summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
- valarr targaryen x wife!reader x aerion targaryen
to the realm, your marriage with the young prince is a storybook union worthy of songs. but after tragedies befell you one after another, the love that once seemed effortless begins to fracture... and it doesn't help that another prince has his obsession set on you
genre/warnings:
suggestive, tw. miscarriages, angst, smut, hurt/comfort, mentions of infidelity, arguments, injury and blood in tourney (aka valarr and aerion fighting each other for you), pregnancy, fluff
notes:
wc. 5.8k ! reposted with rewritten & extended scenes! i fell in love with valarr at the first sight really *sigh* and aerion is my sidepiece i loved writing this so i hope you will enjoy it too <3
You and the Young Prince are beloved by many in King’s Landing.
Valarr, the gallant heir of House Targaryen, and you, his graceful princess, seem to embody everything the realm hopes for: beauty, devotion, and a love that appears effortless beneath the watchful eyes of the court. You married young, and despite all whispers and warnings the elders told you, both of you were tremendously happy in your marriage.
“A toast to my beloved princess—my constant strength and guide through another year added to my name!”
His voice would ring proudly through the hall, rich with affection as goblets were lifted in your honor. He would gaze at you with such tenderness afterwards, and anyone with eyes would gasp at the breathtaking show of love.
A love match. Yours was the picture-perfect royal union… at least until the tragedies began.
“Valarr, I—” you would choke on your own tears each time you carried a child to term only to lose them before you could ever hold them in your arms.
And every time, he would pull you into his arms.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” he would murmur softly, shushing your sobs as he held you close, mourning the loss just as deeply even as he tried to be your comfort.
A loss that the maesters called misfortune. Another that the septas named the will of the Seven. Each time, the court offered condolences, and each time you and Valarr stood side by side, composed and dignified as a royal couple ought to be.
But grief, no matter how carefully hidden, has a way of changing things.
Behind closed doors, the silences between you began to grow longer. The smiles you once shared became sparser, weighed down by sorrow neither of you quite knew how to speak aloud. Yet before the court, you both still played your roles flawlessly.
Because in King’s Landing, the prince and his princess were meant to be perfect.
“Your Grace, do you feel well?”
Your maid’s gentle voice broke through your reverie. You had been staring at the skies above Summerhall for far too long, your gaze distant and unfocused.
You turned to her with a placating smile. “I’m fine, Rose. Come, let’s go.”
Summoned to Summerhall by Prince Baelor, the moment you arrived, Valarr was swept away into discussions with his father and the other men of the court, leaving you with little to do but free time for yourself.
The castle grounds had grown quiet by the late afternoon, most servants busy with their duties. Your steps eventually carried you beyond the courtyards, towards a humble district where smallfolk lived and worked beneath the protection of the castle.
However, your walk was cut short.
An old woman stood near the edge of the road, her back bent with age, her thin hands clutching a bundle of herbs. Yet it was not her frailty that caught your attention.
It was the way unsettling way she stared at you.
Her eyes were too sharp for someone so old—watching you with an unsettling intensity. You slowed, uncertainty prickling along your spine, and then the woman spoke:
“The princess of love and beauty,” she murmured, her voice thin and rasping. “Yet cursed with the misfortune of having shadows strangling the brave prince’s sons in her womb.”
A cold shiver crawled down your spine. The words struck like a blade and it felt as though your darkest nightmares had been dragged into the open for the world to see.
You did not stay to hear more.
Your breath came quicker as you fled— the woman’s voice still echoing, stirring those bleak memories of the silent chambers, the hushed voices of maesters, Valarr’s arms around you while you wept until your body ached.
You only wanted distance—from that witch, from her terrible eyes, from the shame. And in your haste—
You collided with someone.
A solid figure stood in your path, and the sudden impact forced a startled breath from your lungs. Strong hands caught your waist before you could fall.
“Well now...” a smooth, velvety voice drawled above you, low with unmistakable amusement. “Where is the princess rushing off to in such distress?”
You wouldn’t mistake that voice for anyone else’s.
Prince Aerion Targaryen stood before you, tall and imposing as ever, silver hair gleaming in the afternoon light. His grip on your waist was firm enough to keep you from retreating so easily.
“Unhand me, my prince,” you proceeded to say afterwards, and he did. For a three good seconds, he observed the lacy black dress you were wearing, and let out a snort.
“You are not in mourning. Why do you always wear this unseemly dress?”
His words offended you really. It hadn’t even been three moons since you lost your babe, and he dared to ask this?
“I am, in fact, in mourning. Please let me be.”
Aerion snorted again.
“Do not mourn too hard, sweet cousin. A fine fruit can only grow from a good seed. One cannot expect much from… defects.”
Your eyes hardened. “What are you insinuating?”
“I’m merely suggesting that the fault may not lie with you at all, my princess,” Aerion replied, a thin, cruel smile curving his lips.
Valarr’s face rose unbidden in your mind—his gentle patience, the way he would tighten his arms around you on the nights he mourned your lost babes. Never once had he spoken a word of blame. Never once had he let you feel alone in it.
The insult burned hotter than if it had been aimed at you.
“You will hold your tongue, Aerion,” you spat, your voice suddenly sharper, eyes flashing with apparent rage as you didn’t bother to address him properly. “You speak of a prince of the realm. And a far better man than you will ever be.”
Aerion’s smile faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before it returned, colder than before.
“How fiercely you defend him,” he scoffed. “How touching.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur meant only for you.
“Think about it. If it were me, I surely will not fail you. The blood of the dragon runs stronger in my veins than it ever will in his.”
Talking with Aerion always felt like talking to the wall. You didn’t deign him with more response, simply turning on your heel to head back towards the castle.
However, you failed to realize that watchful eyes had taken note of the closeness between you and your cousin-by-law. Only later would you learn that this encounter with Aerion would bring consequences you had never anticipated.
The tale that soon spread was a wild one: you, the princess consort, is having an affair with the Bright Prince himself.
“T-that— that is bloody outrageous!”
You paced restlessly in your marital chambers, righteous anger coursed in your veins— it wasn’t enough that they had insulted you, but to pair your name with that mad prince?
Your husband, calm as ever, only stared at you quietly from his desk.
“You must not believe that treason—” you turned to Valarr in a flurry. “There’s no truth in it! I just stumbled into him while we were at Summerhall, that’s all!”
Valarr remained silent, studying you as he twirled the quill in his hand. He hadn’t voiced any accusation or anything, and it made your heart twist.
“I swear to you—” you pressed on quickly as you approached him, almost breathless now. “I barely spoke to him, and whatever he implied, I shut it down immediately—”
Valarr finally set the quill down. The soft tap of it against the desk sounded far too loud as he rose from his chair. His gaze never left yours as he crossed to where you were, and your heart thudded painfully under the weight of that unreadable stare.
He stopped before you, seemingly disregarding whatever it was you were saying, and it was without any warning when—
“I would never dishonor you like that, dear husband, you must believe me— Mmph!”
He pulled you into a sudden, searing kiss.
His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck as though the gesture alone could silence the storm of words tumbling from your sweet lips. You almost gasped, instinctively curling your fingers around his doublet.
It was nothing like the tender kisses you were used to. The kiss was rough, intense—almost hungry. His grip tightened slightly at your nape as his mouth claimed yours again and again. The force of it made you stumble a few steps back before he steadied you against him.
When Valarr finally pulled away, he sighed, a haze settling into his gaze.
“I do not wish to speak of my vile cousin, love.”
“But those rumors— I swear it, I—”
“Shush,” Valarr smiled then, pressing a finger on your lips. It was soft at first glance, reassuring even—yet it did not quite reach his mismatched eyes, which remained dark and distant. “I know.”
Your prince had always been gentle. He had never let anger rule over him, but sometimes you just wished he would. You looked at him sadly as his dashing blue and brown eyes focused solely on you, thinking of everything he had achieved until now.
The realm might think that the heir of Dragonstone had everything handed to him in silver platter, but they had never seen all the effort he put to remain worthy of it. He was the perfect prince to everyone, yet behind closed doors, only you saw the exhaustion he tried to hide, the endless trainings he would endure, the weight of expectations that followed him like a shadow.
And that only made the guilt inside you feel worse, because he had done everything right, except for one flaw. You.
His wife who had not even managed to give him an heir. Worse still, now these boundless whispers of your supposed infidelity threatened to besmirch his name.
You opened your mouth again, still trying to explain, but Valarr didn’t let you.
He captured your lips once again.
This time there was no restraint at all. His hands slid to your waist, fingers squeezing your flesh as he pulled you firmly against him, the kiss deepening with a fervor that stole the breath from your lungs. There was urgency in the way he held you now—something restless beneath the calm he had worn only moments ago surfacing unbidden.
“H-husband—”
“Quiet,” he commanded, lust taking over him, “—ah, my princess...”
Before you quite realized what he intended, he guided you backwards... and the edge of his desk pressed suddenly against the backs of your thighs.
With a swift motion he lifted you and bent you forward over its polished surface, the scrolls scattering beneath you. Valarr stepped between your knees, devouring your lips with renewed intensity and forced his tongue inside, even rougher this time.
Where he was usually careful and soft, his hands now held you with a more possessive grip. When he pulled you closer, the tug was harsher. When his lips wandered across your skin, the kisses he left behind were hotter and harder.
He was the only Targaryen prince who knew your body best. He knew where to touch, where to caress, where to lick and suck—
And what to do to get you nicely warm and ready for him.
“Look at me— will you?”
He tipped your chin towards him before he entered you in one swift go. The sudden stretch tore a broken cry from your lips as you threw your head back, moaning his name in broken syllables as tears fell from your lashes.
And before long, the chamber fell quiet save for the sounds of your mingled breaths and flesh tangled together, the lamplight flickering softly against the walls as the night became a blur around you.
There would be a grand celebration for King Daeron’s nameday in King’s Landing.
The festivities were to last ten days and nights to remind the realm of the strength and prosperity of House Targaryen. Lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms had already begun to arrive, and there would be feasts and a grand tourney held in the king’s honor.
The first day, however, was reserved for the feast.
The great hall blazed with candlelight, the long tables heavy with roasted meats, fruits, and sweet wines. Music drifted through the hall as servants moved tirelessly between the guests. You sat quietly in your seat, hands folded neatly in your lap as you forced yourself to maintain the composure expected of a princess.
“Greetings to you, my princess...”
And it was impossible not to feel the stares.
Whispers had already traveled faster than ravens through the court, and though everyone only spoke to you in pleasantries and riddles, you could feel the weight of their judgment.
“Pay them no mind.”
You looked up when Prince Baelor spoke gently beside you. Your father-in-law regarded you with a kindness—with those very same mismatched gaze your husband had—that made your throat tighten.
“The court feeds on foolish gossip,” he continued. “It will pass soon enough.”
You managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
His reassurance was sincere, and you knew he meant it kindly, but it did little to quiet the shame that lingered in your chest.
As the evening wore on, the musicians eventually struck up a livelier tune. The feast slowly shifted into dancing, couples rising from their seats as the center of the hall cleared.
You watched absently as the first pairs took the floor... but then your breath caught.
Valarr had stepped down from his seat and extended his hand—not to you. Kiera of Tyrosh accepted it with a bright smile.
Your fingers curled in your lap as you watched them join the dancers.
Kiera moved gracefully beside him, her gown sweeping across the floor as they turned together. They made a handsome pair—your composed prince and the elegant daughter of a powerful lord. The lords and ladies in the hall had noticed as well.
“She suits him…”
“A fitting match…”
Each word sank into your chest like a needle and the longer you sit here, the more you couldn’t bear to watch the dance floor any longer.
Rising quietly from your seat, you began to make your way toward the edge of the hall, hoping to slip away before the sting in your eyes betrayed you, however...
“My princess.”
You froze. Prince Aerion suddenly appeared before you, his silver hair gleaming beneath the candlelight. He bowed slightly and offered his hand, though the smile that followed was anything but respectful.
“Would you grant me this dance?”
Your first instinct was to refuse, but then you realized too many eyes were already on you. Refusing him openly would only feed the whispers further. Biting back your anger, reluctantly, you placed your hand in his.
Aerion led you to the dance floor, and he drew you into the proper steps with unsettling ease.
“You look miserable tonight,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
“I am merely tired, my prince,” you replied stiffly and Aerion chuckled, almost tauntingly.
“Such loyalty to a man who leaves you sitting alone while he dances with another.”
“Prince Valarr is my husband,” you hissed.
“Yes,” Aerion’s violet eyes lit with a manic glint, “and yet I cannot help but think you would fare far better with me instead.”
“Do me a favor and cease this nonsense.”
“But it is true.” His grip tightening slightly at your waist as the dance carried you through another turn. “I would never leave you sitting alone while the court talks about you.”
You said nothing. You simply endured the remainder of the dance in tense silence.
The moment the music ended, you pulled away hurriedly. Without waiting for his reply, you turned and left the hall.
The air in the corridors felt cooler, quieter. You exhaled slowly, hoping the distance from the feast would steady your thoughts. Footsteps sounded behind you to disrupt your newfound peace, however.
“Running away so quickly?”
You sighed. “Aerion, please—”
He followed you down the corridor regardless, his long strides quickly closing the distance. Before you could move again, he stepped in front of you, blocking your path in the empty hall.
“You avoid me as though I were a monster,” he said with a faint laugh.
“Because you behave like one,” you snapped.
His smile sharpened. You tried to step past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrists. “Aerion— let go!”
But he did not move. Instead, he pushed you back a step until your shoulders brushed the cold stone wall behind you.
“You deserve better than that dull, careful cousin of mine.” Aerion leaned closer, his face only a mere inch from yours. “A princess should not waste herself on a dragon who barely burns.”
“I will hear no more of this—!”
For a moment, his grip tightened hard enough to bruise, his gaze dark, and the deserted hall suddenly felt far too small.
His hand slid from your wrist to your arm, pressing you firmly against the wall. He leaned down, attempting to seize your lips in a rough kiss—
You turned your head sharply, the contact landing against your neck instead. Panic surged through you as you shoved against his chest.
“Aerion, stop!”
Your voice broke into something close to a shriek as you struggled against him. His hold only tightened as he tried again, heedless of your resistance.
. . .
The banquet hall had become suffocating for Valarr too.
While he had asked Kiera of Tyrosh for his first dance, it was out of courtesy since he had been talking to her. What he had not expected was to see you take the floor with Aerion out of all people.
It made him restless, because even though everything was false, the fact that it had become such a rumor in the first place meant he wasn’t able to protect you. And lately there had been a strained distance between you he had been meaning to mend too.
His gaze moved across the tables, searching instinctively for you. He was thinking maybe he could excuse both himself and you from the feast and retire to your chambers. When he didn’t find you, he stepped out to the corridors.
And that was when he heard it. A muffled cry.
Valarr turned the corner— and the sight that greeted him was one he would never have imagined could happen even in his nightmares.
You pinned against the wall, your dress disheveled, tears in your eyes as you struggled against the man holding you in a very compromising position.
Aerion.
For a heartbeat Valarr did not think. Could not think. That was also when the world seemed to narrow into something blindingly red—
He lunged. His hand seized the back of Aerion’s collar and tore him away from you with brutal force. The sudden motion sent his wretched cousin stumbling back a step before his fist followed like a punishment.
Bam!
The punch landed squarely on his jaw and the Bright Prince staggered under the blow. Valarr’s chest heaved, every muscle in his body coiled tight with rage. For a moment it took everything he had not to strike again.
“Valarr!” you gasped, immediately pulling him back. He turned to you only to find your shaking hands and tear-streaked face— and the sight made his heart lurch in his chest.
Your husband forced himself to step back towards you as he glared at his kin. His voice, when it came, was tight with restrained fury.
“I will regain my honor tomorrow. At the joust.”
Valarr did not wait for Aerion to answer as he took your hand firmly, and pulled you away from the corridor, leading you back towards your marital chambers.
Behind you, Aerion remained where he stood. His cheek throbbed where the punch had landed, but he barely felt it as much as the sting that burned incessantly in his chest.
Because in his own twisted way—
Aerion had already given his heart to you too.
The door to your marital chambers barely closed when Valarr turned to face you and placed both hands on your shoulders, checking you over.
“Did he—” His voice faltered slightly before he forced the words out. “Did Aerion do anything to you?”
You shook your head like a limp puppet, still trying to process what had just happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened only slightly, but it was still there, still burning.
“You cannot challenge him tomorrow.” You started trembling, realizing the gravity of what he said earlier. “Valarr… please...”
He clenched his jaw. “He will answer for what he did.”
“You cannot do this over me!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “The entire court will be watching. If something goes wrong—”
“Something has already gone wrong,” Valarr cut in sharply. “Aerion has insulted me. He laid his hands on you— and you expect me to simply stand by and do nothing?”
“But you will be in danger—”
“I will be fine.”
“You will not!”
Your words echoed in the chamber, and for the first time, you saw how composure slipped from the Young Prince’s face.
“Is your faith in me truly so little?” he questioned, hurt. “Do you truly believe I cannot defeat him in a fair duel?”
“That’s not what I mean— he is a monster!” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in distress. The memory of Aerion’s grip on your arm flashed through your mind, followed immediately by the terrible image of Valarr lying bloodied in the arena. Your stomach twisted.
“You’ve seen how he fights. He has never cared for honor in a tourney. He plays foul whenever it suits him. I don’t want anything to happen to you—”
“But I would do anything for you!”
The words burst from him so suddenly, louder than you had ever him yell before, and you fell silent, wide-eyed.
“I cannot stand idly when my cousin dishonors the woman I love and pretend it means nothing!” Valarr continued, his voice sharp. “I cannot watch you be treated like that and remain silent!”
His knuckles curled into tight fists at his sides, the restraint he had always carried now visibly fraying.
“You think I care about the court’s whispers?” he went on, quieter now, his gaze on you almost painful. “No. Let them whisper.”
You shook your head weakly, tears falling. “Valarr…”
“I hate how they questioned your honor because of what we have been through, but even that is still better than seeing you in childbed again.”
Valarr looked away briefly, as though gathering the strength to continue. His eyes then returned to yours, heavy with something you had rarely seen from him—raw grief, as he shook his head.
“I will not put you through that again if I could help it. I cannot subject you to that ordeal again. Even if we are to remain childless— then so be it.”
His words struck you deep.
“I cannot watch you mourn our lost children again and again.” His blue and brown eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “The pain you feel… I feel it as well. And for all I know, it may be because of me.”
Your heart clenched painfully. This was not what you wanted to hear, and the sight of your composed husband broke down in tears was not something you wanted to see.
“I’m sorry I cannot give you healthy children,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry for taking away the joy that should have been yours. I’m so, so sorry that our marriage has brought you more grief than happiness. I’m sorry...”
So this was why he always apologized to you. You couldn’t bear it any longer.
Before he could say another word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms tightly around him.
“Don’t say that...” you managed amidst your own tears. “I’m the happiest with you. I could only endure all this with you by my side...”
His arms slowly came around you in return, holding you just as tightly—as though the two of you were the only things keeping the other from falling apart.
Because after all, before the throne, before the realm and its endless expectations— you and Valarr had always been, first and foremost, just two people who loved each other.
“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all the combatants!”
The tourney started at the crack of dawn. Knights in gilded armor lined the field while the stands overflowed with nobles and commonfolk alike, all eager to witness the spectacle.
You sat stiffly in the royal box beside Prince Baelor. Jousts had never excited you, the thunder of hooves and splintering wood only made your heart pound with dread rather than thrill.
The first round belonged to the lords of the realm. Knights from every corner of Westeros rode proudly into the lists as they tilted against one another. The crowd cheered loudly each time a lance shattered or a poor soul was thrown from his saddle.
Yet you barely watched— until a roar suddenly erupted from the crowd.
You looked up just in time to see Aerion lowering his lance after his last winning tilt. Across the field, Ser Leo Tyrell lay sprawled and bloodied in the dust beside his fallen horse.
The crowd cheered wildly as he removed his skull-like helm. Even from afar you could see the cruel curve of his smile. Not long after, he rode toward the royal box, stopping below the platform and looked up at you, making your insides churn uneasily.
“My princess,” he called smoothly, his eyes catching the morning sun. “Please grant me your favor.”
You truly hesitated, because you had wished to grant yours for your husband in the first place. But at Baelor’s urging and the knowledge that the house of the dragon must be seen united in front of these people, you relented.
You silently dropped the wreath to his lance, and he grinned in response.
“I shall wear it proudly,” he told you with a smirk.
You forced yourself not to respond. He rode away soon after, leaving murmurs of the audience who wondered why the prince royal was asking the favor of the princess consort of his own cousin in his wake.
The second round of the joust began not long after.
Many combatants gathered at the center of the field, their armor gleaming beneath the growing sunlight, and the herald raised his staff, announcing:
“Prince Valarr of House Targaryen, Heir of Dragonstone, will choose his opponent of the day!”
Valarr came riding into the arena atop his black destrier, his armor dark and polished like obsidian. He looked calm—almost impossibly so—as he surveyed the line of waiting knights.
Your heart pounded painfully in your chest as you watched your husband rode slowly past the gathered challengers. Then, almost immediately, he lowered his lance and pointed it directly at—
“Prince Valarr chooses Prince Aerion Brightflame, second son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall!”
Gasps rippled through the stands before they broke into cheers. Prince Baelor beside you exhaled slowly, and you clutched your heart.
Your felt sick to your stomach. He really made good on his promise to Aerion. “No...” your voice came out in a croak.
Noticing your distress for a while now, Prince Baelor reached over and gently took your hand.
“He will be fine,” he assured you as you squeezed his palm. You looked at him helplessly, tears already shining in your eyes.
Baelor watched his son ride into position with a thoughtful expression. “My late wife used to worry like you whenever Valarr entered the lists too,” he said then, a nostalgic smile on his face. “She would clutch my arm just as tightly.”
His gaze softened when your first tear fell and you hurried to wipe it. As a father, he was glad that his precious son had you to worry about him. He is in good hands, he thought.
Baelor too had taken measures to keep Valarr safe all this time, but he also knew that for better or worse, his son had inherited certain stubbornness from him, especially when he was after something he wanted.
The two royal princes of House Targaryen lowered their visors... and the first tilt began.
Your heart was in your throat as you knew the truth others didn’t. Valarr was not the most naturally gifted fighter. While Aerion thrived in the field as though born for it, Valarr had to earn his skills through relentless training and work harder than most to simply match what Aerion could.
And it showed. Each pass forced him to fight to remain upright in his saddle.
For the first three tilts, Valarr and Aerion broke their lances evenly. It was during the fourth tilt that disaster began.
Aerion angled his lance downward toward Valarr’s horse and the impact sent the animal crashing sideways. Your husband fell hard into the dust.
A cry escaped your lips, but before you could even breathe, he was already rising, demanding his right for contest of arms.
The clash of their blades echoed across the arena as they struck again and again. The fight was fierce, relentless, the princes accumulating wounds from each other.
Then Valarr knocked the morningstar from Aerion’s grip— the crowd roared as the two abandoned their weapons entirely—
And they fought with their bare hands.
. . .
Valarr’s head was still ringing from the earlier fall. The world swayed with each breath and he could taste his own blood, but he forced himself to remain standing as he lunged at his vile cousin.
Each time he remembered how he had forced himself on you the night before, his blood boiled, and it was what fueled him upright. However, Aerion was always the better fighter— his blows came hard and fast, and Valarr had to take several strikes to the face.
They were clearly wearing each other out. Every strike grew heavier, every breath harsher as the fight dragged on beneath the blazing sun.
Then suddenly—whether by chance or by the Seven’s judgment—Aerion stumbled.
And Valarr seized the moment. He surged forward and struck him again and again, every punch driven by the fury he had kept buried from the night before.
Aerion lost his footing and fell into the dirt. Valarr staggered forward, chest heaving, driving his boot sharply into his cousin’s chest.
“Yield,” he demanded through ragged breaths. “Yield, cousin!”
Aerion glared up at him, his silver hair matted with dust and his own blood, his face badly bruised. For a long moment it seemed he might refuse out of sheer spite as he spat on his boots.
“I yield.”
Done. It is done.
“Prince Valarr is victorious!”
The crowd thundered in cheers, but he barely heard it. His gaze lifted instead towards the royal box.
Towards you, who looked breathtakingly beautiful in the colors of Targaryen crimson and black. Even from the arena floor, he could see the track of tears on your cheeks. His heart warmed so much at the sight of you.
And seeing that, he vowed he would crown you his Queen of Love and Beauty by the time this tourney ended.
“I told you… I bloody told you!”
Your voice rang through the chamber as you hovered anxiously beside him.
Valarr sat at the edge of the bed after a maester finished binding another bruise along his ribs and left. Dark blotches were already blooming across his arms and shoulders, and a shallow cut near his mouth had been carefully stitched. Yet he boyishly grinned at your irked face.
“I only wished to win the victor’s laurel,” he said almost innocently, though the faint wince he tried to hide betrayed how sore he truly was.
“For what?” you demanded, looking pale after enduring days of anxiety that it made your gut not sit well with you, arms crossing over your chest. “So you could come back marred with bruises from head to toe?”
Valarr merely smiled. Because despite the aches in every limb, the memory of this morning still lingered warmly in his mind.
“I name you, my beloved princess... the Queen of Love and Beauty.”
The gasp had swept through the stands and everyone was stunned in silence before the cheers and well wishes roared the moment he dipped his lance towards you.
He had fought for eight days just for that, pushing his aching body to the edge so the realm could see exactly what he wanted them to see. A prince utterly devoted to his wife.
To Valarr, that alone had been worth every bruise.
But you were still glaring at him.
“And what if something worse had happened?” you continued, clearly not ready to forgive him so easily, a hand above your heart. “What if—”
But your words faltered as a sudden wave of nausea rose in your throat, the color draining from your face as your stomach lurched unpleasantly. You placed a hand over your mouth.
“What is it?” he started, concern sharpening his voice.
However, you were unable to answer him as the urge to throw up overwhelmed your senses. You turned abruptly, and hurried towards the chamber pot.
Valarr was on his feet instantly despite the protests of his battered body. “My love—”
He reached you just as you finished retching, both arms coming to steady you. “Are you unwell?” he asked, alarmed. “How long have you been feeling ill?”
You wiped your mouth with a trembling hand. The room seemed to sway slightly as you leaned against his bare chest for support. For a moment neither of you spoke as you evened your breath.
It was then that realization dawned on the two of you.
A thought—one both of you had not dared to voice—hung heavily in the air. You remembered that night on his desk, and you almost let out a gasp.
You had gone through this before, and Valarr felt the same fragile spark of hope stir in his chest, but he forced himself to calm down.
Your eyes slowly lifted to meet his, your hands shook slightly as Valarr took them in his own. He held you carefully, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles in quiet reassurance. His mismatched eyes held yours steadily.
“No matter what happens this time,” he declared, “I would stay beside you. I would take good care of you.”
You had heard his vows before—spoken before the gods, before the High Septon, before the realm itself. And never once had Valarr failed to keep his word.
If the Seven chose to bless you this time, then you would welcome the miracle with hope.
And if they did not… You would still have him. And he would still have you.
When he pressed a tender kiss to the side of your head, you knew that much was certain.
summary: you assume jack likes you until the pitt starts betting on how long it'll take him and samira to get together; jack assumes you like him until you get called into work while on a date with your coworker. turns out, all it takes is a bad bet and an even worse date for you and jack to realize how in love the two of you are. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity santos, samira mohan, nick barker, mcvadi crumbs
contents: friends to lovers, idiots in love, implied age gap, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, jealousy, humor, so much flirting, cw for medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, and probably several hr violations
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You make it halfway through your shift with a lighter wallet and a heavier heart than when you started it.
You can hear Princess shuffling through her stack of cash from the other side of the workstation, flaunting her winnings from a well-placed bet. You try and fail not to let it distract you as you scribble at the clipboard before you, with your heavy head propped on your clenched fist.
Charting was hard enough back when the computers were still running, back when it was easy — let alone when you have to make every single note by hand, and flit physically through a hundred different files just to cross-reference all the information.
“Is this what it was like back when you were a resident?” you’d asked Jack, when he dropped off an order slip by the filing cabinet, beside the bulky fax machine you were standing in front of and trying to tame.
He slid in beside you with a wide hand on your lower back, smelling like a dizzying mixture of sweat and musky cologne. He adjusted your labs in the tray without another word, turning it around and flipping it right-side up for you.
“Yeah, actually,” he’d nodded, dialing the proper number on the machine with his pointer finger, including the area code that you had forgotten to add. The corner of his lip flickered upward in a faint half-smirk as he joked with squinted eyes, “Back in the 1900s— when charting was done by candlelight.”
You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”
“Extremely,” he deadpanned.
“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”
Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”
“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”
Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”
You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot.
You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.
“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.
Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”
“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.”
You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again.
“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”
“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”
“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath.
Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick.
You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”
“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’”
She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.
“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”
You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.
“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”
“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”
“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”
She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”
You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken.
You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.
You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”
Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.
“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms.
Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black.
He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.
“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.
“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”
He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting.
“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”
“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.
Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”
“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”
“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”
“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.
“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.
“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”
You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.
“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose.
A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:
“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan.
You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips.
Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)
“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”
“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”
“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.
“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”
“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.
“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”
Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.
“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly.
Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow.
“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”
Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again.
“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”
“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”
You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do.
Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels.
“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”
Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”
“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”
Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”
You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient.
You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.
“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”
His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze.
Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R.
Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.”
Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy.
You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.
Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room.
You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.
“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.
“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.
“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”
The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name.
“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”
You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.
“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”
He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.
You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”
“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”
“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”
His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”
You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is.
You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness.
You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile.
“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”
“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”
“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”
“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.
“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”
You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.
“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.
“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.
“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”
Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.
“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.
“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”
“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”
“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”
“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”
“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”
“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”
Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.
You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once.
The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.
You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.
You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him.
Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.
You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.
“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”
“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth.
He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.
“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”
You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.
“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.
“…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.
“Dr. Abbot.”
Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”
His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”
“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”
Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.
“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”
It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.
Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.
“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”
Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call.
You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better.
The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.
“You can get that if you need to—”
“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”
The call ends before you can answer it.
Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”
“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”
Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.
“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.
“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”
“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”
You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.
“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”
“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”
The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach.
The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts.
You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.
Jack smells you before he sees you.
He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder.
By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.
“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.
“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.
“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.
“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.
“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”
Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger.
“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”
Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.
Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s.
“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor.
“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.
He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.
“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.
Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”
“How was the, uh… The date?”
“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”
“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”
His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.
“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”
“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”
You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.
Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.
“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.
Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.
It clicks shut behind you.
“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”
“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.
“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”
Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.
“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”
“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”
Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.
“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”
The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”
“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”
“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.
Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.
“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.
“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”
“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”
You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.
Jack follows your every move.
“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”
You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach.
“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”
Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”
Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”
You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin.
You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.
Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.
“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”
You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again.
“Crystal,” you quip drily.
You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later.
Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.
The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.
“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.
You push the man away from you on instinct.
“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.
Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.
Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile.
“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.”
The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach.
“Which means I just lost all of my money…”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”
It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.
“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”
“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”
You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.
“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”
“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”
He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.
“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug.
“No?” Jack hums.
“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”
summary: in which you overhear sirius calling you his girl. thus, a lovesick and kiss-drunk sirius makes it his mission to say it again, and again, until you finally believe it.
warnings: fluff, excessive affection, pet names, public displays of affection, mild teasing, soft!sirius who’s so in love, overwhelming sweetness, lovesick behavior, lots of kissing, tooth rotting fluff
word count: 3.1k
masterlist
The thing about dating Sirius Black is that it never quite feels real.
Not in the way people describe disbelief, like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but in that strange, dreamy sense of stumbling into a story someone else might’ve written—some fairytale stitched with mischief and the kind of heat that lingers in the spaces between words.
It has been a few months now.
Enough time for your friends to stop blinking in surprise every time they catch you smiling at him, enough time for the rumors to die down and the whispers in the halls to quiet to a low murmur—though they never go away entirely when it comes to Sirius.
He is, after all, Sirius Black: loud-mouthed and sharp-eyed, honey-voiced and maddeningly beautiful.
And yet, somehow, he chose you. Or maybe you chose each other, slowly, stupidly,and sweetly.
You know what people must think. That you temper him. That he ignites you. That your silences fill in the blanks he never bothers to pause for. That he, for all his recklessness, somehow found something steady in you.
Which is why you’re heading to meet him now outside of class. Sirius had promised to spend the entire day with you today, as he was lately busy with studying.
You’re almost there when you hear his voice.
It’s not unusual—he talks loudly, as though the air is something that belongs to him, like even his words are allergic to restraint. But it’s the way he says something now that makes your steps falter.
You’re still around the corner, concealed by the stone archway. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.
“Sirius!” James Potter’s voice cuts through the corridor, warm and familiar, and it’s easy to picture his wide grin as he strides up to him.
“Come on, padfoot. We’ve got a pitch slot and I need someone to test my latest throw. You still owe me from last week when you ditched.”
Sirius laughs, the sound low and raspy in the way you’ve come to know too well. “Didn’t ditch,” he says.
“Oh, piss off,” James retorts. “You coming or not?”
There’s a pause. You imagine Sirius running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s pretending to think, when in reality he’s already made up his mind and just wants to seem dramatic.
“Can’t,” Sirius says finally, not sounding even the slightest bit apologetic. “I’ve got a packed schedule today.”
James scoffs, exaggerated. “What, you’ve started revising now? What exactly are you busy with?”
“No,” Sirius replies, too casual, too breezy. And then, with no warning at all, he adds, “I’m spending the day with my girl.”
It hits you like a whispered spell.
Not “my girlfriend,” not your name, not even some half-serious nickname. Just that. My girl.
You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the way your heart is thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape your chest, of the heat crawling up the back of your neck, of the way your fingers have curled slightly into your sleeves like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.
You’ve never been someone who takes up space easily, and right now, the sound of those two words fills every corner of your body, makes you feel almost... lit up.
It’s not the fact that he said it. You know you're his girl. He’s told you in the way he tucks his fingers into the loops of your jeans just to pull you closer in the quiet corners of the library.
In the way he lights up when he sees you walk into the common room, mid-sentence with Remus, stopping only to grin like you’ve rewired the gravity in the room.
In the way he sits behind you during study sessions just to braid strands of your hair and mutter things like “beautiful,” and “gorgeous.”
But still—my girl.
You’re fairly certain you and James both made the same face at the same time. That vaguely unhinged, utterly stunned, slack-jawed expression that usually precedes a dramatic spill or a burst of inappropriate laughter in the Great Hall.
Somewhere in your brain, a single electrical wire sparked, and then everything short-circuited.
You could practically see James’s eyebrows lifting halfway to the ceiling, and it’s almost hilarious, almost.
Because you would have laughed—if you weren’t frozen, rooted to your spot like some enchanted statue.
Then came Sirius’s voice again, casual and clear, carrying from inside the classroom, smug in the way only Sirius Black can be when he knows exactly where he’s headed.
“Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “She’s probably already out there waiting for me.”
James groans dramatically. “Tell your girl I’m filing for abandonment.”
“See you later, prongs,” Sirius calls back, followed by the scraping sound of a chair and the creak of hinges swinging open.
Panic sparks in your chest.
You leap back from the wall like you’ve just been caught with your ear pressed to the keyhole—because, well, you have, essentially—and immediately fumble with your bag, turning slightly so it looks like you’ve just arrived.
And then there he is.
Leaning against the doorframe like it’s something he was born to do. Hair half-tucked behind his ears, tie loose, expression bright and unreasonably happy for someone who got an earful from Slughorn not two days ago.
His eyes find you instantly, like he was already reaching for the sight of you before he even walked out.
“Hi, baby,” he says, voice soft and amused and utterly at home in the syllables.
“Hi!,” you reply, a little too fast.
His brow lifts slightly. “Hi.”
Your heart trips. “Hi.”
He stares at you for a beat, then lets out the kind of laugh that sounds like it comes from his chest. The kind of laugh that should probably be bottled and sold as some form of antidote in your humble opinion.
“You look a little too happy for a Monday, baby,” he says, stepping closer, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head tilted as he studies you. “What’s happening?”
You shrug with deliberate nonchalance, fighting the smile that tugs at your lips. “Can’t I be happy?”
He grins like you’ve just said something precious. “Of course you can,” he says, reaching out to squish your cheeks between his hands so your words are suddenly a little garbled.
“Just wanna know what’s got you extra happy today.”
You mumble something unintelligible, eyes darting away, and he narrows his own suspiciously.
“Hmm?”
You free your face from his fingers and try not to giggle. “It’s nothing.”
“Nuh-uh,” he says, tilting his head with mock offense. “You don’t get to smile like that and then say ‘nothing.’ Come on, tell me.”
You hesitate, toeing the stone floor with your shoe. “I, um. I heard you.”
Sirius blinks. “You heard me?”
“In class,” you clarify, shifting your weight to the other foot and feeling heat crawl up your neck. “When you were talking to James.”
He tilts his head again. “You get happy when I talk to James? That’s new,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles softly across your cheek—his touch featherlight.
His eyes, usually sharp with mischief, are softened now, warm and brimming with a quiet kind of awe.
You swat at his chest lightly. “No, Sirius.”
He laughs again, utterly delighted. “Okay, okay, sorry. What did I say?”
You bite your lip and look away. “Never mind. Forget it.”
“Absolutely not,” he says, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Now I need to know.”
You shake your head stubbornly, lips pursed, trying not to smile, but Sirius isn’t fooled.
He takes a slow step closer, tall enough that his shadow stretches over you, the scent of him curling into your breath. The air between you tightens.
“Wait,” he says suddenly, voice pitched low with amusement, grin sharpening like he’s just solved a riddle he’s been working on since breakfast, “Was it when I called you my girl?”
Your face gives you away in an instant.
Your eyes widen, the way they always do when you’re caught off guard, as if your thoughts have leapt too fast for your expression to catch up. Heat blooms high in your cheeks, blooming pink and soft across your skin like sunrise, betraying every effort to stay composed.
“Oh my god,” he says, actually laughing now, hands braced on his hips as if the revelation physically knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what got you all smiley?”
You narrow your eyes, cheeks blazing. “Stop laughing!”
He tries, he really does, but the laughter keeps bubbling out of him, shameless and golden.
You huff and turn on your heel, nose in the air like you’ve just declared a personal war against him.
But you don’t get far.
Before you can take a single step away, he moves—quick and fluid, one long stride and he’s behind you.
His fingers find your waist with ease, curling firmly around your sides, and in one seamless motion, he pulls you back—hard enough to make you stumble slightly—until you're flush against his chest.
He holds you close. So close it feels like you’re standing inside the space between seconds.
“Hey, hey, c’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, brushing against your skin like silk. His arms slip around you fully, drawing you in again, and this time, you don’t resist.
“Why so shy, baby?” he whispers, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief and tenderness all tangled together.
You pout instinctively, your fingers resting lightly against his chest. “Nothing.”
His brows lift. “No, no. No hiding. What is it?” He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “You are my girl though, right?”
You glare up at him, but your heart is not cooperating.
“You just... never called me that before,” you say, quiet, soft enough that it barely survives the space between you.
Sirius exhales, and pulls you even closer, resting his chin lightly on top of your head.
“Well,” he says into your hair, “You should start getting used to it.”
You don’t even get a moment to tease him back before he’s wrapping his arms around you again, tugging you flush against his chest like holding you is as instinctive as breathing.
He rocks you gently side to side, his chin hooked over your shoulder, and you can feel the quiet grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he speaks.
“You’re so cute, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for your ears.
He says it again, and again. Each repetition comes between a kiss to your cheek, his lips brushing against your skin with unbearable fondness, his long hair tickling across your jaw like satin.
“My girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your cheekbone.
Another kiss, this time closer to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty girl.”
You giggle, trying and failing to turn your face away as warmth floods your cheeks. “Sirius, your hair’s tickling me—”
He just smiles into your skin, clearly unbothered. Another kiss, this one slower, more lingering, pressed just beneath your ear. “My favorite person.”
You squirm in his arms, laughing harder now, your hands curled into his shirt as you try to wriggle away, but he only holds you tighter.
“My most favourite girl.”
Each word hums against your skin like a spell.
And you, useless and smitten thing that you are, melt for him completely.
A quiet giggle escapes you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face in his chest to hide the way your cheeks are burning.
You try to squirm away, overwhelmed and giddy, but his grip tightens gently and he tilts your chin up with two fingers, catching your gaze with a look so full of open affection it robs the breath from your lungs.
He holds your face like it’s something precious, like he’s afraid to let it go. His thumb brushes just beneath your cheekbone, featherlight and impossibly gentle, and then he says—quietly, sincerely—
“Can I get a kiss?”
The way he looks at you in that moment, like you’re his whole damn universe, is almost too much.
His long black hair falls into his eyes, the ends brushing his cheekbones, his mouth barely parted.
His eyes are shining, glassy with something deeper than a smile, and he’s smiling anyway, soft and crooked like the words he wants to say are too big to fit in his throat.
There’s a trembling silence where you don’t know how to speak.
Because this is the part no one sees.
This is Sirius Black in love. Not loud, not cocky, not showy or flirtatious. But bare, unshielded, and tender to the point of devastation.
And somehow, it still surprises you—how much he feels.
Because he plays it smooth, always, with his smirks and his swagger and his stupidly charming quips.
But deep down, Sirius is just as flustered to be around you as you are around him. Maybe even more.
He still hasn’t gotten used to saying your name out loud without his heart stammering. Still can’t look at you some days without wondering if you’re a dream made flesh. Still marvels at the fact that when you walk into a room, you’re walking toward him.
He calls you his girl like it’s nothing. But to him, it means everything.
Because you’re not just his girl. You’re his world.
You lean up slowly, your hands resting against his chest like he might vanish if you touch him too fast. Then you press your lips to his, soft and sweet.
He smiles against your mouth before pulling back slightly, his eyes still closed, like he’s trying to savor the moment just a little longer. A beat passes. Then—
“Can I get another one?” he whispers, one eyebrow lifting, that same mischievous edge bleeding back into his voice.
You blink at him. “You’re so—”
But you don’t get to finish.
Because he kisses you again—harder this time. His hand cups the back of your neck, his other arm firm around your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid the world might steal you away if he lets go.
And when he kisses you like that—like you’re his first and last prayer—there’s no doubt left.
Sirius Black is utterly, hopelessly, and beautifully in love with you.
And even if you don’t quite realize it yet — he’s been yours all along.
His lips are still brushing against yours when he pulls back the slightest inch, gaze hazy and wonderstruck, as though he’s only just now realizing that you’re real.
His thumb is tracing absent shapes at your waist, his breath slow and uneven like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your mouth by air alone.
His eyes, dark and warm and barely blinking, drink you in like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of whatever this is.
And then, of course, he leans in again for a third kiss.
You stop him with a hand on his chest and a breathless little laugh. “Sirius,” you whisper, dragging out the syllables. “You can’t keep kissing me, we have a whole day ahead of us, and we’re still in the bloody hallway.”
He leans his forehead against yours with a groan, dramatic and wounded, as if you’ve just denied him water in a desert.
“But I thought you were my girl,” he says, pout in full effect, lips parted and brow creased with the exaggerated tragedy of it all.
“My girl doesn’t let me kiss her as much as I want? This is unfair.”
You burst out laughing, fully this time, and the sound of it sends a visible shiver through him.
He never gets tired of hearing it, probably never will.
“Come on, Black,” you tease, grabbing his hand and turning on your heel to pull him down the corridor behind you, your fingers threading easily through his.
“I need someone to help me carry the books I ordered.”
At that, Sirius lights up like someone’s handed him a trophy. “Books?” he says, perking up.
“You ordered books and didn’t tell me? That’s a violation of trust. But don’t worry, love—I’ll carry them, all of them. You won’t lift a single bloody finger.”
You glance back at him with a smirk. “Wow, look at you,” you tease, eyebrows raised.
“All manly now, huh? Sirius Black, the knight in shining armor, savior of poor girls with heavy textbooks.”
“I am manly,” he insists, puffing his chest out like an idiot and giving your joined hands a little swing. “And chivalrous and noble and handsome and criminally underappreciated and—“
You snort. “Okay, I get it!”
But just as you’re rounding the next corridor, Sirius glances down and suddenly stops short, yanking you to a halt beside him.
“Wait—you’re carrying your bag?”
You blink, confused. “Um... yes?”
He gasps so dramatically you’re worried for a moment he might start clutching his chest.
“What a horrible boyfriend I am,” he cries.
“Carrying nothing. Letting my girl do the heavy lifting like some kind of untrained baboon.”
You laugh again, shaking your head as he makes a scene of freeing your bag from your shoulder.
“Give me that. No, seriously, give it. I was raised better than this. Even my horrible, bloody mother would’ve scolded me for letting you carry your own things.” – He takes the bag from you with exaggerated care, slinging it over his shoulder – “Granted, she’d probably scold me just for being in public with you, but the point stands.”
You giggle again, unable to stop smiling, as he then reaches for your hand once more, the two of you falling into step like you were made to.
Your hands swing gently between you, fingers warm and safe in his.
And from that moment on, he never stopped.
Sirius Black referred to you as his girl in every corner of the castle, whether you were there to hear it or not.
He’d say it proudly, like the words alone lit something inside him.
And when you weren’t around, you’d better believe he was still talking, still rambling, and surely still flustered.
Cheeks tinted a soft, unmistakable pink, he'd go on and on to anyone who’d listen—usually James—about how smart you were, how good you smelled, how pretty you looked with your nose buried in a book or your hair tied back or when you laughed with your whole body like you did when he tickled your sides.
James, for his part, teased him relentlessly. But Sirius didn’t mind. Not even a little.
You were his girl after all, and he wanted the whole world to know it.
The Awful Daring of a Moment's Surrender | Dr. Frank Langdon
SUMMARY: Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares--but you felt solt. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have
Creative Event: A Doctor A Day
18, Prompt: "I was hoping it'd be you."
Color: Black
PAIRING: Dr. Frank Langdon x f!reader (nurse)
WORD COUNT: 6.3K
WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled 'enemies' to lovers, the one-bed trope, a pervy patient, nurse harassment, cheesy conversations and tropes, inner turmoil, mentions of divorce and kids, rehab, MOVIE MAGIC PLOT AND PACING lol, fluff, angst, etc.
A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! I word vomited, but oh well. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!
Frank’s eyes found you again. They always did—like muscle memory, like a bad habit he would never break.
He’d been trying to distract himself all day, trying not to think about the subtle shifts in gravity around you. Rewriting notes, rechecking vitals that didn’t need checking, drowning in inboxes and labs like they could offer sanctuary from a single truth: things between you weren’t the same.
It was in the way you smiled at everyone but him. The way you didn’t joke anymore, the way you walked right past him like the space between you wasn’t even worth acknowledging.
Frank didn’t notice at first because you weren’t cruel with it, just distant. Professional. Fine. Yet, that was what cut.
Frank had been through enough to know when something was wrong. Rehab taught him to hear quiet rejection, to notice when people flinched, or made space, but it hadn’t prepared him for this; for being back, being so-called better, and still losing something he hadn’t even realized mattered so much.
You—The person who used to crack jokes entirely at his expense. The one who once split stale vending machine chips with him during back-to-back codes. The one who used to call him Frank, like it meant something.
Now it was just Langdon, again. You’d pressed a reset, and he had no idea why.
It made him restless, fidgeting between cases and rushing through notes just to keep moving. Even now, leaning over the desktop was just another performance; posture rehearsed, hand perched on the mouse, eyes blank on the screen, but he wasn’t reading. He was watching you.
Not with malice, not even with interest, but with a persistence that had come to a point. The nurses whispered, the med students’ eyes bouncing between the two of you when you shared a case, and even the patients read between the lines to find something you were purposely ignorant of.
You posed yourself well, ignoring it. You moved through the ED with the kind of grace only long shifts could carve out: quick, tired, and efficient.
You’d been on your feet for too long, and it showed. Blood pressure cuffs slung around your neck, bruises bloomed under your eyes, and every that started neat was now purely functional. Still, you managed to find warmth for everyone: patients, techs, and that fourth-year who forgot how to use the glucometer.
Everyone but Frank. That’s what made it personal.
Frank shook his head, trying to refocus. “God–!”
“Now’s not the time to find God, Langdon.” Dana hummed sarcastically, pushing a clipboard into his chest. “...nor is it the time to makin’ eyes—leave the girl alone.”
“I’m not—” He’d almost fallen for the trap. It took effort to pull his eyes away from you to come up with something clever. “You wear that cross around your neck, but that doesn't make you a saint.”
“You’re warming up.” She was half-impressed with his counter. “If I still had a heart, I’d find this all moving.”
“There’s nothing to find.” He scoffed, flipping through the chart—chest pains, mild tachycardia, probably anxiety. “Give this to Whitaker, I have to…”
Dana watched his thoughts trail off his tongue. Frank didn’t look at his surroundings, moving swiftly with instinct, and chasing after you.
You were in Room 28, helping an elderly woman with a bedpan situation that was rapidly becoming a story. You were tired—so tired. The fluorescent lights felt like a second skin, and your scrubs smelled like antiseptic and cafeteria curry.
That was when he walked in.
“Need a hand?” Frank leaned in the doorway, stethoscope slung loose around his neck like a badge of charm.
You didn’t turn; there was no need. “Not unless you want to glove up.”
“Tempting.” His hands remained secure in his pockets.
You exhaled, kept your focus on the patient, and murmured, “I’m almost done here.”
The woman in the bed chuckled. “He’s handsome. Is he yours?”
“No—”
“—Not yet.” Frank, amused, muttered, not even sure why he said it. Habit. Hope, maybe.
You shot him a glare.
“Just offering help. I know the nurses have their opinions, but c’mon.” He held up his hands with feigned innocence. “I’m ER Ken. Infectious charisma, average height but above-average presence—”
“I’ll remember that for the next peer eval.”
