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꒰ঌ kai ⋆ nineteen ⋆ she/they ⋆ side blog

angel grace. 333. supernatural. acidic tears. clueless writer. criminal minds. t(iny)issue club. stargazer. recovering artist.

(a/n: no dni list but I block at my own discretion!)

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[mcybank]

The Space We Stop

part one part two

pairings — jack abbott x fem!reader

summary — Jack has already decided what he can survive losing. You didn’t realize you weren’t on the list until you weren’t. 

content warnings — 4.3k words. hurt/no comfort (in this part), discussions of pregnancy, fertility, the decision to have children, mention of vasectomy, mention of menstruation, breakup-esque conversation, age gap, jack’s a doctor and reader’s a nurse, references to patient death, grief, lots of anticipatory grief

author’s note — first pitt fic!!!! not sure if i should do a part 2 super open to suggestions

The invitation was tucked between an electricity bill and a postcard from your dentist’s assistant reminding you it had been six months, which it hadn’t (it had been eight), and you felt briefly seen by whoever was controlling your fate, called out by a piece of glossy cardstock with a cartoon molar on it. You dropped the bill on the counter; you stuck the dentist postcard to the fridge under the magnet shaped like a tomato that Jack had brought back from a conference three Septembers ago. He’d given it to you with a straight face and said it made him think of you and it made you laugh so hard you cried, because it was the ugliest object you'd ever seen. 

You saved the invitation for last. It was a heavy, cream cardstock. It had gold foiling along the edge that caught the late afternoon light coming through the window over the sink. Margaret and David are expecting, it read in a font either Margaret or David had paid a little extra for. Please join us in celebrating baby Carter. You stood at the counter and read it twice. You were the kind of person who read things twice. Jack teased you for it. Slow learner, he'd say, into your hair, when he caught you rereading the back of a cereal box.

You heard the front door open followed by the soft thunks of his bag hitting the bench in the entryway. 

“Hey, you,” he said before you saw him. His voice was sanded down at the edges, lower than it sat before he’d left for his shift. You understood why the nurses gossiped about the rasp of his voice in the breakroom, given you’d been one of those nurses once (and still are). 

His hands came to your hips first, the heels of his palms slotting in the bones there, and then his forehead lowered to the crown of your head. He stood there for a second, breathing you in like he always did when a shift had been difficult. He smelled like the hospital — that ghost of antiseptic that never quite came out of his collar — and underneath it, him. The cedar of whatever soap he kept buying. The faint salt of skin.

“Long one?” you asked.

“Mhm.” His mouth found the side of your neck, just under your ear, and stayed there. The warmth of his breath ghosted over your skin as he said, “Tell me something good.”

He'd come home wrecked and ask you for something good, and you'd give him the smallest thing you could find — the lady at the bodega had a new cat, the tomatoes were finally ripe, you'd seen a kid on the train wearing a tiny tuxedo for no apparent reason — and he'd close his eyes and let you wash whatever it was off him. You were good at it. You'd gotten good at it. Three years of practice.

“Marge is pregnant,” you said.

You felt him smile against your throat before you heard it. “Haven’t heard her name since her going-away party. That one?”

“The same.” You smiled as you let your hand rest over his. 

“Woah.” He laughed, and you felt it move through your back where his chest was pressed against you, tired and fond. “Good for her. I think. Is it good for her?”

“I’m sure it is.” 

His thumb had found the strip of skin where your shirt had ridden up, and he was tracing absent circles into your hip. “When’s the shower?” He peeked over your shoulder to look at the invitation. 

“Three weeks. On Saturday.”

“You going?”

“I have to.”

“Mm.” He hummed against your skin. “Want me to come?”

“You have a shift.”

“I can switch.” 

“It’s alright.” You leaned back into him without meaning to, as though your body had been built with a notch for his sternum. “I’ll bring you cake.”

“My hero.” He pressed a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, slow, and then another, lower, and your hand came up automatically to the back of his neck, your fingers finding the short hair at his nape, and you felt him exhale. 

He looked back down at the invitation. “God, can you imagine?”

You opened your mouth.

You didn't know, in that exact second, what you were going to say. You could’ve laughed. Maybe you were going to say something else. Something that had been sitting low in your chest, unnamed, for longer than you'd realized.

You didn't get the chance to find out.

Because he was already shaking his head, already moving on, already pulling you back into him by the small of your back like the thought had been so passing it didn't even need a landing. He pressed his mouth to your temple. You could feel him smiling against your hairline.

"No," he said, into your hair. "Thank god."

--

Jack had the night off, and you woke up at 4:11 in the morning. He was asleep on his stomach, face mashed into the pillow, one arm flung across your waist, the other folded up under his chest like he was bracing for something. The sheet had ridden down to the small of his back, and there was a constellation of tiny scars across his shoulder blade you’d mapped. 

Sometimes, you’d lie in the dark and let your half-asleep mind look at him and feel like you’d gotten away with something. 

His hand was warm against your hip. You’d noticed he always ran a degree hotter than you. In the winter you used him like a furnace and he complained about it lovingly and let you. 

‘Cold-blooded little thing,’ he’d mutter into the back of your neck. ‘Got me out here heating the whole bed.’ 

You stared at the ceiling and, without meaning to, you started thinking about everything you had missed. 

It had been the second Christmas with Jack. His brother’s kid, on FaceTime, a four-year-old obsessed with a stuffed giraffe she kept showing to the camera. You'd been on the couch with him, your feet in his lap, and he'd been good with her. 

He was patient, asking her the giraffe's name, asking what the giraffe ate for breakfast. 

After the call, Jack had set the phone face-down on the coffee table and exhaled and said, “God, she's cute for about eleven minutes and then I am tapped.” 

He'd said it with warmth. He was laughing as he squeezed your ankle. You had laughed too because it was funny, because four-year-olds were exhausting, because you were twenty-five and not thinking about it, because you were in love with a man who said funny, tired things about his niece and that was a personality, that was a bit, that was Jack.

You never believed that memory would ever resurface, at least not as anything that held so much fucking weight.

Then there was the vasectomy consultation. You’d been dating six months.

You'd been sitting on his kitchen counter in his apartment, before you'd moved in,and he'd been making you eggs, and he'd said, casually, his back to you, “Oh, I had a consultation last week.” 

You'd said, “For what?” 

He'd said, “Vasectomy.”

He'd said it so simply, as though he were a man ordering a sandwich. He'd said, “Just exploring options. You know how it is,” and flipped the eggs. 

You had been twenty-five and six months in love and you had said, “Yeah, totally,” because you didn't want to be the woman who made it weird at six months.

The wedding last summer, his cousin's, where his aunt had cornered you by the bar and said, “Honey, don't wait too long, you know what they say. The clock.”

And Jack had appeared at your elbow with a glass of wine for you and steered you away with his hand at the small of your back, and on the dance floor, swaying, his mouth at your ear, he'd said, “Sorry, she's a menace,” and then, “Don't listen to her, by the way,”

You’d said, “what do you mean?”

“The clock thing. don't let anybody put that on you. you've got time.”

Not we. You.

--

You waited eleven days from the afternoon you received the invitation. 

On day four you got your period and stood in the bathroom and cried. You weren’t trying, you weren’t even sure you were ready. But the first thing you felt, looking down, was relief. And you didn't know when relief had become the shape of your body's answer to that question. You didn't know who'd taught you that. You had a guess.

You washed your hands. You went back to bed. Jack was asleep on his stomach and you got in next to him and he made the small sound he made in his sleep when you came back and put his hand on your hip without waking up, and you cried about that too, quietly, into the pillow, because his hand was so warm and because you understood, dimly, that this was the kind of thing you were going to miss.

Eleven dinners you didn’t bring it up at; eleven walks home you didn’t bring it up at; of one Sunday morning where you’d opened your mouth and he’d put a piece of bacon in it instead, laughing, and you’d let him, and you hated yourself for the laugh that came around the bacon. 

