this. The realization had made him dry heave a little.

Robby walks in as Jack is stretching, hands him a coffee and a brown bag. Breakfast. “You have to eat if you want the coffee or else it’s just going to shoot up your heart rate and give you more anxiety.”

Jack looks at him almost blankly as he sits down in the chair on the other side of your bed across from Jack. “I’m still a doctor, you know?” The words hit Jack. “A fucking shitty one apparently. I can’t even fix her. This shit is what I do and I’ve saved so many people but the one fucking person who actually matters.” Jack shakes his head. “And nothing.”

Robby cocks his head at him. “No doctor could fix this Jack. She’s in a coma. You’re making sure she gets the best care possible. That’s all anyone could do for her right now, doctor or not.”

Jack waves Robby off, takes a sip of the coffee but makes no move for the bag. It earns him a look from Robby that he ignores. They sit in silence for a bit. It’s hard to come up with things to say. But Robby knows Jack needs to start thinking about it. It’s still very far down the line but it’ll be better for him to start thinking and coming to terms with it now, Robby thinks.

“Jack.” Jack pulls his eyes off you and over to Robby. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

Deep down Jack knows exactly what Robby’s question means. But he doesn’t let himself go there. He can’t. Robby will have to spell it out for him. “What I’m going to do about what?”

“What you’re going to do if down the line she heals physically but doesn’t wake up?” Robby says quietly, as though saying it lower will make it somehow less painful, pull less of a reaction from Jack.

“What the fuck is that? Why the fuck would you even bring that up?” Jack snaps at him. While you were awake after surgery you’d signed a healthcare proxy giving Jack the authority to make treatment and end of life decisions for you. It had been just in case. Better to have it because then you would never need it right? Wrong. “We’re so the fuck far away from that. She’s not even healed. You and Dana are the ones that keep saying ‘it’s only been four days Jack give her time’ and now you’re coming at me with this bullshit?”

“I’m not coming at you with anything. Just asking a question because maybe it’s better to start preparing now for something you’ll never have to do than to be unprepared.” Robby shrugs.

Jack doesn’t say anything, just looks back at you. He scoots his chair closer so that he can hold your hand. You’re just so goddamn still. It’s unnatural. Even the way you breathe is, it’s mechanical. Chest rising and falling in time with the clicks of the vent.

“I know that I don’t really know her, Jack, and certainly don’t know her well. But just from the little bit of time I have been able to get to know her I don’t think she’d want this Jack. Not indefinitely. I don’t think she’d want machines keeping her alive.” Robby watches Jack carefully as Jack takes in his words. Devastation is quickly covered by anger.

“I don’t fucking care. She should wake the fuck up then and not leave this to me. Not make me fucking kill her.” Jack knows his anger at you is misplaced and a cover for how much this conversation is hurting him. Anger is just easier to deal with than heartbreak and grief right now. He sees Robby go to speak. “Just fucking don’t Robby. Don’t. You’re right. You don’t fucking know her. And I don’t care. I don’t fucking care if she wouldn’t want it because I need her. And having her here with me like this is better than not having her at all.” Jack knows how selfish he sounds, how selfish he’s being.

Robby doesn’t say anything, waits until Jack glances over at him, tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, asking him ‘really?’ without a word.

Jack sighs and looks back over at you shaking his head. “No,” he whispers. “She would hate it. We fucking talked about it once, way before this when it was on some show or movie we were watching. It would be cowardly and selfish of me to keep her here like this forever, just so that I wouldn’t have to deal with completely losing her and could live in a perpetual delusion that she’ll wake up tomorrow.” Jack gives a short and hollow laugh through his nose. “Right before I left to go down to the ED and help, we… argued isn’t the right word, but I don’t know what is. She mentioned it, her dying. That if she had already died, in the OR or at the courthouse then I could be properly grieving, and I cut her off but she was going to say that I could be working towards moving on.”

Jack feels guilty for getting angry at you, for being selfish. He knows you’d understand and wouldn’t care and wouldn’t want him to feel guilty but it doesn’t help. He swallows thickly and then takes in a deep breath, squeezing your hand, praying you’ll squeeze it back, even just a little.

“But there’s no moving on from her.” Jack shakes his head as he looks down at you. “The problem is that I don’t think I’ll be strong enough to do it. To sign the damn papers,” Jack admits, voice wet with the tears lining his eyes.

Robby nods slowly. “You are now and you will be then, if that then does ever come. You will because it’s for her. And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen two humans love each other as much as you do, the way you do. She would do anything for you. And I know you’d do anything for her, no matter how much it killed you inside. So I know that if that day ever comes you’ll be strong enough to sign for her, to do that for her.”

Jack’s silent for a minute, trying not to give into the urge to grab your shoulders and shake you awake. “I don’t know Robby. I don’t know how to talk to her like this. I try, but I just never know what to say other than I love her and please come back to me and please don’t leave me alone. And I hate it. She deserves more. For it to not be about me,” he whispers, stands and runs the back of his bent index finger over your face like he’s trying to memorize you. As if he hasn’t already. He’s teary, voice small and raw from all the tears he’s already shed. “So how do I let her be taken from me? How do I give her up, give up on her, tell her it’s okay to let go? How do I stand there and fight all my training and every instinct and just watch her die and know it’s my fault?”

Robby has to take a minute to compose himself because his heart aches for Jack. It’s hard to see your best friend, your brother, contemplating losing the love of his life. Even though all of Jack’s questions are rhetorical he answers the last one.

“You don’t,” he says simply. “You get in bed with her and you hold her and find it within you to talk to her. Tell her all of your favorite memories together. Tell her what she means to you. Tell her you love her. And you stay there in bed holding her until she’s gone.”

Jack takes in a shuddering breath as he sits back down in his chair. “Hope seems so worthless and useless right now even though it’s all I feel like I have left.” Jack grabs your hand again, brushes his thumb over your knuckles. “I hope I never have to sign those papers.”

Robby sniffles a little, not crying, just emotional. “That makes two of us, brother.”

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

“I think you should consider leaving your engagement ring here.” You and Jack are planning more for your trip to France, making packing lists. Well, you’re on the computer planning and making lists and Jack is chopping up ingredients for dinner.

It’s been four days since the housewarming party. You feel like Jack has been more stressed lately, more on edge. Looking at you like he’s terrified of losing you again, like he did at times in the hospital and the first two days you were home.

“Why?” You pout at him from the stool you’re sitting on at the kitchen island. “I want to wear it and show it off and take photos with it on while we’re in France!”

“I know,” Jack hums lowly, his eyebrows raising a little as he focuses on chopping. “I worry about it getting stolen, you getting assaulted for it or something, especially in Paris.”

“But walking around with it on in Pittsburgh is okay?”

He sighs at you. He kind of hates that you said that because now it’s all he can think about. Whether he has put your life in danger for a third time by getting you a nice engagement ring. Because he’s already done it twice. When he didn’t check you over in the trauma room before letting you go and going to help Robby, and when he left to go down to the ED and wasn’t there to notice you going septic and throwing a PE.

You’re the only one who would notice him stiffen the way he does, it’s so slight. You feel bad. You know he’s been struggling more the closer he gets to going back to work and having to leave you alone. Even starting with half shifts. And you know he’s struggling to talk about it with you because he doesn’t want to burden you with it or make you feel any guiltier. You’ve both fallen into that habit a little bit.

“I really don’t think anyone is going to try to steal it off me or assault me to get it when I’m walking around with you.” You raise your eyebrows at him and give him a knowing smile, wait for him to lift his head to look at you once he’s finished chopping. He does.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He points the knife at you teasingly and holds your gaze for a moment before grabbing something else to chop and getting back to it.

“But I don’t want to leave it here Peter!” you almost whine. It makes Jack chuckle to himself a little. “I don’t want to argue about it, but I really want to take it. I like showing it off, like everyone knowing I’m yours.” That makes him look up at you again and you smile at him and nod encouragingly. You can see the possessive look in his eyes, the way he breathes a little bit faster thinking about it. But he just clicks his tongue on the back of his teeth at you and shakes his head as he looks back down. “Okay, how about a compromise?”

“A compromise?” Jack echoes.

“Yes. A compromise.”

There’s a beat where neither of you talk, only the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board. Jack pauses his cutting and looks up at you. “Are you gonna tell me what the compromise is?”

“I’m thinking of one,” you grumble, knowing how satisfied he’s going to be.

“Oh,” he draws the word out teasingly, “she suggests a compromise before she even has one!”

“I’ll come up with one, just give me a minute,” you huff. Jack hums at you again, keeps chopping. “Okay, yes! I have one. What if while we’re in Paris or whatever bigger cities or places you’d prefer I wasn’t wearing it on my finger you wear the ring around a chain on your neck? Even on the same one as your dog tags if you’re bringing them. People are much less likely to try to snatch it from your neck and run, plus it’ll always be covered by your shirt unless you’re going to start wearing deep v-necks, which I doubt.” You smirk.

You watch Jack’s eyes slide from you to the wall behind you and glaze over. It’s clear he’s going back somewhere, you just don’t know where or why or what happened. The smirk slides from your face as it twists into concern.

He goes to say something but stops as your words fully process. Wear the ring around a chain on his neck. Like he did at your funeral.

Jack drops the knife, it falls out of his hand and clatters a bit as it hits the counter. “Jack?” you whisper, your heart rate picking up.

The nightmare plays on fast forward in Jack’s head, every emotion he felt when having it slamming into him all at once and making his head spin. With the massive flood of epinephrine, norepinephrine and cortisol all those emotions cause his body to release, Jack’s turning and leaning over the sink to be sick.

It’s all too much.

“Jack!” You’re off the stool and over by him in a second, rubbing his back. “Hey,” you murmur, “it’s okay, you’re okay.” You have no idea what’s going on with him, but have a feeling.

Jack shakes his head at you as he dry heaves a few more times, trembling like nothing you’ve seen from him before. “I’ve got you.” Your hand keeps rubbing circles on his back soothingly and it’s simultaneously comforting him and burning him, because it’s all too much. There are too many emotions.

You were dead. He was at your funeral. It was so real.

Tears start to stream down his face silently as he rinses the sink and his mouth. “We can get you to bed, okay? I’ll make you some broth if you feel up to it.”

He can hear the anxiety in your voice, the worry for him, your love for him. He loves it, he does, truly, but it almost makes it worse because you were dead. And if you were dead, if you had really died, he wouldn’t have this. He wouldn’t be in sweatpants and an old shirt at home chopping things to make dinner for the two of you while you sit in the kitchen to be with him and plan your trip. You wouldn’t be rubbing his back and so worried about him. You wouldn’t be taking care of him and offering to make him broth.

You simply wouldn’t be.

Jack shakes his head and sniffles. He turns to you and your eyes widen when you see him crying, pain and a heartbreaking and agonizing sorrow etched into his face that threatens to bring you to tears. You immediately know what this is about. He doesn’t need to say anything. He’s not ill. But you’re not sure how to support him, what to say, what exactly is wrong. “Jack what’s-”

You’re cut off by him crumbling in front of you, grabbing at your forearms to pull you closer as he slides down the base cabinets to the floor, bringing you down with him. “I,” he tries to choke out, “I, I…” He shakes his head again.

He can’t speak right now, and you know it. “Okay, it’s okay,” you tell him as you reach for him and pull him close to you as you press your back against the cabinet, letting him almost lay on you.

Jack buries his head in your chest, careful not to press into your still healing sternum too hard, and clings to you, both arms wrapped tightly around you, one diagonal up your back, hand clinging to your shoulder for just a second before it slides over to your neck, two fingers pushing down.

He’s looking for your pulse.

“Oh, Jack,” you whisper, your own voice thick with tears now. “I’m here. I’ve got you baby.” You hold him just as tight, let one hand find his hair and run your fingers through it, scratch at his scalp at times, kiss the top of his head and nuzzle your nose into him in hopes of soothing him. Sometimes you rock a little, but you’re not sure if that’s more to comfort him or yourself.

And you whisper little words of reassurance and, you hope, comfort to him. “I’ve got you.” “I’m here.” “You’re okay.” “I love you.” You hold him and let him weep into you. Let him keep his fingers pressed into your pulse point. Let him cling to you like you’re the only thing left in the world, because to him you are. You’re his whole world.

It kills you, seeing him like this, hurting this badly. This deeply. You know it has to do with what happened, know that it’s been building up in him for a long time. That he hasn’t said anything about it, not because he was trying to hide it but because he just couldn’t. And you understand that. A whole lot.

“Here baby,” you murmur at one point, try to move his head a little which just makes him sob harder and hold you closer. “Shh, I’m not going anywhere, just trust me, okay? I think this will help.” You try again and this time he lets you move his head, lets you turn it to the side and move it over and then pull him back to your chest, keep your hand on the side of his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. He’s confused until he hears it.

The rhythmic beating of your heart in your chest.

It makes him tremble against you harder, clutch at you tighter. But you don’t care. You wouldn’t care if he held you so hard it hurt. You’d take on all the physical pain out there without a second thought and genuinely smile about it if it would take away Jack’s pain.

It starts to pass the longer Jack is in your arms, ear to your chest listening to your heart beating, fingers pressing into your skin feeling your heart beating. It calms him. He quiets, reduced to only sniffles and hiccuped in breaths and swollen eyes and an ache so deep in his chest he’s not sure it can be fixed. But you’re with him, still holding him on the kitchen floor and brushing at his cheekbone and scratching at the nape of his neck and kissing his curls and whispering soft words of reassurance to him.

You’re here. You’re in your shared apartment. You’re alive.

You have to be, right? The sound of your heart beating and the warmth of your chest and your voice whispering quiet words to him has to be real. It would make sense for you to come up with the idea of him wearing your engagement ring on a chain around his neck all on your own as a compromise. It doesn’t mean he’s still in that nightmare and just starting to realize it. It means the two of you just think alike. Right?

You aren’t sure how long you end up sitting there on the floor together, his head pressed against your chest. It doesn’t really matter. You know he’s really starting to come down when his fingers no longer press into your neck to feel for your pulse. “I’m here if and when you want to talk,” you whisper. You don’t expect anything back from him and aren’t hurt when he remains quiet.

Eventually Jack pulls his head from your chest and looks up at you. After a few seconds of eye contact he pushes himself up and sits with his back against the base cabinet next to you. He wipes off his face with his hands and once he’s done, one of your hands immediately finds one of his and squeezes. He needs it. Little things like a hand squeeze from you to remind him that you’re still here with him. Eventually he lets his head tilt and rest on your shoulder. You turn your head, give him a lingering kiss to the temple and then rest yours on top of his.

And then you just sit like that. For as long as he needs. Even when your ass goes numb and back stiffens a bit. You stay just like that with him.

Jack loves the way you don’t press him. You don’t ask if he’s okay, or if he wants to talk about it, or tell him gently to talk to you. You just let him be as he comes back to himself fully. And he knows it’s not because you don’t want to talk about it or don’t want him to talk to you about it but because you understand that sometimes there is simultaneously too much and nothing to be said. So you let him be.

After a while Jack takes a big breath in and slowly lets it out. You feel him pull his head a little so you lift yours up and look over at him as he looks at you.

He looks wrecked in a way you’ve never seen before. Eyes red and swollen, lips a bit swollen too. Mouth set and lips pulled just the slightest bit down, hair fluffier and more askew than normal because of how much you’ve run your hands through it. His shirt is wrinkled, part of the neckline darker than the rest of the shirt from his tears. He looks haunted.

But mostly it’s the way he’s looking at you that really shows how wrecked he is. You’ve seen Jack look at you a lot of ways, with a lot of different expressions, especially recently with everything that has happened. Happy, sad, like he’s amazed and can’t believe you’re alive, like looking at you hurts him a little because it reminds him of what he almost lost and who he couldn’t protect.

But you’ve never seen Jack look at you like this. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe you’re alive, but not in an incredulous, happy sense. Jack’s looking at you like he truly cannot believe you’re alive, is scared to believe it even for a second. Like he doesn’t trust the world that you are in fact alive, doesn’t trust himself and his ability to know whether you’re alive. Like you’re a hallucination or a mirage, or a ghost who has been living with him and he’s just realizing it. Like you’re a dream he’s about to wake up from.

“I…” Jack tries to start, voice raw, as unsure and questioning and wrecked as he looks. He just keeps looking at you like he’s about to come back to reality and you’re about to disappear right in front of his eyes, just cease to exist.

He shifts and leans off the cabinet, gets closer to you and takes your face in his hands. Jack holds your gaze how he loves to do, lets his eyes burn into yours as though they’ll give him the answer to whatever question it is he can’t speak.

You lean your head into one of his hands a little and then Jack’s kissing you, pressing against your lips hard at first like he was bracing to just move through air and never actually find your lips. It’s short, his head pulling back from yours for a second to look you in the eyes again before his eyes drop to your lips.

Glassy eyes look back up at you, questioning. You nod slightly, because of course he can kiss you. And he does.

Jack pulls your head back towards his as he leans in, both of your mouths opening just slightly. He takes the opportunity, licks into your mouth and starts devouring you, his head moving slightly with each kiss and slip of his tongue back into your mouth.

It’s greedy the way he kisses you, nose smushing into your face as you both start to breathe hard, the sound almost lost in between the noises of pleasure you pull from each other and the pops of your lips with each pass. Jack kisses you like he doesn’t believe you’re real. Like each kiss might be the last one he’s ever able to give you, like it’ll never be enough, like he’ll never have enough of you. It’s not something you’ve ever felt from him before. You can tell he’s scared in a way but you aren’t sure about what exactly.

He keeps kissing you but his hands drop from your face to grab at the hem of your shirt, start sliding it up your body, stopping to pop the clasp of your bra as he works the shirt up and eventually over your head, helps you shrug your bra off. You expect his lips to return to yours immediately but they don’t.

Jack stands as he tosses your shirt and bra to the side, hands reaching down for you and helping to get you up on your feet. Before you can say anything his hands are on your hips and his lips are back on yours. He walks you backwards to the kitchen table until your ass bumps into the edge of it. Without breaking the kiss he moves his from your hips and blindly wipes off the table, sending some mail and books and whatever else happened to be there clattering to the floor.

He finally breaks the kiss to give you a chance to breathe and so he can check there’s nothing on the table. “Jack,” you breathe out with some surprise. He grabs your hips and helps you sit on the edge of the table before stooping to bring his face back close to yours.

“Please,” he whispers against your lips, “please. Please, I need this.” He pushes his lips to yours once again, licking into your mouth once again. “I need to feel you.” He feels your hands at the hem of his shirt and moves apart just enough for him to get it off and throw it to the floor. “I need you.” It’s pleaded, desperate and needy, but not erotically so.

“Of course, always.” You let him support you as he leans over you and guides you down until your back rests against the table. “You have me, you always have me.”

It’s quick then, the way he tears off your bottoms and then his. You wrap your legs around him as he leans back over you, chest to chest and kisses you again, like he can’t get enough, like each kiss is a surprise he wasn’t expecting to actually get. He grinds himself into you as he does and you respond in kind, tightening your legs around him and letting your hips buck as much as they can against him to search out more friction. His hands roam your body, pressing into you to feel as much as he can, groping at your breasts and squeezing your hips as his lips stay on yours.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, hand sliding between the two of you to feel how wet you are for him. “Can you take me like this?”

“Yeah,” you pant softly, “yeah, please Jack.” You wrap your arms around his neck, hands tangling in salt and pepper curls you adore.

He shivers at the way you say his name, his lips leaving yours so he can look down at you as his fingers run through you and then over his cock to slick himself up as much as he can. “I need to know you’re real and still here. I need to be close to you.”

Jack notches himself in you and then moves to rest on his forearms with his hands holding your face, forehead resting against yours before he finally pushes himself into you slowly. His voice cracks with emotion part way through the needy and relieved groan he draws out as he pushes in.

“Oh Jack,” you moan as you take a breath in and feel it catch in your throat.

Once he bottoms out Jack stills, the two of you panting against each other’s lips until Jack’s are claiming yours once again. He stays still, lets himself relish in the way you taste and how you feel around him, so tight and warm and fluttering as you adjust to taking him with no real preparation.

Jack finally draws his hips back slowly and steadily pushes himself back in with a grunt. “You okay?” Even with as out of his mind for you as he is, how desperate and needy and frantic he is to have you he’s still checking in on you. Would rather die than hurt you, especially like this.

“Yes,” you breathe, “yes, Jack please. Need you.” Hearing that you need him has Jack pulling his hips back again, faster this time before snapping back in.

From there it’s all feral need and grunts and groans as Jack tries to be closer to you, to consume you, to be one with you. His strokes are hard as he tries to get as deep inside of you as he possibly can. His pace varies, keeps you on your toes, but it’s not deliberate this time. It’s Jack chasing what he needs from you however his body tells him, however feels right at that second. At some point one of his arms slides under your back, his hand wrapping over the opposite shoulder so that you tilt to the side just a little and he can pull you down onto him as he fucks you so hard your last clear thought is of concern he might break the table.

Your hands tug at his hair, nails draw up his back when he starts mouthing at your neck, kissing and sucking, lips passing over the scar from your central line again and again. He rests his cheek against yours leaving his mouth near your ear allowing you to hear every little noise your body pulls from him. Jack is fucking you with pure need but it’s not an erotic need like it is sometimes when you tease him or he’s been thinking about you all day. It’s intimate. Jack needs you. He needs you. All of you.

Only you.

You’re so lost in the haze of pleasure that it takes you a moment to realize your cheek is wet where your and Jack’s touch. You realize he’s crying. “Jack?” You moan his name so sweetly for him, lace it with all the concern and worry and need you have for him.

It makes him let out the smallest sob and breathe in hard through his teeth, shake his head a little against yours. He pulls his head from yours and looks down at you, hips slowing but not stopping. “Tell me you’re here,” a fresh wave of tears roll down his face and hit your cheeks. He’s unfairly beautiful when he cries. “Tell me this is real. That you’re real.” A few of your own tears slip out the corner of your eyes and roll down towards your ear. “Please,” his voice cracks, more of his tears joining your own on your face, “please be real. Please tell me you’re here and real and with me.”

You do. Over and over and over until his lips are back on yours and consuming you in a different way now. More confident, more convinced you’re real and here with him and letting him fuck you on your kitchen table to soothe himself and fix something inside of him he didn’t realize was broken.

Letting him take solace from every part of you.

One hand slips between your bodies and with how well he knows you it’s not long before Jack has you soundless with pleasure for a moment as your orgasm crashes over you, voice coming back to moan out little whispers of his name, veiled pleas for him to take anything and everything he could ever need from you.

And so Jack does. Lets himself give in and lose himself all the way in you, your name groaned with a relieved intensity you’ve never heard from him before, lower and more gravelly than usual right at your ear.

Jack works himself through it before stilling and resting his forehead back against yours, the two of you panting softly as you come down, bodies hot and sweat sheened and sticking together. “I love you,” Jack whispers, eyes opening and finding yours before kissing you, chaste but lingering. Just to feel you.

“I love you too,” you murmur against his lips when you’re able, hand running through his hair and scratching at his scalp. Jack kisses your lips again and then your chin, down your neck and to your central line scar, lingering there before kissing down to the highest part of your thoracotomy scar. “Bed?”

Jack nods, lifts himself off of you and pulls out gently. He steps back and helps you up and off the table. “I should take care of all this.” He nods to the kitchen.

You shake your head and grab his hand. “The carrots and potatoes can live there overnight and it’ll be fine. We can order something from bed.” You squeeze his hand and pull him gently so he starts walking with you.

Jack pulls back on your hand before you can get in bed, flicks his chin towards the bathroom. “Go,” it’s not an order, just a reminder. “We don’t want my… whatever that was to be the reason you get a UTI. You really don’t need that right now.”

You smile at him gently and nod. Even after all the emotional turmoil he just went through, still is a little bit from what you can see in his eyes, he’s still thinking about you and your well being and keeping you healthy and safe. “You’ll get in bed?”

He nods and drops your hand, sits on the edge and takes his prosthetic off as you go pee. He’s leaning against the headboard and staring into space when you get into bed. You slide up next to him so that your legs touch and lean back against the headboard, let your hand rest on his thigh and give it a little squeeze so he knows you’re here for whatever he might need.

“When you were in a coma,” Jack starts, voice strained and raw, “I started having nightmares.” He rests his hand on top of yours. You close your eyes and bow your head a little, heart sinking. “Some weren’t completely awful. But the one I got the most…” he trails off and shakes his head, grows quiet again.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you remind him softly, lean your head over and kiss his bare shoulder.

“I know, but I want to. At least enough to explain what that was.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Jack.”

“I know but I want to tell you.” He pauses for a second. “The worst, and of course most frequent, one was where you died in the OR. And I had to hold your lifeless body and somehow force myself to walk away from you. In the nightmare I’m thinking back on that while I’m sitting at your funeral.” You blink away tears because you can’t even imagine the level of pain that must have caused him. Multiple times. “The details, I… They don’t really matter, right now. In the nightmare I wore your engagement ring, the one that never got to go on your finger because I never go to ask, I wore it on a chain around my neck.”

“Oh fuck Jack,” you cringe, closing your eyes and squeezing his thigh tight and hating yourself. “I am so fucking sorry.”

Jack finally turns his head to look over at you. “Don’t be. Seriously. You had no way of knowing.” You appreciate him saying it but it doesn’t stop the guilt that builds inside of you. You were the reason he had the nightmare in the first place and now you’re the reason he had to go right back there. “So when you, when it got brought up, it just made it all hit me again, all the emotions from that nightmare and it made me panic almost. That this wasn’t real, that you weren’t. And I lost it a bit and so I did whatever that was and then needed to be as close to you as possible.” He shrugs a little. “I needed to know you were real.”

Jack’s hand slides under yours and picks it up, laces your fingers together and squeezes. You feel vaguely lightheaded by his admission and then berate yourself and feel guiltier for thinking about yourself when this is about Jack and him still needing you. “I,” you try to find words to say, “I’m sorry,” Jack shakes his head but you continue, “I can’t even begin to imagine how painful that must have been.” You pause and have to look away from him for a moment, can feel his eyes remain on you. “Or maybe I can, to some extent at least, and that’s why I’m sorry and wish I could take it all away from you, make sure it never happens again.”

“That one has only happened once since you’ve been home. The first night.” You feel a little relief at that, are able to look back up at him. “They’ve kind of changed though, honestly. It’s not holding your dead body in an OR anymore, it’s walking in the door from work or the store or wherever and finding your dead body on the floor or in bed or wherever. Complications. Something else random. Freak home deaths I’ve seen roll through work before.” He lets go of your hand to bring his hand to your face again. “I wake up and have to convince myself you’re here. I’ve gotten quite good at the art of taking your pulse on your wrist without you waking up.” He gives a little laugh through his nose, trying to infuse a little lightness. It doesn’t work. If anything your lips pull down a bit. “Sometimes I just lay awake for a while watching you breathe. Sometimes I cuddle up to you a bit closer to feel your chest rise and fall against mine. Sometimes I fall asleep counting the beats of your heart while I feel your pulse.”

You take in a shuddery breath, trying so hard to focus on him and helping him and being here for him and not on the way this is all your fault. “Do you want to talk or for me to just listen?” You don’t want to force him to truly discuss this with you if he’s not in the headspace right now and it won’t surprise you if he’s not.

Jack thinks about it for a second. “Listen, please.”

“Okay.” You nod at him. “I’m not saying this to start a conversation when you just told me you wanted listening but I just need to make sure you know. You can do whatever you need to do Jack. When you wake up from one. Wake me up. We can talk, we can just sit together, whatever you need, okay?”

He nods, pulls his hand from your face to wipe away the couple of tears that have fallen down his own during this conversation. “Actually when you shifted us earlier, in the kitchen. Pulled my head to your chest so I could listen to your heart. It helped a lot. I just didn’t want to hurt you, before. With your chest healing.” He tries to laugh softly at himself.

You give him the best smile you can manage with all the guilt and self-hate swirling inside you. “You can roll me into whatever position you want so you can listen anytime.” You know he’s trying to keep the conversation light because he knows how hard hearing it is for you. But that’s not fair. You should be the one trying to keep it light for him, should be taking care of him. “We could get you another stethoscope to keep on your nightstand,” you offer. “Then you could really listen whenever you wanted.”

He gives you a little more of a laugh at that and it makes your small smile become a little more genuine. “Could, yeah. But I like having my head on your chest, feeling you. I think it probably helps ground me in its own way.”

“Makes sense.” You rest your left hand on his chest, push down a little extra hard with your ring finger so he can feel the band that lives there now. “Thank you for telling me. I know it wasn’t easy and that you didn’t have to. And I want to do whatever I can to help you because I don’t want you to suffer.” You stop yourself from adding the because of me that you want to so badly.

Jack picks up your hand, brings it to his lips palm first and kisses the band of your engagement ring before flipping your hand and kissing to the side of it the best he can with the setting. He brings your hand to the side of his face and covers it with his as he leans into it. “You always help. Even when you’re just laying there asleep and don’t know it.”

You give him a little smile and laugh through your nose, try your best to take his words to heart because you know how much he means them. Jack knows you’re struggling, he can read you like a book. But he senses that you don’t want to acknowledge it so he doesn’t bring it up.

His stomach growls then which makes you laugh a little more and he huffs. “Ruined our moment.”

“Nah,” you shake your head and pull your hand away and rub his stomach, push off the headboard to sit up more. “What do you feel like? Can’t have my man going hungry.” The smile you give him is genuine, all the way to your eyes this time and it makes him mirror you, that smile of his you love so much pulling onto his face.

He widens his eyes at you for a second and raises his eyebrows and you already know what he’s about to say. “You.”

“Yeah, I walked into that one,” you click your tongue at yourself. Jack gives you a smirk. “I don’t think I’m going to be filling enough for that-”

“I could go for seconds. Thirds, even.”

“Mm, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but no.” You boop his nose and the way he scrunches his nose at it is so cute you could bite him. “Real food first. Me later, if you’re good.” He raises his eyebrows at you with a little smile. “What would you like? I’ll order.”

“Feisty. I’ll take it. Be so good for you so I can have dessert.” He nods all saccharine and put-on grin that makes you roll your eyes at him playfully. He thinks for a moment and then says the name of your favorite restaurant.

You tsk at him and give him a really? look, but you’re smiling still, grinning, in fact. Like an idiot. It’s so sweet and so Jack, just one of those little casual ways he shows he loves you.

“Whattt? I can’t want that?”

“You can, but I don’t think it’s really your first choice, right now.” You shake your head a little as you speak. You start to slide out of bed and Jack whines, grabs at one of your arms.

“Where are you going?” he pouts at you.

“Gotta go get my phone so we can order, baby.”

His pout lessens fractionally. “Alright, but hurry back.”

“You’re very cute when you’re clingy,” you giggle at him as you get out of bed. He goes to make a smart comment back that he isn’t clingy but stops. He is right now and he doesn’t fucking care. He’s allowed to be.

Jack has a favorite restaurant, just like you. Several, actually but you know the one that really tops the list. But you’ve also deduced that Jack has a favorite comfort restaurant that’s different from his favorite favorite. And you know what his favorite comfort meal from that restaurant is. So you add it, pick something for yourself and order it to be delivered before walking back into the bedroom with your phone.

“Took you long enough,” he teases as you come into view. “What were you doing?”

“Ordering.” You toss your phone at him as you slide in and he unlocks it, reads it over.

He swallows thickly and looks at you with glassy eyes. You make him feel more loved than he could ever possibly deserve, knowing him that well without him having ever said a word about it and doing it for him without asking. You give him a soft smile when you turn to look at him. “Okay?”

“More than,” he whispers. “Thank you.” He pulls you closer to him so that you’re cuddling chest to chest, gives you the sweetest, simplest kiss. It’s everything. “You know,” he hums, starting to push you on your back. “I think you’re my appetizer and dessert.”

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

“How about the day we met? We consider that our first date, it’s our anniversary,” Jack suggests.

You and Jack are lounging on the couch together, half watching your show and half discussing wedding things. You’re not making any real plans, just thinking and dreaming out loud with each other.