“Put it under ‘Team Dynamics.’” He grinned.
You finished settling the patient, making sure she was clean and comfortable, ignoring the resident.
You tucked the woman in, adjusted her oxygen, and brushed her shoulder in a way so small and human it made Frank ache. He remembered that version of you. Kind and unflinching, a better presence than he deserved. Yet, you walked past Frank like he wasn’t there, heading to the sink.
“I’ve been trying to figure out if I did something…” Frank followed you, knowing he’d have to spit it out; you only reserved so much time for his antics. “If I said something. You’ve been—”
“Don’t make this a thing.” You turned the faucet on.
“I’m not. I just…” Frank hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. “You used to talk to me.”
“I still talk to you.”
“Barely.”
Your jaw worked, tension spiking along your spine. You didn’t meet his eyes. You focused on scrubbing your hands raw.
“I didn’t relapse, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Frank was quieter now, afraid of mentioning his slip-up would doom him further. He spoke, though, desperate for your trust. “I’m keeping up with the meetings. Still doing the steps, I just—”
That made you pause. Just a fraction.
Frank exhaled like he hated himself for even needing to say it. “I just—I don’t know if you think I’m…”
“I know.” Your voice clipped, cutting him off before the self-deprecation. “Everything’s fine, Langdon.”
The silence was stretching, and you still wouldn’t look at him.
And he didn’t know—couldn’t even guess—that it wasn’t judgment in your distance. It was longing. Because the truth was, you missed him.
You missed the guy who lit up night shifts with jokes and zero-hour brilliance, who remembered weird details like who drank Diet Coke and who had knee pain when it rained. He’d pull someone back from a code and then flirt with a phlebotomist in the same breath.
You missed the chaos, the gallows humor, the late-night vulnerability he didn’t show anyone else. You missed what he’d been to you before everything fell apart, before he disappeared into rehab and came back someone careful and trying.
You stared at the faucet, letting cold water run over your hands longer than necessary because Frank Langdon was all wit and half-sincere charm and just enough vulnerability to make it dangerous. You wanted to let him stay steady. You wanted to respect the ground he’d fought to gain.
So, you’d built walls instead of reaching for what you used to have. And Frank mistook the bricks for bitterness.
“I just…” He was careful this time, more measured with confidence for the first time in a while. “I don’t want to make it worse.”
You finally looked at him then. You opened your mouth—
All the pagers buzzed.
Rapid Response, Room 19. Frank’s name echoed overhead. You didn’t say anything else, just turned toward the call.
—
There were three trauma codes before noon. Two staff call-outs. The crash cart had gone missing for forty goddamn minutes—later found wedged behind the elevator by an intern who looked like he might cry. There was a broken limb in nearly every bay. The psych consult was MIA. And the coffee in the breakroom had devolved into some viscous, black, tar-like substance that no one had the heart to dump out.
You hadn’t sat down since 06:45.
Your legs ached. It felt like your brain was holding itself together with surgical tape and gauze. And somewhere in the blur of vitals and codes, Frank had appeared—gliding through the chaos like he was born for it, which, annoyingly, he probably was. He hadn’t said much to you, just glanced a little too long across charts and supply drawers, handing you things you didn’t ask for like it was muscle memory.
You didn’t speak about the curt conversation.. You didn’t need to. The silence between you had changed shape, warmer, heavier. Unspoken. Observed. Especially by everyone else.
“You seeing this?” Perlah had muttered in Tagalog near the med cart earlier, watching the way Frank hovered too long beside you as you updated a chart. “He’s not even being subtle anymore.”
Even the med students were catching on. They tracked Frank’s movements like nervous meerkats, always watching, half-scared he’d snap if someone asked a dumb question near you, but there was no time for teasing now. The ED claimed your time.
“Room six—” Dana called, waving a chart. “Gary’s back.”
That name landed heavy. A regular, known for the kind of slow, slurred vulgarity that turned any nurse’s stomach. He came in bruised and bleeding every few weeks, drunk and grinning, always with something disgusting to say.
Princess made a face. “I got him last time.”
“We’ve got two fresh traumas, a seizure in the hallway, and a combative patient screaming about lizard people in four. Who’s got the thickest skin today?” Dana tried. In moments, she’d start picking whoever locked eyes with her.
So, you’d already stepped forward, grabbing gloves. “I’ve got it.”
“You sure, kid?” Dana gave you a look.
You nodded. Confident and detached, you’d handled worse. You were wrong.
Gary was worse than usual—reeking of rotgut whiskey and stale piss, the cut above his eye oozing lazily. He grinned when he saw you. That same slow, lecherous grin.
“I was hoping it’d be you.” He drawled.
“Let’s keep this quick, Gary.” You didn’t blink.
“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t play hard to get.”
Behind you, one of the med students cringed.
“Vitals first.” You added flatly. “Then we can deal with that eyebrow.”
Gary wouldn’t let up. Kept leering. Mumbling shit you didn’t want to hear. When you reached for the BP cuff, he grabbed your wrist, fingers greasy and possessive. Something in you snapped like brittle wire.
“Baby, come on, let’s—”
“Gary—!” You broke, pulling away.
You didn’t remember what you said next. Only that your voice was sharp, loud enough that Kiara was in the room a second later, followed by an orderly. Only that your hands were shaking when you left the bedside, that your breath came too hard, too fast.
The room froze.
You didn’t notice Frank, not yet. Not standing at the mouth of the trauma bay with a chart in his hand, his whole body stilled in the chaos. Not the med students watching him watch you, eyes flicking nervously between his unreadable expression and your barely-contained rage.
“Hey, hey!” Kiara appeared behind you, palms up, gentle. “Hey—I’ve got it. Security’s on their way.”
“He put his hands on me.” Your words came out harsher than you meant.
“I know.” She reassured quickly. “...but you’re shaking. Go breathe. I’ve got this. Go.”
You couldn’t move at first. Then you did.
The second you stepped out of the trauma bay, the air felt different. Too bright. Too cold. Like you were vibrating just under your skin. You braced your arms on the half-wall near the ambulance entrance, trying to ground yourself.
It was stupid, maybe. Overblown. He hadn’t hurt you. But it wasn’t just about Gary. It was about all of them, the patients. The way they looked at you. Talked to you. Touched you. Like being a nurse meant being furniture with a pulse.
Still inside, voices filtered through the ED. Beyond the worried gossip, Dana clocked Frank quickly, reading his intention through his body language.
“Don’t.” Dana warned. “Don’t go charging after her.”
Frank’s tone was quieter. “I’m just—”
“She doesn’t need a savior. She needs backup.” She looked at him sternly, eyes direct above her reading glasses. “And if you’re gonna be in her corner, be in it. Don’t mess around.”
“I’m not.”
“Then listen to me—” Dana eased in a way he didn’t expect. “From mother to son: she’s one of the best we’ve got. This place barely holds together on a good day. She needs someone she doesn’t have to fight with or protect. So, just do it right.”
When the door clicked behind you. You didn’t need to look.
Frank.
He leaned against the wall beside you, just close enough to count.
“You okay?” He asked eventually.
You exhaled slowly. “Fine, Langdon.”
He didn’t push. Just nodded once. “Saw what happened.”
“I was supposed to be the one with the thick skin.” You stared at the asphalt, borderline mocking yourself.
“You are.”
You looked at him then. Really looked. His face was tight, concern tucked under practiced calm. His eyes didn’t move from yours.
“I’m just so tired.” You put aside everything, admission taking over. “Tired of being professional when I’m shaking. Tired of being the one who doesn’t get to snap.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” You asked, the words sharper than intended. “You’re a resident. You raise your voice, and people listen. I raise mine, and they send me outside.”
Frank didn’t answer right away. The siren-whine of an ambulance in the distance curled under the tension between you.
“This place grinds you down.” He answered thoughtfully. “Chews up good people and spits out burned-out husks. Especially nurses.”
You looked over at him. “That’s poetic.”
“You get poetic when you’ve had two hours of sleep and four patients die on you before noon.” He teased.
“It’s not just today, you know.” You needed it all out. “It’s all of it. The short-staffing. The harassment. The way we get called emotional when we push back.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Then what do we do?” You turned your body toward him, arms still crossed.
He looked at you then—really looked. Eyes softer than they’d been all day. Maybe all week.
“We look out for each other.” He said. “We start there.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Maybe because they weren’t vague. Weren’t said with distance. They were about you. About him. About now.
“You’ve been doing that.” You caved. Your bravado was thinning. “More than I expected.”
“I don’t always get it right. But I’m trying.” He smiled a little, not like he was proud of himself, but like it hurt to admit.
“I’m not used to someone having my back.”
“I am,” he said, almost gently. “Used to having yours.”
That was when you met his eyes again. Something cracked open between you. Something that felt like acknowledgment. A beginning without the comfort of denial. A door you could choose to walk through—or not.
“I don’t need rescuing.” You sniffed over your disdain, pride getting the better of you.
“I know.” Frank smiled, just a flicker. “Doesn’t mean I won’t step in if you need someone in your corner.”
You let yourself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours. And when the door behind you swung open again—Dana’s voice calling your name, Robby barking for Frank—you didn’t move right away.
Neither did he. Just for a second longer, you stood there. Together. Quiet. Seen.
—
Twelve hours bled into twenty-four.
The day-shift staff were long gone, replaced by the night crew with their thermal mugs and haunted stares. The vending machines buzzed like they were short-circuiting. Someone's half-eaten dinner steamed under the warming light in the break room, forgotten in the rush of a trauma that never came.
But now it was quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of still that only came when the ED hit a strange middle space, where the sickest patients had been stabilized or shipped upstairs, and the waiting room had emptied enough to mop the floors. There was no screaming, no alarms. Just the low murmur of machines, the shuffle of shoes over waxed linoleum, and the tired hum of lives slowly sorting themselves back into place.
And through it all, there you were, still there, still moving.
You were doing a double. Again.
The badge clipped to your scrub top felt like it weighed more than you did. Your feet throbbed, your hands were dry and red from sanitizing a thousand times. You’d been charting for so long, your signature didn’t look like handwriting anymore.
Then, somewhere around hour fifteen, you noticed Frank wasn’t orbiting anymore.
He was still there, but not present. Not watching you like before. No one-liner flirtations, no smug grins when you passed in the hallway. No caffeine jokes, no impromptu debates over IV push vs drip. No teasing. No lingering. Just…doing his notes in the corner like a ghost.
At first, you welcomed it. Space was good. The distance made it easier to forget the way he laughed at 3 AM, or how he always remembered who hated banana-flavored anything and kept those syringes off your trays.
But now, it just felt off, wrong.
Even when he passed by your station earlier, he didn’t offer a look. You felt it in your stomach; something folding in on itself. The feeling lingered even when your shift finally ended and you planned to smother it at home.
However, outside, the rain came down in violent sheets, hammering the windows like fists. The storm had crept in slowly, quiet drizzle around hour twelve, upgraded to a full deluge by twenty. You’d caught a glimpse of it while restocking in triage. The sky looked bruised black and blue. Thunder growled low and constant.
Now, while you tried to outwait it, you saw Frank standing near the exit with his jacket in hand, keys spinning around one finger, watching the rainfall like he was trying to time it.
“You're really going out in that?” You asked, voice rough from disuse.
Frank turned slowly, his hair messier than usual, exhaustion shadowing his jaw. “Was gonna try. Why? You think you need a canoe?”
You huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. “Just need the city bus to show up and not hydroplane into traffic.”
“You're serious?” He raised a brow.
“Public transit loyalty card. VIP tier.” You held up your badge and tapped the back.
Frank didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his expression. Tired amusement. Then: “You’re not actually waiting for the bus in this shit, are you?”
“Might just crash in the on-call room.” You shrugged, hands pulling at your sore neck. You already imagined how the pain would worsen from the closet in the room.
“Classy.”
“It’s either that or drown crossing Main.”
Frank didn’t answer right away. The rain smacked louder against the glass. You could see the reflection of streetlights bending and breaking in the puddles. What was left of the night felt waterlogged, like the whole city was sinking into the hidden sunrise.
“Come on.” Frank caught his keys, no longer playing with them in contemplation. “I’ll drive.”
You frowned. “You don’t even know where I live.”
“Figure it out on the way.” Frank pulled at the door, rain competing for volume. “Unless you're really attached to that lumpy cot and crusty blanket.”
You hesitated, but the thought of peeling off your scrubs and collapsing into anything that wasn’t hospital property won—barely.
—
The drive was slow. Treacherous.
Frank didn’t talk much, just adjusted the heat, tapped the steering wheel. Water pooled in the gutters, flooded intersections. The radio kept chiming in with traffic alerts. Flash flood warnings shot across his dashboard screen like small, polite threats.
Frank’s wipers cut across the windshield in long, rhythmic arcs. Streetlights smudged through the downpour. Everything looked like it was dissolving in slow motion.
You sat rigid, arms crossed over your chest, not because you were cold, but because the silence between you carried the weight of earlier even when you thought it had passed.
When he turned down the bridge toward your part of town, the red-and-blue lights started flashing before you could say anything.
Detour. Road closed. Flooding past the viaduct.
“Seriously?” You sat back in your seat with a groan.
Frank just sighed, threw the car into reverse, and made a lazy U-turn.
“What now?” You asked.
He didn’t answer until you were headed towards the highway. “You crash at mine.”
You turned your head slowly. “What?”
“I’m not dropping you at a bus stop in a flood zone.” He didn’t glance at you.
“And what, you just collect stray nurses like wet cats?”
Frank smirked. “Just the ones who hate me.”
You looked out the window again. The storm hadn’t let up. There wasn’t another option. So you said nothing.
—
Frank’s apartment was unexpected.
It was small. Not cramped, but modest in a way that made you hesitate in the doorway. You’d assumed, maybe unfairly, that a trauma doctor with Langdon’s swagger would live somewhere sleek—high-rise, steel finishes, skyline view.
What was before you was simple, lived-in, and chronically unfinished. The kind of space that felt like someone had moved in, but hadn’t quite arrived.
The walls were still bare. A few cardboard boxes sat scattered, half-unpacked. One had the word BEDROOM scribbled on it in black Sharpie. Another, in faded ink, simply read DON’T OPEN.
A third sat partly torn open, its contents halfway spilled: mismatched mugs, a phone charger that looked like it had been through hell, a cracked photo frame you pretended not to see Frank kick under the couch.
You didn’t ask. Instead, you just toed off your shoes and stepped inside.
The couch squeaked beneath you as you sat. Not in the polite, old-furniture kind of way, but in the unmistakable squeal of plastic still clinging to its original shape. The kind people only left on when they were afraid to settle.
“Jesus.” You cursed, adjusting your weight and wincing at the sound. “What is this?”
Frank came out of the kitchen, holding two chipped mugs. “You’re lucky I have furniture. Most of my things are still in storage. This was my brother-in-law’s. He was gonna throw it out, but I figured… y’know. Good enough to sit on.”
You shifted again. The plastic shrieked. “That’s a generous definition of ‘good enough.’”
Frank grinned, tired. You took the mug he offered. It said “#1 Dad” in fading black letters. You didn’t comment. He didn’t either.
“I’d offer something stronger.” He was eager to fill any lull, holding onto conversation with you. “Only keep decaf and regrets around here these days.”
There were toys scattered in places they didn’t belong—ghosts of smaller hands that hadn’t visited in weeks. A plastic dinosaur on the windowsill. A pink glitter sneaker was half-tucked under the bookshelf. A toddler’s sippy cup wedged next to a water-damaged copy of The House of God and what looked like an untouched grief workbook.
Frank noticed you noticing.
He didn’t say anything. Just rubbed at the inside of his wrist where a bracelet or a watch might’ve once lived. He didn’t wear jewelry anymore. Not even the stuff his kids made. Not the macaroni bracelet. Not the braided cord with their initials. Not the ring from before.
Every time Frank looked down and saw those things, it was like a jab. They acted as a reminder that he let those around him down. That his kids had a dad who disappeared for a while, only to came back paler, carrying twelve steps in his pocket, and a shadow where self-esteem used to be.
He didn’t want to see the evidence of the old version of himself—before he was the kind of man who had to prove, every day, that he could be better. So, the jewelry stayed in a drawer along with the birthday cards he hadn’t opened.
And still, you were here. Sitting on his couch, holding one of his two good mugs, like this wasn’t the strangest place in the world to be after a double shift.
“So—” Frank said eventually, settling on the other end of the couch with a tired sigh. “You always this judgmental about interior design, or just when I’m trying to impress you?”
You raised the mug to your lips, amused. “If this is you trying to impress me, I think I owe Mateo twenty bucks.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s tracks.”
The couch squeaked again when he leaned back.
You let the joke hold for a while, watching headlights swim through the blinds. There was a slow hum to everything: the fridge, the radiator, the pulse in your ears.
It’s not weird.” You confirmed quietly. You knew Frank, what weighed down his wit; you could still read him better than himself. “Having me here. It’s just a favor.”
Frank didn’t look at you right away, but you felt the pause behind his next breath. He nodded slowly. Thoughtful. The weight behind his usual smirk had softened lately, turned into something more cautious.
This was a man who used to fill a room with charm like secondhand smoke. But lately, he moved like he didn’t want to leave a mark.
“It’s just…” You started, then let it trail off. You set your mug down on the floor, where it wobbled once before settling. “Sometimes I need a break from my place, too. Been sleeping with the TV on just to drown out the walls.”
It was a strange kind of comfort, this mutual unraveling in a too-small space. You were both tired. Post-shift wired on surviving adrenaline. The kind of fatigue that makes things feel a little sideways.
“Thanks for not…” He scratched his jaw, eyes flicking toward the unopened box labeled DON’T OPEN. “...y’know. Asking.”
You tilted your head. “About what? The boxes? Or the fact that your couch came wrapped like a crime scene?”
That got a real laugh out of him. One of those low, worn ones that cracked around the edges.
“Bit of both.” He confessed. “It’s all still kind of… in progress.”
You glanced at the plastic-wrapped cushion under your thigh. “If this couch is the final product, I’m worried.”
“Don’t be,” Frank said dryly. He didn’t want to scare it off, whatever this was, whatever fragile bridge had pulled you back toward him tonight. “I’m planning a grand unveiling in 2037, right after I find the will to unpack the blender.”
You nudged his ankle with your foot, light. “Now that’s impressive.”
He smiled. It wasn’t a big thing. But it was the real one—the kind that didn’t feel like a mask.
Frank’s smile stuck around, small and lopsided. You could tell he was tired, the kind of tired where everything got a little looser at the seams and emotions sloshing around in the silence between words.
Side by side, your legs brushed faintly whenever either of you shifted. The kind of closeness that felt accidental on the surface but wasn’t, not really.
Frank lifted his mug in a half-hearted toast. “So, what’s the nurse-verified rating on my hospitality so far?”
You tilted your head, letting your eyes wander the apartment. Still mostly boxes. The flickering votive candle on the counter cast shadows over the sippy cup on the bookshelf and the sad, slumped dinosaur on the floor.
“Well…” You said slowly. “The couch sounds like a haunted pool float, and I’m pretty sure your radiator is planning a coup. So… solid seven out of ten.”
“Seven?” Frank repeated, looking genuinely wounded. “Kind of harsh. I lit a candle.”
You turned your head toward the tiny flame on the counter, flickering like it was afraid of commitment.
“That’s a tea light you found at the bottom of a drawer.” You replied. “And it smells like sadness.”
“It’s called Rain Linen, too,” Frank argued.
You sipped your coffee. “Exactly.”
He laughed—barely there, but real. “Tough crowd.”
“You’d get an eight if you found me a blanket that doesn’t come out of one of those boxes.”
Frank stood halfway, grabbing something draped over the armchair. He tossed it toward you—a sweatshirt. Soft. Worn. Still faintly smelling of him.
“Emergency blanket.” He said as he slumped back into the plastic-wrapped cushion. “Limited stock.”
You didn’t fight it. Just pulled it over your head like it belonged there. It smelled like him. Laundry detergent, stale coffee, and something else—maybe an old cologne he didn’t wear anymore. You wondered if it had been for the kids. Or for someone who didn’t live here anymore.
“…Okay….” You conceded. “Eight.”
Frank’s mouth ticked upward. “Progress.”
You tilted your head back, exhaling slowly. The ceiling had a faint water stain in the corner. The candle flickered again, casting a gold hue over the curve of Frank’s cheek.
“You know,” you began after a beat, eyes half-closed. “This still beats sleeping three feet from the janitor's closet.”
“To low standards and plastic couches.” Frank raised his mug again, mock solemn.
You clinked your mug against his with a small thunk of ceramic. “Cheers.”
Frank glanced at you. He felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been wound tight for months. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a walking regret.
—
The mattress was too warm, too comfortable in the wrong places, and still smelled like cardboard. It dipped in the middle, pulling you both toward the inevitable gravity of sharing something too small and too temporary.
Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares—but you felt soft. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have it.
You weren’t touching Frank, but you could be. One shift of a knee, one breath too deep.
The room was dim, just the orange haze of the streetlight bleeding through the small bedroom window. The storm pressed against the windows, reminding you it still wanted in. The city hummed below, sirens trailing faintly through the neighborhood. It felt far away. Blurred. Like the hospital had been some kind of fever dream, and now this was the strange after-image left behind.
The couch hadn’t been an option. It still wore its plastic wrap like a shield, and Frank, in all his unbothered chaos, had only shrugged, “Too tired to pretend I have a real living room.”
So now you were here. In his room. Back to back. Sort of. On his mattress, the only thing unpacked.
The bedroom wasn’t tense, just tired. Mutual, bone-deep exhaustion—the kind only the ED could teach you. You could still taste the metallic tang of adrenaline if you thought hard enough. You could still feel the ghost of the pulse line flattening on a trauma patient, the cold sting of antiseptic on your skin.
Frank exhaled a low sigh beside you. “Goodnight, Nurse Sunshine.”
You smiled faintly as your eyes stayed on the ceiling. “There it is.”
A beat.
Then his voice, faintly curious: “There what is?”
“Your teasing.” You turned slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. “You’ve been weird all night. Frank Langdon with a filter is too nice—I thought you’d finally burned out.”
He made a soft sound—a half-scoff, half-humorless laugh. “What, were you hoping for something else? Is that it? Next time, I’ll insult your handwriting and throw a chair for balance.”
“Christ.” You cursed, gaze flicking toward the ceiling to hide your humor. “Forgot how soothing your bedside manner was.”
Frank shifted behind you, the mattress dipping further under the redistribution of weight. You turned to face him more fully, your arm folding under your cheek.
He was already watching you. Not with the usual glint. No smirk, no challenge. Just something unreadable. Curiosity, maybe. Or restraint. Tired, yes—but present. Focused.
Neither of you spoke.
The room pulsed with something heavier than words. The kind that sits just under your breastbone and hums. You could feel the heat of him, the nearness. Your limbs didn’t ache at the warmth, but your chest did.
You could see everything in this light—the faint scar on his chin, the deeper ones in his eyes. He looked lighter, too, in this space. Less Langdon: The Golden Boy and more man with a worn-down mattress, a mess of half-open boxes, and a T-Rex toy in the corner, no one had stepped on yet.
He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t lean in. But he didn’t look away either.
“I’m not the only one off tonight.”
“Yeah?” It was more of a confirmation than a question, but you still asked.
He gave the smallest nod, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking right at him.
“You’re not usually this…” He trailed off. The corner of his mouth tugged like he meant to make a joke of it, but couldn’t find the punchline.
“Don’t read into it. I’m just… tired.” Your voice was a breath more vulnerable than you wanted.
Then, lips quirking faintly: “You’ve been tired before. I’ve never seen you like this.”
You swallowed hard. Your throat felt dry. Frank studied you a beat longer, then let his head fall back on the pillow with a lazy sigh.
“I guess all it took was getting you in my bed.”
You huffed, less annoyed, more amused. The laugh escaped before you could catch it, surprising even yourself. But it lingered there, in the warmth between you, in the nearness that should’ve felt strange. It should’ve felt wrong.
“Just a long week.”
Frank nodded. “It’s been a long decade.”
“You too, huh?” You offered a slow shrug, letting your arm drape over your stomach like a flag of surrender. “Turns out watching people fall apart for a living isn’t super rejuvenating.”
Frank didn’t smile, but there was something in his face, recognition, maybe. Or guilt, worn soft by time.
The bed dipped again as he shifted, stretching his legs. His hand brushed yours, not enough to be deliberate, but enough to jolt something loose. You didn’t move it away.
“I almost called you last week.” Frank nodded once, small and tight, like the words had cost him more than he wanted to admit. “After that DOA in Trauma 2.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then, finally: “Didn’t want to make it—Didn’t want to… need something from you.”
That did something to your chest. Twisted it.
You could’ve made a joke. Dodged it. Asked about his IKEA allergy, but you didn’t. Instead, your fingers curled closer to his on the sheets, knuckles almost brushing.
You let everything settle, let it fold around you like a blanket that didn’t quite reach the feet.
Yet, you still whispered, “I’m here now.”
Frank didn’t say anything. But he didn’t move either. And in that moment, still and peaceful, the air between you did what the hospital never let it do—it breathed.
If you’d asked yourself at the beginning of the shift whether you’d end up here—in Frank Langdon’s bed, staring at the ceiling with your pulse in your ears—you would’ve assumed you'd collapsed into a coma and someone was feeding you fevered hallucinations out of spite.
You blinked slowly. Your eyes didn’t open again right away. The mattress was too warm. Your limbs too heavy. Everything floated.
The fluorescent-bright hospital was a universe away now. But for a second, your mind drifted there—half-asleep, half-aware—and you saw Frank again the way you had earlier that night.
Not with his usual sharpness. Not bored, or cracking some off-color remark to distract from the tension in the room. But listening. He’d knelt next to an elderly man in Trauma 3, held his hand when the monitors began to drop, and whispered something—something kind, but you couldn’t hear the words. It had stopped you cold. The grief in Frank’s face wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for anyone’s benefit. It was real.
You saw it. You felt it. Something in you shifted then, even if you didn’t want to name it. He hadn’t seen you watching and maybe that’s why it stuck.
Now, here, in his bed—not touching, but close—you wondered if that shift was still echoing somewhere close. You turned your face back toward the window. Let your eyes follow the glint of rain on glass.
And then—
“Am I too lucky to think this’ll carry into tomorrow?” Beside you, Frank’s breath was steady and slow.
Frank’s words were measured, like he wasn’t quite asking, but already knew the answer might disappoint him.
“I can be bribed with coffee.” You slurred just slightly from the edges of exhaustion.
A beat of a pause, then you heard the way he exhaled—half a chuckle, half a release of something else. Something heavier.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“I’m a nurse.” Your words ran together in a whisper. “We run on spite and caffeine.”
Frank shifted slightly, and you felt the faint brush of his knee against yours under the blanket. It wasn’t intentional. Probably.
That the warmth blooming low in your chest had nothing to do with him, or the softness he showed when he didn’t think anyone was watching. That the way your voice had dropped, the way your guard had slipped, wasn’t because of the look he gave you now, or the subtle way he’d been retreating all night like he didn’t trust the shift between you.
You told yourself all of that, but you didn’t move away. And neither did he.
Outside, the storm calmed to a hiss. The sirens faded. Somewhere in the next room, the heater kicked on again with a clunk. Familiar, homely, mundane.
You just lie there. Still. Frank shifted slightly, breath transitioning into the rhythm of sleep. And maybe tomorrow, in the bright buzz of hospital fluorescents, it would be like nothing happened at all. But tonight, in the hush of the storm and the slow exhale of sleep, something had shifted.
synopsis the olo’eyktan’s oldest daughter finds herself falling for toruk makto’s infuriatingly charming eldest son.
warnings no use of y/n.
word count 4.4k
it has been a few months since the sully family arrived in awa’atlu, seeking uturu. they learned the ways of your people quickly, perhaps faster than you expected.
when your father tasked you and your siblings with helping them adjust, you knew it would be no small effort.
your younger brother had been less than thrilled at first, grumbling about having to teach the forest people how to survive in the water. but in time, he grew accustomed to it.
tsireya, of course, had no complaints. if anything, she was too eager to help, though it was obvious why. she had taken quite the liking to the younger sully brother.
as for you? you didn’t mind them much. you treated them with respect and did your duty, teaching them as best you could.
but neteyam, the eldest sully, was the biggest pain in your tail.
at first, he had been quiet, reserved. almost too respectful. he treated you as if you were someone of great authority, so much so that you had to remind him once that you were not his superior.
oh, great mother, how you regret that now.
it was as if those words alone had shattered whatever restraint he had. now, neteyam refused to leave you alone. he took every opportunity to tease you, to pester you about anything and everything.
he was worse than your brothers. far worse.
for someone who carried himself as a mighty warrior, he certainly didn’t act like one. if he wasn’t showing off, casually proving that he could master every skill thrown his way. he was using that demon language of his, throwing strange words at you just to see your reaction.
and eywa, did he love your reactions.
those large, crystal-blue eyes of yours would widen in pure, utter confusion every time he spoke in that strange demon language. and that was exactly what he wanted.
he would grin, sharp and full of mischief, watching the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips parted slightly as if trying to make sense of the foreign words. then, just when you thought he might take pity on you and explain himself, he would simply shake his head.
“what?” you’d snap, frustrated beyond belief. “what does that mean?”
but neteyam would only tilt his head, feigning innocence. “nga kea nari si, yawntu?”
your tail flicked sharply behind you. “neteyam.”
nothing. just that insufferable smirk.
you hated it. hated how he refused to explain himself, as if he hadn’t just spoken an entirely different language to you. as if he hadn’t just left you standing there, trying to piece together something you had no hope of understanding.
infuriating.
and yet, every time, you found yourself waiting for the next time he’d do it again.
it was infuriating.
whenever the two of you were together, whether by chance or because your father had paired you up for some task, he would do the work, yes. but not without making your life miserable in the process.
today was no different.
your mother had asked you to fetch more shells for her, a simple enough task. yet, of course, neteyam had seen you leaving and, for reasons only eywa knew, decided to follow.
“you do not need help collecting shells,” he had said, trailing behind you like an overgrown ilu.
“and yet here you are,” you muttered, sifting through the sand near the shore, determined to ignore him.
neteyam crouched beside you, hands resting on his knees as he watched you work. he was silent for a moment—too silent. that was never a good sign.
“you know,” he finally mused, “where i’m from, we don’t waste time collecting pretty things from the sand.”
you exhaled sharply through your nose, refusing to rise to the bait. “we do not waste time,” you corrected. “the shells are used for many things.”
“oh, of course,” he said easily. “necklaces. bracelets. decorations.” your ears flicked in annoyance. “and medicine, neteyam. and tools. and trade.”
he hummed as if considering your words, then leaned forward, plucking a shell from the pile you had already gathered. “this one,” he said, holding it up, “definitely just for decoration.”
you snatched it from his grasp, shooting him a glare. “why are you here?”
he grinned. “what, and miss a chance to spend time with my favorite metkayina?”
you scoffed, turning back to your task. “go bother someone else.”
“i would,” he admitted, stretching out lazily beside you, “but no one else makes such great faces when i talk.”
your hands froze for a moment before tightening into fists. infuriating. absolutely infuriating.
rolling your eyes, you ignored him, focusing instead on plucking shells from the sand. and then he did it again.
that strange, foreign tongue slipping past his lips; smooth, effortless, knowing damn well you wouldn’t understand.
“these shells are just as beautiful as you,” he said, voice teasing yet undeniably soft.
you froze, fingers curling around the shell in your hand as you turned to him, eyes narrowing.
“what did you just say?”
neteyam only smiled. that smug, infuriating smile. “nothing.”
your tail flicked sharply behind you. “no,” you pressed, shifting to face him fully. “you said something. say it again.”
he tilted his head, as if considering it. then, with a maddening slowness, he shrugged. “i don’t think so.”
you hated this game. hated that he knew how much it drove you mad.
still, you tried to piece it together, running the words over in your mind, searching for meaning. but you had no hope of understanding. it was a language that didn’t belong to you; a secret only he held.
your lips pressed into a thin line. “you could be insulting me for all i know.”
neteyam chuckled, leaning back on his hands, his golden eyes warm with amusement. “you think so little of me, sevin?”
you huffed, turning back to your task, determined not to let him win. “one of these days, i will find out what you are saying,” you muttered.
he grinned. “i look forward to it.”
and you were determined.
later, when your mother and father weren’t demanding anything from you, you set out to find the younger sully brother.
lo’ak was more open than neteyam, more willing. he didn’t hold himself with the same strict discipline as his older brother, and you knew he was always eager to prove himself. perfect.
you found him near the village edge, sharpening his knife, tail lazily flicking behind him. he looked up as you approached, ears twitching with curiosity.
“what do you want?” he asked, though there was no real bite to his words.
you crouched beside him, tilting your head. “i want to learn your demon language.”
lo’ak blinked. “you mean english?”
you scowled. “demon language,” you repeated. “the one you and your brother use.”
lo’ak snorted. “right. and why would i teach you?”
you smirked. “because you like my sister.”
lo’ak stiffened. “i—what? no, i—”
you raised a non-existent brow, waiting.
he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s so unfair.”
you only shrugged. “i do not make the rules.”
lo’ak huffed but gave in easily enough. “fine,” he muttered. “what do you want to know?”
you leaned forward, eager. “start with this, what does neteyam keep saying to me?”
lo’ak knew exactly what was going on.
he had seen the way neteyam looked at you, watched how his usually disciplined, ever-perfect brother turned into a teasing, insufferable menace whenever you were around. neteyam was completely, hopelessly infatuated with you.
and now, here you were, looking at him for answers.
lo’ak smirked to himself. oh, this is too good.
he had two choices: he could lie, protect his brother’s pride, and let this little game of theirs continue.
or
he could tell you the truth and sit back to watch the chaos unfold.
really, there was only one correct option.
feigning nonchalance, he leaned back on his hands, pretending to think. “well,” he started slowly, drawing it out just to watch you grow impatient. “neteyam’s been saying some… interesting things.”
your eyes narrowed. “like what?”
lo’ak bit back a grin. oh, this was going to be fun. so fun for him.
because as he went on, explaining the things he had heard neteyam say to you in english, you listened intently, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind you.
what you didn’t see was neteyam moving through the village, searching for you. he had grown used to your presence, enjoyed bothering you whenever he could, so when he hadn’t seen you for a while, he decided to track you down.
and then he spotted you, with lo’ak.
the way his brother was smirking, looking like a complete menace, was a dead giveaway. neteyam didn’t even need to hear the conversation to know exactly what was happening.
his stomach dropped.
lo’ak was telling you.
his body tensed, tail flicking in irritation. oh, that little skxawng.
you still didn’t notice him. too focused on lo’ak, your arms crossed, head tilting as you listened. and lo’ak? oh, he was relishing this.
neteyam clenched his jaw. he had two options: stop this right now before you learned too much, or let it happen and deal with the consequences.
yeah, like hell he was choosing the second one.
so, before lo’ak could dig his grave any deeper, neteyam stormed over.
by the time neteyam stormed over, the damage had already been done. lo’ak had fully dug his grave, and he was lying in it with a big, shit-eating grin.
you turned at the sound of heavy footsteps, just in time to see neteyam approaching, his expression unreadable. his jaw was tight, ears pinned back, golden eyes locked onto his younger brother with something between fury and panic.
lo’ak just sat there, far too pleased with himself. “oh, hey, brother,” he said, voice dripping with fake innocence. “we were just talking about you.”
your gaze flickered between them, realization dawning. neteyam knew. he knew exactly what had just happened.
and judging by the way his tail lashed behind him, he was not happy about it.
you turned back to lo’ak. “so,” you said, tilting your head, “you’re telling me neteyam has been calling me beautiful this whole time?”
neteyam inhaled sharply. “lo’ak—”
“oh, yeah,” lo’ak cut in, completely ignoring him. “that and, you know, pretty much everything else a man says when he’s in love with someone.”
silence.
your lips parted slightly, but no words came. neteyam looked like he was about to die on the spot.
and lo’ak? well, lo’ak just grinned and clapped a hand on neteyam’s shoulder.
“good luck, bro,” he said before slipping away, leaving you both standing there, one of you in utter shock, the other in complete, soul-crushing regret.
neteyam stared at you, tense, waiting, trying to gauge your reaction.
you didn’t look at him at first, eyes fixed on the sand, lips caught between your fangs as if deep in thought. his heart pounded in his chest, breath held as he braced himself for whatever was coming.
then, slowly, the corners of your lips curled.
the biggest, most teasing smile stretched across your face as you finally lifted your gaze to meet his.
“oh,” you said, drawing the word out, tail flicking behind you. “so that’s what you’ve been saying this whole time?”
neteyam groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “lo’ak is dead.”
you laughed, the sound light and full of way too much enjoyment. “no wonder you never translated. what was it you said earlier?” you tapped your chin, pretending to think. “oh, yes, these shells are just as beautiful as you.’”
his ears flattened. “you don’t have to—”
“but i am beautiful, aren’t i?” you interrupted, tilting your head. “since you’ve been saying it so often.”
neteyam clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. he could not believe this was happening.
you leaned in slightly, eyes shining with mischief. “tell me, mighty warrior, what else have you been calling me?”
he groaned again, feeling his entire body heat up. this was not how he wanted you to find out.
but when he looked at you, truly looked at you, all teasing and bright-eyed, wearing that smile that made his stomach flip, he knew, deep down, that lo’ak had only sped up the inevitable.
so, with a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders and met your gaze.
“do you really want to know?” he asked, voice lower now, steadier.
your teasing smirk faltered just slightly. “…yes.”
neteyam took a step closer, eyes locked onto yours.
“yawntu,” he murmured, watching as your brows furrowed. “seysonì.”
you blinked, lips parting, the teasing edge in your expression flickering with something softer.
then he leaned in, voice just above a whisper.
“my love.”
your breath hitched.
for the first time since this little game between you had started, you found yourself at a loss for words.
your eyes flickered down to his lips for just a second—quick, barely noticeable, but he noticed. of course he did. neteyam was always watching, always reading you like an open scroll.
his ears twitched, tail giving the smallest flick as he took another step closer. close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, close enough that the teasing atmosphere between you had shifted into something else. something heavier.
“you’re quiet,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement. “that’s new.”
you swallowed, trying to regain some sense of control. “shut up,” you muttered, but the usual bite in your words was missing.
neteyam smirked. he knew he had you now.
slowly, deliberately, he lifted a hand, fingers brushing against the shell still clutched in your grasp. his touch was light—barely there, but it sent a shiver down your spine.
“you never did tell me,” he mused, golden eyes locked onto yours. “do you think i’m beautiful too?”
your heart pounded against your ribs. that smug skxawng. he was throwing your own words back at you.
but two could play this game.
tilting your chin up, you gave him a slow, knowing smile. “wouldn’t you like to know?”
then, before he could get the last word in, you turned on your heel, leaving him standing there; stunned, frustrated, and entirely hooked.
you left him standing there, smug and victorious, but your heart was still pounding.
by the time you returned home, you needed to find your sister.
because these forsaken sully brothers had somehow woven their way into both of your hearts.
you found tsireya near the woven mats of your family’s marui, carefully threading beads onto a new piece of jewelry. she looked up as you entered, a soft smile on her lips—one that quickly turned into curiosity when she saw the look on your face.
“you look…” she tilted her head, studying you. “different.”
you scoffed, flopping down beside her. “frustrated.”
tsireya’s brows lifted. “ah. neteyam?”
you groaned, rubbing your temples. “always.”
her soft laugh rang through the marui, and for a moment, you let yourself relax. but then you narrowed your eyes, gaze flickering to the necklace she was working on.
“let me guess,” you said, nodding toward it. “for lo’ak?”
tsireya hesitated, just for a moment, before a faint blush dusted her cheeks.
you gaped at her. “oh, eywa.”
“it is not—”
“you’re making him jewelry?”
“he—he appreciates our traditions!” she defended, though the flustered look on her face betrayed her.
you stared at her for a long moment before shaking your head. “we’re doomed,” you muttered, flopping onto your back. “the sully brothers have ruined us.”
tsireya only giggled, threading another bead onto the string. “maybe.” then, she cast you a knowing look. “but you don’t seem to mind.”
you groaned, covering your face with your hands. because, deep down, you didn’t. not one bit.
as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and violet, your village buzzed with excitement. the salty breeze carried the scent of roasting fish and sweet fruits, mingling with the rhythmic sounds of drums echoing across the shoreline.
tonight was a night of festivities; a celebration of unity, of eywa’s blessings, of all that made your people strong. and, as the daughter of the olo’eyktan, it was one of those things you had to attend.
you stood near your family’s marui, adjusting the beaded adornments woven into your hair as your mother fussed over your attire. ronal was ever the perfectionist, making sure you looked every bit the part of a leader’s daughter.
“you must be present,” she reminded you, hands steady as she adjusted the woven top covering your chest. “engage with the people. show them your strength.”
you held back a sigh. “yes, sa’nok.”
beside you, tsireya giggled under her breath. she, of course, loved these gatherings. but you? you found them tiring, always forced to play the part of the dutiful daughter: composed, graceful, responsible.
still, you knew your role. you straightened your shoulders, casting one last glance at the glowing horizon before following your family toward the center of the village.
the festival was already in full swing when you arrived, torches casting golden light over the gathering crowd. children wove between the adults, laughter ringing through the air as dancers moved to the steady beat of the drums.
your attire was more ethereal than usual; custom-made loincloths adorned with the prettiest shells and beads, catching the firelight with every movement, making you shine. the woven top your mother had chosen was delicate yet intricate, the beading cascading down your torso like water, reflecting the hues of the ocean. you looked every bit the daughter of the olo’eyktan, and though you wouldn’t admit it aloud, the way eyes followed you as you walked made you feel powerful.
you had done your duties; exchanged pleasantries, greeted those who needed to be greeted, smiled when necessary, when you suddenly felt a presence.
a familiar presence.
you didn’t have to look to know who it was. you felt his eyes on you before you even spotted him across the crowd.
neteyam.
he was standing with his family, expression unreadable, but there was something in his gaze, something intentional.
your heart gave an annoyingly noticeable thump.
and you just knew, this night was about to get a whole lot more interesting.
your father had given his speech, his voice commanding as he spoke of unity, of eywa’s blessings, of the strength of the metkayina. you were just settling into your place beside tsireya when you felt it. the people cheered, the drums picked up, and just like that, the festivities truly began.
which meant you were finally free.
you exhaled, the weight of expectation lifting as you slipped through the crowd, seeking a moment to just be. the village was alive with celebration, dancers twirling near the fire, warriors boasting about their latest hunts, children giggling as they weaved through the legs of their elders. it was beautiful, vibrant, home.
you found yourself near the shoreline, where the glow of the lanterns met the shimmering tide, your toes sinking into the cool sand. the festivities carried on behind you, but for a moment, you allowed yourself to take it all in—the crashing of the waves, the salt in the air, the hum of music in the background.
and then, of course, he appeared.
“you clean up nice.”
the deep voice sent a shiver down your spine, one you quickly masked by rolling your eyes before turning to face him.
neteyam stood a few paces away, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. his own attire was different tonight—his usual warrior gear swapped for something more ceremonial, beads woven into his braids, the soft glow of bioluminescent paint marking his skin.
he looked… good.
not that you’d tell him that.
“you again?” you sighed dramatically, placing a hand on your hip. “is there nowhere i can go without you appearing like a shadow?”
neteyam chuckled, stepping closer. “if you wanted to be alone, you wouldn’t have come here.”
you scoffed, though you didn’t move away as he reached your side, standing beside you as the waves lapped at your feet.
a beat of silence passed before he tilted his head slightly, golden eyes scanning your face.
“you really do look beautiful tonight.”
it wasn’t teasing this time. no smug grin, no playful lilt to his voice. just a quiet truth, spoken into the space between you.
and for the first time tonight, you had no clever response.
back at the heart of the festivities, away from the shoreline where you and neteyam stood, two warriors, two leaders, watched.
tonowari and jake stood side by side, their conversation casual, yet their eyes keenly observant. they had been discussing the ongoing training of the young hunters, the state of the tides, and other matters of importance. but, at some point, their attention had drifted.
to you and neteyam.
because, despite whatever you and neteyam thought, you were not subtle.
jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he watched his eldest son step closer to you, the way his body naturally leaned toward yours, the way you, despite your best efforts, didn’t pull away.
“they think they’re being discreet,” jake muttered.
tonowari hummed in agreement, arms crossed over his broad chest. “they are not.”
jake sighed. “he’s got it bad.”
tonowari’s lips twitched slightly, amusement flickering in his sharp eyes. “as does she.”
jake glanced at him, smirking. “that a problem?”
tonowari was quiet for a moment, watching as you shoved neteyam’s shoulder, only for the boy to grin and lean right back into your space.
“…no,” the olo’eyktan finally said. “not yet.”
jake chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “good luck with that, brother.”
tonowari just sighed, already bracing himself for the storm that was sure to come.
back with you and neteyam, the air was thick.
the kind of thick that made your skin feel too warm, your chest too tight. the kind of thick that had your heart pounding a little faster than it should, your breath catching at the way his golden eyes burned into yours.
the tension could have been cut with a knife.
but the question was, who was going to make the first move?
neteyam was watching you closely now, that cocky smirk long gone. his lips were slightly parted, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths, though you could tell, that he was feeling it too. that same charged, unspoken pull that neither of you were willing to put words to.
for once, he wasn’t teasing.
for once, you were the one trying to look anywhere but at him.
“you’re quiet again,” he murmured, voice lower now, softer.
your fingers curled into your palms. “you talk enough for both of us.”
neteyam chuckled, but it was breathier than usual, as if even he wasn’t fully present in the words. his gaze flickered down for a split second, to your lips just for a moment, but it was enough.
your stomach flipped.
you swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. the way the firelight flickered over his skin. the way his braids shifted as he tilted his head. the way his hands flexed at his sides, like he was debating something.
your tail twitched. was he going to do it? was he going to be the one to break first?
neteyam shifted slightly, leaning in just a fraction—so small, so subtle, but you caught it.
and eywa help you, you didn’t move away.
maybe you should’ve. maybe you should have smirked, teased him, run before he could turn this whole thing into something real.
but you didn’t.
instead, you just stared at him, pulse racing, waiting to see if this would be the moment one of you finally gave in.
just as your lips were about to touch, just as you felt the faintest graze of them, the smallest, feather-light brush—
a loud, booming clearing of a throat shattered the moment.
you jerked away so fast you nearly lost your footing, and neteyam; mighty warrior, future olo’eyktan, practically jumped back as if you had burned him.
that was how deep the two of you had been in your own little world.
heart hammering against your ribs, you turned, already knowing what you’d find. and, sure enough—
there stood tonowari.
and beside him, looking far too amused for his own good, was jake sully.
oh, eywa.
your father’s arms were crossed, expression unreadable, but the sheer weight of his stare was enough to make you wish the ocean would just swallow you whole.
jake, on the other hand, had the audacity to smirk, glancing between you and neteyam like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all night.
neteyam straightened immediately, shoulders squared, but you knew him too well. knew that beneath that carefully composed expression, he was panicking.
“neteyam.” jake’s voice was easygoing, but the warning beneath it was clear.
“sir.” neteyam’s response was stiff, formal, and oh eywa, you had to fight the urge to laugh at how utterly caught he looked.
tonowari said nothing at first, just looked at you, then at neteyam, then back at you. and somehow, somehow, that was worse than if he’d yelled.
“i see you are both enjoying the festivities,” he finally said, voice far too calm.
you swallowed. “yes, sa’nok’itan,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice even, though you swore you saw the corner of jake’s mouth twitch.
neteyam, to his credit, didn’t flinch. but the tips of his ears were burning red. “we were just—”
“i am sure you were,” tonowari cut in smoothly.
and that? that was when you knew you were done for.
you dared a glance at neteyam, but he refused to meet your gaze, jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack.
jake clapped a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, barely containing his grin. “why don’t we let them enjoy the rest of the festivities?” he said, clearly enjoying this way too much.
tonowari exhaled through his nose, giving you one last long look before nodding. “come,” he said, turning to leave. “we will speak later.”
you felt your stomach drop.
and then, just like that, they were gone, leaving you and neteyam standing there—mortified, frustrated, and one second away from kissing.
for a long moment, neither of you spoke.
then…
“…so,” neteyam muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “that was—”
“do not.” you cut him off, voice tight, because if you thought about it for one more second, you were going to combust.
neteyam exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand down his face before finally, finally, meeting your gaze.
and despite everything, despite the sheer embarrassment of it all, he smirked.
“next time,” he murmured, stepping just close enough to send a shiver down your spine, “we pick a better spot.”
your jaw dropped. “neteyam!”
but he was already walking away, laughing, leaving you standing there, flustered and fuming, knowing damn well he’d just won.
ending up in a rural town in upstate new york was never a dream of yours, nor was your ex-boyfriend who you're very much still in love with becoming a priest and ending up in the same rural town. cws brief discussions of religion and religious guilt, moderately happy/open ending, brief mention of masturbation (directly referencing the movie), contains spoilers but takes place before the murder wc 6.1k
i actually meant for my grand return (it’s been like a month) to writing to be about dominic sessa in now you see me: now you don’t but in fact i am so very father jud pilled that i wrote most of this hours after i saw the movie and im seeing it again tomorrow
Truthfully, you had never envisioned ending up in a place like this. A town that felt so empty, devoid of opportunity.
You’d tried a few different types of places. Smaller cities, bigger cities, places where you had an easy time making friends, and places where you spent most evenings and weekends sitting around by yourself because you had no one to really talk to.
Each place seemed to be missing something. Something that you couldn’t place. But something that, deep down, you understood.
Growing up, you were a bit rough around the edges. Perhaps it was the company that you kept, perhaps it was your physical location that influenced it. Regardless of why you ended up the way that you did, you were often a bit… difficult. It was what made you get along so well with Jud - your first, and closest, friend.