He steered you towards the dining table and told you to eat the stew, his voice bossy and tender all at once. You’d eaten, and the stew had been good. He’d told you a story about the upstairs neighbour, and now it was nine-thirty and the dishes were done. He was leaning against the counter drinking the last of his wine, probably before he switched to beer, and 

He'd been off all day. He'd done the things he did when he was off. He'd gone for a run, he'd read on the couch, he'd made a stew that filled the apartment with the smell of bay leaves and red wine. You'd come in from your shift at seven and he'd kissed you at the door and handed you a glass of something and told you to eat in a voice that was bossy and tender at once, and you had eaten, and the stew had been good, and you had laughed at something he'd said about the upstairs neighbor, and now it was nine-thirty and the dishes were done and he was leaning against the counter drinking the last of his wine and you were standing at the other end of the kitchen island with your hands flat on the marble. 

You could feel his gaze plastered onto you, it had been for the last few minutes. He’d been watching you, you realized, for the better part of the evening. He’d been stealing glances for the last hour or so, as if he believed something was off and he wanted to find out what. You’d never been good at being discreet; you were surprised you’d managed to be for the last eleven days. 

“What?” he said, finally, breaking the unintentional silence. 

“Nothing,” you lied. 

“Mm?” His hum picked up at the end, a corner of his lip twitching down as he tried to read your thoughts right out of your brain. 

Because he never pushed you, he took another sip of his wine and set the glass down.

You stared at the marble. You’d picked it together, though it had been more than you. You’d gone to the stone yard in Long Island on a Saturday and walked through aisles of slabs and he’d asked you to pick. You picked this one. You weren’t even sure what it was called, this white marble with gray veins that looked like rivers on a map. Three months later, it’d been installed in the kitchen in the apartment you’d moved into because he’d asked you to. 

You’d thought—when he asked—the marble meant something. You were realizing you thought a lot of things meant something. 

“Do you ever—” You cleared your throat, because something had lodged inside it making your voice thick. “Do you ever think about the future?” 

You continued staring at the marble.

“What do you mean?” he asked after a minute of silence. His voice was unnervingly careful. 

“I mean,” you said. The words were coming out on their own. You had not, after eleven days of rehearsal, prepared this version “Do you think about where we go?”

“Where we go?” You could practically hear his head tilt to the side, like a puppy when it heard a new sound. 

Except Jack was not a puppy, and a part of you knew that this wasn’t new, had likely crossed his mind at least once.

“Yes.”

“I think we’re going pretty good,” he said. “Are you not—”

“I don’t mean—I’m not saying—Jack…”

You turned to face him now. He was looking at you with his arms folded and his face so neutral you were almost insulted. Except for his neck, for there was a tendon standing out on the side of it. You watched it and realized he knew what you were about to ask, and he was only figuring out how to answer now. 

Your chest went cold, like someone had put a coin right under your sternum.

“I mean, do you think about—kids.” The word slipped out of your mouth like a snap of a rubberband. 

“Baby,” he said.

You felt the rest of the sentence assemble itself in the air between you before he said it. You knew the shape of it. You'd nursed long enough to know the cadence of a doctor about to tell a family something they didn't want to hear; there was a soft entry word, a pause, a lowering of the chin half an inch.

You'd watched him do it. You'd watched him do it to mothers, to husbands, to the daughter of the man in 4B who'd come in with chest pain and not gone home. You'd stood at the foot of the bed and handed people tissues afterward and thought that he is so kind, that he is so good.

You understood, now, that you were the family.

“Don’t—please don’t do that. Just answer.”

He looked at you for what felt like a very long time. The refrigerator hummed behind the two of you. 

“No.”

The same word he'd said into your hair three weeks ago in this same kitchen, with his mouth at your temple, no, thank god. Except now there was no thank god. Now there was just the no, naked, with no padding around it, and you understood—you understood in your spine, in the soles of your feet, in the place behind your eyes where you kept the things you couldn't afford to know—that he had taken the padding off on purpose. He had taken it off because he had decided, in the silence between your question and his answer, that this was a conversation that needed the padding off.

“Ever?” you said, and hated how it came out choked.

“Ever.”

“You’ve never—”

“Not once.” When you stayed silent, he added, “I’m sorry.”

“Jack,” you said, and your voice was almost pleading.

“I’m not going to do that to you,” he said. “I’m not going to sit here and pretend I have to think about it. You asked me a real question, and I want to give you a real answer.”

“So you’ve—” Your throat clamped up. Again. “You’ve thought about it?” 

“Of course, I’ve thought about it,” he said, voice going lower. “I’ve thought about it the whole time.”

The kitchen, you noticed, had developed an echo. Or maybe your ears had. There was a small ringing somewhere behind your jaw. You put your hand on the marble. The marble was cold. You concentrated on the cold.

“So when—” You had to stop  to find your voice. You found it lower than you'd put it down. “Since when?”

“Since always.”

“With me.”

He looked down at the same marble you were staring at, then looked back up at you. “The second date.”

You laughed. It came out wrong, a small dry laugh, like something breaking inside a wall. You hadn't been prepared for the second date. You remembered the second date. It had been a Thai place on 9th. He had ordered for both of you because you'd let him. He'd walked you home in the rain under his coat held over both your heads and you'd thought, ‘this one. this is the one.’

He had been deciding something else. 

“You told me about your sister’s kid and—yeah,” he said.

“I told you about Joey and you went home and decided—?”

“I didn’t decide anything that night,” he said. “I already knew. You told me about Joey and I—I watched your face and I thought oh. That's all. I thought you were going to want that. And I thought I should tell you, and I didn't.”

There was a small high ringing somewhere behind your jaw. You got those when you stood up too fast. “And the vasectomy consult—”

He paused, eyebrows pushing in together. He hadn’t expected that one.

“I didn’t do it.” He pushed off the counter finally. He came around the island, slow, the way he moved toward a patient he didn't want to spook. He stopped a foot away from you. He didn't touch you. Three years of him not being able to walk past you in a kitchen without putting a hand on your hip, and he stopped a foot away and held his hands at his sides like a man at a wake.

“I didn't do it because I met you and I thought—I thought I should talk to you first, and then I didn't, because I didn't want to scare you, and then time went by and it seemed—cruel.”

You laughed. It came out of you like a cough. You didn't know your face had done anything until you saw his face change in response to yours.

“Don’t do that.” He shook his head, tongue running over the inside of his mouth. 

“You thought it was cruel?”

“To bring it up out of nowhere. Six months in. Eight months in. Whenever. There was never a—never a moment. There was—what was I going to do? Sit you down at a restaurant and tell you my reproductive plans? At a year? Two? When?”

“Any of those times, Jack. Any of them.” 

“What would you have done if I had sat you down at fourteen months and said, hey, just so you know, never? What would you have done?

The answer was that at fourteen months you were so in love with him you would have eaten glass for him. The answer was that at fourteen months you would have said that's okay and meant it, or thought you meant it, which was the same thing. The answer was that he was right, which was, you understood now, the thing about him that was going to end you. He was right about you. He had always been right about you. He had clocked you, somewhere in the first year, as the kind of woman who would talk herself into it, and he had been correct, and he had let you, and now you were in your kitchen at thirty years old with your hand on the cold marble and he was telling you, gently that he had known.

“You should have told me,” you said, and it came out a whisper. 

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “Maybe.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I should’ve done. I’m not—” He ran a hand down his face. He looked tired. He looked, for the first time in the conversation, like himself. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not good at this. I’m sorry—I am sorry.”

“Jack.”

“I am.”

“You’re saying never. That there’s—there’s no version of this where—”

“No.”

“Where you and I—”

“No, sweetheart.”

“Jack.”

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “I'm not going to do that. I love you. I'm not going to lie to you. I love—”

And the worst part — the part you would not, later, be able to forgive yourself for—was that your chest did the thing. The small lift. The half-second of Jack is here, the way a dog's head comes up when it hears its name. Three years of him saying it and your body learning to lean toward the sound. Your hand, you noticed, had twitched a quarter-inch toward him on the marble. You had not told it to.

You hated it. You hated your hand. You hated the dog of you. You hated that some part of you was going to want him tomorrow, and next month, and probably — the thought arrived whole, terrible—for the rest of your life, because three years was a long time to teach a body something and you did not know how to make a body unlearn.

“That’s not enough, Jack.” 

You were crying. You hadn't noticed. Your hand was still on the marble and your face was wet and he was a foot away from you and not touching you, which was the part you would remember later, which was the part that would, in the small hours, be the thing you couldn't get past — that he had not, in this moment, reached for you. That he had read the room and known better.

"I would be a bad father," he said.

"Don't."