You can’t help but tease him. “Is that because you only want to have to remember one date?”

He shoots you a look. “No.” He wags his head at you as he says it. “I just thought it was kind of sweet. That’s our day, you know? And it falls on a Saturday that year.” He waves his phone that’s open to the calendar app at you.

You grin at him. “You’re a romantic, Jack Abbot.” You’re crawling into his lap as you sing it, running your hands up his chest to hold his face so you can cover it in kisses.

“So you’ve said.” Jack moves his head and chases your lips with his trying to get a kiss on the lips. “Multiple times.”

“Because it’s true,” you mumble against his lips as he kisses you, running your hands through his curls.

“Yeah, yeah.” He playfully waves you off as you settle on his lap perpendicular to him, one of his arms resting against your legs, hand spread over the thigh closest to him. His other hand rubs up and down your back absentmindedly. “You thought about where?”

“Mm,” you hum, look down at your engagement ring, “not so much. You?”

“Yeah,” he nods, squeezes your thigh. “I was thinking the bookstore.”

Your eyes come up from your ring and look at the wall in front of you for a second before looking at Jack. He can’t be serious. You open your mouth to say something, but close it as you struggle to find the words.

“I didn’t expect speechless but I knew you’d love the idea.” Jack smiles. He uses the hand rubbing at your back to gently grab the back of your neck and bring your face close to his as if he’s going to kiss you. He drops his voice and lets a breath of hot air fan over your lips. “I’m fucking with you,” he murmurs before pulling his face away a bit and releasing you, letting his hand come down to your back again, a huge self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Jack!” He laughs at the shrill tone of your voice and the way you swat his chest playfully.

“I really had you there for a minute,” he laughs as you fake pout at him. “But something I love about you is the way you were thinking so hard of a way to let me down without hurting me.”

“You did!” You huff at him. “I was sitting here thinking how am I going to explain to him that while I love our bookstore it doesn’t say wedding venue, nor do I want our wedding to be a near recreation of our first date with a bunch of extra people with us!”

Jack chuckles a little more. “I haven’t really thought about where either. Hard to think of where before you have a date to know the season.” You nod and hum, he makes a good point. “I only have one wedding requirement. And it’s not even really the wedding.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow at him in intrigue. “What’s that?”

“I plan the honeymoon.” Both of your eyebrows raise at that and you cock your head at him. You don’t know what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t planning the honeymoon apparently. “And you don’t get to know where we’re going until we’re at the gate about to board.”

“How will I pack?” You look slightly stricken. “Jack, I love you and I trust you with my life, truly, but packing-”

“I’m going to give you,” Jack cuts you off with an oddly reassuring smirk, “two packing lists. You’ll make two piles. Once you’ve left to go get ready I’ll put one of the piles into a suitcase. That way I get my surprise and you’ve packed for yourself.”

You blink at him for a moment. “Jack,” you whisper, swallow hard and will away the tears you can feel forming. “You have this all planned out just to surprise me?”

“I thought you might like the idea, but it’s okay if you don’t.” He nods to emphasize that part. “But if we do decide to do it this way we’ll still talk about places of course, it’s not like I don’t want any input from you. I’ll just be the final decision maker.”

“No, I love it.” The laugh you give him is breathless. “It makes me feel so loved and taken care of. It’s hard to wrap my head around.” You lean into him to give him a deep kiss. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“I think the general idea came to me a couple weeks after I knew I wanted to marry you.”

You beam up at him. “That long?” Jack nods. “Wow.”

“Did you have a moment?” Jack asks you. You furrow your brows at him and shake your head slightly to ask him to explain. “A moment when you knew you wanted to marry me. That you knew you’d say yes if I asked. It’s okay if you don’t, honestly.”

“Of course I do!” You click your tongue at him. You let out a short laugh. “It actually wasn’t long after yours. Like two-ish weeks later, maybe? Things had been adding up, there were lots of things. This was just the first moment where I really consciously thought it.” You smile at him, wrap one arm around his neck so your fingers can scratch at the back of his scalp and nape of his neck how he likes.

“You had just worked I think five nights in a row helping cover shifts. We hadn’t spoken on the phone that day, but exchanged some texts in the morning before you got home and went to sleep. And I could tell just from them that you were so beyond exhausted. My day, well. It was probably the worst and hardest day I had ever had at work and I felt so selfish but once I was able to leave I just went straight to your place. Without asking. So I knock and wait, get ready to leave because I know you’re asleep but then you open the door in your pajama pants, you’d clearly just woken up. And you give me this little ‘Hey Doll, come in’ as you open the door. I was frozen by that point. You took one look at me, grabbed my hand, pulled me inside and sat me on your couch and then disappeared. At some point you came back and gave me a tight hug, kissed my forehead and said ‘I’ve got you.’ And the next thing I know you’re stripping me and getting me into the bath you’d apparently drawn. You sat on the floor next to the tub with me. I still hadn’t said a single word to you at this point. Not even hi. And then you start talking to me. Just talking. I don’t remember about what. But you knew just from looking at me that I needed help getting out of my head. And as I listened I finally found my voice and was able to say I was sorry. You asked why and I said something along the lines of I was being selfish and knew you were exhausted and shouldn’t have come and made you do all this just because I had a bad day. And then you said, ‘Don’t apologize for needing me. Ever. For anything or for any reason. The day will never come where you need me and I am too tired for you.’ It wasn’t a big deal or a huge declaration. Just a casual fact you were stating. You knew what I needed just by looking at me. You didn’t care that I didn’t say a word to you while you did all this stuff for me. You didn’t ask what was wrong or for me to talk to you. You just met me where I was. And as you were helping me out of the bath and drying me off with a towel I just had the thought. I want to marry him.”

You wipe a few tears from your eyes. “Sorry, that was probably way more of a story than it needed to be to answer your question.”

“Don’t apologize,” Jack murmurs. His eyes are glassy just like yours, a bit red. He gives a soft laugh. “I just feel kind of bad now that I didn’t give that much detail.”

“Don’t.” You shake your head at him. “I promise, if I had been down on one knee on this floor that story would have been a whole lot fucking shorter.”

That makes Jack laugh properly which makes you laugh properly. You turn a little and slide your arms around his neck to hug him, his arms sliding around you in return and holding you close.

You nuzzle into his neck and then pull back for a kiss, let Jack deepen it as he begins moving to get you on your back on the couch, propping himself up on his elbows on top of you to keep too much weight off your chest and abdomen. You have to break apart for air but Jack goes straight to your neck, kissing and sucking and pulling all those pretty little sounds from you that he loves.

“We have a date,” you whisper, hands tugging at his curls a little.

Jack pulls back from your neck to look down at you, both of you grinning at each other. “We have a date.”

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

You and Jack walk into the Pitt together. He needed to grab some stuff and sign a few things and was going to have Robby drop it all off so he didn’t have to leave you. You haven’t been outside much since the shooting. But you convinced him that you guys should go together, that it would be good for him to see people. As long as he would drive you guys, which he would of course.

Jack was weary at the idea. You seemed to be struggling a bit harder lately and he worried something about being in the Pitt specifically might be too triggering for you. He knows that you have a lot of unresolved anxiety and guilt about what happened still. And that, while you’ve spoken generally about feeling guilty for putting him through all of this, you, like him, struggle to talk about it with him because you see it as burdening him or guilting him.

But you reassured him that it would be fine. You’d been back to the hospital since everything for follow up appointments. Not to the Pitt, but if the hospital didn’t completely trigger you why would the Pitt?

You feel a little twinge of something as you walk through the ambulance bay doors, the ones you’d come through that day. Jack can tell and he squeezes your hand, stops and pulls to the side. “You sure about this? We can leave, right now.”

You shake your head. “No, no I’m sure. It’ll be good for me. I’m okay, really. It was just a little second of something.”

He eyes you for a second but nods and starts walking you further in. It’s busy, nobody notices either of you as he leads you over to the break room. “You want to wait here? Shouldn’t take long. You can check the fridge. Anything with Robby’s name on it you can steal.”

That makes you laugh, helps you relax. “I’ll wait here, yeah. Go do your thing, Dr. Abbot.” You wink at him.

Jack lets out a little chuckle and shakes his head. “Don’t even start with me, Doll.” It makes you giggle as he leans down to kiss you. “I won’t be long, okay?” You nod at him, take a seat as he walks out.

You scroll on your phone for a few minutes before your curiosity gets the better of you. You walk over and peek out the window of the door. It’s constant movement right now, people barely acknowledging each other as they rush to get somewhere else. You open the door and step out, just to look around.

Before you’re even really aware of it you’re standing in front of one of the trauma rooms. That trauma room. The parts you can remember play in your head. Hugging Jack, Robby calling him over, you realizing what had happened and calling to Jack. And then nothing. Standing here you can only imagine what it must have been like for Jack, for him to have seen where you were shot and then watch you collapse. And then you made him live in the hospital with you for weeks. And now you’re making him stay home with you. Sometimes your guilt makes you feel like his jailer.

Jack chats with Robby at the desk while he fills out one of the papers, gives whatever info it is HR so desperately needed to process all his leave correctly. Robby’s mid sentence when Jack spots you just in the corner of his eye, turns to see you standing in front of the trauma room. Jack leaves without a word to Robby and strides to you.

“Hey,” he calls out as he gets close so that he won’t scare you when he steps in front of you and puts his hands on your arms. He sees that your eyes are a little glazed over when he gets a good look at you. “Why don’t you come over to the desk with me, yeah?” He’s not going to ask you why you were there like you’re a child who needs to explain yourself to him. He’s just going to redirect. “Yeah?” He asks again as he cups your face with one hand.

“I just wanted to see. I, I got… curious. Just wanted to watch.” You explain anyway. “And then I was here.”

“That’s okay, Doll. You can sit at the desk with me, yeah?”

You look around. There’s a chair against the wall a bit down, not facing the trauma room. “I’ll sit there. If that’s okay. Then I can watch.”

Jack glances over. “Yeah, that’s fine, that’s okay.” He walks you over to it, squeezes your hand. “I’m almost done, I promise.”

Being away from the room and back in Jack’s space snaps you back a little. “Okay, Peter.” You smile at him before he walks away.

After a few minutes sitting there by yourself a woman rolls her wheelchair up to you. “And who are you that they’ve got sitting in time out?”

You glance around for a second to see if anyone’s coming after her and when nobody does you figure fuck it, and answer. “I’m Jack, um, Dr. Abbot’s fiancée.”

“Oh you lucky girl,” the woman smirks at you. “I’m Myrna.”

“Oh!” You smile widely at her. “Yes! I’ve heard a lot about you from Robby!”

“Have you now? Fruitcake’s talkin’ about me outside of this shithole. I knew I had that cocksucker wrapped around my finger.”

“Fruitcake?” You laugh. “That’s what you call Robby? Fruitcake?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “He loves it.” Myrna gives you a conspiratorial wink. “He pretends it doesn’t, but I know it makes him feel things.”

At the desk Robby looks up, sees you and Myrna talking and you laughing. “Oh that’s not good.”

“Hm?” Jack raises his brows and then looks up. He smirks. “Not for you, but I think it’s going to be pretty funny for me.” Jack signs the last form and they both walk over to you. You and Myrna quiet as they get closer.

“Myrna, are you harassing Jack’s fiancée?” Robby asks sternly, crossing his arms.

“Not at all Fruitcake!” You answer for her. “We were just having a little chat.”

Robby lets out a big sigh as Jack laughs. “See man, I told you. Not good for you, funny for me.”

“Actually, we were talking and Myrna is free, Robby. She can be your plus one to the wedding! You said yesterday you were still looking!”

“That sounds perfect!” Jack smirks, clapping Robby on the shoulder. “I’ll let you see my vagina again for free Fruitcake,” Myrna offers, raising her eyebrows at Robby.

Robby lets out another sigh and hangs his head. “The roof doth beckon.”

You and Jack laugh while Myrna swats at him. “Ready Doll?”

“Yeah.” You look at Myrna. “It was lovely meeting you Myrna, I look forward to seeing you again.” You turn your attention to Robby, disguising your smirk with a warm smile quite well. “Bye Fruitcake!” You lean up and give Robby a quick kiss on the cheek as Jack snorts a laugh and holds his hand out for you.

As the two of you walk away you hear Myrna giving Robby more shit.

“How come she’s allowed to kiss you on the cheek, cocksucker, but when I try you threaten to call the cops?” You and Jack laugh with each other as you walk out the ambulance bay doors to go back home.

That night Jack thinks it’s a little strange, how long the shower has been running. And how it doesn’t sound like you’re in it. There’s no pause to the water raining down on the tiled shower floor, no slaps of water hitting against the floor suddenly when you step to rinse your hair or body, no muffled rain sound when you let yourself stand under the stream and soak. Only the uninterrupted sound of water raining from the shower head onto the tile.

He glances at the alarm clock on his nightstand. You have to have been in there for at least thirty minutes. Jack looks back over at the bathroom door. It’s unnerving. Something is wrong.

He gets off the bed, shirtless and just in his sweatpants. You guys had been winding down for the night before you decided to shower. He tries the handle. It’s unlocked. There’s an unspoken rule between the two of you that you can enter without asking if the door is unlocked.

“Doll?” Jack calls to you softly as he opens the door.

It’s like you don’t even hear him. Jack finds you in only your underwear staring in the mirror at your scars, one hand hovering over the bottom of the long laparotomy scar running up your stomach, another over your mouth, tears streaming down your face. Being at the Pitt today pushed you over some edge you didn’t realize you were so close to.

He knows now that you were using the sound of the shower to hide your muffled sobs.

His eyes run over each of your scars, starting with the one up near your neck from your central line, that one fading quicker with how small it is, especially in comparison to the others. From there his eyes move down until he hits the scar from your thoracotomy. He traces the line with his eyes before he finds the laparotomy scar and lets his eyes drag along it. And then his eyes move over to the more circular scar. The bullet hole.

“Doll, sweetheart,” Jack keeps his voice low as he walks into the bathroom. He steps over to the shower first and turns it off. Even that hardly seems to get through to you. He sees your eyes leave yourself in the mirror and flick to him for just a second. The tears start to fall harder.

Jack walks up behind you so that his warm, bare chest presses against your back, his hands resting on your hips and lips kissing at your neck. Not teasing, just loving, soft and sweet and trying to soothe you when he knows words are only going to go so far.

“What if you can never look at me the same way again?” You finally whisper, moving your hand from your mouth.

You can see his brows furrow and a look of confusion fall over his face. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’ve kissed all of them, that you did the first time we had sex again after what happened. But I see you looking at them all, all the scars, whenever one is visible. And so what if you can never look at me the same way again, especially when they’re visible. What if my body is just always a reminder of one of the worst days of your life? A visual reminder that sends you right back there, that just, that just tortures you!” You let out a quiet sob. “What if that’s all you can ever see when you look at me?”

Jack takes in a deep breath and you can feel his chest press into you a little more as he does. He catches your eye contact in the mirror. “Doll,” he murmurs, “I think that you misunderstand why I look at your scars whenever one is visible.” Jack slides his hands from your hips around your front in a kind of backwards hug, pulls you back closer to him a bit.

Your chin trembles a little. “Oh?”

He nods. “Will you turn for me? Sit on the counter?” Jack tilts his head a little so that it rests against yours. “You can say no and I’ll still tell you of course. You know I just like my eye contact.” He says it with just a hint of a smile and self-teasing tone to try and get you to smile.

And it’s small, but it works. Your lips pull up just slightly for a second. You chew on the inside of your cheek for a second before you turn around and let him help you get you up to sit on the edge of the counter.

“Thank you.” Jack steps between your legs and leans down to kiss your forehead. “You want me to grab your shirt?” He’s cognizant of the conversation you’re having and the fact that you’re topless, scars on display. You give him a little nod and he grabs it from the pile of your clothes you made to the side of the door. “I say your shirt, but I really mean my shirt, don’t I?”

You’d been wearing one of his old shirts that’s a bit oversized on him, soft and worn in and smelling like him. You stay quiet and nod. Jack’s heart almost throbs in his chest at how much he hates seeing you like this, this upset. Your tears have stopped now though. Little victories. Once it’s on he rests his hands on the tops of your thighs, rubs his thumbs in what he hopes are soothing circles.

“Your scars don’t remind me of one of the worst days of my life. Looking at them doesn’t send me back to the hospital or torture me. Pretty much the exact opposite.” This time it’s your brows that furrow. “They’re a reminder of what happened, sure. Of what I almost lost. But it’s that part that’s important. What I almost lost.”

“You know what you didn’t have in any of my nightmares?” Your eyes widen a little because you know what he means, what he’s going to say. “Scars. You only had wounds, fresh, stitches still in them. No scars.” Jack squeezes at your hands. “When I was in that operating room holding your dead body, you didn’t have any scars. So your scars, looking at them, when I look at them, they don’t torture me or send me back to one of the worst days of my life. They tell me that you’re alive. They remind me how hard you fought to stay here with me. They remind me how strong you are. They remind me that you’re here with me, healing and living.”

Jack moves his hands from your legs and sets them on the outside of each of your thighs on the counter, hunches over a bit and leans on them as he moves forward to kiss your forehead again. You bring your arms up and set them on either side of his neck, fingers playing in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Your scars are proof that you’re alive. And so your scars will never be anything less than one of the most beautiful and important and comforting things I could ever look at.” He says it so seriously, so firm and settled, looks you straight in the eye as he says it. It makes a few tears slide down your cheeks again. “Second only to your face and you in general, okay?” He nods as he says it.

He brings a hand up to wipe away the tears that have fallen. “Can I give you a kiss?”

You nod as a couple more tears fall. Jack takes your chin between his thumb and index finger and tilts your head up so he can kiss you. It’s gentle, soft and sweet and lingering as he just holds you there. He pulls back but then goes back for another quick one.

Both you and Jack are surprised you haven’t started fully bawling into him, but there’s something in your chest that stops it from coming out like it needs to. You couldn’t describe it if you tried.

“Bed? Or you wanna shower?”

It takes you a moment to answer. Not to decide. Just to answer. “Just bed, please.”

“Of course, Doll.” Jack steps back from between your legs and helps you get off the counter safely before taking your hand and leading you back to your shared bed. You both slide in and Jack takes his prosthetic off and gets an arm around you, pulls you into him as he leans up against the headboard.

You let him, let your head rest on his chest and let his arms wrap around you and let him hold you close as you think about everything he said. You believe him, you do. You know he would never lie to you and when you think about it all it makes sense. You just wish it were the same for you. Wish you could look at them and feel something, anything other than crushing guilt.

Because for you they’re a reminder of a traumatic event but more than that they’re a reminder of what you put Jack through. What you continue to put him through now as you try to heal physically and mentally.

Sometimes, maybe a lot of the time recently, you go back to that place. That place where you just wish it would stop, be over for the both of you. Wish you hadn’t made it out of the OR or the courthouse. That place where your brain tells you that Jack would be better off without you, that it’s unfair of you to ask him to do this all with you, that he’s only here with you still because he feels some sort of weird responsibility for what happened to you, that even if he doesn’t think he could, he would survive losing you and he would properly grieve and he would move on and find someone else. Someone who’s less work, less of a burden. Someone who’s better. That it wouldn’t even be that hard.

The rational part of you knows that those thoughts aren’t true. That Jack is here because he loves you, more than anything, that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. That he would not survive losing you or properly grieve or move on. That if he knew he would tell you that you’re not work at all, not a burden, that he could never do better. That he had an entire nightmare about having to bury you and it hurt so bad that even weeks later when he thought about it he was physically sick and broke down in the kitchen.

Jack doesn’t push you, just like you never push him. He does get worried though. He hates to see you cry but this silence is somehow worse.

“You wanna go to the bookstore tomorrow?” He asks it just to ask. Just to fill the silence and help distract you and maybe keep you out of your head. Or from getting further into it.

You can feel the vibration of him speaking as your head rests on his chest. “Hm?”

He kisses the top of your head. “Bookstore tomorrow?”

“Maybe, yeah.” It’s an odd answer from you. “I don’t know.”

Jack nods slowly. “It’s okay to not know. And I’m here if you want to talk or have me listen. Whatever you need.”

You hum at his words. “I don’t know anything anymore Jack,” you admit.

You feel his arms hold you a little tighter. He doesn’t understand and something about the way you say it scares him a little. “What do you mean?”

The something in your chest that was blocking everything from coming out starts to crack. “I don’t know,” you whisper, high pitched and cracking. “I don’t know how to do this.” You pull away from him and move so that you’re sitting next to him with your legs crossed so that you can face him.

“I know I’m in therapy. And I know it helps. And I hate to think about what I’d be like without my therapist.” You shrug, chin trembling and tears lining your eyes as you look at him. You look so sad and it kills him.

“But I still don’t know how to do this Jack. How to heal, how to grieve. I don’t know how to heal the tremendous guilt I feel. And everyone says to let myself grieve and what the fuck am I grieving? I don’t have anything to grieve. I didn’t lose anything! Not like you. It’s not the same as what you went through. You lost a piece of yourself. I happened to get shot and spent time in the hospital and yes I almost died but I didn’t lose a piece of me. And so I don’t know what I’m grieving and I don’t know how to grieve or what I’m grieving or how to heal from this… this amorphous concept. This thing, that just happened to me. This event. And I shouldn’t need to! I shouldn’t need to grieve or heal. There’s nothing there. I don’t have anything to grieve or heal from, and I shouldn’t be like this! And I’m not trying to throw what happened in your face Jack, I’m not, I promise, and I’m not for a second saying you somehow had it easier because there was a more tangible thing to grieve, if anything it’s the opposite, you lost a piece of yourself and I lost nothing. You had so much to grieve and heal from, you needing to grieve and heal and struggling that makes sense. I lost nothing. I don’t even know what I have to grieve. I don’t know.”

All the tears in your eyes spill over at once. You bring your shoulders up to your ears in a held shrug. “I don’t know, Jack.” He’s never heard you sound so small. Not even that ‘okay’ you gave him in the hospital was like this. The guilt and shame and embarrassment all flood you, make it hard to look at him. “I didn’t say anything even though I’ve been struggling because-”

You shake your head, try to wipe some of the tears off your face, look down at your hands in your lap. “I just don’t know how to do this, whatever this is. And it’s like recently I’ve lost all the words to even try and begin to explain how I feel or felt. I lost all the words.” You force yourself to look back up at him because when you admit this and apologize you need to be looking at him. “I lost all the words and my head got so fucked up that I didn’t know how to ask for help, from anyone.”

Jack catches the change in tense. You had said you don’t know but now you’re saying you didn’t, like somewhere along the way in this conversation, this admission, this time with him, you found the words again.

You shake your head a little as more tears slip down your cheeks. You whisper now, voice thicker than he’s ever heard with emotion. “Not even you. I didn’t know how to ask you for help Jack.” You try to hold back a small sob through your teeth. “And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I just didn’t know, I wanted to, I just couldn’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-” You’re cut off by the wracking sob that you’re finally able to let out as that something in your chest shatters.

“Okay, shh.” Jack shushes you softly as he reaches for you while you let yourself fall forward into his chest, rolling on your side slightly to get your legs stretched out as he pulls you on top of him and cradles you against his bare chest. He isn’t shushing you to get you to stop, only for the comfort of it.

Jack hates this. He hates seeing you suffer so thoroughly. He hates the way he can’t hug you and put you back together, the way he can’t fix this for you, can’t take away your pain. Can’t take on all of the pain for you. Jack believes you when you say you didn’t know how to ask, knows that you weren’t trying to hide it from him, just like he wasn’t trying to hide his shit from you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “It’s okay. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He repeats it as he continues to hold you, rocks with you at times like you did with him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” “I’ve got you.” “I’m here.” “You’re okay.” “I love you.” One arm keeps you close, his other hand rubbing your back in circles. He knows there’s very little he can do right now except hold you through it.

With time, you run out of tears, exhaust yourself out of crying and just sniffle and hiccup into Jack. He keeps holding you, doesn’t push for more from you.

“It’s just so hard.” Your whisper breaks the silence after a good five or so minutes.

You can feel Jack nod. “Talk or listen?” he whispers.

You try to think about it. You’re not really sure what you want. “I don’t know,” you admit, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” You try to stop yourself from getting worked up again, the reality of one more thing you don’t know hitting you hard.

“Shh,” Jack soothes you, “it’s okay, you don’t need to apologize and you don’t need to know. It’s okay. I promise.” His hands rub up and down your back and he kisses the top of your head. With how escalated you are right now he thinks eye contact will be too much so he just holds you tight as you are. “I’m going to talk. And if you want me to stop, just say so, okay?”

You nod. Jack takes a breath in as he tries to think of how to start and how he wants to say what he has to say. “You don’t ever need to apologize for struggling and not knowing how to ask for help.” There’s a pause as Jack realizes how guilty he feels about that. He knows he can’t focus on himself right now. You need him. “I think maybe we need to try and find something that you could do, that both of us could do honestly, that doesn’t require words but would let the other know we needed help. So then we don’t need words and can still get help.”

“Probably, would be good, yeah,” you mumble against him.

“Good. We’ll figure something out, promise.” He’s quiet for a moment to give you the chance to say you’ve talked enough for the night, but you don’t. “As for the other part, I know and understand and hear you when you say that you don’t know what you’re grieving and that you don’t have anything to grieve. But Doll, you do. You have so much to grieve, so much you are grieving even if it’s hard for you to see or understand right now. There doesn’t have to be some tangible loss like a foot or a person for you to have something to grieve. I hate it, and I wish that I could make it different and better for you, but you did lose a piece of yourself.” Jack feels new tears wet his chest but you don’t ask him to stop or make a noise so he continues. He knows he’s not what’s making you cry. That it’s just hard to hear and realize. “You lost a piece of yourself the moment that gun went off, and the moment you watched someone die in front of you,” he addresses the one thing you don’t talk a lot about because you’re not ready yet. It took a while for you to even be able to tell him. “And the moment,” he has to take a breath to steady himself because it’s still so hard to say, “the moment that bullet hit you, and when you almost died and over weeks in the hospital. All of those things take something from you, even if it’s not something tangible. You’ve lost a piece of yourself. And you’re grieving the person you were before you lost it. You’re grieving the you who didn’t know this type of violence, the you who didn’t know what it felt like to be shot, or what it felt like to be drowning in your own blood, or what it felt like to be septic or what it does to you to watch someone die in front of you or how it feels to see reminders of what you went through permanently on your skin. You’re grieving the person you were. And you’re grieving other things that I don’t know because I’m not in your brain. But those ones I said, those are ones I can see you grieving and struggling with and I hope it doesn’t feel like I’m being condescending or trying to define your grief for you, because I’m not. I’m just trying to tell you what I see in the hopes that it’ll help you be able to see, or give you a starting point.”

You shake your head against his chest. You know he’s not doing any of that, he didn’t even need to say it but you find it sweet that he did. “I know,” you sniffle. “I do. And it does help and somewhere deep down I know what I’m grieving, all of those things. Some things I probably can’t articulate. I just feel like I don’t know how to grieve. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to grieve obviously but I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s all the guilt making me feel like I don’t deserve to grieve or heal and should be stuck in this weird limbo forever or what. I just don’t know how.”

You both sit with your words for a minute. “I wish I had answers,” Jack finally murmurs. “But I’m not sure if anybody really knows how to grieve.” He tries to think of more to say that might be comforting or helpful. Before he can you speak.

“I got you all wet and snotty, I’m sorry.” You lean off his chest a little and put your hand under your shirt and bring it up to try and wipe him off. Jack understands you. You’ve talked enough for the night.

“Don’t apologize, it’s okay,” Jack laughs softly, grabbing at your hand to get you to stop. “Two of the most benign bodily fluids I’ve had on me, and they’re yours. Plus, I think I’ve done the same to you recently.”

“That’s different.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” he shakes his head, gives you a little tap on the ass.

“It’s true!” you protest. “I was wearing a shirt. You’re not. That’s different.”

“Still.” He knows you’re technically correct. “I did the same to you. And I’m pretty sure I cried tears onto your face while we were, you know… at the table.”

You burst out laughing. “While we were at the table? That’s what we’re calling it?”

“It’s not incorrect.” He shrugs, beaming just from hearing you laugh and being the one to pull it from you.

“Well, actually, I think it was more you were at the table. I was on the table,” you point out.

Jack shakes his head and smiles at you. “Prepositions are overrated.”

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

You and Jack don’t argue often. But you’re humans. Humans who went through a major trauma together. And humans aren’t perfect. Individually or as a couple.

Neither of you even remember how it started. And you’ve somehow moved far, far away from what you were initially discussing and starting to bicker about. But you’re here now and things are escalating into a kind of argument. Even with the escalation you never raise your voices at each other, never yell. Still. It’s neither your nor Jack’s finest moment.

Jack has never pressured you into going outside. He knows it’s still hard for you, knows how much it scares you. But he also knows that you really need to and that it’s never going to get less scary. He knows that he needs to go outside but doesn’t want to leave you, feels like he can’t leave you or something will happen like when he left you that time in the hospital. And you know that you need to go outside. It’s just so scary. You were shot. You’ve put Jack through so much, and when you think about outside you think about what if something else happened, when will it be too much for him, you can’t keep asking him to do this.

Jack isn’t pressuring you to go outside but he does ask. Again. In the space of minutes.

“I don’t want to, Jack.” Your tone has a snappy edge to it. You’re getting frustrated. At yourself more than Jack.

“You’re going to have to go outside eventually, Doll. For more than me driving you to a doctor or therapy or the bookstore.” Jack tries to keep his tone even. He’s getting frustrated too, also more at himself than you. Something about his words stings when you know he doesn’t mean them to, know it’s because you’re escalated and more sensitive in a way. The way he says it makes it seem like he’s not doing those things with you, just driving you somewhere. Chauffeuring you. Like he doesn’t want to be doing it. “Around the block, please. Nothing major. I’ll be with you the whole time, okay? I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You shake your head from where you’re sitting on the couch, knees coming up to your chest. “I don’t want to. Asking me eight more times isn’t going to change my answer.”

“I’m worried about you!” Jack stands across the living from you in jeans and a shirt. Actually dressed compared to you in lounge clothes that are effectively pajamas. “I’m not trying to pressure you,” you can’t help the little face you make at that, “I’m really not, I promise. I’m just worried. You need to go outside. Get some fresh air. You’re holding yourself hostage here. You’re holding me-”

Jack stops as soon as he realizes what he was about to say. But he knows from the look on your face that it’s too late. And he’s right. It hits you like a slap to the face, far worse than he even realizes or could imagine. Because you’ve never really explicitly or in any detail told Jack about the guilt you have from effectively asking him to do all of this with and for you, about how guilty you feel that his entire life has been turned upside down and that he was confined to the hospital and is now confined to home because of you, because you’re scared to go outside. About the guilt of feeling like his jailer. Or hostage-keeper, apparently.

It’s a silent type of panic. One that pulls a band around your chest and stomach making it hard to breathe and sends adrenaline through your veins to chill your fingers and toes and has tears hitting your eyes.

“Doll, I didn’t-”

“No, Jack, finish the goddamn sentence.” Your voice is eerily calm now. Jack takes in and lets out a breath, tilts his head and goes to speak. “No Jack. Finish the fucking sentence.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know that. I wasn’t thinking when I said it, phrased it like that.” Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Phrased it like what? Like you resent me? Like you’re getting tired of me? Of having to take care of me?” You’re pushing some of his buttons now, a little more deliberately than he had initially pushed yours.

Jack clenches his jaw and tries to breathe through his hurt and rising frustration. “I don’t resent you, nor am I getting tired of you or having to take care of you.”

“You just feel like I’m keeping you hostage in your own home?” It’s cold, the way you say it. Icy. The guilt eats away at you. You hate yourself for what you’ve put him through.

“You won’t even try, Doll! I know you know I need out of this house and you won’t even try!” A push back at your buttons. Jack knows that it’s not a matter of trying. He knows it’s not that simple. Just like you know he isn’t growing tired of you or caring for you.

