wonderlandwalker

[wonderlandwalker]

Everyone around here is a faster runner than I am. This is because of natural selection. [pulls out a massive sword engraved with the words "NATURAL SELECTION" on the blade] Start running.

[wonderlandwalker]

The Cut that Always Bleeds

𝐏𝐭. 𝐈 /𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: abby anderson x medic!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.5k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: She doesn't know how to come to terms with her feelings, but she doesn't know how to let go either. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: hurt with very little comfort, a few time jumps I don't know how to fix

𝐚/𝐧: I may have yearned a bit too close to the sun with this one, hope y'all are ready for some hurting (also I haven't actually played the game so if any of these are out of character i'm sorry i'm just going on vibes)

Isaac’s voice is pure disbelief the moment they step into the command tent, sharp enough to slice through the low hum of radio static.

"Abby, what the fuck?"

She tenses—just slightly, just enough that someone who knows her would notice. But her face stays carefully blank, a practiced neutrality she’s perfected over years of biting back everything she actually feels. (And god, she’s good at it. Good at locking her jaw, good at swallowing words, good at pretending her heart isn’t a live wire sparking against her ribs.)

He doesn’t wait for an answer, already pacing, arms crossed like he’s physically holding himself back from shaking her. "I got told you were hurt on patrol," he snaps, "so I haul ass to check on you, and instead I find you—" He gestures wildly toward the tent flap, as if the scene is still playing out behind them. "—shagging up with one of the medics like we’re in some goddamn soap opera."

Abby blinks. "A what?"

"You know—" Isaac waves a hand like he’s swatting at a fly. "Those stupid shows where people make out in broom closets and then lie about it."

Her jaw clenches. But she doesn’t say anything.

Because what can she say?

It wasn’t like that. 

It was—just not the way Isaac thinks. Not careless. Not meaningless. Not something she could laugh off with a shrug and a "Yeah, got carried away."

Because she hadn’t been carried away. She’d been fully present, every nerve alight, every thought drowned out by the way your fingers curled into her shirt, the way your breath hitched when she crowded you against the door. She hadn’t lost control—she’d surrendered it, willingly, like a soldier laying down her weapon.

Isaac exhales, dragging a hand over his face. The sound is rough, impatient—but his eyes linger on Abby a second too long, sharp with something that isn’t just frustration. It’s understanding. The kind that scrapes too close to the bone.

"Just—get it together."

The words are a command, but the edge in his voice isn’t just authority. It’s a warning. A blade held at her throat. 

This isn’t just another distraction, and maybe Isaac knows it too—this is the kind of thing that seeps into your ribs, curls around your lungs, and stays in your blood like a fever. 

That’s the part that terrifies her.

Because she can’t get it together.

She’s pulled to you like you’ve become her North Star—not a choice, but a law of her universe.

Gravity drags her pulse southward every time you enter a room, her body betraying her with the same inevitability as tides chasing the moon. Every cell in her body is alight, humming with the phantom memory of your voice—that low, easy tone curling around her name like you’d already tasted it. The fantasy unfolds in relentless detail: the way your door would creak open if she went to knock, your face flickering from surprise to something hungrier in the space of a heartbeat. That half-smile of yours, the one that’s been haunting her for days, would finally meet its match against her mouth. She can feel it—the way your fingers would twitch in her hair, hesitating for one torturous second before fisting tight, dragging her in until there’s no space left to pretend this is anything but ruin. Your hands shoving her jacket off her shoulders, your nails scraping down her back as she cages you against the wall.

The world is a haze—a dull, shapeless blur of routines and obligations—until you step into the room.

Then, suddenly, the air sharpens. Colours brighten. The hum of conversation, the clatter of supplies, the distant shouts from the training yard—it all fades into white noise. All she can focus on is you: the way your hands move with practiced ease as you sort through medical supplies, the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your lips had felt against hers—soft, hesitant, then desperate.

Her friends notice. Of course they do.

Ellie’s smirk is the worst, all-knowing eyebrows and barely contained amusement. Manny elbows Owen and mutters something under his breath, and Abby hates the way her stomach twists at their silent exchange. She shuts them down with a glare sharp enough to draw blood, and for now, they drop it. But they’re not stupid. They’ve seen the way her gaze lingers when you’re not looking, the way her fingers flex at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to reach out. 

She’s helpless as morning sun spills over the compound like honey, but it's you who holds her attention—golden light catching the sweat beading at your temples as you stretch, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin that makes her grip tighten around her coffee mug. The bitter swallow she takes does nothing to wash away the taste of want thick on her tongue, desperate to trace a path down your throat to where the sweat trickles down to your chest.

When you turn—when you catch her staring with those dark, knowing eyes—she braces for the usual defences: an awkward chuckle, deliberately break the moment with some clinical observation. The careful walls you both built.

But instead your gaze pins her in place, as if you're both remembering the same stolen moments—your body pressed flush against hers, the way your breath hitched when her teeth grazed your pulse point. How perfectly you fit together, like two halves of the same stubborn stone, cleaved apart by some ancient violence only to find each other again.

The air crackles with the memory of your hands on her—practised medic's fingers that now haunt her dreams, calluses dragging over her hipbones in the dark. She's memorised every scar on those hands, every ridge and rough patch. Knows exactly how they'd feel right now slipping beneath her waistband, tugging her closer by the belt loops until—

The assignment sheet glows like a death warrant in the sun, your name etched beside hers in ink that’s too bold, too permanent.

It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal. Logically, she knows this—knows that every squad is structured the same way: a leader, a cartographer, a medic, and fighters. Knows you’re good at your job, that you’ve patched up enough of their people to earn your place in the field. But logic has nothing to do with the way her pulse kicks against her ribs, the way her fingers tighten around the paper until the edges split under her grip.

Your name stays untouched. Unflinching. As if the universe is laughing at her.

It hadn’t even occurred to her when she picked up the mission brief this morning. Her mind had been elsewhere—lost in the phantom press of your mouth against hers, in the half-formed fantasies of cornering you again, this time without an audience. Without hesitation.

But this?

This is a sick joke.

Get in. Find the Seraphite outpost. Get out. She’s done it a hundred times. Should be routine.

Except now there’s a new variable. Now there’s you—steady hands and quiet focus and that infuriating habit of stepping closer than necessary when you're near her. 

She wants to scream. Wants to slam Isaac against the map table hard enough to splinter the wood, to snarl in his face that this isn’t some fucking supply run—that she’s seen what the Seraphites do to the medics they catch. How they carve up the ones who know how to put bodies back together, who understand the sacred machinery of muscle and bone too well for their liking. A violation of divine will, they call it. A lesson.

The memory hits like a boot to the ribs: last month’s retrieval mission, what was left of Thompson strung between two trees like a grotesque anatomy lesson, his own suture thread looped through flesh in meticulous, mocking spirals. The smell had clung to her for days—iron and bile and something sweetly rotten, the kind of stench that lives in the back of your throat.

She could pull every string.

Call in every favour owed, twist every rule until the assignment reshapes itself into something safer—something that doesn’t make her map exit routes and casualty odds like you’re the mission now. It wouldn’t even be hard. A word to Owen, a hissed argument with Isaac, and suddenly you’d be reassigned to inventory duty or perimeter checks, far from the bite of Seraphite arrows.

But then what?

You’d know. You’d look at her with those infuriatingly perceptive eyes, and you’d see it—the fear she can’t name.

The war doesn’t care about stolen moments. Doesn’t care that you taste like hope, stupid and reckless, and that she’s still chasing the ghost of it days later, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth like she can trap the memory there.

Across the compound, she spots you—

Your hands are moving with methodical precision, rolling gauze into tight, efficient coils. She's memorised the exact pressure of your fingertips against her skin, the way your knuckles flex when you work. It’s obscene how easily her mind twists the motion into something intimate—those same fingers dragging down her spine, gripping her hip, pressing into the give of her throat.

The briefing crumples in her fist before she forces herself to smooth it out again. You haven’t even looked up.

Don’t you know? Haven’t you read the assignment yet? Or worse—do you know, and this is your answer? The silence, the distance, the way you’re so carefully not glancing in her direction, like she’s just another soldier, just another mission.