"I would. I — "

"Don't do that. Don't make this a — don't make it about you being noble. Don't."

He stopped.

He looked at you. He looked at you for a long second and you watched something you had not, in three years, seen happen in his face, a small private collapsing, a giving up of a position he had been holding for so long he had forgotten he was holding it.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay."

“Okay. Then — yeah. I don't want them. I have never wanted them. I'm fifty-four years old and I have been a doctor for almost thirty of those years and I have watched what happens to people who have kids in this job and I have made my peace with not having that life. I made my peace with it before I met you. I should have told you. I didn't tell you because I — “

He stopped.

“Why?” 

He looked at you. “Because—you—” He shook his head, like the words were physically painful to say.

“Because I wanted you,” he said. “And I knew if I said it you'd go. I thought if I was good enough at the rest of it you wouldn't notice the shape of the thing that wasn't there. And then a year went by and I thought you haven’t asked, maybe you don’t—" He stopped. He didn't let himself finish that one. "I knew you did. I knew you did the whole time. I watched you with—I watched you with the kids that came in and I knew. I just—I wanted one more month. And then I wanted one more. That's all it ever was. One more month.”

The kitchen was very quiet.

You stood there with your hand on the marble and your face wet and your chest doing a thing that wasn't crying anymore, that had moved past crying into some other room, and you looked at him across the foot of air between you and you understood, finally, that he had done this on purpose.

Not the cruelty. He hadn't been cruel on purpose. He'd been cruel by accident, the way honest men are cruel.

But the choice. The choice to let you stay. The choice, three years ago, to look at a twenty-seven-year-old woman who wanted things and to decide that he wanted her more than he wanted to be the kind of man who told her the truth on time. That he had done on purpose. That he had known about. That he had been carrying, all this time, in the part of himself he didn't show you, and he had carried it well, he had carried it so well you had not, in three years, suspected the weight.

You said, "Wow."

It came out small. It came out almost amused. He flinched, finally, at that one. You watched it move through him. You filed it away. You thought, in some cool clean part of your mind, you would need to hear that flinch in your mind a hundred times over so you could forget how you felt right now. 

"Don't," he said.

"Don't what."

"Don't — wow me."

"Jack."

“I love you. I'm not — I'm not going to defend it. I'm not going to — yeah. I wanted you around. I knew what I was doing. I knew — yes.”

You took your hand off the marble. You looked at your hand. Your hand was shaking, which surprised you. Your hand had not, until this moment, been a hand that shook.

You said, “I have to—”

You didn't finish the sentence, because you’d already started walking out of the kitchen.

You walked out of the kitchen.

He didn't follow you.

That was the other part you would remember. Not that he had let you walk away—men let women walk away all the time—but that he had known, in the heat of the moment, that the kindest thing he could do for you was to not make you ask him to stay back. He had clocked it. He had given it to you. It was the last gift he would ever give you and he gave it correctly and you hated him, briefly, with a clean white hatred, for being good at it even now.

[softseasun]

What The Living Owe Each Other

GIF by Ho-ii

Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: After a quiet, late-night argument in the kitchen, you retreated to bed before anything is resolved. Jack won't let the night close over something unfinished between you. He never does, not since he learned at the worst possible price what it costs to leave the true thing unsaid.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief, Trauma, Intimacy, PTSD, Slight angst, Mostly fluff, No use of 'Y/N'.

Nobody told you that the worst arguments were the quiet ones.

Not the kind with raised voices and slammed doors—those are almost easier, almost honest in their violence. No, the worst kind are the ones that happen in bright kitchens at nearly midnight, where everything is too fluorescent and too still, and the words come out measured and controlled and precise, which is somehow more cutting than cruelty. That is how it happens with Jack. He does not shout. He withdraws, pulling inward like a tide, and you are left standing on the shore wondering if you merely imagined the ocean.

It was a weekend. You had said something careless. He had said something careful. And the careful thing had done more damage.

After a while, the counter stretched between you like a verdict, and you were too tired—five in the morning until that moment, the whole long corridor of a shift behind you—to keep your footing in this.

“I’m not doing this tonight,” you finally told him, and your own voice sounded foreign to you, flattened by exhaustion. “I need to sleep, Jack.”

He looked at you. His jaw was held in that particular way of his—not rigid, not cruel, but contained, a man making a choice about what he lets reach his face. The kitchen light was unkind to everyone at that hour but him. Somehow, it only found the silver threaded through his curls, the faint constellations of freckles across his face, the dark on his left hand resting against the counter. He was still in the James Perse he wore that afternoon. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the hour.

“Go to sleep, then,”

You do. Or you try.

You laid in the dark with your eyes open. The ceiling above you stared back like a blank page, and you listened to the house breathe—the ac, occasional cars outside, the particular silence of a space where someone else refuses to be still. You knew he was still awake without having to check. You have learned most true things about Jack Abbot the same patient way: not through confession, but through accumulation. Eight months of small data points that, gathered together, form something resembling the full outline of a person.

He does not sleep when things are unresolved between you. He has never said so. He didn’t need to.

Thirty minutes dissolved into the dark, and then, the bedroom door (which you had not fully closed) opened without a sound.

He didn’t reach for the light. There was enough amber bleeding in from the street to find him in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, as he looked at you with an expression he probably believed was unreadable. It wasn’t. It stopped being unreadable to you sometime around month three, when you started learning the difference between the face he showed the ED and the face he had when he thought no one was watching.

“You’re not asleep,” he said.

“You’re very observant,” you said to the ceiling. “They teach you that in the medical school or the Army?”

A pause, brief and weighted. “Army. Medical school only taught me to document it.”

You almost smiled. You didn’t mean to and you did it anyway, small and private, belonging to no one.

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed—your side—and the mattress conceded under him, and the warmth of him reached you even across the distance of a foot of sheets. He rested his elbows on his knees. His hands hung loose between them, and the black ring caught the amber glow from the window and held it like something it was given to keep.

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered.

You turned your head to look at him. “At what, specifically?”

“At—” he stopped. There is a version of Jack Abbot who would have deflected there, reached for a quip, and let the humor do what the words couldn’t. That dawn, he didn't. “At leaving things open.”

You knew, without him elaborating, exactly what he meant. You have known for a long time, pieced together from the parts of himself he has handed you one at a time, slowly, the way you’d offer something fragile to someone you weren’t yet sure could hold it.

His wife died twenty-six months before he kissed you for the first time. An aneurysm—no warning, no preamble, just ordinary life and then the end of it. He had been forty minutes away at a SWAT callout when it happened, and by the time he got to the hospital, there was only her hand in his and the hallway and whatever a man carries home from that and never fully sets down. He told you once, at eight in the morning with the honesty that surfaces when exhaustion dismantles every careful boundary. He had told you plainly, and then went quiet and looked at his ring for a long time, and you did not push because you understood that some silences are not absence but foundation.

You have understood since then that he does not leave arguments unresolved because he is stubborn, though he is. He does it because he learned, at a level beneath reasoning, that tomorrow does not honor anyone’s assumptions, and if the world reached in and took something from him again—if it decided, with its characteristic indifference, to collect—he could not bear for the last thing between you to have been silence.

Four months ago, you were in an accident on the Parkway East. Black ice, a truck that did not stop, and then you woke up looking at the other perspective of PTMC hospital rooms and your whole body a dull, massive ache. Jack was in the chair beside you. He was still in scrubs from his shift, his prosthetic leg an extension of the stillness of him, both hands wrapped around yours on the blanket. He did not say much when you opened your eyes. He didn’t have to. His face had already said everything his vocabulary was not constructed to carry—scraped raw and exhausted and grateful in a way that looked almost painful to feel.

He has been worse about unresolved things ever since.

“I know why you do it,” you told him, back in the bedroom at dawn, in the amber-laced dark.

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You sat up and drew your knees to your chest. “And I’m not saying it’s wrong, Jack. I understand it. I just need you to know that sometimes, I need sleep more than I need resolution, and neither of us is failing by admitting that.”

He looked at a stripe of streetlight crossing the floor. His profile in that low light is something a painter would have opinions about—the scruff, the weathered handsomeness, the way exhaustion sat on him differently than it sat on most people, like something he’s simply incorporated.

“I know that,” he said. “Intellectually.”

“And non-intellectually?”