“You won’t try leaving me alone,” you fire back. “I got fucking shot and I don’t want to go outside. So why don’t you try just leaving me here alone if you want to go outside that badly?” That one really hits a nerve, harder than you realize because Jack hasn’t directly expressed just how guilty he feels about what happened when he left to go down to the ED that time in the hospital. How fucking responsible he feels for what ended up happening, for you almost dying. How he thinks it’s completely his fault and could have been prevented, easily.

“Because the last time I left you alone you ended up coding in front of me and coming a centimeter and a half away from dying!” Jack takes a quick breath. He hates himself for what he let happen to you. “You don’t even know what you don’t fucking know! I watched my best fucking friend intubate you and do CPR on you and shock you. I watched them crack your chest. I have seen your literal fucking heart.” That’s all new information to you and it makes you hate yourself a little bit more even though you know that wasn’t Jack’s intention. “I have sat by you while you were in a coma for five fucking days, all because I-”

You cut him off before he can finish his sentence. All because I left you and so I wasn’t there to notice you getting sicker and to feel your fever before you went septic and threw a PE.

“Oh well I am so sorry Jack, that I went to work and got shot and almost died-”

“Don’t.” The way he says it is almost dark, low and deadly serious, face set and eyes piercing the thick tension between you. That’s the line for him. The almost flippancy in your tone.

Jack holds his hands up. “I need air.” You don’t say anything as he walks over to the entryway and puts on his shoes. “I love you.” He puts his hand on the door handle and pauses.

“I love you too.” The door opens, Jack walks out and it shuts, key turning the deadbolt to lock a few seconds later.

The sudden quiet of your apartment is what seems to bring you back down. You take a gasping breath in as everything you said to him sinks in. You bring a hand to cover your mouth, tears wetting the back of it. You’re pretty sure you’ve never hated yourself more.

You stay there on the couch, are stuck there really, unable to bring yourself to move. All you can do is cry and think about how to apologize to Jack. You start ruminating and edging toward panic thinking about whether he’ll be able to forgive you, whether you guys will be able to work through this. You know it’s panic and that you guys will be able to. That both of you said things you didn’t mean and that were designed as jabs at the other. But yours feel so much worse than anything he said to you. Even when Jack forgives you, you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive yourself.

Jack takes a couple of steps away from your apartment door but stops. He can’t. He can’t go any further. He knows he needed air and was right to step out and get some and help diffuse things between the two of you because that conversation was not going anywhere. But his fear is still there. So he walks back and slides down the wall right to the side of your door, convinces himself that this way he’ll hear you fall, if something happens. He’ll know.

Sitting in the quiet brings Jack back down too, gives everything he said to you the chance to sink in. He runs his hands over his face and through his hair before bringing the heels of his palms to his eyes and pressing in. He’s pretty sure he’s never hated himself more. He gets panicky too, it gets hard for him to imagine how you could ever accept his apologies, how he could ever make this right. He knows that you’ll forgive him, and that you’ll work this out. He just doesn’t know how he’ll forgive himself.

Neither of you even cares what the other said to you. Not really. Both of you can hardly even remember what the other said to you now, in part because it doesn’t matter. It was said out of frustration and hurt and a deep grief, none of it was meant. Things just boiled over. And in part because all you can remember is the terrible things you said to the other.

Jack doesn’t sit there long. It can’t be more than twenty minutes. You’re on your feet the second you hear the door start to unlock, walking closer to it and trying to wipe the tears from your face quickly. Jack pushes it open and looks at you, looks just as devastated as you feel and you hate it. He walks in and closes and locks the door.

“I’m so sorry.” You both say it at the same time and it makes you smile a little at each other. You’re both moving then, walking towards one another until you meet and pull each other into the tightest hug.

“I was so out of line Jack, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.” Jack can feel your tears wet his neck and it makes him squeeze you a little tighter.

“I was too. Way out of line. I didn’t mean it either. I’m so sorry, Doll.” Jack kisses the top of your head.

The anxiety hits you a little harder being in Jack’s arms for some reason and you start to tremble. “I feel so awful, and I promise the tears aren’t manipulative or for guilt or to distract, I’m just so sorry and I hate myself for what I said and I don’t want to lose you.”

Jack frowns to himself. He’d like to have a strong word with whoever made you feel like you have to explain your tears. “I promise you that I never, for even a second, thought that. Now or any time in the past. I don’t want you to hate yourself, but I get it because I hate myself too right now. I don’t want to lose you either.”

A few tears of Jack’s own slip down his face as he says it at the thought. “You’re not going to lose me,” you whisper.

“And you’re not going to lose me,” he whispers back. “Let’s go to bed.”

You pull away from him a little. “We can go out, if you just give me a couple of minutes to change-”

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t want to go out right now, I just want to be in bed with you, holding you close.” Jack brings a hand to your face and cups it, brushes some of the tears away. “I’m just as insecure as you are right now. Just as shaken. And not by anything you said. By myself, for what I said.”

You lean into his hand. “How do you always manage to do that?” Jack raises his eyebrows to seek clarification. “Read me so well. Know how I’m really feeling.”

He shrugs, like it’s simple and obvious. “You’re my favorite book. I’ve got you so well memorized you’re an easy read.” You give him a sad nod and look down at his chest. “Hey,” he guides your head back to look at him when you don’t resist. “That was so cheesy and deserved at least a pity laugh.”

You give him the smallest one through your nose. You love this about him, it’s one of the ways he takes care of you when you’re upset, tries to make you laugh a little when appropriate to help distract your mind. Usually it works. You’re just a little too shaken yourself for it to right now.

“I,” you try to find the words. “I’m not upset or shaken by anything you said either. I just want to make sure you know that.”

“I do.” Jack nods. “Honestly Doll, I barely remember what you said to me. All I can hear in my head right now are the things I said to you.”

You give a slightly bigger laugh through your nose. “Same. I can only hear myself, only remember my words.” You know you’re preventing him from getting you in bed where he wants to be, but you have one last thing to say. “I don’t want that to ever happen again Jack, I don’t ever want to hurt you like that again, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, and I don’t want to hurt you or say things like that to you ever again. But right now, I think we hurt ourselves more than we hurt each other.” He leans down and you share a kiss, three actually, each one lingering, an apology, forgiveness given and declaration of love from both of you to the other. “We’re going to figure it out, okay? I promise.”

Jack’s promise is how the two of you found yourselves here. Couples therapy.

It wasn’t one person’s suggestion. After the argument the two of you had been talking in bed, trying to work some of what you each said out. You both talked about your own therapy and it just kind of dawned on you both at the same time and you both agreed, easily, even laughing together when you said it at nearly the same time.

You stand outside the office with Jack. You hate the term, feel like it implies something. But nothing is wrong between the two of you. Just the opposite. After your argument you both knew you needed guidance on navigating your guilt and healing as a couple, not just as individuals. Both of your therapists had recommended the same couples therapist when asked, one who specializes in helping couples who have gone through an acute traumatic experience together.

Nothing changed after the argument. You were both clingy the rest of that day and for a few days after. If anything in some ways it made you guys feel stronger as a couple. But at the same time neither of you ever want it to happen again.

So here you are. You know it won’t make you as individuals or partners or your relationship perfect because that’s impossible. And you both know you’ll hurt each other again as you heal from this and move through life together because you’re human. Neither of you expect perfection.

Jack squeezes your hand as you stand there. You squeeze back, hard as you let out a big breath.

“Preventive medicine,” Jack reminds you. You’d admitted to him one day how much the term couples therapy freaked you out and how you knew it was stupid and nothing was wrong with you guys or between you guys but it still freaked you out. Jack had suggested calling it preventive medicine, asked if that might help. You weren’t sure you were sold but knew you’d pick apart any potential name for it and preventive medicine was better than couple’s therapy to you for some reason.

“Nothing is wrong?” Sometimes you just need reassurance from him. He’s always happy to give it.

“Absolutely nothing. I’m not mad or upset with you. I’m not hurt. I don’t resent you. I love you. More than I did yesterday, less than I will tomorrow, whatever the fucking saying is. We’re okay. I promise. And if we’re ever not, if we ever even get remotely near being on the same planet as not being okay I will tell you.” Jack kisses your forehead. “This is a good thing. It’s smart. They tell people to do this before they get married even when one of them hasn’t just been shot and almost died.”

You smile at him, soft and a touch somber, but a smile nonetheless. “I know. And thank you. I’m sorry, I know I’ve been so insecure and worried lately and asking for so much reassurance.”

“I’ve been the same,” Jack reminds you. You hum and shake your head as if to question him. “I have been, at least a little bit. And you give me reassurance. You don’t mind. You say you’ll give it to me as much as I need it, never take it personally because you understand. The same is true for me. I will give you however much and whatever type of reassurance you need as much as you need whenever you need and I will never take it personally. I understand too. I’d rather you ask than live with worry that could be soothed by asking, yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You lean into Jack for a second and take in a deep breath. “Alright. I’m ready. I don’t know why I even had to stand here and become ready, but whatever.” Jack smiles to himself because he loves when you do that kind of self-commentary. “You ready?”

“I’m always ready for anything with you Doll.”

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

Jack is obviously the first of you to return to work. It’s not something either of you are looking forward to really. In a sense you both are because it checks off another box on the return to normalcy. But you’re not looking forward to being alone and Jack isn’t looking forward to leaving you.

The two of you talk and decide he’ll start with half shifts, give you both some time to adjust back into things. He had been working days but he thought maybe nights would be better until you were back to work, you’d be asleep when he was gone that way. You were fine with it and so that’s what he worked out with Robby.

It’s strange sitting on the bed watching him pull on black scrubs that have been folded so long they’re a little creased. It’s been a long time since you last saw him in scrubs. It makes you smile because it reminds you of life before the shooting. And he still looks incredibly, incredibly fucking hot in them.

“What?” He smirks as he looks at you after pulling his scrub top on over his undershirt.

“I didn’t say anything!” You give him a look of mock offense. You really are doing your best to temper your anxiety about tonight.

He narrows his eyes at you a little and walks to stand in front of where you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t have to say it. I could just feel it.”

You lean your head forward onto his tummy and rest your forehead there for a moment before looking up at him. “That so?” He gives you another smirk and nods. “I’m not allowed to appreciate how good you look in scrubs anymore, Dr. Abbot?”

Jack steps back and takes your hands to pull you off the bed. “Of course you are. Doesn’t mean I won’t tease you about it.” He uses one hand to hold your face before leaning in and kissing you, hard, a little bit of tongue. Just because he can. He pulls back just far enough so you can see each other and gives you another smirked smile before kissing your forehead and releasing you.

The two of you walk back into the front room together, and you sit on the couch and fidget with your fingers while Jack looks through his backpack to make sure he has everything he needs. You grab your phone, try to distract yourself with it so he doesn’t feel you staring at him the entire time. You don’t want to make this any harder for him. Both of you know the other is just as anxious.

Jack glances down at his watch. He needs to leave. The urge to pull out his phone and call Robby to say he can’t make it in is immense. But he, and you, know that this day has to come eventually. He walks over and sits next to you on the couch. “You gonna be okay?” He grabs one of your hands in his to help ground you, get you to focus on him.

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.” You try to give him a brave smile but you’re not sure how well it lands.

“I want you to call me or text me if you need anything, okay? I mean anything. If I have to leave early then I have to leave early.” His eyes flit around your face trying to make sure he’s reading every little bit of you. “And if for some reason I don’t answer the phone, call the hospital, yeah?”

“I know Peter,” you murmur, bring his hand up to your face and lean your cheek against the back of his hand. “I’ll be okay though. Really. It might be hard at first but I’ll probably just end up falling asleep and then you’ll slip into bed beside me before I even know it.”

“I really hope so, Doll.” Jack leans in and kisses your forehead, lingers for a moment before he pulls back and looks back down at you. His brows are creased, mouth just slightly pulled down, eyes a little wider than normal. He’s concerned, worried about you. You hate seeing him like this. You know part of it goes back to his nightmares about coming home and finding you dead.

“It’ll all be okay in the end. You’re coming home to me.” You manage to give him a real smile, as small as it is, and it visibly helps him relax.

He’s able to return it. “Yes I am. Always.” He stands up and you follow, walk him over to the door.

“Text me when you get there, yeah?”

“Course. And you text me during the night if you need, okay?” You nod at him, give him another little smile as he pulls his backpack over one shoulder. He pulls you close to him in a tight hug, kisses the top of your head before letting you pull back and kissing you. “I love you. So fucking much.”

“I love you more,” you murmur before stealing another kiss. Normally he’d argue with you, but tonight he lets you have it.

Jack opens the door and steps out and you close it behind him. You both know that if he turned and looked at you he probably wouldn’t end up going in. He waits to hear the deadlock before he takes a few steps away. He has to stop though and just breathe for a minute before finally setting off.

You lock the deadbolt and then rest your forehead against the door, one palm flat on it. Tears hit your eyes and you feel so fucking ridiculous about it. Like some clingy, codependent fiancée who can’t stand to be away from her man for more than ten minutes. You try and remind yourself that this is okay, you’re allowed to feel what you’re feeling and you being upset isn’t because you’re clingy or codependent. It’s because you went through a major trauma and are healing and it’s your first time truly being on your own since you were shot. You know this won’t last, that it won’t always be like this, but in this moment it feels like it will and it overwhelms you.

Your hand itches to undo the deadbolt and dart out after him, beg him not to leave you. But you can’t do that. This is something that has to happen. So you pull yourself from the door and head back to the couch for a second before getting back up to go do the dishes from dinner. You thought it might be a good distraction. Instead it just reminds you that he’s not here doing them with you.

Your phone dings as you finish loading the dishwasher and washing the pan that can’t go in it. It’s Jack letting you know he got to work. He keeps typing, and you chew on your lip as you wait to see what he’s going to say.

J - I just want to let you know that it’s slammed here tonight so I’ll probably be busy and not around a ton. But I’ll check my phone often even if I can’t always reply. So text me if you need to, or call me or the ED. I love you.

Your heart falls at his words and some part of you feels selfish for it. It’s good. It’s good for him to be there and be busy and have that distraction and get back to normal. It just sucks you won’t have him to talk to much. You had tried to prepare yourself for this, tried to operate under the assumption that he wouldn’t be around much but a part of you, apparently a big part, still held onto the hope he would.

There’s also the unspoken meaning of the Pitt being slammed. The chances he’ll get off on time are probably slim to none unless some miracle happens. You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re going to be asleep anyway. But will you really?

Jack is anxious to get a text back from you, glancing at his phone nonstop while Robby goes over the board with him. This was exactly what he did not want to happen. He didn’t want it to be slammed. Busy, fine. He appreciates the distraction it brings. He’d still be able to respond to you more even if not as frequently as he’d like. And slammed means the chances of him getting off in six hours are a fraction above non-existent. He knows you know that too.

He also knows that he’s the lucky one out of the two of you. He can’t afford to be distracted here. So he has to do some kind of compartmentalization. It doesn’t mean he won’t miss or worry about you constantly. He will. He just has to force himself to stay present where he’s at. His inability to be distracted here is itself a distraction from his anxiety and missing you.

It feels selfish. He knows that you don’t have the same luxury at home, if anything it’s the opposite. You have to try and find things to distract yourself so that you don’t end up getting too into your head. He knows that sometimes you struggle to come up with ways to do that, or that you think of ways but can’t convince yourself to do them. He gets it. He’s been there himself. And up until now he’d been there to distract you when you couldn’t do it for yourself. But now he’s not.

So he’s anxious as he waits for a response. He knows you’re just staring at your phone trying to think of what to say. He’s trying not to think about the likelihood of teardrops hitting the screen of your phone and magnifying whatever they fall on. He’s trying not to think about what you look like when you cry like that, completely silent with the tears slipping down your face.

You’re looking down at your phone enough that the first tear to roll off your face hits the screen. You shake your head at yourself. You need to get a grip. It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Jack will be fine.

You - I’m glad you made it there safely. Thanks for letting me know, I hope the night isn’t awful. Let me know when you’re on your way home. I love you

Jack feels better for about half a second when your name finally flashes on his screen. But then he reads your message. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back for a second before looking back down at his phone. He can feel your dejection through the phone. For his part Robby gives Jack space, doesn’t comment on it, intercepts a couple of people who want to welcome Jack back. It takes Jack a moment to decide on what to reply. He knows that it doesn’t matter what his reply is, it’s not going to make anything better.

J - Of course. Don’t forget you have a couple new books on the kitchen table and all of wedding pinterest and the knot to explore. I love you more

His message does manage to pull a little laugh from you. He’s so sweet, your Jack. Reminding you of things you could do to keep yourself occupied and distracted. You look around the kitchen and take in a deep breath, try to hype yourself up.

It’s going to be okay. You’re going to do this and be fine and Jack will be so proud of you. You can do this. You grab your laptop and settle on the couch, put a show you like on and start looking through pinterest like Jack said. It goes well at first. Until you see something you really like and go to turn your computer and look over at Jack to show him. The realization hits you then that you’ve only ever done this with him.

Fine. That’s okay. You have books. You turn the TV off and go look through the stack, pick one out and curl back up on the couch. Reading also goes well at first until it finally hits you that you’ve been staring at the same page for quite a while now because it’s hard to see through your tears. You set the book down and feel so defeated. You want to be okay so badly, for Jack and for yourself. But it seems the more you try to be the more you aren’t.

You check your phone. 7:47. Nothing from Jack, not that you expected anything, especially since effectively no time has passed since his last message. You don’t know why you can’t do this, why it’s so hard. And that just makes you more upset.

You get up once you start sniffling from the tears and just take yourself to bed, curl up in a ball on it with a box of tissues and let yourself cry. You grab your phone several times, have to fight the urge to call him and plead for him to come home. You have to fight the urge to get up and grab an uber and show up at the ED. The only good thing about crying is that it’s exhausting, and the swelling of your eyes makes you feel even more tired. And so you slip under without even realizing it.

When Jack finally gets a second to check in and look at his phone sometime around 10:00 he’s a little surprised to see nothing from you. It’s unlike you. Normally you’ll text him often throughout your day, even if he can’t reply. Just little things. What you’re doing. Something funny that happened or that you saw. A photo of something that made you think of him. A moment on a show he doesn’t watch but that you want him to see. But then he realizes the problem with his thinking. Normally.

Normal at this point is synonymous with ‘before you were shot.’ Because nothing has been remotely normal since then. It’s all been temporary. The hospital was temporary. Him being at home with you was temporary. Even his half shifts are temporary. And you both want normal back. But it’s not. And even when it is you both know it’ll be different, and that’s okay. A new normal is okay. But you’re not there yet and so, Jack realizes, thinking about what you’d normally do is futile and deceptive. He is surprised he hasn’t gotten anything wedding related though. He thought you’d take him up on that suggestion, go on pinterest, send him things you find and like.

J - Finally have a second. You doing okay?

Before he can even start to wait for your reply Parker is grabbing him for help with a patient and his phone is back in his pocket. He tells himself he’s just been moving a lot and so that’s why he hasn’t felt his phone vibrate with your message. But when he pulls his phone out at 12:23 and there’s nothing from you he can’t help the pit of dread that starts to form in his stomach.

Flashbacks of nightmares play in his head. You dead on the kitchen floor. You dead in your bed. You dead on the couch. He stops himself. You must be asleep. You just fell asleep early. Hell, maybe you took some sleeping meds just to make it easier for yourself and were asleep before his last text. That has to be it. Even though he’s sure you won’t see it, because you’re sleeping, he sends another one with the news you both saw coming.

J - Hope you’re sleeping well. I’m going to be stuck here past 1. I’m hoping for 3/3:30, at most 4. I promise as soon as I can get out I will. I’m sorry. Love you

You wake with a start, covered in cold sweat, heart racing, chest heaving. It takes you a minute to fully come to. You had a nightmare. You were back in that courtroom with gunshots deafening you as you tried to hide. And then that body collapsed in front of you just like it did that day but this time you do recognize the person when their face rolls towards you as they bleed out, eyes fluttering closed.

Jack.

You think you woke up before you even got shot, though you’re not sure. You’ve never been able to remember exactly when it happened. All you know is you saw Jack’s face and Jack’s blood and then mercifully woke the fuck up. You take a second to try and come down, look over at your phone and see it’s just after 2:00 and Jack’s messages. Your heart is crushed a little by the disappointment of him being home late even though you expected it. If he had gotten off on time he’d have been here, might have woken you getting into bed, might have stopped you from having that nightmare and that image of him seared in your brain. You know it’s not fair to put that on him and you aren’t, you don’t blame him. You just can’t help but think it.

It’s what makes you burst into tears, again. Your disgust at yourself for even coming close to thinking about blaming him. And then you’re crying about all of it. Tears of anger at yourself, tears of frustration with yourself, tears of despondency about getting better, tears of panic from seeing Jack in your nightmare, tears of sorrow that he’s not home, tears of disappointment with yourself that you couldn’t do this one night, tears of confliction about being alive. You wear yourself out again.

But this time you don’t go back to sleep. Instead you get up and take a shower to rid yourself of the sticky cold sweat that covers you. You hold some ice to your face once you’re out, hope it’ll help with the swelling of your eyes and lips enough that Jack won’t notice, especially in the dark. You toss the copious tear soaked tissues in the bathroom garbage and put the tissue box back where it was so that Jack won't see anything amiss and crawl back into bed. The exhaustion of crying pulls you under again.

Jack’s out at 3:13. He hates it. He’s still on edge because still nothing from you even though he didn’t expect anything. He lets you know he's on his way home anyway. He cannot be home and have eyes on you soon enough. The drive is at least short at this time of night. There’s no lights on when he opens the door. Part of him is relieved because that would make sense if you were sleeping. But part of him is just put more on edge by the darkness. He doesn’t let himself think about it much, drops his backpack and gets his shoes off quickly and then is heading for your room.

As much as he wants to, he doesn’t turn the overhead light on. He can make out your form on the bed so he steps over to the bathroom and reaches in to flick the light on, leaves the door open to give him just enough light in the bedroom to look at you. Normally the sight would turn him on, immensely. It still does, he can feel it. But tonight that’s overshadowed by the way it breaks his heart because he knows what it means.

You’re curled up on his side of the bed, head on his pillow, wearing one of his shirts and holding another close to you, clutching it to your chest really. He lets out a slow breath through his nose as he takes you in. His brows furrow a little. He’s not sure if it’s the lighting or if your eyes and lips are really a little swollen. He makes himself let go of the thought for the moment so that he can grab a pair of pajama pants and just get in bed with you.

When he walks in the bathroom properly it hits him. It’s a bit warmer than your bedroom, a bit more humid. And the smell. It smells like he just showered. Which means you showered recently and used all of his products so that you’d smell like him. It’s so sweet but it hurts, that he wasn’t here when you so clearly needed him. He tries to set that aside and not feel guilty, think about and apply what you guys have learned in couple’s therapy but it’s hard. And it gets harder when the pile of white catches his eye and he sees all of the tissues in the trash can. It wasn’t the lighting. The swelling is real. You cried. A lot.

You’re not sure what wakes you but when you force your eyes open you realize the bathroom light is on which means Jack is home. It’s the first time you’ve smiled since he left. “Peter?” you call softly as you get out of bed to walk to the bathroom. Jack’s out of his scrubs in just his pajama bottoms.

“Hey, I’m sorry Doll, I didn’t mean to wake you.” You shake your head at him, meeting him at the doorway to the bathroom.

“I’m just glad you’re home.” You push your lips out for a kiss he happily gives you. “Missed you. Were you okay?”

“I was yeah. Being slammed was good at keeping me distracted." He frowns for a second because he knows how not the case that was for you. He leans in for another kiss. "I missed you more,” he murmurs against your lips, hands finding your waist.

You hum back against his lips as he kisses you again. “I’m going to let you have that only because I was passed out most of the night.”

Jack nods at you. But you can tell from the speed of it that he knows. You just give him a little shrug to tell him you know he knows.

“Why didn’t you call?” It’s soft. He’s not angry at you or upset with you in any way. Just curious. You look away from his eyes down at his bare chest and give another little shrug. “Did you need me?”

“I was okay… eventually,” you admit. One of his hands finds your chin, gently pushes it up to see if you’ll move your head up to look at him. You don’t resist so he tilts your chin up.

Jack gives you a small smile and keeps his voice low and gentle and he hopes comforting. “That doesn’t answer my question.” The hand still on your waist gives it a small squeeze. “You can be okay and still need me, or trying to convince yourself you’re okay and still need me, or trying to be okay and still need me.” He raises his eyebrows a little at you.

You look at him for a beat and then let out a big sigh, lean forward and into him a bit so that your forehead rests against his chest. “I hate it when you do that,” you grumble against him.

“What’s that?” He leans down and kisses the top of your head.

You move your forehead off his chest but plant a kiss there before looking back up at him. “See right through me,” you murmur through a watery smile. “I don’t know how you’re so damn good at it.”

“Well,” Jack nods slowly, “in your fourth year of med school they pull a couple of students aside, obviously the ones they think are the best since I was one of them, and they teach us x-ray vision.”

You let out a huffed laugh but smile at him. “I really thought I was about to learn something about med school.”

“Are you saying you don’t believe me?!” He gives you his best surprised face.

You roll your eyes at him and laugh a little with him but it quickly turns into trembling lips and you shaking your head.

“Okay baby, come here,” Jack whispers, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close, one hand finding the back of your head and holding your face against his chest.

“It was so bad Jack, it was so bad,” you choke out through a strangled sob. “And I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to cry into you tonight or this morning or whatever the fuck it is. I just want to get in bed and be with you.” You sniffle and try to pull yourself together.

“I know.” He rocks you just a little, presses his lips to the top of your head and lets them linger. “But we can be in bed together and you can be crying if that’s what you need.” As he speaks he flicks the light off and settles one hand on your hip and slowly begins walking you backwards toward the bed.

“I’m tired of it being what I need,” you mumble. At least you’ve managed to stop the tears. You turn once your knees hit the back of the bed so that you can slide in, Jack following you once he has his prosthetic off. “I just…I had a nightmare.”

Jack cringes as he settles and holds his arms open for you. “I’m so sorry.” He knows all too well how much they can rattle you and fuck you up for days. How long it can take to get them to a point of only happening a few times a year. How much therapy and EMDR he’s had to do to help with his over the years. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You sigh as you curl into his side and drape your top leg over his, rest your head against the crook of his shoulder. The hand of Jack’s arm that’s now behind you starts rubbing your back up and down. “I was back there. In that courtroom on that day. And it was all the same and as much as that sucked it was fine. But then I got to the part where that woman collapsed in front of me and died but,” you have to pause and try and get yourself closer to Jack. “But it wasn’t her. It was you.” Jack’s shifting onto his side a bit more at that and pulling you closer into him, pressing the front of his body against yours. He positions you so that you can rest your ear up against his chest. “And unlike her you rolled your head to look at me as you were bleeding out and then I woke up.”

You hear the click of Jack’s jaw as he opens it to say something. But it never comes, instead you just feel his head shake a little. You let yourself focus on the beat of his heart underneath your ear, the warmth of his skin. “I’m so sorry,” he finally whispers. “I know it’s not my fault but I am so sorry that you had to experience that Doll.”

You shrug a little. Apparently you’re all out of tears for the night. You’re too tired for them. And here in Jack’s arms with his heart beating under your ear it’s not so scary. There’s an odd sense of calm that fills both of you. You feel kind of bad, like you've taken this for yourself, haven't talked about how he did at work. But you know there's time. “Don’t be,” you whisper, turn your face a bit to nuzzle into his chest. “At least I didn’t have to live through your funeral. I’ve got that goin’ for me. More than you can say.”

He can feel your lips turn up in a smile against his chest. And he has to let out a laugh at it too. Because you’ve hit a point where you can start to make small jokes about what’s happened, what you’ve both been through. Because it’s all so miserable and horrific that if you guys don’t laugh you’ll cry. After a second you pull your head from his chest and look up at him. He looks so amused with his wide closed lip smile, shaking his head at you slightly that you have to bite your lip to stop from laughing. But that makes him crack and start properly laughing and so you do too.

You guys laugh until it hurts, until the smallest tears slide out the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry, that was probably so insensitive of me-”

“No,” Jack keeps laughing, “no. No, Doll that was so fucking needed, fuck me. The laughing feels just as cathartic as crying right now.”

“I agree,” you giggle as you both start to wind down. You lean in to kiss him and Jack keeps you there, nipping at your bottom lip and tugging at it a little when you try to pull away. “Needy,” you murmur teasingly.

“For you? Always.” You lay there and kiss. Kiss and make out in bed pressed against each other simply because you want to feel close and because you can. It’s not leading anywhere as good as it feels and as wired as it makes both of you. You can feel him growing hard against you and yourself growing wetter for him but you’re both content to stay like you are.

Eventually the kisses slow. You’re both sleepy, and between snuggling with each other and all the kissing it’s quick to catch up with you. Just as you both start to nod off you think of something. “Hey Jack? Maybe no more night shifts.” It’s all sleep slurred and in that drowsy tone you get that he finds particularly adorable.

He laughs a little through his nose. “No more night shifts,” he agrees, just as groggy.

When you wake up the next day Jack is able to get in touch with Robby and switch things back so that he’s on days again. Something about the daylight makes it a little easier for you, and you don’t seem to have any nightmares when you sleep snuggled into Jack. The next time he goes to work for half a day shift sucks still, but significantly less than that first half a night shift. Each time it gets a little bit easier, even when Jack is finally back to regular twelve hour shifts.

And then eventually it’s your turn to go back to work. It’s not just going back to work, it’s going back to the place you were shot. Both of you are on edge. Jack hates the thought of you having to go back there, it sends his anxiety through the roof even though he knows logically it’s probably the safest courthouse in the entire country right now with all the heightened security.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Jack asks you for probably the tenth time this morning alone.

“I’m sure,” you call to him from the bathroom as you finish getting ready. Jack appears in the mirror behind you, stopping at the doorway of the bathroom. You look at him in the mirror. “It’s okay, I’m ready. I can do this.”

You sound more like you’re trying to convince yourself than you are Jack. “You can call me. If you need anything.”

“I know,” you nod, “I promise I know and that if I need you I’ll call.” You turn to look at Jack and start walking towards him. Half of you feels ready for this, is craving the normalcy that being at work will bring. The other half knows you’re probably not quite ready. You haven’t even been by the building to expose yourself to it.

You pick at the breakfast Jack made you, stomach churning too much to feel hungry and making it hard to swallow anything down. He doesn’t comment on it as he sits at the table across from you working on today’s crossword, isn’t going to pressure you into eating more or potentially make you feel bad by calling you out on it. He gets it. He didn’t eat much dinner the night he went back to work for that one half a night shift.

It’s going to put your shoes on where you really start to let yourself realize how not ready you are for this. You stare down at them for what feels like ten or so seconds but is in reality close to a full minute. Jack knows because he glances at his watch after the first few seconds pass and you don’t move to put them on.

Finally you force yourself to and grab your bag. You take in and let out a deep breath and ignore how shaky it is as Jack walks over to you. He doesn’t want to smother you in reassurance and reminders you can call him or end up letting an ask for you to stay home slip out. “Have a good day Doll. Call if you need and I’ll be here waiting for you when you get home. I love you.”

Jack leans down and kisses you, one that lingers followed by a bunch of softer pecks. “I will,” you nod. “I’ll see you tonight.” You put your hand on the door handle and open it a little. “I love you more,” you smile up at him. He lets you have it this morning.

As you walk out the door and close it you know immediately you’re not ready. Jack knows you aren’t ready. But you try anyway and he doesn’t try to stop you because this is something you need to do for yourself.

It doesn’t take too long to get there, the commute is generally fairly easy even though it’s busy. You walk up to the courtyard of the courthouse and stare at the entrance. It feels like you can’t breathe and you’re aware of how badly your hands shake. Your heart races as you try and tell yourself you just need a minute and then you’ll go in.

But everything just gets worse. All you can hear is screaming and gunshots, taste that metallic flavor of adrenaline, and smell sulphur and smoke. You can’t do this. You so cannot fucking do this.