Look at me, she wills, teeth gritted so hard her jaw aches. Look at me and see what this does to me.

But you don’t.

And she doesn’t call out. Doesn’t cross the distance between you. Just folds the paper neatly—once, twice—tucks it into her pocket, and walks away like it doesn’t feel like signing her own death warrant.

Because that’s what soldiers do. They follow orders. They swallow fear. They pretend.

So she pretends—fiercely, desperately—that this isn’t tearing her apart. And when the team assembles, their gear clattering like a discordant symphony of finality, Abby doesn’t dare meet your eyes.

Not when the route is finalised, the map slashed with jagged red ink that carves through terrain like an open wound. Not when Manny cracks a joke about Seraphite hospitality—"Hope you packed your Sunday best, Anderson, ‘cause we’re going to get a real warm welcome"—and the laughter curdles in her throat, heavy as a stone.

Especially not when you catch her staring.

It happens in flashes—fleeting, stolen seconds where her resolve crumbles. Your gaze locks onto hers, questioning, knowing, and it’s worse than any blade. She tears herself away each time, sharp and deliberate, like severing a lifeline.

"You good?" Manny’s voice cuts through the noise, too close, too perceptive. His elbow nudges her ribs, but there’s no teasing in it now. Just concern. He follows her line of sight—straight to you, crouched to check your med kit’s contents.

"Peachy," she mutters, adjusting her pack straps with unnecessary force. The lie tastes bitter, the heat crawling up her neck not helping.

But the truth claws at her ribs: she doesn’t know how to do this—how to care for you and lead them, how to want and not falter. The mission demands her focus, but her thoughts keep circling back to the press of your palm against her collarbone, the way you’d whispered against her lips like it mattered. Like she mattered.

She hates the way her body betrays her.

Hates how her throat tightens when you adjust your pack, the straps pulling taut across your shoulders, the fabric straining against the shape of you—always so close, yet never close enough. Hates the way her stomach twists when you murmur something to Nora, low and private, your lips nearly brushing her ear. She shouldn't care, shouldn't even notice, but she does—

—and it burns.

She wants to grab you by the straps of that damn pack and yank until there's no space left between you, until her hands can prove what her mouth won't say.

She wants to tell you not to go.

She can’t.

Not without playing favourites. Not without dragging this thing between you into the light, raw and undeniable. Not without admitting—to herself, to you—how much it would destroy her if something happened. And when the briefing ends, when the others file out with muttered plans and last-minute checks, she hesitates.

Just for a second. Just long enough for her resolve to fracture—long enough for her to consider crossing the space between you, for her mouth to form the first syllable of your name, and her eyes scream what her voice won't:

I can't lose you.

It's a confession she'll never speak aloud; doesn't know how to, but for a heartbeat, she lets you see it—the raw, unguarded fear in her gaze, the way her breath catches when your eyes meet. She lets herself pretend that stolen contact is enough.

Even though she knows it isn't.

Not with the way the mission goes to hell fast.

It had started perfectly normally, and she'd almost let herself relax. Almost let herself believe this would be different. That maybe, just this once, the universe would cut her some slack.

Then the rug gets yanked out from under her with brutal efficiency.

One moment, you're moving in perfect sync through the undergrowth, the forest holding its breath around you. The air smells of damp earth and pine, sunlight filtering through the canopy in fractured gold. You're close enough that she can see the way your shoulders tense before each careful step. The next—

A sharp whistle cuts through the trees.

"Down!" Abby barks, but it's too late.

Arrows hiss through the air like serpents striking. The forest erupts—shrieks of Seraphite scouts rending the silence, their painted faces twisting through the foliage like vengeful ghosts. The world fractures into chaos: Manny's rifle barking to her left, Nora's curses, the sickening thunk of steel finding flesh.

And then the comms crackle to life, static-laced and frantic:

"Surrounded—fall back—"

Abby's blood turns to ice. She can feel it freeze in her veins, time grinding to a halt as the words echo in her skull. Because that's not your voice.

The absence is louder than any scream. Just dead air where you should be.

"Status checks—now!" She barks into the radio, her voice too sharp, too loud—the words tearing from her throat like shrapnel. The response is a garbled mess of voices—coordinates called out between gunfire, shouting about a flank collapsing, cursing as arrows rain down—but none of them are yours.

She tries again. And again.

Static.

It claws at her insides, relentless, teeth sinking deep between her ribs with every failed transmission. She should be moving, should be shouting orders, should be leading—but all she can think is that you were right there, just beyond the treeline, and now—

Abby's grip on her rifle is white-knuckled, the metal groaning under her fingers. Her entire body coils like a spring wound too tight, muscles trembling with the effort of not sprinting into the fray as reports trickle in—each one worse than the last.

"Pinned down near the creek—"

"Lost visual—"

A hand grabs her shoulder—Manny, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, eyes wide with something too close to panic. "Abby, we have to go—they're pushing hard on the east side! Rally point's compromised!"

She shakes him off hard enough to make him stumble, her pulse roaring in her ears like a war drum. Blood rushes too fast, too loud—she can barely hear his protests over it, over the voice in her head screaming one thing, over and over:

Not without you.

She's already moving before the thought finishes, strapping on extra ammo with mechanical precision even as her vision tunnels—rifle checked, knife secured—when Manny grabs her arm again, fingers digging in.

"Abby, listen! There's no time—"

Her expression is raw, scraped down to something beyond anger—something desperate, feral. Terrified.

Every instinct in her body screams that you’re hers—hers to protect, hers to drag back from the edge, hers to keep. The realisation should shock her, but it doesn’t. It feels carved into her bones, older than war, older than loyalty, older than anything that ever mattered before this moment.

She whirls on Manny, and for one terrifying second, she doesn’t recognise her own voice. It’s low, guttural, vibrating with something ancient and unstoppable.

"I’m going."

She knows it’s a suicide mission. Knows it’s illogical. 

But it’s not even a choice.

Her body has already decided. Her heart has already decided.

The weight of her fear is a living thing, coiled tight around her ribs, squeezing until every step is a battle, every breath a betrayal. Time fractures—she doesn’t know if it’s been seconds or minutes or hours. The world narrows to the next tree, the next shadow, the next goddamn breath until she finds you.

Mud slicks her boots, sucking at her steps like the earth itself is trying to drag her down, to bury her here before she can reach you. Branches claw at her arms, drawing blood she doesn’t feel.

Then—footsteps. Close.

Her pulse jackhammers, a wild animal thrashing against her ribs. For one fractured second, hope and terror wage war inside her—a collision so violent it leaves her dizzy, breathless:

It’s you. It’s them. It’s you. It’s—

She whirls, finger taut on the trigger, her body strung so tight she might shatter.

Manny and Nora stand frozen on the path, hands raised. Manny’s mouth quirks, but his eyes are dark with something unspoken—pity, maybe, or the grim understanding of what she’s still denying.

"Did you really think we’d let you die alone?"

Nora exhales sharply, adjusting her grip on her pistol. "No way I’m missing the first proof you have a heart." But the joke is hollow, her voice stripped raw. They’ve seen the way Abby moves—like something feral, something broken. Like every step forward is another thread of her unravelling.

Without another word, they follow her.

The forest becomes a blur of sound and shadow, the world narrowing to the next frantic step, and the next, and the next.

Every snapped branch cracks through the silence, sending her pulse spiking. Hope and worry wage war in equal measure, each more brutal than the last.

The light is fading, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and gunpowder, and with each passing minute, the truth becomes harder to outrun.

Manny grabs her arm. "Abby, stop—" His fingers dig into her bicep hard enough to bruise. "We've circled this sector three times. There's no—"

She whirls on him so fast Nora actually raises her pistol. For a heartbeat, Abby just stands there—chest heaving—and the rational part of her knows it’s hopeless—a lost cause she’s still chasing, as if she can conjure you out of thin air just by wanting it hard enough.

Her rifle slips in her sweat-slick grip. Somewhere behind her ribs, something vital is crumbling, and oh god, she's actually considering it—actually hearing the awful logic in Manny's words.

Then she hears it.

A scream carving through the trees, jagged and desperate, and Abby knows. Knows in that gut-twisting way you can hear the thunder before the lightning strikes you down.

You.