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh, but the sound he made when something he cannot argue with arrived.

“Non-intellectually,” he said, “I spent forty minutes in the kitchen not reading the same four pages of the new novel I bought.”

The honesty of it undid you a little. That was what no one in the ED would believe about Jack Abbot (except Robby)—that beneath the composure and the dark humor and the controlled authority of a man who has managed casualty events without raising his voice, there was this: a tenderness so plainly delivered it sounded almost accidental. Like he reached in for armor and found something else and decided to hand it over anyway.

“Jack.” Your voice landed softer than you intended.

“I’m aware it’s a problem,” he said, and then, quieter, with the particular self-deprecation of a man who has made peace with being a project: “My therapist has made that point. Several times. With visual aids, I think, at one point.”

“Visual aids?”

“A chart. Don’t ask.”

Despite the residue of the argument that was still faintly present in the room, you felt something in your chest release—a tension you’d been holding so long you’d stopped noticing its weight.

“Come here,” you said.

He casted a sidelong glance. “I’m already here.”

“You’re sitting on the edge of our bed like you’re checking a jacuzzi’s temperature. Come here.”

Something in his expression crossed a threshold you recognized—the moment he decided to stop managing the distance—and then he was lying beside you, not quite touching, both of you addressed to the ceiling with its shifting amber and its dark. His breathing was even in the effortful way of someone making it so.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” you told the ceiling. “About you not letting people in. That was unfair.”

“It was accurate.”

“Being accurate and being fair aren’t the same thing.”

“No.” A pause. “They’re not.”

“And you shouldn’t have gone quiet like that. You know what it does.”

“I know.” Another pause, and then, plain as anything: “I’m sorry.”

He said it like how he said all important things—stripped, unadorned, with nothing decorative attached. No qualifiers trailing behind it. Two words delivered as though he meant every syllable in both, which he did. You spent months learning the difference between an apology that sought to close the conversation, and an apology that opened something. His opened things.

“I’m sorry too.”

A cloud shifted somewhere over Pittsburgh, and the light in the room dimmed and resettled. Jack lifted his arm—slow, deliberate, a question posed without language—and you moved into the space he made. Your head found his shoulder. His hand found your hair and rested there.

“You need to sleep,” he said, low.

“So do you.”

“That’s different.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

“That,” you said into the dark of his shoulder, “is genuinely not the compelling argument you think it is.”

He made that sound again—an almost-laugh—and his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek. Outside, a car moved through the wet street, the ac hummed its low, tuneless, note, and the city went on existing with complete disregard for the two of you, which was somehow exactly right.

“Sleep,” he murmured. Not a command. The word he uses when what he meant is please.

You closed your eyes.

His hand in your hair does not move.

This is what loving Jack Abbot asked of you, had always asked: to hold two things at once. The man who would not let a night close over something unresolved between you because he understood, catastrophically and permanently, what it cost to leave the true thing unsaid. And the man who, have learned that at the worst possible price, showed up anyway—in a hospital chair with no memory of sitting down, in a kitchen at midnight with a book he could not read, on the edge of a mattress with one honest thing cupped in both hands like an offering.

He was not healed. You had never wanted healed. Not really. What you had was this: someone who carried his losses in plain sight so you could always see them, who was trying, who would sit with forty minutes of silence and a book he wasn’t reading rather than let the darkness swallow something unfinished between you.

You thought, as you drifted, that there were worse things than being loved by someone who was afraid of losing you.

There were worse things than being the reason he was still awake.

You were nearly asleep—that warm, unmapped border between waking and not—when his voice came, so low it seemed addressed to the room rather than you.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

You did not answer with words. You pressed your hand, once and open-palmed, against his chest—above the steady, faithful percussion of his heart—and left it there, and let that be everything.

His hand tightened in your hair. Fractionally. Carefully.

Outside, Pittsburgh breathed on. Jack Abbot exhaled for the first time in hours—long and slow and quiet—and was, in whatever way a man like him can be, at rest.

divider by cursed-carmine

[inkydelusions]

something med school didn't cover

part 2 wc: 8.9k (oof) pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader summary: when the doors of the pitt swing open to reveal you on the gurney, dr. jack abbot’s world shatters, forcing him to fight for two lives he didn't know were at stake. c.warning: angst with happy ending; established relationship (married); major medical trauma; graphic depictions of injury; mentions and discussions of abortions in the past; mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy loss scare; jack abbot crashing out; mentions of car accident; near-death experience; never mind the medical accuracy or lack thereof (i tried my best but i’m still not a doctor) a/n: this got out of control. it was supposed to be a usual 3k one-shot but then i kept writing and well here we are now. also shout out to my friend paula that helped me do all the medical research for this one so i didn’t embarrass myself with all the inaccurate doctor talk. love u girl <3

masterlist | requests

the fluorescent lights of the hospital always seem to hum a little louder when the er is quiet. it’s a sterile, buzzing vibration that grates on jack’s nerves more than the usual cacophony of sirens and shouting.

he leans against the nurse’s station, a lukewarm cup of bitter black coffee forgotten in his hand. he checks his watch. 2:14 pm. the numbers blurring slightly from sheer exhaustion. his shift was supposed to have ended hours ago, but the universe had other plans.

first, a multi-car pileup at dawn bled into a series of critical post-ops. then, every time he had tired to reach for his coat, another “one last thing” tethered him back to the floor. now, nearly ten hours into a forced double, the walls feel like they’re closing in. all he wants right now is to be through his front door, to shed the smell of antiseptic and the weight of the hospital, and to finally disappear into the quiet comfort of his home, where you were probably already waiting for him.

“it’s too quiet,” dana mutters as she organizes a stack of charts.

jack offers a ghost of a tired smile. “don’t say the ‘q’ word. you’ll jinx us.”

his mind drifts, as it often does during these rare lulls, back to you. he thinks about the way you looked when he left. half-asleep, tangled in the duvet in your hared bed, grumbling about the warmth leaving you as jack got out of the bed. he’d kissed your forehead, whispered that he’d be home by eight, in time to share breakfast with you, and headed into the belly of the beast. as he walked into the hospital, he felt a rare pang of guilt; he’d been working so many double shifts lately that your shared home felt more like a hotel.

i’ll make it up to her, he thinks. maybe he can take you out to that new sushi bar you showed him on your phone the other day. no, you’ll probably prefer thai. you’ve always loved-

the thought is cut short by the sharp, rhythmic chirp of the trauma radio. the sound like a physical blow to the silence.

“dispatch to mercy trauma, we have a level 1 activation. multiple vehicle collision, pileup on the i-579. initial reports suggest a jackknifed semi and at least six passenger vehicles. multiple red-tags. first eta is four minutes. lead bus is carrying a female, blunt force chest trauma, unstable vitals, gcs of 6.”

the er transforms in a heartbeat. the “slump” dies instantly, replaced by the practiced, frantic choreography of a trauma team who’s been through this million times.

robby, that was contrasting the lab results from one of his patients jumps into action.

“abbot, i need you in trauma. we need to get bays 1 and 2 ready. i want respiratory on standby. grab the o-neg. if this is a pileup, we’re going to be drowning in ten minutes.”

“let’s go!” jack barks, his voice dropping into that authoritative, calm register that defined him as he signals some of the residents to follow him,

the coffee is now discarded and forgotten on dana’s desk as jack pulls on a pair of gloves, the snap of latex echoing against the white, bright walls of room. here, in the chaos of trauma 1, he’s in his element. he’s dr. abbot, the man who’s used to holding the line between life and death. he feels the familiar rush of adrenaline, the narrowing of his world until only the patients matter.

“eta one minute!” someone shouts.

robby stands at the ambulance bay doors, peering through the glass. a faint rain has started. a cold, miserable drizzle that blurs the red and blue lights of the approaching sirens.

the first ambulance screeches to a halt and the back doors swing open. immediately, a paramedic jumps out, already pumping a manual respirator. “female, trapped in the driver’s side for twenty minutes. we had to use the jaws. bp is 80 over 40 and dropping. she’s trending toward traumatic arrest!”

robby’s breath catches for a fraction of a second. his eyes scan the familiar face, noticing all the blood, the cuts and bruises.

no, he thinks. please, let it not be true.