He was rough; he made mistakes. But you were close, and eventually that closeness that you formed as children turned into something wholly different as you got older. It was when you were fifteen that you figured out that you wanted to kiss him instead of hug him, and half a year later that you figured out that he wanted the same when he did it without thinking.
When he made those mistakes, you were there for him. But one of the mistakes was… impossible. It was something that most people simply don’t come back from without having changed. He boxed. It allowed him to get out some aggression, to make some money, and to be seen by people. But he made an enemy. An enemy whom he saw in the ring one day.
Even with underground boxing, fighting to the death wasn’t something that was encouraged. It was more possible and more likely that it was with fully sanctioned, fully legal events. But this was a big deal. Killing a man wasn’t something that a person comes back from, not normally. Not unless they can desensitize themselves to it. Killing a man wasn’t something that you could encourage, and it wasn’t something that you could say didn’t scare you when you heard of it, when he told you what happened.
The rift in your relationship was undeniable, and where you often tried to comfort and help Jud with what he was going through, this didn’t seem like something that a gentle touch could fix. So he left. He claimed that he needed to get in touch with the Lord, and you knew that you probably weren’t going to see him again. But if this was what was best for him, you would undergo the pain of losing what was left of him, because you knew that keeping the shell of the man that you loved just to have him near would be an unforgivable thing. Unforgivable, and unfulfilling, because it wouldn’t be a full, happy version of him.
It wouldn’t be the version of him that you fell in love with.
Over the following years, you tried to put some of that pain into creative endeavors. You were rather successful when it came to writing, but you had a hard time finding good places to do it. Cafes with too much noise were difficult to focus in, and writing in a high-rise apartment was only nice when you didn’t look below and see people fighting on the street, or listen too intently and hear the people above you walking far too noisily than what was probably necessary.
For a long time, you ended up in New York City. That should have been the place where you found your best creative outlets, right? There were countless cafes, countless different types of people that you could encounter, and countless opportunities that you didn’t have in other parts of the country.
All of those positives were true, but not a single one of them fulfilled you personally. Creatively? Somewhat. Enough to get a novel published, enough to make enough money to consider moving elsewhere. But most of that creative energy didn’t come from where you were, but from the pain of your youth. From the pain of having every good memory you had be intrinsically tied to the person you missed more than anything.
At some point, you had heard word that your parents had settled in a small town in upstate New York. You hadn’t had much contact with them since you were younger, but you went to visit them regardless. You figured that maybe seeing your parents, fixing some of what could be fixed, might give you the peace that you need to fill that void that you felt in your chest.
It helped a little; it gave you some peace. But it wasn’t really that peace that allowed you to flow creatively. It was the trees, the woods. The nature that surrounded you during the one afternoon that you went out looking for a place to write was what allowed you to find a creative ease.
Whenever anyone asked why you decided to uproot and move from such a large city to such a small town, hours away, it was easy to claim that it was just as simple as finding a muse in nature. Or, to tell people who knew you that you wanted to rekindle a relationship with your family that you had been lacking. But it really just felt like something was calling you, beckoning you in ways that you really didn’t understand or know what to do with. Something, or someone, was calling you to fill the void in your heart that you didn’t understand.
For a while, you weren’t sure why. Every worthy question got its answer eventually, though, didn’t it?
Just like any other Sunday afternoon, you were meeting your parents for lunch at a local restaurant. You didn’t see them most days of the week, but you made an effort to see them every Sunday for lunch, to catch up. They didn’t attend church in this town; they claimed that the man who leads it is too extreme. While you knew nothing about him, you presumed that they were probably telling the truth.
But it was a small town, and word gets around quickly.
There was a new Father who was coming to help with the church. A man of the cloth said to be the same age as you. Of course, you thought nothing of this. But the subtle hints that your parents kept dropping made your eyebrows furrow in confusion for long enough that your father eventually just gave up and told you that it was your ex-boyfriend. Or, he was pretty sure that it was.
A man from the same town as you, with the exact same name as him, and the same age as you? The facts of the issue at hand were too compelling for you to simply write them off as a coincidence. But coincidence wasn’t impossible, and you were predominantly compelled by the fact of why you were drawn here in the first place.
To fill the void.
The void that hadn’t left your chest since you allowed Jud to leave. The void that hadn’t stopped aching since you kissed him for the last time, since you saw him smile for the last time, since you came to the conclusion that you were never going to see him again.
So, the very next Sunday, you let your parents know that you would prefer Sunday dinner, because you would be late for lunch.
The air was hot and humid when you arrived at the church. It had been a long time since you stepped foot in one, and you were quite sure that it hadn’t been the same denomination as the one that you were stepping into right now. But it didn’t matter. That wasn’t why you were here. You were here to see if the rumors were true. You were here to see if you, after all these years, had somehow ended up in the same small town at the same time under some pure stroke of luck.
Or perhaps divine intervention.
From the moment that he walked in, it was unmistakable. Jud was there, seemingly nervous because it was his first service at this church. But he was there, and he seemingly recognized you a few moments into the service. But as distracted as he was, he said nothing. Not yet, not during the service, not when the older man standing far above everyone else was speaking.
In truth, your parents were right about the Monsignor. He was utterly rude and painfully out of touch. He had antiquated ideals and a clear sense of pride in believing that he was better than every person who walked through the doors of the church. But it was his pinpointing of newcomers that irritated you the most. First, he pinpointed a woman who had come alone with her child. The woman, after enough scrutiny and being compared with his mother, whom he called a ‘Harlot Whore’, left the church before the end of the service.
But after a while, his attention turned to you. An unmarried woman, bringing and bearing no children, and sitting alone in the pew. He claimed that such a lifestyle was against God, that God’s purpose for women was not to be working members of society, but to be homemakers and wives. His views were antiquated, and his words were biting and rude. But you weren’t here for him, or his approval. You were here to have just a moment to speak with Jud outside of the service.
Some of the others in the room were surprised that you had stuck around, and one member even said as much after the service. Vera, you learned. She let you know that most people did the same thing that the other new woman had done when being singled out by the Monsignor and left halfway through the service. But you stuck it out, you stayed.
Halfway through the conversation, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You didn’t need to turn back to know who it was; you could recognize his presence from a mile away. The way he smelled, the way his soul seemed to linger in every space that he filled. Despite every change that you had both undergone, despite the time that had passed, he was still Jud.
Turning back, you politely excused yourself from the conversation so you could follow him to where he led you.
His private quarters, you presumed. There was a bed that wasn’t fully set up yet, and boxes that had yet to be fully unpacked. But it was uniquely his, even without being ready.
“Sorry, it’s not proper to bring a woman here, I know.” Jud started, rubbing the back of his neck before sitting down. “I just didn’t want anyone to eavesdrop.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want the Monsignor to eavesdrop.” You responded after a moment, your voice holding just a sliver of the irritation that remained from his beratement from earlier in the day. But you weren’t too focused on that, you were more focused on the man who was sitting in front of you. “How’d you end up here?”
Jud was quiet for a moment, seemingly contemplating whether he should tell the truth or come up with something that might cover up what had actually happened. Clearly, it was something that he was a little bit ashamed of. But just as you were going to tell him that he didn’t have to share, he finally spoke again. “I punched another man of the cloth, so… they sent me here. I thought it’d be a promotion.”
“Is it?”
“Technically, I guess.” He didn’t seem all too convinced, but if he was letting it bother him, he seemingly brushed it aside before smiling up at you from where you were still standing. “Sit, it’s weird talking to you from this angle.”
Sitting might be a… bad idea. It had been years since you were near Jud, and the last time you had made out with him in a bed not too dissimilar from this one before committing yourself to the horrible reality of never seeing him again. But you were seeing him again. Right now, presently. He was sitting right in front of you, even if it was different.
But it was also that very difference that made it a bad idea. He was a priest. A catholic priest. A priest who couldn’t date, who couldn’t marry, who had promised himself to celibacy and the bible. And he was also your ex-boyfriend. The man who you loved more than anything, who was there for you when no one and nothing else was. The man who meant the world to you for a time, and the man who you missed more than anything.
Eventually, his pretty eyes looking at you with a bit too much hope was what made you sit beside him.
“What about you? This doesn’t seem like your scene, city girl.”
There had been… some connection to him while you were away. Jud had a private social media presence, one that you followed because he seemingly looked for you and followed you first. He didn’t post often, nor did he interact with anyone often. But you knew bits and pieces of his life, and he knew more of yours than you knew of his. But this move was recent for you. You’d only moved a month ago, and moving to a small town wasn’t something that you posted online for privacy reasons.
Perhaps it would be easier to tell him the very same thing that you told everyone else when you explained that you were moving. That you were looking for a place with more creative vision, or that you wished to be around your parents, with whom you never had much of a relationship. But giving everyone else a half-truth was easy, especially when you were trying to convince yourself of it, as well. Giving a half-truth to Jud wasn’t so easy. And besides, lying to a priest was probably some kind of sin, right?
“My parents moved here about six months ago and I… I don’t know. I’d been having a hard time finding a place that helped me think when I write, and something about the woods here just brought out something in my mind that I hadn’t felt in the city before.” You explained, but from the way that you spoke, from your tone by itself, it was clear that there was more to what you were saying than just that. “But… I’ve had this void, I guess? Like I’m not sad, but something’s missing. I figure maybe I could fill it here, I guess. Something beckoned me here that I don’t really understand.”
It felt like something supernatural, at the time. Like your soul was tied to this place in a way that made no sense. Until you found out that Jud would be here (or, more realistically, until you saw him with your own two eyes), it continued to make no sense. But now? Now you were beginning to determine that the void had been him leaving all along. The ache that had developed within your heart when he left had been the sole cause of it, and the universe, or God, or some sort of higher power brought you here because he would be here.
As much as you wanted to deny it, that void seemed to be caused by the absence of Jud in your life. And now he was here, and he didn’t seem like a bitter shell of himself anymore, and you knew deep down that you had never felt fulfilled because you didn’t have him in your life.
It would never be the same as it was; it couldn’t be. He was a priest, he couldn’t be your boyfriend again, but he could be there. He could be there, just in a different capacity. Maybe that would be enough, or maybe you were just here to find the peace that you couldn’t find within yourself without closure. Without knowing if he was okay, or how he was doing.
“I’m sorry.”
Jud’s words were quiet, but honest. Honest, because he was sorry. He seemed to understand that the void you felt after he left was caused by him leaving, and he seemed to feel some sort of guilt over it. But your eyes softened when you met his, and you merely shook your head.
“Don’t be,” You spoke quietly as well. Even if there was no one to really overhear you, even if that was the whole reason that you were speaking in his room and not somewhere closer to where the other were lingering outside or even within the church itself. The conversation felt too personal, too precious to you both, to allow even the privy ears of a mouse in the walls or a bird beside the window to hear it. “When you left, you weren’t you, you know. I’d rather have not had you at all than to have had you miserable.”
Because loving someone is a sacrifice, and you both know that. Even after all of these years, you do still love him, and that was one of the few things that you had come to have peace with in terms of the emotions that you didn’t want to think too much about.
“Are you happy? Does being a priest make you happy? Does it give you purpose?”
“Yes.”
His response was quick, but gentle.
“Then I’m happy.”
Jud didn’t really have much purpose before everything happened. He was violent and rough, and he was never the full version of himself that you had fallen in love with when you were both younger. He was broken and self-hating. He turned to the faith to bring him peace, and it seemed to have done just that.
“But-”
“Can I give you a hug?”
He didn’t really think about your question for too long before he pulled you against him, your face resting against his shoulder. For once, you didn’t deny yourself the relief of crying as your arms wrapped around him. But it wasn’t because you were disappointed in him, or disappointed that he had to be the one type of person that literally couldn’t date, even though he was still the most beautiful man you had ever met.
But because you missed him, because he was real.
“I missed you, Jud. I missed you every day, and I’m so happy that you’re okay.”
“I missed you too, every day.”
For a long while, you both remained like that. But the sound of someone entering the building eventually broke you apart, both of you deciding to clean up the tear stains before anyone could come in. It was improper to be in his room, but it was quite clear from the sniffling that you were simply catching up, and not doing anything that would actually be considered inappropriate.
So, despite the verbal beratement from Monsignor Wicks during the first week, you came back the following Sunday. After that Sunday, a new ritual every week was created. You would attend the service, have lunch with Jud, and eventually meet your parents for dinner, granted that lunch didn’t run late. It wasn’t the exact same relationship that you once had (obviously), but after the first few weeks, that void that you felt was something that you entirely forgot about altogether.
The new start was good. It was healthy. But there were… issues that would eventually arise. Not with you, really, but with the way that Jud felt at the church, the way that Monsignor Wicks made him feel. The same way that the man seemed to make everyone feel, just because he could.
There were certain dynamics that you learned on your own. The doctor was a drunk. He had been with a woman who was present at the first service that you attended, but soon became a distant memory in his life. Martha had a relationship of sorts that she probably wasn’t allowed to have with the groundskeeper, though you had agreed to say nothing about that because being close friends with your ex-boyfriend who was now a priest would probably make both of you a bit hypocritical.
One of the boys was an influencer, the young woman in the wheelchair was really only encouraged by Wicks because she was giving him enough money that he was willing to be kind to her. Everyone had their reasons for being here, but none of them seemed even remotely willing to admit that there were certainly better places that they could be. The almost codependency that they felt upon the approval and closeness of the Monsignor was an unhealthy dynamic to have with anyone, let alone with a priest.
His following was almost cult-like. The cult of personality that surrounded him was nothing short of disturbing. Perhaps it was that very disturbance that you felt in your gut that allowed you to flow more creatively. To express some of that almost outdated horror with an unwavering modernity interwoven within it in the sentences that you wrote while you were sitting amongst the trees.
But besides creativity, your meetings with Jud happened more frequently than just Sundays, after a while.
The first weekday had been a Tuesday afternoon. He had come to you to complain about being forced to take the confessions of Wicks again, something that he had apparently been doing since his very first day at the church. He had told you everything. From the disturbingly detailed discussions of masturbation onto religious magazines, to the way that he made sure to shake his hand afterwards. But he had later explained that he read his medical records, even though he knew that he wasn’t supposed to.
Jud had explained that Wicks was clearly lying about these detailed stories, that each one was a fable meant to disturb him. Each one was made to make him feel unwelcome in the flock, to make it clear that he was an unwanted addition in the church. You knew that Jud had been sent there because of something that he had done, but you hadn’t known that Wicks seemingly hadn’t consented to his being there whatsoever.
Perhaps that was the reason the man seemed to avoid you. Likely, it was.
He knew that you were only there for the man who he didn’t want to be there, and he knew that his religious scolding during his sermons meant nothing to you. But for as long as Father Jud would be there each Sunday, you would be sitting in the pews. You would be a part of his holy communion so long as you had a reason to keep going, and he eventually gave up trying to influence you away.
But you were never welcome, not in his eyes. Some of the members of the church took more kindly to you, mainly Vera. She wasn’t as devout as the others; she seemed to have reasons that she kept close to her chest for being this way. Others weren’t overly fond of you. They only seemed to associate you with Jud, and they didn’t really see him as an insider because Wicks didn’t see him as an insider.
It didn’t complicate things, though, not really. You knew why you were here, and you knew that it had nothing to do with wanting to be a part of a community of closed-minded individuals. Being around them, even in association, sometimes puts a bad taste in your mouth. But it had nothing to do with them, so you often found that it made things less complex that they viewed both of you as outsiders.
The complexities came from elsewhere.
This instance was no different from the others that had transpired since Jud had come to your home in the early evening without warning. It had been four and a half months since he first arrived in this small town, and each week, you found yourself getting closer to him than what you knew was appropriate. Each week, you found yourself wondering if you should sit down for your own confession, to admit that some of the feelings that you had toward him were more lustful than what was appropriate.
It wasn’t that you were acting on any of these impulses; you weren’t even hinting at them. But sometimes it was difficult, because you were still in love with him. That wasn’t something that could just go away, especially not when he was still such an integral part of your life.
It was early December by now, and Jud seemed content to sit with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders while you sat beside him on the couch. There was some show that you weren’t paying attention to playing in the background, but you were more focused on the man beside you.
“I’m starting to think that this is a cult, or something like a cult,” Jud commented, his voice a bit solemn as he turned to look at you. “It’s like they hang off of his every last word, even though most of the things that he says are disgusting.”
This week, it had been a gay couple that he had berated. The issue with Wicks and the things he said was that they were pointed, but never blatant. The person he chooses to target always figures out that he’s trying to get under their skin, but because he never looks at them, because he never once says their name, they can’t really prove to anyone that he was speaking directly to them rather than saying something that he would generally say. But everyone knows, even if they choose not to acknowledge directly what’s happening.
“It’s just not what the bible really teaches us. He uses it to make himself powerful and to make people love him, but nothing that he says actually has anything to do with God.”
Jud often came over simply to vent, and it was something that you couldn’t blame him for. But right now, it seemed like he was looking for guidance, and you were almost entirely unsure what guidance you could offer him with this issue.
“You’re right,” You finally responded, your eyes meeting his as he watched you. There was a need for answers in his eyes, a desperate one. He wanted to stay with the church; he wanted to make things better, but he didn’t have a single clue how. “He wants to make people angry, to keep people angry so they go looking for comfort. But…obviously the only one who can give them comfort is, well, him.”
There was a moment where neither of you really said anything, because what were you supposed to say? Jud didn’t want to just give up; he wanted to help people and do what he set out to do when he became a priest in the first place. But this didn’t feel like the right way.
“You can’t overturn him, you know, but you can work towards it. He’s not a Godly man, and people are going to realize it eventually.”
Wicks was more of a conman than anything. He knew just how to manipulate people to get what he wanted, and he knew just how to make people feel like he was the only person who could give them what he wanted. Whether it was because it made him feel powerful, or because some of those people were providing him with money and fame. It didn’t really matter why; it just mattered that he didn’t have good intentions in his heart when he did what he did, and that was something that everyone knew, even if they wanted to claim that they didn’t.
But if you had more to say, your brain had other ideas when it became painfully blank. You had hugged Jud more than once. But you hadn’t felt him rest his head on your shoulder, or wrap his arm around you as he leaned into you like he just needed to be held.
It wasn’t inherently romantic; it wasn’t inherently anything like how you used to hold him after a particularly bad fight. But it reminded you of what you had together all those years ago, it reminded you of how everything had changed so drastically. He was looking to make his life better, looking to improve upon who he once was, but this issue with the church that he was operating within was making it difficult for him.
You merely wrapped your own arm around him and let him be held, your fingers brushing through his hair.
Nothing needed to be said or acknowledged. Not now, at least.
Weeks would pass before there was an incident. It was early into the new year. It was freezing, with snow up past your ankles and a chill that made it difficult to breathe if you were outside for more than a few minutes.
Being the middle of winter, the sun set rather early. It couldn’t have been later than seven in the evening when you heard someone jingling keys outside your door. You presumed that it was Jud, given that he was the only other person who had keys to your home. But the sound of him dropping them, picking them back up, dropping them, and then seemingly falling over got your attention.
Within a moment, you were at the door and helping the snow-covered man up and into your house. Wrapping him in a blanket and sitting him down on the couch with promises of hot chocolate and to punish the snow for making him fall face-first into it. But it was his face (and his newly split bottom lip) that made it clear that the snow was not the culprit here.
“Have you been drinking?” Jud wasn’t a drinker, or he had been trying not to be. Ever since you had first seen him here, he had never done anything more than pick up a glass of water, even when he was sitting at a bar. But right now it was beyond clear that he was drunk. Even if you could argue away that it was possible that he had a concussion from falling over, the smell of liquor when you got closer to him deterred any other line of thinking that you could have possibly had. “Okay, okay. Give me a few minutes, I’ll be right back.”
Not really giving him time to say anything (not that he would have, his reaction times were too short right now for any of that), you made your way into the kitchen. The first thing you did was keep your word and make him hot chocolate, but you made him food, as well. You figured that he could use it, that drinking on an empty stomach when he had been staying away from alcohol in general was going to wreak havoc on him in the morning. The best thing that you could really try to do was counteract it.
So, you did.
But after about ten minutes, you would come to learn that the reason he had been drinking in general was more issues with the church. Though, his issues were all to do with Wicks, as they always were. Every time Jud seemed to want to try to do something for the community, or connect with the regulars who were becoming acquainted with him, Wicks seemed to want nothing to do with it. He would shut him down, make it clear that the church was his and his alone, and that the people who attended it regularly belonged to him just as much as the building did.
Jud, who had entirely different ideals than he did and certainly wanted more responsibilities than he currently had, just seemed to… be there. He was allowed to cover up the secret of Wicks’ alcohol problem, the fact that he hid a flask in the area where he would often wait toward the end of service or when he generally needed a ‘break’. He was the one to cover the service only if Wicks felt like he couldn’t, or didn’t want to. But he was never treated as an equal, never really seen as someone who anyone (besides you) wanted there.
It got to him, that much was clear. As much as he didn’t want it to get to him, as much as he certainly didn’t want to show that it was getting to him, it was.
Right now was worse than it usually was, though. He was drunk and pulling you down onto the couch with him so he could vent his frustrations. But his inhibitions were too low; he seemed to want too much. Far more than he could have, far more than what was appropriate for him to ever have.
Jud’s venting died down after a while.
An hour of venting seemed to tire him out. As improper as it felt to not wake him up, you also didn’t know what to do. He would try to bike home if you suggested that he leave, and in his state? You certainly weren’t comfortable with that. So, you got him another blanket. You set a pillow beneath his head. It should have been that simple, but you made a mistake when you leaned down and pressed a kiss against his forehead. Comforting, reassuring. It wasn’t meant as anything more.
But Jud was drunk. He was drunk, and he tried to kiss you on the mouth. Maybe it was instinctual, it was no where near the first time that he would have kissed you. Or, maybe he just wanted to. But regardless of the reasoning, you didn’t let him. You wanted to, desperately. But he was drunk, and he made a vow that you wouldn’t let him mess up. He was already being treated like an outsider by another priest; it would be far worse if he genuinely believed that he was unfit because he couldn’t uphold his vows.
Perhaps in a moment of weakness, you didn’t deny him when he stumbled to the bed like he owned it and flopped down on it - passed out with his face pressed into the pillow. You would try to convince yourself that it was because you were nervous that he would fall asleep in the wrong position, something that could be potentially dangerous with him being as intoxicated as he was. But even after you turned him onto his side and helped him get into the bed, you knew that you were sleeping next to him because you wanted to.
It didn’t complicate things, not really. You didn’t have much time in the morning to explain to him what had happened because you didn’t really need it. He knew. He knew when he had a throbbing headache and also happened to still be fully dressed that you had just let him share a bed with you because he was hungover. But you both knew that it was more than any of that, and you both knew just as well that it didn’t matter.
Maybe something would change someday. Maybe the pining for a certain type of relationship that you once had would be allowed, for one reason or another. Or maybe it wouldn’t.
All that mattered was the first time that you eventually got him to laugh despite being so hungover, the way that his eyes looked when they sparkled beneath the golden sunlight that poured through your window, even though he hissed away the moment it made contact with him. Because for once, you knew why you were here. You knew why you had ended up here, and how he had ended up here at the same time as you.
There was no point in time that you had envisioned any of this. Not a town like this that was filled with people who were utterly disagreeable. Not pining over your ex-boyfriend who was now a priest who you were still in love with, and who was also still in love with you, even if he only confessed it during the few and far in between confessionals that he had. None of it mattered, not really. Not to you.
But even if it couldn’t have been envisioned, you knew that you were in the right place. You knew that things would make complete sense someday. For once, you found yourself content to not know all of the answers.
Summary: You get hit with magic and go evil for a few hours. Jason discovers some things about himself.
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 3.8k
Warnings/tags: evil you (you don't mean it!), magic, super strength, jason pov, jason todd being a true ride or die, some violence, needles. jason is highkey into you beating him up. :) ft. the legendary mr. roy harper
the divider
Jason wakes up—rudely, he might add—to the sound of his phone ringing. He knows he silenced his phone last night. The only thing that overrides that is an emergency call, and not many people on his phone have the privilege of waking him up for an emergency.
Jason fumbles for his phone and tugs it off of the charger, all without opening his eyes. He waits for a couple seconds, hoping that maybe the ringing will stop. When it doesn’t, he pries open his eyes.
Roy lights up the screen. Jason sighs and answers, rolling onto his side. He closes his eyes as the call connects.
“Gotham better be on fire. Or underwater. I’d better look out the window and see Ariel's grotto right now.”
“Not underwater yet, but give it a few hours," Roy says. His breathing is labored. “At this rate, we’ll either be underwater or extinct. Your girlfriend is evil and she wants you.”
“‘Scuse me? I don't have a girlfriend.”
“Not officially, but when you said you'd let her leash you like a dog, I figured that was close enough.”
Heat floods Jason’s face, and he’s suddenly forty percent more awake. “I was drunk when I said that.”
“Yeah, well, in vito veritas and all that. Anyway, she's tearing up downtown Gotham. Says she’ll only talk to you. And that was after she threw bricks at me. I figured you'd wanna handle it before Batman sticks his big bat nose in it.”
Jason is fully awake now, phone squished between his ear and shoulder as he rips the sheets back, cool air hitting his bare chest and thighs. He finds his tac pants and hops a couple steps when he nearly falls over while shoving his leg through the fabric. Roy's huffing in his ear. Jason hears a distant boom on the phone and the hiss of shattering glass.
“Aw, shit,” Roy says. “I liked that diner.”
Jason moves faster. He sprints into the bathroom and almost knocks over his waterpik getting toothpaste on his toothbrush. “What the fuck do you mean, she's evil?”
Yes, start there. That seems like the pressing question considering you're a civilian Jason met through a crochet social. He’d been brand new to crochet and not feeling like roadkill while doing normal people things and you’d taught him how to single crochet and double crochet and find things to smile at. You're perfect and lovely, only associated with him by chance. Evil is a laughable word to use. But Roy doesn't mess around when it comes to you, because Jason won't take it well if he does.
“She's in full supervillain mode, Jay. She just threw some guy into a wall. He’s fine, but still.”
“Well, obviously, she's been hit with magic or something,” Jason says, voice garbled from toothpaste.
“Yeah, duh. But until we figure out what, she needs to be contained. She almost leveled an entire block.”
Jason shoves his arms through his jacket, scowling. “Who would fucking do that to her? Fucking bastard.”
“Maybe it was an accident. Shit, I gotta go help evacuate. Hurry the hell up, man.”
“I'm on my way now,” Jason says, and hangs up.
His mind races. You're hurting people, and while that's worrisome, Jason knows that the guilt you'll feel when you recover from whatever is controlling you will tear you apart.
He takes his bike and his helmet, just in case. Jason doesn’t like reminding you of the fact that you’re friends with the Red Hood. He knows that one day it’ll be too much for your psyche; you’ll ditch him like you should’ve all those months ago when he started spitting curses at your baby blue skein of yarn because it’d gotten tangled around his fingers. But you’d just pulled him free, unraveling the yarn and wrapping it up. Your hands were cold relief against his too warm skin. Ever since Jason returned, his blood has been too hot. It feels like there’s something fighting to get out of him, but he doesn’t feel like that with you.
“Don’t worry,” you’d said, a smile kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been bested by yarn too. You just have to show it who’s boss.”
So, yeah. You? Evil? He’ll have to see it to believe it. And even then, Jason’s doubtful.
He runs three lights to get to the location Roy sent him. It’s a block from your apartment and near a diner that he and Roy like.
Said diner’s windows are gone. The street is a mess, littered with broken glass, debris from nearby buildings, and torn up asphalt. It’s a lot of damage from one person. From you, it’s unthinkable. Luckily, it seems to be contained to this block for now.
Jason puts on his helmet because people listen a lot better when it’s the Red Hood barking directions at them. He evacuates anybody left behind and helps an old lady go into a coffee shop for safety. Jason finds Roy at the end of the block where the chaos seems to be centralized. He runs.
“She’s up there!” Roy says when he sees Jason. His cheek has a nasty bruise and he’s got an arrow perched in his bow, ready to fire. Jason can’t see you but he hears you yelling on the roof of your apartment building. He can’t make out what you’re saying.
“Don’t shoot her!” Jason snaps.
“I’m not! But you don’t understand, H, she’s dangerous. I’ll cover you.”
“No, just keep evacuating. I’ll go talk to her. She asked for me, didn’t she?”
“Jay—”
“Go.”
Jason jogs into the apartment, running up five flights of stairs. He takes off his helmet as he goes, thinking it’s probably better if you see his face.
You asked for him.
That’s probably not the most appropriate thought right now, especially since you threw bricks at Roy. But it’s all Jason can think as he forces himself to inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth. His knees ache by the time he gets to the roof access door. Well, the door is on the ground. Evidently busted open. By you?
You don’t look much different, your side facing him. Your eyes are tinged purple, confirming magic influence, and your clothes are dusty and torn. But if Jason saw you like this, he’d think maybe you’ve just had a busy day.
Except that you have what looks to be your landlord hooked under your arm by his neck. The guy’s feet dangle in the air.
“Hey!” Jason calls your name.
You turn and your eyes light up in delight. That makes Jason nervous. You've never looked at him like that. Like you could devour him.
“Finally, you're here!” you say, jostling your landlord, who yelps.
“Uh, yeah,” Jason says. “‘M here. How ‘bout we put him down, yeah?”
“But I haven’t even held him over the railing,” you say. “He needs to be taught a lesson, Jason.”
And hey. Jason’s all for teaching people lessons. But he doesn’t want you to do the teaching. Doesn’t want that on your conscience when you inevitably snap out of whatever’s making you do this.
“Lesson on what?” he asks, edging closer.
Your arm tightens around the guy’s neck. It would actually be a comical sight if your landlord wasn’t turning purple.
“He’s been overcharging me and every other tenant for the water bill,” you say. “So I’ve decided to throw him off the roof.”
The landlord wriggles with panic.
“What made ya decide to do that today?” Jason asks. He wants to say, shit, I’d have solved your problem in a day if I’d known. But he doesn’t want to be an accessory as a civilian. He files it for later.
“This morning I woke up feeling different. I decided I wanted Gotham for myself. And I’d start with the people who have wronged me for so long. Now I can do something about it.”
Jason licks his lips. “You could do something about it before, honey. You know you got me.”
You sigh, leaning against the railing. You haven’t even broken a sweat holding the landlord. “I needed to match you, Jason. It won’t do if you’re the only one who does the dirty work when we take Gotham.”
You heave the landlord over the railing and he squawks, limbs flailing. Jason strikes while you’re distracted. He grabs the landlord first, hauling him to the door. He puts an arm out to block you from snatching the landlord back. It works, but you punch Jason in the process. And oh good Mary Shelley, you are strong. Jason’s molars rattle, his vision whiting out for a moment. It’s like getting punched by Artemis, something he has had the displeasure of experiencing.
His saving grace is that while your strength rivals his, your skills do not. Jason’s not sure what he’d do if you’d woken up with Amazonian strength and Batman training. Probably call in the Outlaws. Or maybe propose.
He manages to shove the landlord through and turns just in time to block your next punch.
“You let him get away?” you screech.
“I’ll take care of him later. You shouldn’t—fuck.” You shove him and he stumbles. “Y’shouldn’t kill people.”
“You kill,” you say, frowning.
Jason winces. He’s never heard you say it out loud. You don’t seem to mind, but you also just tried to throw a guy off a roof. He takes a deep breath.
“I know, but that doesn’t mean you should. C'mon, I don't wanna hurt you. And I’m not gonna. Just come with me, we'll figure this out.”
You bite your lip, eyes glittering. “I wouldn't worry about hurting me, Jason.”
You step forward, and Jason immediately plants his feet, raising his hands defensively. But you shake your head, reaching for his hands.
“I honestly don’t want to hurt you either, Jay,” you say softly. You slip your hands into his, thumbs rubbing his index fingers.
“Wouldn’t we be unstoppable together?” you croon.
Jason shifts. You barely touch him, mostly because he won’t let you. A hug from you turns him upside down.
“We can’t,” he says. He knows you’re not in your right mind. He knows that regular reasoning won’t work. “Too many eyes.”
You tilt your head. “Since when does that matter?”
And then you grab Jason's wrists, hard enough to bruise, and drive him backwards. He's caught off-guard, tripping over uneven pavement, and he goes down. You land on top, pinning his arms and legs. Jason squirms and finds that he can't move.
“Jesus,” he says, the wind knocked out of him. “How’d you get so strong?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that I woke up feeling powerful. Alive. The only reason I'm here is because I was waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me?”
This is a problem. You're under some kind of influence but your eyes are bright and beautiful and you smell the same, like your hibiscus and eucalyptus conditioner, and you’re holding Jason down. He can't think of the last person who was able to do that in this new life of his. Brute strength is usually his forte. You wouldn't normally be able to hold him down (though Jason would let you, if you really wanted to), and it happening now is quite inconvenient. Jason should be diffusing the situation, but he can't stop thinking about your knee resting dangerously close to his crotch.
“Yes.” You lean in, breath hot against his neck as you speak in his ear. “I know you've always wanted Gotham. It can be ours. I'll take it for you.”
Christ. This is not helping.
“Sweetheart, you aren't yourself,” Jason says, squirming again. But you hold fast. Your brows furrow.
“I'm more myself than I've ever been. Is this how it feels, Jason? To be so strong, unstoppable? I've always admired you for it.”
“I'm not unstoppable. I just fake it really well. And if you ever took over Gotham, I wouldn’t want it to happen like this.”
A lie. If you weren't under a spell and you'd suddenly gotten strong and evil and you held down Jason to persuade him to be your partner-in-crime, he'd agree in a heartbeat. If anyone deserves to be evil, it's you.
Then again, if you were really evil, you'd be tactful about executing your plans. This is proof that you aren't yourself. You'd be a perfect villain. You're a perfect everything.
You glare. “Where's all that fury and fire? You're always telling me to get mad, feel what I feel. Take what I want. Well, that's what I'm doing. I'm taking Gotham and I'm taking you.”
Jason swallows so hard, it scrapes his throat. “Me?” The word comes out high.
Your eyes slit and you grin. He's never seen you be seductive. Is his brain melting through his ears? Suddenly, he can’t remember why he came up to the roof.
“Isn't it obvious?” you say, leaning in to brush his jaw with your nose. Jason shivers. “Why else do you think I let you come up here and give me your this isn't you speech? All I have to do is convince you. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve wanted you for a long time.”
He wishes he had a free hand to pinch himself. This feels like one of his dreams. Not that he fantasizes about you being evil, because he doesn't. He adores you just as you are. But if you were evil, well… well.
“A real villain would just knock me out,” Jason says.
“I could if I wanted to,” you say, and Jason thinks he could hold his own if you were anybody else, but you're his weakness, and Evil You seems to know that.
“Yeah, you probably could,” he says, voice thin. You smile.
“You're my favorite,” you say. “I meant it when I said I don’t want to hurt you. When I build my empire, you'll be my consort.”
You get close enough to his mouth to kiss him and Jason almost swallows his tongue. His body feels like an overrun engine. At least you let the landlord go free, right?
At what cost? My sanity?
“Um.”
You and Jason turn to see Roy on the edge of the roof, his grip on his bow steady. He has an arrow aimed at you. You scowl.
“Roy,” you say, dripping with disdain. “I thought I knocked you out with the bricks. How disappointing.”
“I'll try not to take that personally,” Roy says. He raises an eyebrow. “Dude, I thought you had this under control.”
“I do have it under control,” Jason says irritably.
“She's got you pinned and you're not even trying to escape!”
Jason grunts. “She's freakishly strong. I'm playing the long game.”
Roy rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.”
“Jason is joining me,” you say happily. “He’s going to be my queen’s consort.”
“Oh my God.”
“I never said that!” Jason looks at you. “I never agreed to that.”
“You didn’t have to. I could see that you liked it,” you say, smirking at him. Apparently, Evil You is a lot more perceptive than Good You. It’s fucking annoying.
“We need to plan,” he says. “No one ever took over a city without planning. I planned for months before even coming here.”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Jason,” you say, voice rich like dusk. “You’re trying to protect me. It’s sweet. You know how sweet you are?”
Sweet hasn’t been used to describe Jason in a long time. But you call him sweet. You say he’s sweet when he bakes you baklava and changes the oil in your car. You say he’s sweet when he watches a movie with you or after you fix his hair. Evidently, he’s sweet enough for you. And right now, you sound so much like yourself, Jason suddenly feels desperate to change you back.
He looks at Roy, who nods.
“You’re sweeter,” Jason says.
You snort. “Old me was.”
“No. Just you.”
An arrow zings past you. Jason knows Roy missed on purpose. But you’re distracted, and it’s enough for Jason to roll you over and hold you long enough for Roy to stick a sedative into your neck. You thrash, and Jason’s stomach curls in protest at your screaming. But then you settle.
“Fuck,” Roy says, sitting on his haunches.
Jason nods, your sleeping body in his lap. “You said it.”
****
For the record, Jason didn’t want to go to the Cave.
He would’ve barreled past Bruce had he not made the irritatingly good point that his tech would figure out what affected you a lot faster than Jason’s tech. He hates it when Bruce is right.
Jason doesn’t let go of you in the car. Roy’s agreed to drive Jason’s bike there. Jason can feel Bruce’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror. He ignores them in favor of propping your head so your neck won’t hurt tomorrow.
“Do you know her?” Bruce asks.
“Yes,” Jason says, clipped.
And that’s all either one says. Alfred helps you into one of the medbay cots. Zatanna is already there and she does some tests. Jason holds your hand the whole time. He doesn’t know if you can feel what’s happening, but he doesn’t want your brain to be scared if you do.
“She’ll be fine,” Zatanna says. “It seems that this was an accident. Probably the result of a cursed object. I do not know if there will be extended effects, however. Perhaps you’d like to take precautions in case she wakes up and the magic hasn’t worn off.”
Bruce nods. “We’ll restrain her.”
“Fucking absolutely not,” Jason snaps.
“Jason—”
“No! You’re not cuffing her or tying her or whatever. She’s not gonna wake up like that. I’ll be here the whole time. If she needs restraining, I’ll handle it. I’ll sedate her again if I have to, but no restraints.”
Bruce’s mouth is a line, but he nods. And that’s that.
Jason settles into a chair that Alfred drags over for him. You don’t sleep for long, maybe three hours. Roy calls after dropping off Jason’s bike.
“You need me there?” he asks.
“No, ‘m fine. She’s gonna be fine.”
“She’s lucky to have you, Jason.”
Jason looks at your sleeping face. “Hm. Other way around.”
***
You wake up frightened. Reality and nightmare blurs together and it causes you to sit up, heart racing. There’s immediately an arm around you. You blink, turning to see Jason. He gingerly touches your back.
“Hey,” he says, searching your eyes. No sign of purple. “Y’okay?”
“Jason,” you say, full of relief, and you wrap your arms around his neck. He hugs you back after a moment, squeezing your arm.
“Hey, what’s ‘a matter?” he murmurs, petting you. “‘S okay, ‘m here.”
“I had this awful dream that I… that you…”
You pull back and stop short at the sight of Jason’s swollen eye. You look and sure enough, his wrists are bruised.
“It was real,” you say, looking like you're about to burst into tears. “I hurt you. Oh, Jay—”
“Hey, c'mon, ‘s just some bruises. I'll heal up in no time. You weren't tryna hurt me.”
You shake your head. “No, I remember everything. I hurt you and that man and my landlord! Oh God, I’m gonna get evicted…”
“Don’t worry about that. You’re not gonna get evicted. And that guy was perfectly fine. Full recovery.”
“Don’t act like it was nothing,” you say. “It was terrible what I did. I punched you, I kicked you, I…”
Jason shrugs. “Just a scratch. You were mostly trying to persuade me.”
You look green at the memory. “I can't believe I did that. Holding you down, forcing you to go along with my plan. I… I understand if you want some distance. I don’t know how you could forgive me.”
Nothing to forgive, Jason wants to say, except a normal person wouldn't say that. A normal person would probably have to work through this in therapy. For Batman, today would've been a typical Thursday. For Jason, well… therapy wouldn’t help here. Maybe a confessional. Or a cold shower.
But you’re looking at him with such heartbreak, like you think you’re the ugliest, evilest creature in the world, and Jason can’t bear to see it. He gets bold, sitting on the edge of your cot and sliding a hand onto your waist.
“You were forgiven before you woke up,” he says. “It was magic. A cursed tea set, from what Zatanna reported. Maybe don’t go thrifting alone anymore, yeah?”
Your pout is watery. “I was just terrible. I hurt you.”
“You were very strong. But it’s nothing I haven’t faced before. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I threw bricks at Roy!” you wail. “Oh, God. He hates me.”
You bury your face in your hands. Jason frowns, coaxing you forward.
“Hey, c’mon. He doesn’t hate you. He knows it wasn’t your fault. He’s more impressed by your aim, honestly.”
But that doesn’t soothe you, and Jason gets truly worried. He gently pulls your hands away. Your face is tear-stained, lashes thick with water.
“Honey, why’re you cryin’? Wasn’t your fault. Everything can be fixed.”
You shake your head. “Not everything. Not me.”
“Not you?”
You sniff. “I have real evil inside of me, Jason. I must. I really meant what I said.”
“What? I seriously doubt that. How do you know you meant it?”
“I meant other things, so I must’ve meant the evil stuff too!”
Jason freezes. He remembers the other things quite well.
“Other things?” he asks carefully.
You seem to catch yourself then, your eyes wide. “I-I don’t… know.”
And it’s still, fraught with the possibility of maybe. Hope swells so fast, Jason chokes on it. He removes his hand from your waist, for his sake. But he doesn’t stray far, fingers holding the hem of your shirt.
“Well,” he says. “Just ‘cause you meant some stuff doesn’t mean you meant the evil stuff.”
You look at him. “Really?”
Jason nods. “Sure. ‘Course, even if you did mean the evil stuff… it’d be okay. I mean, if you were really evil, which I don’t think you are, I’d still be your friend. Or…”
Something inside Jason screams Danger! Danger! Do not go down this road. She doesn’t want you like that. You’re lucky to have this.
“Or?” you ask. You don’t look disgusted. In fact, something about your gaze reminds him of earlier. The way you wanted to eat him alive.
“Or… something more,” he finishes lamely.
“Oh,” you whisper. “Well, for the record, I didn’t want to hurt you. I remember that.”
Jason’s mouth quirks. “Good to know. You were kinda kicking my ass.”
“I’m sorry,” you say.
You lean in, breath on his neck again. He follows.
“Nah, don’t be.”
Jason sees your eyes close. Your face is like a lily, blooming for him. He seals the distance.
warnings : nothing but extra standard fluff & carter being adorable, i loveee him (down bad)
(please do not copy or plagiarize, this is my original work subject to copyright)
you were just passing by. checking charts, half-listening to the buzz of conversation down the hall, trying to get through your shift without another consult being dumped on you. but then you heard it—laughter. high-pitched, wheezy, and unmistakably coming from mrs. greeley’s room.
you paused in the doorway, brows lifted.
and there he was.
dr. carter. perched at the foot of the bed, sleeves rolled up, tie a little crooked. hunched over a tiny plastic board like it was a surgical table. beside him, mrs. greeley clutched the tweezers in her shaky hands, squinting behind her glasses with a determined grin.
“see that?” he said, tapping the edge of the board. “that’s where your gallbladder is—or, in this case, the little bucket-looking thing. yours needs to come out because it’s not draining properly. so we go in nice and easy, and—”
bzzzt.
mrs. greeley jumped slightly and huffed. “well, i guess i’m dead.”
carter laughed under his breath, eyes kind. “not quite. that’s why i’ll be doing it.”
you couldn’t help smiling at the whole scene. mrs. greeley had been nervous about her surgery for days—asking the same questions on loop, wringing her hands whenever anyone walked in with a white coat. leave it to carter to pull out a literal board game and explain it like they were in a middle school classroom.
“i thought you were a surgeon, not a game show host,” you said, your voice teasing as you stepped further into the room.
his head turned slowly, smile spreading like he’d been waiting for you to join in. “i’m trying new methods,” he said with a shrug. “hands-on education.”
mrs. greeley peered over her glasses. “you a nurse?”
“yes, ma’am,” you said, walking to the side of the bed. “but i don’t play games on the clock.”
“that’s too bad,” carter said lightly, nudging the tweezers toward you on the tray. “maybe you could help her out. moral support.”
you looked down at the board, then back at him. “this your way of stalling before your next patient?”
“this is my way of showing excellent bedside manner,” he replied, dead serious, but the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.
mrs. greeley looked between the two of you with a grin, eyes twinkling. “oh, i like her,” she said, nudging the tweezers toward you. “you oughta keep her around, doctor.”
you smiled, the kind that crept up before you could stop it. a soft laugh slipped past your lips, surprising even you with how easy it came. “tempting offer,” you said, eyes flicking to carter’s.
he didn’t miss it. “i’ll think about it,” he murmured, but he wasn’t looking at the board anymore—he was looking at you.
finally, you cleared your throat and took the tweezers. “alright,” you said, settling in beside the bed. “let’s see if i’ve got the touch.”
you shifted your weight slightly, balancing your clipboard against your hip as you stepped closer. with one hand, you cleared a spot on the bedside table, sliding aside a plastic water cup and a wrinkled magazine, then set the clipboard down with a soft thud. your fingers lingered on the edge of it for a second—like maybe you were second-guessing this whole thing—before you reached back toward the tray.
your fingers reached for the tweezers, brushing against his in the space between. the contact was small, but neither of you moved. for a moment, it was like the whole room narrowed down to that shared point—his hand, your hand, and whatever it was passing between the two of you that wasn’t just plastic game pieces.
then you sat—carefully, easing onto the edge of the bed beside mrs. greeley, letting your knees angle toward the game board. the mattress dipped under your weight, and you adjusted your posture, smoothing your scrubs down and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like it gave you some kind of tactical edge.
you looked down at the board, blinking. “so… you want me to pull out his broken heart, or are we skipping to the spare ribs?”
“dealer’s choice,” he said, but his voice was lower now, softer. “just don’t mess it up.”
you tried. carefully. slowly. you leaned forward, tweezers slipping inside the tiny plastic cavity, eyes narrowing like this was an actual surgery. but then—your hand shifted. a slight tremor.
bzzzt.
you flinched. carter blinked once, like the sound snapped him out of whatever he was just thinking. you both glanced at mrs. greeley, who looked delighted.
“rookie mistake,” carter said, that grin pulling at the corner of his mouth again.
you let out a soft huff, half-annoyed, half-amused, as you set the tweezers back down on the tray with exaggerated care. “guess i’m not cut out for the big leagues,” you murmured, brushing your hands off like the operation board had done you personal harm.
carter raised a brow. “poor coordination?”
“poor patience,” you said, flashing him a grin. “and maybe a little fear of buzzing noises.”
he chuckled, leaning back just slightly, like he wasn’t in scrubs, like this wasn’t work, with his eyes still trained on you.“you did better than most interns on their first day.”
“mm.” you tilted your head, playful. “flatter me all you want, carter, but i’m not trying again.”
he held up his hands in mock surrender. “suit yourself.”
you turned toward mrs. greeley and gently slid the tweezers back to her side of the board. “your turn, boss. show us how it’s done.”
she picked them up with purpose, squinting down at the board like it had personally offended her. “i’m getting that wishbone if it’s the last thing i do.”
mrs. greenley's focus returning to the game while carter’s eyes drifted back to yours.
“thanks for helping,” he said quietly, just above a whisper as to not to disturb mrs. greenley.
you shrugged, but it was softer now, a small smile tugging at your lips. “you’ve got an interesting teaching method.”
he tilted his head a little, smiling. his eyes still locked on yours. “it worked, didn’t it?”
his knee brushed yours—barely, but enough that you felt it. you were both still perched at the edge of the bed, shoulders close, posture casual but not relaxed. not really. his arm rested just behind you, fingers curled loosely against the mattress like he might shift closer at any second. like he was thinking about it.
you swallowed, pulse kicking up—not from nerves, but from knowing. from feeling the quiet press of something that wanted to unravel right there in that shared space between you.
you let out a soft hum. “mm. i’ll give you that.”
he didn’t look away. didn’t laugh this time. just held your gaze like he was still waiting for something—maybe a sign, maybe permission, maybe nothing at all. maybe he just liked the way you looked at him when things slowed down.
his eyes flickered—once, twice—from yours to your lips. then back again. like he didn’t mean to do it, but couldn’t help himself. like something in him was trying not to reach for you, not to close the space. he wasn’t smiling anymore. not fully. just watching you in that still, focused way that felt deeper than it should’ve. like he was reading every inch of your face, taking his time with it. like he could see straight through you.
there was a pause—just long enough to feel like something else was about to happen. like one of you might say something that shifted the air for good.
bzzzt.
“damn it!” mrs. greeley barked, jabbing the tweezers against the board like it had betrayed her.
the sharp buzz cut through the air like a slap—startling you both.
you both jumped slightly, startled by the sound—then immediately cracked up. the tension snapped. then the laugh slipped out—first from you, then from him, and suddenly it was easy again. your body finally relaxed, and the smile that came next felt natural, no longer weighted with everything you weren’t saying. carter’s head dropped forward with a quiet snort, his shoulder brushing yours as he laughed beside you.
you glanced at the clock on the wall—double checked, like maybe it would give you a few more minutes you didn’t have. no luck.
you sighed, quiet but real, then looked back at carter. “i should get back,” you said, and it came out a little softer than intended. like you almost didn’t want to go.
you stood, smoothing your palms down the front of your scrubs out of habit, grounding yourself with motion. the mattress lifted slightly behind you as your weight left it. carter shifted too, but didn’t stand. he just watched.
you stepped away, smoothing your hands over your scrubs, and nodded toward mrs. greeley. “i’ll come check in before rounds, alright?”