The broken thing inside her stitches itself back together with brutal efficiency. When she looks up, whatever Manny sees in her face makes him release her arm like he's been burnt.

Then she's running, faster than before, leaving her squad scrambling to follow.

When she finally bursts into the clearing, time fractures.

There you are—

Kneeling. Choking. An arrow buried deep in your abdomen, its shaft still quivering with the force of the impact. Blood blooms across your shirt like ink in water, dark and relentless, spreading faster than she can comprehend. Your hands clutch at the wound, fingers slipping in the crimson tide. A Seraphite looms over you, dagger drawn, their painted face twisted in triumph—too cocky, too sure of their victory to notice the storm crashing toward them.

Abby doesn’t think.

The gunshot is immediate. Deafening.

The Scar drops like a puppet with its strings cut. Abby doesn’t even remember pulling the trigger. Doesn’t remember crossing the distance. One second she’s at the treeline, and the next she’s collapsing beside you, her knees slamming into the dirt hard enough to scrape them open, her hands scrambling—searching for a pulse, for breath, for anything to prove this isn’t happening.

Your eyes meet hers, wide, bright with pain and something else—something that splits her open, cracks her ribs apart like desperate hands wrenching her apart from the inside.

Relief.

Peace.

As if you’d been waiting for her. As if this moment—this ragged, blood-soaked second—was the one you’d been fighting toward all along.

No. No. No.

This isn’t how it ends.

It can’t be.

Her hands hover over you, shaking violently. She doesn’t know where to touch or what to do—the arrow’s still embedded, and pulling it could kill you faster, but leaving it in might—

Behind her, Manny and Nora crash into the clearing, their shouts distant, muffled, like she’s underwater. None of it matters. The only thing that exists is you—your blood on her hands, your laboured breathing, and Abby—Abby who never cries, who never breaks—feels something hot and furious spill down her cheeks.

She presses her palm hard against the wound, fingers slipping in the slick warmth of your blood. The metallic scent floods her nostrils, thick and cloying, as crimson seeps between her fingers no matter how hard she pushes.

"Hey—" Her voice cracks. She tries again, rougher this time. "Hey, look at me."

Her free hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. Your skin is already too cold, the pallor of your lips all wrong. A tremor runs through her fingers, but she steadies them against your face, forcing your gaze to hers.

"You're okay," she rasps. The lie tastes like copper on her tongue.

The only truth that matters is the shallow rise of your chest beneath her palm, the flutter of your pulse under her fingertips—weak but there, still there.

She repeats it like a mantra, like if she says it enough she can make it true: "You're okay. You're okay. You're okay."

She doesn't know if she's assuring you or herself.

Doesn't care.

As long as you keep breathing, she'll keep lying.

Nora crashes to her knees beside you, her medic training snapping into focus even as her fingers tremble slightly around the gauze. She rips open her pack with her teeth, spitting out the fabric strip that catches between her lips. "Pressure here," she orders, grabbing Abby's wrist to reposition her shaking hand lower on your abdomen where the bleeding pulses darkest.

But she knows Nora doesn't have the same knowledge you do.

Where you would've already torn open a field suture kit while calmly directing others, Nora fumbles with the packaging. Where you'd have that quiet intensity that somehow steadied everyone's hands, Nora's voice wavers on the count for chest compressions.

You're the medic. You're the one who would know how to stem this bleeding, how to stabilize the wound with those precise fingers, how to keep your own damn heart beating. But even Nora—practical, ruthless Nora who once stitched up her own arm mid-gunfight—understands this isn't just about saving you.

This is what Abby needs.

"I've got you," she grits out, sliding an arm beneath your shoulders to lift you up. The movement pulls at her own wounds—the gash along her ribs screams, the bullet graze on her thigh burns—but the pain is nothing compared to the way your head lolls against her collarbone with terrifying looseness. Your breath comes in wet, uneven bursts against her neck, each one warmer than the last as your body loses the ability to regulate temperature.

"Stay with me," she whispers into your hair, your blood soaking through her shirt, your heartbeat thready under her fingertips. 

"Please. Please, just—" Her voice cracks. Breaks.

She carries you to where Manny leads her, where EVAC has gathered, stays with you, tethering herself to you on the drive back. The moment they crash through the gates of the base, the medics surge forward, gloved hands outstretched, voices sharp with urgency. But Abby’s entire body locks up, muscles coiled like a sprung trap. Because the simple thought of letting go feels like tearing open her own ribs and offering her still-beating heart to the open air.

The medics freeze in their reach for you. Even the clamour of the base seems to hush, holding its breath.

Manny steps in, hands raised—slow, cautious, like approaching a wolf with its jaws around fresh kill. "They need to work on her, Abby. You’re not helping like this."

Like this. Like she’s some wild, cornered thing, trembling and bloodied, holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping her from drowning.

Her vision tunnels. The edges go red.

"Then work around me," she grinds out, voice raw.

No one moves.

A beat. Two. The silence is suffocating.

"NOW!"

The roar tears from her throat, primal and desperate, shaking the very air. 

They scramble, not daring to defy her like this—not when her eyes are wild, not when your blood paints her hands like a confession.

A cot is dragged close, the legs screeching against concrete, and Abby's arms shake as she finally—finally—lays you down, but her hands don't leave you. One cradles the back of your skull, fingers tangling in sweat-damp hair, anchoring. The other presses flat over your heart, as if she could steady it with her palm alone, as if she could will it to keep beating through sheer fucking stubbornness.

The medics swarm, cutting away fabric and barking orders, but Abby doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe. She catalogues every flinch of your face, every shudder of your chest, every weak gasp that leaves your lips—

A twitch.

Faint. Fragile. There.

Your fingers spasm against her own, weak but present, and Abby's breath comes in a punched-out gasp. Around you, the world narrows to the space between one heartbeat and the next.

She doesn't pray. She never has.

But for you?

She'd start.

[wonderlandwalker]

[wonderlandwalker]

here

🗡️

for your silent battles

[wonderlandwalker]

no i will not make separate blogs for my fandoms, everyone who follows me must experience ALL my insanity

[wonderlandwalker]

there is nothing quite like being interrupted while absolutely immersed in whatever you're writing. i think this must be how fish feel when they're snatched out of the water by a bird of prey

[wonderlandwalker]

Hi!! Just wanted to say that your thesis is SO interesting! And indeed very well written, but after reading your fics that doesn’t surprise me lol, I’m currently writing my thesis in English lit and if my proposal hadn’t been rejected, it would have been on fan fiction as well, so it’s so great to see that a law department was open to that!! Just wanted to drop by and commend you :)))

I'm so glad you like it!! Might have gotten a little obsessed while writing it but then again that also happens when I'm writing fanfics so maybe that's just my style haha

Luckily for me, the law faculty here pretty much just approves any research question as long as it's got some potential to it, so we're very free on topic choices. What was even better is that my supervisor was actually a fanfic reader as well, so she always knew what I was going on about!

Also, best of luck with writing your thesis, you've totally got this!! And I'm dying to know your thesis statement once you work it out so keep me updated!

[wonderlandwalker]

“First and foremost I’m writing for myself,” I hiss through my teeth, resisting the urge to refresh my email for an Ao3 message for the 100th time.

[wonderlandwalker]

reading your rockstar eddie fic rn, and actually had to stop to tell you how fabulous it is. every description just HITS, I’ve already pulled a few lines that are 🤯

that is all 🥰

you have no idea of the shriek that left me when I saw this you've always been such an inspiration to me ❤️❤️

(also I just want you to know I showed your reblogs to my therapist because she wanted to know what was making me so happy)

[wonderlandwalker]

Most of you aren't here for academics I know that but I've been revisiting my thesis for my masters application and I'm kinda feeling really proud of it and felt like sharing

So if you've got some free time and want to learn about your rights as a fanfiction writer, look no further (and if you're here purely for fanfic just ignore this)

[wonderlandwalker]

Reblog if it's ok for ppl to spam ur inbox with asks. A weird question? Go ahead! Ask game? Yep! A very personal question? OFC!

[wonderlandwalker]

Every unhinged fic writer needs an equally unhinged friend who "yes ands" their ideas and encourages them to write all their most far fetched and insane stories.