“get her to bay 1!” he orders, returning to reality as he steps forward to catch the side of the gurney as it flies past.

as robby pushes the gurney, he refuses to look at the patient’s face. but when he walks past dana’s desk, he looks devastated, and she notices. rounding her desk, she walks next to him, matching his quick step.

“i need abbot out of that room,” he says. “now.”

frowning, dana walks next to him.

“what? why?”

robby just shakes his head. “i need you to take him to trauma 2. anywhere, really. just… away from…”

but it’s already too late.

jack’s eyes are locked on the gurney, tracking the way the patient’s body jolts with every bump of the wheels, noticing the blood-soaked bandages on her chest.

“on three! one, two, three!”

the paramedics help slide the patient onto the trauma table. and it’s only then, as one of the them pulls away the oxygen mask to swap it for the hospital’s ventilator, that the world truly stops spinning.

the air leaves jack’s lungs as if he’d been punched.

“jack…” robby tries, but he doesn’t look at him. he can’t react at all.

the female with blunt force chest trauma and unstable vitals isn’t a stranger.

it’s you.

your face is ghostly pale under the smears of blood and road grime. your hair, which he’d smoothed back just hours ago in the quiet of your bedroom, is matted with glass shards. you lay limp, your chest barely moving, a hollow shell of the person he loves.

“jack?” dana’s voice comes from a distance, sharp and concerned. “jack, what are you doing? we need to intubate!”

jack abbot, the man who never flinches, who doesn’t shake under stress, no matter how hard or critical the case, now stands frozen. his hands, usually as steady as stone, are shaking so violently they seem to rattle against the metal railing of the bed.

robby glances at dana over his friend’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“no,” jack whispers, the word catching in his throat. “no, no, no…”

“okay, “robby mutters to himself. “abbot, i need you to get out. now.”

but jack still can’t react, he doesn’t even flinch when dana closes her hand around his forearm, trying to pull him out of the room.

robby pushes past him. “she’s crashing! i need a central line now! jack, get out of the way!”

robby grabs a scalpel, his movements clinical and fast. he doesn’t stop to consider who is on the table. to him, right now you are just a ‘red tag.’ he can’t allow himself to think of anything else.

right now, you can’t be the woman who has quickly become one of his closest friends, one of the main supports on his hardest days. the woman he proudly considers family, the same one he shared secrets and past anecdotes with when he came by to yours and jack’s house for dinner every month.

dana is still trying to get jack out of the room, threatening to call security on him when the attending’s weak whisper makes her stop in her tracks.

“stop,” jack rasps, his voice cracking. he lunges forward, shaking dana’s hand off, too desperate. “stop. that’s… that’s my wife.”

the room goes dead silent for a heartbeat, save for the screaming of the heart monitor. robby looks up, nothing but pity for his friend boring in them.

“jack… you can’t be in here, brother. you know the protocol.”

“i am not leaving her!” jack roars, his voice echoing off the trauma bay walls, raw and heartbroken. “my wife is dying. i am not leaving her!”

“you’re making it worse!” robby hisses back. “you’re compromised! you’re going to kill her if you don’t let us work!”

jack looks down at you. he sees the blood. he sees the way your heart rate is flickering on the screen like a dying candle. a cold, terrifying clarity suddenly washes over him. the panic doesn’t disappear, of course it doesn’t, but he forces it down into a small, dark box in the back of his mind.

he steps back slightly, chest heaving. but his hands stop shaking, the roaring in his ears slows to low hum, enough for him to hear his own thoughts again.

“fuck the protocol. i’m staying,” jack said, his voice now terrifyingly low and steady. “robby, get the chest tube. and i need 10 of epi. now!”

he doesn’t look at his colleagues as he works. he looks only at you.

“stay with me,” he whispers, so low only you could have heard it if you were awake. “don’t you dare leave me, do you hear me? stay with me.”

and so the chaos begins in the trauma bay. robby and jack, along with a couple of residents and some extra hands work together, in synchronicity.

“i need a fast exam, now!” jack’s voice cuts through the noise, steady but edged with desperation, focused on the monitors, on the jagged green lines of your heart rate, the terrifyingly low oxygen saturation. he tries not to look at you, knowing that if he did he’d see your eyes, closed and bruised, and he would shatter.

“jack, i’ve got the ultrasound,” rabby says, his voice softer now, cautious.

he moves the probe over your abdomen, eyes flicking between the small screen and your still form.

you’re so still. the woman who loves dancing in the kitchen to grainy jazz records is now buried under layers of medical plastic and blood-stained gauze.

“we’ve got internal bleeding,” robby mutters, his brow furrowing. “she’s bleeding out into her peritoneum. jack, we need to get her to or immediately.”

“wait,” jack says, eyes falling to the darkening bruise on your lower belly. “check the pelvis. i want a full sweep. if there’s a pelvic fracture we didn’t see—”

“i’m on it,” robby replies. he moves the probe lower, his movements clinical.

the room seems to go silent, though the machines are still screaming. jack watches the ultrasound screen, his mind already three steps ahead, calculating surgical approaches, estimating blood loss, praying to a god he hasn’t spoken to in years.

then, the image shifts.

robby freezes. the probe stops moving.

on the grainy, black-and-white screen, nestled deep within the shadows of your body, is a small, unmistakable flicker. a pulsing light.

jack’s breath hitched. his world, already tilted on its axis, began to spin violently.

“jack…” robby’s voice was barely a whisper. “is that…?”

“no,” jack breathes, the word a plea. “no, it can’t be.”

he grabs the probe from robby’s hand, his fingers slick with ultrasound gel. he presses it down again, his eyes wide and frantic as he searches the screen. and there it is. a gestational sac. maybe ten weeks. perhaps older. a tiny, fragile life tucked away inside the chaos of your broken body.

a life he didn’t know about. a life you hadn’t told him about.

“she’s pregnant,” robby breathes from the bedside, his hand flying to his mouth.

the realization hits jack like a physical blow to the chest. this isn’t about just you anymore. it’s about both of you. every choice he makes in the next ten minutes will not just decide the fate of his wife; it would decide the fate of their child, too.

“we can’t use the standard protocol, jack,” robby says, his voice rising in panic. “the meds we were going to use for the induction, the ct scan, the radiation…”

“i know!” jack roars, the sound raw and guttural. he drops the probe and it hits the floor with a dull thud.

the “doctor mode” he has spent years perfecting, the emotional armor he wears like a second skin, cracks wide open. the image of that tiny, flickering heartbeat burned into his retinas. he sees you then; not as a patient, not as a ‘red tag,’ but as the mother of his child, dying on a cold metal table because of a patch of ice and a moment of bad luck.

the room begins to tilt. the bright fluorescent lights turned into blinding white spots. the sound of the ventilator—hiss-click, hiss-click—is like a ticking time bomb.

“jack, look at me,” robby says, stepping into his line of sight, grabbing jack’s shoulders. “jack, you’re hyperventilating. you need to step back.”

“i… i didn’t know,” jack stammers, his legs suddenly turning to lead. “she didn’t… we couldn’t…”

he looks back at you. your face is a mask of trauma, but in his mind, he sees you the way you were hours ago when he left you cold on your shared bed. the way you smiled at him. did you know then? maybe you were waiting for dinner to tell him.

the grief and the shock collide in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. jack’s knees buckle.

“he’s going down!” robby cries, catching him under his arms before he hits the floor.

jack doesn’t fight him. he can’t. his strength is gone, evaporated. he slumps against the wall, his head in his hands, the bloodied plastic of his blue gown crinkling as he collapses.