You get yourself back enough so a trembling hand can get your phone out of your bag, unlock it and hit Jack’s name. He answers on the first ring. “I’m not ready Jack, I can’t do this, I, I, I’m stuck outside and I need you, please come, I’m sor-”

“Doll,” Jack interrupts you. “Turn around.”

You do and standing at the edge of the courtyard is Jack.

He hangs up his phone as he starts moving to you, shoving past a couple people with a distracted excuse me because he just needs to get to you. He knows that you don’t want to fully lose it here, not with the potential for people you know or work with every day to see. And Jack doesn’t want it for you either. He knows you hate crying in front of people, that it took a while for you to be able to cry in front of him.

“I’m here,” he’s saying as he gets to you, arms reaching out before he’s even all the way there to start pulling you into him. “I’m here, I’ve got you, you’re okay.” Your hands slide around his waist and clutch at the back of his shirt as you close your eyes and press the side of your head to his chest.

You breathe him in, smell your laundry detergent and his body wash and him. You focus and let his heart beating become the only thing you can hear. The metallic taste in your mouth starts to fade.

“Ready to walk?” Jack whispers as he feels you start to calm down. You nod against him and so he lets go of you. A hand finds your lower back and starts directing you over to a bench outside of the courtyard facing away from the courthouse.

You both sit and he pulls you as close as possible, wraps the arm closest to you around your waist to keep you close as you rest a hand on his knee. Jack brings his other hand across his body and rests it on top of your hand, laces your fingers together from above.

Jack doesn’t pressure you, doesn’t ask you for details or if you want to talk or what exactly happened. He just sits there with you holding you close. You tilt your head and let it fall onto his shoulder. He tilts his head and his lips press against you where they can reach before he lets his head rest on yours lightly.

“I feel so ridiculous,” you murmur after a while.

Jack squeezes your hand. “Why?”

“I knew the entire morning I wasn’t ready. I just wanted to be so bad so I didn’t listen to myself.”

“I know. I knew,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t make you ridiculous. Just human.”

“You knew?” you whisper, pull away to look at him. “How?”

“You told me as much with your eyes and the way you hesitated before you did anything related to getting ready this morning.” He squeezes your hand. “Before picking up your hairbrush and putting your bra on and picking up your mascara, that type of stuff. Your hand hesitated for just a second or two before you grabbed whatever it was. And then when it took you as long as it did to get your shoes on I just had an intuition or gut feeling or whatever you want to call it that I should be here.”

“You didn’t try to stop me?”

“No,” he shakes his head and gives you a small smile. “It was obvious that you needed to do this. Come here. Try. Get yourself back in front of this building. You needed to do it for yourself and I wasn’t going to interfere with that, no matter how badly I wanted to stop you so you wouldn’t hurt. You needed to do this. My role is to support you and help you with your healing. Not to dictate how you do it.”

You take in and hold a long breath before letting it out through your nose and shaking your head a little. “You’re way too fucking good for me.”

Jack gives you a look. “Not even gracing that bullshit with a reply,” he parrots the phrase you love to use back at you.

You give him a little eye roll and a smile. “I just should be better, Jack. I should be able to go back and get back to normal. But then I got here and it’s like it was yesterday.”

He nods slowly. “I think it was yesterday in a sense, Doll. This is your first time even being in front of the courthouse since it happened. That’s one. Two,” he pauses to take a breath and look down and away from you for a second. “A very, very smart woman,” he looks back up at you with a small smile, “once told me that should is a stupid word. Nothing should or shouldn’t be. Things just are. And it’s okay for them to be as they are. It’s okay for this to be as it is.”

You’re quiet for a few seconds before you let out a huffed laugh through your nose. “I can’t believe you just used my own words against me twice in a row.”

Jack clicks his tongue and shrugs. “I can be a real dick sometimes can��t I?”

You roll your eyes at him again and lean back into him. “Maybe. But you’re my dick, so it’s okay, I’ll allow it.”

That makes him roll his eyes at you and chuckle. “Yeah, I’m your dick, alright. I’m glad to hear you’ll allow it,” he teases.

“I’m actually quite impressed that you remember that entire little speech I gave you,” you admit after a few minutes.

“Repeated it to myself a lot. Still do. Well, really in my head you’re saying it to me and I hear it in your voice. So I guess I have you repeating it to me a lot.” He pauses. “It’s important to remember.”

“I suppose it is.” You pull away again to look up at him. “Thank you. I love you.”

“Always, Doll.” The kiss he gives you is quick yet ardent. “I love you too.”

There’s a lull as the two of you just sit on the bench and exist together, soak in the sun.

“You wanna go to bath and body works?” Jack breaks the silence. An amused smirk pulls on your face as you pull away to look up at him. “Candles are on sale. $12.95. And they just released a bunch of new scents.”

You know he’s offering and that he keeps tabs on when they’re on sale and when new scents come out because he knows how much you enjoy candles and the fun of smelling them. You bite your lip and look up at him all dreamy. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head and stands up, offers you his hand and helps you off the bench so you can head to the store. “Just in love.”

You take a bit more time for yourself before you try going back again, go and sit outside the courthouse with Jack and alone. And the next time you go back to work Jack goes with you, holds your hand all the way up to the employee entrance. He gives you a kiss goodbye and holds the door open for you, watches you for a second before he lets the door close. He waits outside on a bench for a bit, just in case you decide you’re not ready again and need him. But you don’t. And so Jack smiles to himself as he gets up and heads back home.

Normal. Things are finally starting to get back to normal.

But, as it turns out, normalcy is a fragile thing. And so things are finally starting to get back to normal.

Until they aren’t.

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

Thank you so so much for reading, I hope it was okay!

Part 4 will be out soon!! This weekend for sure! And then we're straight into Quiet 2 which I am so fucking excited for! I have many many plans! How many exclamation points can I use in a row!!!!!

You can find my Masterlist here for more Jack!

And if you'd like to be added to my Jack tag list please interact with this post!

Tag list:

@loveyhoneydovey @love-affair-with-fandoms @mstrsgoodgrl0628 @equallyshaw @kmc1989 @artsymaddie @moonshooter @whiskeyhowlett-writes @smallcarbigwheels @hawkswildfireheart @blackwidownat2814 @yxtkiwiyxt @viridian-dagger @andabuttonnose @beebeechaos @pear-1206 @starkgaryan @travelingmypassion @marvelcasey05 @daydreamingallthetime-world @millenialcatlady @nursejuju86 @escapefromrealitysm @emilia527 @satanxklaus @frazie99 @kastleandmurdock @guardiancardigan @zoctopiii @4rosabellaa @adissapointmentlol @nowandajenn @dantemorenatalie @book-of-roses @redzscare @concentratedconcrete @freshbearbouquetblr @qardasngan @practicalghost @wolviehugh @athena1504 @a-stari-night @iamcryingonceagain @acn87 @moonpascal @lostfleurs @beltzboys2015-blog @pouges-world @tinyharrypotterkpopfriend @roseanddaggerlarry

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hel1nn · 2 months ago

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Satoru gojo fic recommendations ! Part two part three

— he fell from the sky! By @satorunigojaloo

It's a really beautiful series ugh what do i say now. satoru drops *crashes* Infront of reader and reader decided to help him recover from his injuries and during all of that a strong bond forms between you and toru.

Note : make sure to check @/satorunigojaloo 's masterlist,more excellent works of her are there ♡

— double trouble by @moon-catto

Because of a curse satoru is teleported back in time ^.^

— in a few years : part 1 | part 2 by @noroi1000

This one is also about time travel:3

Note : make sure to check @/noroi1000 's other works by scrolling through her blog,more excellent works of her are there ♡

— gunshot of love by @faevi

Smutttttt,dark content and gun play but nothing dangerous and fluff

— Lonely together by @/satorunigojaloo

Roommate toru,bsf to lovers.

— come with me by @/satorunigojaloo

Fluff and lil angst,roommate toru

— belong with me by @chuluoyi

Reader is megumi's sister here and is practically raised by satoru,at some point reader falls in love with toru . And satoru is like 10yrs olders than reader maybe

— heartbreak hotel by @/chuluoyi

Exes of one week to lovers ^.^

— fear by @/chuluoyi

Yeah this one made me cry but angst with a hapi hapi ending ^.^

— everything,but not anything by @/chuluoyi

Angst with a little comfort in the end

— found you by @/chuluoyi

Part two of "everything,but not anything" , comfort/no angst

— between us by @feelstora-quotes

Angsty:( but i love teacher toru ^.^

— older bf!toru by @sttoru

HELL YEAH I LOVE OLDER TORU

— satoru gojo x oc ! reader by @asdfghjklmals

This one is such a unique series,i love it.

— the devil's hour by @sltoru

A fic inspired by a manhwa called "tears on a withered flower". Reader gets cheated on by her husband but satoru saves reader and later she founds out satoru was a boy she met when reader was a small girl:3

— teacher satoru x student reader

Smutttttttttt aghhhhh Idk who's the owner of this drabble but all credits goes to them. I lovveeeeeeeee older toru.

— tell me you don't want me by @awearywritersworld

Satoru falls for his dead best friend's sister,you. Angst to fluff

— step on me by @/sttoru

Angst to fluff ! its always satoru who snaps at reader but this time reader snaps at satoru

— but daddy i love him by @jeankluv

A mini series where you meet satoru at a library, later your parents warn you about how much of a bad person satoru is but satoru proves their words wrong.

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heavenlybodies333 · 12 days ago

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Daddy’s girl - S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

“Don’t walk away from me,” Hotch’s voice cuts through the bullpen like a gunshot. The team freezes. No one dares to look up from their desks—except the new agent recruit. Spencer Reid watches as the girl in the pleated skirt and pressed white blouse turns back slowly, mouth twisted in irritation. She looks like she walked straight out of a catalog for expensive private schools.

“I came by to say hi after class,” you snap, arms folded. “Sorry for existing, Dad.” Dad? Spencer blinks. That’s Hotch’s daughter?

Hotch steps forward, a calm rage simmering behind his eyes. “You charged nearly two thousand dollars on that card this week. I warned you. Five missed classes in one week and a bar tab that could fund a tactical op? You’re done.”

“That was for my thesis!” you cut in.

Hotch doesn’t flinch. “Give me the card.”

“No.”

“Now.” as he held his hand out sternly.

“You’re actually doing this in front of everyone?” you hiss, hopping off JJ’s desk. “Right now?”

His tone doesn’t shift. “Now.” You roll your eyes, with an exaggerated sigh, you yank the black AMEX from your bag and slap it into his palm.

He cuts it clean in half.

“Enjoy campus dining,” he says.

You glare at him. “I fucking hate you.”

“You’ll thank me someday,” Hotch says coolly.

You throw your hands up dramatically and spin on your heel to storm out, fury radiating off you like heat. But not before you pass Spencer’s desk—your eyes catch on the stack of neatly organized files beside his laptop. His poor, innocent desk. And with a perfectly manicured hand, you swipe your arm across it, sending the entire pile of case files flying like paper snowflakes. Hotch raises his voice once again, “If you walk out this building your going to be looking at more than just your card taken away—”

You don’t even glance back. “Don’t wait up, Dad!” you shout, You keep walking, one middle finger raised in the air, aimed squarely at your father. Spencer watches you disappear through the elevator doors, your skirt swinging, attitude on full display.

“Jesus Christ,” Reid says with his eyebrows raised. “Who?”

“That,” Morgan says, clapping him on the back, “was the princess.”

“She’s—?”

Hotch sighs and rubs his temples. “My daughter.”

Spencer frowns, still staring at the papers on the floor. “She knocked over my files.” Emily shrugs. “She once crashed her Porsche into Hotch’s SUV and blamed the parking lot security.” Morgan pats him on the shoulder, laughing. “Welcome to the BAU, rookie.” The team goes back to their work like this is normal—because it is. Except for Spencer, who’s still carefully re-stacking the files you knocked over, eyes darting toward Hotch’s office every few seconds like the man might implode. 2 minutes later, Hotch appears again. But this time, he’s got his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and that special kind of father-is-done-with-your-shit face.

“Garcia, if she tries to swipe her badge again, deactivate it,” he says as he strides past.

“On it, sir,” she says with a salute, but she’s smiling. Everyone is. They’ve seen this before.

Spencer watches, confused. “Where’s he going?”

Morgan grins. “You’re about to witness a tactical extraction of a different kind.”

“Extraction?” Spencer echoes.

“Yeah. Of his daughter’s attitude.”

Outside in the parking lot, your phone buzzes again. You don’t check it. You already know what it says. You’ve barely made it to your car—keys in hand, still fuming—when you hear the sharp, familiar sound of polished dress shoes striking concrete.

Shit. Shit. Shit. You don’t even have time to climb into the driver’s seat before your dad’s voice cuts through the parking garage like a warning shot.

“Don’t you dare get in that car.”

You freeze with the door halfway open.

“Dad—”

“Out.” His tone is clipped, controlled, and unmistakably pissed. “Now.”

You slam the car door shut and turn around dramatically, arms crossed, “I already left. I made my exit. That was the whole point.”

“You made a scene. You humiliated yourself. And you disrespected someone on my team who’s done nothing to deserve it.”

You roll your eyes. “God, I barely touched the files.”

Hotch doesn’t budge. “You knocked over a federal agent’s files and flipped me off in front of my team. You’re going to walk back inside and apologize like an adult. Get. Upstairs.”

You push off the car and strut past him, tossing over your shoulder, “But you’re not getting a thank you. I’m doing this under protest.” He exhales like he’s bargaining with God not to lose his temper.

Back in the bullpen, Spencer is still carefully re-stacking the files when he hears the elevator ding again. He looks up—expecting Garcia, maybe—but freezes when he sees you marching in behind Hotch, arms crossed, lips pursed, sunglasses still on like you’re shielding yourself from the humility of being dragged back.

The entire team watches in silence. You come to a stop in front of Reid. Your chin’s high, your tone flat. “I’m sorry I knocked over your files or whatever.”

Reid, stunned by your sudden change in demeanor blinks, “Oh. Uh—thank you. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” your dad says behind you. “Say it like you mean it.”

You groan, “I’m sorry,” you say, voice syrupy-sweet now. “I didn’t mean to take my daddy issues out on you, Doctor Reid.” Spencer’s eyes widen. His brain short-circuits. “Oh my God,” Morgan mutters under his breath, laughing. Garcia fans herself. “I can’t breathe.”

“Okay,” Hotch snaps, clearly at the edge of his sanity. “We’re done here. Go back to class.”

You flash a sugary smile. “Of course, Daddy. Love ya.” You start toward the elevator again, this time with a little bounce in your step, Just as the doors begin to close, you shoot Reid a parting glance, tilt your head innocently, and say “Nice cardigan, by the way.”

a/n: I had no business writing this but here we are

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

#aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fan fiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic

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newobsessionweekly · 29 days ago

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Aftershock: Bradford's Barbie

Main Masterlist | The Rookie Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tim Bradford x younger!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You and Tim are not dating. But also aren't not dating. Until he pulls back, you shut down and every feeling comes crashing down on you both.

Angst to fluff

Warnings: description of gunshots maybe? not proofread yet

Words: -

It didn’t start with fireworks. Or candlelight. Or anything remotely poetic.

It started with a crash.

Not the earthquake kind, not this time. Just you—exhausted, makeup smudged, hair in a bun that had declared war hours ago—falling asleep on his couch after a late-night takeout run and a shared bottle of whiskey neither of you meant to finish.

You woke up tangled in his arms. The next morning, you told yourself it was a one-time thing.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, in between shifts and field assignments, takeout orders and inside jokes, it became a routine. Your body in his bed. His scent on your clothes. His lips on your skin, hot and heavy in the silence after dark. And, weirdly, you slept better at his place. He did too, not that he ever said it out loud.

You weren’t dating.

You weren’t not dating, either.

Tim called it “convenient.” You called it “friends with benefits.” Lucy called it “a catastrophe waiting to happen,” though she didn’t know the half of it.

Because somewhere between him calling you a menace and you calling him a fossil—somewhere between him brushing your hair off your face and you learning how he liked his coffee—you started catching feelings.

Like a dumbass.

And the worst part? You didn’t even mean to. It just… happened. The way feelings do. Quiet at first, like a hairline crack. Then spreading, splitting, splitting, splitting.

Until something inside you started to break.

You told him once.

Sort of.

A few weeks ago, lying in his bed with your cheek pressed to his chest, you’d murmured something dumb and sleepy like, “I think you like me, Bradford.”

He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t kissed you either.

He’d just gone still.

“Don’t make this complicated,” he’d said finally, voice low. “It’s already risky. You’re… you’re too young. This thing is just for fun. Let’s not pretend it’s more than it is.”

And like a fool, you nodded.

You told yourself you could deal with it.

But here you are, two months later, being reckless all over again.

Because now, thanks to a shiny new contract between LAPD and your father’s construction firm, you’re officially partnered with none other than Timothy “Emotionally Constipated” Bradford.

You might’ve pulled a few strings. Okay, a lot of strings. But in your defense, it was the perfect setup: a project pairing cops with civil engineers to evaluate post-quake building damage. Everyone wins. Especially you.

Except you forgot one detail.

You’re still in love with him.

And he still thinks you’re a goddamn risk.

You’re halfway through assessing a condemned strip mall in East Hollywood when it all goes to hell.

The street’s quiet, a little too quiet, the kind of quiet that prickles under your skin. Tim’s beside you, hand on his vest, eyes scanning every window and alley like he’s waiting for something to jump.

You’re marking a crumbling doorway with bright red chalk when it happens.

A pop.

Then another.

Gunfire.

You drop instantly, instincts kicking in, but not before Tim grabs your shoulder and yanks you behind the rusted frame of a dumpster. His body covers yours, warm and solid, one arm braced against the metal and the other curled around your waist.

“Stay down,” he growls, eyes blazing.

Your heart is beating in your ears, faster than it should. Too fast. His breath is hot on your cheek. His chest rises and falls against your back, firm and steady, while yours feels like it might explode.

And all you can think is: this isn’t casual. This isn’t just “fun.”

This is him shielding you like he’d die for you.

When it’s over—when backup arrives, when the scene clears, when the world rights itself again—you’re sitting on the tailgate of an LAPD shop with an ice pack pressed to your knee and a very pissed-off Tim looming over you.

“You okay?” he asks. The words are tight. Controlled. But his hand won’t stop gripping your thigh.

“I’m good,” you reply lightly. “But damn, Bradford. You almost made me think you caught feelings.”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t.”

“What? Can’t a girl joke around with her—what are we again? Bed buddies?”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps back like your words physically burned him.

You wait for him to say something—anything. But all you get is silence. His walls are up again. Brick by goddamn brick.

You nod, lips tightening.

“Got it.”

You stop texting him after that.

No goodnight emojis. No sarcastic memes. No more midnight rides to each other’s places. You pull out. Clean cut. No drama.

You tell yourself it’s the right thing. The smart thing.

You also start sleeping like crap again.

You expect him to call.

He doesn’t.

You expect him to knock on your door like he always does when things go sideways. Show up with a six-pack and that dumb grumpy look he pretends isn’t fond.

He doesn’t.

Instead, silence.

You last three days before deleting his name from your favorites. Five days before you fold the hoodie he left behind and tuck it in a drawer. Nine before you hear through one of the engineers that he requested a reassignment. A new partner.

The hurt isn’t new.

You just didn’t expect it to land like this. Like a slow tear in your chest every time you turn a corner expecting to see him, but don’t.

Tim is worse.

He doesn’t talk about it. Not to Lucy. Not to Thorsen. Not to Lopez. He just… broods.

He snaps faster. His fuse is shorter. He works more shifts, runs more drills, volunteers for the worst hours.

Lucy notices.

Of course she notices.

“You’ve been insufferable lately,” she says one day while they’re stuck in the locker room post-shift, both drenched in sweat and sun. “Worse than usual.”

Tim grunts, slamming his locker shut harder than necessary. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit.”

He shoots her a look, but she doesn’t back off.

“Is this about her?” Lucy asks casually. Too casually.

Tim stiffens. “What?”

“The blonde. Barbie. Earthquake Barbie. Whatever nickname you gave her in your grumpy little brain.”

Tim says nothing. Just pulls his shirt over his head like the conversation’s over.

It isn’t.

Lucy leans against the row of lockers, arms crossed. “Look, I didn’t want to get involved, but you’re spiraling. And when Tim Bradford spirals, people start punching walls and doing push-ups until their triceps cry for help.”

Tim’s voice is low. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not talking to you.”

“She doesn’t have to.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “So you were hooking up.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Lucy whistles. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Tim exhales slowly, resting his forehead against the cool metal. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything.”

“But?”

He hesitates.

Lucy watches him carefully. “But?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “She got under my skin.”

Lucy nods. “Yeah. That tends to happen when you’re in love.”

Tim turns to her, eyes flinty. “It wasn’t love.”

“Sure.”

“She’s almost twenty years younger than me.”

“And?”

“She’s reckless. She pulled strings to partner with me.”

“She also stood her ground during a live gunfire incident and patched your hand when you busted your knuckles punching a brick wall.”

Tim doesn’t respond.

Lucy softens. “Look. I don’t know what happened between you two. But I’ve known you long enough to know when someone’s got you twisted in knots. Go to her. Fix it.”

It takes him until midnight.

You’re not surprised when he knocks.

You hear the heavy sound of his boots on the hallway first—then the pause, then the knock. He doesn’t knock like a neighbor. He knocks like someone who built you into his routine and doesn’t know how to function without it.

But you don’t answer.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, and sip from a lukewarm mug of tea you don’t even like.

You hear the second knock. Then his sigh. Then silence.

“I know you’re there,” he says through the door, voice low and rough. “You’re loud in heels. But I swear—you’re louder barefoot.”

Your heart stutters.

You stay quiet.

He exhales, palm pressing to the door.

“I didn’t mean to push you away.”

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t push me away, Bradford. You made it very clear where I stand. Or don’t stand.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Yeah. I’m a dumbass.”

You don’t deny it.

Tim leans closer. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin what we had. And I thought keeping it casual would keep it safe.”

You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it. “Casual? You kissed my shoulder when you thought I was asleep. You stocked your fridge with my favorite iced coffee.”

Silence.

“Casual my ass,” you mutter.

You still don’t open the door. You hear his exhale through the wood.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says, quieter this time. “You know I didn’t.”

You hate that his voice still does that to you. That low rumble laced with something vulnerable. Something only you ever get from him—when no one’s watching. Not Lucy. Not his team. Not his goddamn conscience.

“You said I wasn’t worth the risk,” you remind him, because he needs to hear it. Needs to sit with the way it burned through you like acid.

A pause.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

Silence.

You wait. The kind of silence where seconds stretch until they feel like bruises. He doesn’t answer, and that tells you enough.

You move to the door, pressing your back against it, still not ready to open it. “Go home, Tim.”

“I am home,” he says softly, and fuck. Fuck him for saying that.

The ache spreads. It’s not even anger anymore. It’s that thing you hate admitting even to yourself. Longing.

You press your palms to your eyes. “You don’t get to say that.”

Another pause.

“Okay. Fine. You won’t talk to me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He must hear the way your breath hitches through the door, because his next words come sharp.

“Then I’ll make you talk.”

The knock stops. The silence twists.

Then the click of the door handle turning, slow—because you forgot to lock it. You never lock it when you expect him.

The door opens, and there he is.

Post-shift, tired eyes, hand still on the doorknob like he’s giving you one last second to throw him out.

You don’t.

He steps in and shuts the door behind him.

You’re still in your hoodie, hair up in that messy knot he always said made you look like you “tried not to look hot,” and failed.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just drinks you in. Quiet, serious, unreadable. Then, in three strides, he’s in front of you, his hand tilting your chin up.

“I fucked up.”

You blink. “You think?”

He doesn’t smile. He just leans in—closer than he’s let himself in weeks.

“Say something.”

You don’t. You won’t.

So he does what Tim Bradford always does when he’s cornered by emotion—

He acts.

His lips crash into yours before you can say another word. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Like he’s trying to apologize with every breath he pulls from you.

Your hands fist in his shirt before your brain catches up. Before your heart can argue. Because you’ve missed this. Him. The heat. The feel of his body like a shield and a furnace all at once.

He pulls back just far enough to murmur, “You’re mine.”

You open your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to fall apart—but he kisses you again before the words come.

“Say it,” he breathes against your skin, kissing down your jaw. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, dazed, breathless, undone. “And you’re mine as well.”

His hands tighten around your waist, like he’s trying to ground himself to the words. Like you’ve said something dangerous, holy.

“I’ve been yours,” he says hoarsely, “since the moment I met you, Barbie doll.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He lifts you—effortlessly—and carries you to the couch, laying you down like you’re something fragile and irreplaceable.

This isn’t just sex anymore.

This is everything that’s been building. All the friction, the denial, the tension that snapped the moment he let himself feel.

The hoodie is the first thing to go. His hands slow, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

He kisses your chest, your neck, your mouth again. “I don’t care about the age gap,” he murmurs. “Or the job. Or the risk. I care about you.”

You close your eyes and arch into him. He’s not just making love to you. He’s choosing you. Out loud. Without hesitation.

And the best part is—you’re finally choosing him back.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the room. You stir, feeling the steady rhythm of Tim’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

You look up at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Morning.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “So, does this mean we’re official or something?”

You chuckle. “I think last night made that pretty clear.”

He grins, pulling you closer. “Good. Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

You nestle into his embrace, feeling a sense of contentment you hadn’t known you were missing.

And in that moment, everything feels right.

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aliteralsemicolon · 10 months ago

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Wait until you like me again - 18+

See part 1 | Part 2 of We can't be friends (wait for your love) | See part 3

The decision to resign puts a lot of weight on your shoulders. A takedown gone wrong makes it the least of anyone's concerns, especially Spencer’s. You’re not willing to let him back in; it feels too little, too late.

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER This story is NSFW and contains graphic depictions. It is intended for mature audiences only, minors do not interact! You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read. Part 2 was highly requested and I’m sorry it’s taken so long to finish.

WARNING Panic attack mentioned, slight PTSD depictions, drugs (GHB), Case details (very poorly thought out). Violence: canon typical - strangulation, drugging, guns/gunshots. Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 10.3K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers.

The most annoying part about making a decision in haste is the clarity of the situation when the dust settles. It’d taken Hotch just over two minutes to message you after you’d sent your email.

From: Boss Man 🕶 👔 My office, first thing tomorrow.

You didn’t take into account that you’d have to explain your sudden resignation to your unit chief, or that you’d need to think of a good enough goodbye to lessen the hurt of abandoning your friends. These are people you consider your found family; you’re leaving behind years worth of bonds with no proper warning or closure, in a measly few weeks. Your reasoning had to be good enough to convince them that this was for the best.

To convince you that this was for the best.

You’d spent the whole night in tears, racking your brain for an excuse, because ‘the person you care most about in this world and unrequited love of your life telling you that he didn’t want to see your face was a pathetic reason for discarding your life’s work. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t think of adequate justification. Even as the sun rose and you made your way through your pre-work routine, nothing came to mind.

“You can’t love me.”

Any time you tried to conjure up a defence your thoughts would wander back to Spencer. Too many words had been exchanged between you and your former best friend in the span of four months and not a single one of them properly explained why he was so butt-hurt. He loves you too much, but doesn’t want you to love him? That’s your understanding, at least.

“Please don’t come back here. It’s hard enough at work, I don’t want to see your face in my personal time too.”

Since you’d left his apartment the previous night, you’d been cycling through all the stages of grief in record time. Spencer once told you that people tend to remember more negative memories than positive. He was right. You couldn’t recall a lot of your happier memories with him. All you could think about was the two conversations where he’d hurt you in ways you never imagined he would.

You’re not sure exactly what part of you snapped at that moment, all you knew was that you were done making him the centre of your universe. Spencer Reid played no part in your decisions moving forward. He was not the reason for your departure with the BAU, a lie you made sure to relay to Hotch during your meeting with him.

“I’m just surprised, that’s all. Where is this even coming from?” He inquired from across you, hands folded neatly against his desk.

“I just think it’s time for me to try new things, you know?” It was a pathetic excuse, but less pathetic than the actual reasoning.

“I try not to interfere with the personal lives of the team, but this is just so…sudden. I have to wonder if this has to do with Spencer?”

“This has nothing to do with him.” You go out of your way to avoid saying his name, suspecting you might taste poison.

Hotch’s brow raises, as if his brain has been alerted to key information, head marginally tilting to the side like it does when he catches a lie. He doesn’t say anything, eyes narrowing in on you in stoic fashion. You feel like a petulant child that’s about to receive a scolding from their father.

“Hon–Honestly…Hotch, I just–”

Three rapid knocks cut you off, the door to the office swinging open without waiting for a reply.

“Sir, Hello, I’m sorry to interrupt but it’s an emergency. That case we were consulting on for Anchorage PD?” Garcia bursts into the room, slightly discoloured and more panicked than normal. “Well, five more bodies were discovered. Two of them pre-date who we initially thought was the first victim.”

“Garcia, tell everybody to meet on the jet ASAP. We’ll debrief on the flight.” Hotch orders abruptly standing from his seat. “You and I can finish this meeting later. This case is now our top priority, wheels up.”

Emily, Rossi and Derek were already in their seats when you boarded. You secured your go bag in one of the overhead compartments and temporarily took a seat next to Derek.

“How bad do you think this one is gonna be?” Derek sighs, dreading the horrors that await your arrival.

“We’re up to thirty six bodies and counting. Whoever this unsub is, they’ve been at it a while. So, bad.” You answer honestly.

“Speaking of bad, is everything okay?”

“That was not even remotely smooth.” You scoff.

“I’m just asking as a concerned friend.” He shoots his hands up in defence.

“What happened to the days where we at least tried to mind our business. You know, at least asked each other about our weekend plans before jumping into interrogation mode.” You roll your eyes and smirk.

“Heyyy, woah– no one’s interrogating anyone.” Derek chuckles. “What are your plans for the weekend?”

It wasn’t long before everybody had made their way on the jet, Spencer being the last one. You didn’t notice his arrival, too engulfed in your conversation. He definitely noticed you though. The sound of your giggles caught his attention the second he was in ear shot. He didn’t like how warm he felt at the sight of your smiling face. What he disliked more was that he could instantly tell that it wasn’t a genuine smile.

He quietly made his way to his self assigned seat on the couch, trying his hardest to focus on anything but you. Every laugh that Morgan coaxed out of you bothered him. Spencer’s agony only ended once the jet had successfully taken off.

“Alright let’s get started.” Hotch declared and everybody moved to gather around.

With all the details laid out by Garcia through the monitor, everybody began stating facts and suggestions. You wrapped up soon enough and retreated to an isolated seat in the back of the jet. It was an almost eight hour flight, seven of which you were planning to use to come up with a solid plan to announce your departure. Life always has to throw a wrench in your plans though, because the lack of sleep from the night before caught up to you and you dozed off almost immediately. Had you any energy left in your body, you might have been privy to the eyes that were on you.

“She didn’t say anything as to what the meeting was about?” JJ hushedly pries from her raven haired co worker in the cramped kitchenette.

“No, but Garcia said that ‘the air in his office was really tense’.” Emily relays, her fingers mimicking quotation marks. “Did Hotch say anything?”

“No. He just gave me his usual dry look and told me to focus on the case.” JJ rolls her eyes at the thought and leans back against the counter.

Despite being the FBI’s most decorated task force, the agents of the BAU weren’t strangers to workplace gossip. You’d just entered the bullpen this morning when Hotch frantically summoned you to his office, not even giving you time to set your things down at your desk. Witnessing the events sparked a guessing game sparked amongst the team.

“Is it something we should know about?” Sitting across from Hotch, even Rossi succumbed to his curiosity.

“Dave you’re not normally one to pry.” Hotch smirks, keeping his eyes on the case-file laid out in front of him.

“No I’m not. But with the events of the past few months...” Rossi sips his coffee, staring at his younger superior expectantly. “...there’s been some talk Aaron.”