[wonderlandwalker]

me staring at my own writing like a cat seeing a mirror for the first time

[wonderlandwalker]

the whole "lipstick on a pig" thing makes no sense because the second we gave a pig access to makeup she became god's cuntiest soldier

[wonderlandwalker]

I am to please 🫡

The brainrot is strong with this one honestly, I might or might not have some ideas for a part two or some spin offs in the works if this takes off at all

Prescribed Interest (PRN)

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: abby anderson x medic!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.0k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Abby is used to handling her own injuries—until a certain someone makes it very hard for her to maintain her deep-rooted professionalism, lucky for her, the feeling's mutual. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: medical injuries and treatment but that's about it I think, apart from just general filthy thoughts ofc, mdni, slightly 18+, ellie being part of the seattle crew but that's just cause I love her too much to not include her

𝐚/𝐧:Finally decided to write my first Abby fic since I haven't been able to get her out of my head recently, but hopefully you guys are just as obsessed with her as I am (also if you haven't yet go check out @littlexdeaths's fics on abby they're the ones that sparked this

For once, the clinic is actually quiet—no shouted orders, no groans of pain, and no harried medics rushing between cots. The usual post-patrol chaos has settled into a rare lull, leaving only the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint metallic scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.

Outside, the muffled sounds of Seattle’s ruins seem worlds away, as if the dim, sterile walls of the WLF clinic have carved out a fragile pocket of calm. ⁠Abby leans against the exam table, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the edge. The throbbing in her shoulder has sharpened into a persistent ache, and the longer she waits, the more her muscles coil with restless irritation. Screw it, she finally decides, pushing off the table. She’s about to call it a lost cause—skip the mandated check-up and deal with the fallout later—when—

"Sorry for the wait."

Your voice cuts through her thoughts, smooth and steady, and she turns to see you stepping into the room, clipboard in hand. There’s an apologetic tilt to your smile, the kind that softens the edges of her annoyance before she can even lean into it. Abby opens her mouth, ready with some dry remark about WLF medical efficiency (or lack thereof), but the second her eyes land on yours, the words die on her tongue.

Because fuck.

She’s noticed you around before—passing in the halls, patching up other Wolves—but never like this. Never with your full attention fixed on her, brows slightly furrowed in concern, teeth catching your lower lip in a way that sends an unexpected spark down her spine. The dim overhead light catches the sharp angles of your face, shadows pooling under your cheekbones, and suddenly, the dull ache in her shoulder isn’t the only thing making it hard to focus.

Up close, she sees things she never had the chance to before—the way your sleeves are rolled to your elbows, revealing faded ink and the faint scars of a life spent stitching people back together. The slow, deliberate way you move, like every action is measured and practised. The scent of soap and something faintly herbal clinging to your skin, cutting through the sterile clinic air.

Her pulse kicks up, an unsteady rhythm beneath her ribs. She wants to reach out, to smooth the worry from your brow with her thumb, to press her mouth to the spot where your teeth worry your lip—

"You’re Abby, right?" you ask, flipping through the chart.

The sound of her name in your voice snaps her back to the moment. She clears her throat and shifts her weight. "Last time I checked."

A small, knowing smirk tugs at your lips, as if you can see right through her attempt at nonchalance.

"So", you say, snapping her back to reality, "what can I do for you today?"

Your voice is calm, professional—infuriatingly so—and yet there’s something beneath it, something warm and teasing that makes Abby’s skin prickle. She clears her throat, suddenly hyperaware of the sweat cooling on her skin and the grit of dirt still clinging to her from patrol. The clinic’s air is too clean, too sharp, and she feels grimy in comparison—like a wild thing dragged inside, still thrumming with the restless energy of the ruins.

"Shoulder," she mutters, gesturing vaguely. "Dislocated it. Normally I’d just pop it back in myself, but—"

"But someone saw before you had the chance?" You finish, amusement curling at the edge of your voice. She can hear the smirk without even looking.

"Yeah." She rolls her eyes. "Took a nasty fall. Figured I’d humour them."

You hum, stepping closer, and Christ, that’s worse. Now you’re right in front of her, the clean, sterile scent of soap and iodine cutting through the musk of her exertion. Your fingers brush the hem of her tank top, moving it just enough to expose the angry swell of her joint. Abby swallows hard, muscles tensing under your touch—not from pain, but from the way your breath ghosts over her collarbone as you lean in to inspect the damage.

"Your heartbeat’s a little fast," you remark, frowning slightly, fingers hovering by her pulse point. "But that could be the adrenaline lingering."

Abby nearly chokes.

Yeah. Adrenaline. Sure.

It has nothing to do with the thoughts already racing through her head—the ones where she pins you against the med cabinet, where she flips you onto the examination table, where she finds out what flavour that damn chapstick is if she just leans forward a little further. She wonders how your breath would hitch if her hand slid under your shirt, if you’d gasp if she bit down on that spot just below—

"Swelling’s not too bad," you murmur, your voice low and focused. Your fingertips trace the edge of the injury, feather-light, and she has to bite back a shiver. The contrast of turned tables is maddening—your clinical interest versus the way her pulse jumps under your touch. "I take it this has happened before?"

"Once or twice."

You glance up, meeting her gaze, and something flickers in your expression—something sharp, knowing. Like you can see the way her mind’s spiralling, like you’re cataloguing every hitch in her breath, every flicker of tension in her jaw.

"I’ll bet," you say simply.

And then—just for a second—your thumb presses a little harder into the curve of her shoulder, a deliberate stroke that could be medical, could be assessing the joint, could be—

You shift, hands settling firmly on her arm. Your touch is warm, careful but assured, fingers pressing just enough to map the tension coiled beneath her skin. When you guide her arm through its range of motion, you step closer, the heat of your body seeping into hers, and fuck, Abby can’t stop the way her jaw clenches.

But it’s not from pain.

It’s from the way your breath ghosts over her collarbone when you lean in, from the way your lashes cast delicate shadows against your cheeks as you focus. The med-bay lights are too bright, too sterile for the way her pulse jumps under your fingertips, betraying her. She wonders if you can feel it—the way her veins hum where you press, the way her skin burns in the wake of your touch.

"This’ll hurt," you warn, voice low.

Abby grins, reckless. "I can take it."

The sharp pop of the joint sliding back into place echoes in the hushed clinic, and a ragged groan tears from her throat before she can stop it. Sure, she’s endured worse—far worse—but pain is pain, and this fucking stings. Her jaw locks, teeth grinding together as she forces herself to focus on you instead—on the way your fingers linger just a second too long against her skin, warm and steady despite the violence of the adjustment.

You’re not looking at her face, your attention fixed on her shoulder with clinical precision, but she sees it—the way your pupils dilate at the sound of her stifled noise, the faint hitch in your breath.

Interesting.

You’re close enough now that she could count your lashes if she wanted to—and there’s one loose, clinging stubbornly at the corner of your eye. She’ll dream about this later, she already knows: brushing it away with her thumb, pressing her lips to the spot where it fell, whispering make a wish against your skin like it’s something tender, something sacred.

Then your tongue flicks out, wetting your lips in concentration, and she watches, transfixed, as you bite down lightly on the bottom one. Her stomach tightens.

Fuck.

She should say something—anything—to break the tension, but the words dissolve in her throat. Because right now, with your hands still on her, with the air between you thick and heavy, all she can think about is how easy it would be to close the distance. To see if your mouth is as soft as it looks.

And from the way your gaze flickers up to hers—just for a second—she wonders if you’re thinking the same thing. Your fingers—steady despite the electric charge thickening the air between you—slide up the strong line of her jaw, pressing gently against her temples as you tilt her head toward the unforgiving light. The sudden shift sends her pulse skittering, a rabbit-quick thrum you must feel beneath your fingertips, betraying her despite the carefully schooled neutrality of her expression.

"Have you been experiencing more of this… trailing of consciousness?"

The question lands like a grenade at her feet. Your breath ghosts across her lips—spearmint and coffee and something faintly sweet—as you wait for an answer she can't give.

Not honestly.

"It's really just the shoulder," she mutters, forcing her voice steady despite the way her ribs cage her lungs like iron bars. The exam table creaks ominously under her white-knuckled grip, the cold metal biting into her thighs. "Doesn't even hurt that much. I just needed the all-clear from a medic to rejoin duties."