“get him out of here,” robby orders, his voice firm as he takes over the lead position at the bed. “now! someone, please, get him to the breakroom. i’ll take her up. i promise you, jack, i will do everything. just go!”

jack feels hands on him, a strong grip pulling him up, guiding him away from the bed. he tries to resist, tries to reach out for you, but his body simply won’t obey.

as he’s led through the swinging doors, the last thing he sees is the team swarming around you, the red light of the blood bags hanging over your head, and the ultrasound screen, displaying that tiny, flickering heart once more.

the doors click shut, leaving him in the hallway, the rapid beat of his heart a deafening roar in his ears.

he’s a doctor. he’s a husband. and now, he’s a father.

and he might lose everything before the sun went down.

jesse lets go of his arm when they arrive at the breakroom, and with a quiet “i’m sorry” and a gentle nod he leaves jack behind and returns to the room where the rest of the team is still fighting to save you.

you and the baby.

god, the mere thought raises tears to jack’s eyes.

a baby.

his baby.

biting the inside of his cheek, jack thinks of the previous times when he heard these news. of the sound of your excited, cheerful voice the first time you came up to him with a positive test.

unfortunately he also remembers your heartbroken wails as he hold you tight to his chest, both of you sitting on the bathroom floor at home. he remembers how he bit his lips, forcing himself to stay strong for you but wanting nothing more but to crumble into pieces right there.

you had stopped trying after the second miscarriage. a decision none of you wanted to made but that you needed in order to protect your own hearts and your sanity.

and now… now you’re laying on a cold, metal exam table, closer to death than you’ve ever been and jack has everything to lose.

the breakroom smells of stale coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. it’s a room designed for brief reprieves, for five-minute naps and hurried meals, but right now, for jack, it feel like a cage.

he seats on the edge of a vinyl chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands, at dark, shiny band on his left hand.

you are pregnant. the thought keeps looping in his mind, a frantic, broken record. how could he miss it? he’s a doctor, for god’s sake. he is trained to notice the smallest shifts in physiology, the subtle cues of the human body.

he thinks back to the last few weeks; your sudden preference for tea over coffee, the way you’d been falling asleep on the couch before the 11 o’clock news. he’d chalked it up to stress, to the gray pittsburgh winter, to his own grueling schedule and the fact that he didn’t seem to have time to spare, time for you.

he closes his eyes and sees you in the kitchen three days ago, laughing at the ridiculous apron he usually wears when he cooks. you looked so vibrant, so incredibly alive. now, you have been reduced to a series of vitals on a monitor, a problem to be solved by people who don’t know the sound of your laugh or your favorite movie from your childhood.

“god, please,” he whispers into the empty room. now, jack abbot is hardly a religious man, but the silence of the hospital is demanding a sacrifice. “take me. just… don’t take them. please.”

the door creaks open and jack bolts upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. dr. robby, his best friend, his brother, stands there. he’s stripped off his bloody gown, but his scrubs are darkened with sweat. somehow, he looks older than he did twenty minutes ago.

“jack,” robby says, his voice level, cautious.

“tell me,” jack demands, his voice cracking. “please, tell me. is she… are they-”

“she’s still on the table,” robby says, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “we’ve stabilized the splenic bleed, and the chest tube is draining well. but jack…” robby let’s out a long, heavy sigh. “ the situation is complicated. you know the physiology as well as i do.”

jack slumps back into the chair, the “doctor” part of his brain forcing its way through the grief. he does know.

in a trauma patient, pregnancy changes everything. the blood volume increases by 50%, which means a woman can lose a massive amount of blood before her blood pressure even begins to drop. by the time you see the “crash,” it’s often too late.

“her vitals are brittle,” robby continues, leaning his back against the vending machine. “because of the pregnancy, her heart is already working overtime. and we’re struggling to keep her map high enough to perfuse the placenta without blowing out the repairs we just made.”

“and the baby?” jack asks, the word feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue.

“the fetus is roughly twelve weeks,” robby says. “at this stage, there’s no ‘saving’ the baby independently. the only way to save the pregnancy is to save the mother. but the vasopressors we’re using to keep her pressure up… they cause vasoconstriction in the uterus. we’re effectively starving the baby of oxygen to keep her brain and heart alive.”

it’s the ultimate medical catch-22. to save you, they had to risk the baby. to save the baby, they might lose you.

“the ultrasound showed some subchorionic hemorrhaging,” robby adds softly. “with the impact of the steering wheel, the placenta might be starting to detach. if that happens, she’ll bleed out from the inside faster than we can pump blood into her.”

jack buries his face in his hands. he knows the statistics. he knows that in maternal trauma, fetal demise is as high as 40-50% depending on the severity of the crash.

“i should have been there,” jack groans. “i should have driven her. she told me the brakes felt ‘soft’ last week and i told her i’d look at them on my day off. i didn’t… i didn’t look at them, robby.”

“jack, stop,” robby says firmly, walking the few steps separating him from his friend and crouching in front of him. “the police report said a semi hydroplaned across the median. it wouldn’t have mattered if she was driving a tank. don’t do this to yourself.”

jack looks up, his eyes bloodshot and raw. “how can i not?i’m the one who’s supposed to fix people. i spend twelve hours a day stitching strangers back together, and the one person who matters,” his voice breaks. “i didn’t even know she was carrying our child.”

robby sighs, his expression softening. “she’s a fighter, jack. we both know that. she’s held on this long. but i need you to stay here. if you go back in there…. i can’t worry about you too. i need to focus on them.”

“i can’t just sit here, man,” jack says, his voice rising. “i’m going crazy in this room.”

“then go to the chapel. go for a walk. or go home. but do not come back to that room,” robby warns. “i’ll send dana or jesse out when we have another update.”

as robby turns to leave, jack calls out, “wait.”

robby pauses at the door.

“the heartbeat,” jack whispers. “was it… was it still there when you left?”

robby hesitates for a fraction of a second, a beat that feels like an eternity to jack.

“it was,” robby says. “faint. but it was still there.”

and with that, the door clicks shut, leaving jack alone again.

the breakroom remains too quiet for far too long. jack paces the narrow strip of linoleum between the coffee machine and the round table, his mind a minefield of memories. he keeps seeing you in the passenger seat of his car, laughing at some stupid joke he told, the sun reflecting the stars in your eyes. he keeps thinking about the baby, whose existence had already rewritten the map of his future, even if they haven’t met yet.

then, the overhead speaker crackles. it’s a sound jack hears a dozen times a shift, a sound he usually meets with professional focus.

“code blue, trauma 1. code blue, trauma 1.”

the world doesn’t just tilt; it shatters.

trauma 1. your room.

jack is moving before his brain can even process the command. he throws open the breakroom door, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a bang that echoes down the corridor. he doesn’t care about protocol. he doesn’t care about robby’s orders. he doesn’t care about his own career.

he runs.

the hallway feels miles long, the floor slick under his clogs. he passes a group of residents who scramble out of his way, eyes wide as they see night shift attending sprinting with a look of pure, unadulterated terror on his face.

he bursts through the double doors of the trauma bay, his lungs burning.

“jack, wait!” a nurse shouts, trying to grab his arm as he reaches the scrub sinks.

he doesn’t even look at her. he pushes the doors open with his shoulder, crashing into the room like a storm.

the scene inside is a nightmare rendered in high-definition. the rhythmic, mechanical hiss-click of the ventilator has been replaced by the frantic, high-pitched scream of the heart monitor. a flat, unwavering ekg line that slices through the air like a blade.

robby’s standing on a step-stool over your body, his hands locked, his weight throwing everything into the rhythmic compressions of your chest. crunch. crunch. the sound of ribs giving way under the pressure—a sound jack has heard a thousand times—feels like it’s his own bones that are snapping.

“jack, get out!” robby yells, not breaking his rhythm. his face is drenched in sweat, his eyes fixed on the monitor.

“what happened?” jack screams, stumbling toward the foot of the bed. “what the fuck happened?!”

“she went into v-fib, then pea,” dr. santos shouts over the noise. she was at your side, her hands pressed firmly against the left side of your abdomen, pushing your pregnant belly toward the left.

jack’s medical brain registered it instantly. in a pregnant woman in cardiac arrest, the heavy uterus compresses the inferior vena cava, blocking blood from returning to the heart. if they don’t push the baby aside, the compression robby is doing will be useless. there’s no blood to pump.

“charging to 200!” the tech shouts. “clear!”

robby jumps back. your body jolts off the table as the electricity surges through you. jack watches your hands, the same hands he loved to hold while you both were cuddling on the couch on a slow saturday, flop lifelessly back onto the sterile drape.

the line stays flat.

“again!” jack roars, stepping up to the bed, his voice raw. “increase to 300! charge it again!”

“jack, she’s lost too much blood,” robby pants, resuming compressions. “the acid-base balance is gone. her heart is too tired.”

“don’t you say that! don’t you dare say that!” jack lunges forward, grabbing the paddles from the tech’s hands. his eyes are wild, his breathing ragged. “move, robby! move!”

robby hesitates for a second, then steps aside, hands raised in surrender, letting jack take over.

jack looks down at you. this close, he can see the gray tint creeping into your skin. he can see the way the light in the room seems to be fading out of you.