“you better,” he said, a little too quick, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
but before you could react to his remark, mrs. greeley waved you off, eyes still locked on the board like it had insulted her pride. “bring backup. i’m not losing to plastic.”
your eyes flicked back to carter, just for a second. “see you around, doctor.”
you didn’t look back as you walked out, but you felt his eyes stay on you the whole way down the hall.
a few steps later, another bzzzt echoed down the corridor from mrs. greeley’s room, followed by a muffled groan.
Summary: You knew Dick Grayson when you were kids, back when he was Robin and you were the journalist’s daughter sneaking after stories you weren’t supposed to. He was awkward, gangly, more earnest than smooth, and you had a crush anyway. Then you left Gotham, and life moved on. Years later, you’re back in the city with a press badge of your own, chasing leads and running headfirst into trouble. Except this time, it’s not Robin who finds you, It’s Nightwing. Taller. Broader. Unfairly charming.
word count: 16k
notes – not proofread. first time writing for dick !!!!
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you learn about Gotham at night is that it never shuts up. The city hums, rattles, and groans. A low, constant sound, like the world grinding its teeth. You’d grown up listening to it through your bedroom window, lullabied by sirens and laughter that never sounded quite right, but it feels different when you’re actually in it, sneakers scuffing against wet pavement as you trail after your dad.
You shouldn’t be here. You know it.
Your dad said he was going to meet a source and you’d been told, ordered, not to follow. But curiosity eats at you the way the Gotham chill eats at skin, and when you saw him grab his notebook and duck out the door, you slipped out ten minutes later, coat too thin and pulse thrumming with the thrill of doing something forbidden.
You’re close enough to keep his hat in sight, not close enough to hear the scribbles of his pen. He cuts down a side street, one you recognize from whispered family arguments: Crime Alley. A place name said like a warning, a curse, a story that ends badly every time.
You think you’ll just watch. Stay hidden. Go home before he ever notices.
And then a car door slams. Men step out, shadows too broad, voices too low. The scrape of a gun being drawn is so distinct it punches the air out of your lungs. You’re frozen before you can even think to run.
“Hey,” one of them snaps, “who’s the guy with the notebook?”
Your dad. They move faster than you thought men that big could, and your father stumbles back against a wall, palms up, words coming out too fast for you to catch. You can’t look away. You don’t even notice that you’ve crept closer, feet dragging you toward him like gravity.
Then a hand grabs you from behind. A sharp yank, and you’re pulled into the gap between two crumbling brick buildings. You suck in a breath to scream, but a gloved hand clamps over your mouth.
“Don’t,” a voice hisses. Young. Annoyed. And weirdly… theatrical?
You blink up at the figure in the dim light. Red tunic, green gloves, a cape that swishes against your legs. A mask. The only thing you can really see are his eyes, impossibly blue, narrowed like you’ve just ruined his entire night.
Robin. Holy crap. Robin has his hand over your mouth.
When he finally lets go, you gasp, “What the hell?”
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he cuts in, voice cracking with the force of it. “Following a bunch of mobsters into Crime Alley? Real smart.”
Your heart is still jackhammering, but indignation flares hotter than fear. “I wasn’t! I was just—”
“You were just about to blow his cover,” he snaps, jerking his head toward the street. Your dad’s voice drifts faintly over the noise; he’s still talking, still buying time. “Do you have any idea what happens if they see you? You’d be leverage. A liability. Deadweight.”
“Wow.” You cross your arms, trying to hide the way your hands are still shaking. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I didn’t know Batman’s sidekick was such a charmer.”
His shoulders stiffen. “You’re lucky I even noticed you before they did.”
You tilt your chin up, eyeing him fully now. He’s shorter than you thought he’d be. Still taller than you, but not by much. Younger, too. His jaw hasn’t settled into itself yet, his voice has that awkward in-between crack, and his boots squeak when he shifts his weight. He’s a kid. A crime-fighting, cape-wearing kid.
“You’re… smaller than I expected,” you blurt before you can stop yourself.
His head whips toward you, affronted. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” You bite back a grin, heat bubbling up despite the danger. “It’s just, everyone always makes you sound… I don’t know. Taller. Broodier.”
He glares. “I’m not here to live up to your expectations.”
You can’t help it. You laugh, a nervous little sound muffled against your sleeve. “Okay, sorry, don’t get your tights in a twist boy wonder.”
His scowl only deepens, and then a crackle from his comm has him turning his head. A man’s voice, Batman, you realize with a shiver, low and commanding. Robin mutters something back, sharp and clipped, before his gaze settles on you again.
“Go home,” he says, more tired than angry this time. “This isn’t a game.”
“But my dad…” You hesitate. Your dad is still out there, talking fast, and you can’t tell if he’s winning or losing.
“Your dad’s fine,” Robin adds quickly, softer now. “Batman’s got him. But if you stay, you’ll make it worse.”
You study him for a beat, and beneath the impatience, you catch it: the edge of worry. Not just about the mission. About you. Something inside you twists.
“Fine,” you mutter. “But only because you’re bossy.”
He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He just takes your wrist and tugs you down a different alley, cape brushing your arm as he half-drags you back toward the safer streets. He doesn’t let go until the noise has faded and the streetlamps burn steady again.
When you reach the corner near your house, he finally stops. Folds his arms. “You’re gonna stay put this time?”
“Yes, mom,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. For the first time, he cracks a smile. Just a twitch of his mouth, quick and bright, before he shakes his head like he can’t believe you.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You’re lucky you’re not grounded for life.”
And then he’s gone, a flash of cape against the skyline.
You stand there on your street corner, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with mobsters, and think, So Robin is shorter than expected. Bossier. Maybe even kind of annoying.
But also…he might just be the most interesting person you’ve ever met.
-
The second time you see him, it’s by accident. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You weren’t looking for him. You swear you weren’t. You were only out walking because your apartment felt suffocating and Gotham, for all its broken glass and shadows, still felt like it might offer air. But when you cut down Burnside Avenue, past the flickering neon of the diner, he drops from the fire escape two feet in front of you. The cape swishes. The boots hit concrete.
“Seriously?” he mutters. “What are you doing out here again?”
You nearly jump out of your sneakers. “Oh my god! Do you always sneak up on people like that?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of my thing.” He’s glaring, but it doesn’t land right. His mouth is tight, sure, but his voice sounds more like a boy caught between annoyance and…something else. Worry, maybe. “You don’t learn, do you? Crime Alley ring any bells?”
You cross your arms. “I wasn’t in Crime Alley. I was, like, three blocks over.”
“That’s not the point.” He sighs, the sound way too old for his age. “Gotham’s not safe for late-night strolls.”
You almost tell him it’s not safe in daylight either, but then you catch it; the way his shoulders hunch, like the weight of protecting a whole city has been shoved into bones that haven’t even finished growing. And suddenly you don’t feel like arguing. Instead, you shrug, pretending casual. “You always hang around diners waiting for girls to wander by?”
His mask tilts toward you, eyes narrowing. Then, to your surprise, he huffs a laugh. It’s short, almost embarrassed. “You think I was waiting for you?”
“Well, were you?”
“No.” Too fast. “I mean…no.”
But later, when you climb the fire escape to your roof and find him sitting there, swinging his legs like he owns the place, you realize you don’t actually believe him.
-
The roof of your building isn’t glamorous. Tar paper bubbled from rain, rust stains streaking down the side of the water tank, the occasional pigeon that refuses to be intimidated by you. But when you push the heavy door open and step out, the air feels different. Gotham’s hum is still there, sirens, horns, the buzz of neon, but up here it doesn’t press as hard against your ribs.
And more often than not lately, he’s already there. Robin sits cross-legged on the ledge, or sprawled on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes, cape fanned around him like he doesn’t care how ridiculous it looks. Sometimes he drops down a few seconds after you arrive, startling you with the scrape of boots on metal. Either way, it starts to feel like a routine: your door creaking, his head lifting, both of you pretending not to be waiting for each other.
“Busy night?” you ask one evening, sliding down to sit a safe distance away.
“Busier than yours,” he deadpans. “You know, most people spend their nights doing homework. Watching TV. Not scaling fire escapes.”
“Homework doesn’t come with a view.” You tilt your head at the skyline. Gotham glitters in a way that almost tricks you into thinking it’s beautiful.
He snorts, but when you glance sideways, you catch the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. That’s how it always goes. You jab at him, he pretends he’s above it, and somewhere in between, you both soften.
-
Over time, the conversations stretch longer. You tell him about your dad, how he’s never home, how he burns through notebooks and cups of stale coffee like they’re oxygen. How you’re not sure if you admire him or resent him, and how sometimes it feels like Gotham chews your family as much as it does everyone else.
Robin doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off. He just sits there, chin in his gloved hand, listening like every word is weighty. When you finish, he nods once, sharp and certain, like he’s filing it away as important.
And then, in quieter moments, he lets pieces of himself slip through. Not many, always measured, always cautious, but enough. How Batman trains him until his bones ache. How his armor never feels like it fits, how the bruises bloom in places no one ever sees. How sometimes he doesn’t know if he’s saving Gotham or if Gotham is slowly eating him alive.
His voice is always lower when he says those things, almost lost to the hum of the city. Like he’s afraid of being overheard by shadows.
You never tell him, but that’s when the crush starts. Not the giggling, diary-scrawled kind your friends whisper about. This is quieter. He isn’t even cute, not really. His ears stick out, his voice still cracks if he laughs too hard, his nose looks like it’s been broken once already. But he carries himself like every problem in Gotham belongs to him, and when he looks at you, you feel like you matter in a way the city never lets you.
-
Some nights you talk about nothing at all. Pizza debates that spiral into full-blown arguments.
“New Trioni’s is better than Angelo’s. Don’t argue with me, I’m right.”
“You’re so wrong,” he shoots back, mock-offended. “Trioni’s slices flop over like wet paper. Angelo’s can hold its shape when you fold it.”
“Who folds their pizza?” you demand, eyes wide.
“Real Gothamites,” he says with all the gravitas of someone who’s fourteen and just learning what the word “gravitas” means.
The bickering lasts twenty minutes, ending with you scribbling “TRIONI’S > ANGELO’S” on the back of your notebook and holding it up in his face until he swats at you.
Other nights, you complain about teachers. Yours, who you swear has made it their personal mission to fail you, and his, who he can’t talk about too much but still slips through in hints. “It’s like… training disguised as lessons. Fail and you do push-ups until your arms give out.”
You tell him that’s got to be child abuse. He rolls his eyes. “It’s Gotham.”
-
It happens on a night when Gotham feels especially sharp. The air smells like rain on copper pipes, and somewhere far off a siren wails, long and low. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t sneak out again, but promises don’t hold much weight in this city. You’d only been a few blocks from home when the shouting started. Two guys fighting over a busted radio, the kind of thing you should’ve ignored. You’d frozen, pulse climbing, when one of them noticed you watching.
It doesn’t take long. Heavy footsteps. A hand grabbing too close to your arm. And then he’s there. Robin drops from the fire escape like a shadow snapping into place. A blur of red, green, and anger. His boot catches the guy’s chest, sends him sprawling. The other one bolts.
“You again,” he grits out as he drags you behind him, voice cracking just enough to remind you he’s not much older than you.
You mean to thank him, but the words catch when you see him stumble. Just a hitch, a fraction of a limp as he turns. His arm is tight against his side, hand flexing like he’s trying not to use it.
“Are you hurt?” you blurt.
“I’m fine.” He tries for firm, but it’s more defensive than convincing.
“You’re bleeding,” you insist, catching the dark smear seeping through his tunic.
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Your voice sharpens, louder than you mean it to. “And you’re not going back out there until you let me look.”
He stares at you, eyes unreadable behind the mask, like he’s calculating the odds of you actually tackling him if he refuses. Finally, with a long, theatrical sigh, he mutters, “Fine. Five minutes.”
-
Your apartment is embarrassingly small. Peeling wallpaper. A couch with stuffing trying to claw its way out of the seams. The bathroom’s worse, barely enough room for the sink, the tub, and both of you crammed inside.
“Sit,” you order, tugging at his wrist until he perches awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, cape spilling over the floor like dark water.
“This is unnecessary,” he says, though his voice wobbles when you press a towel against his ribs.
“Unnecessary is bleeding out in a back alley,” you snap, trying to hold your hands steady. The towel comes away red. Too red. “God, do you even know how to take care of yourself?”
His eyes flick up at you then, sharp, defensive, but there’s something softer underneath. Something that makes your stomach twist.
“You sound like him,” he mutters.
“Batman?”
He doesn’t answer, but the silence is enough. You grab the first aid kit from under the sink, bandages, alcohol wipes, the kind of things your dad keeps for paper cuts and clumsy accidents, not vigilantes. Still, you make it work.
“Hold still,” you warn, tearing open an alcohol pad.
“I am still.”
“You’re fidgeting.”
“You’re bossy.”
“Better bossy than dead.”
That finally earns you the tiniest smile, quick and crooked, gone almost before you register it.
You’re close now, too close. Kneeling in front of him, hands braced against his side as you patch what you can. The smell of leather and sweat clings to his tunic, the faintest hint of smoke in his hair. His breathing evens under your touch, like he’s not used to anyone bothering to fix him up.
When you look up, his eyes are already on you. The mask gleams under the bathroom’s weak light, distorting him into something untouchable. And suddenly it feels wrong. Wrong to be this close to someone whose face you can’t really see.
“You ever get tired of it?” you ask quietly. “The mask?”
His shoulders tense. He looks away, down at the cracked tiles. For a second you think he won’t answer. Then his hands lift, hesitant and slow.
The domino comes off.
You freeze. It’s not some hardened soldier under there. Not a myth. Just a boy. Hair damp and stubborn where sweat’s plastered it to his forehead. Eyes too big, too tired, too human. A face you recognize from posters years ago—the acrobat from Haly’s Circus.
“…you’re Dick Grayson,” you breathe, the name spilling out before you can stop it.
His chin tips up, defensive. “You gonna tell anyone?”
“Of course not.” The words fall out fast, desperate to close the space between you. “I’d never.”
He studies you, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for betrayal. Whatever he sees must be enough, because his shoulders ease, his breath lets out slow. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he mutters. “Batman would kill me if he knew.”
You nudge his knee with yours, a tiny grin tugging at your lips despite the tight knot in your chest. “Guess it’s a good thing Batman doesn’t know everything.”
For the first time, he laughs. Really laughs. It’s uneven, boyish, and it shoots straight through you, leaving you dizzy. And in that cramped little bathroom, with the hum of the city seeping through the cracked window and the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air, you realize this isn’t just Robin anymore. It isn’t just Dick Grayson either. It’s both.
And it feels like a secret only you get to keep.
-
The day you find out you’re leaving, it doesn’t feel real. Your dad doesn’t sit you down or soften it, he just mutters over cold coffee and half-packed files, “It’s not safe anymore. We’re going. End of discussion.”
That’s all you get. No details, no vote. By nightfall, cardboard boxes are stacked in the living room, your whole life folded and taped shut. Gotham shrinks to the size of a trunk and a suitcase. You don’t cry. Not right away. But when the apartment gets quiet, when your dad slams another box closed and the walls echo hollow, you slip out the window and climb.
The roof is empty at first. No cape on the ledge, no boy dangling his boots. Just the hum of the city below, as if it doesn’t care you’re about to vanish. You wrap your arms around yourself and stare out at the skyline, hoping, willing, he’ll show.
And then, like he always does, he drops into place beside you. “You weren’t gonna say goodbye?” he asks, voice soft under the gravel.
Your throat goes tight. “I didn’t know how.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, mask half-lit by the flicker of a neon sign, waiting.
So you talk. About how your dad’s stories finally drew the wrong kind of attention. About how Gotham feels like it’s about to spit your family out after chewing through you all so thoroughly there will be nothing left, and this time there’s no choice but to run. About how much you hate leaving; not the apartment, not even the city, but this. These nights. This secret. Him.
He listens like he always does, quiet and intent, the kind of quiet that means he’s holding every word.
Finally, you look at him and whisper, “I don’t want to forget this.”
Something flickers in his expression, too quick to name. He shifts, pulling the domino mask off and turning it in his hands until the edges press little crescents into his palms.
“Then don’t,” he says simply. “Don’t forget me.”
Your heart lodges in your throat. You want to tell him you won’t, that you couldn’t if you tried. You want to tell him that the crush you’ve been burying is bigger than you can hold, that you’re leaving with a piece of yourself you didn’t know you’d given away. But you’re fourteen, and the words are too big, too heavy.
So instead you nod, fiercely, until the tears blur the skyline. “I won’t.”
For a moment, you swear he leans like he might say something else. Might ask you to stay, might admit he doesn’t want to forget either. But then your dad’s voice calls up from the street, sharp and impatient, and the moment shatters.
You stand. He stays seated, mask still in his hands, like he can’t quite put it back on. You want to hug him, to make the promise tangible, but you’re not sure if that’s allowed, so you just hold his gaze for one more beat and whisper, “Goodbye, Dick.”
“Goodbye,” he echoes, voice raw around the edges.
You don’t look back as you climb down the fire escape, suitcase handle cutting into your palm. The car door slams, your dad starts the engine, and Gotham begins to slide past the windows like a dream smearing at the edges.
But when you finally let yourself glance back, there he is, perched on the rooftop, cape trailing behind him, mask dangling loose in his hands.
A boy too small for the weight he carries, silhouetted against a city that will never stop asking more. Watching you leave like it’s the last thing he’ll ever let himself do.
And then the car turns the corner, and he’s gone.
-
You’d always told yourself you weren’t keeping tabs, not really. But the truth is you couldn’t help it. Gotham’s headlines are hard to ignore. Batman never vanished; he’s a permanent fixture in the background of every crisis, every scandal, every blurred photograph of a cape against a floodlight.
Robin was there too, at least for a while. But not your Robin. This one was smaller, sharper, someone else’s kid in colors that weren’t his. The news never explained the swap. Gotham doesn’t explain anything.
As for Dick Grayson? You never let yourself look too hard. Some nights in Metropolis, you’d type his name into a search bar, just to hover over the letters. Circus boy, ward of Bruce Wayne, rumored dropout. Then you’d slam the laptop closed before the results could load. It felt like breaking some unspoken promise, like trespassing on a secret that had only ever been yours.
So you let him fade into the background of your memory. Or tried to. Life went on. You grew up. Metropolis U gave you a degree you’re still not sure you earned. You dated a little, kissed boys who didn’t make your chest ache the way rooftop laughter once did. You told yourself you were moving forward, not circling back. And yet, here you are. Returning to Gotham with a job at the paper, retracing your father’s path like a shadow.
Your dad isn’t with you this time. He’s staying behind, insisting he’s too old for Gotham’s grind. So it’s just you and your boxes, your byline, and the faint echo of footsteps on tar paper that you never really forgot.
You pause on the corner outside your new apartment, suitcase wheels caught on a crack in the sidewalk. Gotham breathes heavy around you; neon flicker, taxi horn, the muffled thump of bass from a club down the street.
You wonder, not for the first time, if you’ll see him. And just as quickly, you remind yourself: probably not. Gotham eats people. It chews them up, spits them out, and even the ones who survive don’t always stick around.
Still, when you climb the steps and let yourself into the dim little apartment, you can’t help glancing out the window at the rooflines beyond. Half of you expects to see a flash of cape, the silhouette of a boy you once knew.
But the skyline is empty.
-
By now, Gotham has settled into your bones again. It’s been months since you unpacked your last box, months since you stopped flinching at the way the city exhales smoke and sirens instead of air. The novelty wore off fast. Gotham is like that; she lets you think she’s offering something new, then reminds you it was always just grit and rot under the paint.
Your nights taste like coffee grounds and exhaustion, your mornings like stale bagels eaten while jogging across crosswalks. The newsroom smells of burnt ink and anxiety, and it clings to you even when you leave.
So when your editor sent you chasing whispers across the river, you didn’t think twice. Blüdhaven, he’d said, a smuggling ring near the docks. Gotham’s smaller, meaner cousin, the kind of place your dad used to warn you about but still sent you to buy fireworks from when you were twelve.
You’d told yourself you could handle it. Gotham-born, seasoned on backstreets and rooftops, no stranger to shadows. You’ve always been too curious for your own good.
Turns out curiosity doesn’t count for much when the alley closes in on you.
-
Blüdhaven smells worse than Gotham. Like saltwater left too long in a rusty bucket, sharp and sour all at once. The alley is narrow, brick pressing close on either side, graffiti bleeding into one another under the yellow smear of a streetlamp. You’d only meant to skirt the block, maybe snap a photo of the cargo crates stacked like crooked teeth along the waterline. Instead, you’ve got three men cutting you off, their boots heavy, their breath reeking of stale beer.
The wall is cold against your back.
“Where you think you’re going, sweetheart?” one asks, voice slick. He’s taller than you, bulkier too, the kind of man who’s never been told no in a way that stuck.
Your pulse kicks hard. Your mind tries to measure exits, two steps left, maybe a sprint to the chain-link, but they’re already tightening the circle. The sound of their shoes on wet concrete echoes too loud, too final.
Your hand clamps around your notebook, knuckles white. For one mad second you consider swinging it like a weapon. And then the air splits.
He comes from above. A shadow drops out of the night, suit a streak of ink, boots hitting the first man’s chest with a crack that rattles the brick. The impact sends him sprawling, air rushing out of his lungs in a howl. The second man barely has time to register movement before a blur of blue arcs through the dim. The escrima stick connects with his jaw, a clean, efficient crack that folds him sideways.
The third curses, steel flashing as he pulls a knife, but it’s useless. The stranger moves faster, duck, twist, wrist locked and wrenched. The blade clatters uselessly to the ground. A sharp elbow, a spin, and the man collapses onto the damp concrete, groaning. It takes less than a minute. You don’t breathe until it’s over. Then theres silence.
The three men groan in a heap, nursing their bruises, and you’re left standing in the mouth of the alley with your notebook pressed to your chest like a shield.
He straightens. Under the weak streetlight, he looks unreal. Black and blue armor clings to broad shoulders, the stylized bird spreading across his chest in sharp, gleaming lines. He spins one escrima stick in his hand like it weighs nothing, the move so casual it’s showy. The mask gleams, eyes whited out, hiding everything but the shape of his mouth, the curve of his jaw.
And then he turns to you.
“Still can’t stay out of trouble, huh?” The voice hits first. Familiar enough to send a jolt through you. It’s smoother now, deeper, no trace of the cracks it used to have, but you know it. You know it like you know your own pulse.
Your knees nearly give. “I-what?”
He steps closer, head cocked, smirk curling at his mouth like he’s been waiting years to use it. Except there’s nothing boyish about him anymore. His shoulders fill the armor like it was built for him, lines sleek and lethal. His movements hum with confidence, a looseness earned from years of knowing exactly what he can do and knowing everyone else is a step behind.
The mask hides half his face, but what it doesn’t hide is worse. The jawline is sharper, cut like someone sculpted it with glass. His mouth is curved in a smile that’s both infuriating and magnetic. His body radiates energy, command, like he could take on the whole block if you dared him.
Your brain scrambles. This isn’t the boy you knew. This isn’t the awkward kid who smudged ink into your margins and laughed too hard at your jokes. For a second you’re convinced you’ve conjured him out of memory. That your exhaustion and the shadows stitched together a hallucination just to taunt you.
And then, like he knows you need proof, he lifts his hands and peels the mask away.
The world tilts.
“…Dick?” It’s his eyes that betray him. Blue. Bright. The exact shade you’d memorized years ago under the moonlight on your roof. But steadier now. Sharper. Older.
“Hi.” His grin spreads slow, deliberate, every inch of it self-satisfied. “Miss me?”
You forget how to breathe. Because this…this is really not the boy you left. Not your awkward crush with too-big ears and a voice that squeaked mid-laugh. Not the kid who leaned stiffly when you first bumped his shoulder.
This is a man. He’s taller, towering over you in a way that makes the brick wall at your back feel unnecessary. Every inch of him looks carved, built, honed. His arms ripple with muscle that wasn’t there before, his chest fills the blue emblem like it was made to draw the eye. His hair is longer, darker, his mouth sharper, the grin edged with confidence you don’t know how to stand against.
He looks like someone who walked out of a fantasy you never would’ve dared to put on paper.
You blink once. Twice. Three times. Your brain refuses to reconcile the two images; the scowling boy with smudged gloves and this unfairly gorgeous man standing in front of you. “What… what happened to you?” The words fly out, strangled, mortifying. Heat floods your face before you can stop it.
His eyebrow arches. He tucks the mask into his belt, casual. “Puberty?”
It should be funny. And it is funny. The corner of your mouth twitches in betrayal, a laugh half-born and dying in your throat. But your chest is twisting, hard, because you can still see him underneath it all. Still see the boy who leaned too far forward on ledges, who let his laugh crack when he forgot to control it. The boy who told you secrets in the dark and asked you not to forget.
And now here he is, all swagger and charm and jawlines that should be illegal. Handsome in a way that would be arrogance if he couldn’t back it up with every move he just made. Your pulse is hammering, and the spiral is real. What do you do with a crush that was built on personality, on earnestness and laughter and responsibility, when it comes packaged now in a body like this? When it’s sharpened into something magnetic, commanding, impossible to look away from?
You stare at him, dazed, like you’re trying to catch up to reality. “You… you were not this good-looking when we were kids.”
His grin only widens, cocky and warm all at once. “So you were paying attention.”
You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Because Gotham didn’t just chew Dick Grayson up and spit him back out. It reforged him into something you are absolutely not ready for.
For a few stunned seconds after he speaks, you stand there and do nothing but hear your heart in your ears. The alley is wet and ringing; distant gulls, a siren far-off, the tinny drip-drip of a faulty gutter. One of the guys on the ground groans, rolls over, thinks better of it, and stays facedown. The streetlamp above you flickers like it’s chewing glass.
“Okay,” you manage finally, voice rasped thin. “Okay.”
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. He tips his head, searches your face like he’s tracing the years there. Then, practical as a tide, he tucks the mask back over his eyes. The Nightwing look clicks into place with a finality that makes your stomach dip. “Walk with me,” he adds. “This block’s loud for all the wrong reasons.”
He offers a hand. Warm leather. Callused palm. The glove creaks when you take it, and you try very hard not to catalog the new details; how much larger his hand feels than it used to, how steady it is, the easy strength under the restraint. He doesn’t tug so much as guide, falling into step beside you like your bodies remember the distance they’ve always kept.
You exit the alley into air that smells like engine oil and salt-stung wood. The docks breathe: winches clicking, a forklift grumbling, water slapping pilings in a thawed rhythm. Nightwing angles you toward the brighter avenue, keeping himself between you and the shadows without making a show of it. His presence folds around you the way his cape used to on rooftops; same instinct, different body.
“You’re really here,” you say, because it’s the only sentence that keeps starting in your brain.
“So are you,” he answers. “Thought I was hallucinating when I saw you in that alley. Journalism, huh?”
“It runs in the family,” you say, apologetic and defiant all at once.
He hums. “I noticed.”
“You noticed?”
“Hard to miss,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Bylines. Two pieces on the housing ordinance, a profile on the Jackson Street food pantry, a fire that shouldn’t have spread as fast as it did. Your ledes are cleaner. Fewer adverbs.”
You blink at him. “You… read them?”
He shrugs one shoulder. The motion makes the blue stripe arc over muscle in a way that should be illegal. “I keep an eye on Gotham. And people who used to live on rooftops with me.”
It takes a few steps to realize your face is doing the warm thing again. You look away, huff out a laugh like you can steam the heat into the Blüdhaven night. “Still a critic.”
“Still right,” he says, and there’s the grin; quick, bright, and edged with something fond. “You got sharper.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he says, tilting his chin, “you’re not the kid who followed trouble because it glittered. You followed it in there because you had a plan. You clocked their shoes before their faces. You kept your notebook hand free. You put your back to a wall.”
You glance up at him. “You saw all that in, what, thirty seconds?”
“Ten,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself. “Give or take.”
The walk bleeds you out toward the waterfront road. Nightwing crosses you behind a stack of palettes with the same unthinking choreography he used to have on rooftops. One hand light against your elbow, a check for traffic, the quick tilt of his head as his comm crackles something at him you can’t hear. He answers it without breaking stride, then flicks the channel off and comes back to you like you’re the station he meant to tune to all along.
“Your dad?” he asks after a beat.
“Back in Metropolis,” you say. “He says he’s retired. I give it six months.”
His mouth pulls wry. “Retirement never sticks.”
“Does it for you?” The question flies out before you can leash it. You mean it to be casual; it lands heavier, threaded with too many years, too many unsent searches of his name at one a.m.
He doesn’t flinch. “Didn’t for me,” he says. “I needed… different air. A city I could learn without being measured against a cape that walks like thunder.”
“Blüdhaven,” you say. “Gotham left out in the rain.”
He huffs a laugh. “Something like that.” Then he glances at you from under the curve of the mask, gravity sliding back in. “It grows on you if you let it. Like mold. Or a stray.”
“Romantic,” you deadpan.
“Hey, I never promised romance,” he lies very badly, because even his walk is a little romantic now, loose-hipped and careful in the dark, shoulder brushing yours when the sidewalk narrows, the night clicking into place around him like it’s learned the shape of his stride.
You pass a shuttered bait shop with a neon marlin blinking. A stray cat watches you from a garbage can lid, eyes pearls in the lamplight. Your shoes squeak; his steps don’t make sound at all. Every few yards he scans the roofs with that lifted chin. You remember the gesture, how it used to be smaller on a smaller body, and you picture the mental map overlaid on what your eyes see: viable fire escapes, plausible ambushes, routes-out stitched in blue light.
“How long were you on that roof?” you ask. “Before you dropped in.”
He contemplates the question like it has a proper answer. “Long enough to count three sets of footsteps and a knife. Not long enough to forgive you later if you’d been stubborn enough to run.”
“I wasn’t going to run,” you start, then hedge, “for long.”
He barks a laugh. It slides into something softer before it’s done. “You’re… different,” he says, the word careful, as if he’s testing the edges to make sure it won’t cut.
“Older,” you offer.
“That, yeah.” The corner of his mouth tugs. “But it’s not just that. You walk like you own your space now, not like you’re renting it. You look people in the eye longer. You… speak headline and copy without thinking.” He flicks his gaze over you, deliberate enough that you feel seen rather than scanned. “You still don’t fold your pizza, I bet.”
“I will die on that hill,” you say gravely.
“You will die incorrect,” he returns, equally grave, and a piece of rooftop-laughter that you thought you’d boxed up somewhere years ago shakes itself awake and trots between you like it never left.
“Okay, Mr. Puberty,” you say, putting a hand to your chest as if to ward off the unfairness. “Since we’re making observations, what exactly are you eating to look like you could bench-press a yacht?”
“Protein bars and spite,” he says, deadpan. “Mostly spite.”
You trip on a cracked tile and he catches you without thinking, a warm bracket at your elbow and the lightest pressure of his other hand at your hip to steady you. It lasts half a blink, then he’s gone again, space restored, the afterimage of touch ringing in your nerves like a bell. The alley stench loosens for a second, and you catch the smell of him beneath leather and city: clean soap, ozone, summer heat trapped in fabric that moves like skin.
“Thanks,” you say belatedly, and hope he can’t see the flush doing somersaults up your throat.
“Occupational hazard,” he says lightly. “Saving journalists who don’t fold their pizza.”
“I saved the notebook,” you argue, brandishing it. “That counts as self-preservation.”
His eyes crinkle. “God, I missed that.”
You were not prepared for those words. They land like a warm hand on your sternum, like the exact right weight after too many years of empty space. You swallow once, twice. The docks open into a long, bleak avenue where the streetlights flock in nervous clusters. He steers you toward the brighter end.
“I kept tabs,” you admit, voice tucking itself small. “Not… really. Not like a creep. Just… Batman was always there, and then there was a Robin who wasn’t my Robin, and I didn’t…” You shake your head, chase off the tangle. “Sometimes I typed your name and closed the laptop before the results could load. It felt wrong, like prying at something that was mine because you gave it to me.”
He walks a few slow steps without answering. The night stretches, thin and elastic. When he finally speaks, it’s soft, the timbre reaching you beneath the noise. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says. “Go looking, I mean. Part of me… needed to earn being found.”
You glance up. His expression is harder to read with the mask back on, but the mouth, older now, yes, and built for trouble, goes gentle in the corners. He kicks at a pebble; it skitters into the gutter. “The leaving was messy,” he says. “I had to be more than a shadow to a shadow.”
“And now you’re a bird,” you say. “Blue suits you.”
“Figures you’d appreciate the re-branding,” he says lightly, then, “yours does too, though.”
“What?”
“The re-brand. It suits you,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice now that didn’t exist when he was fourteen. “You grew up into your name. Your bylines. Your whole… thing. It looks good on you.”
You stare at him, cheeks doing that heat thing again. “My… thing.”
“Your spine,” he clarifies, and the tease bumps to the side to let the truth through. “You always had one. It just… fits you better now.”
The ridiculous urge to cry chooses that exact moment to crest, so you let out a little choking laugh instead and look at a billboard for a discount mattress warehouse like it’s fascinating art. “You’ve gotten complimentary in your old age,” you mutter.
“It’s the protein bars,” he says, solemn, and you trip into laughter that tastes like your rooftop nights, cold air, the city in your lungs, the right person at your shoulder. A night bus sways past; he slow-blinks away the wind grit. You fall quiet for a block, footsteps scuffing in sync. Somewhere inland, someone’s playing a radio too loud. It spills a chorus that means nothing and everything past the brick and rebar.
“You’re staying?” he asks eventually. “Gotham, I mean. Not a six-month and run?”
“I’m staying,” you say, and feel the words set in your body like a foundation finally poured. “When I told my dad, he said it’s my turn to decide what Gotham is to me.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Blüdhaven’s an extension of the same storm. We share weather fronts.” His mouth twists, fond and rueful. “I’ll be around.”
“You always are,” you say before you can help it.
He glances sidelong, and the grin that takes his face then is uncomplicatedly pleased. It should be arrogant; somehow it just looks like sunlight found a gap in the boards. You wonder how many people get to see that one and decide maybe you don’t want to know.
A woman behind a plexiglass window sells cigarettes and bus passes. The night wind lifts the edges of the taped notices, makes them whisper. You stop under the awning, the two of you edged into the white noise of the fluorescents, and the city swivels into a gentler key.
“I can call you a car,” he says. “Or,” He hesitates, then crooks two fingers. From somewhere you don’t see, a motorcycle growls to life, a sleek, low thing that rolls obediently out of the gloom to settle at the curb like a well-trained animal. He pats the seat with absent affection. “I can take you back.”
You stare. “Did you name it? Like the Nightcycle or something equally as lame?”
“I absolutely did not,” he lies, horrendously, then swings a leg over and steadies the bike with a boot. Up close, he’s too much again; too many lines and angles that weren’t there the last time you catalogued him, too much easy strength, too much blue. “Helmet,” he says, offering one out. It’s heavier than you expect; when you take it, your fingers brush, leather over skin, static jumping.
You hesitate. “Are you going to drive like a responsible citizen?”
He gives you a look that is eighty percent angel, twenty percent criminal. “Define responsible.”
“Alive when we get there.”
“Deal.”
You settle onto the bike behind him with the kind of care that admits you are about to do a reckless thing on purpose. Your knees fit against his hips like there’s only one way to sit; your hands find the line of his jacket and pause, hovering. He reaches back without looking, takes your wrists, and draws your arms around his waist until your palms meet. The gesture is matter-of-fact and wildly intimate. You can feel him laughing, silent and low, at your ear.
“Still bossy,” you say, because your voice needs somewhere to put the tremor.
“I remember you like being told what to do,” he says, and then, so quick and soft you almost miss it, “Sometimes.”
It shouldn’t hit the way it does. It shouldn’t make heat pool low in your stomach, shouldn’t make your pulse trip against your throat, shouldn’t leave you wondering if the helmet’s padding is enough to hide the color climbing up your cheeks. But it does.
You laugh, helpless, a little breathless, because if you don’t laugh, you might actually whimper. The sound crackles in your throat and goes thin in the rush of the night air. You can feel the vibration of the engine through your thighs, the leather of his jacket under your hands, the solid line of his body in front of you, and now, layered over all of that, his words, humming through your nerves in a way that feels dangerously good.
He glances back once, eyes catching yours over his shoulder, mask bright in the streetlight. The look is quick, but it’s enough. He knows what he said. He knows how it landed. And then the bike glides into the street, smooth and certain, as if nothing in the world has shifted, even though everything inside you just did.
The city rushes at you, neon and shadow blurring into ribbons. You clutch harder without meaning to, breath hitching, and he adjusts his posture just enough to shield you from the first hard push of wind. The shift presses your chest closer to his back, your knees locking tighter against his hips.
Your chin bumps the back of his shoulder. There’s damp salt there, leather warmed by body heat, and the sound of him breathing, steady, rhythmic, the same cadence you used to fall asleep to on rooftops when he kept watch.
The bike thrums beneath you, vibration rolling up through your thighs, settling into your stomach, buzzing in places you don’t want to admit are suddenly very awake. Every curve of the road asks you to lean with him, to trust the drop of his weight and the strength in his shoulders, and every time you do, you feel him there under your hands; solid, certain, unshakable.
He doesn’t go fast. He goes sure. The kind of riding that says I know this grid with my eyes shut and my hands tied, and I am choosing to bring you home. But the steadiness only makes it worse; it gives you time to notice everything.
The way his body heat seeps into you through layers of leather. The flex of muscle when he shifts gears, the ripple of his stomach under your forearm as he leans into a turn. The casual way his hand adjusts the throttle, so close you imagine what it would feel like if he used that grip on you.
At a light, he puts a boot down, head turning just enough that you catch the angle of his jaw beneath the mask. He checks on you without a word. You don’t know if he can see the flush burning under your helmet, but you feel seen all the same, and it does nothing to calm the pounding in your chest.
When the light changes, he rolls forward, and you press into him again, tighter this time, because the vibration and the closeness are unraveling you inch by inch. Small things, all of them, his steadiness, his quiet, the way his body seems to know yours is there and adjusts like it belongs pressed against him.
They add up to something you don’t let yourself name yet, but you feel it everywhere.
The bike growls to a halt a block from your building. The engine cuts, and in the sudden hush the night feels sharp, like the air itself is watching. The silence rings in your ears after miles of vibration. He doesn’t move right away. He reaches back instead, gloved fingers brushing over yours where they’re still hooked around his waist. A silent reminder: you can let go now.
You don’t. Not immediately. Your fingers unclasp a second too late, reluctant to surrender the heat of him, the solid line of his body. He feels it, he has to, and yet he doesn’t call you out, just slides his hands free of the handlebars with a kind of deliberate patience.
He swings one leg over and plants his boots on the ground, bracing the bike steady with practiced ease. Then, before you can fumble an exit, he turns and holds a hand out. “Careful,” he says. His voice is rougher than you remember, steady but edged with something lower, something weightier. “It’s a little taller than you think.”
You could protest. Tell him you’ve managed steps taller than this since kindergarten. But the way he’s standing there, broad and sure, palm open, the easy invitation of it, undoes you in a way stairs never could.
You take it. His hand is warm through the leather, steady as you swing your leg back over the bike. You slide down too close, body brushing his chest for the briefest moment. The contact snaps across you like static. You feel the give of his armor under your shoulder, the heat rolling off him in a wave, the faint tang of leather and sweat that clings to him.
It should be over in an instant. Just a hand-off. But his grip lingers, a fraction longer than necessary, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around yours. Enough that you notice. Enough that your breath catches, shallow and sharp, before you tug back.
You’re on your own two feet now, the pavement gritty beneath your shoes, but your body is still buzzing from the bike, from him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears, your palms hot where his gloves touched.
“Still trouble,” he says at last, because he can’t help himself.
“Still bossy,” you volley back, because you can’t either. But this time, it doesn’t feel like banter tossed across a rooftop. It feels like a line pulled taut between you, humming with something you’ve both pretended not to hear for years.
He studies you for another long, unapologetic moment. His voice, when it comes, slips a layer down. “You grew up, you know.”
You swallow. “So did you.”
“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like he’s acknowledging an ocean and a bridge and a lot of half-built scaffolding. His mouth curves, not the cocky smirk he used in the alley, but something older, carved from relief and surprise and the joy of recognizing someone in a crowd. “Feels like we should…” He gestures, uselessly, as if the city might supply the word.
“Pizza,” you say, because the universe clearly wants callbacks. “So I can prove you’re wrong.”
“You won’t,” he says immediately, but his eyes go bright, pleased, like you just handed him the right answer to a test he wanted you to enjoy taking.
He reaches into a belt pouch, produces a small black rectangle you’d charitably call a phone if phones weren’t usually made by people not afraid of the apocalypse. He toggles it awake, thumbs something in. When he looks up, he’s all business again, but the softened corners remain. “Same roofline,” he says. “Different skyline. You call, I land.”
“Is that your way of giving me your number?” you ask, amused and a little breathless.
“It’s my way of saying I read your ledes and I don’t want to do that from far away anymore,” he says, and that’s it. That’s the line that carves through every defense like they were drawn in chalk.
“Okay,” you say, because a bigger word would crack your throat right now. “Nightwing?”
“Mmm?”
“Thanks for the rescue.”
He dips his head once, like you just pinned a medal on him he didn’t expect to care about. “Anytime, Trouble.”
He fits the mask better on his face, swings onto the bike, and then he’s gone, blurring back into the dark with a roar that falls away quick, swallowed by Blüdhaven’s wet lungs. You stand there in the sodium light, hair mussed by a wind you’ll be thinking about for hours, hands stupidly empty of leather and heat, and you try to file this under something. Reunion. Whiplash. Beginning again.
The city exhales. Somewhere a gull laughs like it knows something. You look down at your notebook; rain freckles have started to drink through the top page. On instinct, you flip to a clean sheet, jot three words at the top: Familiar. Stranger. Home.
-
You fall into a new rhythm without meaning to. It starts with accidents, running into him on rooftops, in alleys, when your investigations overlap his patrols. But it stops feeling accidental when he begins showing up at your office at the end of your shift, leaning against the wall like he belongs there. When he texts pizza? before you’ve even decided if you’re hungry. When you start leaving your fire escape window cracked, because somehow you know he’ll be there.
It isn’t dating. Not really. But it also isn’t not.
He has made it clear, in every way except saying it out loud over the past few months, that he wants to be in your life. And you? You haven’t decided if you’re brave enough to admit that you want him in yours just as badly.
-
The first time he picks you up after work in his civilian clothes, it knocks you sideways. You’re shuffling out of the newsroom with ink on your fingers, hair pulled back in a half-hearted bun, when you see him leaning against a lamppost. No mask. No armor. Just Dick Grayson in jeans, forearms bare, sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt.
He waves like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he hasn’t just shattered the delicate line you’d kept between “him at night” and “him in the day.”
“What are you doing here?” you demand, adjusting the strap of your bag.
“Picking you up.” He shrugs, casual, like the ground didn’t just shift. “What, you’d rather take the bus?”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking the bus.”
“Sure,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “But where’s the fun in that?”
It’s disorienting, walking beside him in broad daylight. You keep expecting people to notice, to point, to whisper Nightwing…but no one looks twice. They just see Dick Grayson, easy in his own skin, fitting himself into your day like he’s been there all along.
And when he slings a leg over the motorcycle and offers you the helmet with that cocky tilt of his head, you don’t argue. Not really.
-
The rhythm builds. Some nights it’s him dropping by your apartment, sprawled on your couch in a t-shirt while you rant about deadlines. Some nights it’s you stitching him up again, fingers brushing skin that’s too warm, too scarred, your pulse thundering at the contact.
“You’re staring,” he says once, voice sly, eyes glinting.
“I’m working,” you snap, fumbling with the gauze.
“You’re staring,” he repeats, softer this time.
You don’t deny it. You can’t. Because sometimes it hits you out of nowhere, the sheer physicality of him. The breadth of his shoulders when he leans against your counter. The casual way he tosses his escrima sticks onto your table, muscles flexing as if they’re part of the furniture. The way his laugh curls low in his chest now, rich enough to make your skin prickle.
You’d had a crush on him once, built on personality and laughter and the relief of being seen. But now that crush is packaged in arms and jawlines and a body that moves like it knows exactly how much power it has…and you don’t know what to do with that.
You catch yourself looking more often than you should. He catches you every time. And the worst part is, he doesn’t seem to mind.
-
Pizza becomes your running joke. Trioni’s booth, sticky varnish under your elbows, slices steaming on paper plates. He folds his, smirking at you the whole time, waiting for your inevitable groan of horror.
“You’re not going to win me over,” you say, waving your floppy slice at him.
“You’ll cave eventually,” he counters, leaning back in the booth, grin sharp and pleased. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”
“Not this time.”
He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes a slow bite of his folded slice, chewing like he’s proving a point. It’s ridiculous. It’s infuriating. It’s so goddamn attractive you want to scream.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.
“Like what?”
“Like you know something I don’t.”
He smirks. “Maybe I do.”
You throw a napkin at him. He laughs, catches it easily, and the sound rings through you like a struck bell.
-
He hadn’t planned to follow you. He hadn’t. His patrol had taken him toward the Narrows, toward the docks, a dozen other places that needed him more than one crowded strip of nightlife where you were laughing too loud in a dress that glittered like you’d stolen the stars.
But the second he spotted you, he stopped. You were walking in the middle of your pack of friends, arm hooked through one of theirs, head thrown back in a laugh that made your hair slip down your shoulders. Your dress caught every scrap of neon, sequins winking like Morse code, and for a second it was all he could see. Sparkling. Distracting. You, right there, alive and incandescent. He told himself to keep moving. To stick to patrol.
He didn’t. He slipped into the shadows above instead, tracking you from rooftop to rooftop, his body humming with an uneasy mix of irritation and awe. You shouldn’t be out here this late, drunk and stumbling. Gotham eats people like that alive. And yet seeing you bright and unguarded, cheeks flushed, smile wide, it does something to him. Like he’s watching a life he doesn’t belong to but can’t look away from.
Then he hears it.
“Wait, wait, wait,” one of your friends slurs, catching your arm as you teeter on the curb. “You had a crush on Robin? Little Robin? Short shorts and all?” The words hit like a sucker punch. His boots still on the ledge, heart lurching up into his throat.
You groan, dramatic. “Don’t say it like that.”
Laughter erupts, loud and merciless. “I mean, Batman was literally right there,” another says. “Broody, mysterious, tall. And you went for the kid in green?”
“Listen,” you argue, slurring but determined, your hands slicing through the air as you stumble forward with them. “It wasn’t even because he was, like… hot.”
Dick goes still. Breath locked. Not hot. Not Batman. Not Superman. But… him. His fingers curl tight around the edge of the roof until the stone bites through the gloves. The city noise fades under the thunder of his pulse.
Your friends don’t let up. “You were in Metropolis for years! What about Superman? Have you seen him? Gorgeous. Dimples. Arms. Literal sunshine.”
“That’s not the point!” you insist, cutting them off with a shout, your heels clicking unevenly against the pavement. “Robin, he was… earnest, okay? Thoughtful. Responsible. He listened. He…” Your voice softens. Fragile and fierce at the same time. “He made me feel like I mattered.”
The words gut him. Because he remembers. He remembers every night on rooftops, every time you sat beside him with your knees pressed together, every secret you whispered into the dark because you trusted him to hold it. He remembers the way you looked at him like he was more than Batman’s shadow. Like he was enough.
He’s gripping the ledge so hard he thinks it might crack under his hand.
Your friends are howling again, teasing, “God, you really do have a type. What’s next, Green Lantern?” But he’s not listening anymore. He’s locked on you, on the way your laughter shakes loose and dizzy into the night, on the memory of the boy he used to be, the boy who never believed anyone would pick him.
And here you are, years later, admitting you had. He doesn’t care that you’re drunk. Doesn’t care that you might not remember this tomorrow. Because he will. He’ll remember the conviction in your voice, the way you doubled down, the way you said he made you feel like you mattered.
Up on the ledge, hidden in shadow, Dick feels it burn through him. A match struck in the dark. And he knows he’s not letting you run from this. Next time his eyes linger, next time his hand presses at the small of your back, next time his voice drops lower than it should, you won’t get to brush it off as banter. You won’t get to hide behind excuses. Because you said it. You chose him. You always had. And he thinks you still might. And God help him, he’s not about to let you pretend otherwise.
-
The problem with Dick Grayson isn’t that he doesn’t know how to look at you. It’s that he does. He knows exactly how long to let his eyes linger before you catch him. He knows how to tilt his head so it looks like he’s teasing when it feels like something else. He knows when to let his gaze soften, how to press just enough warmth into it to make you think about things you shouldn’t, not when you’re supposed to be friends.
And this morning, as you’re face-planted into the couch cushions in a tiny, sparkly black dress, head throbbing, stomach rolling, the last thing you need is for Dick Grayson to be looking at you.
Unfortunately, he is.
“Rough night?” His voice is bright, smug, like sunshine filtered through something wicked.
You groan into the cushions. “Go away.”
“No can do.” You hear his boots cross the floor, the quiet shift of weight as he crouches beside the couch. “I figured you’d need a little… moral support. Or maybe electrolytes.”
“I need you to shut up,” you mutter.
He laughs low, warm, and irritatingly fond. “You look like roadkill.”
You lift your head just enough to glare at him. He’s crouched at your side, forearms resting on his knees, hair damp from a shower, dressed down in a t-shirt that clings a little too well. His eyes take you in shamelessly; your hair a mess, mascara smudged, sparkly dress creased from sleep.
“You’re not cute. Don’t look at me,” you mumble, shoving your face back into the couch.
“Too late.” He leans his chin into his palm. “It’s seared into my brain now. You, draped over a sofa like a tragic starlet.”
“Kill me.”