“Talk?” Hotch meets Rossi’s eyes.

“Mhm.” Rossi nods. “Apparently you’re transferring one of our two youngest members because they haven’t been able to put their differences aside.”

“I’m not transferring anyone. Where did this come from?” The alarm in his tone makes Rossi snicker.

“Office drama. You know how it is. And while you may not be transferring anybody,” he sets his mug down and looks towards where you’re sound asleep. “I’m guessing somebody is leaving. Hence this morning's meeting.”

“We’re not supposed to profile each other, you know.” Hotch sighs. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep this contained. I haven’t had a chance to properly discuss this with her yet and I think she’d prefer to break the news herself.”

As you had predicted the case was by no means an easy one. On the first day everybody was split into groups to follow up with the M.E, victims’ families and examine the crime scenes. All the evidence and information gathered wasn’t enough to narrow the profile any more than the generic: male, mid thirties to early forties, hates women. You were now three days in with no viable leads.

You were especially frustrated because you felt that you weren’t working as well as you could. The stress of your announcement was taking its toll, you were unable to properly converse with your team out of guilt. Hotch sent everyone back to their hotel rooms with the idea that you would start fresh tomorrow. Normally you would room with Spencer, but lately JJ and Emily have been taking turns rooming with both of you. This time you were with Emily.

“I think this may be the first night we’ve gotten to turn in early.” Emily yawns as she dramatically stretches her limbs.

“I’m just glad we got to turn in at all, for a while there it looked like we may have to pull another all nighter.” You force a giggle, exasperated.

“You okay?” She doesn’t miss a beat, taking the opportunity to ask about your uneasiness.

“Yeah, fine.” You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“You’re going to snap at some point, you know?” She examines your closed off posture, trying to figure out a way to get you to open up. “Something’s clearly wrong. Talk to me.”

“We’re all on edge right now. It’s this case.” You hope that you’re being convincing enough.

“It's more than that. You’ve been distant from everybody.” Emily briefly thought back to the Ian Doyle debacle, recognising all the signs of somebody preparing to run away at any given moment.

“I’m aware that I’m not working to my full potential–”

“That’s not what I mean and you know that.” She steps closer to you. “I can’t force you to tell me whatever’s actually on your mind, but I would really appreciate it if you would. I hate seeing you so…detached. Not just from us, but from yourself.”

It’s the empathy in her voice instead of the usual sympathy that finally cracks you. Tears pool your eyes and you sink to the floor. Emily sits down next to you without a word. She tries to pull you in for a hug but you push away.

“Please don’t.” You sob. “I’m sorry.”

She squeezes your knee to relay that she understands and retracts her hand. Your discomfort with physical touch was another thing you had in common with Spencer. It was just a personal preference for you, unlike his germophobia. He was the only person you were actually comfortable with in terms of touch, but you couldn’t fault others for not respecting that boundary when you’d never verbalised it.

“I’ve been trying to figure out the right way to tell you guys, but I don’t think there’s any way this gets easier.” You recompose yourself after a moment. “I’m, um, leaving.”

You expect her to get upset with you, but find her unfazed.

“You don’t look surprised.”

“Well it’s not entirely surprising. I mean given everything that’s happened.”

“So you’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” She leans back with her mouth slightly open.

“Because I feel like I’m abandoning you guys.” You heavily exhale.

“You’re not abandoning us. You’re doing what you feel is right for you. I mean, am I happy about it? Definitely not. But I know better than anyone why you feel like you need to do this. And it’s not a decision you have to justify to anybody.” Emily reassures you.

“How do I tell everybody else?” You push for more advice.

“However you feel most comfortable doing it. It doesn’t have to be some big announcement. You can casually break it to them whenever you get the opportunity. They’ll understand.”

“Thank you, Em.” You genuinely smile this time, eternally grateful that she’s managed to take some pressure off your shoulders.

“Now while you’re in a mood to share…if you wanna talk about something else–” She attempts one last time to get you to talk about Spencer, sensing that the mood lightened a bit.

“Nice try.” You laugh as you rise to your feet, offering your arms out to her to help her stand.

The following two days were a lot easier on you, mentally. You took Emily’s advice and disclosed your news individually to each team member, each of them more understanding than you’d anticipated. You were surprised to learn that Rossi was already aware, assuming that it came with being a profiler for as long as he had. Derek and JJ did try to talk you out of it initially, but accepted your decision in the end. You still had to talk about this with Garcia, but felt a lot more at ease with mostly everybody knowing.

Except Spencer.

That thought lingered in the back of your mind. You still love him, it’s not something you can just turn off. You shake it off and divert your full attention to the case. Four more bodies had been discovered and with them, a new pattern to the killings. The unsub was devolving. You and Spencer were the only ones at the precinct when the last murder was called in. Meaning you were stuck working on the geographical profile with him while the others were out chasing new leads.

Realistically, only one of you was needed to build the profile and decided you were going to let him do it. You quietly sat in the furthest seat possible, trying to make yourself invisible and hoping that this would keep him busy enough to not talk to you. The whole week, you hadn’t uttered a single word to him unless it was absolutely necessary for the case. It was as if he didn’t exist, even if he was standing right infront of you. Spencer, on the other hand, spent the whole week prodding you for any reaction he could get. Anytime you made suggestions and he happened to be in the area, he tried to one up you.

At times it felt like he was purposely seeking you out, despite his brutal proclamation five days ago. Every attempt to rile you up failed. The most acknowledgement he got from you was a few scoffs and glares. He hadn’t even realised he was doing it, until Derek asked him point blank what his problem was. He didn’t have an answer, but now that he was aware of it he tried to go out of his way to avoid it.

That didn’t last more than a few hours. The fact that he had to consciously avoid talking to you pissed him off, especially because he couldn’t stop. You pretending like he didn’t exist pissed him off even more. The one time he took his eyes off the board in front of him they landed on you. You were busy scribbling words in a file, trying to get a head start on your paperwork.

“Do you plan to help at all?” He sneers, noticing that you looked a lot more relaxed than you did at the start of the case.

You snap your head towards the board behind him. A rough venn diagram was drawn on a map of the city, small tacked notes labelling prominent buildings in the area.

“How am I meant to help?” You question, darting your eyes between him and the board out of confusion.

“You’re asking me how to do your job?” He taunts, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.

You dramatically groan, throwing your head back.

It’s hard to believe that he’s a man of logic in moments like these. There have been far too many in the last few months. You bounce off your seat and head over to the board. Spencer stays glued in his spot and your body accidentally brushes against his as you try to get past. He watches you take off some notes and add on new ones but doesn’t register what you’re doing at first. He’s too intoxicated by your scent. His hand runs through his hair as he steps back in an effort to regain his composure. His teeth grit and his jaw tenses momentarily, he hates that you have the ability to do this to him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The pitch of his voice raises and his ears are burning.

“What do you mean?” You roll your eyes, shrugging your arms, sarcasm laced in your words.

“Don’t try to act all dumb!” He berates, shaking his head.

“Don’t try to act all smart.” Your eyes roll again. Spencer was slowly starting to wear down your apathy.

“I am smart.” He scoffs. Your blood boils, this trump card is becoming too repetitive.

“Savour that, it’s the one good thing you’ve got going for you!” You finally snap.

“You’re UNBELIEVABLE! The first time you bother to answer me all week and it’s just to argue?” He’s trying his best to refrain from yelling.

“Oh! You’ve been trying to start an argument all week and now that I’m giving in you can’t take it?! Actually, why have you been trying so hard, Doctor? I was under the impression that you can’t even stand to look at my face!”

He dryly swallows, unable to respond immediately. The reminder of his words makes him internally cringe. He never meant to say them. It was the most efficient way he could think of at that time to hurt you. Spencer hadn’t anticipated the sheer amount of will power it would take to stay away from you. You seeking him out made it infinitely harder. His fake disdain was a defence mechanism, he was hiding behind hatred to get the job done.

“YOU–”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Hotch loudly cuts him off.

Neither you nor Spencer noticed the teams return during your squabble. You’re slightly embarrassed, wondering how much they’ve witnessed. Spencer turns away from you and looks to the blank wall on the other side of the room. You look to the floor and bite the inside of your cheek.

“Care to explain what’s going on?” He grills and you feel like a petulant child receiving a lecture from your father.

“She wasn’t doing her job!” Spencer complains. “And when I brought it up she messed up my profile!”

“God you’re insufferable! It’s called ‘narrowing the profile’, Spencer. Maybe if you did it properly, I wouldn’t have to.” You retort.

“Hey!” Hotch scolds.

It falls silent for a second, awkward glances finding their way around the room. Rossi breaks it first.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were bickering toddlers instead of FBI agents.”

You make eye contact with Morgan trying to hold in a laugh and it makes you snort.

“We will discuss this later. Let’s focus on the updates we’ve gathered.” Hotch dismisses due to more pressing matters at hand.

“After talking to friends of the latest victims, I can confirm that they were all last seen in the same club.” JJ pipes up first.

“And the dumpsites are all less than twenty minutes away from there. He’s definitely not holding them anymore.” Morgan adds.

“That has to be where he’s choosing his victims. Did the medical examiner find anything new?” Hotch asks.

“Traces of GHB.” Emily replies. “We don’t know how he’s administering it into their systems, but my guess would be through the drinks.”

“Gamma-hydroxybutyrate, mostly known as GHB, is a party drug that produces feelings of euphoria, confidence, relaxation and sociability. Side effects of GHB can include drowsiness, vomiting, mood swings, dependence, as well as more serious symptoms of unconsciousness. When mixed with alcohol the risk of overdose increases as it can cause respiratory collapse leading to coma or in extreme cases death.” Spencer’s about to continue but quickly recognises that it’s a tangent he needs to cut short.

“Wait JJ what club were the victims last seen in?” You inquire, walking closer to the map.

When she relays the name it clicks.

“That’s smack in the middle of the comfort zone.” You point at a small red note labelling the building.

“So how do we catch this guy? I mean the club would be packed and we don’t know what this guy looks like. The profile tells us that he would blend in, nothing would stand out about him.” Morgan subtly suggests a string operation.

“Except for when he’s alone with the object of his rage. Which in our case would be the women he’s using as surrogates. He'd be possessive, become clingy, hold on too tight and once those advances are rejected he’d fly into blind rage.” Spencer exclaims without realising the weight of his input.

“Yeah…but he has a very specific type.” Rossi hesitates.

A fact that everybody had been avoiding the case because of how close it hit to home.

You’re his exact type.

“No.” Hotch shuts down.

“Hotch, think about it. I mean this guy is not slowing down. A sting might be our best bet to stop him before he kills again.” JJ shares Rossi’s hesitation.

“It’s too risky!” Spencer blurts, making it clear he’s against the idea.

Everyone begins to chime in with their input, but you stay silent and think it over. None of them wanted to put you in this position, but you’d seen the bodies and what he’d done to those women. What he’ll continue to do to other women if he isn’t stopped. It was a no brainer on your end.

“I’ll do it!” You announce amidst the chatter.

It comes to an immediate halt, all eyes shifting on you.

“What?” Spencer scoffs.

You can tell that he’s genuinely surprised by the small hitch in his voice. Emily sceptically calls your name, posing it as a question.

“I’ll do it.” You reiterate, taking care to seem as confident as possible.

“Absolutely not! The odds of this going wrong are way too high!” Spencer howls with a little too much passion.

“Reid’s right. The unsub is way too unpredictable.” Hotch debates.

“JJ has a point, think about it!” You argue. “We know for a fact that he’s going to strike tonight. Sending me undercover as bait is better than staking out the place and waiting for him to target a civilian!”

“Okay so let’s send somebody else!” Spencer contests, his tone prayerful.

For a split second, you see your best friend again. He’s showing more regard for you now than he has in months and it makes your heart sink knowing it won’t be forever. Still, you try to reason with him while he’s there.

“There’s no time! I fit his type. This is our best option.”

“No, this is stupid and dangerous. You’re not going in there!” He’s gone again.

“That’s not your call to make!” You snap.

“Hotch no!” Spencer tries again.

“Kid, relax! This isn’t her first undercover mission.” Morgan attempts to calm Reid. “Plus we’ll all be there in case anything goes wrong.”

“Statistically–”

“For God’s sake forget the fucking statistics! People’s lives are at stake!” You loudly end his tangent before it can begin.

“Alright, everybody calm down!” Hotch speaks up, making it a point to stare down Spencer.

He’d made his decision and Spencer can only stare back in disbelief, too breathless to argue.

‘Like Morgan said, we’ll be there watching over you, along with some local law enforcement. You won’t be wired, but we’ll have a fail safe just in case you need backup earlier than expected. We don’t have a lot of time. Let’s get to work.” The unit chief asserts.

Before anyone can make any further moves, Spencer storms out of the room. JJ runs after him, assuring Hotch that she’ll take care of it. The rest of you break off to your assigned tasks, preparing for the operation that night.

“Spence! Slow down!” She yells, chasing him all the way outside the precinct.

He’s breathing too fast, practically on the edge of hyperventilating. He pushes his hair back with both of his hands, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk.

“Spence what the hell is going on with you?” JJ pants, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

“Me?!” Spencer yanks himself away from her. “What the hell is going on with all of you?! You’re all insane for allowing her to do this!”

“She’s a grown woman and a trained agent! This is her decision. She knows what she’s getting herself into.” JJ reminds him.

“Well it’s not a very smart decision! She shouldn’t be making decisions this…this reckless!” He shrieks.

“Okay you need to calm down!” JJ sternly states.

“Jennifer, do not tell me to calm down! She’s about to make herself a direct target for a psychopathic sadist and you’re all just letting it happen!”

“So what? Should we let some innocent woman become his next target?”

“No! I’m not saying we should– just– why does it have to be her?!” The emphasis on his last word gives him away, JJ picks up on it instantly.

“That’s what this is about? C’mon you know better than this.” She relaxes her shoulders. “Spencer, we all care about her. We all want her to be safe. And she will be as long as we separate out feelings from–”

“Feelings? This has nothing to do with how I feel–”

“Okay stop! Stop! God!” JJ huffs with pauses between her words. “I am so sick of this! This is clearly about your feelings. The past four months have all been about–”

She smacks her hands against her face as she takes a deep breath, a display of frustration.

“Listen to me.” She commands, exhausted from the back and forth. “It’s clear that you two care deeply for each other, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. Neither of you will talk about whatever it is that’s caused this rift– fine! But don’t you think it’s time to bury the hatchet now that she’s leaving?”

Spencer freezes.

“...Leaving?” He repeats, taken off guard.

JJ takes a moment to read his expression.

“She didn’t tell you?” JJ mutters, still scanning his face.

“What– what are you…” He can’t find the words, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tries to process her words.

“She’s resigning, Spencer. She’s leaving the FBI.” JJ can’t hide how she’s surprised that you haven’t shared this with him.

“No, that's not possible. She loves this job. Why would she leave?” Denial is his first response.

Spencer thinks over your possible motivations and can only land on the obvious. You’d only leave if you grew to hate the job.

Did he do this? Did he make you hate it?

“We were all surprised when she first told us, I mean, it came out of nowhere.”

“We?” He rubs his temple, anticipating a possible migraine from the bomb that just dropped on him. “How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you guys known?” He balefully sighs, trying his hardest to not misplace his anger.

“It’s hard enough at work, I don’t want to see your face in my personal time too.”

He had no one to be angry at, but himself.

“A day? Maybe two? She told us individually. Honestly with this case I haven’t had time to wrap my head around it.” JJ honestly reveals.

So not long. Maybe you were still making your way around to telling him? You wouldn’t just leave without so much as telling him, would you?

A few months ago, Spencer would’ve confidently answered no. Today he was sure that you would. He so badly hoped that he was wrong.

“Spence, look, we can talk about this later. But right now, you need to make sure you’re able to stay objective. Can you do that?”

He nods relentlessly, tucking his hair behind his ears. A habit he adapted early in life. It was an indicator of the gears turning in his head. JJ gives him a few more minutes outside before guiding him back in to help with preparations. Spencer absentmindedly performed his tasks, but all he could think about was you.

You’re leaving and he’s the only person you hadn’t disclosed this information to. Abandonment was a feeling he was all too used to, but he never imagined that you’d abandon him. He knows that he can only blame himself, but he still can’t help the irritation that’s creeping in his veins.

Even as he straps up his hidden bullet proof vest hours later, he can’t push the sentiment away. You were setting yourself up as bait for one of the most dangerous types of serial killers. On top of purposely putting yourself in direct line danger, you were leaving without telling him. He would’ve showed up to work one day and you’d be gone.

Right now he stands just a few feet away from you and you don’t look toward him once. No one would be able to guess that you’re undercover. It’s amazing how you’ve managed to transform yourself from supervisory special agent to a regular socialite and party girl in a couple of hours.

If he could overcome the hurt he feels at the moment, he might see how breathtaking you look. Then again, you always appear breathtaking to him. Before he knows it, he’s walked right up to you. You don’t feel his presence looming behind you until you bump into him when you turn around.

“Shit Spencer!” You jump, mostly because of the nerves from the upcoming night.

He’s about to say something but you beat him to it.

“Don’t start! I’m not in the mood.” You brush him off and disappear out of sight.

It was like that for much of the preparations. He’d muster the courage to try and talk to you, and you’d walk away. Much like how Spencer would avoid you when your friendship first fell apart.

“Everybody in position?” Hotch inquires through his ear piece.

“Affirmative.” Morgan gives the greenlight for your entry into the club.

You made your way to the bar, making it a point to sit alone. You didn’t have to wait long. Archie Carter, 36, cheated on by his ex fiance before their wedding. She ran away with another man because Archie failed to keep his sadistic traits hidden and it scared her off. Torturing and murdering women who looked like her was his way of giving her a real reason to be scared.

This was all information Garcia found after it was nearly too late. He’d managed to get you on the dance floor, subtly injecting you with the GHB. You didn’t even feel him do it. To everybody else it just seemed like you were playing your part really well on the dance floor, when in reality you were struggling to stand up. You couldn’t give out any signals and he was able to slip you away into the back alley under the noses of five FBI agents.

It was Spencer who’d found you fighting for your life against Archie’s grip around your throat. Spencer, who put the bullet in Archie’s head after being unable to talk him down. Spencer who kneeled above you, begging you to come back as he began CPR. If he’d found you any later you might’ve been gone for good.

Pissed was an understatement.

At the piece of shit that almost ripped you away from the world. At Hotch and the team for not listening. At himself for being right. Not you though, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t pissed at you. He was terrified. Both for you and for almost losing you.

You had to stay a few extra days in Anchorage, bound to your hospital room. The team refused to fly back without you, each of them taking turns to keep you company. They all felt an immense amount of guilt but you reassured them that it wasn’t their fault. Your tongue grew tired of reminding them that this was a part of the job. Rossi joked that it was a good thing you were leaving it all behind in that case and it stung more than you were willing to admit.

In your brush with death you came to the revelation that you didn’t want to leave, but hearing Spencer’s voice lull you back to him confirmed that you needed to. You couldn’t bring yourself to hear him talk everyday and not be the person he was talking to. It was why you had basically barred him from visiting you during your recovery there. Seeing his face was more than you could handle at the time. Not seeing yours weighed on him, because he needed to see if you were okay.

Physically, he knew you’d be fine once the doctors confirmed it. Mentally, he knew all too well of the repercussions that came with almost dying directly by the hands of an unsub. You’d been discharged and cleared fifty eight hours after you were admitted, and the team was ready to fly back a few hours later. All the signs of being less than okay were there. He recognised them as soon as he saw you board the jet.

Besides the obvious bruises collaring your neck, there was some minor swelling that lingered. That wasn’t his biggest concern. It was the smile plastered on you when you put on your ‘I’m okay’ act for the others. Your eyes, like always, gave you away. You were already trying to sweep everything under the rug. Less than a few minutes after take off you isolated yourself in the back. You’d been doing that a lot in your recent cases.

It irked him how everybody just let you. He decided right then that he wasn’t going to. He didn’t care how much you hate him, he was going to ensure that you came out of this truly okay. You were mindlessly staring out the window, counting the clouds, listening to the music playing through your headphones. You tried to ignore the feeling of being watched. You’d felt like that since you came to, in the alley.

It took you a second to understand that you were actually being watched, turning to find Spencer in the previously empty seat across from you.

“You’ve gotta stop sneaking up on me.” You snark, ripping off your headphones, still recovering from the small jump scare.

“Sorry.” He chuckles out of habit.

You unintentionally smile at the sound and find yourself staring in his eyes.

“Are–” He falters as he thinks the question over in his head. “Is there anything I can get you?”

You’re taken aback, not expecting those words. You had a script prepared to waive off questions about your well being. He knows you better than that, throwing you off course as usual.

“What do you want?” You grumble, accepting that you couldn’t get past him.

“I want to know if there’s anything I can get you.” He repeats in a low tone.

There he is again. The Spencer you know and love. Your heart threatens to leap.

“If this is to clear some guilty conscience, don’t bother.” You verbally guard yourself. “I’m fine.”

It would be a lie if he said his reasoning was completely selfless. He was hardly able to keep away from you without feeling like he was drowning, but it was nothing compared to how he felt when he thought he may have lost you forever. The feeling didn’t last very long, he was able to revive you within a few seconds, but never feeling like that again would be too soon.

Spencer believed in two things; statistics and facts. One fact he refused to ignore any longer is that he couldn’t live without you. He quietly opened that satchel that still clung across his torso, fishing out some pain killers and an unopened water bottle.

“I know you probably forgot to take yours out of your bag.” He ignores your previous comment and slides the items across the table to you.

Your gaze lingers on the items in front of you, but your hands stay folded in your lap as you piece everything together.

“You know.” You whisper.

“Were you going to tell me?” He gulps after a beat of silence.

“Does it matter?” You're quick to respond.

“I wanna hear it from you.” He’s just as fast.

You look up from the leaf of pills, he’s already surveilling you. It’s a short lived staring contest because your focus shifts behind him to Hotch, who’s observing this encounter from the kitchenette on the other end. Spencer continues waiting on you for a response but you stand up, ready to walk away. It dawns on you when you see your supervisor that technically you hadn’t officially resigned yet. The paperwork never got started because this case took priority and that was a detail you needed to sort out right away.

“Don’t go.” Spencer pleads when you take your first step.

Was it a request to sit back down or to stay with the BAU? You didn’t bother to clarify, he had no right to ask for either.

You let out a deep, exasperated sigh as you lie curled up in your warm sheet, scowling at the floor beneath you. It seemed that the universe (your friends) had it out to delay your departure as much as possible. It’s been four days since your return from Anchorage and you’ve been stuck in your apartment since Hotch dropped you off here. He’s ordered mandatory time off for your recovery, meaning the paperwork has to wait.

You could be using this time in a more productive manner. You could be searching for a new job. And a new place to live. You should be trying to figure out where this new place would be. You never actually thought that far ahead. In your haste to run away, you forgot to plan your next steps. You’ve convinced yourself that you can’t do any of it until the forms are filled out.

The ‘universe’ isn’t the only thing delaying you.

If you really wanted to, you could have everything emailed to you. You can have it done online, but there are two major problems. The first is pretty straight forward; you’re not ready to leave. You know that this is the best course of action for everybody, but your brain and your heart are at an impasse. You’ve dedicated years to this job because you love this job. Unfortunately, you love Spencer more, which means that staying is going to drive you to hate your job.

The other reason is slightly more nuanced and you don’t want to think about it, opting to let your impasse be the reason for your lack of motivation to do anything other than bed rotting. It’s not as bad as it seems, it’s more self care than anything. Your body’s telling you it needs to rest and you’re simply obliging. Plus, it couldn’t be that serious if you still had bursts when you had to keep up appearances. You have to be okay if you’re able to force yourself to open the front door for your coworkers when they come to check on you. You really weren’t that miserable if you managed to smile and laugh for their short visits.

And it’s not like you’re truly rotting. You showered quite often, you actually just had your second one today. You were definitely okay if you could manage to keep up with hygiene. It’s not excessive, you need to scrub the purple away. You know that’s not how it works, but you can’t stand to look at the parts of your neck where his hands were wrapped around. If you close your eyes for long enough you can still feel him squeezing until–

You’re okay.

No, you’re irritated. The incessant knocking on your front door won’t stop no matter how much you ignore it. You were relieved when evening came. It meant that normal visiting hours were over and you could rest today. If it wasn’t any of your usual visitors then it had to be stranger. The thought made you uneasy, you hesitated to answer it at all.

You can’t live in fear all the time.

The door eventually opens and Spencer sees you for the first time in days. He actually tried to check on you earlier, but Penelope insisted everybody stick to her roster so you don’t get overwhelmed. The circles under your eyes were almost as dark as his, you hadn’t been getting much sleep. The swelling around your throat was almost all gone, but the bruising wasn’t healing like he expected it to.

“Spencer…what are you doing here?” Your voice is hoarse.

“I brought take out.” He gently dangles a bag of food in front of him, his voice high, but quiet.

You can practically smell the contents of the bag, nostalgia hitting you like a ton of bricks. It was your favourite thing to order on the days he’d come over for movie nights. Before Spencer showed you a side of him you didn’t know existed. It felt like a taunt, like he was twisting the metaphorical knife he plunged in your heart. It made you sick.

“I already ate.” You lie, mustering a dull smile on your face.

Spencer swallows and bites the inside of his cheek, not taking his eyes off you. Trying to think of the best way to call you out without causing you to shun him.

“We can do something else until you’re hungry again.” He gives a tight lipped smile and raises his furrowed brows, like he’s pleading for you to accept his offer.

“I don’t think I’ll be hungry anytime soon.” You awkwardly laugh– well it’s close to a laugh if not for your strained vocal chords.

“Can I come in anyway? We can put on a movie.” He’s using the voice he used to when trying to comfort you or convince you of something. Soft, low, steady. It’s a stark contrast to the voice you’ve been hearing for the last ten days.

Please don’t come back here. It’s hard enough at work, I don’t want to see your face in my personal time too.

Tears threaten the composure you’re working so hard to maintain.

“Why are you really here?” You sigh, unable to stick with the pleasantries.

“I told you.” He emphasises the bag of food in his hands again. “Take out. Maybe a movie–”

“Cut the shit.” You assert, harshly. “You can tell Penelope that you came to see me so she gets off your back, but please stop pretending like you care.”

“That’s…is that why you think I’m here?” His shoulders drop.

“Isn’t it?” You bite, your door now wide open as you lean against it for support. Your legs are aching to curl into your chest again.

“No.” His reply is short and clear, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “I’m here because I want to be here.”

“Why? There’s nothing in it for you.” You scoff, blinking from confusion. “Unless…is this some sick game? Seeing me like this– knowing that I’m– are you trying to gloat?”

“Gloat?” He repeats in almost a whisper, the hurt in his voice evident.

“Relish, rejoice, rub it in, I don’t know. You’re the walking thesaurus.”

He can tell from your lax posture that you're amused. Your back is against your door, hands behind your back and you’re leaning forward a bit as you stare at the ground. Not caring that your words cut deep.

Is this how low you think he is?

“Why would I be enjoying this?” His hopeful smile drops entirely as he tries to understand you.

“Call it epicaricacy.” You shrug.

“Epicaricacy?” He mumbles in a whispered tone, like he’s trying to process what you said.

Deriving pleasure from the misfortune of others.

Your eyes roll from how slow he’s acting and you have to hold yourself back from repeating the definition out loud.

“Do you honestly think I enjoy seeing you like this?” The change in pitch stings a bit.

“No, I don’t think you like seeing me at all.” You half smirk up at him, sadness evident in your eyes. “Which brings us back to…why are you here Doc?”

“That’s not true.” He cringes, ignoring the second part.

“Not true?” You wiggle your brows sarcastically.

“Not true.” He reaffirms, sighing deeply. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” You scoff again, shaking your head.

“I know that I’ve been unreasonable–”

“Unreasonable?” The tip of your tongue rolls against the back of your teeth, bewildered at his sheer audacity.

“A dick! I’ve been a dick.” He corrects himself, desperate to have you hear him out.

You tighten your jaw, inhaling lightly through your nose and your brows are raised as high as they can go.

“I was hurt. Okay? I wash lashing out, but, I–” He takes a deep breath to stop himself, wanting to get to the point. “I know that I’ve been acting otherwise but, I care about you. And when I found you back there…I just…I know what you’re going through, even if you won’t admit it. I don’t want you to go through it alone.”

Your expression softens as he speaks. Of course he knows. He knows you better than anyone. For a moment you consider allowing yourself to break down in his arms, like you would have once. It’s jarring, Spencer reverting to his former self after he saved your life. The comfort swiftly bubbles into anger. All your attempts for reconciliation were met with so much hostility before. It took you almost dying for him to care. It feels too little too late. The only thing you can think of as he stands next to you is all the ways he can further hurt you if you let him. You push off your door and stand straight, giggling bitterly.

“Spencer, go home.” You say with the same bitterness.

“Please–”

“Go home! I don’t want your pity!” You yell. It feels alleviating. “Do you honestly think that anything changes just because you saved my life? Do you think it erases everything that’s happened in the past few months? Because it doesn’t! Things can’t go back to how they were simply because you feel bad that I almost died. It’s not a flip you can switch. You don’t just get to start caring!”

You're heaving and he can only stare at the ground. He knows you’re right, except for the one crucial error in your speech.

“I never stopped caring.” He mumbles.

This fucking idiot.

Enraged, sad, frustrated, confused; all emotions you’ve been suppressing that are now fighting to show at the same time. You take a step closer to him and he meets your eyes again. You can see that he’s holding back tears, same as you. It fuels you in a twisted way. You have an opportunity to hurt him the way he hurt you and you don’t let it go to waste.

“Don’t come back here. It’s hard enough at work to see your face at work, I don’t want to see it in my personal time too.”

You can’t stay to see the effects of his words thrown back at his face, your heart’s threatening to burst from how fast it’s racing. His jaw locks from how tense he is. He knows exactly why you said it, but it’s still hard to hear. You turn around and rush into your apartment, shutting the door on his face, leaving him standing there. You don’t make it too far inside, collapsing on the wooden floor with a choked sob.

That didn’t make you feel as good as you thought it would. You hoped that maybe if you could make him feel at least a fraction of you’re feeling, you’d hurt less. It was more than just getting back at him for everything he’s done. You were unknowingly trying to punish him for what Archie Carter did too. It didn’t make you hurt any less, but at least you felt less alone in your hurt.

He didn’t come back for the rest of your time off. Everybody continued to follow the roster, showing up on their days and bringing you ‘get well soon’ goodies. Penelope even invited herself over for a night's stay once. You didn’t have the heart to say no, but you found yourself counting the hours until you’d be alone again, free to wallow. The only respite you got for the next week was on Spencer’s days. You could expect to be left mostly alone, only a bag of take out accompanied by an eerily fitting quote sitting outside your door.

You hate to admit that those were your favourite days. You had a chance to breathe and he somehow knew exactly what you needed to hear. You gave the food away in protest and the quote would go straight in the bin (once you read it). One final psych evaluation later you were cleared to come back. Not that you needed one since you didn’t plan to stay for long. It was really just a formality. By the time you returned only a few faded bruises remained, easy enough to cover with concealer.

“You’re back! Ooh, it’s so good to see you!” Garcia was the first with a warm greeting and a tight hug. You reciprocated to the best of your ability.

“Good to have you back, Pretty Girl.” Derek’s second, walking you through the bullpen as you make your way to Hotch’s office.

“Enjoy it while you can.” You giggle in reply. “Is Hotch in yet?”

“I see someone can’t wait to leave us.” Emily jokes, feigning a hurt look. You roll your eyes.

“Yeah, he’s expecting you.” JJ laughs, slapping Emily’s arm playfully.

“Thanks JJ!” You smile and they all watch you disappear behind the door.

“So it’s official? She’s really leaving?” JJ questions through a half-hearted smile.

“I asked Rossi and he said that Hotch is gonna ask her to stay until we find a replacement.” Emily replies, still eyeing the door.

“How did you get Rossi to admit that?” JJ turns to the raven head, questioningly, and Emily smiles coyly giving no response.