“you do not leave me,” he hisses, the words a jagged prayer. “you hear me? you stay. you stay for me, and you stay for this baby. do not do this to us.”

“charged!”

“clear!” jack slams the paddles against your chest.

thump. your body arches. the monitors wail.

silence.

one second. two. three.

then, a tiny, erratic blip on the screen. then another.

“i have a rhythm!” dr. santos cries, her fingers pressed to your carotid artery. “i have a pulse! it’s weak, but it’s there!”

the room seems to exhale all at once, but the tension doesn’t break. it just shifts.

“we need to get the bleeding under control now,” robby says, his voice shaking. “jack… she can’t take another arrest. if she codes again, we won’t get her back. the fetal heart rate is in the 60s.”

robby doesn’t finish the sentence, but jack hears is loud and clear.

you’re both dying.

jack stands there, the paddles still in his hands, staring at the flickering green line of your heart. he’s covered in your blood, his gown torn, his soul laid bare in front of his entire team.

he looks at robby, and for the first time in his career, michael sees the “great jack abbot” looking utterly broken.

“save them,” jack whispers, his voice barely audible over the hum of the machines. “whatever it takes, i don’t care. just… don’t let them… save them. please.”

robby nods slowly. “we’re going to try a high-risk embolization to stop the deep pelvic bleed. it’s the only way to avoid more surgery, but the radiation… it’s dangerous for the pregnancy.”

jack looks at your stomach, then back at your face. the choice is impossible.

life or life.

“do it,” jack says, his voice hardening into a cold, desperate resolve. “save her. save my wife. we’ll deal with the rest when she wakes up.”

as they begin to prep the specialized equipment, jack doesn’t leave. he backs into the corner of the room, his back against the cold tile. he watches them work, his eyes never leaving the monitor, counting every single beat of your heart as if he could keep it moving through sheer force of will.

the icu is a different kind of purgatory than the er. in the er, death is a screaming, bloody predator you could fight with a scalpel and a shout, something loud and violent. in the icu, death is a shadow. something silent, patient, and impossible to pin down.

it’s 11:45 p.m. hours have passed since you were moved up from the er.

now you lie in the center of a web of plastic tubing and wires, the steady, rhythmic hiss-click of the ventilator the only thing keeping the room from falling into a grave-like silence. a cooling blanket draped over your legs to keep your temperature regulated, and a specialized fetal monitor strapped across your bruised abdomen, its screen showing a jagged, persistent little line

142 bpm.

jack is sitting in the hard plastic chair pulled flush against your bedside. he hasn’t changed out of his scrub bottoms, though someone forced him to put on a clean gray hoodie to cover the bloodstains on his undershirt. he looks older, tired. devastated. the harsh overhead led lights catch the new lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes.

he’s holding your hand, the only part of you that isn’t covered in bandages or sensors. your skin feels paper-thin and cold.

“i’m here,” he whispers, his voice a dry rasp. “i’m not going anywhere.”

he checks the fetal monitor. that sound, the rapid thump-thump, thump-thump of the baby’s heart, is the most beautiful and terrifying thing he has ever heard. it’s a ticking clock. every beat a miracle, but also a reminder of how much he stands to lose.

“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles, the stone crowning you ring finger cold and harsh against his skin.

were you scared? were you waiting for the ‘right’ moment? god, he would have given anything for that moment to have been over dinner, or in bed, or literally anywhere but on a trauma table.

he leans his forehead against the metal railing of the bed, his eyes closing.

“i went through our messages while i was waiting for you to come out of the or,” he admits, a ghost of a self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “i looked for clues. i looked for a hint. and all i found were grocery lists and you telling me to come home early because you missed me. but i didn’t come home, did i? i stayed for that extra shift. i stayed to fix people i didn’t even know while you were… you were growing a life.”

his guilt is a physical weight, a cold stone in his stomach. he’s dr. jack abbot. he’s supposed to be the one with all the answers, the one who sees the things no one else notices. but he has been blind to the most important thing in his own world.

a nurse slips into the room, her movements practiced and quiet. she checks the bags hanging from the iv pole, her eyes lingering on jack with a mixture of pity and professional concern.

“the baby’s heart rate is holding steady, dr. abbot,” she says softly, nodding toward the fetal monitor. “and her map is at 70. she’s stable for now.”

“for now,” jack repeats, the words feeling like ash. “stable is just another word for ‘waiting for the next crisis’ in this building, and you know it, claire.”

“from what i’ve heard, she’s a fighter, jack,” the nurse replies, mirroring robby’s words from earlier. “and so is the little one. i’ve seen people come back from worse.”

“not many,” jack mutters, but he squeezes your hand a little tighter.

when the nurse leaves, the silence rushes back in. jack stands up, his joints popping, and leans over you. he carefully places his hand on your stomach, right over the sensor. closing his eyes, he tries to feel through the layers of skin and muscle, trying to connect with the tiny being inside you that he had only just met through a grainy ultrasound screen.

“hey,” he whispers to your belly. “i’m your dad. i’m… i’m a bit of a mess right now, but i’m here. and i need you to do me a favor. i need you to keep fighting. i need you to give your mom a reason to wake up. because i don’t think i can do this without her. i know i can’t do this without her.”

before he can realize what’s happening, a tear escapes, tracing a hot path down his cheek and landing on the sterile white sheet.

“i’ll be better,” he promises, his voice cracking. “i’ll be home. i’ll fix the brakes. i’ll learn how to be whatever you both need me to be. just… don’t let go. please, don’t let go.”

outside, the rain continues, now heavier, fiercer. but inside the room, time remains frozen. jack abbot, the man who usually held the city’s lives in his hands, now seats back down and waits for the only life that truly matters to come back to him.

from time to time, doctors filter into the room, checking vitals, checking on jack. robby comes up from the er a couple of times to share a sympathetic smile with him, to promise that everything will be fine.

jack sighs, “i’m a doctor too, robby. you can’t lie to me.”

“and i’m your friend and i know that a bit of hope is what you need right now.”

he stays for a while, keeping jack company until his pager calls him back to action.

“shouldn’t you be home already?” jack asks. “your shift was over hours ago.”

robby only shrugs. “people need me around here.”

at that, jack’s eyes regain that teary shine. nodding, he promises robby to call him if anything changes and waves his fiend goodbye before leaning back again on the chair, his eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest.

the world doesn’t come back all at once. it returns in fragments. first, the rhythmic hiss of a machine, the smell of antiseptic, and a heavy, weighted warmth on your left hand. your eyelids feel like they had been leaded shut, but the persistent, low hum of the icu finally pulls you toward the surface of consciousness.

you groan, the sound catching in the back of your throat, dry and scratchy from the tube that has only recently been removed.

then there’s the faint scratch of a chair scraping against the floor.

“hey… hey, look at me. open your eyes, sweetheart.”

that voice. you know that voice better than your own heartbeat. it’s the same voice that whispers sweet nothings into your ear at night, the same one that you hear in your warmest dreams. except now it sounds rough, exhausted, and trembling with a hope so fragile it feels like it might shatter any moment.

you force your eyes open. the light blinding at first, a sterile white haze, but then it focuses. jack. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. his hair is a mess and his eyes, usually so sharp and clinical, are now swimming with tears.

“jack?” you rasp, your voice coming out as barely a breath.

“i’m here. i’m right here.” he leans over, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long moment as he takes a shuddering breath. “you scared the hell out of me, love.”

you try to move, but a sharp pang in your abdomen makes you wince. memories start to bleed back in. the rain, the blinding headlights, the screech of metal. you instinctively try to reach for your stomach, but your arm feels like lead.

“the… the accident… jack, i…”

“it’s over,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your temple. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”

a few minutes pass by until the door pushes open quietly. robby walks in, followed by an ob-gyn specialist you didn’t recognize. robby looks at you, a genuine, relieved smile breaking through his professional mask.

“welcome back,” robby says, checking the monitors. “you’ve had a hell of a day, but your vitals are finally starting to behave.”

the ob-gyn, a woman with kind eyes that introduces herself as dr. pauline , steps forward. “we need to talk about why you’re feeling so much pressure in your abdomen, besides the surgical repairs.”

jack’s grip on your hand tightens. he looks at you, his expression a complicated map of wonder and fear.