“Nah.” His grin sharpens. “Not when you give me material like this.” You don’t remember how he got in your apartment. You don’t remember much, actually, past stumbling in the door last night and half-collapsing onto the couch. But you do remember the way your friends had teased you on the walk home. Robin. Batman. Superman. And your stubborn, drunken insistence that it had always been Robin.
Heat flushes through you even now, a full-body cringe. God, what if you’d said too much? What if someone had recorded it? What if—
“You snore,” Dick says, breaking into your spiral.
Your head snaps up. “I do not.”
“Like a chainsaw.” He smirks, infuriatingly pleased. “It’s cute, though. Endearing.”
You throw a pillow at him. He catches it one-handed, effortless, then tosses it back onto your stomach, knocking the breath out of you. “Jerk,” you wheeze.
“Roadkill,” he volleys back like he is affirming his earlier statement. The banter is easy, familiar, but there’s an edge to it today. You feel it in the way his eyes keep tracking over you, softer than they should be. In the way he hasn’t moved from his crouch, too close, knees brushing the couch.
You shift, meaning to sit up, but your limbs betray you. Instead you flop sideways, head landing on the pillow, legs still dangling over the armrest, knees bent awkwardly on the floor. Your dress rides higher, glitter catching in the sunlight slanting through the blinds. His gaze flickers, quick and sharp, before snapping back to your face.
“You’re staring,” you accuse.
“You’re imagining,” he shoots back. But his voice is a shade too low, and it twists something in your stomach.
You try to change the subject. “So what, you just decided to drop by and harass me while I’m defenseless?”
“Defenseless, huh?” He leans in, close enough that you smell his soap and the faint tang of leather clinging to him. “Funny. Last night, you didn’t sound very defenseless.”
Your heart stutters. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His smile turns slow, wicked. “Oh, nothing. Just that you’ve got… interesting taste.”
It hits you like a bucket of ice water. Oh. Oh, no. He heard. He had to have heard.
“Shut up,” you say quickly, too quickly, your cheeks blazing.
“Robin, huh?” he presses, voice feather-light but edged with something deeper. “Not Batman. Not Superman. Me.”
You bury your face in your hands. “I’m never drinking again.”
His laughter curls low in his chest. He nudges your knee with his hand, playful. “Relax. I’m flattered.”
“That makes one of us,” you groan, wishing the couch would swallow you.
But when you peek at him through your fingers, his eyes aren’t just amused. They’re intense, sharp, gleaming with the memory of your drunken confession. He’s not going to let you forget it.
The comedy of errors continues when you try to sit up. Your foot catches on the armrest, your heel slips, and you pitch forward, straight into his chest. He catches you easily, an arm banding around your waist, the other braced on the couch. Suddenly you’re nose-to-nose, his grin right there, his heartbeat loud against your palm where it’s landed on his chest.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“I hate you,” you whisper, breathless.
“Liar,” he says softly, “You have a crush on me.” And it feels like a strike.
For a second, neither of you moves. The air between you hums, heavy, loaded. His eyes flick down to your mouth before darting back up. You feel it, every millimeter, like a live wire under your skin.
“Had,” you whisper. His eyes followed the shape of your lips as they formed around the word.
“Have.” He says again, voice more firm this time. Your gaze traces his lips this time.
Your head tilts closer, like instinct, like your body is done pretending it doesn’t want him. His arm is still locked firm around your waist, holding you steady, keeping you pressed against the heat of his chest. Your palm flattens against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the give of muscle under cotton, the impossible warmth of him seeping straight through your skin.
He doesn’t pull away. Just looks at you, steady, unblinking, eyes so blue they feel like they could cut you open if you let them. His breath brushes your mouth, warm, uneven. You can taste coffee and something darker on it, and your lips part without permission, every nerve in your body straining toward the last millimeter of space.
The air thickens, heavy as syrup. His fingers at your waist flex, just once, enough to draw you an inch closer. His chest rises against yours, and you feel the faintest shiver where his nose grazes your cheek, his forehead brushing yours, testing the contact without closing it.
You don’t think. Your hand slides higher on his chest, tracing over the solid line of his collarbone, up the curve of his shoulder, fingers brushing the back of his neck. His hair is still damp from his shower, soft and warm under your touch. He exhales raggedly, his whole body tightening like he’s holding back a wave.
Because the problem with you isn’t that you don’t want Dick Grayson. It’s that you do.
“You’re not fooling me,” he says, voice low, rougher now that your lips are so close you can taste the warmth of his breath. “Not with that look on your face. Not with your hand all over me.”
Your fingers twitch against his chest, traitorous, pressing into solid muscle as though proving his point. Heat curls low in your stomach, sharp and insistent, and you hate that he can read it so easily.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you manage, though your voice shakes.
His eyes darken, his thumb tracing slow circles into your hip where his hand grips you. “Say it again. Say you don’t still want me. Say it while you’re this close.”
You can’t. The words lodge in your throat, choking on the truth you’ve been dodging for weeks. His smirk softens, just barely, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he leans in until your noses brush, your pulse stuttering wildly under his stare.
“Had,” you whisper again, desperate, as if repeating it might make it true.
“Finish the sentence if you mean it, sweetheart.” The words vibrate out of him, certain and unshakable. His gaze dips to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberate, and the sound you make is soft, caught halfway between a breath and a plea, and it has his jaw flexing tight like he’s fighting himself.
“Dick…” His name leaves your mouth broken, trembling, and he shudders like you’ve just lit a match against his skin.
His forehead tips to yours, contact so small but devastating, heat bleeding from him into you. “You can lie all you want, Trouble,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting across your lips, “but you don’t let someone this close unless you want it.”
Your head tilts, your lips part, your palm sliding up to his collarbone in a silent answer. For one perfect, electric second, the whole world narrows to the inch of air left between your mouths, heat, and his heartbeat under your hand.
Your lips brush his, so faint it’s almost not contact, just the ghost of it, but the shock of it rattles you down to your toes. His breath shudders out, shaky and hot, and when you lean in that last fraction, his mouth finally meets yours. It isn’t clean. It isn’t careful. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip and a whimper catch in your throat. The sound seems to break something in him, because suddenly his arm around your waist tightens, dragging you fully into his lap.
You straddle him before you realize you’ve moved, dress riding high on your thighs, his heat pressed solid between your legs. His hands slide down, big and certain, cupping your ass through sequined fabric, pulling you flush against the thick line of him. The spark between you roars into fire.
He kisses you like he’s been waiting years for it, messy, hungry, devouring. Your palms splay across his chest, clutching at the muscle under his shirt, your fingers curling into the warm skin at the nape of his neck. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until you’re gasping into his mouth, moving against him without meaning to.
His hands squeeze, firm and sure, guiding you into him, hips arching up to meet yours. The friction makes your head spin, your pulse pounding everywhere at once. He tastes like wine and want, and the low sound he makes into your mouth vibrates all the way down your spine.
For a breathless stretch of moments, there’s no Gotham, no rain, no history. Just this. Just you and Dick, tangled up, finally giving in, kissing each other like you’ll never get enough.
Your lips part beneath his, and he takes the invitation greedily, kissing you deeper, tongue stroking against yours with a hunger that has your head spinning. It’s clumsy in places, teeth clicking, mouths chasing, but that only makes it worse, better. It feels alive, electric, like every ounce of restraint you’ve both held onto has finally gone up in flames.
You rock into him, desperate for more friction, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating into your mouth. His hands tighten on your ass, dragging you down against him, grinding you into the thick, unmistakable weight straining against his sweats. The pressure makes your breath hitch, your body clenching around the ache building low in your belly.
You clutch at him harder, fingers fisting into his t-shirt until the fabric rides up, exposing hot skin. You smooth your palms over his stomach, the ridges of muscle flexing under your touch, and he shudders, biting your lip again as though to punish you for it. You moan into him, nails digging lightly into his sides, and he hisses through his teeth, kissing you harder, like he can pour every ounce of his want straight into your mouth.
The kiss tips sideways, and suddenly you’re gasping, laughing into him when his stubble grazes your jaw. He doesn’t let up. His lips trail fire down the line of your throat, teeth scraping lightly over the delicate skin there before sucking hard enough to make your toes curl. You arch into him, dress shifting higher, sequins scratching his hips where your thighs cage him in.
“Dick,” His name rips out of you, broken and desperate, and his mouth is back on yours before you can say more, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him.
Your hips roll against him, helpless, chasing the friction, and he meets you halfway, thrusting up into you in short, sharp motions that make you whimper into his mouth. His tongue tangles with yours again, messy and wet, and your vision sparks at the edges. His hands are everywhere, palming your ass, sliding up your spine, threading into your hair to tug your head back so he can kiss you deeper, rougher.
You’re dizzy with him, his taste, his weight, the sheer size of him under you. Every breath you drag in is filled with him, every nerve alight with the demand to get closer, closer, until there’s nothing left between you at all.
When you finally break for air, your foreheads slam together, both of you panting like you’ve run miles. His lips are swollen, glistening, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving under your palms. He looks wild. Starved. Perfect. And then he’s pulling you back down, kissing you again, hungrier than before, open-mouthed, filthy, like he’s making up for every year he didn’t.
Your body can’t stop moving against him, chasing every drag of friction. The sequined dress has ridden high on your thighs, hem bunched at your waist as you straddle him. His hands are greedy now, sliding over bare skin, thumbs digging into the soft bare curve of your ass like he’s waited his whole life to touch you here. He drags you down harder, grinding you over him, and the blunt thickness straining his sweats makes you gasp into his mouth.
He’s huge. You knew he was, the outline impossible not to notice whenever he sprawled careless in those pants, but feeling it pressed solid against you, hot and heavy even through layers, makes your stomach twist and your core clench with want. You rock down on him harder, helpless, and the sound he makes is low, guttural, and almost pained. It shoots straight between your legs.
“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, kissing you harder, tongue driving deep like he’s trying to drown himself in you. His hips surge up in answer, rutting against you, the thick head of him catching just right against the soaked center of your panties. Your cry muffles into his mouth, nails scraping down his chest until you find skin, dragging up his shirt until it’s bunched under his arms.
His abs are hot and hard under your palms, slick with sweat, muscles flexing as he thrusts up into you. You break from his mouth to gasp down his throat, and he’s on you instantly, lips latching to your jaw, your neck, sucking and biting bruises into your skin like he wants to mark every inch he can reach.
“Say it,” he rasps against your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse. His hands knead your ass, grinding you down over him, the thick bulge in his sweats perfectly aligned with your clit. “Say you still want me.”
You can’t speak, not with the way he’s rolling his hips, relentless, the pressure building sharp and unbearable. You whimper his name instead, broken and needy, and he groans like the sound undoes him.
“Fuck—yeah, you do,” he breathes, pulling you down harder, guiding you to rock over him faster. The sequins of your dress scratch at his bare stomach, your panties soaked through, clinging to your folds as you grind over the obscene bulk of him. Each pass drags his thickness right against your clit, each grind shooting sparks down your spine until you’re gasping against his mouth, trembling in his lap. “She’s honest with me, even if your mouth won’t be,” he pants.
He kisses you senseless again, filthy and wet, tongues clashing, teeth tugging, his hips never stopping. You roll against him desperately, chasing it, chasing him, your thighs trembling where they cage him in. His cock strains against the thin cotton, massive, the outline pressed hot and unyielding against your swollen pussy, and all you can think is how good it would feel inside you.
His hand slides up your spine, into your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bite at your throat again, his breath ragged. “Thatta girl. Keep grinding, Trouble. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”
The words hit harder than anything. You moan brokenly, hips stuttering against him, the rhythm sloppy but desperate, pleasure winding sharp and tight in your belly. His hands hold you steady, dragging you over him in rough, perfect circles until you’re shuddering, mouth open against his, every nerve screaming as you teeter on the edge.
And he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let you run. He keeps you pressed to him, grinding against the thick, straining length of his cock until you’re shaking apart in his lap, soaking through your panties, every pulse of your orgasm spilling hot and messy against him.
He kisses you through it, swallowing your cries, biting your lip until you can barely breathe. When you finally slump forward, wrecked and trembling, his hands are still on you, still firm, still wanting. And he’s still hard, throbbing against you, sweatpants damp with your release, the sheer size of him twitching under you like a promise.
His mouth breaks from yours only to press wet, biting kisses down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, muttering against your skin like he can’t stop himself. “Feel how wet you are,” he growls, his voice rough and ruined. One hand slips lower, his long fingers sliding under the edge of your ruined panties. You whimper as his knuckles brush your slick folds, every inch of you drenched and swollen. His groan vibrates against your neck when he feels just how soaked you are.
“Fuck, Trouble…” His middle finger drags up through your wetness, slow, obscene, parting you until he finds your clit. You jolt hard against him, crying out, and he swallows the sound in another bruising kiss. His finger circles you once, twice, then dips lower, pressing inside with a stretch that makes your whole body seize. He’s so much bigger than your own hand, so much deeper, curling at the knuckle just right until your thighs clamp tight around him.
“Look at you,” he rasps, pumping in and out, his thumb pressing cruel circles to your clit. “Soaked for me. Always were, weren’t you?”
You can’t answer. You can only grind helplessly into his hand, your hips jerking against him, your mouth open and gasping against his. He slips a second finger in beside the first, the stretch sharp, delicious, filling you in a way that makes you sob into his mouth. His thumb works you mercilessly, dragging another wave of pleasure out of your trembling body.
Then he pulls his fingers out, sudden, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine at the loss, but before you can protest, he shoves his slick fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. His eyes lock on yours as he groans low in his throat, tasting you, devouring you.
“You’re so sweet, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark and reverent. “Could live on this.”
Your whole body shudders. You surge forward, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, swallowing his groan as his hands drag at your hips again. But it’s not enough. The thick weight straining his sweats is pressed solid against your soaked panties, and you need more—you need him.
“Dick,” you gasp against his mouth, clawing at the waistband of his sweats. “Out. Now.”
His laugh is harsh, breathless, wrecked. “Now who’s bossy.” But he obeys, shoving his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, thick and heavy and already slick at the tip.
Your breath catches. Even soft he’d been obscene; hard, he’s devastating. Long, flushed dark, veins ridging the shaft, the broad head flushed and dripping precum. Your cunt clenches just looking at him, your thighs shaking with the need to feel it.
“Fuck,” he mutters, wrapping a hand around the base, stroking once, slow, groaning through gritted teeth. “Been dying to feel you on me.”
You grind down against him, soaking panties dragging over the thick length of him, smearing wetness across his cock. The slide makes you both groan, your clit catching against his head with every pass.
He curses again, gripping your hips so hard you know he’ll leave bruises, guiding you to rock on him. His cock drags along your soaked center, fat and hot, the head bumping your clit with every grind. You can feel the pressure of him catching against your entrance, the blunt head pushing at your soaked panties, teasing what you both want.
“You feel that?” he groans, eyes wild, forehead pressed to yours as his cock slides thick and heavy under you. “So wet you’re gonna ruin me. Gonna let me in, Trouble? Let me split you open on this cock?”
Your moan is answer enough. You grind harder, desperate, the head of him pushing your panties aside just enough to catch against your opening, stretching you slightly before slipping away again. He groans raggedly, pumping his cock once against your soaked fabric, precum smearing across the sequined dress bunched at your waist.
“Gonna make you feel so good,” he pants, kissing you hard, messy, teeth clashing. “Gonna bury this cock so deep you won’t be able to say my name without cumming.” His hands slide down, fingers curling under the edge of your panties, tugging at the damp fabric. “These coming off, or can I rip ‘em?”
“Rip,” you gasp, dizzy, desperate. And he does. The lace tears with a sharp sound, shredded by his long fingers like it’s nothing, the ruined fabric dragged aside as he growls into your mouth. The sudden cool air against your bare cunt makes you shiver, but then his cock is there, thick and hot and real, dragging through your soaked folds, smearing your slick up his length.
“Fuck,” His voice breaks, guttural. “You’re dripping. Been dreaming about this for so long sweetheart, about feeling you like this.” Your hips jerk forward, chasing it, and the broad head of him catches at your entrance. He holds you still with hands locked bruisingly tight on your ass, forcing you to feel it, just the heavy pressure of him nudging in, stretching you wide, parting you slow.
The stretch steals your breath. He’s so big your body fights to take him, and the sting makes you gasp into his mouth. But underneath is heat, thick, overwhelming heat, like your whole body’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Christ,” he groans, forehead slamming to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “So tight. Gonna ruin me.”
You claw at his shoulders, nails biting through cotton, panting. “More…please, Dick.”
He whines softly, and then he thrusts, hard. The thick length of him drives into you, slow enough to split you open, deep enough to make you cry out. Your walls seize around him, clenching helplessly, trying to adjust as inch after inch slides into your body. The stretch burns, pleasure laced sharp through pain, but he’s groaning against your mouth, kissing you through it, muttering ragged curses into your skin.
“Taking me…fuck, you’re taking all of me so well,” he grits out, his hips jerking up, forcing the last thick inch inside. His cock bottoms out deep, the blunt head pressed right against your cervix, so deep it makes your vision blur. You sob against his mouth, your body clutching him, trembling. The fullness is as unbearable as it is addictive; like he’s rewired you from the inside out.
“Look at you,” he pants, dragging back an inch only to slam forward again, grinding deep. “My pretty girl. So good for me.”
You moan brokenly, your hips rocking without thought, meeting him. The friction is devastating; bare, raw, his cock dragging against every swollen inch of you. Slick gushes down his shaft, wetting the base of him, smearing against his stomach where your dress is bunched. His rhythm builds fast, messy. Years of wanting crashing into each thrust, hips snapping up into you hard enough to jolt the couch under you. You cling to him, legs trembling around his waist, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans with every stroke.
“Oh baby,” he whines, mouth crushed to your jaw, teeth scraping. “You’re so fucking wet, gonna make me cum so deep inside you.”
You can only gasp, moan, sob against him, every thrust lighting you up. His hands cup your ass, dragging you down onto his cock harder, grinding you into him until your clit rubs against the base, sparks exploding in your belly. You’re close again; too close, the pressure building sharp and fast. You roll your hips against him, desperate, and he feels it, feels the way your walls flutter and clench around him.
“Gonna cum?” he rasps, voice breaking, his cock driving into you relentlessly. “Gonna soak me like a good girl? Let me have it, c’mon.” Your body shatters. Pleasure rips through you, hot and unbearable, your cunt clamping down on him as you scream his name into his mouth. Slick gushes around him, soaking him, dripping down your thighs, and he curses, rutting into you harder, chasing his own end.
His rhythm falls apart, hips slamming up into you in ragged, desperate thrusts, his cock throbbing inside you with every grind. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping, breath coming in short, broken gasps. “God, you feel so good,” he groans, the words spilling without thought, low and raw against your mouth. “So tight around me, so wet for me. Fuck, sweetheart, you’re perfect. Perfect.”
Each word is a strike, praise so filthy and reverent your whole body shivers around him. You moan into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders, rolling against him, your cunt clenching tighter every time he speaks. He thrusts deep, almost to the hilt, then stops, shaking with restraint, his cock swelling thick inside you. His voice cracks when he mutters, “I can’t…I’m gonna cum. Please. Please, let me…inside you, I want to.”
The sound of him begging makes your breath catch, your walls fluttering around him. You feel him shaking under you, his control frayed to nothing, but still he doesn’t let go, doesn’t cross the line until you give him the word. His mouth crashes to yours, messy and frantic, his tongue tangling with yours as he whispers against your lips, “Say yes. Tell me I can. Please, Trouble, I need it. Need to fill you up.”
The plea wrecks you. Heat coils sharp in your stomach, the pressure unbearable. You tighten around him, nails raking down his back, and gasp, “Yes, yes, Dick, cum inside me, please!” The sound he makes is broken, guttural, like you’ve torn the air from his lungs. His hips jerk up violently, his whole body locking under you as he buries himself deep, cock swelling as his release rips through him.
“Fuck, oh, fuck, thank you,” he gasps, his voice sick with praise, chanting it against your mouth as he spills inside you. Thick heat floods your cunt in heavy pulses, and the sensation drags your orgasm out all over again; you clench down hard, milking him, crying into his kiss as he moans your name like prayer.
He holds you down on him, grinding up into you, desperate to push every drop deeper. “So good…so good for me, fuck, you’re perfect. Taking all of it, all of me.”
You collapse against his chest, trembling, both of you panting hard, still joined, his cock still twitching inside you as his release drips hot between your thighs. His forehead presses to yours, his voice wrecked, almost breaking.
His forehead presses to yours, both of you still trembling, breaths dragging in uneven gasps. His voice is wrecked, almost breaking.
“Years,” he whispers, softer now but still aching, still desperate. “Wasted years not feeling you like this.”
Your chest tightens, words lost somewhere in your throat. So you kiss him instead, messy, deep, your lips swollen and clumsy. He kisses you back with equal fervor, but slower now, as if he wants to savor, to commit the taste of you to memory. His cock is still sheathed deep inside you, twitching faintly as he softens, but neither of you makes a move to part.
You shift against him, and his hands instantly tighten on your hips, keeping you down, keeping him buried inside. His laugh is low, roughened by exhaustion and bliss. “Don’t even think about it. Not letting you go yet.”
You groan against his chest. “You’re heavy.”
“Good,” he mutters, dropping his lips to the damp slope of your shoulder. “Means you’ll stay put.” He breathes you in, deep, reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?”
You pull back just enough to search his face. His eyes are glassy, unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. “How long?” you ask quietly, brushing his long dark hair out of his face.
He swallows, thumb brushing slow along your cheek, still cupping your face as if you’re fragile. “Since fourteen,” he admits, voice soft, bare. “Since the first night you sat on that roof and talked to me like I wasn’t just Robin. Like I was… a person.” His jaw flexes, like saying it out loud costs him something. “I never stopped, even when you left. Even when you came back and seemed distracted by my face.”
Your breath catches. The weight of it hits you hard, heavy and bright all at once, knocking your chest open. You don’t have to think. You know, suddenly, fiercely, that you’re falling in love with him. Not just the boy who once unmasked for you, not just the man currently buried inside you, but all of him.
“Dick…” you whisper, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the rough stubble there. “You’re ridiculous.”
His lips twitch, a crooked grin breaking the tension. “What, because I’ve been in love with you since I was a scrawny circus kid?”
“Because,” you correct softly, rolling your eyes even as your chest aches, “I liked you when you were gangly and angry at the world, and awkward with your kindness. That’s what got me.” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Not… all this.”
His smile gentles, the teasing melting into something shy, almost boyish. “Doesn’t hurt, though, right? The face.”
You huff a laugh, shaking your head, but it comes out tender instead of sharp. “No. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Good because you,” he says, kissing your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth in quick, playful succession, “are stuck with me now. So remember that when I get on your nerves.”
You sigh, pretending exasperation, but you can’t stop smiling. “Guess I am.”
-
You stay like that for a while, tangled and warm, the storm outside softening into a steady patter. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone, lazy, reverent, like he can’t quite believe you’re real. Eventually, though, the ache in your thighs reminds you both of reality. You shift, wincing slightly, and he feels it immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, “don’t move. I’ve got you.”
You make a soft noise of protest when he finally pulls out, the stretch easing but leaving you empty in a way that makes your chest squeeze. Heat spills between your thighs, sticky and messy, but he’s already tucking you back against the cushions, murmuring, “Stay,” before disappearing down the hall.
When he comes back, he’s barefoot, carrying a damp towel and a glass of water, his hair even messier from running a hand through it. “Lift,” he says gently, and when you blink at him, dazed, he smiles. “C’mon. Let me take care of you.”
You do, cheeks warming as he crouches between your knees, wiping you clean with careful, unhurried motions. His hands are steady, reverent, as though the act itself is holy. He kisses the inside of your thigh when he’s done, soft and fleeting, before standing to hand you the water.
You take a sip, your throat dry, then glance at him over the rim of the glass. “You always this bossy after sex?”
“Back to bossy again?” His brows lift in mock offense as he sinks back onto the couch beside you. “But, please. I’m efficient. There’s a big difference.”
You laugh, weak but real, tucking yourself into his side. “You were efficient at fourteen too. Efficiently broody. Efficiently avoiding eye contact.”
He groans, dropping his head back against the cushions. “God. Don’t remind me.” Then, softer, with a smile that curves like memory, he adds, “And somehow you still liked me.” His face warms with a smile as he says it, looking more boyish than you’ve seen him look, like the thought of you having felt something for him all these years makes him giddy.
“I didn’t like you because of the brooding,” you tease, tilting up to meet his gaze. “I liked you because you couldn’t hide how good you were. Not from me.”
His eyes soften, his hand smoothing gently over your hip. “You’ve always seen too much.”
“And you’ve always pretended it bothered you,” you shoot back, but your smile is quiet, your chest aching.
He presses his lips to your hair, lingering there. “Never bothered me,” he admits into the crown of your head. “It scared me. That’s different.”
His lips linger in your hair, warm and steady, until your eyes slip closed. The storm outside has softened to a drizzle, a steady hush against the glass, and the room feels like it’s holding its breath with you. You set the glass of water aside, curling instinctively into him. His arm comes around your shoulders without hesitation, hand smoothing slow circles over your arm. It’s grounding, the weight of him, the heat of his body still seeping into yours.
“You should sleep,” he murmurs against your temple.
“So should you,” you mumble back, your voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Not tired,” he lies, and you can feel the smile pressed into your hair.
“You’re full of it,” you whisper, but the fight is already gone from you. Your head sinks against his chest, ear over his heartbeat. It’s steady, strong, the sound you didn’t know you’d missed all these years until now.
He shifts, adjusting you both, and before you realize it, you’re stretched across the couch together, tangled under the throw blanket. His hand stays at your hip, fingers curled there like an anchor, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away in the night.
You reach up, tracing lazy circles over his chest. “Dick?”
“Mmm?”
“I think,” you murmur, words already blurring at the edges of sleep, “I might be falling in love with you.”
He stills, then exhales slow, his lips brushing your hair. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I’ve been in love with you for half my life.”
Your throat tightens, but your body relaxes, the truth settling into you like warmth. You smile against him, soft and certain. Outside, Gotham exhales under the rain. Inside, you let yourself drift, safe in the arms of the boy you once knew, the man you’re choosing now.
-
The city looks different from up here. It always does, under his arm.
You’re sitting on the ledge of a Blüdhaven rooftop, legs dangling over the streetlights, the night air cool against your bare skin. Dick’s beside you, mask pushed up into his hair, the blue symbol catching the glow of the skyline. His hands are warm where they rest on your hips, steadying you like you might slip, even though you both know you never would with him here. Both his thighs bracket yours.
“Déjà vu,” you murmur, glancing at him over your shoulder.
His grin tilts sideways, boyish and wicked all at once. “Except this time I get to kiss you instead of lecture you.”
“Mm,” you hum, leaning back into his chest. “Not sure which one you’re worse at.”
He gasps, mock wounded, then dips his head to mouth at your neck. “Harsh. And here I was thinking I’ve improved since the green tights days.”
“You have,” you say, fighting a smile. “Marginally.”
“Marginally?” He nips lightly at your skin, enough to make you squirm. “You wound me.”
“You’ll live,” you tease, twisting in his hold until you’re facing him. His hands slide automatically to your waist, thumbs stroking slow against the fabric of your jacket, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“You know what hasn’t changed?” he says quietly.
“What?”
“You.” His smile curves, tender under the tease. “You still sneak out when you shouldn’t. Still get yourself into trouble. Still make me chase after you.”
You snort. “Admit it. You like it.”
“Like it?” He laughs low, kissing you once, quick and sure. “I live for it.”
The kiss deepens, sweet and unhurried, the city buzzing around you, forgotten. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his voice soft enough for only you to hear. “Feels like we’ve been waiting years for this,” he murmurs.
“Maybe we have.” You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Worth it, though.”
He grins, eyes bright as the city lights. “Definitely worth it.”
And when he kisses you again, laughing into your mouth, the rooftop doesn’t feel like a hiding place anymore. It feels like home.
pairing: clark kent x reader
summary: when you move from smallville to metropolis, clark thinks he finally has his chance to confess. instead, he ends up with a front row seat to you gushing about jimmy olsen every day. what he doesn’t realise is that you’re trying to set jimmy up with your neighbour, and you’re starting to see clark as more than a friend.
tags: smallville!reader, photographer!reader, best friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, comedy of errors type miscommunication (nothing serious or overly frustrating i promise)
warning(s): suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy), gender neutral reader
word count: 9.2k
note: did i get the inspiration to write this while rewatching smallville for the first time in years? why yes i did 😌
masterlist
You stepped out of the taxi, your new camera bag slung over your shoulder, nerves swirling in your stomach. The Daily Planet’s globe gleamed above you, obscenely big and just as intimidating. Standing by the entrance was Clark Kent, already waiting for you.
An absurdly large grin was on his lips as he stood there, adjusting his glasses nervously. His tall, broad-shouldered frame was familiar, even under his office suit, but his face wasn’t quite how you remembered it. You knew that behind his black frames, a pair of startling blue eyes shone with excitement.
“Hey,” Clark greeted you when you closed the taxi door behind you. “You made it!”
You broke into a smile, jogging up to him and throwing your arms around his shoulders. Clark laughed, catching you easily and hugging you so tightly your feet left the ground for a moment. “Of course I made it. I couldn’t miss my first day.”
When Clark released you, you took a step back to take him in properly. He held onto the strap of your camera bag like you might run back to Smallville if he didn’t physically keep you in Metropolis.
Then, theatrically, you squinted up at him. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”
Clark rolled his eyes fondly. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
You chuckled. “Clark Kent doesn’t wear glasses. You don’t look like you.”
His mouth tilted into the shy smile you remembered. “I told you, they make my face look different so people don’t recognise me,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, but I’ve known your face my whole life,” you teased, leaning closer. “I’ve known it since your Ma gave you a botched haircut in first grade. I’d recognise you in a police line-up in two seconds flat. These,” you reached up to push his glasses up his nose, “Just make you look like a knock-off Clark Kent.”
“A knock-off? Really?” Clark said. The grin on his face made his mock-scolding expression unconvincing.
You nodded, expression solemn. “Discount Clark. Buy-one-get-one-free Clark.”
He ducked his head, but the tips of his ears went pink. You hadn’t seen that look in over a year, and it warmed you from the inside out. “I missed you,” Clark confessed quietly, with a smile. “A lot.”
You beamed. “I missed you too,” you promised. “Who knew having thousands of miles between us would make me finally decide to leave Kansas.”
After graduating from high school, you and Clark went your separate ways. You stayed in Smallville to help your family, attending community college for photography. Clark went all the way to Delaware to study journalism at Metropolis University. You’d been long-distance best friends for years, and landing a job at The Daily Planet was the perfect excuse to move to the same city as him.
Little did you know, Clark had been in love with you back in high school.
He would have told you, too, if you hadn’t chosen futures that scattered you across the country. At first he told himself the distance was a blessing. Maybe it would give his heart enough space to cool off, until whatever he felt for you dulled into nothing. But he’d been wrong. No matter how many miles stretched between you, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself it was just a silly crush, he never stopped loving you.
Clark looked at you like he always did—steady, unwavering, as if you were the only thing in the world worth focusing on.
Oblivious, you adjusted your bag and nodded to the doors. “So, are you gonna show me around? Or do I have to storm the newsroom on my own?
“Pretty sure storming the newsroom gets you fired on your first day,” Clark mused.
“Then it’d be a record,” you joked. “Imagine the headline: ‘Shortest tenure ever held by a Daily Planet photographer.’”
“Writen by Clark Kent,” he added.
“Rude,” you muttered, without any real bite. Clark led you inside, making sure to stay close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm with every step. You glanced up at him, speaking in a sing-song tone, “You’re doing it again.”
He looked back, puzzled. “Doing what?”
“The thing where you hover like a worried dad every time I have something important going on,” you supplied. “Your Ma and I call you Helicopter Clark behind your back. She thinks you get it from your Pa.”
Clark laughed softly, a little sheepish. “Maybe I just like having you around.”
You nudged his arm. “Cute. You’ve always been sappy.”
He gave a small laugh, but his chest tightened. If only you knew how right you were. “Yeah, guess I am.”
“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” you squealed as you entered the elevator. “This place is legendary. You’ve been walking into this building every morning like it’s normal, and now I get to join you. It’s crazy!”
Clark watched your excitement with something softer in his eyes. “Yeah. Crazy.”
When the elevator doors slid open onto the bullpen floor, you let out a gasp. It was almost like a cathedral, ceilings impossibly high and crowned with coffered squares edged in gold. The building was a heavy marble and stone, making it feel historic, though it was filled with modern sounds—phones ringing, keyboards clattering.
After introducing you to the receptionist, who snapped your picture and handed over a still-warm badge, Clark guided you forward with a hand lightly pressed to your back. That same quiet protectiveness he’d always had in Smallville hadn’t dulled with distance.
You clutched your new badge, eyes darting around. “So,” you said, glancing up at him with a grin, “are you going to introduce me to your friends, or do I just start shaking hands like I’m running for office?”
Clark laughed, the sound soft but fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s start with Lois—”
“Standing right here,” came a crisp voice behind you.
You turned. A woman with sleek dark hair approached, folder tucked under one arm, coffee in the other. Her eyes narrowed slightly as they swept over you, then softened with the faintest flicker of amusement. She looked like the kind of woman who could save your life and then write your obituary if you annoyed her.
Clark fumbled, already flustered. He knew exactly why she was giving you that look. If there was one thing everyone at the office teased him about, it was the fact that he spoke about you too much. Lois and Cat were convinced Clark was in love with you, and he was having a hard time trying to convince them otherwise.
“Lois, this is—”
“The famous best friend from Kansas,” she cut in, sticking out her hand before he could finish.
Your brows shot up. “He’s been talking about me, huh?”
“All the time,” Lois said flatly. “Honestly, I thought you might be imaginary.”
That got a laugh out of you, nerves dissolving instantly. “Wouldn’t be the first time Clark invented a friend to make himself seem popular,” you joked, shaking Lois’s hand.
Clark gave you a look, half mock-offended, half helpless affection. Lois chuckled, sipping her coffee like she was watching a very entertaining sitcom.
“You’ll fit right in,” she said, and patted Clark’s arm before she swept off toward her desk.
The moment she was out of earshot, you turned to him. “She seems cool.”
Clark grinned, though his shoulders still carried tension. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll only use it against you later.”
You laughed and followed him deeper into the chaos.
That’s when you saw him: boyish grin, camera strap slung across his shoulder like it belonged there. Jimmy Olsen. Average height, wiry, chestnut hair that refused to stay put, posture like he’d never once taken gym seriously but always got the last word. He had that indefinable something. Not movie-star handsome, not intimidating, just magnetic. Approachable. Like he could charm a parking ticket out of a meter maid.
Jimmy leaned against a filing cabinet mid-story, making a whole crowd laugh. Then he looked up, saw you, and lit up like you’d just walked in carrying a Pulitzer.
“No way!” he bounded over, hand outstretched, grin wide. “It’s so nice to finally meet Clark’s other best friend. I’m Jimmy.”
His energy was so warm you laughed before you even touched his hand. “‘Other best friend’? Try the original.”
“Clark talks about you all the time,” Jimmy said, deadly serious. “I figured you were either a childhood friend or his nemesis.”
“Both,” you said. “Depends on the day.”
Jimmy laughed warmly. The next thing you knew, you were giggling through his wild gestures as he explained how he’d almost been locked in the darkroom overnight. He was ridiculous, magnetic in that paradoxical way of being sweet but charming.
Clark stood a step back, watching. He shouldn’t have been surprised. You were both his best friends, after all. But the way you were already leaning into Jimmy’s orbit, laughing with your whole face, made something in his chest twist.
You doubled over at the end of Jimmy’s story, tears threatening. “Clark totally undersold you, you’re hilarious!”
Jimmy raised his brows and eyed Clark. “Undersold me? Clark, how could you?”
You turned, expecting Clark to leap to his own defence, but instead of his usual grin, you caught a strained smile, his shoulders drawn tight. Before you could puzzle it out, Jimmy launched into a rundown on the other photographers, earning your rapt attention.
Lois strolled past, a smirk curling on her lips. She nudged Clark’s elbow. “Looks like Jimmy turned on the usual charm for your Smallville bestie,” she commented. “How does he do it?”
She’d said the words casually, but Clark froze, throat bobbing.
You leaned toward Jimmy. “So,” you asked eagerly, “what’s your favourite lens? Do you stick with prime or—”
Jimmy lit up and dove into an enthusiastic explanation, hands flying as he talked about his 35mm. You nodded along, grinning like you’d just found a kindred spirit. Behind you, Clark’s smile faltered another fraction. He shoved his hands into his pockets, stomach twisting.
“Okay,” Clark broke in at last, voice just slightly brisk. “You’ve got orientation in five. Don’t wanna be late.”
You straightened, still grinning, and gave Jimmy a cheerful wave. “Catch you later!”
Jimmy shot back a two-fingered salute, grin dazzling. You turned happily to follow Clark, not noticing the tightness in his jaw as he guided you toward the conference room.
“I can see why you like him so much,” you said, breathless with laughter. “He seems great. I can’t wait to work with him.”
Clark said nothing. Because Lois’s voice still echoed through his head, over and over again, about how Jimmy had turned the charm on for you.
For dinner, Clark picked out a diner that looked unchanged since 1954: red vinyl booths, neon buzzing faintly above the counter, waitresses who called you “hon.” He swore up and down they had the best burger in Metropolis, and you believed him—because when had Clark Kent ever lied about food?
You sank into the booth across from him, shrugging off your jacket, cheeks still warm from the day. “Okay,” you said, stabbing the straw into your soda with a decisive jab. “Jimmy Olsen.”
Clark’s brows lifted. “What about him?”
You leaned forward, grinning. “He’s adorable. I totally get why you talk about him so much. He’s so funny, Clark, and he’s actually good. Like, really good. We were talking about lenses earlier and we have the same favourites, can you believe that? And he knows all my favourite photographers. And today, on my first day, Perry actually liked my pitch on the immigration photo essay! Guess who helped me polish it before the meeting?”
Clark’s smile stayed on his lips, but it dimmed a little in his eyes. “Jimmy.”
“Jimmy,” you repeated with a laugh, holding up your glass in a mock toast. “My desk is right next to his, and I think we’re going to get along well. He’s got that… that thing, you know?” Clark knew exactly what you meant. Jimmy might as well have been the most charming man in Metropolis. “It’s magnetic.”
You didn’t notice the way Clark’s shoulders drooped, or how he fussed with the paper wrapper on his straw until it was shredded into tiny curls.
“Well,” he said after a beat, voice pitched a little too cheerful, “sounds like you’ve had a pretty swell first day.”
You beamed. “The best. Honestly, I was so nervous this morning. But between you, Lois, and Jimmy, I think I’ll be alright.”
Clark swallowed, nodded, smiled. All those things at once. It looked effortless if you didn’t know him. Unfortunately for him, you knew him better than anyone.
You tilted your head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, gaze darting to the laminated menu. Clark had never been good at lying to you, but avoiding eye contact might give him a chance. “I’m just glad you’re settling in. Really glad.”
You hesitated, straw between your teeth, suddenly aware of how much you’d been talking. “I’ve been rambling, haven’t I?”
Clark chuckled warmly, shaking his head. “I don’t mind.”
You grinned sheepishly. “Well, for the record, my apartment’s great. A little bare still, but nice. And I get to walk to work now, which feels very grown-up and metropolitan.” You said the last word with mock grandeur, and Clark’s mouth curved at the edges.
“Didn’t you take a taxi today?” he teased.
“That was practicality,” you argued. “You try hauling a backpack and a camera bag full of photography gear on the subway.”
Clark smiled, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “I’m glad you like your place. My first place in Metropolis was a dorm, so anything should be a step up from that.”
You laughed. “True. My neighbour seems really nice, too. I think we’ll be friends. But honestly?” You paused, softer now, because you wanted him to hear this part clearly. “The best part of today was getting to see you, and knowing I’ll see you every day now.”
You meant it. The way you said it, so plain and true, made something flicker across Clark’s face. Something you couldn’t name before it vanished behind another of his earnest smiles. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other across the booth, soda sweating between your hands, the neon light turning his glasses a soft red at the edges.
“This feels a little like home, doesn’t it?” you said finally, nodding at the jukebox in the corner “Like that diner where I had all my birthday parties growing up.”
Clark’s mouth curved, almost shy. “With the paper hats.”
You grinned. “And the strawberry milkshakes.”
“I remember.” He tipped his head, studying you like he was turning back the clock. “You always wished for the same thing every year.” Then he chuckled, “Three more wishes.”
“Yeah.” Your voice softened as you leaned back. “Last year, I wished for this. For sitting across from you again. Getting to see you every day.”
Clark’s smile faltered, just slightly, like your words pressed against something tender inside him.
You ducked your gaze, tracing the menu with your finger. “I can’t wait to hang out at yours or mine soon. So I can see your face properly again, without the hypno-glasses.” You said it with a little laugh, but the truth slipped out in the quiet. “I just… miss seeing you. Not Superman, not the glasses. You.”
His throat worked around a swallow, glasses slipping a little down his nose. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually reach across the table for your hand. Instead, Clark gave you one of those soft, heart-aching smiles that belonged only to you. “I’d like that.”
When you’d told him you were moving to Metropolis, Clark had been elated. You were the first person he’d ever trusted with the truth back in high school—his heritage, his powers, the fear, the whole mess of being different. Having you here felt like a gift, as if he could finally stop feeling so alone.
“Speaking of gifts,” you said suddenly, rummaging in your bag. “I almost forgot, your parents sent me with this.”
You pulled out a small pot with a leafy sprig of green, wrapped in brown paper and twine. Clark blinked at it, recognition dawning. “Is that—?”
“Native milkweed,” you declared proudly. “Your Ma said it’s good for butterflies. She wanted you to have a piece of home on your windowsill. She told me to tell you, and I quote, ‘Tell Clark to water it, because Lord knows he won’t remember without supervision.’”
Clark chuckled fondly, the sound easing out of him in a breath. “That sounds like Ma.” He reached out, fingers brushing yours as he took the plant, and you felt the warmth linger longer than it should have.
“She also packed me a pie for the trip,” you added slyly. “I already ate it.”
His mouth fell open in mock horror. “You ate a whole pie by yourself?”
“Don’t look so shocked, farm boy,” you scolded. “You’ve seen me at Thanksgiving. Besides, it was a four hour plane ride! I got hungry.”
That made Clark properly laugh, his head tipped back, clutching his stomach. The sight made your chest tighten unexpectedly. It was like catching the memory of summer sunlight on your skin.
The two of you fell easily into swapping stories after that. Your first terrifying photography professor, his late nights at the college paper, how you used to sneak into the Kent barn loft with a thermos of hot chocolate and talk about the future like you had any clue what it would look like.
“Do you remember,” you said between bites of fries, “when I told you I was going to be the next Annie Leibovitz and you said you’d write all my captions?”
Clark grinned, fork hovering in the air. “Still will, if you’ll let me.”
You rolled your eyes, though the fondness in your eyes was painfully obvious. “Such a nerd.”
His smile softened. If there was no red thread binding you together, he would grab a string and tie it himself. Clark Kent had been yours since the moment you’d leaned over the lunch table in middle school and whispered, Don’t worry, I think you’re normal even if you don’t.
You caught him staring and raised a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Clark said, though it came out tender, almost adoring.
And you thought, God, what a nerd. My best friend is such a nerd. You refrained from saying it with barely controlled affection, hiding the way your stomach had gone hot under his gaze.
You found your rhythm in Metropolis faster than you thought you would.
The first week at The Daily Planet had been an exercise in clinging to Clark’s elbow like a human lifeline, smiling a little too hard at every person who passed, and trying desperately to memorise names and desk locations before someone caught you looking lost. But by the second week, you’d figured out how to blend in with the controlled chaos of the bullpen.
You were still “the new kid.” The one who double-checked the coffee machine instructions before daring to press a button, the one who made Jimmy sign off on all your captions even though he kept insisting you were fine. But you were speaking up more in meetings.
You’d made Cat laugh once, actually laugh, a sharp bark followed by an appraising look that made you feel like you’d just earned a medal. Lois was harder to crack, but there were moments when she’d pass you a file without comment or murmur a quick, “Good work,” and your stomach would flutter like you’d been given a blessing.
And then there was Jimmy. Going out on assignment with him was like being caught in a whirlwind. He walked too fast, talked too fast, gestured so wildly you half-expected him to topple into traffic. But he was brilliant with a camera. He’d see a shot before you’d even raised your lens, point it out with the kind of enthusiasm that made you laugh even when you were gasping to keep up.
The first time Perry ran one of your photos on the front page, Jimmy dragged you into the middle of the bullpen and announced it like a town crier.
The second time was even better. You’d somehow managed to snap a clean, perfectly framed shot of Superman mid-flight, cape fluttering against the light, looking every bit the hero of Metropolis. Perry slapped the proof down on the table and growled, “Front page.” You nearly fell over.
That night, you showed Clark, holding up the paper like a trophy. He nearly spat out his tea.
“You’re kidding me!” He was laughing so hard he almost fell off your sofa. “You—you got the Superman shot? After all the times Jimmy’s tried—golly.”
“Golly?” you teased, nudging him with your elbow. “What are you, a cartoon dad?”
“Don’t care,” Clark said, still grinning. “You’re incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
If you thought about that too long, you got a little lightheaded, so you mostly didn’t.
Metropolis itself was trickier. You’d been before to visit Clar, but living here was different. You’d grown up in Smallville, where everyone knew your name, your parents, and exactly what your dreams and goals were.
Here, you could be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel invisible. The noise was constant: horns, chatter, music being blasted at ungodly hours. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d stood still without someone brushing past with an annoyed “watch it!”
The small-town friendliness didn’t exist here. No one waved when you crossed the street. No one offered to help carry your shopping up the stairs. People were in a rush, and you were in their way. But it wasn’t all bad.
It was exhilarating sometimes. You could wander two blocks and find ramen at midnight, or tacos from a cart parked beside a glittering theatre. You’d gone to a Metropolis Meteors baseball game with Cat and Lois last weekend, sat in the nosebleeds with a hot dog, and felt more alive than you had in months.
And you weren’t entirely alone. Your neighbour, Poppy, a Metropolis local your age, had practically adopted you. She showed you the best bodega for late-night snacks, where to avoid taking the subway after dark, and which coffee shops didn’t overcharge for lattes. She was sharp and kind and exactly the sort of friend you needed in a new city.
You caught yourself smiling one evening as you told her, “I might have the perfect guy for you.” You hadn’t said Jimmy’s name yet. You wanted to do your homework first, find out if he was single, or at least willing to be set up. But the idea stuck. Poppy’s easygoing nature and Jimmy’s goofy brightness would balance each other out perfectly.
Besides, wasn’t that what starting fresh was supposed to be about? Building connections, finding your place. Creating a home for yourself in the middle of all the noise. And maybe, just maybe, realising that the best part of your day was still the same as it had always been: sitting across from Clark, laughing until your sides hurt, wondering how you’d ever gone so long without seeing him every day.
It started casually.
You were leaning on Clark’s desk one afternoon, sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to panic about your deadline, when the words came out: “So… Is Jimmy seeing anyone?”
Clark almost gave himself whiplash from how quickly he turned to look at you. His eyes were wide behind his frames, his mouth slightly agape like he couldn’t believe what you’d said. “Uh—what?”
You tilted your head. “I just wondered. He’s cute. And funny. And I thought maybe—”
“He’s dating a model,” Clark blurted, too quickly. “Pretty sure. Yeah. Definitely dating a model.”
Across the bullpen, Lois didn’t even look up from her monitor. “He hasn’t had a girlfriend in months, Smallville.”
Clark blinked, red blooming in his cheeks, while you filed that information away with a pleased little hum.
A few days later, you sidled up to Lois at the coffee machine. “Does Jimmy like Italian food?”
She gave you a sharp look. “Are you asking because you’re planning a date?”
“No,” you said, too fast. “I’m just curious.”
“Jimmy likes any food. If it’s edible, he’ll eat it.” Lois stirred copious amounts of sugar into her mug, smirking. “If it’s not edible, he’ll probably still eat it. Man has no culinary standards.”
When you glanced at Clark’s desk, he was staring fixedly at his computer.
Later that week, you caught Clark in the elevator. “What’s Jimmy’s type?” you asked casually, as if you were inquiring about the weather.
Clark’s glasses nearly slid off his nose. “What?”
“Women,” you clarified. “What kind of women does he usually go for?”
Clark fumbled. “Uh—uh—tall? Or maybe short. Definitely one of those. And, um, brunette? Or blonde. Or—”
Lois, who’d slipped in just before the doors closed, rolled her eyes. “What isn’t his type?” she said dryly, and you laughed all the way up to the newsroom floor.
It became a running theme.
“Do you think Jimmy likes jazz?” you asked Lois one morning.
Clark dropped his coffee stirrer.
“Does Jimmy prefer dogs or cats?” you asked Clark the next afternoon.
He stammered something about fish before fleeing to refill his mug.
“Would Jimmy ever date someone who wasn’t in journalism?” you asked Lois the following week.
She sighed. “Kid, Jimmy would date someone who breathed near him too enthusiastically.”
By then, Lois had decided you were developing a crush on Jimmy. She gave you amused little glances whenever you brought him up, while Clark looked like he was one misplaced question away from combusting. And you, completely oblivious, just kept making notes in your mental file.
Jimmy Olsen: Not currently seeing anyone. Likes all food. (Easy win.) Has no real type, possibly open to anything. Jazz: inconclusive. Dogs vs cats: also inconclusive.
Perfect. Operation: Matchmaker was right on track.
Meanwhile, Clark Kent was wilting in slow motion at his desk, trying very hard not to imagine you and Jimmy in a romantic-comedy-style date montage. The thought of the two of you sharing a milkshake with two straws made him nauseous.