You don't pull away. Instead, your thumb brushes almost absently along her hairline, the gesture so unexpectedly tender it makes her breath catch. The contrast between your clinical tone and this unconscious intimacy sends a confusing rush of heat through her veins.

Abby swallows hard. Your thumb is still resting against the pounding pulse in her neck.

You feel that? She wants to ask. That's all because of you.

But the words stick in her throat, and the moment stretches, fragile as the tension in your touch—professional concern warring with something far less clinical, something that makes her wonder what would happen if she closed the last inch between you—

You look up, meeting her eyes, and—

Christ.

Your gaze is a scalpel, sharp and searching, peeling her apart layer by layer. You see too much: the flush creeping up her neck like spilt wine, the tell-tale twitch of her fingers against the metal edge of the exam table, the way her throat bobs when your thumb brushes the delicate hinge of her jaw. Every minute reaction catalogued, studied—claimed—without ever breaking eye contact.

"You should know better than anyone—" you murmur, voice dropping into something low and deliberate that raises the fine hairs on her arms, "—how important it is to be… thorough."

The shift in your tone sends a bolt of heat straight to her gut. Less like a medic now, more like a predator circling its prey. The clipboard hits the counter with a muffled thud. Your breath is warm against her mouth now—spearmint and coffee and something sweeter—close enough that if she tilted her chin just so—

Abby's pulse roars in her ears. Every instinct screams to close the distance, to test if your lips are as soft as they look when you bite them in concentration. But she stays frozen, torn between the weight of protocol and the electric pull of your proximity. The rational part of her brain—the part that remembers the chain of command, fraternisation rules, and a hundred reasons this is a bad idea—drowns beneath the static filling her head. Your knee brushes against the outside of her thigh, deliberate, and she can feel your smirk when she inhales sharply when—

"What the fuck's taking you so long—?"

The door slams against the wall with a crack that echoes through the clinic, and Ellie barrels in like a stormfront, combat boots scuffing bloody prints across freshly mopped tile. Her eyes—bright with suspicion, dark with something sharper—dart between the two of you, lingering on the scant inches of charged air still humming between Abby's bare shoulder and your hastily withdrawn hands.

Abby barely suppresses a full-body flinch, her muscles locking tight as your stethoscope swings wildly from the sudden movement, the metal bell clinking like a guilty verdict. You're already two steps back, the warmth of your proximity replaced by the sterile chill of the clinic air, fingers flying to straighten non-existent wrinkles in your coat.

"Just need to check for a possible concussion," you announce, voice smooth as the polished countertops, but your knuckles are white around the pen now scratching violently across Abby's chart. The lie comes easily—too easily—professional detachment slamming down like a blast door. "She's showing some symptoms that could cause problems later if untreated."

But Abby doesn't miss the tells: the shallow rise of your chest, the rabbit-quick flutter at the hollow of your throat, the way your pulse jumps when Ellie takes another step forward, her shadow falling across the exam table like a warning.

Most of all, she doesn't miss that split-second glance you steal—hot and heavy and full of unfinished business—before turning to rummage in a drawer with excessive focus.

"Once I finish the dilation check—" you add, clearing your throat with a roughness that wasn't there thirty seconds ago, "—she's all yours again."

Right.

She's on borrowed time.

It's ridiculous—she's usually the first to complain about the FOB's restrictions, the way they herd soldiers through medical like livestock. But now, the sterile expanse of the clinic feels suddenly cavernous. Too many empty corners where you aren't. Too many hallways that don't lead to you.

There's no plausible way to "accidentally" bump into you again without looking like a fucking stalker. Not unless—

Ellie's boot hammers an impatient staccato against the linoleum, her glare hot enough to brand the side of Abby's face. The lights hum louder, merciless in their exposure—every hitched breath, every flex of Abby's jaw muscle, every drop of sweat sliding down her spine suddenly illuminated for interrogation.

So Abby does the one thing she can think of that makes Ellie's foot freeze mid-tap.

"I've been experiencing some dizziness, too." She lets the words drop like spent shell casings, casual as commenting on rations. "If that's relevant."

The lie hangs between them, glowing like a neon sign.

Ellie's eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline. She stares at Abby like she's just announced she's taking up interpretive dance. "Since when?" The question cracks like a whip.

But Abby keeps her eyes locked on you—on the way your lips part just enough to reveal the barest flash of teeth, on the subtle whitening of your knuckles around the clipboard. 

"In that case", you say, slow and syrup-thick, "I definitely think we should run a blood test." The corner of your mouth twitches. "Wouldn't want something happening to you on my conscience."

Ellie's head whips between you two like she's watching a tennis match. "Are you serious—?"

"Why don't I just meet you after dinner?" The words escape like prisoners breaking formation—messy, unplanned, betraying everything she hadn't meant to say. Her voice sounds foreign even to her own ears.

"I could use the rest. And I'm sure they've already found someone to cover my next shift anyway."

Ellie's expression morphs into something between disbelief and impending homicide, her silence louder than any outburst. The promise of a brutal interrogation lingers in the set of her jaw—one that will absolutely involve since when do you volunteer for extra needles and since when do you skip meals for anything less than arm day? But for now, she just drags a hand down her face, exhaling through her nose like she's praying for patience from a god she doesn't believe in. "Feel... better?" she asks, voice dripping with enough confusion to drown a man.

The door clicks shut behind her, sealing Abby alone with you and the exhilarating, terrifying knowledge that she’s just jumped off a cliff without checking for water below. Her pulse thrums in her throat, palms damp against her thighs, ribs tight like she’s bracing for impact. It’s ridiculous. The military trained her for hostage extractions, close-quarters combat, and how to dislocate a man’s knee with her bare hands—not this. Not the way her skin still burns where your fingers had brushed her wrist, casual and clinical and maddening.

Focus, Anderson.

"Ever get tired of treating idiot soldiers?" The words come out rougher than she intends, edged with a restlessness she can’t name.

You glance up from your notes, and fuck—there’s that quirk of your lips again, the one that sends a traitorous jolt straight to her gut. "Sometimes." The pen taps against your clipboard—once, twice—a metronome counting the seconds between them. "But you’re my last check-up for the day, so it’s not all bad right now."

Shit.

Now she just feels worse for keeping you. Guilt knots sharp under her ribs, warring with the part of her that wants to drag this moment out forever. Her fingers drum an erratic rhythm against the metal edge of the table, her pulse hammering in time beneath her skin.

Think, Abby. Do something.

"Why don’t I walk you back while you ask me the rest of the questions?" The suggestion tumbles out before she can stop it. "Save you the trouble of being stuck in here."

Your brow lifts, and oh—there it is. That spark in your eyes, the one that says you see right through her bullshit. "Pretty sure I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you here." Amusement colours your voice, but she doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to the door. Just for a second. Just long enough to make her wonder if you’re as eager to stretch this out as she is.

The grin she shoots you is all teeth. "Consider it a favour to me. Never been great at sitting still."

A pause stretches between you, thick with something unspoken—then, a smile ghosts across your lips, soft and fleeting, but she catches it. Holds onto it. Tucks it away like a match struck in the dark.

"Alright, sure," you relent, voice dropping into something warmer, quieter—like the hum of electricity under skin. "Just give me a minute."

The first thing you do is shrug off your doctor’s coat, and fuck—Abby suddenly gains a newfound appreciation for the FOB’s crappy AC as the fabric slides from your shoulders. The thin tank top beneath clings to the planes of your back, the dip of your waist, and she catches the faint sheen of sweat along your spine before she forces her gaze away. 

"You always this accommodating with patients who lie about dizziness?" The question comes out rough, lower than she intended—almost a challenge.

You pause, half-turned away from her, and she swears she sees the corner of your mouth twitch. When you speak, your voice is honey-slow, dripping with an implication that sends a bolt of heat straight to her core.

"Only the ones who make it worth my while."

You turn back to her, eyebrow arched in silent question, and Abby’s pulse kicks hard against her ribs—a frantic drumbeat she’s sure you must hear in the sudden quiet. She doesn’t do this. Doesn’t let herself get distracted, doesn’t let her mind wander where it shouldn’t. Not when distractions get people killed. Not when every glance, every lingering touch, is a risk she can’t afford.