“Am I the only one who thinks this whole thing would end once they make up? I mean come on, we all know she’s leaving because of him, right?” Morgan looks at Spencer, who’s nose deep in a file at his desk.

“Yeah, but we can’t help if they refuse to talk to us about it.” Emily sighs, hanging her head back.

The three dive deeper into their discussion and you’re none the wiser from inside the cream-coloured walls of Hotch’s office. As per protocol, he’s just finished informing you of what’s next and you’re kind enough to accept his request to stay until they find a replacement. You definitely said yes because you want to make the team’s transition easier, not for any self indulgent reasons such as you not being ready to leave.

“Just return this to me once you’ve filled it out.” He instructs as he hands you a file containing your resignation forms.

“Thanks Hotch.” You smile, grabbing the file.

You begin heading towards the door when he stops you by your name.

“I understand that you’re set on this decision, but I am sad to see you go.” It’s insane how many emotions this man can get across while maintaining a blank expression. “However, if you change your mind at any point, let me know.”

“Thanks Hotch.” You playfully scoff, appreciating that even he has to try at least once.

If one more person tries though, you might scream. It wasn’t easy, pretending that you weren’t crumbling inside. The extra pressure doesn’t make it any easier. You leave his office, closing the door behind you and approach your desk. The resignation forms are put aside for later as you still have to finish your case report from Anchorage. Part of you wanted to put it off until the last minute, the other part wanted to get it over and done with as soon as possible.

“Coffee?” Penelope chirps, holding out a mug filled with the hot beverage.

“Thanks Pen.” You smile up at her, taking it out of her hands.

“No problem.” She smirks mischievously and trots off.

A strange lady, but your strange lady.

Upon your first sip you almost choke it out. It was perfect. Exactly to your liking. Which would be a good thing, except only one person knows exactly how you like it. Back when you first joined, you learned how popular coffee was with all the employees. You felt out of place because you weren’t a massive fan of the drink and you avoided too much sugar because it made you feel sick. You soon discovered that you liked it a lot more with honey instead. It was a weird preference, but it worked for you, making it sweet without overpowering your senses like sugar did.

You never declined a cup when offered by your colleagues, not wanting to dishearten them. It was Spencer who caught you sneaking honey into your cup when you thought no one was paying attention. He never mentioned anything to you, but the next time he returned with a cup to offer, you couldn’t help but the smile that adorned your face for the rest of the day. It was why you dedicated yourself to morning breakfast runs for him, memorising his coffee order as a silent thank you. Neither of you ever talked about it.

You spin your seat around to find Spencer engaged in conversation with Rossi. You consider walking past him and dumping the beverage in the sink to make a point, but it was a welcome energiser for the dreadful task at hand. Plus you aren’t wasteful. You spin back around and decide to accept it just this once.

When he’s sure you’re no longer looking he sets his sights back on you. A small smile forms across his lips when he sees you drink the coffee. He honestly expected you to throw it away. He feared that if he was the one to deliver the mug, you’d throw it on him. It was why he convinced Garcia to do it, bribing her by promising to buy a round of drinks on the next night out.

“Kid, are you even listening?” Rossi scolds in an incredulous way.

As the hours pass, your frustration grows. You couldn’t get yourself to write the details of the case. Your mind refused to think about it. You had hoped that taking breaks would make it easier, but everytime you returned to the page your head went blank.

“Need some help?” Spencer asks, spawning next to you.

“Christ, Reid!” You blurt, startled. “I thought I told you to stop doing that.”

“Sorry.” He chuckles as if on cue.

You glare at him expectantly. He doesn’t say anything, glancing between you and the unfinished case file, waiting for an answer.

“No thanks.” You keep it short, hoping he takes the hint.

“Let me know if you do.” He doesn’t.

“You wouldn’t even be the last person I’d ask if I did.” You snark.

“But you would eventually?” He stays calm, almost playful.

Smart ass.

You choose to ignore him, be the bigger person and all that. Even though he wasn’t antagonising you.

“Thanks for the coffee.” It’s forceful gratitude. You weren’t feeling grateful, but you still had manners.

“You’re welcome.”

“Don’t make it again.”

“I will not.” He grins and walks away to his desk.

You act like you don’t know he’s watching you work. Looking up often to find you stuck on the same page. Even if he knew that you know, he didn’t plan to stop. What he does know is that you’d never directly let him help you. He doesn’t care. There weren’t any new cases this week, so a ton of paperwork was to be expected. It’s taunting enough to write down details of your own assault, the extra paperwork would only add more stress. You’re too busy trying to push through the mental blockade to notice the sudden influx of files on his desk and the efflux on yours.

What you didn’t miss was how the next cup of coffee you were offered was just as perfect as the one from before.

“I thought I told you to stop with the coffee, Reid.” You lightly slam the paper cup on Spencer’s desk.

He leans back in his seat and chews on his lip with an entertained smirk.

“And I did. That’s not from me.” He’s earnest with his response.

“Oh, so JJ just happens to know my coffee preferences all of a sudden?” You sarcastically retort, crossing your arms.

“No.” He crosses his fingers across his lap. “I told her how you like your coffee when she said she was going on a coffee run.”

“And why did you do that?” You play along, unenthusiastically.

“Because you told me to stop doing it.” He states in the most casual way possible.

This was getting you nowhere. It was naive to think he’d let you spend your last few weeks here peacefully. Scratch that– he was being peaceful. Too peaceful. A new tactic to get under your skin?

“Stop. It.” The delivery of your words is slow and emphasised.

“Stop doing exactly what you’ve told me to?”

You bite your tongue and glare at him. His face, shoulders, arms, everything, is relaxed. You can’t even argue with him. You take a moment to consider how bad it would be if you bashed his head in with the back of your gun. Then you take another to critique how easy it is to pass the psych evals. They should really think about the consequences of using questions the BAU wrote on actual BAU agents.

After that day you went back to ignoring him. Any time coffee was offered you’d decline altogether. If he attempted to try and talk to you, you’d respond with yes or no for the sake of professionalism. This didn’t deter Spencer though. He gave you your space but kept a close eye on you, continuing to try and ease your burdens from afar. Exactly how he used to.

This only lasted until the next case came in. Specifically until you were back out on the field, where he perceived you to be in high amounts of danger. You tolerated it because it gave you comfort, not that you’d ever tell him. Having Spencer by your side made it easier to deal with the reality that there’s little you can do if another incident like Anchorage occurred.

Plus focusing your energy on ignoring him kept the flashbacks away. Or it did, until the take down. You once again found yourself in danger from an unsub, only this time the situation was controlled. All guns were pointed at the killer, except for the one that was pointed at you. The plan was simple: you talk down the unsub, take him back to the station and talk him into exposing his partner.

Everything was going according to plan, until Spencer realised that one of the cops in the room was his partner and he was about to shoot you. Nobody understood what happened before the situation calmed down. Spencer had fired the first shot towards the dirty cop and immediately tackled you to the ground, shielding you from the hail of bullets that followed after. All you remember clearly is freezing up, clinging to the man on top of you. One moment you were screaming out, trying to make sure that he was okay and the next you were back in the alley behind the bar, fighting for your life.

You didn’t comprehend anything until the panic attack subsided but Spencer was fine. His vest caught the bullets. Both unsubs were dead. Rossi and Prentiss came to the realisation the same time as Spencer and were quick to react. And you weren’t in the alley. You were in Spencer’s arms as he led you away from the scene when it was safe.

When you snapped out of it the medics had cleared him of any injuries. He tried to approach you during your check up, but you shoved him away, unable to even look at him. The only thing you remember clearly is Hotch sending you all back to your hotel rooms before tomorrow’s flight back. You should be asleep right now, if not from the exhaustion of today’s events alone, then from how long you spent reassuring everybody that you were okay.

You couldn’t sleep. Not when so many thoughts were occupying your headspace. This is the second time Spencer’s saved your life, in the span of roughly a month. The first time he’s put his life in direct danger to save yours. Had it not been for his vest he would be dead. The more you linger on it, the angrier you’d become. You were also wearing a vest, you would’ve been fine. What he did was unnecessary and reckless.

What if the bullet missed the vest? Entered through the side? What was he thinking?

You were mentally fighting the urge to barge into his room and yell at him for his stupidity, but you couldn’t bring yourself to go to him. What happens to him is not your problem anymore. You aren’t going to let your guard down just because he’s an idiot.

Spoilers: BAU! Reader, Reader almost dies, Reader and Spencer are pissing me off, bc they’re so dumb, angst, hurt no comfort, Reader gets a little revenge.

AN - Before you comment ANYTHING, there is one more part. It’ll be posted a lot sooner than this one was. Writing this made me realise how limited the English language is. There’s only so many words to use and ways to write them. If either part sounds repetitive at times, it’s not my fault!!! Casual reminder: I am not Spencer Reid. I don’t have an IQ of 187. Any facts I make him spew could very well be bull-shit and he only spews them for the purpose of the story. I also have no knowledge of how the FBI works and lack a ton of common sense. A lot of things were made up for the purpose of this story.

If you comment you garner good karma for yourself and that could lead to you meeting MGG someday (I’m not liable if this never happens), think about that...

Thank you for reading!

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fandom #ssa spencer reid #bau team #spencer reid fic #spencer reid angst #angst fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #fem!reader #dr spencer reid #; fics

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benevolentbones · 11 months ago

Note

Saw you're taking Reid requests👀 I could use some Spencer x Reader who is new at the BAU and is super clumsy and they just fall head over heels over each other and he gets protective over her and it's all super cutesy.

thank you sm for the request! i hope you enjoy! really tempted to do a part 2 to this !! requests still open<3 i’m working through them

clumsy | spencer reid x reader

part 2

warnings: mentions of injury, general clumsiness, cursing, gn!reader

word count: 1.3k ish

summary: you’re new to the bau and are just super clumsy.

you were damn good at your job. you were a great profiler. you were great on the field. and you were quick to complete your paperwork.

the only issue you had was, you were incredibly clumsy. and not in the cute ‘oops i dropped my pen’ kind of way, more so in the ‘injure yourself on the field’ sort of way.

take your first ever case for instance, you and your previous team had busted into an unsub’s apartment, and after catching the guy, on your way back out you tripped over his collection of cds causing you to take his whole bookshelf down with you. you ended up breaking your arm and couldn’t use your gun for twelve weeks.

but now, you had just started a new job at the bau, and you were hoping to put the clumsiness behind you.

“agent l/n, this is agent morgan.” hotch went around the bullpen, introducing you to the team.

you had met in his office earlier, he had given you a rundown on what to expect and as there was no new case as of present, he was introducing you to the team and then going to set you up with some paperwork to fill in.

“great to meet you agent l/n, i hope to talk more with you soon.” derek shot you a flirtatious smile as hotch brought you over to the last member of the team.

dr. spencer reid. the tall man was currently leaning gingerly against one of the counters by the kitchenette section of the bullpen, a mug of coffee in one hand and a case file in the other. he wore a blue button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, along with a navy blue waistcoat and trousers.

“reid” hotch began, striding up to the younger male, with you at his heels.

“this is agent l/n, they just transferred here.”

spencer’s eyes shot up from the pages he was studying, now flickering over the person who stood next to hotch.

you, alike him, had the sleeves of your black shirt rolled up, notably more messy than his neatly folded cuffs. you had your hands stuffed into the pockets of your black suit trousers, with a smile plastered on your face.

“agent l/n, like y/n l/n?” reid’s interest was piqued.

you gave the taller man a small nod “yeah that’s me.” you chewed on your cheek, rocking lightly back n forth on your feet.

“i’ve read about your work, you’re- excellent on the field. i look forward to working with you.” he shot you a closed mouth smile which you returned.

“hey hotch, can you come look at this?” penelope called out from across the bullpen.

the older male, inhaled before turning on his feet, leaving you and spencer alone in the kitchenette.

“didn’t you accidentally shoot yourself during your last case?” spencer quizzed, sipping his coffee. he distinctly remembered reading an article about your last case before you took some time off, you had caught the unsub and while trying to put your gun back in the holster, it went off.

you felt your face flush.

“um- yeah, that may have happened. but don’t tell anyone. i’m a little clumsy” you giggled out, lifting the right side of your shirt to show a gunshot scar just above your hip.

spencer inhaled sharply, not expecting you to show off the scar.

“ouch.” he hissed, imagining how it must have felt. “i’ll try and keep you from hurting yourself on the field next time.” his eyes met yours and he gave you a genuine smile.

you had been working with the bau team for a few weeks, and have grown close to everyone, especially spencer.

you had developed quite strong feelings for the brunette over the time you spent at work and out with the team, he was always so considerate of you. always checking in to make sure you were doing okay, making sure you felt comfortable with everyone. and unbeknownst to you, he felt the same.

at first he thought your mention of being clumsy was a cute quirk, maybe you would accidentally injure yourself once in a blue moon and blame it on that. but as he grew to know, and care for you, he found out it was a daily occurrence.

on your fourth or fifth day in the office, spencer had brought a cup of coffee to you, placing it down on your desk which was conveniently across from his.

you thanked him with a warm smile, picking up the ceramic cup and taking a sip. he settled down into his seat, and began reading his case files until.

“fuck!” you yelled out, causing a few glances to be thrown your way.

spencer stood up abruptly, scanning you to see what had happened.

along with dropping the mug onto the floor, which shattered, you had managed to fully drench yourself in the hot coffee spencer had just made for you.

he quickly ran over, grabbing some paper towels to help clean up the mess. you shot him a sad look, followed by a string of apologies.

“i didn’t mean to- i just knocked it off of the desk and-“

“it’s okay, y/n.” he smiled sweetly up at you, patting your leg with the paper towel.

the next day, spencer had gifted you a resilient travel mug with a closing top.

the day came where you had an out of state case, the team all sat around the table for the briefing. spencer at your side in one of the desk chairs.

you had a habit of fidgeting during long meetings, you simply couldn’t help it, which spencer had noticed the first time you all had a lengthy briefing.

you were playing with your fingers, scratching at your nail beds until a warm hand gripped yours.

you glanced over to see spencer’s arm outstretched, his lightly callused hand now gripping yours gently. his focus didn’t stray from hotch, who was explaining the case, but you could notice a light pink hue to his cheeks.

you smiled to yourself, resting back into your chair. spencer interlocked his fingers with yours, gently pulling your desk chair closer to his, and for the rest of the briefing you both remained in each others grasp.

“wheels up in 10.” hotch announced, causing everyone to jolt out of their respective slumped positions.

the team made their way out to the jet, you and spencer in tow. you slung your to go back over your shoulder, spencer a few steps behind you.

everyone else had boarded at this point, and they were just waiting on the two youngest members of the team.

“y’know i’ve never been to colorado- i heard its really cold this time of year.” you hummed out, starting to climb the steps up to the jet.

spencer was listening to you intently, he liked when you rambled about things it made his heart swoon when you talked about how excited you were.

“hey just- be careful okay?” he mumbled, watching your careless steps.

“yeah yeah i’ll be fine spence.”

you adjusted the strap on your bag, looking over your shoulder to make another comment about the trip. bad idea.

as you went to place your foot onto the next step, you completely missed it, causing you to topple backwards.

spencer, who was behind you, was mentally preparing for this the whole time. he immediately stretched his arms out, gripping onto your falling form. he wrapped one arm around your waist, using his other hand to grab onto the railing to balance you both.

you locked eyes with him, faces practically inches apart.

“t-thanks, that would’ve been close.” you could feel your face burning.

a smug smile graced reid’s features, his grip on your waist not faltering.

“falling for me already, l/n?” he chuckled, eyeing your features. you grew more embarrassed, the tips of your ears burning.

he just wanted to lean in and kiss you, and he would have but you were interrupted.

“reid, l/n- we are taking off now come on.” hotch yelled out from inside the jet.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jason gideon #jenifer jareau #penelope garcia #elle greenaway #emily prentiss #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid fanfiction

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dj-of-the-coven · 11 months ago

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trigun 1998 episode simulator

[3 minutes of guitar solo]

Vash the Stampede: hi my name is Vash the Stampede. I am a hunter of Peace chasing the elusive mayfly of Love. all I really want to do is have a sandwich and a morning coffee without getting chased by bandits

some bandit: (gunshot) absolutely not. square up faggot

Vash: rats.

[gunfight]

Vash the Stampede: my name is Vash the stampede. I am a hunter of Peace chasing the elusive mayfly of Love.could I please have a sandwich

Meryl from the Bernardelli Insurace Society: how long are you going to sit on your ass doing nothing but playing games with children and doing chores for the elderly and disabled and looking after lonely youths and cooking dinner for the homeless

Vash: I've been here for like 2 days

Milly Thompson: Hi Vash!

Vash: Hi Milly

[exit left pursued by bounty hunters]

Vash the Stampede: (panting, entering a bar) my name is Vash the stampede.... I am a hunter of Peace chasing the elusive mayfly of Good L*rd what is going on in here

Hostage: mphdsfhapff!!!! mffmpphhf!!!!

Villain of the week: well if it isn't the elusive Vash the Stampede! you see it all started when I was 4 days old and you kicked me like a football and then exploded my parents to death with a laser canon and killed every puppy in a ten ile (translator's note: this is the No Man's Land equivalent of the American Mile) radius

Vash: I don't remember doing that but well I suppose you can shoot me if it'll make you feel better

Side character of the week: Are you insane? Just shoot him instead???

Vash: but my mom told me not to be mean to people

Villain of the week: (still going) And as I am now 47 years old I have finally decided to get my revenge. Say your prayers, Vash the Pisshead

[Wall explodes and reveals a motorcycle with a sexy priest on it]

[sfx: guitar with a hint of electric distortion]

Vash: is that..... Wolfwood?

Meryl who was in the background this whole time: the priest?

Nicholas Dickolas Wolfwood: (brings his fingers up to a pair of luscious lips to grab the cigarette from right between them, taking one more slow inhale before crushing the cherry red underneath his heel)(sensually cocks one of his 8 guns) Are you just gonna let this guy talk down to you like that needle noggin?

Vash: I g-

[guitar riff bumper]

Vash: -uess not, since you're here to help now... (slow, warm smile) Wolfwood

Nicholas D. ranged Wolfwood: Vash

Milly who was also in the background this whole time: Hi mr priest man! isn't this lovely, I haven't seen you since the last time you spoke with mr Vash yesterday evening when you were helping him buckle all those silly belts on his pants after he had lost them somehow

Vash: On a cactus

Milly: On a cactus! Oh it must've hurt so terribly; how fortunate that Mr Priest man was there to help you

Wolfwood: Hi Milly

[gunfight]

Villain of the week: ohhhhh curses!!! CURSES!!!! I have spent my whole existence getting ready to fight Vash the Stampede but he's just too good at swallowing all my bullets!!!!!!

Vash the Stampede: my tragic dead mother would be sad if I didn't swallow everyone's bullets so I've trained diligently every morning at digesting gunpowder without dying immediately

Wolfwood: [internally: I can't believe it. All this time I've spent walking the path of darkness, reaching to a pure light that I could never grasp, and yet here is a man who's dedicated his life and his body to the pursuit of Peace. I wish he were a woman so I could fuck him romantic style. I've got a whole plan for it and everything. Whiskey, sunset, a bed with no sand in it, 6 hours. This would be fully and completely possible if only he were a woman. Unfortunately he's not, but I can still think about the what-ifs. platonically of course. Maybe if he got some good dick he'd stop being so annoying. And maybe he'd stop making me rethink my morals. I wonder if the seven drunken handies meant anything to him. Platonically]

Wolfwood: Well anyway it looks like my job is done here

Vash: (teary) Will I see you again?

Wolfwood: I don't know. And besides, whenever I look at you, I'm reminded of everything I hate about myself. You know, it hurts.

[exit Nicholas D. Wolfwood pursued by repressed homosexual desires and immense catholic guilt]

Vash the Stanned Peat: (looking out the window like a widow whose husband was killed in action) Nicholas... D... Wolfwood.......

Meryl who was in the background that entire time, yes, the whole time: shut the fuck up already

Vash: when will it be my turn Meryl. When

[roll credits]

#trigun 98 #vashwood #vash the stampede #nicholas d wolfwood #milly thompson #meryl stryfe

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aspenmissing · 2 months ago

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ᴀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ʀᴇᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴘᴛ 2

ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ | ᴠɪ | ᴄᴀɪᴛᴠɪ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ || 6508 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛꜱ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴇꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴏᴠᴇʀᴅᴏꜱᴇ (ᴠɪ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ꜱʟɪᴛ ᴡʀɪꜱᴛꜱ (ᴄᴀɪᴛᴠɪ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴏɴᴇꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴜᴘ (ᴇᴋᴋᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴊᴜᴍᴘɪɴɢ (ᴍᴇʟ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ/ᴄᴘʀ (ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴛ 2 ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ @ɪᴍ20ʏʀꜱᴏʟᴅ, ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ <3 <3

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

CAITLYN

Being an enforcer meant standing strong.

It meant being the shield between chaos and order. The voice of reason in the madness of Piltover’s streets. The one who protected those who couldn’t protect themselves.

You had always played that role well.

Always smiled through the tension. Always cracked jokes to lighten the weight of the badge pressing against your chest. Always kept your head high, even when exhaustion gnawed at your bones.

Caitlyn had admired that about you.

Your resilience. The way you could brush off the worst of days with a laugh, the way you always seemed untouchable, unshaken by the horrors you both had witnessed. To her, you were more than just her partner—you were her anchor. The warmth in a city that often felt too cold.

And maybe that’s why she didn’t see it.

Didn’t see the exhaustion beneath your smile. Didn’t see the weight you carried behind your easy laughter. Didn’t see just how close you had been to breaking.

Until you finally did.

The night was quiet when the mission went south.

Too quiet.

A bad omen.

It was supposed to be a simple patrol. A quick sweep through the lower districts, one of many routine nights as an enforcer. Smugglers had been moving weapons through Zaun, and Caitlyn had a lead that this rundown warehouse was a part of their supply chain.

In and out. Easy work. At least, that’s what she thought. But as soon as you both stepped inside, that false sense of security shattered.

The dim glow of flickering lamps barely illuminated the rusted walls, casting long shadows that stretched unnervingly across the concrete floor. There was a moment—just a split second—where everything was still. Then, a sudden shuffle of feet. A whisper. A metallic click.

An ambush. Figures emerged from the darkness, a dozen at least, armed and waiting.

Caitlyn’s instincts kicked in immediately. With a sharp breath, she raised her rifle, her mind already calculating escape routes, cover, angles.

"Enforcers! Take them out!" Shouts rang out. Weapons were drawn. The fight began. But you—

You just stood there.

You saw them coming. You heard the shouting, the boots pounding against the ground, the unmistakable rush of adrenaline that should have sent you into action.

But nothing came. No instinct. No drive. Just… silence. A dull ringing in your ears, drowning out the chaos.

A part of you knew Caitlyn needed you, that she was counting on your backup, but another part—the part that had been whispering to you for weeks, months—grew louder.

Why bother? What’s the point? Wouldn’t it be easier to just… let go?

The first blow struck before you even flinched.

A brutal impact against your ribs, a sharp pain exploding across your side, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body stumbled backward from the force, but still, you didn’t raise your fists.

Didn’t block. Didn’t fight.

Another hit—fists slamming into your jaw. A warm, metallic taste filled your mouth as blood dripped down your chin. But still, you stayed still. Let them hit you. Let them break you.

Because, in some cruel, twisted way—it felt like relief.

"Y/N!" Caitlyn’s voice cut through the fog like a gunshot, sharp and desperate.

You barely registered the real gunshot that followed, but you felt the force of it—the way the air shifted as a bullet whizzed past, taking down one of your attackers in an instant.

The chaos around you shifted, the smugglers scrambling at the sudden retaliation.

Caitlyn was moving before she even thought. A blur of precision, each shot landing clean. Two, three, four bodies dropped in seconds. The remaining thugs tried to flee, but Caitlyn didn’t let them—not until the last one hit the ground with a sickening crunch, her rifle slamming into his head with brutal efficiency.

Her chest heaved. Her blood pounded in her ears. Then, her head snapped toward you. You were still standing, barely. Bruised, bloodied, but alive.

Her breath caught—relief, fury, panic, all crashing into her at once. And then she was on you. Grabbing you, fingers digging into your shoulders, shaking you hard enough that your head snapped back to focus. "What the hell was that?!"

You blinked slowly, your expression eerily blank.

A thin trail of blood ran from your split lip. A bruise was already forming along your cheekbone. And yet… there was no fight in your eyes. No tension in your stance.

Just… emptiness.

Caitlyn’s grip tightened. "Why didn’t you fight back?"

Silence.

You looked away, something flickering across your face—something raw, something fragile. "Does it matter?"

Caitlyn froze. Her stomach dropped.

For the first time since she had met you, you looked tired. Not the exhaustion that came after a long shift, not the kind that sleep could fix, but something deeper. Something that had been building for far too long.

Her breath hitched. And in that moment, something inside her broke.

She had always believed you were strong. Unshakable. The one person who could take anything Piltover threw at them and still smile at the end of the day.

But now—

Now she realized she had been so blind.

Her hands trembled as they moved from your shoulders to your face, her thumbs brushing gently over the bruises blooming beneath your skin. She tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze. "It matters to me." Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

"It matters because I almost lost you today," she continued, voice thick with emotion. "Because you let them hurt you instead of fighting back. Because—" She swallowed, blinking back the sting in her eyes. "Because I care about you, Y/N. More than you know."

You inhaled sharply, eyes widening just slightly. You could see it now. The fear in her gaze. The unfiltered pain behind her words. And it hurt.

Because you never wanted this. Never wanted her to look at you like this, like she was afraid of what might happen if she let you out of her sight.

Never wanted her to see the cracks in your mask.

Her touch softened, fingers ghosting over your cheek. "You're not alone," she whispered. "Whatever you're carrying, you don’t have to do it alone."

You wanted to believe her. Gods, you wanted to. But the weight in your chest had been there for so long. Pressing down, suffocating. You didn’t know how to let it go.

Didn’t know how to let someone in.

Caitlyn seemed to sense your hesitation. Because she didn’t let go. She didn’t push. Instead, she pulled you forward—slowly, carefully—until you were pressed against her.

Her arms wrapped around you, her warmth seeping into your frozen skin. She held you tightly, like she was terrified that if she let go, you would slip away for good.

"Please," she whispered, voice cracking. "Let me help you."

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her uniform.

And for the first time in a long time—longer than you could remember—you let yourself lean into her.

You let yourself believe, even if only for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, someone would catch you if you fell.

You always smiled.

No matter how hard things got, no matter how brutal the streets of Zaun could be—you were the one who kept people going. The bright spot in the darkest alleys. The girl who always had a joke, a laugh, a reason to push forward.

No one ever questioned it.

Because if you smiled, you had to be okay… right?

Vi didn’t believe in fate. She believed in fighting. For what you wanted. For who you loved. That’s why the unease gnawing at her gut tonight pissed her off.

She had been trying to ignore it for hours, trying to shake the damn feeling crawling up her spine. It sat in her chest, heavy and unrelenting, like a bad bruise that just wouldn’t fade.

She stood behind the bar at The Last Drop, idly drying a mug as the crowd buzzed around her.

Vander was working the far end, caught up in a conversation with some regulars. Mylo was running his mouth, probably talking himself into trouble. Claggor was doing his usual rounds, keeping an eye on things.

Powder had been hanging off Vi’s arm all night until Vi finally told her to go upstairs and get some sleep. That had been hours ago. And still, the feeling didn’t go away.

Something was wrong.

Her fingers tapped against the wooden counter. She hadn’t seen you all day. Not at breakfast. Not in the usual bickering between Mylo and Powder. Not at the bar, where you’d always sidle up next to her, smirking, trying to get her to sneak you an extra drink when Vander wasn’t looking.

At first, she figured you were just off doing your own thing. Maybe you were out. Maybe you just needed space. But the longer the night stretched on, the worse it got. Because you never just disappeared like this.

The mug slammed against the counter. Mylo shot her a look, but Vi ignored him. Her fists clenched at her sides. No. Something was wrong.

She wasn’t waiting any longer.

She shoved her way out from behind the bar, ignoring the way Vander glanced at her as she moved. She didn’t have time to explain. Didn’t have time to say anything.

She was already heading toward the back of the bar, her boots thudding against the wooden floor.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, the dim lanterns casting flickering shadows across the walls. Normally, she could drown it all out. But right now, it felt suffocating. She took the stairs two at a time.

"Y/N?" Her voice was firm as she stepped into the hall.

Silence.

Her stomach dropped. She passed Powder’s room, the door slightly open. Soft breathing. She was asleep. Good. She wouldn’t see whatever this was.

Vi didn’t stop. Your door was closed. That cold, sinking feeling in her chest turned into something sharp. She stepped closer. Knocked once.

"Y/N?" Nothing. Her breath hitched. Another knock, harder this time. "Y/N, open the damn door." Still nothing. Then she noticed— The door wasn’t just closed.

It was locked.

Her pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. She kicked the door open. The wood splintered under the force of it, crashing inward. The noise barely registered.

Because—

Oh, fuck.

You were slumped against the bed, body limp, skin too pale. Your breathing was slow. Too slow. And on the floor—an empty vial. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt.

"No. No, no, no—" She was at your side in an instant, grabbing your shoulders, shaking you roughly. "Y/N! Wake up—what the fuck did you do?!" Your head lolled, eyes barely cracking open. Hazy. Unfocused. Wrong.

"Vi..." Your voice was weak. Barely there. Like you were already slipping. Vi’s chest ached.

"Shit—shit!" Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She pulled you up against her, patting your cheeks, trying to keep you here. "You’re okay, you’re okay—just stay with me, alright?" Her voice cracked, panic bleeding into every syllable.

She had been in fights before. She had taken punches, thrown them, broken bones, gotten back up, and kept swinging. But this—this wasn’t something she could fight.

And that terrified her.

"Why?" The word barely slipped out, hoarse and broken. "Why would you do this?" Your fingers curled weakly around her wrist. You barely had the strength to hold on. You turned your head slightly, like you wanted to look away.

Vi wasn’t having it.

Her fingers caught your chin, forcing you to look at her. "Talk to me." Desperation clung to every word. "Please, Y/N." A tear slipped from the corner of your eye, trailing down your cheek.

"I... I didn’t want to be a burden."

Vi went still. The words hit her like a sucker punch. A full-force gut-shot that knocked the air from her lungs.

"A burden?" She said it like it was something disgusting. Like it physically hurt to say it out loud. And then—

Rage.

Pain.

Helplessness.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Her voice was rough, almost shaking. "Do you know what it would’ve done to me if I found you too late? If I—" Her throat closed up. She couldn’t say it. She wouldn’t say it.

Her hands clenched into fists against your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt so tightly her knuckles burned.

You were supposed to be here.

With her.

Always.

Your breath hitched weakly, your body pressing against hers. You felt so fragile. She swallowed thickly, blinking hard to fight the sting in her eyes.

Then she brushed damp strands of hair from your forehead, fingers gentler now, lingering in the way she needed to touch you.

"You’re my family, dumbass." Her voice was raw. Rough. But her grip was gentle. "You don’t get to just leave." A breath. A beat. "Not without a fight."

Your chest trembled. Vi had always been a fighter. For Powder. For Vander. For Zaun.

For you.

And now, for the first time, you realized— She wasn’t just fighting for you. She was fighting to keep you. Your throat tightened. Your vision blurred.

"I don’t know how to stop feeling like this." Vi exhaled sharply. Shakily. Then she shifted, pressing her forehead against yours, grounding you in her.

"Then let me carry it with you." A sob broke from your lips. She held you tighter. And for the first time in what felt like forever—

You didn’t feel so alone.

CAITVI

The thing about masks is that people believe in them.

And you were good at it.

Flashing that brilliant smile, cracking jokes that made Vi snort into her drink and Caitlyn shake her head with soft, fond exasperation. Being the warmth between them. The glue that held the three of you together. Or at least, that’s what they thought.