Friday nights had always been for movies. Back in Smallville, the tradition had been sacred. Every week, no matter what farm chores Clark had been stuck with or how swamped you were with homework, you ended up curled together on the worn sofa at the Kent farmhouse. Bowls of popcorn, one light left on in the kitchen, a stack of DVDs you rotated through endlessly.
Now, in Metropolis, the ritual lived on. Your new apartment wasn’t much, a little nest of mismatched furniture and thrifted lamps. On your third Friday in the city, Clark showed up at your door with takeaway and a grin. The moment you pulled him inside and saw him plop the food onto your coffee table like it was the most natural thing in the world, you felt the old rhythm sliding right back into place.
Tonight, you’d chosen The Princess Bride. Nostalgia wrapped around you like a blanket as the familiar dialogue filled your little living room. You half-watched, half-stole glances at Clark, because it was different now.
Clark looked domestic, comfortable in a way that made your chest ache. He’d taken his glasses off the second he walked in, setting them on your bookshelf like he always did when it was just you. His hair, usually in messy curls for the office, had softened through the day, a little wave falling into his forehead. He was in a simple white button-up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and it hit you in a way it hadn’t in high school.
Clark Kent was handsome. Stupidly, unfairly handsome.
You remembered girls whispering about the “Kent charm” back then, how his smile made them blush. You’d never noticed. He’d been Clark, your Clark, the boy who stayed up with you until dawn studying, who carried your tripod when it was too heavy, who showed up at your window when you were sad. He’d been so close that romance never even crossed your mind.
Now you saw the way his shoulders filled out his shirt. The warmth in his cobalt eyes when he laughed at a joke you made. The gentleness of his hands when he handed you a napkin before you even realised you needed one.
You could picture him in a domestic life so clearly. Carrying groceries up your stairs, pressing a kiss to your temple as he passed, leaving his slippers by your door. The thought startled you, but it didn’t leave.
And then there was Superman. You’d grown up knowing Clark was different, but you hadn’t realised what that difference meant until years later. Since moving to Metropolis, you’d seen it all up close: the rescues, the headlines, the world depending on him. He was extraordinary, and yet here he was on your sofa, eating dumplings out of a carton and laughing at Cary Elwes’ line delivery.
You found yourself wanting to memorise him. The lines of his jaw softened by the lamplight. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The dimples in his cheeks when you reminded him of that one time he tripped chasing you through the cornfield when you were kids.
He was beautiful, and he was yours; not in any official way, but in the way that mattered. He was your best friend.
Across the sofa, Clark was having his own crisis.
He’d thought, once, that sending you postcards from Delaware and calling you every Sunday would be enough. That maybe the distance would dull the sharp twinge of wanting you, that maybe one day he’d wake up and feel free of it. He’d been wrong.
Now you were here, right next to him, laughing at the same movie you’d watched a hundred times, and he was so in love he thought it might undo him. He’d always admired you; your eye for photographs, your fire, the way you cared for people so fiercely. But seeing you here had floored him.
And yet, every time you mentioned Jimmy, his chest tightened. Lois’s teasing echoed in his head. He wanted to tell you everything: that he’d been in love with you since high school, that nobody could ever measure up in college, so he’d stopped trying altogether. But then you’d smile and gush about how funny Jimmy was, and Clark felt his courage crumble.
Still, as you leaned closer to him now, curled up with your knees tucked under you, Clark thought there was no way he could ever love you more than he did in this moment. You were his first thought in the morning, his last thought at night. And watching you glow in the soft lamplight of your new apartment, he realised something terrifying and wonderful all at once.
He could spend his whole life like this. Just being near you.
“You’re not even watching,” Clark teased, voice low so as not to disturb the cadence of the movie.
You flicked your eyes back to the screen, caught Buttercup mid-swoon, and shrugged. “Sure I am. True love, sword fights, Rodents of Unusual Size.”
Clark chuckled, but when you glanced at him again, you caught him looking at you instead of the TV. Heat crept up your neck. You reached for the popcorn bowl as a distraction, only to find it empty.
“You ate all of it,” you accused.
His brows shot up. “Me? You were shovelling it like you hadn’t eaten in a week.”
You smirked. “Well, at least I don’t hide behind hypno-glasses to trick everyone into thinking I’m some ‘well-mannered farm boy.”
Clark groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You know that’s not why I wear them.” Then he smiled, almost shyly. “Are you saying you like me better without glasses?”
“Of course,” you said, not catching the way his chest tightened at your answer. “I missed your face.”
Something fond flickered across his expression. He reached for the remote, muting the TV, and you didn’t even notice until silence fell. You were too caught in the moment, too wrapped up in the ease of talking with him.
“You know,” you said, leaning back into the sofa cushions, “this kind of feels like we’re sixteen again. Friday night, bad lighting, too much sugar.”
Clark’s lips quirked. “Except you’re not falling asleep halfway through the film this time.”
You gasped. “That was one time.”
“Three times,” he corrected gently. “And you drooled on my shoulder once.”
You laughed, tossing a cushion at him. “Traitor. I trusted you to never bring that up again.”
Clark caught the cushion easily, hands big and sure, and hugged it to his chest with mock innocence. “Your secrets are safe with me. It’s part of my Kent charm,” he said, all faux swagger.
You snorted. “‘Kent charm.’ God, you really are a nerd.”
The words came out playfully, but there was something behind them you weren’t quite ready to name. Because, yes, he was a nerd, sitting here quoting his own reputation like it was a joke. But he was also, God help you, gorgeous. His hair falling into his eyes, his shirt stretched across broad shoulders, every inch of him radiating warmth and steadiness.
Clark shifted closer on the sofa, the air between you charged with something softer than electricity. “Do you ever think about it?” he asked quietly.
“About what?”
He hesitated, then shook his head, offering another smile instead. “Nothing. Just how lucky I am you’re here. Metropolis feels more like home now.”
You reached for his hand before you could think better of it, letting your fingers brush his knuckles. “I get it. Living in a new city with you feels more like home than living in Smallville without you.”
Clark stilled. You didn’t notice, too busy tracing the shape of his hand absentmindedly, like you’d done a thousand times back in high school without thinking twice.
“You really mean that?” he asked, voice rough.
You looked up at him, startled by the weight in his tone. “Of course I do. You know I wished for this; that I’d get to live in the same city as you again.”
Clark’s heart thudded in his ears. He wanted to say that he’d wished too, every night, for years. Instead, he swallowed and squeezed your hand lightly.
“You’re—” He paused, trying again, “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”
You blinked at him. “Clark—”
“I mean it,” he said quickly, earnest eyes shining. “I’m really glad I get to do everything by your side from now on.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, cracking a smile. “Me too.”
“Good,” he murmured, voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.
The silence stretched, not uncomfortable but a little heavy. You found yourself studying Clark, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell.
Before you could stop yourself, you whispered into the quiet, “I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, too.”
Clark’s breath caught. He ducked his head, cheeks flushed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
You smirked, leaning in just a little. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll go back to calling you a nerd tomorrow.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and thought, I could spend forever like this. And you, ignorant of the full weight of his gaze, thought, God, I think I’m in trouble.
Jimmy bounded into the bullpen like he’d just won the lottery, camera bag slung over his shoulder, grin wide enough to blind someone.
“Guess what?” he announced, leaning on the edge of Lois’s desk, practically glowing. “I’ve got a date tonight.” Jimmy’s grin stretched ear to ear.
Clark looked up from his notepad, a smile already forming. “Oh, hey. That’s great, Jimmy! I’m happy for you.”
Lois didn’t even glance up from her screen. “With a human or another one of your cameras?”
Jimmy clutched his chest. “Wow, Lois. For your information, yes, with a human.”
Lois raised an eyebrow, dry as desert air. “Let me guess. Five-foot-ten, legs up to here, and absolutely no idea you existed until five minutes ago?”
Jimmy smirked, playfully kicking Lois’s desk chair. “Not giving away any spoilers. But let’s just say, I’m pretty excited.”
Then, he glanced across the room, caught your eye, and gave you a wink. It was playful, teasing, nothing more than the kind of exaggerated gesture Jimmy made a dozen times a day.
You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, already used to his theatrics, but Clark froze mid-keystroke. The cursor blinked accusingly at his half-finished sentence.
A wink. Jimmy had winked at you.
Clark’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it lodged there stubbornly. He bent closer to his computer, pretending to type, though the words blurred into nonsense.
Lois didn’t miss a thing. Her gaze slid from Jimmy to Clark, and then slowly, knowingly, to you. She sipped her coffee like she was watching her suspicions confirmed in real time. “Well, well,” she murmured.
Clark forced a smile. “What?”
Lois tilted her head. “Guess we were right about Jimmy having a thing for your other best friend.”
His pulse kicked in his ears. “Oh—uh, well. Good for them, right? They’d—they’d make a great couple.” It came out so flat it could have been mistaken for sarcasm.
Lifting a brow and leaning back in her chair, Lois drawled, “Sure. If you say so, Smallville.”
Clark tried again, fumbling for enthusiasm. “I mean, Jimmy’s a good guy. You couldn’t ask for anyone more dependable.”
Lois hummed around the rim of her coffee cup, unimpressed but mercifully silent.
Clark turned back to his screen, jaw tight. The words on the page stubbornly refused to fuse together into sentences. Every time he glanced up, he saw Jimmy’s grin, your smile, and that wink. It was like a spark caught in his chest.
He should be happy for you. If that’s what you wanted, he should be supportive. He was supportive. But the thought of Jimmy leaning across a table tonight, making you laugh the way Clark always did, maybe walking you home—Clark pressed his palms against the desk until the wood creaked in protest.
Superman could stop trains, but Clark Kent couldn’t stop his own jealousy from eating him alive.
By the time Clark was back in his apartment that night, he’d tried his best to convince himself that you and Jimmy dating was a great idea.
Jimmy was kind, funny, and loyal. He’d never dream of hurting you. He was the type of guy Clark would trust with his life. But the thought of trusting him with you left something bitter and restless clawing in his chest.
He dropped his keys on the counter and sat heavily on the couch, elbows on his knees.
If only he’d just told you how he felt in high school. That thought circled him like a hawk, again and again. He’d been eighteen, hopelessly in love, and terrified of what that love might do to the best friendship of his life. You were already looking toward photography programs, weighing colleges and scholarships, and he’d known even then that Metropolis was calling him.
Different cities. Different dreams. He’d told himself it wasn’t fair to ask you to tie yourself to him. So he’d swallowed the confession. He’d chosen friendship because it was safer, and because it meant never losing you. For years, he’d told himself he didn’t regret it. He’d repeated it until he believed it.
But tonight, sitting alone in his apartment while you were out with Jimmy, regret slipped its way in. What if Clark had said something back then? What if you’d smiled that radiant, disbelieving smile and told him you’d always felt the same?
Maybe you would have tried the distance. Maybe it would’ve worked. Maybe you’d be here now, living together, ordering takeout on the couch, falling asleep during a movie. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting here with an empty living room and a chest full of longing.
The fantasy was so vivid it almost felt real. The brush of your knee against his, your laugh spilling through the room, the easy certainty of a life where he hadn’t hesitated.
And then, as quickly as it came, the other side of the coin flipped. Maybe if he’d confessed, you would’ve said no. Maybe you would’ve told him gently that you didn’t see him that way. Maybe it would’ve shattered everything, left him without a best friend and without you. The risk had been too high then. It was still too high now.
Clark pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to will the images of a domestic life with you away. His heart was pounding too loudly, beating against the silence of his apartment.
Then, the faint metallic click of a key sliding into his lock sounded through his apartment. The knob turned. The door opened.
Clark’s head snapped up, throat dry.
You stepped inside like it was the most natural thing in the world, balancing two pizza boxes in your arms, hair a little windswept from the cold night air.
“Hope you’re hungry,” you called, nudging the door shut behind you with your hip. “They gave us extra cheesy bread.”
For one impossible second, Clark thought maybe he’d fallen asleep and the fantasy had followed him into a dream. But you were real. You were here.
Clark stayed frozen on the couch, still hunched forward, but his whole body was taut now, like a bowstring drawn too tight. You breezed in, the smell of garlic and melted cheese following you, chattering like you always did when you were excited.
“So, I placed a pickup order at Mario’s and somebody else must’ve grabbed it by mistake because when I got there, it was gone,” you explained, setting the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and hanging up your coat. “Totally vanished. But they felt bad, so they remade the whole order with extra cheesy bread.” You grinned, holding up the little box for emphasis. “Free cheesy bread, Clark! If that’s not divine intervention telling us it’s a Ratatouille night, I don’t know what is.”
You were grabbing plates from his cupboard when you finally glanced back, words slowing. “Wait, what’s wrong? Why are you sitting like you just gambled away your life savings?”
Clark blinked. He hadn’t realised how pathetic he must look, folded in on himself, hands dangling between his knees.
His heart surged at the sight of you standing there in the doorway, but the words that came out weren’t the ones he wanted. “What about your date?”
You stopped in your tracks. “My what?” Then, your eyes lit up. “Oh, speaking of dates! How do you think Jimmy’s is going?”
Clark frowned, confusion doubling back on him. “I mean… Not very well if you’re here instead of there?”
You tilted your head, blinking slowly, like he’d just started speaking in Kryptonian. “What?”
Clark’s brain stuttered. “Wait—what?”
You stared at each other across the room for a long, disbelieving beat, until your expression shifted from confusion to dawning realisation.
You set the plates down on the counter, hands braced on either side. “Hold on. Did you think Jimmy was going on a date with me tonight?”
Heat crept up Clark’s neck, and he could feel his ears burning. “Well—I—he winked at you in the bullpen, and then Lois said—”
“Oh my god.” You dragged a hand down your face, groaning. “No, no, no, Clark. No. Jimmy’s on a date with my neighbour, Poppy. I’ve been trying to set them up for weeks.”
Clark just stared. His brain scrambled for purchase, trying to rearrange the facts into this new, blessed reality. “Poppy,” he echoed, words coming out slow and low. “Your… neighbour.”
“Yes. Poppy,” you confirmed. “She just got out of a long-term relationship when I moved to Metropolis, so she was hesitant at first. But I kept talking him up, and I showed her a couple pictures he took, and finally she agreed. Tonight’s their blind date.”
Relief surged through Clark so quickly that it made him dizzy. His hands twitched uselessly on his knees. He wanted to do something, say something, but all he could think was Thank God.
You didn’t notice the way his shoulders uncoiled, the way his chest expanded with a breath that felt like it reached his bones. You were still talking, animated now, explaining how you’d been stealthily gathering intel on Jimmy—his favourite food, his type, what kind of date he’d enjoy.
But Clark couldn’t hear half of it.
All he could hear was the rush of his own pulse. All he could feel was the giddy, impossible joy of knowing the future he’d been mourning just minutes ago wasn’t lost after all.
“Anyway, why—” You trailed off mid-sentence, really looking at him.
Clark wasn’t just listening. He was bracing, shoulders hunched like he’d been carrying the world on them and only now set it down. His breath came out ragged, too loud for the quiet of his apartment, and his eyes were fixed on you like you’d just saved him.
“Clark,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “You okay?”
He swallowed, trying for casualness and failing spectacularly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… relieved, I guess.”
“Relieved,” you repeated, folding your arms. You couldn’t stop your mouth from twitching into a grin. “What, did you really think I was sneaking around on a secret date with Jimmy Olsen? That I’d just, what, show up tomorrow morning and be like ‘oh hey Clark, by the way, I’m dating your best friend now, pass the sugar?’”
He gave a strangled little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You caught the flush spreading across his skin, the way his broad chest rose and fell too fast. Not embarrassment exactly, but something warmer.
Your grin softened. “You were panicking. Weren’t you?”
Clark shook his head, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “No, I just—I didn’t—”
“Uh-huh.”
You leaned on the counter, resting your chin in your hand, studying him. He was sitting forward on the couch like he might spring out of it at any second, like if he relaxed, something dangerous would slip loose. His big hands were clenched on his knees, the tendons in his forearms flexing as though he was holding something back.
And for the first time in your life, you realised maybe he was.
The thought made your pulse jump, heat curling in your stomach. Because now that you were looking, really looking, you saw how beautiful he was in that soft, undone way only you ever got to see.
“Clark,” you said again, softer now. “Why were you so panicked?”
He lifted his gaze then, finally meeting your eyes. And the look in them nearly knocked the breath out of you. Relief, yes, but threaded with something hotter, deeper.
You stayed by the counter, watching him. And then Clark stood—too fast, like he startled himself with the decision—and rubbed his palms down the front of his slacks.
“I—Golly, I don’t know how to…” His voice was low, rough. His eyes skittered away, then dragged back to yours like they couldn’t help it. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for years. I wanted to tell you when you first got here. But then Jimmy and—and then Lois, she joked, and I thought…”
“Thought what?” you asked, breath catching.
Clark hesitated, fists clenching like he was physically holding back words. Then, quieter: “That maybe I’d already lost you.”
You blinked. “Clark—”
“No, let me—just let me say this.” His hands came up helplessly, almost reaching for you before they fell back to his sides. “I’ve been in love with you since we started high school.”
The words hit you like a struck match. Excitement coiled tight in your stomach, dizzying, almost unbearable. You wanted to laugh and cry and throw yourself into his arms all at once, but all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed.
“I wanted to tell you before graduation,” Clark confessed. “But you were staying in Smallville, and I was moving across the country, and it felt like I’d ruin the best thing in my life by saying it out loud. I told myself distance would fix it. That maybe I’d get over you.” He laughed shyly, shaking his head. “But I never did.”
“Clark…” Your voice cracked, and you had to take a step forward.
He mirrored you without thinking, until there was barely a foot of air left between you. His chest was warm even at this distance, heat rolling off him like a furnace.
Clark took a shuddering breath. “You remember the milkweed my folks sent with you? The one Ma insisted you bring to the city?”
You managed a nod.
His mouth quirked, but his eyes were still raw, desperate. “She told me once, if you care for it right, the monarch butterflies will come. Doesn’t matter where you plant it—in Kansas, in Metropolis—it’ll bring them back. And I thought… that’s us. I thought, if I just kept caring for what we had, even if it wasn’t what I wanted, I’d get to keep you in my life. And that would be enough.”
He swallowed hard, adding, “But it’s not, and I can’t pretend it is anymore.”
You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing the back of his hand. Even that ghost of contact felt like a jolt of lightning. He froze, his breath stuttering, before his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to entwine them with yours.
“Clark,” you whispered, heart hammering. “In high school, I never… I never thought about you like that. Everyone used to talk about your dad’s ‘Kent charm’ like it was this thing you inherited, and maybe they saw it, but I didn’t. Not then. You were just Clark, my best friend.”
Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, but gentled by the way he looked at you, as if he’d take even this.
You let out a shaky laugh. “But then you left. And you were still the one I called when I had a bad day, or when something amazing happened, or when I just wanted to hear a voice that reminded me I wasn’t alone. And then I came here, and I get to see you every day, and Clark,” your voice wavered, but you pushed through, “I’m falling in love with you. The reporter, the farm boy, the man who saves the world, the one who waters milkweed because he hopes butterflies will come home.”
Clark’s composure broke on a ragged breath. He surged closer, finally tangling his fingers with yours, gripping tight like he’d drown without it.
“You can’t just say that to me,” he rasped, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot on your lips. “You can’t say that and expect me not to—”
Your laugh hitched out on a sob. “You don’t need to hold back anymore.”
And he didn’t.
His mouth found yours with years of pent-up longing, searing, desperate, and impossibly sweet. You clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer, and he gathered you into his arms like he’d been waiting his whole life for permission. Every brush of his hands over your back, every slide of his lips against yours, burned like fire meeting gasoline.
When you broke apart, breathless and clinging, he pressed his face into your hair and whispered, hoarse and unsteady, “You’re it for me. Always have been.”
For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at him. Some invisible red string between you snapped taut, pulling you forward before you’d even decided to move.
Clark’s hands came up, hovering like he was terrified of scaring you off, and that hesitation alone undid you. You closed the distance. It was years of unsaid things pouring out at once, your fingers clutching at the broad line of his shoulders, his hands finally claiming your waist like he’d been dying to all along.
He kissed you like he already knew every contour of your mouth, and in a way, he did. He knew you, every laugh, every secret, every sharp retort and soft glance, and now he was learning you like this, too.
You tilted your head, and Clark followed, perfectly in step, as though you’d rehearsed this in another life. Heat flared where his palm slid up your side, leaving you breathless, but when he slowed—just enough to press the gentlest kiss to your bottom lip—you felt the tenderness layered inside the urgency.
When you finally tore back just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched, his breath ragged against your skin.
His thumb traced your cheekbone, a shaky little caress that steadied itself as he whispered, “Been wanting to do that for half my life.”
Your laugh came out uneven, breaking against the swell of emotion in your throat. “Took you long enough.”
Clark smiled against your mouth, and then you were pulling him down to you again, hungry this time, eager.
Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer like you couldn’t get enough of him. His mouth moved against yours with a confidence that made your knees weak, but there was still that softness beneath the hunger.
His fingers trailed down your back, sliding under your shirt, and you shivered against him. Every brush of skin was electric, and you found yourself gasping and moaning into his mouth, both of you laughing breathlessly when the heat of it was too much to contain.
Clark’s hands roamed freely now, memorising the curves of your body as if he were trying to burn them into memory. Your own hands were relentless, exploring the strong lines of his chest, the sweep of his shoulders, the way his hair fell into his eyes when he tilted his head.
You were discovering each other in a way you’d never imagined; familiar yet entirely new, and it made every touch searing.
The sofa became your anchor. Clark guided you down, careful but insistent, until you were sprawled together, limbs tangled, breaths mingling in the small space.
Clark’s lips left yours only briefly, just enough to whisper against your temple, “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this.”
You smiled and whispered back, “I’m always happy to be in the business of making your dreams come true.”
His hands were everywhere, sliding under your back, across your hips. When you shifted slightly, sliding against him, Clark groaned low in his throat, a sound that sent shivers racing up your spine.
You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned into him, biting gently at his lower lip, and he caught your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kissed you with desperate hunger.
You both collapsed together fully, tangled and warm on the sofa, breathing hard, hearts hammering. Clark’s arm wrapped around you, holding you impossibly close, and your hand found his chest, fingers splayed against him, feeling the steady beat beneath his shirt.
“Finally,” you whispered, breathless, against his collarbone.
Clark chuckled low, a deep, vibrating sound that made your stomach flutter. “Finally,” he agreed, resting his chin on top of your head.
k first things first, i adore ur work. Genuinely best clark writer there is. Second, I have a request.. idk if ur familiar w the office but could u potentially write clark and the reader in a Jim and Pam situation where the reader and clark are best friends and he’s secretly in love w her but she has a bf (or fiancé) who is always coming around the planet and the bf treats the reader badly. Clark js watches their relationship from a far and is all sad because whenever they’re having fun or smt the bf will show up to remind him he still exists. Just a whole lot of angst and yearning. Up to u if they end up tgt or not :) Anyways, this is my first time requesting so sorry if it wasn’t explained well or not. Seriously cannot stress enough how much i look forward to ur content.
eeeeeeep here we go! it's about 6k words
-
The newsroom hums like a living thing, keyboards clacking, phones chirping, the lift of voices that carry headlines from someone’s mouth to someone else’s fingers. You’re in the middle of it, elbows on your desk, hair pinned up with the pencil you swore you didn’t need ten minutes ago.
“Page three needs your pull quote,” Jimmy calls, skating past on the last of his caffeine.
You toss him a balled-up sticky note. “Got you. Try not to use the photo where my eye looks like it’s asking for help.”
Jimmy snorts, already backpedaling. “Newsflash: you always look like you’re asking for help.”
“Thank you, James Bartholomew Olsen,” you deadpan. “Such support.”
Across from you, Clark bites back a smile. That’s the thing about him; his laugh starts in his eyes. He pushes his glasses up his nose and leans over the partition. “For the record,” he says, warm and earnest, “none of your eyes have ever looked like they needed help.”
You sigh in a show of gratitude and reach for your coffee. “Tell that to my editor, who told me my last headline read like I’d never met the English language.”
“That was Perry trying to compliment you,” Clark says, as though this interpretation is obvious. “You know how he is.”
You watch him for a second longer than you should. He’s got his sleeves rolled, tie a little crooked like he forgot to be perfect before he left the apartment. The light catches in his hair. He’s a quiet kind of handsome, the kind that sneaks up on you at your third cup of coffee and then refuses to leave your head.
“Babe.” The voice slices through the banter, the hum, your smile. It always does.
He’s leaning on your desk like he owns it: your fiancé in a suit that fits like a threat, watch glinting under the fluorescents. He looks at his phone when he says your name again, sharper. “We’re late.”
You paste on a smile that feels like a too-tight bandage. “Right. Okay. I just need to…Clark, could you,” You gesture helplessly at your stack of proofs, and he’s already nodding.
“I’ll drop these on Perry’s desk,” Clark says softly. “Go ahead.”
There’s gratitude in your chest that you don’t have time to say aloud. You slide your chair back, gather your bag, feel your fiancé’s fingers press against the hollow of your back, guiding you like you might get lost without him. You glance at Clark as you’re pulled away. He gives you a small, steady smile, one he’s perfected for you. The I’ve-got-this smile. The don’t-worry-about-me smile. The one that makes you feel like your bones can hold a little more weight than they could a second ago.
You tell yourself you don’t look back.
-
You come back from lunch to find your top drawer fixed. It’s been sticking for months; you’ve been hip-checking it closed and pretending the bruise blooming high on your thigh is a fashion choice.
There’s a note taped to the handle in messy blue ink: Took the track off and put it back on. Should slide now. —C
When you pull, the drawer glides open like it’s always been kind.
“You’re becoming dangerously handy,” you say, crossing the bullpen. Clark glances up from his screen, cheeks pinking like you’ve caught him doing something illicit instead of basic carpentry.
“Just needed a screwdriver,” he says. “And a butter knife. And, uh…”
“Your relentless optimism?” you offer, bumping your shoulder into the side of his chair.
He grins. “That too.”
You bite your lip, and the grin slides right into your chest where your heart will keep it for later. You think of your fiancé, how he’d sighed when you told him about the drawer. How he’d said, Can’t you just put important things somewhere else? as though being forced to rearrange your life around a minor inconvenience was a reasonable solution.
“Thanks, Clark.” You mean it more than it sounds. You always do.
He shakes his head, shy. “Anytime.”
You didn’t see the way his hand lingered over the note he wrote. You didn’t witness the way he folded and unfolds the small square of paper that you’ll tuck into your planner like a talisman. You don’t know that he knows you’ll keep it, because you’ve kept the others.
-
The gala shouldn’t be bad. A night off the clock, the press rubbing elbows with the city’s favorite donors, champagne and orchestral arrangements and shoes that will hurt tomorrow. You put on a dress your friend swore would make you forget you ever had an exhale, and you do your hair and dab perfume onto your wrists and tell yourself it’ll be fun. He promised it would be fun.
He’s late.
You stand in the lobby with your clutch in both hands, trying not to check your phone every thirty seconds. People move around you in glimmering currents. Lois passes, offering a wolf whistle. “Holy hell, look at you.”
You laugh. “Please say that again, louder, in front of people who can validate me.”
“Consider me your megaphone,” she says, and kisses your cheek. “Olsen’s inside scouting for awkward framing. He says the step-and-repeat design is a war crime.”
“Of course he does.”
“Smallville’s around here somewhere,” Lois adds, offhand. “You’ll find him. He shines when he sees you.”
“Lois,” you say, a warning you don’t mean.
She winks, already moving. “Call it like I see it.”
Your fiancé is twenty minutes late, then thirty. You read the same text ten times over: Running behind. Go in. I’ll find you.
So you go in.
The ballroom is a cascade of light and music. You find the press table and your colleagues, and you find that, without looking, like a compass, the particular sweetness in the air that means you’re near him. Clark is at the edge of the room in a dark suit that makes your brain short out. He’s listening to Perry talk, nodding along, posture careful.
His eyes find you like they’ve been waiting. The smile that hits his face is not the polite one. It’s the one he cannot stop.
You feel yourself smile back, the knot between your ribs loosening for the first time today. You don’t move to him, there’s a labyrinth of donors and bosses and social choreography between you, but you take the long way, and somehow he takes the long way too.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice has that rough edge it gets when he’s trying to be casual around you and failing. “You look…”
“Like I remembered to breathe?” you say to save him.
He swallows. “Yeah. That.”
“Babe.” It’s too loud, too close. Your fiancé appears, one hand already warm at the small of your back, the other reaching for a drink off a passing tray. “Finally got parking,” he says. He kisses your cheek like punctuation. “You look great.”
“Thank you,” you manage, the lift of it hollow.
He glances at Clark. “Kent.” It isn’t a greeting so much as an announcement that he knows Clark exists.
“Good to see you,” Clark says easily, like his chest isn’t cinched tight. He steps back. He’s always stepping back when your fiancé is around.
The night moves in sweeps. Your fiancé pulls you from person to person; you laugh when you’re supposed to laugh; you let yourself drift toward the table where Clark is seated because your body has its own gravity. When you go to sit, Clark stands automatically, gentleman to the bone, and pulls your chair out for you. Your fiancé doesn’t notice. He’s talking to a real estate developer about scarcity like it’s a fad diet.
“Bread?” Clark offers, amused, holding out the basket.
“Don’t tempt me,” you whisper. “This dress was a team effort between me and several small gods.”
His smile curls. “I’m sure they’re jealous.”
“You’re sweet.” You take the bread.
He watches you tear it. He watches you put the smallest piece in your mouth with saintly restraint. He looks away like it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak aloud. Lois clocks the whole exchange and kicks him under the table in a way that reads like wish your face weren’t so obvious.
Midway through the speeches, your fiancé’s hand lands on your thigh under the table, fingers squeezing as someone mispronounces his last name from the podium and the table laughs. Your muscles go tense out of habit. Clark looks at the stage so hard his eyes could cut glass. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, and thinks about Kansas, about warm wind and quiet barns and how easy it is to fix a stubborn hinge if you just take your time. He tells himself that restraint is love. That he isn’t any good to you as a live wire.
After the award for Community Impact, a donor with too-white teeth who’s funded exactly one library wing asks you to dance. He doesn’t wait for your answer before taking your hand. You glance at your fiancé. He’s scanning the room for someone more useful to know.
“You don’t have to,” Clark starts, sitting forward. The words are so soft you could mistake them for a letter you’ve been meant to read for years.
“It’s fine,” you say, already moving, already regretting it.
It isn’t fine. The donor talks about himself, his boat, his boat’s gym, his gym’s private trainer, and the time he shook hands with the mayor like it was a blood pact. He holds you too close. You laugh like you’re not counting the seconds.
Clark watches because he can’t not. Lois bumps his shoulder with hers. “Go cut in,” she says, like she’s suggesting he grab another bread roll.
He shakes his head. “She’s here with—” He doesn’t say the word. He can’t seem to make himself say the word.
“Mm,” Lois says. “And you’re here with your spine, I hope.”
He huffs a breath, trying to look amused, but the truth is sitting heavy in his chest. He doesn’t go. Not right away. He waits. He pretends his hands aren’t fists pressed gently to his knees. But then he sees you laugh at something the donor says, polite, thin, the kind of laugh you give when you’re surviving instead of enjoying, and Clark’s resolve cracks. His chest goes tight. That laugh isn’t yours. It’s the mask you wear when you want to disappear.
Lois tilts her head, daring. “Go, Smallville. Before you break the chair clenching at it.”
Clark exhales through his nose, slow. His chair scrapes softly against the parquet as he stands, legs suddenly too long, too heavy. His palms damp against his slacks. He adjusts his glasses with a thumb and forefinger, a stalling habit, then moves through the crowd anyway. Each step feels louder than it should, like the floor is announcing him.
You notice him before he even reaches you. Your eyes find him in a room of glitter and silk, and your relief is so sharp and bright it steals the air from his lungs. He sees your shoulders ease, your fingers twitch like you’ve been waiting for someone to save you.
He stops before you, heartbeat pounding hard enough he’s sure you can feel it through the floor. He dips his head, voice pitched low, careful. “May I?”
The donor blinks, affronted. “We’re in the middle of—”
“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, already sliding your hand from the donor’s shoulder. You don’t hesitate, not for a second. You turn toward Clark. “I’d like that.”
Your hand fits in his, small and warm and familiar. Clark inhales sharply, his chest loosening all at once. It’s like the world exhales with him. The orchestra swells, violins sweet and full, and suddenly you’re in his arms. His palm is pressed firm and steady against your waist, guiding you with a gentleness that feels like reverence. Your hand rests on his chest, right over his heart, and Clark prays it doesn’t give him away.
“You didn’t have to rescue me,” you murmur, breath brushing his jaw.
“Yes, I did.” His voice is low, steady, but the smile tugging at his mouth is almost shy. He’s looking at you in that quiet, unshakable way that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, like you’re the only person in the room.
Your lips curve into a real smile, the first one tonight that isn’t forced. It’s brighter, freer, and it lands in Clark’s chest like sunlight after a storm. You tip your forehead closer to his. “Took you long enough.”
He huffs a laugh, the sound shaky with something that feels suspiciously like relief. “I was waiting for the right song.”
And then you dance. Not showy, not loud. Just two people swaying in a crowded ballroom, moving in a rhythm only you share. The floor spins with donors and editors and politicians, but Clark barely registers them. He counts your breaths instead. He memorizes the sweep of your lashes when you glance down and the way your fingers curl slightly against his suit jacket. He notices the tiny shiver when he shifts his hand just a fraction higher on your back.
You lean into him without realizing, your body softening, trusting. For the first time all night, the tension drains from your shoulders. Clark matches your steps easily, fluidly, every movement a promise that he won’t let you stumble.
“Clark,” you whisper, like you’ve just remembered his name and wanted to taste it.
“Mm?” He keeps his gaze on you, like he couldn’t look away if he tried.
“Thank you.” It’s small, but it’s heavy with all the things you can’t say in a ballroom.
He swallows. He wants to tell you he’d do it a thousand times, that he’ll keep stepping in, keep rescuing you until you don’t need rescuing anymore. But he just nods. “Always.”
For the first time all night, you don’t feel small. You feel seen. And Clark, for the first time in a long time, lets himself believe that maybe you see him too.
The song winds down, the violins softening into a final, lingering chord. You’re still in Clark’s arms, still close enough to feel the warmth of his hand at your back, when the applause stirs around you. For one fragile moment, you want to stay exactly where you are.
But then a voice cuts in, sharp, claiming, “My turn.”
Your fiancé is there, jaw tight, hand already outstretched like it’s owed to him. Clark drops his hand immediately, stepping back with polite restraint, even though his whole body resists letting go. You feel the absence like cold air rushing in.
You force a smile, place your hand in your fiancé’s. He pulls you into the next dance, too quick, too rough, like he’s proving something. His hand grips your waist with no gentleness, dragging you through steps he doesn’t know.
He misjudges a turn. His shoe comes down on your foot, hard. Pain flares sharp. “Ow!”
He doesn’t apologize. He exhales in annoyance, eyes flicking around the room. “Maybe don’t stick your feet out.” Heat creeps up your neck, not from the stumble, but from the embarrassment, the sharp edge of his tone. You laugh it off, small and tight, because what else can you do?
Clark watches from the edge of the floor, fists in his pockets, jaw set so tight it aches. He knows the steps by heart, he could guide you without looking, could carry your weight if you stumbled, could make sure you never felt small again. He wants to stride back out there, to pull you away, but he knows you’ll defend the man at your side.
So he waits. And the ache in his chest grows heavier.
Later, when you slip from the floor and sneak toward the terrace, Clark catches the movement like a change in weather. He finds you in the cool night air with your arms wrapped around yourself, city lights counting off the beats of your breath.
“Cold?” he asks.
“A little.” You smile a tired smile. “I was worried I’d forgotten how to be a person in there.”
“You didn’t,” he says gently. He shrugs off his jacket, rests it across your shoulders before you can protest. It smells like soap and paper and something warm you can’t name.
You look down, fingers catching on the lapel. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” He leans on the railing beside you, thoughtful. “I liked your questions during the Q&A. You cut through the PR beautifully.”
“I’m trying to be good at this,” you admit softly.
“You already are.”
Your fiancé appears in the glass door’s reflection. You feel him before you hear him. “There you are,” he says, as though he’s been searching, even though he left you on the dance floor fifteen minutes ago.
You hand Clark his jacket, fingers brushing. Static zips up your arm. Clark’s gaze flicks to yours and away. He takes back the jacket like it’s a sacred object.
“Ready?” your fiancé asks. It isn’t really a question.
You nod. Clark watches you go. He counts your steps until you’re out of sight.
-
The days become a slow erosion. Little dismissals. You tell yourself he’s busy, he’s stressed, he’s not usually like this. Then usually changes its shape around you until you can’t remember what it used to mean.
You and Clark go on walking lunches where you talk about nothing and everything; stories you want to chase, memories from years you didn’t know each other. He listens like listening is a trade he studied. He remembers the throwaway lines, the cereal you ate on Saturday mornings, the book your third-grade teacher read aloud when it rained. You make a joke about investigative journalism ruining pleasure reading, and he laughs, and then you talk about pleasure anyway.
Once, he reaches for a crosswalk button at the same time you do, and your hands touch. It’s only skin. It’s only skin and bone and nerves that have no right to be this awake. You jerk your hand back like a teenager, laugh to cover it. He says your name like a prayer he can pretend is a normal thing to say.
You don’t kiss him. He doesn’t ask you to. In the spaces between what is and what could be, he builds small shelters. He replaces the bulb in your desk lamp. He leaves a granola bar on your keyboard when your stomach is loud enough to qualify as a source. He prints an extra copy of the press packet because you’ll forget yours. He does not complain about the weight of what he carries.
You tell yourself your fiancé loves you. You know what love is supposed to look like. Sometimes it looks like Sunday mornings with coffee that tastes right. Sometimes it looks like defending him to your friends because they don’t see the soft parts. Sometimes—often—it looks like apologizing for taking up space.
The first time you see something, it’s almost nothing. A lipstick print, sharp and red, on a paper napkin crumpled in the passenger footwell. You find it when you go to move his gym bag. You lift it between two fingers like evidence on a crime show. You let it fall. You say nothing, because the braver part of your brain tells you he’ll laugh and say it’s been there for weeks. The tired part of your brain whispers that you’re being dramatic. Your mouth says, “You left your bag in the car.”
He says, “Thanks,” without looking up from his phone.
You try to sleep that night and dream about red you can’t wash from your hands.
The second thing is bigger. You’re on your couch on a Thursday when your phone rings. It’s a number you don’t know. You let it go to voicemail. It rings again. On the third try, you answer.
“Is this,” The woman on the other end says your name like it’s fragile in her mouth. “I’m sorry. You don’t know me.”
You sit up, heart gone strange. “Who is this?”
She tells you. You know the name. You’ve seen it flash on his screen and told yourself it was a colleague, a client, a cousin. You feel your stomach step out of your body and keep going.
She speaks carefully, like she’s on a high wire. “I didn’t know,” she says. “He told me he was single. I only found out when I saw your photos. I thought you should know. I’m sorry.”
You hear the floor crack under your feet. You get off the phone. You put it down on the table as though it might bite. You pick it up again and call him.
He doesn’t answer.
You call again.
And again.
The fourth time, he picks up, his voice already sharp. “What the hell? I’m in the middle of something.”
Your chest is hollow and burning at the same time. “Yeah, I bet you are.”
There's a pause on the other end of the line. The kind that feels like a dare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She called me,” you spit, pacing your living room like you might wear a trench through the carpet. “She called me, and she told me everything. Don’t you dare act like I don’t know.”
He sighs, long and put-upon, like you’ve inconvenienced him. “God, are you really going to start this? She’s crazy. She’s making stuff up.”
“She knew my name,” you snap. “She knew what nights you were with me, and which ones you weren’t. You told her you were single.”
“Because it was easier!” he explodes, the veneer cracking. “She didn’t need to know about you. Nobody does. You blow things out of proportion, like you always do.”
Your laugh is sharp, joyless. “I blow things out of proportion? You’ve been sleeping with someone else while I…while I’ve been…” Your voice breaks. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“I hear you being dramatic,” he snarls. “I hear you doing what you always do: making me the bad guy. Maybe if you weren’t so suffocating—”
“Don’t you dare,” you bite out. “Don’t you dare try to put this on me. I bent myself in half for you. I made excuses for you to everyone who asked. I defended you when people said you didn’t deserve me, and this is what you were doing the whole time.”
The silence on the other end is seething. When he finally speaks, it’s quieter, crueler. “Maybe if you weren’t so desperate, I wouldn’t have had to look somewhere else.”
It’s like the air is ripped out of your lungs. You can’t speak. Not for a long moment. Then, low and steady, you say, “We’re done.”
He laughs, disbelieving, mean. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” you whisper, clutching the phone so hard your hand aches. “Don’t come here. Don’t call me again.”
And you hang up. Your hand shakes, your heart pounding out of rhythm. The phone slips from your grasp and clatters onto the table. The silence afterward roars in your ears.
You don’t know how long you sit before your body starts to move without you. One moment you’re on the couch, the next you’re throwing on a coat, keys in your hand, elevator doors yawning open like a mouth. The city air tastes like cold metal. Your legs carry you to the only place that feels like it won’t collapse if you lean on it.
The Daily Planet lobby guard nods as you pass. The elevators are slow; you take the stairs two at a time. On the fifth floor, the newsroom is a softer version of itself—half the lights off, the big clock hushed, the city’s noise coming through the windows like a tide coming in.
Clark is at his desk. Of course he is. Tie loosened, sleeves rolled, a pen behind his ear like he forgot where pens go. He looks up at the first ghost of your footsteps and goes very, very still.
“Hey,” he says, already standing. “What?”
“He…” You can’t say his name. Your throat refuses to wrap itself around the syllables. “He had someone else.”
The chair legs scrape the floor as Clark pushes back with too much force. He’s in front of you before you can decide if you’ll let him be. “Hey,” he says again, softer, and his hands hover like he’s always afraid to touch you without asking. “Can I?”
You nod, and he pulls you in. The world clicks. You bury your face in the fabric at his shoulder. You don’t realize you’re shaking until his palm flattens between your shoulder blades and stays there, sturdy as a wall that’s never known a crack.
You tell him in pieces. Not the whole story. Just shards. The woman’s voice, the lipstick, all the ways you made yourself smaller to fit into the outline of his love. Your words come out jagged and wet; he doesn’t try to smooth them. He stands there and lets you ruin his shirt. He stands there like he is grateful to be ruined by you.
“He told me I overreact,” you say into his chest. “He told me I make things up to feel important. He said he loved that I’m passionate, but that I should save that for work. I tried so hard to be easy.”
Clark’s breath stutters like it hit a hill. He doesn’t say the thing he wants to say, that you’ve never been anything but easy to love. Instead he says, “I’m sorry,” and means it like a vow.
“Can we get out of here?” you ask, suddenly aware of the way the newsroom has seen the worst and best of you. “I don’t want to be here for this part.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, let’s go.”
He walks you home first. You linger inside your doorway, keys heavy in your palm. Everything in your living room feels like it belongs to the person who believed she was loved.
“Here,” Clark says gently. “Take these.” He’s already picked up the pile of mail on the console, the water glass you keep forgetting to finish, the mug that says Press in chipped red letters. He is quietly making space for you to breathe.
“Do you…” The question feels enormous. “Would you mind if we went to your place? Just until I can…” You can’t figure out how to finish the sentence without sounding like a person who is trying not to drown.
“Of course,” he says immediately. “Of course. Come on.”
You’ve never been to his apartment this late. It’s tidy the way an honest person is tidy, clean but lived in, a stack of books by the couch, a plant you’re shocked to see thriving. He hands you a pair of soft gray sweats and a T-shirt that will swallow you alive. You change in the bathroom and catch your reflection in the mirror; you look like the ghost of a better story.
When you open the door, he’s in the kitchen with a small pot and the careful concentration of a man defusing a bomb. He looks up, startled to see you with wet cheeks and red eyes in his clothes.
“I’m making tea,” he says, suddenly bashful, like tea is too intimate for names. “I Googled the loose-leaf ratio once. I wrote it down. It’s on the fridge.”
“You wrote down how to make tea?”
“I didn’t want to mess it up,” he admits, and that makes something ridiculous and tender happen in your chest.
You lean against the counter. Your hands won’t stop moving. They find the hem of his shirt, twisting and untwisting. “She called me,” you say. “She said she didn’t know. That he told her he was single. She sounded,” You swallow. “She sounded sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. His eyes shine in a way that makes you want to memorize them. “People can be cruel without meaning to be. And sometimes they mean it, and that’s worse.” He sets down the spoon. When he looks at you again, there is something like a decision inside him.
“Clark,” you say.
He’s already moving, crossing the small kitchen to where you stand. His hands hover for a moment, unsure, then settle gently on your arms. His thumbs brush slow circles into your sleeves, grounding.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he murmurs. “Not here. Not with me.”
Your throat tightens, tears threatening again, but it’s different this time. It’s not the sharp ache of betrayal, but the release of being given permission to crumble. You lean into him, forehead finding the solid line of his chest. He folds his arms around you, warm and sure, pressing his chin lightly against the crown of your head.
“You gave him so much of yourself,” Clark says softly. “That doesn’t make you weak. That makes you kind. It makes you brave. The way he treated that… it says everything about him. Nothing about you.”
You shake your head against him. “I feel stupid.”
“Hey,” he says, voice firmer now, a low rumble you feel more than hear. “Don’t say that. You trusted him. You loved him. That’s not stupid. That’s…” He swallows, the word catching. “That’s everything someone should want.”
You close your eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear. His hand rubs slow up and down your back, anchoring you in the quiet.
“You deserve so much better than this,” Clark adds, voice almost breaking. “You deserve someone who thinks the sun comes up just to see you smile. Someone who…” He cuts himself off, teeth pressing into his lip, like the rest is too much to give away.
You tilt your head up, catching his gaze. His glasses are pushed up into his hair, his eyes bared, raw in a way you’ve never seen. He takes a breath like he’s about to step onto a ledge and isn’t afraid to fall.
“He had someone else during you,” he says, voice low, steady even as it breaks at the edges. “I haven’t even so much as looked at anyone else since I met you.”
The world holds very, very still.
The kettle hums itself quiet. The clock in the hall ticks once, twice, like it’s the only proof that time hasn’t stopped altogether. You stare at him, at this man who’s been a constant orbit around your chaos, at his hands that fix the smallest things and his silence that never made you feel small.
“Clark,” you say again, but this time your voice is a different thing. A softer thing. A thing with a yes tucked inside.
His throat bobs. “I didn’t say anything because you were with him. Because you were happy…or I thought you were. Wanted you to be. I didn’t want to be the reason you doubted your life. I didn’t want to make it harder. I just,” He huffs a breath, a self-conscious laugh that doesn’t quite get born. “I wanted you to know that you are worth the kind of love that never makes you wonder if you’re asking too much. You deserve someone who sees you and thinks, how lucky did I get? You deserve—”
You lean up before you can talk yourself out of it. His words have unmade you in a new way, and you want to be unmade like this. You reach out and cup his face in both hands. He goes perfectly still, as if you have placed a crown on his head and he’s worried moving will knock it askew.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi.” It comes out like a prayer.
You kiss him.
It’s not heat, not first. It’s a soft press that feels like both of you swore an oath you didn’t know you knew. You taste salt, yours or his, you couldn’t say. He doesn’t move until you do, until you angle closer, until your fingers slip into his hair and pull. Then he makes a sound you want to keep in your pockets forever and kisses you back. He kisses you like he’s learning a language he somehow already speaks.
You break away on a breath, foreheads touching, the tip of your nose brushing his. “I don’t know what happens next,” you admit, because you want to only promise what you can keep.
“We don’t have to know,” he says, and the relief in his voice is almost reverent. “We can go one breath at a time.”
He doesn’t try to make tea again. He turns off the burner. He takes your hand and leads you to the couch like you are the most precious thing he has touched in a long, long time. You curl into him, and he arranges you with the patience of someone building something that won’t fall over.
He talks, not about him, not about the weights he’s carried, but about anything that makes the air gentle. The neighbor’s dog that barks at airplanes, the diner that knows your order before you sit, the story he wants to pitch about the city’s tiny libraries that save people one folded page at a time. He tells you that your shoulder fits against him like it’s always been meant to be there. He doesn’t, technically, say that part aloud; you feel it anyway in the way he sighs when you settle.
“I feel stupid,” you say into his shirt, because the truth feels safer here than it does anywhere else. “I kept defending him. I kept trying to be easier. I kept making sure I didn’t ask for too much.”
“Loving someone doesn’t make you stupid,” he says. “Believing someone doesn’t make you stupid. Trusting makes you brave. And when someone breaks that trust, you get to be mad and sad and everything in between without apologizing for any of it.”
You press your mouth to the hollow of his throat. You don’t think about what your fiancé would say about this; you think about how your body has been telling you something for years and how safe it feels to listen.
“Do you think,” you start, and then stop. You don’t know how to pack the next question into something that won’t explode.
Clark strokes your hair behind your ear. “What?”
“That I’m…enough?” The word wobbles.
He pulls back enough to see you, to make sure you know he sees you. “You are more than enough,” he says, and the conviction in it is a shelter. “Do you know what it’s like to sit across from you and try not to smile like an idiot because you said something smart? Do you know what it does to me when you laugh? I could write articles about your laugh and they’d all win awards.” It’s a joke, but it lands like a promise.
You laugh, watery, helpless. “That’s terrible journalism.”
“It would be very objective,” he says gravely. “Sources: me. Evidence: all of it.”
The laugh turns into something like a sob and then back into a laugh again. You breathe. He breathes with you. He is a metronome at your back, steady, patient. When you get tired of sitting upright, he gathers you closer and lies back with you half on top of him, your ear over his heart. It beats like an answer.
“Stay,” he says when your eyes keep closing without your permission. “As long as you want.”