Yet right now, all coherent thought has narrowed to a single, dangerous point: how your mouth might feel when it’s too occupied to talk, when those clever words dissolve into something messier against her skin. But instead of giving in—because she wants to, God she wants to—she’s already moving toward the door, holding it open with a sweep of her arm.

"After you, Doc."

The hallway beyond is dim, the emergency lights casting long shadows that make the narrow space feel even more intimate. Too close. Not close enough. Every accidental brush of your arm against hers as you walk sends electric currents racing up her nerves—making her wonder if they’re deliberate.

"You know," you murmur, voice pitched low enough that the words vibrate straight down her spine, "most people don’t volunteer to escort me back unless they’re hoping for a private consult." Abby huffs a laugh, sharp and breathless, but her fingers twitch at her side, itching to reach for you. "Maybe I just like knowing where the medics are." She flexes her recently healed shoulder pointedly. "In case I need one."

"Uh-huh." You slow your steps deliberately, forcing her to match your pace until you’re nearly standing still in the shadowy corridor. The space between you is a battlefield, and neither of you is backing down. "And here I thought you were just looking for an excuse."

The implication hangs between you, heavy and undeniable. She should shut this down. Should. But the way you’re looking at her—eyes dark with knowing, lips slightly parted like you’re already tasting the kiss she hasn’t offered—makes her throat go dry.

Her jaw tightens. "Would it work if I was?" The words slip out before she can stop them, rough and honest, and the second they do, she realises she should regret them, but she doesn’t.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you take a half-step closer—close enough that she can feel the warmth of your breath against her lips, can taste the faint hint of antiseptic and mint on your tongue. Your fingers hover near her hip, not quite touching, but the ghost of contact is enough to make her muscles lock with anticipation, her body coiled like a spring.

All Abby can think about is what would happen if she just… let go. If she gave in to the feeling pulling at every muscle and bone in her body, the urge to drag you flush against her and kiss you until she suffocated from it. Until neither of you could remember why this was a bad idea. Until the only thing that mattered was the heat of your skin under her hands, the way your breath would shudder when she finally—finally—acted on all those thoughts racing around her head.

Her fingers twitch at her sides, torn between reaching for you and maintaining this fragile, trembling distance. One movement, one breath too deep, and the spell might break. Or worse—it might not.

Now you're both standing frozen before your door, the moment stretched taut between you. Your hand hovers near the keypad, unmoving. Uncertain. The quiet is deafening—just the ragged sound of your shared breathing, the occasional distant echo of footsteps somewhere in the compound. A reminder of the world outside this hallway, outside this.

A thread of tension pulls tighter with every second neither of you makes the first move, winding like a live wire between your bodies, sparking with every shared breath.

Abby swallows hard. "We should—"

Go inside.

Walk away.

Pretend this never happened.

But she doesn’t finish the sentence. Because your gaze drops to her mouth, just for a second—dark, hungry, wanting—and it’s all the answer she needs.

So she finally kisses you.

And fuck, it almost makes her believe in the gods she’s spent her whole life denying, because this—this—is nothing short of divine. The second her lips meet yours, a moan tears from your throat, raw and desperate, and the sound of it goes straight down her spine, lighting her up like a fucking wildfire. Her fingers fist in the fabric at your waist, dragging you impossibly closer, her body moving on pure instinct, need, like she’s been starving for this and only just realized.

You taste like heat and something faintly metallic—she licks into your mouth like she’s trying to memorize it. Every rational thought she’s ever had about restraint, about discipline, about fucking fraternization, evaporates in the white-hot haze of you. Your hands are in her hair, gripping hard enough to sting, and she revels in it, in the way your breath shudders against her lips when she bites down, just to hear you gasp.

She’s lost in it—in the slick slide of your tongue, in the way your hips press against hers, in the ragged little sounds you make when she pins you harder against the door—when suddenly—

A sharp click of boots on concrete.

"Anderson?"

You both freeze.

Abby pulls back just enough to see your lips swollen from her mouth, your pupils blown so wide your irises are nearly gone. For one dizzying second, she considers ignoring the interruption, dragging you inside, and finishing what you started—

But reality crashes back in.

Isaac’s standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"Command tent. Now."

[wonderlandwalker]

𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 [𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧]

──≽ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝 [fluff / smut] [4.0k] Abby is used to handling her own injuries—until a certain someone makes it very hard for her to maintain her deep-rooted professionalism, lucky for her, the feeling's mutual. ⤷ 𝐏𝐭. 𝐈𝐈: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 [ hurt / comfort ] [4.5k] She doesn't know how to come to terms with her feelings, but she doesn't know how to let go either.

[wonderlandwalker]

The Kiss She Doesn't Need

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: abby anderson x medic!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.0k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Abby is used to handling her own injuries—until a certain someone makes it very hard for her to maintain her deep-rooted professionalism, lucky for her, the feeling's mutual. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: medical injuries and treatment but that's about it I think, apart from just general filthy thoughts ofc, mdni, slightly 18+, ellie being part of the seattle crew but that's just cause I love her too much to not include her

𝐚/𝐧: Finally decided to write my first Abby fic since I haven't been able to get her out of my head recently, but hopefully you guys are just as obsessed with her as I am (also if you haven't yet go check out @littlexdeaths's fics on abby they're the ones that sparked this (i changed the title cause of pt. II but might chance it again idk i'm very indecisive)

For once, the medbay is actually quiet—no shouted orders, no groans of pain, and no harried medics rushing between cots. The usual post-patrol chaos has settled into a rare lull, leaving only the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint metallic scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.

Outside, the muffled sounds of Seattle’s ruins seem worlds away, as if the dim, sterile walls of the WLF clinic have carved out a fragile pocket of calm. ⁠Abby leans against the exam table, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the edge. The throbbing in her shoulder has sharpened into a persistent ache, and the longer she waits, the more her muscles coil with restless irritation. Screw it, she finally decides, pushing off the table. She’s about to call it a lost cause—skip the mandated check-up and deal with the fallout later—when—

"Sorry for the wait."

Your voice cuts through her thoughts, smooth and steady, and she turns to see you stepping into the room, clipboard in hand. There’s an apologetic tilt to your smile, the kind that softens the edges of her annoyance before she can even lean into it. Abby opens her mouth, ready with some dry remark about WLF medical efficiency (or lack thereof), but the second her eyes land on yours, the words die on her tongue.

Because fuck.

She’s noticed you around before—passing in the halls, patching up other Wolves—but never like this. Never with your full attention fixed on her, brows slightly furrowed in concern, teeth catching your lower lip in a way that sends an unexpected spark down her spine. The overhead light catches the sharp angles of your face, shadows pooling under your cheekbones, and suddenly, the dull ache in her shoulder isn’t the only thing making it hard to focus.

Up close, she sees things she never had the chance to before—the way your sleeves are rolled to your elbows, revealing faded ink and the faint scars of a life spent stitching people back together. The slow, deliberate way you move, like every action is measured and practised. The scent of soap and something faintly herbal clinging to your skin, cutting through the sterile clinic air.

Her pulse kicks up, an unsteady rhythm beneath her ribs. She wants to reach out, to smooth the worry from your brow with her thumb, to press her mouth to the spot where your teeth worry your lip—

"You’re Abby, right?" you ask, flipping through the chart.

The sound of her name in your voice snaps her back to the moment. She clears her throat and shifts her weight. "Last time I checked."

A small, knowing smirk tugs at your lips, as if you can see right through her attempt at nonchalance.

"So", you continue, "what can I do for you today?"

Your voice is calm, professional—infuriatingly so—yet there’s something beneath it, something warm and teasing that makes Abby’s skin prickle. She clears her throat, suddenly hyperaware of the sweat cooling on her skin and the grit of dirt still clinging to her from patrol. The air here is too clean, too sharp, and she feels grimy in comparison—like a wild thing dragged inside, still thrumming with the restless energy of the ruins.

"Shoulder," she mutters, gesturing vaguely. "Dislocated it. Normally I’d just pop it back in myself, but—"

"But someone saw before you had the chance?" You finish, amusement curling at the edge of your voice, she can hear the smirk without even looking.