Because if you smiled, they wouldn’t ask. If you laughed, they wouldn’t worry.

But no matter how much you smiled, no matter how much you pretended—it was never enough to silence the voice in your head.

The one that told you you weren’t enough. That they’d be better off without you.

So you did it.

The blade had felt cold at first. The sting had been sharp, almost electrifying. But when the warmth of your blood pooled at your wrists, dripping onto the tile, the world started to fade into something quiet.

Something peaceful. For the first time in forever, your mind wasn’t screaming.

Until Caitlyn and Vi found you.

The first thing Caitlyn noticed was the smell.

That sharp, metallic scent of blood. It made her stomach turn before she even fully processed why.

Then she saw you.

Her breath stopped.

There you were, slumped against the bathtub, skin pale—too pale—contrasted by the deep, red streaks trailing down your arms. Blood pooled beneath you, soaking into the white tile, seeping into the cracks like it belonged there. Your hands lay limp at your sides, fingers twitching weakly, your head lolling forward as if even existing had become too heavy to bear.

The world tilted.

"No—no, no, no—" The sound that left Caitlyn’s throat was barely human. A strangled cry of disbelief and pure, pure terror. She froze.

Just for a second. Because this—this—wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

But it was.

Her body moved before her mind caught up, knees slamming against the floor as she threw herself toward you. Her hands hovered over your wrists for the briefest second, like she was afraid touching you would break you further—then she clamped down.

Warm, slick, too much blood.

"VI!" Her scream tore through the apartment, a desperate, raw plea. The door slammed open so hard it nearly broke off its hinges.

Vi.

Caitlyn barely registered her presence—barely saw the way Vi’s chest heaved, the way her wild, frantic eyes locked onto you, and then—

And then Vi stopped breathing.

Because she saw.

She saw the blood. She saw Caitlyn’s hands shaking as they pressed down on your wrists. She saw the way your body wasn’t moving.

And for a moment—just a second—Vi was sixteen years old again, standing in the ruins of her home, looking at her dead parents, her fallen family, feeling that same, raw helplessness that she swore she’d never feel again.

Her stomach lurched.

"No. No, no, no—baby, stay with me," Vi choked out, running to you, falling to her knees so hard it hurt. Her hands hovered over you, trembling, afraid.

"I—I need cloth, something to—Vi, help me!" Caitlyn’s voice broke.

Vi snapped out of it.

"Shit—fuck—"

She ripped off her undershirt, barely noticing her own shaking fingers as she pressed it hard against your wrists, wrapping the fabric as tightly as she could, ignoring the way the blood seeped through instantly.

"Shit—shit—Y/N, you’re gonna be fine, okay? You’re gonna be fine. Stay with us, baby, please—" Vi pressed a shaking hand to your cheek. You were cold.

Too cold.

Her stomach twisted. "Why the fuck would you do this?" Her voice cracked, forehead pressing against yours as she held onto you like you were already slipping away.

Your eyelids fluttered. A weak, barely-there breath slipped past your lips. "V-Vi…?"

Vi let out a broken sound, something between a sob and a growl. "Yeah, baby, I’m here. We’re here. Stay awake for us, okay? Just—just keep looking at me."

Your eyelids fluttered again, but the effort of keeping them open seemed too much.

"Don’t—don’t move," Caitlyn whispered, her hands still clutching your wrists, her grip so tight it was almost painful. "Just hold on, love. Stay with us."

Your lips parted slightly, but no real words came out. Just a breath, just the faintest trace of a tired smile. "I'm sorry…"

Vi snapped.

"Don’t you fucking say that!" she barked, voice shaking violently. "Don’t you fucking dare." Your brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering through your glassy gaze.

"I didn’t want to be a burden…" Caitlyn inhaled sharply.

She squeezed her eyes shut for just a second, willing herself to hold it together before she spoke, her voice steady but so, so broken. "You—are not a burden, Y/N."

Your breath hitched. "Then why do I feel like one…?" You hated how your voice broke, how weak you sounded.

Vi pulled back just enough to look at you, her face a mixture of heartbreak and fury—but not at you. Never at you.

"Because your head is feeding you lies, baby." Vi’s voice shook, her hands cupping your face like she was terrified you’d disappear if she let go. "You’re fucking everything to us. Everything."

Caitlyn swallowed past the lump in her throat, nodding fiercely. "We love you, Y/N. So much. Do you hear me?"

Your vision swam, everything hazy, but through the blur, you saw it.

The absolute terror in Vi’s eyes. The devastation in Caitlyn’s. The way they were holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping them breathing.

Your throat tightened. "I’m tired…"

Vi shook her head. "I know, baby. I know. But we’ve got you, okay? We’ve got you. Just hold on a little longer. Please."

Caitlyn took a slow, shuddering breath, squeezing your hands in hers even as the pressure hurt. "We’re not letting go of you. Ever."

Vi swallowed hard, pressing a kiss to your forehead, her lips trembling. "We need you, Y/N."

Your chest rose and fell in a slow, uneven rhythm. Your mind was a storm, a chaotic mess of exhaustion and numbness, but their voices—their love—was something solid.

Something that fought against the darkness trying to drag you under. Maybe the storm wasn’t over. Maybe the weight wouldn’t disappear overnight. But with them?

Maybe, just maybe, you could try again.

EKKO

Zaun never slept, but tonight, the air was eerily still—a rare silence that seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was about to unfold.

Ekko’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he sprinted through the labyrinthine back alleys. His heart pounded louder than the clamor of any fight he’d ever known. This wasn’t a chase against enforcers or a desperate escape from chem-barons or even a cunning dodge from a Piltover patrol. No—this was something far more personal. This was the race to save you.

A Firelight scout’s panicked words still echoed in his ears—something about you, about explosives, about how you were alone near the old docks. That was all it took for him to bolt, his mind burning with dread and determination.

When he finally found you, the scene seared itself into his memory. You lay curled on the cracked stone floor of a deserted alley, your trembling hands clutching a small, flickering device. It was a bomb, its fuse a silent promise of impending catastrophe.

For a moment, time halted. Ekko’s heart lurched as he cried out, “Y/N!” The sound reverberated off cold walls, slicing through the heavy silence.

Your head snapped up, eyes wide with shock and raw fear, just as Ekko lunged forward. In a split-second decision, his hand snatched the explosive from your grip, his muscles straining as he hurled it away. The bomb sailed through the air and, with a deafening clatter, skidded across the uneven ground before coming to rest. The fuse sputtered and then, in an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity, the bomb exploded.

The blast tore through the alley, a violent burst of heat and force that threw debris and darkness into every corner. Ekko’s instincts, honed by years of defying time and fate, kicked in immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself forward, his arms outstretched to shield you from the fury of the explosion. In that chaotic moment, when the world around you was reduced to a maelstrom of light, sound, and raw energy, his arms became a sanctuary—an anchor amidst the devastation.

When the roaring noise subsided, dust and ash settling like a sorrowful shroud, Ekko was there. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths as he knelt by your side. His eyes, wide with shock and heartache, locked onto yours, as if willing you to see just how deeply you mattered to him.

“What the fuck were you doing?!” he demanded, his voice raw and broken by a mix of fury, relief, and unspeakable grief. The force of the explosion still lingered in his veins, each throb a reminder of how close he had come to losing you forever.

You curled tighter into yourself, the weight of the moment crashing down like a tidal wave. “I—” your voice faltered, torn between words and the overwhelming cascade of emotion.

“You were gonna blow yourself up?” Ekko’s voice cracked, and suddenly, his hands were on your shoulders—gripping you with a desperate tenderness as if to ensure that, even for a fleeting second, you wouldn’t slip away. “You—Y/N, do you even understand what that would’ve done? To me? To everyone who cares about you?”

Tears burned at your eyes, but you maintained the same guarded expression you’d perfected over the years. It was your shield, your way of hiding the storm inside. For so long, you’d worn that happy front as a mask, convincing everyone that everything was fine, even when your inner world was in ruins.

In the thick silence that followed, Ekko’s grip loosened just enough for him to breathe, his forehead pressing against yours as if trying to merge his warmth with your cold despair. “You were gonna leave me? Just like that?” His words trembled in the air, laden with disbelief and pain.

Your lips trembled, the simplest apology feeling woefully inadequate. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” His whisper, though soft, carried the weight of an entire universe. “Don’t fucking apologize, Y/N. Just tell me—why? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting so much?”

Your gaze dropped to the stained ground, every word a shard of regret. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden?” Ekko’s voice hardened into a hollow laugh that quickly dissolved into despair. “You’re everything to me, Y/N. Everything. And you thought I wouldn’t care?” His fingers, gentle yet insistent, brushed against your cheek, tilting your face up so you could meet his eyes—eyes that seemed to hold every promise of protection.

“I see you,” he murmured, his voice softening as he spoke with fierce tenderness. “Even when you're smiling, even when you’re pretending everything’s fine—I see you. I know you’re hurting.”

In that moment, as the smoke of the explosion still swirled around you and the city’s chaos resumed its ceaseless pulse, Ekko gathered you into his arms. His embrace was a fortress built of raw emotion and unwavering resolve. He held you close as if anchoring you to life, his heartbeat a steady drum urging you not to fade away.

“Please,” he whispered against your hair, his words trembling with urgency. “Stay. Just stay with me. Let me help you carry this burden. I can’t—won’t—imagine a world without you.”

The overwhelming noise of the aftermath faded into a distant hum as you clung to him, your own pain momentarily swallowed by the safety of his arms. In that fragile, suspended moment, you realized that maybe—just maybe—allowing someone to see your true self wasn’t a weakness. Perhaps, instead, it was the beginning of healing.

Ekko’s eyes, fierce and full of unspoken promises, searched yours for any hint of hope. And as you met his gaze, you understood that while the scars of tonight might never fully vanish, there was a chance—a fragile, flickering chance—to rebuild, together.

In the stillness that followed, with debris settling and hearts slowly mending, you allowed yourself to believe that the light he offered could one day outshine even the darkest shadows of your pain. And as his arms held you, you took that first trembling step toward a future where you didn’t have to hide behind a mask anymore.

MEL

Piltover’s skyline was breathtaking at night.

From this height, the city stretched endlessly, a glimmering web of golden lights. The streets pulsed with life—figures moving between towering structures, carriages rattling over cobblestone roads, people talking, laughing, existing.

It was beautiful.

It was distant.

And standing on the ledge of the building, the wind whipping against your skin, you felt like you were watching a world you didn’t belong to.

How many times had you smiled in those streets? How many times had you laughed, held conversations, reassured others, lifted them up? How many times had you convinced everyone—yourself—that you were fine?

But illusions had never been enough.

And tonight, you were tired of pretending.

Your fingers curled against the cold stone beneath you. The wind tugged at your clothes, teasing, inviting. You wondered if falling would feel like freedom—if for just a few seconds, you’d feel weightless, untethered from everything that had been suffocating you for so long.

But before you could lean forward, a voice shattered the silence.

"Y/N."

The sound of your name made your body jolt. It was smooth, controlled, but beneath that carefully placed veneer, there was something else. Something raw.

You turned your head slightly, already knowing who it was.

Mel Medarda.

She stood a few feet away, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights. The golden accents of her dress shimmered as she moved, slow and deliberate, like she was approaching a wounded animal that might bolt at any second.

She didn’t shout. Didn’t cry. Didn’t break the fragile moment with frantic desperation.

She just watched you.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to remain steady. "Go back, Mel." She tilted her head ever so slightly, unreadable. "This isn’t something you need to see."

Mel didn’t listen. Of course she didn’t. Another step forward. Then another. The click of her heels against the rooftop was almost inaudible beneath the wind.

She was closer now—close enough that you could see the flicker of something dark in her golden eyes. Something almost dangerous.

Not anger. Not fear.

Determination.

"You’re trembling," she observed, her voice impossibly soft, but her gaze never wavered. "You don’t want this."

Your jaw clenched. "You don’t know that."*

Mel exhaled through her nose, almost like she was restraining herself from reacting. She studied you, as if peeling back every layer, every mask you had ever worn.

Then, after a pause, she murmured, "Don’t I?"

Your breath caught in your throat.

She took another step, slow and measured, until she was close enough to touch you. But she didn’t. Not yet.

"You’ve spent so much time making sure everyone else is happy," she said, her voice dipping lower, "that you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve the same."

The words struck something deep inside you.

A bitter laugh bubbled up, but it sounded wrong—hollow, empty. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." Mel hummed, a sound so soft you almost missed it.

"You do," she countered. "You always do."* Silence stretched between you. Your fingers curled against the stone ledge. Your heart pounded.

"I just…" You hesitated, voice barely audible. "I don’t think I can keep doing this, Mel."*

Mel inhaled slowly, carefully. Her posture remained composed, but there was something new in her expression. Something that made your chest ache.

Pain.

"You can," she whispered. "And you will."

You turned your head fully now, searching her face, your eyes burning. "Why do you care so much?"

Mel stilled.

And then, after a long moment, she spoke.

"Because I know what it feels like to stand on the edge of something and believe there’s no way forward."* Her words sent a sharp chill through your body.

You had never seen Mel Medarda falter. She was always so composed, so in control. A force of nature—untouchable, unreadable.

But tonight, she was human.

"And I know what it feels like," she continued, "when someone reaches for you before you fall."*

Your throat tightened.

Mel slowly, finally, reached out, her fingertips brushing against yours. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just there.

"Come back to me," she whispered. "Step down." The wind howled around you, but it wasn’t the wind that made your body waver. It was her.

Because Mel Medarda was not a woman who begged.

And yet here she was, golden eyes raw with something so painfully vulnerable it almost undid you completely. Your lips parted, but no words came.

"I don’t deserve you," you choked out instead.

"That is not your choice to make," she countered, her voice unwavering. "Step down."

Your heart thundered against your ribs. You stared at her outstretched hand, at the warmth and steadiness it promised.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself be selfish.

You took her hand.

The second you did, Mel moved.

With a quiet, shuddering breath, she pulled you into her arms, crushing you against her. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other gripping your waist as if letting go wasn’t an option.

Her warmth surrounded you—steady, grounding. Her heartbeat thrummed against your own.

"I’ve got you," she whispered. "I’ve got you, Y/N."*

Your fingers dug into the fabric of her dress. "I’m sorry," you whispered against her shoulder.

Mel exhaled, her hand smoothing over your hair. "No," she murmured. "Just stay."

And in that moment—buried in her strength, her quiet desperation—you realized something.

You had spent so long trying to carry the world, to be the light for others, that you forgot what it felt like to have someone hold you.

Maybe you weren’t alone after all.

And maybe, just maybe, you could learn how to stay.

SEVIKA

The water welcomed you like an old friend. Cold. Heavy. Quiet. You thought it would hurt. That maybe your body would fight against it, that some primal instinct would kick in and force you to claw your way back to the surface.

But it didn’t.

There was no struggle. No panic.

Only the gentle pull of the depths, the soft lull of the current wrapping around you, dragging you downward as if the city itself had finally decided to let you go.

The world above faded, the distorted glow of neon lights disappearing as your vision darkened.

And for the first time in a long time—there was peace.

No expectations. No forced smiles. No pretending.

Just silence.

Just—

Nothing.

Sevika had a bad feeling. She wasn’t the sentimental type. Didn’t believe in gut feelings or fate or any of that bullshit. But tonight, something was wrong.

It started with little things.

The way your hands shook when you thought no one was looking. The way your laughter came a second too late in conversations, like you had to remind yourself how to react. The way your smile was too perfect, stretched too tight like it might shatter at any moment.

Sevika noticed.

She always noticed.

You thought you were good at hiding it. Thought you had everyone fooled. But Sevika had spent too many years reading people, understanding their weaknesses, predicting when someone was about to break.

And tonight— Something in you had cracked.

She should have said something. Should have pulled you aside, forced you to talk, pried the truth out of you with sharp words and soft hands.

But she didn’t.

And now you were gone. She searched for you. The bar. The alleys. The rooftops. Nothing. Her heartbeat quickened, each passing second making her pulse drum louder in her ears.

Then she heard it—

A scream. Bloodcurdling. Terrified. Sevika’s stomach dropped.

Her legs carried her before her mind caught up, pushing through the thick crowd gathering near the docks, voices blurring into meaningless static.

She shoved past them, her gut twisting, and then—

A splash. A glimpse of something pale beneath the surface. And then—

You. Floating. Still. The murky water of Zaun was swallowing you whole. No—

"NO!" She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. She jumped. The river hit like a fist of ice, numbing her limbs instantly, but she fought against it.

Her body cut through the water, powerful strokes tearing through the current. The city above blurred, muffled, disappearing as she dove deeper, reaching for you—

Her fingers brushed your wrist. Then your arm. Her metal hand latched onto you, tight, refusing to let go.

"I got you, baby, I got you," she muttered, voice lost beneath the water as she dragged you back up, her own lungs burning.

She kicked hard, breaking the surface with a sharp gasp, the cold air slicing into her chest like a blade.

"Breathe, damn you," she growled, hauling your lifeless body onto the dock, collapsing beside you on trembling arms.

Your skin was ice. Your lips were blue.

You weren’t breathing.

"Shit, shit—fuck!" Sevika’s voice cracked as she pressed two fingers to your throat. Nothing. "No, no, no—" Her pulse roared. Her vision blurred. Her hands shook. Then she moved.

She tilted your head back, her hands automatically finding position on your chest.

"Stay with me, baby—!" She pushed. Hard. "Come on, come on, come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, slamming her palms into your sternum, forcing your heart to beat.

Once. Twice. Five times.

"Don’t fucking do this to me, Y/N—!" Her breath hitched, but she kept going.

She tilted your chin, pinched your nose, sealed her lips over yours, and breathed.

Her own chest ached from how hard she inhaled, desperate to fill your lungs, desperate to hear you gasp, to feel anything.

She pulled back.

Nothing.

"FUCK!" Her fists curled, her body shaking as she wiped the wet strands of hair clinging to your face. "Don’t you dare fucking leave me, you hear me?" Her voice cracked, splintering with something raw and ugly. "Don’t you fucking do this—!"

She pressed down again. Harder.

"Come on, babygirl, fight—fight me, damn it!" Another push. Another breath. "Please, Y/N—just breathe, just fucking breathe!"

Her vision swam. Her jaw clenched so tight she thought her teeth might crack. "I swear to God, if you leave me, I’ll—" Her voice caught, breaking into something closer to a sob.

Another push. Another—

A cough. A strangled, gasping choke as your body convulsed violently.

Water spilled from your lips, your whole frame shuddering as air tore through your lungs.

"Oh, fuck—" Sevika nearly collapsed onto you, hands cupping your face, her forehead pressing hard against yours.

"Shit, shit, baby—" Her breath came in ragged, uneven gulps, and she felt her body trembling, her mind catching up to what almost just happened.

You were alive.

Barely. But alive.

"Sevika..." Your voice was wrecked, barely a whisper, but the second you said her name, her fingers tightened on you.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Her voice was hoarse, torn somewhere between anger and something closer to begging. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Tears burned your throat. "I—I don’t know." Her breath hitched. You looked small. Smaller than you ever had before. Like if she let go, you’d slip away all over again.

"You really think I’d let you go that easy?" she muttered, voice raw.

You swallowed thickly, barely holding back the sob in your chest. "I thought—"

"Don’t." Her grip tightened. Metal fingers digging into your soaked shirt, grounding you to her. "Don’t fucking say it."

Silence.

The water dripped from both of you, pooling beneath her knees, mixing with the blood on her knuckles from where she had gripped the dock too hard.

Then, softer—

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

Her forehead pressed against yours, her breath warm despite the cold, her entire body trembling. "Do you have any idea what I’d do if I lost you?" Your chest ached, but not from the CPR.

"I didn’t want to be a burden."

Her eyes darkened. "Burden?"

She pulled back just enough to glare at you, her jaw clenching so tightly you swore you heard her teeth grind.

"You're the only thing in this shit city that makes me feel alive, and you think you’re a fucking burden?"

Your breath shuddered. "I'm sorry."

Sevika exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a bitter chuckle—one that held no humor, only exhaustion.

"Yeah? Don’t be sorry."

She pulled you closer, her arms wrapping around you, her metal hand pressing against the back of your head, keeping you there—safe.

"Just don’t fucking do it again." You weren’t sure if you could promise that.

But as she held you—tightly, desperately, like you were the only thing keeping her tethered to this world—you thought… maybe, just maybe…

You could try.

324 notes · View notes

cbeargyu · 19 days ago

Note

hi! can i make a request of husband beomgyu pls 🥹 love you as always <33

second chance

summary: after weeks apart and a looming divorce, a tearful call from beomgyu leads to an emotional reunion. through painful honesty, soft memories, and tender promises, you both choose to love again.

pairing: husband!beomgyu x wife!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, slow burn, marriage reconciliation, established relationship

warnings: mentions of divorce, emotional breakdowns, crying, soft intimate scenes (suggestive not explicit), hopeful ending.

wc: 9,3k

notes: anon, thank you for your request T-T beomgyu as a husband is such a cute concept, I love him so much, these days I've been so obsessed with him, as you can tell, he's the one I've written the most fanfics about HAHAHA but really, I can't let him go, I hope you like this fic🩷

the second you heard the door unlock, your heart sank. not from fear, not even from fury anymore—just from the unbearable weight of disappointment. 2:47 a.m. the digital clock on the wall blinked mockingly in the silence. your legs were stiff from sitting too long, your arms folded so tightly across your chest they almost numbed your skin.

beomgyu walked in quietly, carelessly, like it wasn’t the third time that week he got home long past midnight.

he looked up, and for a moment, he froze. “you’re still up?”

you didn’t move. “yeah. shocking, huh?”

he let out a soft sigh and closed the door behind him, dropping his keys in the little ceramic bowl you’d both picked out together on your honeymoon. “we stayed late. my boss brought everyone drinks.”

you laughed under your breath, but it was bitter and sharp. “again?”

“it wasn’t like that,” he mumbled, toeing off his shoes. “you know how it is. if i want a shot at the promotion, i have to—”

“what?” you interrupted, your voice calm but taut like a stretched wire. “kiss ass? let him walk you around like some lapdog while your wife waits up, thinking maybe this time he’s in a ditch somewhere? or maybe—just maybe—he’s fucking someone else?”

he straightened up sharply. “don’t do that.”

“don’t do what?” you tilted your head, your expression unreadable. “don’t say out loud what’s been sitting in my throat for months?”

“you know damn well i wouldn’t cheat on you,” he snapped, finally facing you head-on. “i’ve been busting my ass for us. for this house. for our future.”

“and what future is that, beomgyu?” your voice cracked despite you. “we haven’t kissed in weeks. you don’t even look at me when we’re in bed. you roll over, you sleep, you wake up, you leave. when did we stop being us?”

he walked past you, his face hard, avoiding your gaze as if it burned. “i’m tired, y/n. we both are.”

“so that’s it? you’re tired?” you followed him, your steps heavier, breath catching in your throat. “we used to be a team. now we’re just… roommates who occasionally fight.”

he turned slowly, exhaustion etched deep in the lines under his eyes. “i don’t know what to do anymore.”

you looked at him for a long time. really looked. he was still your husband. still the boy who walked you home from school in the rain, who held your hand during every hospital visit your mom had, who cried like a child on your wedding night because he couldn’t believe he got to marry you.

but he was also someone else now. someone closed off. hardened.

“maybe we should separate,” you said, and it landed between you both like a gunshot in a silent room.

his lips parted, but no sound came out.

“just… for a while,” you added, as if softening the blow would make it less real. “i’ll go to my parents’ place in the morning. take some time to think.”

beomgyu looked down, his fists trembling by his sides. and then, slowly, he nodded.

“if this marriage is hurting us more than helping us,” he said hoarsely, “then maybe… yeah. maybe it’s the right thing.”

you didn’t cry. not then. your throat burned and your chest felt like it had caved in, but no tears came. maybe because you’d cried them all out on nights like this, waiting and waiting, hoping he’d still fight for you.

he didn’t beg. didn’t ask you to stay.

he just turned away.

when the sun broke through the blinds, the house felt like a ghost town. you barely said anything as you stuffed a few bags, folding clothes like you were packing for a short trip instead of leaving a life behind. beomgyu helped, but in silence. his face blank, his movements mechanical.

he walked you to the car with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“you should take the car,” he said, handing you the keys. “it’ll be safer. i'll manage.”

you stared at him for a long time, hoping—just hoping—he’d stop you. say something. ask you to give him one more day. but all he did was give you a sad smile.

“take care,” he murmured, barely audible. “let’s think about everything. properly. maybe some space is what we need.”

you bit the inside of your cheek so hard it tasted like iron. “yeah,” you said, your voice cracking. “maybe.”

you didn’t look back.

the drive to your parents’ house took forty minutes. but it felt like you were crossing continents. the entire world blurred outside your window as you clutched the steering wheel like a lifeline. every traffic light turned green for you—no stops. no pauses. just movement.

when you pulled into the familiar driveway, your hands were shaking.

your mother opened the door before you even rang the bell. maybe she’d known. maybe mothers always do. you didn’t say anything—you just collapsed into her arms, burying your face into her shoulder as the tears finally came, violent and unstoppable.

“oh, my love…” she whispered, stroking your hair. “you’re home.”

you clung to her like a child, sobbing harder than you had in years. twelve years. twelve years with beomgyu. how do you start to forget something that was your whole life?

“noona?” a softer voice called from behind.

you turned and saw jungwon standing there, already taller than you, his eyes wide and worried.

he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you tightly. “it’s gonna be okay,” he said with that naive, youthful certainty. “you’re gonna be okay.”

you laughed through your tears, kissing his forehead. “you’re so tall now,” you whispered, trying to smile. “when did that happen?”

“started high school this month,” he said, proud. “i’m not a baby anymore.”

you ruffled his hair, your smile wobbly. “you’ll always be my baby brother.”

and for a fleeting second, the weight in your chest lifted.

when the sobs finally slowed, and your mother’s arms loosened just enough for you to breathe again, she gently cupped your face and kissed your forehead.

“go lie down, honey. you must be exhausted,” she said softly, brushing your hair back like she used to when you were little. “your room is ready.”

you nodded, barely able to answer. your eyes were sore, your body heavy, and your heart… your heart felt frayed in ways you hadn’t even begun to understand.

you walked down the familiar hallway, feet padding against the cool tiles. everything looked smaller now—narrower, dimmer. like the house had aged with you, quietly, patiently waiting for you to come home.

you stopped in front of your old bedroom door.

it had been over seven years. seven years since you last turned that doorknob. seven years since you packed all your things and left with beomgyu, full of hope, your heart bursting with love and plans and dreams. you hesitated for a moment, almost afraid of what you’d find inside.

but when you opened the door, it felt like stepping into a memory.

everything was exactly as you’d left it.

the pale blue curtains fluttered gently in the breeze. your bed was neatly made with the same faded sheets you used in high school—soft cotton, patterned with tiny constellations. your desk sat untouched beneath the window, the surface bare except for an old lamp and a few dust-free trinkets. the shelves were empty. the repisas above your bed were clean, but void of the books and little figurines you once adored.

the air smelled faintly of lavender, of clean linen and something sweetly nostalgic. the sunlight filtered in, casting quiet shadows on the floor, painting soft lines across the blank surfaces.

you stepped inside slowly, your hand brushing against the smooth edge of the wooden desk. your fingers trembled. your chest felt hollow.

“i always kept it clean,” your mother said from behind you, her voice low and warm. “just in case you ever needed it again.”

you turned to look at her, eyes stinging. she smiled gently and stepped forward, fixing a corner of the bedsheet like it had even needed fixing. “didn’t have the heart to change it. not even the curtains.”

your throat tightened.

“everything’s gone,” you whispered, walking over to the empty shelves. “it used to be full.”

“you took your life with you,” she replied, resting a hand on your back. “as it should be.”

you nodded, staring at the barren walls that had once held photos, posters, love notes, your high school class schedule… now they were just walls.

“you can put things back, if you want,” she added. “or leave them like this. it’s yours, however you need it.”

you didn’t answer right away. you walked over to your bed and sat down slowly, the mattress creaking softly beneath you. it felt both familiar and foreign—like hugging an old friend you hadn’t seen in years.

“i don’t even know what i need right now,” you said finally, staring at the floor.

your mom leaned down, kissed the top of your head. “then don’t decide anything tonight.”

she left you there in the silence, in that sacred, untouched space that had once been your refuge from the world. and now, again, it was.

you lay down slowly, curling up on your side, the same way you used to after long school days when the world felt too loud. the tears came again—but not violently this time. they came slow. quiet. like raindrops on a forgotten window.

twelve years.

you were sixteen when you met beomgyu. seventeen when you told him you wanted forever. twenty when you moved in together. twenty-three when you married him. and now… now you were twenty-eight and sleeping in your childhood bed, wondering how everything that once felt like fate had slipped between your fingers like sand.

you stared at the ceiling, your fingers curled into the pillow.

somewhere, back in the apartment you shared, beomgyu was probably lying awake too. maybe staring at your side of the bed. maybe not. maybe already letting you go.

but you weren’t ready to let go.

once your breathing returned to something steady and the tightness in your throat dulled into a quiet ache, you wiped your face with the back of your hand. the room still smelled like childhood, like comfort, but now it carried a tinge of sorrow too. you stood up from the bed, deciding to distract yourself, to at least put away the few things you’d brought with you.

you started with the closet.

opening it felt strange—like opening a door to the past, like stepping into something that had once been yours but had lived without you for years. the hangers were empty, the shelves dusted and bare. but down at the bottom, tucked into the corner where the light didn’t quite reach, you saw them.

boxes.

you blinked, frowning. boxes?

and then you remembered.

you had left them there.

they didn’t fit in the moving truck. there hadn’t been space, and you’d told yourself you’d come back for them later. you never did.

the curiosity itched at you instantly, like the gentle tug of memory pulling at your sleeve. what had you packed away? what pieces of yourself had you abandoned without meaning to?

you pulled one box out and placed it on the bed.

when you lifted the lid, the scent of old paper, dried ink, and something faintly sweet hit you. your breath caught in your throat.

letters.

photographs.

little gifts.

neatly stacked, carefully organized. like a timeline of your love. from the very first spark to the last flame before the plunge into adulthood.

you sat down, your knees weak, heart already pounding.

the first letter on top was creased and slightly yellowed at the edges. your name was written in beomgyu’s handwriting, back when it was still a little uneven, back when he still dotted his i’s with tiny hearts just to make you blush.

“i don’t know if you’ll ever like me back, but i think i like you too much not to say something. you smile like you invented the sun and every time you laugh i forget how to breathe. if you ever give me a chance, i swear i’ll make you the happiest girl in the whole damn school. maybe even the planet.”

you exhaled shakily, fingers trembling as you folded it back up.

you moved on to the next one. his confession letter, written after your first date at the old arcade in town.

“i still can’t believe you said yes. i haven’t stopped smiling since saturday. i keep thinking about how cold your hands were and how you still let me hold them anyway. i think you’re magic. like… like maybe you’re not even real. i don’t know. i’m just really, really lucky.”

another tear slipped down your cheek.

beneath the letters were bundles of polaroids tied with ribbon. you untied one, your lips parting as you flipped through them.

you and beomgyu holding ice creams, faces smeared with strawberry and chocolate.

a blurry one of him carrying you on his back through the rain.

another one from your first trip to seoul, sitting on the subway, both of you looking exhausted but so in love.

and then… your first anniversary. there you were, cheek to cheek, grinning at the camera, and between you stood jungwon, five years old, flashing a crooked peace sign like he was the star of the photo. he had two front teeth missing and a bowl cut that you’d teased him about for months.

you let out a choked laugh, the sound watery and fragile.

next was a box of keepsakes—movie tickets, pressed flowers, the wrapper from your first shared chocolate bar. even the doodles he used to leave in your notebooks during boring lectures.

“stay awake, sleepyhead <3 you promised me lunch after class!!”

“reminder: i love you more than ramen. and that’s saying a lot.”

your hands reached for one more envelope—thicker than the rest. inside were pages and pages written in his voice. you recognized the style immediately.

it was the letter he gave you on your 100 days.