“Okay.” Your voice is small, and you don’t hate it. You don’t hate being small next to someone who makes you feel large where it counts.
“Tomorrow,” he adds, like he’s making a list you’ll help him cross off, “we can talk about logistics. What you want to do. Who you need to call. If you want me there when you do. We’ll do all the parts you don’t have to do alone.”
“Okay,” you say again, and this time the word is bigger. “Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He draws your hand up and presses his mouth to your knuckles. “It’s me who’s grateful,” he murmurs, so quietly you might blame the floorboards. “You have no idea.”
You sleep.
You dream that you’re in the newsroom and the lamps are on and the keys sing and the city outside is a giant heartbeat. In the dream, your drawer never sticks. In the dream, every note someone left for you is a map.
-
Morning comes soft at his windows. You wake to the morning radio murmuring about the weather and to the warm weight of Clark’s arm around your waist. He’s awake already, you can feel his breathing change.
“Hi,” you say, sleep-rough.
“Hi.” He sounds like there’s sunlight in his throat. “I made coffee.”
“You made coffee without leaving the couch,” you say, impressed.
He points with his chin toward the kitchen. “I made it with my mind before you woke up. Now I will stand and fetch it with my legs.”
You smile into his shirt. “Thank you, legs.”
He makes a show of staggering to his feet, and you let yourself watch him cross the room in yesterday’s wrinkled shirt and bare feet. It’s intimate in a way that doesn’t make you flinch. He hands you a mug that’s exactly the right amount of hot, exactly the right kind of strong.
“Do you want me to stay with you today?” he asks, settling back beside you. He doesn’t crowd. He offers.
“Yes,” you say, surprised at how easy the word is. “If you have time.”
“For you,” he says, like it isn’t a choice, “I always do.”
You rest your head on his shoulder and let the day unspool in front of you. It will be complicated. There will be calls. There will be words that taste like metal. There will be the slow demolition of a life that was making you smaller. But there will also be this. His hand finding yours without fanfare, his quiet humming, the way he waits for your breath to steady before he moves.
“Hey,” he says after a moment, voice gone shy again. “I know this isn’t the time to, um. But…I meant it.”
“I know,” you say, and you do. You knew in the way he looked at you when you were too human for anyone’s liking. You knew in the note on your drawer and the way he remembered your favorite condiment and the way he never made you feel like you took up too much space.
“I don’t expect anything,” he adds quickly. “I just wanted you to know. I want whatever you want. I want you to have what you deserve.”
You take a breath that doesn’t hurt. “What if what I deserve looks a lot like this?” you ask, deliberate, brave in a brand-new way.
He blinks. “Then,” he says slowly, the smile arriving like a sunrise, “I will try not to trip over my own feet on the way to the luckiest years of my life.”
You laugh, shallow and bright. “Lois is going to make fun of us.”
“Lois has been making fun of me for months,” he says. “This will simply provide her new material.”
You sip your coffee and let yourself imagine what the afternoon will look like when you walk into the newsroom in yesterday’s dress and Clark’s T-shirt folded in your bag. You imagine the drawer that opens on the first try. You imagine a life that doesn’t ask you to be smaller.
You look at him. He’s watching you like he can’t quite believe you’re real. It should make you self-conscious. It doesn’t. It makes you want to be the kind of person who deserves someone’s best proof of faith.
“Clark,” you say.
“Hmm?”
“I think we’re going to be okay.”
He smiles without looking away. “I think so too.”
Your ex had someone else during you. Clark hasn’t even looked. And now, as the city wakes and the day asks you to make a thousand small choices, you choose this. Clark’s steady hand, his open door, the way his heart sounds under your ear like a story you could write for years.
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader
summary: you were his first home, and he was the only thing that ever made smallville feel big enough—until he left, and you let him. when you love someone, where does all that that love go? (inspired by normal people and no one noticed by the marias) listen to the playlist here.
word count: 8.8k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, bdsm undertones, soft dom! clark, size kink, unhinged and feral reunion sex, unprotected sex, riding, multiple orgasms, creampie, clark picking the reader up multiple times, mating press, angst. a boatload of it. ungodly levels of yearning. friends to lovers to strangers to a mysterious fourth thing?????
You find him right where the gravel ends.
Right on the edge where the road starts to lose its name, where the fenceposts get swallowed up by tall grass and the corn gets all gold at the tips from a little bit too much sun. There’s humidity in the air, thick and wet and sticking hot to the back of your knees.
And Clark—he’s just standing there, straddling his old bike like it’s part of him, one foot on the ground, the other on the pedal.
Like he’s been waiting all afternoon for someone to dare him to move.
He’s in that familiar, tell-tale Royals shirt again, the one that’s been through three summers and way, way too many Fourth of Julys and baseball games. It's been washed to a soft blue, collar a little chewed out by the Kents' dryer, sleeves stretched out around the kind of arms you pretend not to notice unless you’re looking directly at 'em. There’s a glass bottle of cream soda tucked in the crook of his elbow, the kind that sweats through the label and leaves a sticky ring on tables.
You coast up smooth and slow beside him, gravel crunching under your tires, your bike squealing a little as you brake. Then, out of instinct, out of just wanting to see him do something, you nudge your front tire against his.
“Hey. You just gonna stand there brooding all summer or you gonna come help me steal peaches off the Jacobs’ tree?”
He blinks, once. Doesn’t look over yet. Just shifts the bottle between his hands like it’s giving him something to do.
“You know that’s not our tree,” he says.
“Didn’t stop you last week when it was the Johnsons’,” you point out. You raise your brows, bite back a grin. “Come on. I know you’ve got the hops, Kent.”
“I didn’t jump the fence,” he says finally, looking at you now. You catch your own reflection in his glasses for half a second before he looks down again. “You climbed it. I supervised.”
“You hovered,” you say.
“I did not hover.”
“You hovered.”
Clark exhales like the word physically pains him.
He tilts his head up, squints at the sky like it might offer him a way out of this conversation, or maybe just a distraction.
But you keep going, not to be mean, but just because it’s so damn easy. The kind of easy that only happens when someone’s been in your life since kindergarten. Since he spilled apple juice on your backpack and you kicked him in the shin with glitter shoes and he was the only one who sat next to you on the bench during school pick-up time.
“I just—” He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks pink already. “I wasn’t showing off.”
“Who said you were?”
He flinches a little, and you know, that’s the thing with Clark. He’s fast, strong, bulletproof on paper, but he’s never really quite figured out how to armor up around you.
You smirk, sweet and cruel, and take off.
“Race you to the river,” you shout behind you, already halfway into the corn.
“You know you're terrible at racing,” he calls after you.
You don’t look back. “Guess you’ll have to chase me, Kent!”
And he does. You can hear him coming, his tires slicing over the path, his breath catching in time with yours, his laughter carrying on the wind like something weightless and golden.
Swerving left, then right, darting through the cornrows until the field finally breaks into open air. The river’s just beyond, and when he catches you, it’s all momentum—his hand at your waist, both bikes skidding sideways into the soft grass, limbs tangled, gravel in your shoes, everything spinning.
You land in a heap. Your elbow in his stomach. His cheek in the crook of your shoulder. You’re both laughing so hard it’s hard to breathe.
“That was cheating,” you say, once you can talk again.
“You said to chase you,” he murmurs, lips close to your ear, voice warm like dusk. “Didn’t say I had to lose.”
You stay like that for a second too long. Sun sinking somewhere behind the barn. Your body curves into his like you’d practiced it, like you’d been preparing for this moment since you were fourteen and your mom made you sit next to him in youth group because “Clark Kent is a very polite young man.”
Then, his voice again—quieter, tentative.“You know I like you, right?”
You don’t let the silence hang.
“I hoped,” he adds quickly, and it’s so Clark that it almost knocks the wind out of you.
You roll over to face him, chin dutifully in your palm. He’s looking anywhere but at you. His lashes—they're so dark that they cast shadows on his cheek. You watch the way his mouth pulls into that same nervous line he always gets when he’s trying not to hope too hard.
“I mean, you’re not exactly subtle,” you say, casually.
“Hey—”
“You bring me my favorite drink every Sunday. You volunteered to be my lab partner after you saw what I did to the last one’s eyebrows. You walked three miles home from the county fair because I forgot my sweater and didn’t want to sit in your truck.”
He ducks his head. There’s a crooked, bashful smile starting to curl at his mouth. “Well, when you put it like that—”
“I like you too, Kent,” you say.
And there it is, oh, there it is. His eyes snap back to yours, startled. You just let the moment settle. Let him feel it. Let yourself feel it too—the absolute bigness of it, the tooth-rotting sweetness, the way it wraps around your ribs like something you might never, ever outgrow.
“Been liking you since you loaned me your gloves that one time I fell off my bike and tried to pretend I wasn’t crying.”
“That was fifth grade.”
“Yeah,” you say, voice light but honest. “You’ve been soft n' sweet since fifth grade.”
That’s when he laughs again, full-body, chin tilted up towards the clouds. “And what are you gonna do about that?”
You shrug, teasing. “Guess I’m gonna keep making fun of you until you kiss me.”
And then, he does.
It starts tentative, more of a breath of a question. Like his hand slides up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of it like he still can’t quite believe he's got you. You tilt your face into him, into the softness of it, the want seeping through every brush of his lips.
His lips meet yours, soft and clumsy and maybe even a little surprised. But you smile into it, and that… that breaks the dam.
He goes back in again for seconds, but it doesn't land as gracefully as you two hope. His nose bumps awkwardly against yours. One of your hands fists in the front of his shirt to pull him closer, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear. His tongue swipes at the seam of your lips, shy at first, then braver when you open up for him.
When you finally pull apart, it’s just for the barest of inches.
His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathless and grinning like fucking idiots. “You good?” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes flicking down to your mouth like he’s not done with you just yet.
You nod, dizzy in the best way. “Yeah. Better than good.”
And maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the wildness of being seventeen and certain.
But you think—if kisses could keep, you’d bottle this one and carry it in your pocket for the rest of your life.
.
for you
i should be helping you read the map. i know that, i know that. but you’re laughing so hard right now and it’s doing something to my memory.
like—i want to remember the exact shape of your mouth when you do that. not just the smile part, but how it starts out small and then gets bigger when you look away, like you’re trying to stop it but just can’t. how your whole face lifts with it. how you crinkle your nose a little like you think it’s unfair to laugh too hard at me, even when i probably do deserve it.
(also, for the record, i did pack the tickets. they’re just under the jumper cables. not lost. you give me way too much crap for that.)
we’re about thirty-five minutes from the state fair, by the look of the road signs. you’ve already declared that you’re getting a funnel cake and one of those weird lemonades in the giant plastic boot, and i'll absolutely be pretending i don’t want any until you offer me some. i’ve made peace with this.
but anyway. the real reason i’m writing this is because you keep looking at me like i’m already yours, and i don’t think i’ve ever had anything in my life that felt that simple.
i love you so much it feels like i’ve been loving you my whole life — long before i knew that’s what it was. i think i loved you when you beat me at checkers in second grade and then offered me the last orange popsicle even though it was your favorite. i think i loved you when you walked your bike next to mine the whole way home after i wiped out, even though we were already running late for dinner.
all i can think about is how much i want to give you good things. little ones. always. like this day. like this letter. like the better half of my funnel cake, even if you insist you don’t want it.
yours,
clark
p.s. if i win you a goldfish again, we are not naming it after another days of our lives character.
.
You’re eighteen and you're sitting on the porch steps with your knees drawn up and your hands tucked into the sleeves of your hoodie, watching the road. His truck’s already here, parked under the elm. He’s been standing at the foot of the porch for a few minutes now, like stepping up would make everything real.
You haven’t really said anything yet. You’re scared that if you open your mouth, it’ll all spill out. Every what if, every I don’t want you to go, every please stay, just don’t make me say it first.
Never really learned how to be brave like that. Not when it comes to him.
Clark shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The porch light flickers overhead. A dying bulb, one Jonathan’s meant to change for weeks. You wonder if anyone else is going to sit on these steps after tonight and think about this moment—if that bulb will still be broken in the morning. Or if it’ll just be you, alone, in a house that still smells like childhood.
“You gonna say something?” he finally asks, quiet. His voice is careful. Not impatient. Just uncertain. And God, when did he become the one with uncertainty?
You look at him. Really look at him. His shirt’s wrinkled, that Metropolis U logo cracked a little at the corners. His bag’s already packed in the passenger seat. There’s a tightness in his shoulders that doesn’t go away even when he exhales.
And all at once, you feel like you’re watching someone walk backwards out of your life.
You love him. You know that. It’s not a crush or a phase or something you’ll forget by Thanksgiving break. It’s in your ribs now. In the soft, constant ache you’ve had every time he talked about the city like a future with a door he was already walking through.
Because deep down, you’ve always known you weren’t going. That you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
That part of you belonged to this place—not in some romantic, sweeping way, but in the way you belong to gravity, to habit. To people who need you here. People you can’t walk away from. And you’d resented that, sometimes. Hated it. But it’s also shaped you. It’s the reason you notice the sound the screen door makes when it closes. The reason you know how to fix the water heater without being asked to.
He’s going to learn other things. Bigger things. To save people you’ll never meet, in cities you’ve never been to. You’re not angry at him for that. Never could.
But there’s something about the inevitability of it that… that just hurts so badly.
“You look tired,” you say.
He huffs a laugh. “So do you.”
You want to say I am. Want to say you’re the only one who makes it better. But that’s dangerous territory so instead, “You’re leaving tomorrow.”
He nods. Doesn’t move.
You gesture vaguely at the truck. “You pack everything?”
“Mostly. Just gotta grab the charger from the kitchen. Ma says I’ll forget my head if it’s not bolted on.”
You try to smile. It doesn’t really come together. It just gets lost somewhere on your face, between your eyebrows and your mouth. “I don’t want this to be the end.”
“It’s not,” he says quickly, too quickly. “I’ll call. I’ll come back on weekends. I can fly back in, literally. I’ll be faster than the Greyhound, I promise.”
You look at him, and for a second, it’s like being kids again. Him with that wide-eyed, insistent hope. Like if he says it the right way, it’ll come true. Like the world will just do it, just bend to his good intentions.
Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done. Turns things into plans. Into problems to solve. Like love is just logistics. Like heartbreak’s just a scheduling conflict.
You rest your chin on your knees, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. “You can’t fly your way through this one, Kent.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his hand to the porch railing, fingers curling over the wood like he needs something to hold onto. His voice, when it comes, is soft and urgent and a little bit wrecked.
“I can do this,” he says. “I want to do this. I can make this work. I’ve carried tractors. I’ve held buildings together with my hands. If I can do that—if I can lift all that—I can carry us too. I can do that. Please—just please, let me do that."
You look at him then. Really look. And it breaks your heart, because you believe that he believes it.
But you also know: he’s not just trying to carry you. He’s trying to carry the whole world. And the world’s got a stronger grip than you do.
“You can’t keep both arms around me forever,” you say. “Not if the world keeps pulling you away.”
His mouth opens like he wants to argue. Then closes. And then—
“I’ll do it for you,” he says, almost breathless. “Even if it’s hard. I’ll make time. I’ll—I’ll tear the sky open if I have to.”
But you shake your head. “That’s the problem, Clark. I don’t… I don't wanna be a responsibility.”
“You’re not,” he says, stepping closer now, standing on the lowest step so you’re nearly eye-level. “You’re not. You’re—sweetheart, you’re the thing that keeps me grounded. You’re the reason I come back.”
“Then why does it still feel like you’re already gone?”
His face twists—like it hurts to hear. Like it confirms something he’s been trying very hard not to name.
You swallow hard. “Every time you leave, a little more of you stays gone. And I wait for the text, and I wait for the call, and I tell myself, ‘he’s trying, he’s doing his best,’ but Clark—your best has to be out there. Helping people. Saving cities. Being who you’re supposed to be.”
His jaw tightens. “So what? I don’t get to have anything else? I don’t get to be someone’s?”
You stand. Step down to meet him.
“You do. Just not mine. Not if it means I have to keep you from being you.”
There’s a beat. One breath. Two. Then, softly: “You think it’s selfish.”
“I think it’d be selfish to keep asking you to come home to me when the whole world needs you more.”
Clark looks down, eyes blinking fast, like if he stares hard enough at the porch wood he won’t have to cry. Like the weight of everything—his powers, his love, his heart—is finally too much. You reach out, take his hand. He lets you. His palm is warm, callused from working the farm all summer, steady like it always is.
You squeeze it. Squeeze it tighter. Then let it go.
“Be good out there,” you whisper. “Be careful. Don’t forget where you came from.”
He lifts his eyes to you, and there’s so much in them. So much love. So much grief. And that awful, awful understanding.
“Will you still think of me?” he asks, voice cracking.
You nod. “'Course, dweeb. I’ll think of you every time the wind changes.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender.
And then you step back. Let him walk to the truck. Let the door close behind him. Let the engine rumble on, headlights catching your porch steps for one aching second before he pulls away.
You stand there for a long time after he’s gone.
.
Subject: checking in
hey there,
i hope this isn’t weird. i wasn’t sure if i should send something, but ma says it’s always better to write when you’re thinking of someone, and i guess i’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. not in a heavy way. just… in that way where something small reminds you of someone and then they just kind of stay in your head all day after.
finals are over (thank goodness) and i didn’t fail anything, though my rhetoric professor said i “overexplained” my last paper. which feels just a bit rude, considering i was trying really hard to underexplain it. turns out i’m just really not very good at pretending i don’t care about things.
ma sent me a shoebox full of christmas cookies even though it’s not even thanksgiving yet. most of them crumbled in the mail, but i’ve been eating the pieces with a spoon like cereal. she says she saw your cousin at the hardware store—apparently they’re fixing the porch steps. ma says the wood’s soft now, “just like everything else on this side of town.”
the city’s… a lot. i’m getting used to it, kind of. there’s this bakery on 12th that sells cinnamon rolls the size of hubcaps, and the lady behind the counter always gives me the biggest one, even when i’m last in line. she calls me “darlin,” which feels a little funny out here, but nice too.
sometimes, on sunday mornings, i bike down to the river and just sit. don’t do much, just watch the water move and try not to check my phone. it’s not the same as the spot back home, no skipping stones, no cattails, no frogs trying to race each other—but it’s something.
you crossed my mind the other day because someone in class said they’d never been on a dirt road before. i thought that was wild. i told them how my girlfriend my friend you used to ride your bike with no hands all the way down the lane by old man ridge’s cornfield, and they looked at me like i made it up.
i didn’t tell them how you’d stick your legs out like wings when you did it. that part’s mine.
anyway. i hope school’s going alright. and work. and everything else. i hope the leaves are turning slow this year, and that you’re getting time outside before the cold sets in.
write back if you want. no pressure.
i’ll be home for christmas, if you’re around.
best,
clark
.
It’s been ten years.
Not in the clean way you imagined it would be. Not in semesters or seasons or chapters.
Just a long, slow forgetting that never quite takes. You went to college eventually—state school, close enough to come home on weekends but far enough that you could pretend you weren’t waiting for him to text. You studied too hard, dated people who never asked about Smallville, never asked about the way your voice always changed when you said Clark.You kept your head down and your world small.
(Safe.)
You stopped counting anniversaries, but some part of you always remembered. It’s like he left fingerprints in your brain—certain songs, certain skies, certain kinds of kindness that you couldn’t unlearn even if you tried.
And then, in November, you see him again.
It’s nothing. A stupid errand.
You’re home for a few days, in between classes and the apartment you share with two roommates who always forget to do their dishes. You’re walking out of the grocery store, headphones in, balancing a paper bag on your hip, keys in your teeth, when he rounds the corner of the parking lot, and everything—everything—stops.
He’s taller. Or maybe just steadier. His gait, his posture—there’s this quiet confidence now, like the world no longer fights back when he walks through it.
You stop. Bag still on your hip, eggs still in jeopardy, and for a second you can’t breathe.
He’s on the phone, head tilted, brow furrowed in a way that’s still so Clark you could cry. A little more muscle in his arms. A different weight in his step. Still in a flannel shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows like muscle memory, and that same beat-up Royals t-shirt underneath. His hair’s longer. His arms are broader.
His voice—when it reaches you, after he sees you and fumbles off the call—is just slightly deeper. A little hoarser. Like he’s had to say a lot of hard things lately.
“Hey,” he says, blinking. “You’re home.”
You nod. “Just for the week. My mom needed help with the attic.”
“Right,” he says, shifting his weight. “That old attic.”
You both laugh, quietly. It’s awkward, but not really cruel.
“How’s school?” he asks. “You’re almost done, yeah?”
“One semester left,” you say. “Then maybe grad school. If I survive biochem.”
He smiles then, really smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like they used to. And it’s awful, because you remember the last time he smiled at you like that. Awful, awful, awful.
“You’ll survive,” he says. “You always do.”
You want to ask what he’s been up to, but you know. Everyone does. Superman sightings. City rescues. A train derailment in Metropolis last fall; he was on it. Someone tweeted a blurry photo of him with soot on his cheek and a woman’s baby in his arms.
You don’t bring it up. He doesn’t either.
Instead, you both stand in the parking lot like it’s still summer and you’re eighteen again, swatting mosquitoes and talking about where you’ll end up. Back when the answer still sounded like “together.”
There’s a silence. The kind that feels like a room you both used to live in.
“You look good,” he says, finally. And it’s so soft you almost miss it.
You study his face. But his eyes are still the same. Gentle and wary all at once. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks too long.
“So do you,” you reply. “I saw your article. The one on post-quake reconstruction.”
His eyebrows lift, surprised. “You read that?”
“I read all of them,” You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because you mean it. Maybe because it’s the only way you still get to feel close.
“I kept your voicemails,” he says, voice low. “From high school. Even the one about the raccoon that broke into your guys' pantry.”
You smile, but your throat stings. It feels like hearing the song you used to fall asleep to, back when things were quieter.
Clark steps forward. Just a little.
“Do you ever think about—” he starts. Then stops.
His hand lifts halfway like he might reach for you. But he instead doesn't. Instead, he just lets it drop again, fingers curling into his palm like he’s holding something back.
A gllance down at your shoes. The laces are still uneven. Some things haven’t changed.
You know what he was going to ask. And you know there isn’t time, will never be enough time, to answer it.
“I should go,” you say, and your voice is gentle, like setting something down. “My mom’s waiting.”
Clark nods, once. But his eyes don’t move. Like he’s still trying to memorize you right before the moment ends.
You shoulder your bag. Grip it tight. “Bye, Clark,” you murmur.
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “See you.”
He doesn't say when. He doesn't promise soon.
.
VOICEMAIL (UNSENT DRAFT)
Timestamp: Tuesday, November 1st, 7:43 PM
Location: Hy-vee – Parking Lot
Duration: 2 minutes, 31 seconds
[BEGIN RECORDING]
Hey. Um... hey. It’s me. Clark.
(short pause)
Obviously.
I don’t really know why I’m calling. I guess—I guess I saw your car. At Hy-vee. Same spot you always used to grab, third from the cart return. Still got that dent by the taillight.
I was gonna go in, but…
I don’t know. I couldn’t.
You looked happy. Not like laughing happy, just... normal happy. Pushing your cart with that one wheel that always squeaks. list in your hand, headphones in, like any other Tuesday. and I stood outside my truck like a fool for probably five whole minutes before backing out of the space.
I wasn’t avoiding you. I just—I think part of me hoped I’d run into you again someday. Like really run into you. Same aisle, same time, some kind of weird cosmic timing thing. Not like this though. Not when i’m still figuring out how to hold all this.
I miss you.
I’m not supposed to say that, right? I know that.
But I hope whatever you were picking up tonight—milk, cereal, whatever—I hope it’s what you needed.
I’ll let you go.
Uh—not that you’re listening.
Not that I'm gonna send this.
Okay.
(quit inhale)
Night.
[END OF RECORDING]
Saved to: Voice Memos > Drafts > Not Sent
Last opened: 9:12 PM
Playback: 2x speed available
Option to Delete: [yes] [no]
.
Your car gives out somewhere past the grain elevator.
No bang, no dramatic hiss of steam—just a weird and nerve-inducing mechanical sigh. A flicker on the dash. A sudden silence as the engine stutters and gives up. Then nothing but wind.
It’s the kind of stillness that feels just a smidge personal. Punishing, even.
You sit there in the cold, breath misting against the inside of your windshield, watching it bead and vanish in ghostly little ovals. There’s a chill creeping in through the seams of the door. Your fingers are stiff where they clutch the steering wheel, like letting go will make it real.
Try the key again. Just to say you did. The engine clicks, whines, and dies all over again. Dead.
Shit.
Your fingers are quickly turning numb. You try to stretch them as best as you can in your lap, crack the knuckles like that’ll warm them.
The loneliness out here, just flat fields and old fence posts and the faint suggestion of grain silos in the distance, presses against the windows like a fog. You check your phone. One bar. Maybe half a bar. No service, not really. But it doesn’t matter.
You already know who you’re going to call.
And it’s stupid. It’s so stupid.
You promised yourself two years ago, lost at your first college party, a mosquito bite blooming on your ankle, arms crossed so tight across your chest you thought your ribs might cave in—
Don’t call him. No matter what. You don’t get to want him and let him go.
But here you are.
Still, somehow, his name’s still in your phone. Not under anything cutesy, just—Clark. And when you press it, your thumb trembles.
It only rings once.
“Hey,” Clark says, voice low and immediate.
You bite down on the inside of your cheek.
“My car—” you start, but your throat catches. Embarrassing. You force it down. “It’s dead. I’m dead. I mean, the car’s dead.”
“Where are you?” he cuts in, already moving.
“Highway 5,” you say. “Just past the turnoff. Maybe a mile out of town. I think I passed the old gas station.”
“I’ll be there,” he says. “Right now. Don’t get out. Just stay warm.”
The call ends. You don’t look at the clock. You don’t need to.
The wind outside picks up. It whistles against the passenger-side mirror, loud and thin like something almost alive. You draw your coat tighter around you, but it’s not much. Just denim and threadbare fleece and a few years too old.
You don’t even hear him land. The air shifts—just barely—and then he’s there, knocking on your window with the gentlest knuckle.
You turn and it’s Clark.
Clark Kent, standing out in the field of dead corn, boots crunching over frostbitten stalks, his hoodie shoved under his red jacket like he got dressed in a rush. Red in the cheeks from the air.
When he sees you, really sees you, they soften, then crumple. Like you’re the only thing he’s been worried about since the moment the call came through. Like he’s checking for bruises.
He opens your door without a word.
“Can I—?” he starts, already unzipping his jacket.
You nod, and he wraps it around your shoulders. It’s still warm. Heavy with him. You breathe it in—his smell, somehow exactly the same. That stupid clean laundry scent mixed with cold air and something underneath it. Something like home.
“I didn’t know if you’d still—” you begin, but he shakes his head.
“I came,” he says, and his voice is raw with it. “That’s what matters.”
He crouches down to your level. Looks you over like he’s trying to assess damage he can’t name.
“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time. The worry’s right there in the way his brow draws in. You always loved that about him—how he couldn’t ever really hide it. How being soft was never a performance.
You nod, even if it’s not entirely true. “Just cold.”
His mouth presses into a line. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you warm.”
He takes your hand, so fucking careful, like you’re glass—and lifts you out of the car like you weigh nothing. You don’t protest. You just go.
The wind hits harder once you’re out, and he doesn’t let go, just pulls you close against him and rises like it’s instinct. The field drops away beneath you. The car. The frostbitten road. Everything but the tight circle of warmth where your body presses against his chest.
You glance up at him. His jaw’s tight. There’s a little muscle that ticks when he’s tense, and it’s doing that now. He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you tighter as the wind rushes past.
“I was already home,” he murmurs after a long moment. “Back in Smallville. Was gonna call tomorrow. I just—didn’t know if I was allowed.”
“You are,” you say, too fast. “You always are.”
His eyes flick down to yours then, and they don’t look tired anymore. They look wrecked. Not just from the cold or the flight. From you.
You don’t say anything else for a long time. Just let him carry you toward the distant lights of your house—still glowing warm through the trees, still there. Your breath fogs up in front of you and with something else too—something old and familiar. Grip his shoulders without really thinking about it.
The first time he flew you like this, it was more of a dare than a thing that was done on purpose.
Summer night right before he went off to college. You’d just finished watching some grainy old movie on the Kent’s living room TV, something with a kiss in the rain and too many dramatic violins. You’d sat too close on the couch, your knee resting against his.
When the credits rolled, you teased him—half-laughing, half-not. Told him he should try that sometime. Real romance.
He grinned at you in that crooked way he did back then, the lamp light shining softly across his face. "You think I’m not romantic?” he said. Feigned offense. Tried to play it off. But his ears were red.
They always went red when he got nervous.
And then, quieter, more serious: “I could show you something, if you want.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What, like magic?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sort of.”
Didn’t really understand what he meant, at least at the time. But you said yeah, whispered it, almost, like you were giving him something. And he took it gently, like he knew.
Then he scooped you up and lifted off the ground. Straight into the dark.
You couldn’t stop laughing at first. A wild, exhilarated kind of laughter that bubbled out of you before you could think. You tucked your face into his neck and whispered, “I didn’t know it would feel like this,” and he just held you tighter and said, “Me neither.”
The snow’s coming down harder by the time he sets you down on your porch. The light above the door buzzes faintly, flickering like it can’t decide whether to stay on. But Clark doesn’t move right away. He just stands there with you, jacket still wrapped over your shoulders, his breath clouding in the space between.
It would be so easy to say nothing. To thank him, unlock the door, step inside and let the silence swallow it all.
But that's never been yours and Clark's style.
“I never stopped loving you,” he says.
You breathe in, chest tight. Because of course he hasn’t. That’s the cruel thing—how easily you believe him. How you’ve always known.
“I know,” you say. And you do.
Clark shifts closer. “I’ve tried to put it away. Thought maybe I had. But seeing you again—” He stops, shakes his head, almost laughs. “It’s like no time passed. Like it’s all still right here.”
You close your eyes, hating how much you want to believe it could be that simple. That he could just love you and it wouldn’t undo you. “You don’t make it easy."
“What?”
“Letting you go.” Your voice shakes. “It feels like I’ve been trying for six years, and you just… you show up, and it’s all still here. Like none of it ever left.”
Clark swallows hard. “Maybe it didn’t. Maybe some things—you just don’t get rid of them. They stay.”
You let out a breath that feels almost like a laugh. Almost. “You always think that’s enough. That if you believe hard enough, it’ll hold.”
He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you, and you can see it—the faith in him. Always the immovable object in the unstoppable force that is your life.
And you reach for him before you can think any better of it. Arms circling around his waist, and he comes into you like he’s been waiting—no hesitation, no question. He bends just enough to press his chin into your hair, the slope of his chest firm against your cheek. His breath catches there, ragged, hot in the cold night air.
Snow gathers on your shoulders, melts into his collar. Neither of you moves.
After a long silence, you whisper against his chest, “I really, really don’t know what to do with you.”
He huffs a laugh, small, almost bitter. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… let me love you. That’s all.”
And your heart breaks, because it’s so simple when he says it. Because part of you wants to believe it could be enough.
You pull back, just enough to look at him. His face is so close. His eyes are wrecked with it.
“Clark,” you say quietly, like saying his name might hold you both in place. "I can't give you an answer right now."
"I know."
.
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.
It takes you three days.
Three days of pretending you're okay.
Of going through the motions—helping your mom unload groceries, fixing the leaky faucet in the laundry room, scrolling endlessly through your phone without seeing a thing. Three days of rerunning that scene like it's stitched into your brain. You replay it over and over and over.
His voice in the cold, cracked with it: I never stopped loving you. The way he said it like it was already true, no matter what you did next.
You didn’t know it could hurt to be loved that much. Not when it’s Clark. But it does, because there’s something about the way he loves that feels both weightless and heavy—like floating and falling at once. Like being known down to the bone. But now you think you know.
The house is still when you wake up. Your breath ghosts in the kitchen window when you press your face close, watching the frost sparkle on the road outside. You don’t even think about it—you just move.
Throw on a hoodie, tug on your gloves, grab your bike from the shed where it’s sat all winter. Tires soft. Chain a little rusted.
Doesn’t matter.
You start pedaling.
It’s cold enough to bite your cheeks, sting your lungs. The wind rushes past, that familiar roar in your ears. But your heart—God, your heart’s even louder if you could believe it. It beats with every push of the pedals, every mile marker, every turn in the road you know by heart.
You pass the cornfields. The old train tracks. The sign welcoming you to Smallville like it never meant anything but him. And by the time the Kent farm crests into view, your legs are shaking. Your lungs feel scraped raw. But you don’t stop.
You see him before he sees you—Clark, in the driveway, half-bent as he loads something into the bed of Pa Kent’s old truck. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair still damp from a shower. There’s a thermos of coffee on the hood, a set of gloves stuffed into his back pocket. He looks—normal. Like your Clark.
The bike skids in the gravel and you all but launch yourself off it, hitting the brakes too fast and just about let it crash to the ground behind you.
“Clark!”
He straightens, confused at first. Squints toward the road. Sees you.
And then—stillness.
You breathe hard, chest heaving. He doesn’t move.
“I’m in,” you say, voice cracking on it. “Okay? I’m in.”
He steps around the truck slowly, hesitant. Careful, like you’re a skittish deer that might bolt.
“What—what are you saying?” he asks, and it’s not disbelief in his voice exactly, it’s hope. Hope pressed down so tightly he can’t quite trust it. “You don’t have to—if you’re just saying it because you feel bad or because you miss how it was—”
“I’m not,” you say, already stepping closer. “Clark, I’m not.”
You open your mouth—then laugh, not because it’s funny but because the whole fucking thing is ridiculous. You’re standing in the driveway where you used to sneak him kisses behind the barn. You’re breathless and cold and your fingers are still trembling and somehow it still feels like the safest place on Earth.
“I don’t know,” you say, honestly. “No? Yes? I mean—I think so. I’ve been thinking about it for three days straight and it hasn’t stopped feeling like the right kind of terrifying.”
He blinks. You keep going.
“I mean, it’s not like I have it all figured out. I don’t know how to make it work. I still don’t know if I can live with the idea that someone else might need you more than I do—but I do know that I’m tired of pretending like this isn’t the only thing I want. You. Us. All of it.”
You ramble on, voice unsteady. “And—and I’ve been looking at grad schools, you know? There're some programs in Metropolis. Good ones. And maybe I don’t get in, or maybe I do and I hate it, and maybe we still mess this up, but I think—” You pause, press your hand to your chest like it’ll help hold your ribs in place. “I think I’d regret not trying more than I’d regret failing.”
A beat.
You meet his eyes. “But you’re it for me, Kent.”
He stares at you. And then shakes his head, like he can’t help it, like he needs to push the disbelief out of his system or it’ll get stuck somewhere permanent.
“You mean it?” he says, voice hoarse.
“Yes, god, Yes,” you say, stepping in close now, hands reaching for the hem of his shirt, curling in the cotton like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Can't stand another day without you.”
His eyes flutter shut.
“And what,” he whispers, like the memory of a grin, “are you gonna do about that?”
“Guess I’m gonna keep giving you hell until you kiss me.”
Then you kiss him.
Your back hits the side of the truck, hard enough to rattle the frame. He follows you into it, crowding you against the metal, and it’s all instinct after that—his hand tilting your chin up, your fingers fisting in his hair, your mouths moving like you’re trying to make up for lost time in a single breath.
And you gasp when he presses in even closer, overwhelming your sense, his hips pinning you to the truck door, the ridges of old metal biting into the backs of your legs.
His body's still impossibly strong. Familiar in a way that guts you. This is the same boy who used to lift hay bales with one arm, who kissed you for the first time on that field and shook with nerves while doing it.
He still feels like home. Still that boy who looked at you like the sun rose just for you.
“You haven’t changed,” you say, lips brushing his jaw, tasting sweat and salt and something you don’t have a name for.
“I have,” he breathes. “But not where it matters.”
You’re half laughing against his mouth when he finally tears himself back just enough to breathe, to look at you properly, his forehead resting against yours. His chest rises hard against yours, fast and uneven.
Then, suddenly—he bends, scooping you up into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your back leaves the truck door, legs instinctively winding around his waist before you can think any better of it.
“Clark—” You jolt, clutching at his shoulders. His mouth finds your jaw, then your cheekbone, the soft corner beneath your eye. Kisses everywhere, everywhere he spots exposed skin. You can’t help the breathless little laugh that slips out, breathless. “Wait—what about your parents?”
“They’re not here,” he mumbles against your skin, pressing another kiss to your temple, to the corner of your mouth. He sounds desperate. “Ma and Pa are at the Coopers’, fixing the tractor. They’ll be gone for hours.”
“Clark,” you say again, but your voice falters when his lips drag along the edge of your throat, when he kisses the hollow just below your ear.
He doesn’t put you down.
Just starts walking, boots crunching against the gravel drive, carrying you up the porch steps like he’s done it over a thousand times in his head. Every few steps, another kiss—your hairline, your nose, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t stop, like making up for lost years could happen just one inch of skin at a time.
The door creaks when he shoulders it open, and you’re half terrified, half thrilled, whispering, “We shouldn’t—God, this is insane—” but you’re still kissing him anyway.
He moves through it without looking, carrying you past the kitchen where the scent of coffee still lingers, past the living room where you once sat watching movies until you both fell asleep. It’s dizzying, disorienting—being in this house again, but like this.
“Baby,” you whisper once more, fingers tightening at the back of his neck. Your voice cracks on it. “I missed you.”
His steps falter for half a beat, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t set you down. His grip on you only tightens. “I missed you so much it hurt,” he says, the words muffled against your shoulder, almost a groan. “Every damn day.”
You shut your eyes, because it’s too much, because it’s everything, and let him carry you the rest of the way—to his room.
The door clicks shut behind you.
Clark sets you down on the edge of his bed, but he doesn’t let go—his hands linger at your waist, thumbs pressing into your hoodie like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His eyes dart over your face, hungry but hesitant, like he’s still waiting for you to push him away.
You think of making a joke, an aside, but one glance down at the bulge on his jeans, and suddenly, you don't really feel like being coy anymore. "Clothes off, Kent."
His laugh bursts out. His forehead drops briefly against your shoulder, like he needs a second to catch up. “You can’t just—” he starts, voice muffled.
You tip his chin up with your hand. “I can. I did.”
God, he makes you so damn happy. It has to be lethal, the way he looks at you right then—his shirt comes off with one smooth movement, all muscle and soft skin and freckles and sweetness. You're scrambling to take your own clothes off, and then the moment, the moment they're all gone, you're tackling him back on the bed.
Clark smiles, lopsided and silly. "You're so pretty."
You kiss him for that, kiss his cheeks, his stubbled jaw, his collarbone. Cunt ghosting over his eager cock, rolling your hips experimentally just to hear him groan and go all putty in your hands again.
"Oh, fuck."
"Okay, okay, I'm—" Fuck. Of course, it's a stretch. You're wetter than you've ever been in your life, but it still always feels like this daunting task, getting him inside of you. Clark, ever the optimist, encourages you. "You can do it, sweetheart. I know you can take it."
"So full," you mumble between breaths of air, shifting slightly just to try to fit even more of him. Just to see him fall apart a little bit more. "So full, baby."
He pulls you down to kiss you, tongue licking its way inside your mouth, wants to taste every inch of you, everything he's missed out on the past few years.
There's something so damn intoxicating in seeing Clark crumble like this underneath you, . Trying so damn hard to keep his eyes on you, but eventually, those eyes roll to the back of his head, grip turning tighter on your hips before he even realizes it.
He's getting closer—you can feel it, his hands come up to palm your breasts in those big, calloused hands, thumbs rolling over your nipples until you keen out a sigh.
"Such a good girl, working so hard for me. Come on, you can do it—just a little faster now, angel—"
You moan, hips trying to cant down harder with every stroke. Using him, riding him for dear life, until you come with a silent scream.
And that's when he lifts you, airborne just for a second as he rolls the two of you over until you're practically folded in half, legs slung over his shoulders. Fuck, him being strong has never been so fucking attractive. You're completely at his mercy.
The first roll of his hips is rough—aching in a way you know will hurt the next morning. The head of his cock dragging into you, just barely managing to get a little over halfway. It doesn't even feel like he's wrenched an orgasm out of you, always takes a little bit more effort than you think is reasonable with him, but god.
God, you'll take it. You'll take all of him.
Clark slowly, slowly bottoms out and then his eyes dart across your face, one stray hand going to cup your cheek. "You okay?"
"Yes, yes," You're going to absolutely cringe over your tone later, breathless and nodding and babbling, and there might even be tears in your eyes, but you need it. You need more. "Don't you dare stop for a second."
"I won't," He rocks forward, then back, wrenching a gasp from your lips as you squirm. "I won't, I swear."
His pace turns into this agonizing, brutal grind, his cock throbbing inside of you. You're getting absolutely fucked down into the mattress, the springs creaking and the sheets sticking hot against you skin.
You look down, and he's a sight to behold. Abs formed from years of farmwork, flexing as he carves his way inside of you, arms, large and veiny, holding you in place as you cling to him helplessly.
"Wanna feel you, baby," Clark begs, his breath against your collarbone. "Need you to come at the same time, okay? Be a good girl for me."
And that's when he rams deep inside of you, thrusts turning unsteady and erratic. Your body jerks, your hands getting tangled in his hair and toes curling, and for one perfect, perfect moment, you're filled with warmth.
After a moment, both of you go still, chests heaving, eyes locked on each other. Satiated.
Graciously, you unhook your legs from behind his back as he pulls out and slumps right there next to you on the bed. He immediately turns over on his side to look at you, really look at you, one hand tracing across your hip.
“That was—” he stops, laughs, shakes his head like words aren’t big enough. “That was… unreal. You okay?”
You laugh, brushing your nose against his. “I’m fine. Better than fine.”
“Good,” he says quickly, earnest as ever. “I just… I didn’t want to mess it up. I kept thinking, don’t rush, don’t—”
“Clark.”
“I know, I know. It’s just… I really want to go again.”
You groan, dropping your head against his chest. “Slow down, cowboy. Some of us need a minute to, you know, breathe.”
He chuckles, pulling you closer, his hand drawing absent-minded shapes on your back. “Fair. I can wait. I’ll wait however long you want. Just… don’t kick me out, okay?”
You tilt your chin up at him. “Kent, I’m not kicking you out of your own room.”
His smile spreads wide. “Guess that means you’re stuck with me, then.”
.
Five hours later, you’re lying in his bed again, finally, finally spent for real this time. Clark's half-asleep, mumbling something about chores he forgot to do for the farm. You tell him he’s ridiculous, that you’ll help him feed the cows in the morning if he promises to stop worrying right now.
He just smiles, eyes still closed, and says, “Deal.”
.
Apartment Listing: Metropolis Area
Looking for: 2BR / 1BA (or more) | Long-term lease | Immediate move-in
Ideal Unit Includes:
☐ South-facing windows (we like the light)
☐ Rooftop access
☐ Hardwood floors (been tracking in Kansas dirt for years, we can’t be trusted with carpet)
☐ Nearby coffee shop (within walking distance—non-negotiable)
☐ Pet-friendly (dogsit occasionally)
☐ A kitchen with enough room for two (we don’t mind bumping into each other, but some extra counter space would be nice)
☐ Decent water pressure
☐ Laundry in unit (or a laundromat that doesn’t eat socks—compromise possible)
About us:
Quiet couple in our mid-twenties. One of us works full-time (often odd hours), the other splits time between freelance and grad school. Clean, responsible tenants with references and steady income. Previously lived in small towns and small apartments—just looking for a place that makes sense for both of us now.
Let us know if you have something available or coming up!
can i request jason todd x reader "someone likes being pinned down" + A flirting with B while sparring to throw them off their tracks
where reader is also a vigilante??
thank you so much 🩷
very sexy prompts thank u 😌
jason todd x gn!reader. r and robin!jay were friends, r doesn't know jason is alive/red hood but jason knows r is a vigilante. r's alias is 'nocturne' (if that's already in use oh well lmao). fighting/sparring, jason is mega in love with you as usual!!
all fics at @sanguinelibrary
****
"Still blindly following the Bat, huh?"
You land in a crouch on the rooftop, just like how Nightwing taught you. The Red Hood doesn't look at you, digging through two duffel bags. He doesn't even draw his gun, like you've seen him do with virtually every other vigilante in Gotham.
You wait, ready to spring into action. But Hood doesn't stop what he's doing. Slowly, you rise.
"What... do you mean?" you ask.
"I mean, why are you traipsing around Gotham as a bat-adjacent? Who are you s'posed to be anyway? Goth Bat? Alternative Scene Bat?"
"I'm Nocturne," you say, shoulders rising to your ears. Rude. You thought the chunky boots and star over your suit's eye mask were inspired.
Red Hood lifts a hand. "Don't get me wrong, I dig the threads. I'm just surprised B didn't have an aneurysm over the sequins. Then again, Discowing did do it first..."
Your first two meetings with the infamous Red Hood have been similar in that he's never very concerned about you stopping him (ouch), but he also isn't callous or cruel with you like he is with the other vigilantes.
Case in point: the last person who cornered Hood on a roof was Red Robin. Hood shot him in the shoulder before he could land.
In short, he's perplexing as hell.
Batman's forbidden the rest of the team to confront Hood without backup. And you're technically not supposed to be on patrol tonight. But if you can intercept Hood, that'll be a huge win.
Hood keeps on packing the duffels. You hesitate, then step forward.
"Get away from the bags," you say. "I won't ask twice."
Hood looks at you. "Nocturne's a pretty cool name, I'll admit. And I like the boots. But I still think you oughta call it quits."
He zips up the bags, stands, and kicks them to the corner of the roof.
"Because you're just that unstoppable?" you ask, hands curling into fists.
"Yeah. But mostly 'cause I know you're made for so much more than this, sweetheart."
And that is the third and perhaps most bewildering thing about your encounters with Red Hood: you've gotten the creeping feeling that he... likes you.
Which is ridiculous, and if you ever breathed a word of that to anybody, Batman would probably check you into Arkham.
You take another careful step forward. Hood leans against the railing and folds his arms.
"This the part where you apprehend and hogtie me for innocently packing a duffel bag?" he asks.
You glare. "Innocent? I know you're making a weapons delivery because I know you've been waiting for Batman to be off-planet to make it."
"Clever. Told ya you're too good for this," Hood says. "Should be in college with those smarts, not playing maid for Batman."
"Are you lecturing me?"
"I'm advising you as your friendly neighborhood drug lord. Lecturing makes me sound like a guy who's got too much money and too big of a savior complex to understand that the way he fights injustice is fundamentally flawed."
"Sounds personal."
Hood laughs. "Honey, you have no idea."
You strike.
Hood parries your first attack easily, which you expect. The truth is that whoever trained Hood cut no corners and you're still relatively new at vigilantism. It's only by the grace of God that Hood hasn't left you to bleed out on a roof.
You kick his shin, but Hood turns on the instep and blocks. You go for his shoulder, where his armor separates to give him more movement. But Hood's ready for that too, and he catches your arm.
"Gotta keep that right arm up," he says. "Surprised no one's trained that outta you yet."
You elbow Hood in the throat. He coughs and lets go.
"Like that?" you ask, muscles tense with adrenaline.
Hood makes a sound that might be a laugh, still choked from your hit. "Just like that, honeylove. Good job."
"I don't need feedback," you snap, immediately going back in for another hit.
"Sorry. I'll make this quick then. I do have a delivery."
On the next strike, you advance, using a technique Nightwing drilled into your head for bigger opponents. Hood goes down and you land atop him.
"Oh, that's a Nightwing takedown if I've ever seen one," Hood says beneath you.
You're close enough that you can hear his breathing through the decoder. Pride swells in you at taking him down. Not even Batman has managed such a thing.
Hood is warm and big. His shoulder span alone dwarfs you. When you'd seen him from afar, fighting Batman or Nightwing, you'd been terrified.
But now, perhaps stupidly, you feel comfortable. Annoyed, but safe. Something about him reminds you of home. Makes your stomach flip in a good way.
Which is terrifying.
"You're coming with me," you say, reaching for your cuffs.
"If only. Unfortunately, you've forgotten a teensy weensy detail, dearest."
Hood bucks you off, legs first. Your feet fly into the air, which allows him to flip your positions. You wince, preparing for a concussion upon impact as you go down. But Hood cushions your fall and neatly rolls you over. Your back is pressed into the concrete, hands locked over your head. Hood's weight holds down your hips and legs.
He looms over you, easily holding you down. Your face grows hot.
"How did—" You squirm in his grip. "I had you!"
"Weight distribution, sweets. Tell Al—one of the Bats to add weight to your boots. They keep you light on your feet, but you were depending on them too much to hold me down, and we ain't evenly matched there."
You thrash in his grip. "Hood, I swear to fucking—"
"Easy. Don't sweat it, sweetheart. You haven't been doing this for very long. That was a good takedown, regardless. I'm impressed."
"Screw you."
He hums. You can tell he's smiling under the helmet. "Sorry, I forgot. You don't like feedback."
Hood strokes the inside of your wrist. You aren't sure he's aware he's doing it. His grip is firm but light. He's not trying to hurt you. Your pulse is in your throat.
For a moment, you're both still. Hood seems caught in a trance, like even Superman couldn't tear him away from this moment. From you. And it's not that you're afraid, you're just... you're...
"How do you know so much about me?" you blurt, because it's puzzled the whole team. "You been spying on me?"
"'Course not. Unlike your boss, I respect privacy. No, I did research. I recognized you from when you'd hang around that second Robin. Shrimpy little guy. What'd ya even see in him?"
The grief overtakes you before you can control your mouth.
"You don't know anything about me or him," you spit. "Don't fucking talk about him. He had more skill and goodness in his pinkie than you'll have in a lifetime. And you could learn a thing from him about changing a city. He'd tell you that fear alone never works."