"Yeah." She rolls her eyes. "Took a nasty fall. Figured I’d humour them."

You hum, stepping closer, and Christ, that’s worse. Now you’re right in front of her. Your fingers brush the hem of her tank top, moving it just enough to expose the angry swell of her joint. Abby swallows hard, muscles tensing under your touch—not from pain, but from the way your breath ghosts over her collarbone as you lean in to inspect the damage.

"Your heartbeat’s a little fast," you remark, frowning slightly, fingers hovering by her pulse point. "But that could be the adrenaline lingering."

Abby nearly chokes.

Yeah. Adrenaline. Sure.

It has nothing to do with the thoughts already racing through her head—the ones where she pins you against the med cabinet, where she flips you onto the examination table, where she finds out what flavour that damn chapstick is if she just leans forward a little further. She wonders how your breath would hitch if her hand slid under your shirt, if you’d gasp if she bit down on that spot just below—

"Swelling’s not too bad," you murmur, your voice low and focused. Your fingertips trace the edge of the injury, feather-light, and she has to bite back a shiver. The contrast of turned tables is maddening—your clinical interest versus the way her pulse jumps under your touch. "I take it this has happened before?"

"Once or twice."

You glance up, meeting her gaze, and something flickers in your expression—something sharp, knowing. Like you can see the way her mind’s spiralling, like you’re cataloguing every hitch in her breath, every flicker of tension in her jaw.

"I’ll bet," you say simply.

And then—just for a second—your thumb presses a little harder into the curve of her shoulder, a deliberate stroke that could be medical, could be assessing the joint, could be—

You shift, hands settling firmly on her arm. Your touch is warm, careful but assured, fingers pressing just enough to map the tension coiled beneath her skin. When you guide her arm through its range of motion, you step even closer, the heat of your body seeping into hers, and fuck, Abby can’t stop the way her jaw clenches. All from the way your breath ghosts over her collarbone when you lean in, from the way your lashes cast delicate shadows against your cheeks as you focus. She wonders if you can feel it—the way her veins hum where you press, the way her skin burns in the wake of your touch.

"This’ll hurt," you warn, voice low.

Abby grins, reckless. "I can take it."

The sharp pop of the joint sliding back into place echoes in the hushed clinic, and a ragged groan tears from her throat before she can stop it. Sure, she’s endured worse—far worse—but pain is pain, and this fucking stings. Her jaw locks, teeth grinding together as she forces herself to focus on you instead—on the way your fingers linger just a second too long against her skin, warm and steady despite the violence of the adjustment.

You’re not looking at her face, your attention fixed on her shoulder with clinical precision, but she sees it—the way your pupils dilate at the sound of her stifled noise, the faint hitch in your breath.

Interesting.

You’re close enough now that she could count your lashes if she wanted to—and there’s one loose, clinging stubbornly at the corner of your eye. She’ll dream about this later, she already knows: brushing it away with her thumb, pressing her lips to the spot where it fell, whispering make a wish against your skin like it’s something tender, something sacred.

Then your tongue flicks out, wetting your lips in concentration, and she watches, transfixed, as you bite down lightly on the bottom one. Her stomach tightens.

Fuck.

She should say something—anything—to break the tension, but the words dissolve in her throat. Because right now, with your hands still on her, with the air between you thick and heavy, all she can think about is how easy it would be to close the distance. To see if your mouth is as soft as it looks.

And from the way your gaze flickers up to hers—just for a second—she wonders if you’re thinking the same thing. Your fingers—steady despite the electric charge thickening the air between you—slide up the strong line of her jaw, pressing gently against her temples as you tilt her head toward the unforgiving light. The sudden shift sends her pulse skittering, a rabbit-quick thrum you must feel beneath your fingertips, betraying her despite the carefully schooled neutrality of her expression.

"Have you been experiencing more of this… trailing of consciousness?"

The question lands like a grenade at her feet. Your breath ghosts across her lips—spearmint and coffee and something faintly sweet—as you wait for an answer she can't give.

Not honestly.

"It's really just the shoulder," she mutters, forcing her voice steady despite the way her ribs cage her lungs like iron bars. The exam table creaks ominously under her white-knuckled grip, the cold metal biting into her thighs. "Doesn't even hurt that much. I just needed the all-clear from a medic to rejoin duties."

You don't pull away. Instead, your thumb brushes almost absently along her hairline. The contrast between your clinical tone and this unconscious intimacy sends a confusing rush of heat through her veins.

Abby swallows hard. Your thumb is still resting against the pounding pulse in her neck.

You feel that? She wants to ask. That's all because of you.

But the words stick in her throat, and the moment stretches, fragile as the tension in your touch—professional concern warring with something far less clinical, something that makes her wonder what would happen if she closed the last inch between you—

You look up, meeting her eyes, and—

Christ.

Your gaze is a scalpel, sharp and searching, peeling her apart layer by layer. You see too much: the flush creeping up her neck like spilt wine, the tell-tale twitch of her fingers against the metal edge of the exam table, the way her throat bobs when your thumb brushes the delicate hinge of her jaw. Every minute reaction catalogued, studied—claimed—without ever breaking eye contact.

"You should know better than anyone—" you murmur, voice dropping into something low and deliberate that raises the fine hairs on her arms, "—how important it is to be… thorough."

The shift in your tone sends a bolt of heat straight to her gut. Less like a medic now, more like a predator circling its prey. The clipboard hits the counter with a muffled thud. Your breath is warm against her mouth now—close enough that if she tilted her chin just so—

Abby's pulse roars in her ears. Every instinct screams to close the distance, to test if your lips are as soft as they look when you bite them in concentration. But she stays frozen, torn between the weight of protocol and the electric pull of your proximity. The rational part of her brain—the part that remembers the chain of command, fraternisation rules, and a hundred reasons this is a bad idea—drowns beneath the static filling her head. Your knee brushes against the outside of her thigh, deliberate, and she can feel your smirk when she inhales sharply when—

"What the fuck's taking you so long—?"

The door slams against the wall with a crack that echoes through the clinic, and Ellie barrels in like a stormfront, combat boots scuffing bloody prints across freshly mopped tile. Her eyes—bright with suspicion, dark with something sharper—dart between the two of you, lingering on the scant inches of charged air still humming between Abby's bare shoulder and your hastily withdrawn hands.

Abby barely suppresses a full-body flinch, her muscles locking tight as your stethoscope swings wildly from the sudden movement, the metal clinking like a guilty verdict. You're already two steps back, the warmth of your proximity replaced by the sterile chill of the clinic air, fingers flying to straighten non-existent wrinkles in your coat.

"Just need to check for a possible concussion," you announce, voice smooth as the polished countertops, but your knuckles are white around the pen now scratching violently across Abby's chart. The lie comes easily—too easily—professional detachment slamming down like a blast door. "She's showing some symptoms that could cause problems later if untreated."

But Abby doesn't miss the tells: the shallow rise of your chest, the way your pulse jumps when Ellie takes another step forward, her shadow falling across the exam table like a warning. Most of all, she doesn't miss that split-second glance you steal—hot and heavy and full of unfinished business—before turning to rummage in a drawer with excessive focus.

"Once I finish the dilation check—" you add, clearing your throat with a roughness that wasn't there thirty seconds ago, "—she's all yours again."

Right.

She's on borrowed time.

It's ridiculous—she's usually the first to complain about the FOB's restrictions, the way they herd soldiers through medical like livestock. But now, the sterile expanse of the clinic feels suddenly cavernous. Too many empty corners where you aren't. Too many hallways that don't lead to you. There's no plausible way to "accidentally" bump into you again without looking like a fucking stalker. Not unless—

Ellie's boot hammers an impatient staccato against the linoleum, her glare hot enough to brand the side of Abby's face. The lights hum louder, merciless in their exposure—every hitched breath, every flex of Abby's jaw muscle, every drop of sweat sliding down her spine suddenly illuminated for interrogation.

So Abby does the one thing she can think of that makes Ellie's foot freeze mid-tap.

"I've been experiencing some dizziness, too." She lets the words drop like spent shell casings, casual as commenting on rations. "If that's relevant."

The lie hangs between them, glowing like a neon sign.