“people say 100 days isn’t much. but for me, it’s been everything. 100 days of waking up excited. 100 days of knowing i’m yours. 100 days of learning your laugh and the way your eyes crinkle when you’re really happy. i don’t ever want to stop counting. 200 days. 500. 1,000. i want all of them, with you.”

you pressed the paper to your lips.

you couldn’t remember the last time he wrote you something. couldn’t remember the last time you kissed without it feeling like a routine. without checking the clock. without your mind already racing toward work, bills, dinner.

you leaned back slowly, curling up on your bed with the open box beside you, the letters scattered across your chest like armor and daggers at the same time.

he used to write you poetry on napkins.

he used to hold your hand under the table at family dinners.

he used to tell you that even on his worst days, coming home to you made him believe the world wasn’t so bad.

when had it all changed?

when did the love become background noise? when did you both stop fighting for each other?

you closed your eyes, the ache in your chest sharper now—because this love had been real. it had been raw and loud and beautiful. and now it was bruised and quiet and bleeding out slowly between your fingers.

you fell asleep without meaning to.

the tears never really stopped, they just slowed, like rain running out of strength. your arms curled around the open letters, clutching them tightly against your chest as if they'd vanish if you let go. the box of memories lay beside you, its contents half-spilled across the bed. it still smelled like him—like ink, cologne, and something warm you couldn’t name.

you didn’t remember when your eyelids gave in.

but suddenly… you were somewhere else.

you blinked against a brightness that felt unreal.

the sky above you was the kind of blue that looked painted, too soft and pure to exist in real life. you were lying on something hard—cement? gravel? no, the warm tiles of a school courtyard. familiar. strange.

the hum of voices buzzed in the distance.

you sat up slowly.

your limbs felt light, your body foreign. when you looked down, your heart lurched violently in your chest. you were wearing your old high school uniform—navy skirt, white blouse with the school crest stitched at the corner. your nails were painted a glossy burgundy, long and delicate like you never wore them now. your hair brushed past your waist.

what the hell...?

you stood, dizzy.

your eyes scanned the courtyard. same fountain, same benches, the same vending machine that used to swallow coins and never return drinks. everything was how you remembered it, but not how it should be.

and then—

there he was.

beomgyu.

but not your husband.

no.

this was the seventeen-year-old version of him. he was running across the courtyard, brows furrowed with something urgent, panic written all over his face. his backpack bounced on his back, shirt untucked, tie crooked—exactly how he used to wear it when he didn’t care about dress code.

you took a step toward him.

“beomgyu—”

but nothing came out.

your voice caught in your throat like a breath that never formed. you tried again, louder, desperate.

silence.

you looked down at yourself, touched your lips, tried to scream—but no sound, no reaction, like your existence here didn’t register.

and he didn’t look at you.

he ran right past you.

your stomach dropped.

you spun around, confused, breath shaky.

was that...?

a crowd was gathering. a cluster of students forming a circle near the gymnasium doors, their murmurs rising in pitch. you moved toward them, heart thudding like a warning, dread curling in your stomach. you pushed past ghost-like silhouettes, none of them noticing you.

and then you saw.

him.

beomgyu pushed through the crowd, dropped to his knees without hesitation.

and beside him—

on the ground—

was you.

you.

the past you. passed out. lips pale, skin gleaming with sweat, the buttons of your blouse undone at the top as someone had tried to help you breathe. your limbs sprawled awkwardly on the warm tile, your chest rising faintly with shallow breaths.

he was panicking.

his hands cupped your face with such care, trembling as he brushed your hair from your forehead.

“someone call the nurse!” he shouted. “she’s burning up—fuck, where’s her water bottle?”

his voice cracked.

you could feel his fear from here. how tightly he held you. how his fingers gripped yours even unconscious.

and then—memory crashed into you like a wave.

that day.

that impossibly hot, breathless day.

you had collapsed during p.e., heat exhaustion hitting harder than you expected. you didn’t even know beomgyu back then. maybe you'd seen him in a few classes, heard the way he always made everyone laugh. but you never talked. you didn’t think he even knew your name.

but when your body gave up, it was him.

he was the first one to move. the one who didn’t wait. the one who lifted you in his arms like you weighed nothing, running all the way to the infirmary with you whispering nonsense against his collar.

he didn’t leave your side that day.

he stayed.

until your eyes opened again.

and he smiled like he’d just seen the sun rise after a storm.

you remembered your friends teasing you after.

“your knight in wrinkled uniform.”

“your hero with pretty smile.”

and from then on, he never left your orbit.

but now—why were you seeing this?

why were you outside of it, watching like a stranger?

you tried to move closer, but your feet felt heavy, stuck.

everything blurred, like fog on glass.

and in a blink, the courtyard faded.

you were standing in the hallway now. the infirmary door cracked open. you could hear soft voices inside.

you peeked.

and there he was again—beomgyu, sitting beside your unconscious self, head in his hands. he looked young, terrified, still catching his breath.

“you scared me,” he whispered.

“please don’t do that again.”

and then he looked up, straight at where you were standing.

your heart stopped.

his eyes met yours.

but… that wasn’t possible. right?

his gaze didn’t drift away. he stared, like he saw you.

like he was looking through time.

“is it really you?” he said softly.

and before you could move—before you could answer—

everything went dark.

the dream shattered into blackness.

and you gasped awake in your old bed, the letters still clutched in your arms, your chest heaving.

your cheeks were damp. your hands were shaking. and somewhere, deep in your bones, the feeling of that day still lingered.

he had saved you back then.

you didn’t know what this dream meant. but one thing was clear.

something inside you had shifted.

the love you thought was lost wasn’t gone.

it was buried.

you woke up with a dry throat and a strange weight in your chest—one of those mornings where your body feels like it came back from somewhere far, far away. the room looked familiar, your old bedroom at your mother’s house, but you felt like a stranger inside it.

there was something off. you couldn’t tell if it had all been a dream or something more. the feeling clung to your skin like humidity. the memory of the uniform, the sun on your face, beomgyu kneeling beside your crumpled body on the schoolyard… it wasn’t fading. If anything, it felt sharper now. too vivid.

you went downstairs, still in your sleep shirt, walking like someone who didn’t fully trust the floor. your mom was already at the stove, flipping something in a pan. she turned as she heard you step into the kitchen, a soft frown on her face.

"morning, honey. you look like you’ve seen a ghost," she said with a half-smile, handing you your favorite mug, the one with the chipped handle.

you held it between your fingers like it might slip.

"i didn’t sleep well. that’s all," you muttered. "weird dreams."

you didn’t elaborate. what could you say? that you had felt him again? that you’d heard his voice in your bones?

the workday dragged by in a blur of emails, and pretending to care about things you couldn’t name. everything felt like a shell. like a play. you smiled and nodded, typed “best regards” with fingers that wanted to tremble.

by the time you returned to your mother’s house, the sun was low and warm, and the kitchen smelled like soy sauce and rice. you joined her, needing something to do with your hands, with your mind.

"i found some boxes in my old room," you said as you stirred the soup. "stuff i never took with me."

"yeah, i saw them. i never opened them," she replied. "didn’t know what they had… and i guess i didn’t want to look."

you both fell quiet after that. until the doorbell rang, and jungwon came in, cheerful as ever, making the house feel a little less haunted. the dinner was full of small talk, laughter that didn’t quite reach your chest—but it helped. It let you forget, for a while.

but when night came… the fear returned.

you lay in bed, eyes wide, body tense. you were scared—not of dreaming, but of remembering. of feeling everything again and not knowing what it meant.

eventually, sleep took you like a wave crashing over your head.

and again—you opened your eyes.

you were sitting on a wooden bench. the air was soft and golden. it was late, nearing sunset. the sky was lilac, dotted with floating lanterns. somewhere nearby, people were laughing, music echoed faintly in the distance. you were wearing a pink hanbok, your hair braided and pinned up in a way you hadn’t worn it in years.

your feet… ached.

you looked down and saw them—bare, red, sore. small blisters on your heels.

this day.

that day.

your first date with beomgyu. chuseok. the festival with the food stalls and the lanterns, the one where your shoes betrayed you halfway through the evening.

you turned your head just as his voice wrapped around you.

"y/n! there you are."

you looked up and saw him—young, flushed from running, holding two corn dogs, a plastic bag, and two drinks crushed between his fingers. he looked breathless and beautiful, like he always had.

"sorry, i took forever. there were too many people, and finding these was a nightmare," he said, smiling as he approached.

he handed you the corn dogs and set the drinks down beside you on the bench. then, without asking, he knelt in front of you.

you could barely breathe.

from his pocket, he pulled out a little box of band-aids.

"no one was selling these inside, so i had to go out to find a pharmacy. you should’ve told me your feet were killing you."

his voice was soft, a little scolding, a lot loving.

with gentle hands, he cradled your foot, cleaning it with a tissue from his bag before carefully applying the band-aid to the angry skin. the sensation made your breath hitch. he was so close. so warm.

"you should’ve said something," he murmured.

and before you could stop yourself, before you even thought to speak, you heard your own voice say:

"but i wanted to be with you."

you froze.

not because it was untrue—but because those were the exact words you had said back then. not now. then.

beomgyu blinked. he looked at you like you had just stabbed him sweetly in the chest.

he adjusted the cheap plastic sandals he’d bought for you, gently securing them around your sore feet. then he stood, slowly, standing in front of you with a look that was shy and full of something deeper.

he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips grazing your skin like a whisper.

"i liked you before this," he said, his voice low, trembling. "but that night… i knew i couldn’t let you go."

your chest clenched. you swallowed hard, eyes already burning.

he leaned in.

so close, so slow, like gravity itself was pulling you toward him.

you closed your eyes.

his breath met yours. you tilted your head, lips parting.

and just—just as his lips were about to touch yours—

you woke up.

gasping.

heart racing like a runaway train. sheets tangled around your legs, skin hot, mouth dry.

but the scent of grilled corn dogs and candy still lingered.

the feel of his hands on your skin hadn’t left.

and in the silence of your old room, as you clutched your chest and tried to breathe, you knew it:

these weren’t dreams.

not just dreams.

they were memories.

and something—someone—was reaching out from the past.

the dream fades, slow and reluctant, like a fog lifting from a lake at dawn. you wake up still tangled in the remnants of it—your breath uneven, skin warm where you swore his lips had touched it. you stay still for a while, buried in the sheets that no longer smell like him, eyes fixed on the ceiling that’s slowly turning gold with the rising sun. your heart aches in that dull, pulsing way it always does now, as if it knows it’s missing something crucial but can’t quite remember what. you reach for your phone instinctively, fingers trembling just a little as you check your notifications. nothing. no messages. no missed calls. no beomgyu.

you shouldn’t be surprised. it’s been days. still, the emptiness stings in a new way every morning. it plants itself in your throat and swells throughout your chest as you force yourself out of bed. you go through the motions—brush your teeth, wash your face, stare at your own tired reflection and try not to ask why you look so hollow. you throw on the same sweater you’ve worn all week, the one that used to be his, and head out the door into a world that keeps spinning, oblivious to your slow unraveling.

the office is a blur of white light and cold coffee. your coworkers smile and chatter, and you nod when expected, laugh when prompted, answer emails like you haven’t been dying a little more each day. you check your phone again and again between tasks, hoping for a miracle notification, a simple “hey” that might put your heart back together. it never comes. during lunch, you barely touch your food, appetite lost to a gnawing ache in your stomach that no amount of rice or tea can soothe. when the day finally ends, you don’t go home. you wander instead, drifting through the streets like a ghost, ending up in front of the tiny bookstore he used to take you to. you step inside, hoping for comfort in old pages and the smell of ink.

you flip through poetry books, and a line jumps out at you: “i do not know what i was made for, but when you cried into my mouth, i remembered.” it hits something deep, something raw. you close the book and leave without buying anything.

your mom is asleep when you get home. you shower slowly, let the water wash over your face like it could cleanse the sadness out of you. it doesn’t. you fall into bed fully clothed, the blankets too heavy and the air too quiet. sleep takes you quickly, dragging you back under, where your heart can remember what your mind tries so hard to forget.

in the dream, you’re on the school rooftop, the wind tossing your hair like in some cheesy drama. you’re standing next to beomgyu, his presence warm and familiar beside you. the sky above is overcast, a storm on the verge of breaking. a group of students lingers nearby, and one girl—minhee, her voice sharp as broken glass—smirks as she speaks just loud enough for you to hear.

“he’s going to leave you,” she says with venomous confidence. “he told me he liked me. he just doesn’t know how to break up with you yet.”

your heart stops. your throat tightens. you turn to beomgyu, eyes searching his face for denial, for reassurance, for anything to counter the horror clawing at your chest. he frowns deeply, jaw tightening as he looks at minhee with disgust.

“she’s lying,” he says, stepping between you and the venom she left behind. “she’s been trying to get in between us for weeks. i told her to stop. she just wants attention.”

you want to believe him. god, you do. but the damage is already done. your eyes well with tears you can’t control, your vision blurs, and the ache in your chest sharpens.

“i just… i don’t want to lose you,” you whisper, your voice cracking like fragile glass. “even the thought of it hurts.”

his face softens instantly. he cups your cheeks in both hands, thumbs brushing away tears as fast as they fall, like he’s trying to undo the pain with just his touch.

“you won’t lose me,” he says quietly, urgently. “i’m not going anywhere. you’re the only one i look at. the only one i want. the only one i love.”

he kisses your forehead, your nose, your cheeks—lips gentle as feathers—before finally kissing your lips with a soft, lingering tenderness that makes your knees tremble. as he kisses you, more tears come, falling silently down your face, not from doubt anymore, but from overwhelming relief. he kisses each tear, one by one, whispering promises against your skin like prayers.

you wake up with your pillow soaked. the tears haven’t stopped. your chest rises and falls too fast, the sobs sharp and painful, tearing through your throat as your hands clutch the sheets. it wasn’t real. it was just a dream. but your body doesn’t know that. your heart doesn’t know that. you cry harder than you have in weeks, and for once, you let yourself. because it felt real. because you miss him. because he hasn’t written to you. because he promised he wouldn’t leave, and now he’s gone.

you curl into a ball under the blankets, breath catching in your throat, willing yourself to fall asleep again, hoping you’ll see him there—just for a little while longer.

the next morning is no kinder. your eyes are swollen, your limbs heavy, your spirit dulled. you check your phone. still nothing. the silence is louder than any goodbye.

your routine drags on—shower, coffee, the same lifeless office, the same forced smiles. your coworkers laugh at something, and it grates on your nerves. how can they laugh when your world is crumbling? you eat a single apple for lunch and throw away the rest. you scroll through old messages, rereading the way he used to say “good morning” like it meant something sacred. you ache.

that night, you fall asleep with the phone clutched in your hand.

and again, you dream.

this time, you’re in his room. the lamp is dim, casting a golden glow over his features. he’s watching you like you’re made of galaxies, and you’re breathing fast, heart pounding in your throat. you remember this night. you remember every second.

you’d told him you were ready. to be his. completely. and he asked, with trembling hands and wide eyes, “are you sure?”

you nodded. you remember the way his lips parted, how his hands shook as they held your waist. how he touched you like you were something sacred.

it wasn’t perfect. it was real. clumsy giggles, soft gasps, the smell of his shampoo, the heat of his breath, the way he whispered your name like it was his salvation.

when it was over, he pulled you against his chest, kissing your forehead, your temple, your shoulder.

“i love you,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “i didn’t know love could feel like this.”

you said it back. again. and again.

you wake up gasping, a sob bursting from your throat like a wave. tears stream down your cheeks, soaking your skin, your pillow, your soul. you bury your face in the sheets, fists clenched in pain. it’s too much. too vivid. too real.

you remember how it felt.

you remember everything.

and now you’re alone.

and he still hasn’t written.

you dream again. every night now. your mind keeps dragging you back, stitching memories into something soft and cruel. this time it’s your first anniversary. it had rained all day, the kind of soft, moody rain that made the world feel quieter. you’d both been too broke to plan anything extravagant, so he cooked for you in that tiny kitchen with the crooked lightbulb that flickered every time someone opened the fridge. he was wearing an apron that didn’t fit him, sleeves rolled up, hair messy, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he tried not to burn the rice.

you’d sat at the counter, watching him like he was magic. he handed you a plate with a bashful grin, eyes glinting as he said, “chef gyu at your service.” you’d laughed until you cried, and then he kissed you with soy sauce on his lips and the sound of the rain tapping against the windows. later that night, you danced barefoot in the living room, holding onto each other like you were afraid the moment would slip away. you’d fallen asleep tangled on the couch, the half-eaten cake still on the table.

another night, another dream—this one hazier. your first time. not the night it finally happened, but all the nights it didn’t. the failed attempts, the soft gasps, the nervous hands, the whispered “it’s okay”s. neither of you knew what you were doing. you were clumsy and young and a little scared. but it never felt wrong. it felt like… learning. like loving someone deeply even in the awkward, imperfect moments. you remember one night, curled up in bed after another failed attempt, how he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “we don’t have to rush. i just like being with you.”

you held onto those words like a lifeline. even now. even when everything else is falling apart.

you wake up in tears again, the kind that come from too much remembering. it’s exhausting—this longing, this ache that stretches through your chest like a second heartbeat. you stare at the ceiling and tell yourself: you have to forget him. you have to move on. it’s over.

you pull up the divorce email thread. it’s half-filled, half-hearted. your replies are short. factual. robotic. there’s no signature at the end. just your name, plain and cold.

and then your phone buzzes.

his name flashes on the screen. beomgyu calling.

your heart stops. your fingers hover over the screen like they’re made of glass. for a second, you consider not answering. but something in you still reaches for him, even now.

you press accept.

“hello?”

his voice is quiet. rough. like he hadn’t used it all day.

“hey. uh…” there’s a pause. “i found a lawyer. a good one. she said she can help with the case. make it simple for both of us.”

you swallow hard, forcing air through your lungs.

“okay.”

“i thought…” he clears his throat. “maybe we could meet? after your shift. during my lunch break. there’s that restaurant near your office. the one with the bulgogi you like.”

your voice doesn’t tremble when you answer. you don’t know how. maybe you’ve grown numb.

“sure. that’s fine.”

“okay.” another pause. “see you then.”

he hangs up before you can say anything else. you sit in silence, the echo of his voice still clinging to the walls.

when you see him, it’s like being sucker-punched. he looks tired. thinner. the bags under his eyes speak volumes. he doesn’t smile when he sees you. doesn’t even fake it. he just holds the door open for you, silent and awkward.

you sit across from each other at a corner table. the waitress brings water. neither of you touches it.

he opens his folder and places a few documents on the table.

“she says we don’t have to go to court. we can file separately and sign within the next few weeks. no need to argue over property. it’s all split already. she gave me a list of steps.”

he hands you a copy. you don’t take it.

“beomgyu.”

his hands still.

“do you really want this?”

his eyes flicker to yours. and in them, you see it—everything. the love. the guilt. the fear.

he doesn’t speak for a long time. when he finally does, his voice is barely a whisper.

“i don’t know what i want anymore. i just know we’re not… us. not like we used to be.”

you nod slowly. your throat is tight, your heart thundering so loud it drowns out the sound of the restaurant.

“we used to be everything.”

he presses his lips together.

“and now we hurt each other more than we help.”

your eyes sting. you blink fast.

“so that’s it?”

he looks down at his hands.

“i think it’s better this way. for both of us.”

“but it doesn’t feel better.”

“no,” he says, almost breaking, “it fucking doesn’t.”

you sit there, surrounded by the smell of grilled meat and the quiet hum of people living lives you’re no longer sure how to live.

you reach for the water. take a small sip. it doesn’t help.

he folds the papers back into the folder. pushes it toward you.

“just think about it.”

you stare at the folder like it’s a bomb.

“yeah,” you whisper. “okay.”

the phone rings at 2:17 a.m.

you’re not asleep. you haven’t been for nights now. the sheets are tangled around your legs, your eyes raw from crying, and your chest feels like someone’s been sitting on it for hours. when you see his name on the screen, your breath catches in your throat. your thumb hovers above the green button, shaking. you hesitate for one, two, three seconds… and then you press it.

you don’t speak. neither does he. at first, it’s just the sound of the line open between you, the hum of silence, and then…

his voice breaks.

“i’m sorry.”

it’s quiet. hoarse. like he’s been crying long before this call. you sit up slowly, holding the phone to your ear like it might slip from your fingers.

“i shouldn’t be calling you but—fuck, i can’t sleep. i can’t breathe without thinking about you.”

you say his name, just a whisper. it leaves your lips like a prayer.

“beomgyu...”

and then he lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been waiting to hear your voice to fall apart completely.

“i miss you. i miss you so much, it’s driving me insane. every night i close my eyes and it’s you. you laughing, you calling my name, you dancing in the living room in that oversized sweater... everything reminds me of you.”

your bottom lip quivers, and you press the back of your hand to your mouth to muffle the sob that’s already building.

“i dream about us,” he whispers. “not just once. every single night. our first anniversary, your hands in mine... the way you looked at me when we promised we’d never give up on each other. i see it all. i wake up and i swear i can smell your shampoo on my pillow. but it’s not real. it’s never real.”

his breath hitches again, and now you can hear the tears in his voice, full and wet and unrestrained.

“i don’t know how to do this,” he says, breaking down mid-sentence. “i thought maybe if we separated, if we took space, it would get easier. that maybe this was what we needed. but i was wrong. it’s not easier. it’s fucking unbearable.”

you’re crying now. soft at first, but growing louder with every word that spills from him like a confession he’s been dying to make.

“i don’t want to influence your decision. if you want the divorce, if this is what you really want, i’ll sign everything. i’ll do whatever it takes to not make this harder for you.”

he goes silent for a moment, like it’s physically painful for him to say the next words.

“but i need you to know… i haven’t stopped loving you. not even for a second. you’ve always been it for me. even when we fought. even when we hurt each other. you are—”

his voice cracks and he breathes out your name like it’s breaking him.

“you are the love of my life.”

and something inside you shatters.

you clutch the phone tighter, your body folding in on itself from the weight of everything he’s saying. from the truth you’ve been trying to run away from.

“i still see you in everything,” he continues, voice trembling. “i see you in the places we used to go, in the goddamn coffee i make in the morning, in the way i can’t fall asleep without your breathing next to mine. this divorce... it’s not fixing anything. it’s just making me more aware of how much i need you. how much i still want you.”

you can’t hold it back anymore.

“beomgyu, please...”

you sob into the phone, your whole body shaking. he goes quiet, waiting. and then you hear it—his soft cry on the other side. broken. desperate. raw.

“i love you,” he says again, this time so tender it makes your heart convulse. “i love you so much. too much. and if i could go back and fix everything, i would. but if this is what you truly want… i’ll respect it.”

but even as he says the words, neither of you believes them. not really.

because the love is still there.

burning. aching. undying.

and in that moment, in the dark silence that follows, you both realize—

letting go might be harder than staying.

he goes quiet after saying he still loves you. the kind of silence that vibrates with weight. and just when you think the call might end, he exhales like something inside him snaps.

“i’m coming to see you.”

your heart stops.

“what?”

“i’m coming to see you. right now.”

you sit up, your pulse thundering. “beomgyu, no. it’s late, and you’re far—”

“i don’t care.” his voice is raw, breathless. “i don’t care how far it is. i just… i need to see you. even if it’s just once. even if you close the door in my face. i need to see you one last time before i lose my fucking mind.”

your throat tightens. the tears you’d barely managed to hold back spill freely now.

“beomgyu…”

“please,” he begs softly, “please don’t hang up.”

you shake your head, clutching the phone to your ear like it's the only thing anchoring you.

“i’m not going to hang up.”

and for a long moment, neither of you speaks. there’s only the sound of your shared breathing, uneven and emotional. your heart feels like it’s been torn wide open, and suddenly, words pour out before you can stop them.

“i’ve been dreaming about you too,” you whisper. “every night. i remember everything. our first time holding hands, the way you cried when you gave me your first letter, our anniversary… even the night we didn’t know what we were doing, but it didn’t matter because we loved each other so much it made up for everything. i wake up missing you so bad it hurts.”

you cover your mouth with your hand, sobbing softly.

“i thought i needed space to think clearly, but all i’ve done is remember every reason i fell in love with you. and it’s still there, beomgyu. it’s all still there. i can’t let you go. i don’t want to.”

there’s a silence so thick it feels like the world holds its breath. then—

“don’t say that unless you mean it,” he chokes out. “because i’ll be there in thirty minutes. i swear to god, baby, i’ll run red lights. i’ll come barefoot if i have to.”

and you whisper, “i mean it. come home.”

you don’t even change clothes. you wait by the door, heart in your throat, wiping your tears only for them to fall again. the longest thirty minutes of your life. your fingers twist the edge of your shirt. your feet tap nervously against the floor. your thoughts are a whirlwind. and then—

a knock.

you don’t even check the peephole. your body moves on instinct. you unlock the door and pull it open—

and there he is.

beomgyu, standing in the hallway, drenched in moonlight and grief and rain that must’ve started on the way. his hair’s a mess, sticking up like he ran both hands through it a hundred times. his shirt’s wrinkled, his jacket barely thrown on, shoes untied, cheeks streaked with tears. his eyes—god, his eyes—are swollen and red and filled with a kind of devastation you’ve never seen on him.

he opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out.

instead, he stumbles forward.

his arms wrap around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. he buries his face into your shoulder, and you feel his body tremble as the first sob rips through him.

“you’re here,” you whisper, voice broken.

he clutches you tighter.

“i couldn’t stay away.”

you press your face into his neck, breathing him in, letting the heat of him soak through your skin.

“i missed you,” he cries into your hair. “i missed you so fucking much, i didn’t know how to survive it.”

you both collapse to your knees just inside the doorway, tangled in each other, crying, holding, clinging.

and in the silence of your shared heartbreak, something begins to heal.

because he came.

because you still love him.

because love like this doesn't die.

you don’t know how long you stay there, on your knees in the entryway, holding each other like lifelines. time folds in on itself. the only thing real is the weight of his arms around you, the way he breathes your name into your skin like a prayer, and the way your hands tremble as they run through his damp hair.

then, a light flicks on down the hall. footsteps shuffle. your heart skips.

your mom appears, sleepy-eyed and wrapped in a soft robe, confusion etched into her face—until she sees you both.

her expression softens instantly.

“beomgyu,” she says quietly, blinking at the sight of him. “you’re here.”

he lifts his head from your shoulder, cheeks wet, lips trembling. “hi, mrs. yang.”

your mom’s eyes move between the two of you, piecing it all together. the tears. the way you hold each other. the way neither of you has moved from the doorway like you were afraid letting go might make it all disappear again.

she steps closer, places a gentle hand on your back.

“come inside. talk. say everything you’ve been holding in before it’s too late. don’t let the routine, or the silence, or the fear kill the love you built. you two have something worth fighting for.”

and just like that, she leaves you alone again, giving you the space your hearts desperately need.

you help him up, hands never leaving his. and you sit together on the old couch in the living room—the one that witnessed countless lazy sunday mornings, shared meals, stolen kisses, fights, makeups, and all the little moments that built your marriage.

you sit close, your knees touching. your fingers linked like you’re relearning each other.

“i don’t even know where to start,” you whisper.

“then start here,” he says, cupping your face with one trembling hand. “i love you. i never stopped. not for a second.”

you cry again, soft and open, and he catches your tears with his lips.

“i thought we were done,” you murmur, voice cracking. “i thought the love ran out.”

“we just got lost,” he says. “too much noise. too much pretending we were okay. i didn’t know how to ask for more. i didn’t know how to tell you i missed you even when you were lying right beside me.”

you lean into him, forehead pressed against his.

“we let it all pile up.”

he nods, breath shaky. “but i don’t want to give up. i want to work on it. every single day. i’ll learn how to love you better. i’ll talk more. i’ll listen harder. just… let me try again.”

you answer him with a kiss. slow. trembling. sweet and deep like home.

and when it grows late—when your bodies are too exhausted from all the crying, the confessing, the ache—you take his hand again and lead him to your bedroom. the same one you once shared, where the mattress still holds the shape of your memories.

you crawl under the sheets together, like you never stopped belonging there. his arms wrap around your waist, your legs tangle with his, and his nose presses into your neck like he’s memorizing the scent of you all over again.

your hands explore his face, his shoulders, like tracing the edges of your favorite story.

he whispers, “is this real?”

you nod, pressing your lips to his.

“stay,” you whisper. “for tonight. and tomorrow. and as long as you want.”

he exhales the softest sound, a smile breaking through the pain.

“always.”

and that night, you sleep curled against each other. his fingers never stop moving—over your back, your cheek, your lips. your kisses never stop—on his forehead, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

and just like that, two people who thought they were lost find each other again. not in grand gestures, but in small ones. in held hands. whispered apologies. quiet laughter between tears.

in love that refused to die.

after the long and emotional night at your parents’ house, you and beomgyu returned to your shared apartment—your home. it looked the same, smelled the same, every object still in place. but it felt different. lighter. as if the air had been scrubbed clean of silence and bitterness.

you unpacked slowly, side by side, laughing at the amount of socks he still had under the bed, and how your favorite mug had survived the weeks of absence.

you sat on the bed together that night and talked. about the little things—how many cups of coffee you’d had, what your coworker had said to you, how loud the subway had been.

you let your bodies melt into each other under the sheets, arms tangled, whispers between kisses, touching each other with the reverence of people who almost lost everything.

that night, you didn’t just make love. you healed. you forgave.

the next morning, you made breakfast together. you accidentally spilled flour on the counter, and he smeared some on your nose, laughing as you gasped. he kissed the flour off your skin before handing you the whisk.

you stood behind him, arms around his waist, swaying slightly to the soft music playing from the speaker as pancakes cooked. and when he turned around to feed you a bite, his smile was sunshine.

days passed, then weeks. and each one felt like a little piece of heaven earned.

you both kept your promise.

every night before sleeping, no matter how tired, you shared something from your day. sometimes it was a joke, sometimes a frustration. but it was always honest.

every morning, you made time to kiss goodbye—no rushed pecks, no distracted waves. real kisses. warm hugs.

during work hours, you sent each other messages—not clingy or constant, but enough.

"you got this today, baby." "thinking of you. breathe. you're doing amazing."

and you had dates again. little ones. ice cream runs. grocery shopping hand in hand. once, he surprised you with a dinner reservation at the place where you had your first anniversary. you wore the same dress. he wore the same nervous smile.

he listened more now. you did too. when he had a hard day, you held space for his words, even when they didn’t make sense. he did the same for you.

then came saturday.

you were curled up together on the couch, the soft hum of a movie filling the room. your legs rested over his, your head on his shoulder, his arm draped over you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you were watching some quiet, artsy film about love and time. at one point, the couple on screen found out they were expecting a baby.

there was a quiet pause between you and beomgyu as the characters celebrated on screen.

his hand, which had been stroking your arm absentmindedly, suddenly stilled.

"i want that," he said softly, eyes still on the screen.

you turned slightly, your breath catching.

"what?"

he looked at you now, his voice steady but vulnerable.

"a family. with you." he swallowed, his hand reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear.

"i want messy mornings and toys all over the living room. i want little feet running to our bed at midnight. i want to see you holding our child, laughing in the kitchen while i burn toast trying to help."

he laughed softly, but there was a crack in his voice, a shimmer in his eyes.

"i want everything with you. the chaos, the tiredness, the joy. i want to build that life with you, if... if you're ready."

you stared at him, your chest swelling so full it almost hurt.

"i do want it," you whispered. "i want it with you. only with you."

his lips met yours then, slow and deep, filled with silent promises. and as you lay there together, under the soft glow of the tv, you knew—this was the beginning of a new chapter.

you and beomgyu.

the home you rebuilt.

the love that refused to die.

and soon… a family born from it.

forever didn’t feel like a fantasy anymore.

it felt like the quiet beating of two hearts—pressed close, full of hope, writing a future one kiss at a time.

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