Hood is quiet for a long moment. Then he speaks.
"Where's your distress signal?"
"Why would I tell—"
Hood shifts over you, cutting off your reply. He pulls a ziptie around your wrists. They're not even a little tight. You could probably slip out of them if you had five minutes.
"I know you're not s'posed to be out tonight," he whispers in your ear. "'S not your patrol night. Good thing you're my favorite."
You nearly swallow your tongue. "How do you—I don't—"
"Uh-huh. So you be good from now on, yeah? Wouldn't wanna have to keep tying you up like this."
You lift your chin. "We'll switch positions soon enough."
Hood snorts. "Okay, I know you heard how that soun—"
"I heard it," you say grumpily. "Just get on with it. Jerk."
"As you wish. Distress signal?"
"Collar."
Hood presses the button under your collar. Your breath hitches as his gloved fingers graze your neck.
"Oh? Does somebody like getting pinned down?"
"In your dreams."
Hood laughs. He zipties your ankles last, then sits you upright against the railing.
"Not too tight, are they?" he asks. "I know you've got a circulation problem."
You squint. "You seem to know a lot about me. Not fair that I don't know much about you, Hood."
"'S just business, honeylove," he says, scooping up his duffel. "Now I don't wanna see you in a suit anymore, comprende?"
"Or you'll what? Shoot me?"
Hood pauses, eerily still. He turns those glowing white eyes upon you. Your heart picks up.
"No," he says, so serious it startles you. "But someone else might. And I don't want you to face the same fate as your good friend Robin."
He vaults over the railing before you can respond. Your head thunks lightly as you lean back and wonder if you're really just business to the Red Hood.
Your writing is so damn good, you execute every request perfectly 😭
Could you maybe write something where Dick's insecure partner wants to break up with him because their self-image is getting worse cause they feel they can't catch up to the Golden Boy reputation, superheroes, billionaires and so on?
hi, thanks for the request! I hope I did it justice :) a brief interlude from jaytodd before we return to our regularly scheduled program lol
dick grayson x gn!reader. low self esteem, an almost breakup, reader feeling insecure, threatened, sad. happy ending! 2.1k words
****
You've been tugging at your outfit for ten minutes. At this rate, you'll have to concede that this is as good as it's going to get.
"My love, you almost ready?"
You sigh and watch your reflection fold its arms.
"Yeah," you say softly. "'M ready."
The door opens. Your heart swoops.
Dick is beautiful, as usual. Your boyfriend can do a lot, including fill a suit. Both your and his outfits were tailor-made because that's one of the perks of being the son of a billionaire.
Over and over, you'd insisted you could wear off-the-rack, and over and over, Dick had said that was silly, that Bruce wouldn't mind.
And it's true that what you're wearing flatters you better than anything from Macy's or Marshall's would've. But you know it won't help tonight. Not in a room full of Gotham's elite.
"Just as I suspected," Dick says, immediately draping his arms over your hips. "You're gonna steal the show tonight."
He's lying.
That voice in your head has gotten louder recently, and you don't know how to turn it off.
You kiss him instead of responding. Dick enthusiastically reciprocates, always delighted when you touch him. You used to think it would be enough.
But ever since you found out that not only are you dating a billionaire philanthropist with a face that makes angels weep, but that said guy is also arguably the most beloved hero in Gotham, maybe second only to the Batman (who's his freaking dad?!), you've begun to have doubts.
You pull back. Dick's tie perfectly sets off his eyes. They're bright as they look at you.
"Everything okay?" he asks, brushing your cheek with his thumb.
"Uh-huh," you say, trying to smile. "Just nervous."
“Hey, it's alright. I'll be by your side all night. I'll save you from any and all small talk, promise." He winks. "And we can duck out early, get hot chocolate from that place you like. They won't care."
Dick's always doing that. Always catering to you. You're just some nobody who happened to stumble into the best relationship you’ve ever had with a golden god.
Dick never reminds you of that. That he could do better. He doesn't have to—you know it all on your own.
You swallow. “Okay. If you're sure. I... I would like to leave early, Gray."
“‘Course, baby,” Dick says, attaching his cuff links. "Anything you want."
You turn back to the mirror, wondering if you can reinvent your personality before you go and remind everyone what a mistake Dick Grayson has made in choosing you.
****
The party is tasteful, though a little stuffy. You're only here because Dick is going to give a speech, and he asked you to come support him. And while you know it's better for him to go without you so you won't dull his shine, it seems Dick hasn't quite figured that out.
You hold onto Dick’s arm as he makes his usual rounds. Dick doesn't enjoy these events, you know that, but he's fluid in his interactions. There is no doubt he’s Bruce Wayne’s prodigy. With his suit, his hair, his easy posture, Dick is almost unrecognizable from when you woke up with him this morning.
He's in his element. All you can do is peer in and watch.
Dick leans in and slips a hand around your waist after the fourth interaction with a donor. A donor who, again, acted like Dick may as well have been dragging around a coat rack with how intently they ignored you. Not that you give a shit about what the one percent have to say about you, except sometimes they say a lot of mean things, things you're pretty sure they don't let Dick overhear, and sometimes you start wondering if Dick is the only person who can't see truth in what they say, and sometimes—
“Hey.” Dick leans in to talk in your ear. He's warm and solid. You wish that was a comfort. “You okay?”
You're exhausted.
“Uh-hmm.”
He is going to wake up one of these days and realize he can have it so much better.
Dick moves like he's about to say more, pull you closer and permeate your senses with his gold.
“Dickie!”
Sweet, tinkling laughter echoes across the room. The crowd parts for this new woman, an obvious socialite, dressed to the nines and gorgeous.
Her dress matches Dick's tie. You feel sick.
When she reaches you two, she wastes no time grabbing Dick and kissing his cheek. He extricates himself from her, like he's done a million times before with everyone else who thinks they're entitled to a piece of Dick Grayson. He shoots you an apologetic look. You look away.
“My God, it’s been what, ten years?” she says. Then she sees you. “Oh! Where are my manners? I’m Caroline Banesbury, Duchess of Middlesworth. I heard the Dickie Grayson was going to be here, and I had to come.”
“Been a while,” Dick says, smiling blandly. “How are you, Caroline?”
“Spectacular! Father just bought another castle. You should come and see it sometime.” She plucks a flute of champagne off of a passing tray and smiles behind the rim of the glass.
“Dick and I go way back,” she says, gaze roving over him. “I hear you're transforming Blüdhaven. Taking a page out of Bruce's book, hm? You always had a big heart, Dickie.”
She grabs his arm and links it with hers. You sigh and take a sip of your own drink. You half-wish Poison Ivy would come in and gas the room or something.
Dick clears his throat and maneuvers out of her grip once more, letting go of her with a light pat. He returns to you, snugly holding your shoulders.
"This is my partner," he says about you.
Caroline hums, looking over you. "I see. Pleasure."
You nod. She turns back to Dick.
“If I can be of any help to your project, you let me know,” she adds, glancing down at where her empty arm now hangs at her side. “Anything.”
“That's generous of you, Carrie.”
Dick and I go way back.
Oh. Right. You're stupid. They've dated.
“We should have dinner,” she continues. “Catch up. I'm dying to know what Gotham's darling has been up to.”
“I feel sick,” you announce.
Dick and Caroline turn to you. Caroline looks perplexed, like you've just said you like to chew concrete.
“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” she says, hardly sparing you a glance. "Perhaps you ought to lie down."
You feel Dick's eyes on you. If you don't leave soon, he'll know you're lying. Possibly the worst part about dating Batman's protégé.
Suddenly, leaving this hall is the most important thing you've ever had to do. You feel like you'll die if you don't.
Your feet start moving.
"Baby—"
Anyway, this is Caroline's chance. She can swoop in with her trust fund and while you think Dick can do way better than her—he can always do better—anyone is better than you. For Dick Grayson, who has been a master acrobat since he was a child, son of Batman, leader of the Titans, indubitably intelligent, capable, beautiful, the best goddamn guy you'll ever know—
You've lost your way. You're out of the gala, away from duchesses and doom. And you meant to get your coat but this hall that Bruce rented is enormous. You've no idea where you are. But you're alone.
Bruce must've known too, how unfit you are for his son. And why wouldn't he tell Dick? Unless Dick ignored him, because Dick, for all his smarts, is stupidly in love with you, thinks you're where he should put his heart, is certain you won't fumble and drop it.
Warm, callused fingers catch your wrist and you remember, suddenly, Dick telling you once, after you'd nearly stumbled into the street, that he'd never let you fall.
You meet his eyes. Why does he look at you like that? Who gave him the right to look at you like-like you—as if you could ever deserve—
"Hey," he says, squeezes your hand. "Hey, hey. What's going on?"
Dick Grayson is not a trusting man but he trusts you and good God, you're about to break him.
"I need to break up with you," you blurt.
"What?" he breathes. "What—why would you say that?"
You wish he'd give you the slip he gave everyone in that room, gently separate your arm from his hand. You never learned how to evade Dick's touch.
"Because it's true. Dick, please understand—"
"No, I'm trying to understand. Because yesterday—no, tonight, you were fine—"
"No, Dick, I wasn't fine! I haven't been fine in months!"
You wrench your arm away. He looks like you slapped him.
"You know anybody I talk to in there means nothing, right? You know that, honey." He's pleading.
You curl your fist into your eye. "It's more than that, Gray."
"Then tell me what the problem is," he says desperately. "Tell me and we'll fix it. I promise we can fix it."
"You can't!" you say, voice cracking. "You can't fix me."
Dick shakes his head. "I don't—"
"Why can't you let me break up with you with a little bit of dignity?" you ask. "Do you have to be better at this too?"
"I don't want to break up," he says, tugging at a handful of his hair. "This doesn't make sense. We're happy. You're happy, aren't you? Don't I make you happy?"
"Of course," you choke out. "Of course you make me happy. But you don't see I'm bad for you. You're wonderful and perfect and golden, Dick. And I'm a stain. I need to be scrubbed away."
"Wh—that's not true!"
"Everywhere we go, people see me with you and are immediately confused. I'm not a superhero, I'm not royalty, I'm not a socialite, and yet somehow I've managed to snag Gotham's darling. This is a mistake. I'm trying to do you a favor and wake you up!"
Dick's face is hard with anger. How could you have thought this would be easy?
"I don't need to be woken up! What is it that makes you think I have no agency over the people I choose to spend time with? Everyone I meet thinks they're entitled to touch me, demand me. Everyone but you. You, the person I chose to love, who I love everyday. Do you think you pulled the wool over my eyes and you're snapping me out of it? Is that what you really think?"
And isn't this the most puzzling thing? That he's not sad or gently accepting; Dick is mad.
"I just—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't mean to yell, but really, I can't bear it if you see me as some god on a pedestal, unattainable and inhuman, like everyone else sees me. I love you on purpose."
"You're so accomplished, though," you say weakly. "You're..." You wave your hand over him. "You're fucking Nightwing, D. You were Robin, you have superheroes for friends, Batman for a parent, you're beloved by, like, all of Jersey—"
"My love, you know those are just parts of me. You see all of me. You know me. And that's not a one-way privilege, okay? I'm so damn lucky to know you, to love you, to be with you, to fight with you. To fight for you. Knowing you isn't something I take for granted."
"But I'm boring," you say, tears spilling over. "Jesus Christ, Dick, I'm plain and untalented, barely a dime to my name, so painfully ordinary that—"
"Listen to me," he says, taking your face in his hands. "Flying around or shooting lasers out of your eyes, sure, it's cool, and it's helpful for taking down an alien dictator. But I don't need you to do any of that, honey. I don't need nor want you to be anyone but you. I wasn't tricked or swindled into loving you. We caught each other halfway, just like we were meant to."
You let him pull you into his arms, let him press your tear stains to his silk pocket square, let his hair fall around you.
His embrace is solid, firm, but when he inhales, his shoulders shake.
"Do you—" He swallows, throat against yours. "Do you still want to break up?"
His heart beats against your cheek.
"I'm just afraid you'll get tired of me," you whisper. "Bored. Annoyed."
"I won't," he whispers. "You're the least boring person ever. It's never boring to be loved."
You squeeze your eyes shut. Dick's warmth encloses you.
"No, I don't want to break up. I'm sorry."
He holds you tighter, and you realize you never had to match Dick's tie. Not when you've got his heart.
Summary: Clark stands you up on your first date. It turns out he has a pretty decent explanation.
A/N: First fic in 3 years!! And about a DC character no less! The things I do for tall brunette lover boys <3
Warnings: Getting stood up, hurt/comfort, 24 hour clock mention, cursing, food mention, (extremely minor) injury mention, use of y/n, reader is described as having hair. Girl discovers how to use em dash.
Word Count: 8.2k
Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader
*
The skin of your legs sticks to the pleather upholstery of your chair as you bounce your leg. Face up on the table beside your empty glass, your phone displays the time.
19:37
Your messages and missed calls remain unanswered. He was late. That's what you repeated to yourself, Clark Kent would not have stood you up. Not Clark Kent, who stuttered and stumbled his way through asking you to dinner, a red flush creeping up from his collar. He’d even double and triple checked you were still up for your date as you walked out of the office together on Friday night, a mere 24 hours ago. Clark Kent would not stand you up… so why was he almost an hour late?
If this was any other man, you would have cut your losses after 5 minutes and no text back. But you were so stunned, so ultimately blindsided by the possibility that the Clark Kent could (and has) forgotten about your date. This is what you get for putting him on a pedestal.
Men, you think. Only it comes out more morose than scathing.
You joined the Daily Planet years ago, fresh from university and desperate to make a change. Your passion in science communication was stunted by an underwhelming lack of reader interest. You managed to put out a few columns here and there, but mainly you worked with Lois, Clark and Jimmy, getting swept up into the seedy dealings of the Metropolis’ rich and powerful. You’d spent many days and nights hunched over desks littered with notebooks, half-written memos on sticky notes, and letters from legal representatives. Corruption paid the bills in this city, as did writing about it.
That was until scientific misinformation about healthcare from capitalistic pharmaceutical companies became increasingly prevalent and public demand for fact rather than fiction rose—you were happy to rise to the challenge. Now your days are spent knee-deep in scientific journals, scoffing at social media rants about vaccines and having to bite your tongue in the bullpen when one of the sports journalists starts spouting off his questionable opinions on women's healthcare. The cease and desist letters didn’t stop though, only signed by a different set of lawyers now. That’s the one constant about your job you suppose—shitty coffee, red pens and threatened legal action.
“It’s how you know you’re doing a good job.” Clark had reassured you once, heavy hand on your shoulder, an unusually bold move of affection from him. Thumb brushing over your satin blouse, once, twice, three times before he squeezed softly, taking your dazed expression for dismay at the thick paper envelope that sat on your desk. “What you’re doing is important.” He said, quieter but with an unwavering surety in his voice, like there was no argument about it.
You wrote that article in record time, lawyers be damned.
When you first met Clark, you honestly thought he didn’t like you. He was quiet—polite—but quiet. He would chat happily to Jimmy, listen intently to Lois’ rants about a suspicious politician, chiming in with supporting observations where necessary, but with you it was like he short-circuited whenever you were near. Minimal eye contact, stuttering, he’d almost go out of his way to make sure there was never a situation where the two of you were alone together. It hurt, sure, but you figured he was just shy and hadn’t warmed up to you.
Thankfully, he did warm up to you. It had all started with a tentatively placed coffee on your desk, your usual order from your favourite cafe nonetheless. You stuttered out a thank you which he politely brushed off, sitting down at his desk, his mouth twisting in a way that made you realise he was trying not to grin. You had stared at your desktop in disbelief as you sipped your coffee. From then on things between you two progressed. Clark often found an excuse to hover near your desk, either to get your opinion on an article idea he wanted to pitch or offering to proofread your piece before it’s sent to the copy editor, even just to ask about what you did on the weekend. If you had an issue with the printer jamming, he was always the first one up to help you tackle it. He’d take an interest in whichever published paper you were reading, listening to you intently as you explained the theory behind certain medications, unafraid to ask if he didn’t understand—a quality you found pleasantly refreshing after spending your college experience surrounded by boys who constantly tried to prove themselves as smarter than you. You learnt very quickly that Clark was a dorky sweetheart who’d grown far taller than was sustainable. Who, to your delight, seemed to enjoy your company just as much as you enjoyed his.
When the waitress loops back round to you, a poorly hidden look of sympathy on her face you decide to call it quits.
Your phone buzzes on the table. You hold your breath in anticipation.
Lois Lane: Superman sighting on fourth street. Aliens. Eye witnesses. You wanna come?
You sigh. The waitress, seemingly also holding out hope, grimaces, which is admirably her first slip of the night.
“Just the bill, please.”
You swipe your card, tip graciously, duck your chin as you leave. You’ll wait until your apartment door is locked before you have a full-scale pity party, but you may have wiped a tear or two from your cheeks on your walk.
Lois, thankfully, stands where you agreed to meet. “Oh.. wow. Hot date?” She nudges your arm, giving you an approving up and down. You can’t wait to see this alien and fling yourself into its path. Your aspiration for a quick end to the conversation must show on your face, as Lois grimaces. “Ah, do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”
You snort, “Technically it didn’t.” You keep your eyes ahead, walking towards where the sky pulses with red and blue beams of light. It doesn’t mean you can’t feel Lois’ eyes on you, assessing, trying to figure out how far is too far in terms of questioning your poor friend who has clearly not had a great night. Investigative journalists, you think. Deciding you can’t emotionally take an interrogation, you throw her a bone. “He didn’t show.”
“Sorry.” Lois doesn’t have any follow up questions. You’re sure she does, but none she deems tactful to ask.
“So, what’s the game plan?”
“Superman’s currently occupied with the second alien in under an hour, so see if we can get anything from eye witnesses, ideally someone will have seen where that thing came from. It’s a long shot but if we can find anything that ties this to LexCorp it’d fit nicely into my piece.” You nod as the noise from fleeing civilians grows louder. You can’t be far away from the barricades now. Tremors from the fight ripple through the ground beneath your heels, your bracelets clink as the impact travels up your arms. You clench your jaw through the natural panic and the rising ire at your situation—an evening of being wined and dined has devolved into you willingly heading towards an intergalactic battle, chasing a lead for a story you’re not even writing. Fan-fucking-tastic.
“I think you have a better chance of flagging Superman down for an interview than you do pinning this to Lex Luthor, Lois. We both know he doesn’t cut corners when it comes to covering his ass.”
Lois huffs a laugh, narrowly dodging a street vendor rushing away from the conflict, you watch him flee over your shoulder, smart thinking. “Yes, well we all know he’ll be too busy giving Clark an exclusive play-by-play of events to make time for the likes of little old me.”
The cacophony from the alien ricocheting between adjacent skyscrapers distracts Lois from the way you freeze at the mention of his name, making you thankful for the decreasing distance between the two of you and the fight. As you get closer, you begin to make out the grotesque appearance of the creature, it struggles to look formidable. It almost reminds you of a chewed up tennis ball a dog would drop at your feet, slobber and all. The gratitude you feel is short lived because, as you approach the police barricade, it becomes quickly apparent that A) the space creature-thing smells worse than it looks, which is no small feat, and B) any and all eyewitnesses have left the scene. Cause and effect. The only people remaining are a few queasy-looking cops, Lois, yourself and a few onlookers with apparently iron stomachs. As the stench hits the back of your nose, you’re instantly glad you didn’t eat anything at the restaurant - a silver lining if you will. If this thing was engineered, whatever expense was saved on the appearance of the creature doesn’t appear to have been spent on its attacking ability. An unfortunate combination of bad looks, horrendous smell and even worse fighting prowess—you almost feel bad. Superman seems to be making quick work of it, each hit is purposeful and on-target, albeit with more vehemence than usual.
“He seems… aggressive?” Lois says, muffled by the sleeve she's using to cover her mouth and nose.
“Can you blame him? If I had to smell that up close I’d want this over with as soon as possible.”
“Do you think he has a super sense of smell?”
“For his sake I hope not.”
Further up the street, fifty metres in the air, blue and red blurs as the hits increase in speed. With one final blow the creature falls to the street, rendered unconscious. A puddle of…drool? steady growing outwards from where it lays. When the two of you look back up to the sky, the hero of the hour has disappeared. A still silence surrounds the street.
“Well, that was a bust. Sorry for dragging you along.”
You shrug, looking around as a few stragglers begin to creep out of store-fronts, assessing the danger before stepping out into the street, heading back to wherever they were going. You see a couple, the man helping a woman over a piece of debris in the doorway, hand-in-hand as they walk down the street. You swallow back the burn in your throat and turn to Lois.
“It’s okay, not like I was having a good time before.” You attempt a lighthearted tone, but your ears and Lois’ face confirm it missed the mark by a mile. “Anyway, I was…” You trail off as Lois’ attention is suddenly snatched by something over your shoulder.
Not something—someone—you realise as you turn.
In front of you stands Superman.
The Superman.
For an awkward 5 seconds, no one speaks. Even Lois, who has all but begged Clark to be put in contact with superman, is speechless.
“Hello, are you two okay?”
Nodding in near perfect synchrony, you’re sure you and Lois are quite the sight. A subtle look of amusement flashes across Superman’s face before his eyes land on you. Humour fades into something more earnest.
“You look lovely.”
…Oh?
Taken aback by the sincerity in his voice, you flounder. Your poor heart has only just begun to pick itself back up and is wholly unprepared to handle whatever this is. You manage eye contact and a small but genuine smile.
“Thank you.”
He nods. He doesn’t leave, he looks like he’s thinking of something to say. It’s a strange sight, a man who moves with such purpose and determination, looking unsure.
“You’re journalists, right? From the Daily Planet?”
This turns out to be what is needed to reset Lois.
“We are, yes. We work with your friend, Clark.”
You look down at your shoes, the momentary distraction from what happened earlier in the evening is shattered. On Monday, you’ll see him at work. Hell, you’re standing next to Superman in the aftermath of a fight, Clark’s probably on his way here now. You can’t help but look around in a fleeting panic, there’s only a handful of people lingering, none of which have tousled dark hair, no one with a pair of glasses that seem incessant on slipping down the bridge of their nose, no one’s a hulking 6’4” whilst somehow never making you feel small. You look back down at your shoes and blink, hard. Good god, you need to get a grip.
When you look back up it’s directly into the eyes of superman. The intensity of an ice blue stare brings you back to the present.
“I’d be more than happy to do an interview, if you’d like?”
Your eyebrows raise and you turn to Lois. Much to your surprise, she’s not taking his hand off for the opportunity. Lois shakes her head and nudges you. It takes you a second, and a glance at the man before you to realise he’s asking you. Not only asking, the way he’s looking at you is almost imploring. The offer should be too good to pass up—it is too good to pass up. But you’re so tired of reading things wrong, your confidence has been decimated and then some, your dignity can’t take another hit for at least a month. You really, really, really want to crawl into bed and go to sleep.
So, pushing down every journalistic instinct that screams against it, you decline.
“Oh, if you want a piece written, Lois is the one you want. I’m uh- I’m a bit rusty on the superhero stuff.”
He looks genuinely crestfallen for a brief moment, before he nods. You can’t shake the feeling of his gaze on you. The way he’s looking at you is not usually how a normal person looks at someone they’ve just met—at least you personally would never look at a stranger with this much awed fondness. You’ll admit you looked pretty in the mirror before you left earlier, but pretty enough for superman to look at you like this? Maybe he just thinks you look familiar. Or maybe it’s more of a thing among meta-humans.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to head back home.” You tell Lois. You’d stay, obviously, if she wanted you too. Leaving her alone with a man you’ve both never met is not a move you’d normally pull, especially when said man is wearing his underwear over his trousers. However, she’s got a look on her face that makes you feel a bit guilty that you’re leaving Superman alone with her—Lois has an incredible talent at making an interviewee squirm with her relentless questioning. You worry not that even superman will be immune to her interrogation tactics. You’ve been on the receiving end of Lois when she gains momentum (read: the missing mug incident—it was Steve) and it's no laughing matter. Poor guy.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I just- I think the sooner this day’s over the better y’know.” Lois smiles softly in understanding. She squeezes your arm.
“You’ll be safe getting back, yeah? Text me when you get home.”
“Of course, let me know when you get back too.” You take one last look at Superman who is still watching you, an expression you can’t decipher on his face. You say a quick goodbye and start your walk home, Lois sending you a wave and a wink. At least you have some motivation not to call in sick on Monday—you can’t wait to hear that recording.
*
Monday comes around unpleasantly fast. Your phone has been switched off since you received Lois’ “I’m home!” text on Saturday. Opting to spend Sunday with every intention to bury your head in the sand for as long as possible, a big fan of delaying the inevitable.
Your commute is uneventful—no superman-related delays on public transport, an empty seat next to you on the bus (essentially gold dust during Metropolis rush hour), the forecasted rain blissfully holds off until you’re within touching distance of the entrance. Despite Clark being chronically late, you still watch the lobby door nervously as you wait for the elevator doors to shut. The last thing you need is to be trapped in a metal box with that man. You breathe a sigh of relief as the doors close without incident. So far so good.
Unfortunately, everything derails the second you step out into the Daily Planet bullpen. Despite being infamous for never being on time, Clark Kent stands by his desk nervously, muttering to himself whilst straightening his tie and brushing his hands over the material of his suit jacket. His head snaps up as you walk to your desk. You both freeze. The two of you look like deer in headlights, only on opposite sides of the road.
He clears his throat. “Y/N, I-”
“Hey, Y/N!” Grateful for any escape route, you whip around to see Lois racing towards you. “I’m transcribing the Superman interview, d’you wanna listen?” Truthfully, Lois could be offering you the chance to scrub the sidewalk and you’d take it.
Quickly leaving your bag and coat at your desk, making a great effort to not spare Clark any attention, you hightail it after Lois as she motions for you to follow.
“Did you make the man cry?”
Lois snorts. “That was one time, and no he didn’t cry. To be honest after you left he didn’t seem too keen on sticking around. Kinda antsy.”
“Really? Clark always seems to get a decent amount of information from him.” You follow her into an empty conference room, the recording already loaded on her laptop.
“That’s what surprised me. Maybe Clark has a technique of getting him to talk that we don’t know about, might be worth asking.” You hum in agreement despite having absolutely no intention of doing such a thing. “But if you ask me…I think it's because Superman wanted you to do the interview, not me.”
You roll your eyes. “Lois, you know that’s absurd. He wouldn’t know enough about our writing styles-”
This time it’s Lois that rolls her eyes. “I don’t think it had anything to do with writing styles.” At your oblivious expression she shakes her head at you, a sly grin on her face. “You should’ve seen the way he was looking at you. I’m telling you, that man looked like he was one second from dropping to his knees.” You splutter. Before you can respond, you’re stopped by a tentative knock at the door.
“Come in.” Clark Kent peers around the door, a flush across his cheeks. After spotting you, he opens the door fully. His eyes lock onto yours, the man who once would immediately look away when you met each other's eyes long gone. Whoever this is seems intent on not letting you out of his sight.
“I was wondering if I could speak with you? Alone?” You pause. It’s sickening, really, the way your immediate reaction is to nod and follow him blindly. You have to remind yourself that he had the chance to speak with you, alone, on Saturday night. But even with him right in front of you, it’s still difficult to put his face to all that hurt.
“Can it wait? We’re kinda in the middle of something.”
“Oh no it’s fine, she’s all yours, Clark.”
“Lois-” Too late, she's already shutting her laptop and sliding off her chair.
“There were no tears, promise. Not even a little bit of squirming. You’re not missing out on anything here.”
“But, Lois-” She slips past Clark, still in the doorframe, and disappears down the corridor. You sit in shocked betrayal.
Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - a nervous tick or a necessity you’re not too sure. He closes the door. The only noise in the room is the rhythmic ticking from the clock hanging on the wall. You look down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your skirt.
“I’m- I’m so sorry.” To his credit, he sounds genuinely remorseful. You don’t think you have it in you to look at him. You don’t know what a contrite Clark Kent looks like, but you have a gut feeling that it would be potentially life-ruining. In the interest of self-preservation, you don’t look up. Clark, filled with an increased sense of desperation, makes his way towards you. He hesitantly pulls out the chair next to you and weighs up his options when you stiffen. After a brief second he decides sitting is still better than towering over you. As the chair squeaks under his weight, you find your voice.
“Did you forget?”
“No, of course not. I- I was looking forward to it the whole week.” He sounds wounded at the accusation, which only makes you more frustrated.
“You didn’t even text, I called you, and you couldn’t even-” You shake your head and look directly at the fluorescent ceiling light, hoping the searing burn will distract from the tears welling along your waterline.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, I swear. I was on my way to the restaurant and… something came up.”
You laugh, it’s pitiful and humourless. Out of all the excuses in the book, that’s the best he can do?
“Something came up?” You say sardonically. When you finally look at him, you can’t tell if he flinches at your teary eyes or the poorly concealed ire in your voice. You’ve never spoken to him with anything other than kindness or good humour before—you’ve never had a reason to. This is unfamiliar ground for both of you.
“Y-yes, I… I’m so sorry.” He looks at you with a heart-stopping hurt. Behind his glasses, you think he’s about to cry.
“You’re going to have to do a bit better than that, Clark. What could possibly be so urgent, that you had to abandon our dinner plans without even sending a text? I sat there, alone, for almost 40 minutes, like an- an idiot! And you couldn’t even spare ten seconds to let me know you weren’t going to make it?
His face twists, an internal debate going on in his head that you’re not privy to. He looks at you, really looks at you. You can see the moment he comes to a decision, his shoulders slump impossibly further and his eyes squeeze shut before he looks at you, resigned. You brace yourself for the impending let-down.
“I can’t…” He sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you. I’m really sorry, Y/N.”
You search his face for any sign that he’ll change his mind, but his face remains the same—pained, but resolute. You push up to stand, all thoughts but one blurring—you need to leave this room. A shaky hand reaches to wipe away a tear rolling down your face. You take one unsteady step, then another until you reach the door.
“For future reference, Clark, there are much kinder ways to let someone know you’re not interested, instead of leaving them to figure it out for themselves.”
Clark feels physically sick as you shut the door behind you, leaving him sat in the aftermath of your words. His instinct to immediately refute the possibility that he doesn’t like you, dies on his tongue—because how could you not think that? As you pointed out, he invited you to dinner and didn't show, he didn’t even give you the courtesy of letting you know he was going to be late. If he was in your shoes, he would come to the exact same conclusion. The months of building up to asking you out unfortunately means nothing if he can’t even show up to the date. The way you looked at him, as if you expected more, as if you never thought he would be the one to cause such pain, has burned into the back of his retinas—he sees it even as he drops his head into his hands, scrunching his eyes shut. He wishes he could replace it with the image of you dressed up on that night. You looked gorgeous, pretty in your shiny jewellery and a dress he hadn't been lucky enough to see you wear before.
Clark was a firm believer that a relationship can never be built on lies—a lesson Pa had instilled in him during his teenage years. He knows if he wants something meaningful with you (and he does, he really does) the superman conversation is one that will have to be had sooner rather than later—that is, if by some miracle he hasn’t ruined any chance he had to get to know you in that way. But he doesn’t think it’s fair to use it as an excuse—this isn’t how he wanted to tell you. Your feelings are understandably hurt and whilst there was a glaring reason as to why he didn’t show, he still got too caught up in the motions to send you a quick text. He’s admittedly not above blame, so he won’t use superman to get him out of a corner he’s backed himself into.
The soft sound of your sniffles hit his ears—he rips his glasses off to scrub a hand over his eyes. He’s made you cry. Super-hearing is a tool he can dial down when needed, but Clark doesn’t try. He sits there and tortures himself with the muffled whimpers from the upset he caused. He figures it’s the least he deserves.
*
After taking some time in the bathroom to compose yourself, you return to your desk. You keep your gaze steadfast on the screen of your desktop for the rest of the day. No matter how often you feel Clark’s eyes flicker towards you, you don’t let your eyes stray from your desk.
For the rest of the week you feel like you’re constantly expecting Clark to corner you again. You don’t linger in corridors, you don’t spend more time next to the printer than you absolutely have to. Every morning he shuffles in, bouncing his shin off Jimmy’s desk chair, perilously balancing a tray of coffees, stacks of papers, and his briefcase. He always sets your coffee down with the utmost care, as if he’s terrified he’ll spill it onto your neatly stacked papers (an entirely plausible scenario, in his defence). You’re determined to be professional, so you say a polite "thank you". He looks as if he wants to say something but decides against it as you turn back to your work. Behind your back, Jimmy shakes his head, Clark waves him off.
*
Saturday night—an entire week since the Incident. You’re curled up on your couch finishing off a nice, yet deceitful, one-pot meal (you can count at least three from where you’re sat). A movie you’ve seen before plays idly on the TV, but you catch your focus straying back to the events of last week every five minutes. Saturday nights are something you look forward to the entire work week and it’s starting to grate that you can’t settle. Sighing loudly, you drag your hands over your face. Without thinking, you flick the TV off, stand up and grab your bag, pulling on your coat and shoes before leaving your apartment.
Distant rumbling a few blocks down and a quick look at your phone notifications is all you need to confirm that superman’s saving the city once again. Only this time you’re walking away from the fight. When you arrive at the office it's peaceful—no hubbub, no news livestream, no telephones ringing—so different from the day-to-day that it feels almost surreal. The novelty of being there at night is a guilty pleasure. You turn on a few desk lamps in order to get enough light without having to turn on the dreaded fluorescents, and make yourself comfortable at your desk.
For a span of almost an hour, you manage to get a productive start on your newest piece—a deep dive into the health consequences of inadequate sanitation caused by the mayor's neglect of the rundown neighbourhoods of Metropolis. Eventually, your fingertips slow over the keyboard as your bout of inspiration wanes. You stare at the blinking text cursor as you try to rack your brain for any ideas on things to add. That’s one of the downfalls of trying to work at night, there’s no one around to bounce ideas off of. After a failed attempt at reinvigorating your focus with some online games, you figure a walk around the office couldn’t hurt.
Once you’ve trailed aimlessly for twenty minutes or so, and nosed around the supply closet to see if there’s anything worth nabbing for your desk (there wasn't), you idle back to the bullpen.
You freeze.
Superman is standing at Clark’s desk.
“What the fuck?” You whisper under your breath.
He whips around, startled. A piece of paper flutters to the floor by his red boot. You blink at each other from across the bullpen before he straightens up to his full height, broad shoulders squaring.
“Hello.”
“...Hi?” You glance between him and Clark’s desk, papers in a state of disarray from where he’d been rifling through them. “What are you doing?” It comes out more as a squeak than a question, so much for being a journalist.
“Oh,” He looks behind him to the desk as if he’ll find a suitable answer there. “I was looking for something.”
You nod hesitantly. “Is Superman breaking and entering these days?” A weak attempt at a joke that you instantly regret. Because, if for some reason he has gone rogue, in what world are you able to take on superman? You give him a once over in the suit—you’re not sure any human would be able to take on superman. Mortifyingly, he catches you looking. You wish the ground would swallow you up as he raises an eyebrow slightly, a small smirk on his face. He chuckles lightly at your nervous questioning.
“I wouldn’t call this breaking and entering, I-.” He pauses, his eyes lingering on you as he thinks through his options. “The journalist, Clark Kent, mentioned something about a link between LexCorp and a new development in the suicide slum—he thought it may have been used to stash weapons, or house something illicit.” His eyebrows pull together in concentration. “Something caught my eye earlier, when I was fighting the kaiju, and I wanted to see if he’d found out anything about it.”
You didn’t know Clark was investigating something in the underbelly of metropolis, nevermind a dodgy dealing in the suicide slum. Is that where he disappears off to? You can’t picture Clark in those streets, a bumbling dork (said with nothing but love), wonky glasses, suit and tie—it’s a wonder he hasn’t been mugged. Eager to have something to do and quietly curious to see what Clark has been getting himself into, you nod at the remaining stack of files.
“I can help you look, if you’d like?” He looks appreciative of your offer, but hesitates to accept.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your..” He trails off as he looks towards your desk where you monitor sits, a more genuine look of humour appears on his face. You follow his gaze and curse loudly in your head—FreeSudoku is displayed at a dazzling brightness on the screen, on a maximised tab nonetheless. The serious journalist image you were aiming for dissipates into thin air in seconds—falling victim to a partially filled 9x9 grid. He’s kind enough to bite back his toothy smile when he looks back at you, but it appears that dimples are a little harder to conceal.
“It’s okay, I've got plenty of time before the deadline.” You wander towards Clark’s desk, quickly pressing the standby button on your monitor as you pass. “I don’t normally come in at night. I just- I, uh… needed the distraction.” He pauses at this, regarding you with a look you don’t have time to analyse before he turns to grab half of the stacked files. Your fingertips graze his hand as you take the manila folders from him. You’re about to go back to your desk but Superman has other ideas, clearing space on the bench adjacent to Clark’s and pulling out the nearest desk chair, also Clark’s, for you to sit in.
There’s a comfortable silence between you, filled only by the shushing of the pages as you scour through the headlines, pull quotes and everything in between. It’s heart-warmingly similar to the nights you, Lois and Clark would stay late when a deadline was fast approaching—surviving off of nothing but takeout, the dregs from the coffee pot, and hope that a hive-mind approach would be the key to finally piecing together conflicting tip-offs and witness statements.
You’re not confident in what you’re supposed to be looking for, but you’re determined to impress. What you lack in direction, you make up for in tenacity. You feel the familiar rush when you notice a small insignia, almost indistinguishable, in the corner of a photograph in the article you’re holding. Something to disregard, except you’d seen the exact same insignia earlier. Flicking through the pile of read articles you finally find the one you’re looking for. You compare the two badges—identical. There’s an inkling in the back of your mind, one which years of investigative journalism has taught you to trust, that makes you grab the remaining stack of unread articles and tear through them. You grin as you find one after the other—articles, all about unexplained and unsolvable crimes in the suicide slum. Granted, not an uncommon occurrence, but the presence of two L’s encased in a square in at least one image per article is unusual. Spray painted on a wall, tattooed on someone’s arm, a sticker plastered on a streetlight—easy to miss, but a clear message for those who know to look for it.
Superman’s thigh bumps your chair, subsequently bringing your attention back to him.
“You got something?” You nod eagerly and spread the articles in question out for his convenience.
“Here, see this logo? It appears in almost every article to do with crimes in the suicide slum. Only it’s never mentioned because it’s never noticed.”
Superman leans over you, one hand braced on the desk, the other on the back of your chair. Your eyes dart from his forearms to his clenched jawline then swiftly back to the articles in an attempt to calm yourself. The hand leaves the back of your chair to grab the nearest page, he stands tall as he brings it closer to his face to get a better look.
“Yes! This is the insignia that was branded on the kaiju's back.” He shows it to you enthusiastically, as if you hadn't just been searching for it.
“So whatever’s going on down there is linked to wherever the…kaiju came from?” He’s started to pace now, deep in thought but nods along with your pointing-out-the-obvious anyway. You watch him as he turns things over in his head. He eventually comes to a stop. You’re feeling far too inquisitive to sit quiet for much longer.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing tonight. I’ll have to scout it out first, try and get more information on what the badge means.” You nod along, a glint of a name plate catches your eye.
“You should tell Clark.” He blinks. “You’ll probably be due an interview soon—you should definitely tell him about the insignia in the articles, and now its connection to the kaiju.”
He swallows and nods. “I will, but I imagine you’ll see him first.”
“And exactly how do I explain that I know it was branded on an alien?”
“You interviewed Superman?”
“You think he’ll take that well? With you two being exclusive and all?” You tease, revelling in the reluctantly amused eye roll you get in return. He ducks his head, and for the first time you notice a cut near his hairline.
“Are you hurt? He raises his head, looking puzzled. The earlier events of the evening must come flooding back as he raises a hand to poke at the abrasion.
“Oh, no. Really it’s nothing.” He tries to disregard your concern but to no avail, you’re already on your feet.
“It’s alright I have…” You rifle through the bottom drawer of your desk before you pull out a small first aid kit—nothing too fancy, but enough to patch up a scrape here and there. “This. If you’ve been near that alien-thing you never know what germs might have gotten into it. The last thing Superman needs is an infected wound.” You open the box open where you were previously, and pull out an alcohol wipe. Superman is standing so close to you that your elbow brushes against his firm torso as you tear the packet open.
“You’re going to have to sit if I have any chance of reaching that.”
In an uncharacteristic show of false confidence, you stare up at him expectantly as he looks down at you. You wait for an argument, but he relents suspiciously easily, easing himself into Clark’s desk chair. You wonder if there’s more to his injuries than he’s letting on.
“You sure it’s just this?”
He nods affirmatively. You notice, with a burn in the pit of your stomach, that he shifts to spread his legs further apart, a silent invitation for you to stand between them. He watches you closely as you take a step forward, your heart jumping as his muscled thigh brushes yours. You take his face into your hands, tenderly, and begin carefully cleansing the wound. After a second, he leans into it, eyes dropping closed followed by a long, drawn sigh easing from him along with the remaining tension in his shoulders. Your previous notions about superman blur at the edges as he softens under your tentative ministrations. Does he have a family? Does he have anyone looking out for him? Someone to hug? Under careful consideration, it dawns that he is more likely to be on the receiving end of touches meant to harm than those with the sole purpose of comfort. You resist the startling urge to kiss his cheeks—coddling the universe's strongest superhero is probably a futile venture. Or at least you thought it was, only he suddenly appears alarmingly human. This monolith of a man squeezed into a too-small desk chair, who can shoot lasers from his eyes, one-two punch a foe back to whatever planet they strayed from, practically melts under your gentle touches.
If he notices you take a bit longer than necessary to disinfect a surface wound, he doesn’t mention it— he seems more than content to keep your hand on his cheek, fingers grazing his jawline. When you stop, unable to pretend there's more to clean, his eyes slowly open to meet yours. Again, almost a mirror image of the way he looked at you when you first met, with so much familiarity and intimacy that you struggle to put it down to coincidence. It’s far more than a fleeting appreciation for how you look, you’ve seen men who stumble after Cat—the double takes, the agape jaws, a poorly concealed heat behind their eyes—but this is different, this is more. This man must know you.
Letting your lingering hand drop from his face, you tuck the wipe back into its packet. You immediately miss the warm bracket of his thighs pressed against yours as you step back to discard the wipe in the small pedal bin under your desk. His warm gaze tracks each movement, drinking you in. The persistent questions bouncing around in your mind—where could he possibly know you from?—become uncomfortably loud. As if he can hear your thoughts—shit, can he mindread too?—he shifts in his chair, only to wince as something in his side tinges.
“I’ll get you a glass of water.” You’re halfway across the bullpen before he can begin to protest.
The breakroom fridge buzzes in the corner, a small noise you can never hear during the day. You let the water trickle down your hand as you wait for it to run cold. Naturally, your hand drifts towards Clark’s mug before you even realise what you’re doing. You course correct, take your mug from where it’s tucked beside Clark’s—a gag gift from Lois, Jimmy and Clark when you got your first front page. An exposé that had earned itself the title of cover story, despite Clark’s newest superman exclusive running that day—MetroPharma had been selling a glorified placebo to healthcare providers across the city and beyond, claiming it would provide an array of medicinal benefits. You’d toiled for months in order to make sure you landed the hit, working yourself to the bone to ensure no stone was left unturned, and that no rectification was made without supporting, reputable sources. You’d been nominated for a Pulitzer. A mug emblazoned with Science Investi-gator, and a ceramic alligator adorned with glasses and a lab coat modelled as the handle, was sat waiting on your desk the morning the story broke. The entire bullpen had wished you congratulations—even Perry, who was swamped with phone calls from MetroPharma’s legal team, had given you a proud nod when you peeked your head into his office. Clark had hugged you so enthusiastically your feet had left the ground. The smile didn’t leave your face the entire day. The joys of having a work crush.
You linger on that memory as you fill your mug under the tap.
When you make your way back to the bullpen, Superman is back on his feet, hunched over Clark’s desk as he pores over the papers spread across the hardwood. Your stomach drops to your feet—you’re grateful that you have two hands on your cup or that would’ve joined your stomach—because just for a split second it’s not Superman standing there, it’s Clark.
You’ve never noticed how the broadness of Superman's shoulders is the exact same as Clark’s. Or how, tussled from his previous fight, Superman's hair is identical to how Clark’s looks when he rushes in late. Could it be?
Superman(?) turns towards you, somehow made aware of your presence. He smiles at you, slightly bemused. “Are you okay over there?”
You nod, then have to manually put one foot in front of another to walk towards him. With each step, it feels like another piece of a puzzle slides into place. Clark, who is the only journalist to interview Superman. Clark, who is never around when all hell breaks loose. Clark, who swears he doesn’t live in the gym but is built like a greek god. Clark, who is never seen without his glasses. Clark, who stood you up at the exact time when superman was occupied with an alien three blocks down.
Oh god.
You’re close to him now, your heart beat loud in your ears. Your eyes dart around his face, scrutinising, desperate to find any similarities. It’s the same rush you get when you’re chasing a lead—when you know a breakthrough is in reach but you just need a final push to get there.
Superman double takes as he catches the expression on your face and pales. From your look alone, he knows you know. And a man who stands tall, a man who rarely falters, begins to fidget nervously.
That’s what does it.
The final piece clicks.
Clark Kent is standing in front of you.
“Clark?” It’s barely even a whisper. You’re petrified to be wrong, scared to be right. He reacts as if you’ve screamed it, flinching back.
“W- what do you…” He trails off as he sees the look on your face, a mix of confusion, desperation and shock. Clark is tired of having to lie to you. “I’m sorry.” He hesitantly steps towards you, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed but can’t help himself. You feel that pull too, it's what keeps you rooted in place.
“When you didn’t show, at the restaurant-” He nods urgently.
“I wanted to be there. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to be there. I bought you flowers, I- I’m so sorry, honey.”
The pet name and the tenderness he delivers it with breaks your shock. You feel tears creeping along your waterline.
“You were right, I should’ve texted you. I was too caught up in trying to wrap it up as quickly as I could that I- gosh, please don’t cry.”
You’re still staring at him, he reaches out and, when you show no signs of pulling away, wipes your tears away with a level of care that causes a fresh wave of tears to join them.
“I thought you didn’t like me.” Clark can’t handle the gut wrenching vulnerability in your tone, or the slight wobble of your voice. He swiftly takes your mug from between your trembling hands and places it on the desk—his desk—then wraps his arms around you and tugs you towards him. You sniffle and hug him back as a large hand comes to cup the back of your head, tucking your face into his neck as he stoops down to press his nose against your hair. His other hand tightens around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him.
“It would never be because of that. I really like you, and I’m sorry that I made you doubt that.” You slowly lean back to wipe the wetness off your cheeks, a warm sticky feeling settles in your chest when Clark doesn’t pull away from you, keeping you enveloped between his solid arms and even sturdier torso. You meet his eyes and smile softly. He visibly melts, affection and adoration almost tangible as his eyelashes touch. Clark slowly drops his forehead to rest against yours.
“You looked beautiful in your dress.” His gaze traverses your face with enough dedication you swear he’s trying to memorise every feature. He gently strokes his thumb from your cheek to your hairline, tracing the path with his eyes. “You always look beautiful.”
“I can’t believe you’re superman.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“Superman suddenly looked like Clark…and the whole interview exclusivity thing doesn’t help.”
He frowns lightly, lips forming an endearing pout. “I offered you an interview, I gave Lois an interview.”
You smile up at him. “Lois said Superman was a bit reluctant to share any information though, not quite the same in-depth report you get.”
He shrugs, “Well, we’ll be sharing a byline for this piece. If you’d like? Technically you got the in-depth report from Superman for this one.”
“It’s your article, Clark. You did all the research.”
“And you made the connection.”
You both stare at each other, honeyed with affection. Clark squeezes you gently.
“Would you like to go to dinner with me, please?”
You tilt your head, a semi-teasing grin on your face. “That depends, are you going to turn up?”
“There’s nothing in this universe that could stop me, I promise you.”
Emboldened by his unguarded eagerness, you dare to relish in the adoration of a handsome man. “I’ll wear that dress again.” An elated grin lights up his entire face, accompanied by dimples that beg to be traced with your fingertips—you grant yourself the pleasure, and Clark’s happiness turns enamoured.
“I can’t wait.”
You can’t help the happy sigh that slips from your mouth. Clark’s eyes flicker to your lips, then quickly back to your eyes when he catches himself—you have the small joy of watching a pink flush spread across the apples of his cheeks.
“Clark,” you say softly. “Kiss me?”
He looks stunned for a second before his brain catches up. A large hand raises back up to your cheek, thumb softly brushing across the skin it touches. Clark leans in slowly, giving you the chance to back out, like he can’t believe he’s been given permission. You close your eyes and he closes the gap. The kiss starts off slow, with a tentative press of his lips to yours before you slip a hand around the back of his neck, fingers weaving into the soft curls that lie there. With your hand in his hair, Clark unravels. His other hand snaking around you to rest on your back, pulling you closer to him as he deepens the kiss. Your teeth clack and you remember you require air to breathe. Reluctantly, Clark pulls back just enough so he can see your face.
“I still have your flowers at my apartment, if you’d like to come home with me?” You raise your eyebrows in shock that he kept the flowers—Clark misinterprets this and flusters. “I swear that wasn’t a line I-“ His soon-to-be rambles are cut off by your laughter.
“I know, Clark. I was just…you kept the flowers?”
“They’re on my coffee table, I hoped I’d be able to give them to you before they wilted, I got your favourites.” You smile at the sentiment, reaching up to squeeze his hand that still cups your face.
“I’d love that. Let me grab my bag.”
As you hurry to pack your bag you share giddy glances with Clark as he hastily tries to tidy his desk, lest your coworkers think it’s been ransacked when they arrive on Monday morning (no doubt before Clark).
You pause, an abrupt realisation hits you. “Wait, are we flying there?”
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