Ellie's eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline. She stares at Abby like she's just announced she's taking up interpretive dance. "Since when?" The question cracks like a whip. But Abby keeps her eyes locked on you—on the way your lips part just enough to reveal the barest flash of teeth, on the subtle whitening of your knuckles around the clipboard. 

"In that case", you say, slow and syrup-thick, "I definitely think we should run a blood test." The corner of your mouth twitches. "Wouldn't want something happening to you on my conscience."

Ellie's head whips between you two like she's watching a tennis match. "Are you serious—?"

"Why don't I just meet you after dinner?" The words escape like prisoners breaking formation—messy, unplanned, betraying everything she hadn't meant to say. Her voice sounds foreign even to her own ears.

"I could use the rest. And I'm sure they've already found someone to cover my next shift anyway."

Ellie's expression morphs into something between disbelief and impending homicide, her silence louder than any outburst. The promise of a brutal interrogation lingers in the set of her jaw—one that will absolutely involve since when do you volunteer for extra needles and since when do you skip meals for anything less than arm day? But for now, she just drags a hand down her face, exhaling through her nose like she's praying for patience from a god she doesn't believe in. "Feel... better?" she asks, voice dripping with enough confusion to drown a man.

The door clicks shut behind her, sealing Abby alone with you and the exhilarating, terrifying knowledge that she’s just jumped off a cliff without checking for water below. Her pulse thrums in her throat, palms damp against her thighs, ribs tight like she’s bracing for impact. It’s ridiculous. The military trained her for hostage extractions, close-quarters combat, and how to dislocate a man’s knee with her bare hands—not this. Not the way her skin still burns where your fingers had brushed her wrist, casual and clinical and maddening.

Focus, Anderson.

"Ever get tired of treating idiot soldiers?" The words come out rougher than she intends, edged with a restlessness she can’t name.

You glance up from your notes, and fuck—there’s that quirk of your lips again, the one that sends a traitorous jolt straight to her gut. "Sometimes." The pen taps against your clipboard—once, twice—a metronome counting the seconds between them. "But you’re my last check-up for the day, so it’s not all bad right now."

Shit.

Now she just feels worse for keeping you. Guilt knots sharp under her ribs, warring with the part of her that wants to drag this moment out forever. Her fingers drum an erratic rhythm against the metal edge of the table, her pulse hammering in time beneath her skin.

Think, Abby. Do something.

"Why don’t I walk you back while you ask me the rest of the questions?" The suggestion tumbles out before she can stop it. "Save you the trouble of being stuck in here."

Your brow lifts, and oh—there it is. That spark in your eyes, the one that says you see right through her bullshit. "Pretty sure I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you here." Amusement colours your voice, but she doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to the door. Just for a second. Just long enough to make her wonder if you’re as eager to stretch this out as she is.

The grin she shoots you is all teeth. "Consider it a favour to me. Never been great at sitting still."

A pause stretches between you, thick with something unspoken—then, a smile ghosts across your lips, soft and fleeting, but she catches it. Holds onto it. Tucks it away like a match struck in the dark.

"Alright, sure," you relent, voice dropping into something warmer, quieter—like the hum of electricity under skin. "Just give me a minute."

The first thing you do is shrug off your doctor’s coat, and fuck—Abby suddenly gains a newfound appreciation for the crappy AC as the fabric slides from your shoulders. The thin tank top beneath clings to the planes of your back, the dip of your waist, and she catches the faint sheen of sweat along your spine before she forces her gaze away. 

"You always this accommodating with patients who lie about feeling light headed?" The question comes out rough, lower than she intended—almost a challenge.

You pause, half-turned away from her, and she swears she sees the corner of your mouth twitch. When you speak, your voice is honey-slow, dripping with an implication that sends a bolt of heat straight to her core.

"Only the ones who make it worth my while."

You turn back to her, eyebrow arched in silent question, and Abby’s pulse kicks hard against her ribs—a frantic drumbeat she’s sure you must hear in the sudden quiet. She doesn’t do this. Doesn’t let herself get distracted, doesn’t let her mind wander where it shouldn’t. Not when distractions get people killed. Not when every glance, every lingering touch, is a risk she can’t afford.

Yet right now, all coherent thought has narrowed to a single, dangerous point: how your mouth might feel when it’s too occupied to talk, when those clever words dissolve into something messier against her skin. But instead of giving in—because she wants to, God she wants to—she’s already moving toward the door, holding it open with a sweep of her arm.

"After you, Doc."

The hallway beyond is dim, the emergency lights casting long shadows that make the narrow space feel even more intimate. Too close. Not close enough. Every accidental brush of your arm against hers as you walk sends electric currents racing up her nerves—making her wonder if they’re deliberate.

"You know," you murmur, voice pitched low enough that the words vibrate straight down her spine, "most people don’t volunteer to escort me back unless they’re hoping for a private consult." Abby huffs a laugh, sharp and breathless, but her fingers twitch at her side, itching to reach for you. "Maybe I just like knowing where the medics are." She flexes her recently healed shoulder pointedly. "In case I need one."

"Uh-huh." You slow your steps deliberately, forcing her to match your pace until you’re nearly standing still in the shadowy corridor. The space between you is a battlefield, and neither of you is backing down. "And here I thought you were just looking for an excuse."

The implication hangs between you, heavy and undeniable. She should shut this down. Should. But the way you’re looking at her—eyes dark with knowing, lips slightly parted like you’re already tasting the kiss she hasn’t offered—makes her throat go dry.

Her jaw tightens. "Would it work if I was?" The words slip out before she can stop them, rough and honest, and the second they do, she realises she should regret them, but she doesn’t.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you take a half-step closer—close enough that she can feel the warmth of your breath against her lips, can taste the faint hint of antiseptic and mint on your tongue. Your fingers hover near her hip, not quite touching, but the ghost of contact is enough to make her muscles lock with anticipation, her body coiled like a spring.

All Abby can think about is what would happen if she just… let go. If she gave in to the feeling pulling at every muscle and bone in her body, the urge to drag you flush against her and kiss you until she suffocated from it. Until neither of you could remember why this was a bad idea. Until the only thing that mattered was the heat of your skin under her hands, the way your breath would shudder when she finally—finally—acted on all those thoughts racing around her head.

Her fingers twitch at her sides, torn between reaching for you and maintaining this fragile, trembling distance. One movement, one breath too deep, and the spell might break. Or worse—it might not.

Now you're both standing frozen before your door, the moment stretched taut between you. Your hand hovers near the keypad, unmoving. Uncertain. The quiet is deafening—just the ragged sound of your shared breathing, the occasional distant echo of footsteps somewhere in the compound. A reminder of the world outside this hallway, outside this.

A thread of tension pulls tighter with every second neither of you makes the first move, winding like a live wire between your bodies, sparking with every shared breath.

Abby swallows hard. "We should—"

Go inside.

Walk away.

Pretend this never happened.

But she doesn’t finish the sentence. Because your gaze drops to her mouth, just for a second—dark, hungry, wanting—and it’s all the answer she needs.

So she finally just fucking kisses you.

And fuck, it almost makes her believe in the gods she’s spent her whole life denying, because this—this—is nothing short of divine. The second her lips meet yours, a moan tears from your throat, raw and desperate, and the sound of it goes straight down her spine, lighting her up like a fucking wildfire. Her fingers fist in the fabric at your waist, dragging you impossibly closer, her body moving on pure instinct, need, like she’s been starving for this and only just realized.

You taste like heat and something faintly metallic—she licks into your mouth like she’s trying to memorize it. Every rational thought she’s ever had about restraint, about discipline, about fucking fraternization, evaporates in the white-hot haze of you. Your hands are in her hair, gripping hard enough to sting, and she revels in it, in the way your breath shudders against her lips when she bites down, just to hear you gasp.

She’s lost in it—in the slick slide of your tongue, in the way your hips press against hers, in the ragged little sounds you make when she pins you harder against the door—when suddenly—

A sharp click of boots on concrete.

"Anderson."

You both freeze.

Abby pulls back just enough to see your lips swollen from her mouth, your pupils blown so wide your irises are nearly gone. For one dizzying second, she considers ignoring the interruption, dragging you inside, and finishing what you started—

But reality crashes back in.

Isaac’s standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"Command tent. Now."

𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