“you’re pregnant, dear,” dr. pauline says softly. “about twelve weeks. the accident was severe, and the trauma to your body was significant. we had to perform some emergency procedures that were high-risk for the pregnancy, but as of twenty minutes ago, the fetal heartbeat is steady.”

the world stops right there and then.

you look from the doctor to jack, your mouth falling open. “pregnant? are you sure?”

dr. pauline nods and you have to bite your lip to keep it from trembling. jack’s grip on your hand tightens.

“it’s going to be a long road,” dr. pauline continues, her tone turning serious but encouraging. “you have a lot of healing to do. your ribs and the internal repairs, plus the blood loss. and for the baby, we’re going to have to monitor you both every hour. there’s some bruising near the placenta, so it’s going to take hard work, absolute bed rest, and a lot of time before we can say we’re completely out of the woods. but right now? right now, you’re both winning.”

“thank you, doctor,” you whisper, voice so small it makes jack’s chest squeeze. “and thank you, michael. jack told me you were the one who took care of me when i arrived.”

robby gifts you with a small, soft smile. grabbing your free hand, he gives it a squeeze.

“i’m glad i could help. but i don’t think i could’ve done it without my team. or without dr. abbot’s aid.”

that has you snapping your attention back to jack.

“you were there?” he simply nods, eyes glued to your hand, to the ring on your finger. “i thought you guys had protocols for that kind of thing.”

“we do,” says robby, nodding.

“fuck the protocol,” barks jack at the exact same time. “my wife was dying. what was i supposed to do? go home? i did what i had to.”

when your eyes finally connect with his again you see it, the utter exhaustion, but behind that there’s something more. something raw and vivid.

“i’m so sorry,” you whisper. “i’m sorry you had to see that, jack. i can’t even imagine…”

“shh…” leaning forward, jack offers you the safe space of his shoulder to cry. “what matters is that you’re alive, love. you both are.”

after the doctors finish their checks and leave the room, a heavy, comfortable silence settles over the two of you. jack doesn’t let go of your hand. he seats on the edge of the bed, staring at you as if you were a ghost that might vanish if he blinked.

“jack,” you whispered, your voice a little stronger now. but you still feel the pressure of your tears threatening to spill at any given moment.

the thought of jack having to bring you back to life, your blood covering his gloved hands… knowing that he had to find out about something you had been suspecting for a couple of weeks through a scan in a trauma room in the er…

“twelve weeks,” he says, his voice thick with his own tears. “and you didn’t… you didn’t tell me.”

there’s no accusation in his voice, only a profound, echoing confusion.

you look down at your hands, the plastic hospital bracelet stark against your skin. “i didn’t know, jack. not for sure.”

jack doesn’t speak, he holds on tight to your hand, dropping a feather like kiss on your knuckles.

“i was suspicious,” you admit, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “but i told myself i was just imagining it. that my brain was playing some twisted tricks on me. but then i started feeling so tired. then there was the coffee. god, the smell of it started making me nauseous about two weeks ago. i’ve been drinking tea ever since.”

jack lets out a short, wet laugh, rubbing his face with his free hand. “i’m a doctor, i should have seen it. i should have known.”

“how could you?” you reach out, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “we stopped looking for the signs a long time ago, jack.”

the air in the room shifts. the “last two times”, two years of hope, two positive tests that ended in heartbreak before the first trimester was even over. they were the shadows that had lived in the corners of your apartment, the reason you both had stopped talking about possible names or color palettes for the nursery. you had both quietly agreed to stop trying, to protect what was left of your hearts.

“i didn’t want to say anything until i was certain,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes. “i couldn’t handle seeing that look on your face again if it didn’t stay. i was going to buy a test this weekend, i promise. i just… i wanted to be sure before i gave you hope again.”

jack leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. his breath hitches. “hope is all i’ve had for the last few hours, watching you on those monitors. i don’t care about the timing. i’ve got you two now. and that’s all i need.”

he moves his hand, sliding it under the hospital blanket to rest flat against your stomach. his palm is warm, steady, and large enough to cover nearly the entire area where the new life rests tucked away.

“we’re going to do the work,” he vows, his voice low. “whatever the doctors say. whatever it takes. i’m not losing either of you. we’ve fought too hard to get here.”

for the first time since the sirens started screaming hours ago, the tension in jack’s shoulders finally breaks.

you rest your head on his shoulder, the steady thump-thump of his heart syncing with yours. it isn’t the perfect, easy ending. there are months of recovery ahead and a thousand medical hurdles to jump but for now, in the quiet of the icu, the three of you are together.

“i love you,” he whispers into your hair.

“i love you too,” you breath, finally letting your eyes drift shut. “both of us.”

the transition from the icu to the step-down unit was supposed to be a victory. it has been ten days since the crash. your chest tube is out, your color is returning, and jack has finally stopped vibrating with the manic energy of a man haunted by ghosts.

but the “pitt” never let anyone relax for long.

jack is sitting in the armchair, his laptop open as he tries to catch up on charts while staying by your side. you are propped up on pillows, picking at a bowl of fruit, when a sharp, searing cramp radiates across your lower abdomen.

it isn’t like the dull ache of your healing surgical incisions. this is different. cold. deep.

“jack,” you gasp, the plastic fork clattering onto the tray.

he’s at your side before the fork hit the floor. “what is it? where’s the pain?”

“cramping. hard.” you grip his forearm, your knuckles turning white. “it feels… it feels like the last times, jack.”

the color drains from his face, but the doctor in him takes the lead before he can panic. he throws back the blankets. and there it is. a small, terrifying smear of crimson on the white sheets.

“pauline! anyone! i need a fetal doppler in here now!” jack shouts toward the hallway, his voice cracking the quiet of the ward.

minutes felt like hours. dr. pauline rushes in, her face set in a grim mask of professional focus. jack stands in the corner, his hands pressed against his mouth. unfortunately, he knows too much. he knows all the signs, just like he knows that post-traumatic subchorionic bleeds could trigger labor or a final, fatal abruption.

the room is filled with the static sound of the doppler searching.

whoosh. whoosh.

the sound of your own pulse, too fast, too frantic.

then, a silence that feels like a death sentence.

“come on,” pauline whispers, moving the probe. “come on, little one.”

thump-thump-thump-thump.

the sound burst into the room. fast, rhythmic, and stubborn.

“heart rate is 150,” pauline exhales, a visible wave of relief washing over her. “the cervix is closed. it’s a ‘threatened’ event, likely just the hematoma from the accident draining. but we are increasing your progesterone and you are on strict, absolute bed rest. no sitting up, no laptop, nothing but breathing.”

jack doesn’t move for a long time after she leaves. he just leans his head against the wall, his chest heaving. the setback lasted only ten minutes, but it had aged him a decade.

“jack,” you call his name softly, patting the free space next to you on the bed.

he walks over and sat on the edge, taking both of your hands in his. “we almost lost the light,” he whisper. “i can’t… i don’t know that i could take it if it happened again, sweetheart.”

“we didn’t lose it,” you said, pulling his hand to your cheek. “they’re still here. we’re still here.”

jack sighs with relief, nodding. he leas down to press a soft, careful kiss to your lips.

three weeks later, the air in pittsburgh finally shifts from the bitter bite of winter to the hesitant warmth of early spring.

you’re not wearing a hospital gown anymore. instead, you wear one of jack’s oversized soft hoodies and a pair of leggings, sitting in a wheelchair by the large windows of the garden pavilion. you are still weak, and your gait is a slow, painful shuffle, but today is the day the doctors, your husband included, have circled in red on the calendar.

week 14. the beginning of the second trimester. the safe zone.

jack walks into the pavilion carrying two cups of herbal tea and a small, rectangular envelope. he looks different today. he’s actually shaved, and for the first time since the night of the pileup, the haunted look in his eyes has been replaced by a quiet, steady glow.

“happy second trimester,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.

“we made it,” you breathe, looking out at the budding trees. “i honestly didn’t think we would.”

“i have something for you,” he says, sitting on the bench beside your chair. he hands you the envelope with a bright smile.

you open it with trembling fingers. inside isn’t a medical chart or a bill. it is a high-resolution 3d ultrasound from that morning’s check-up.

the image is vividly clear. you can see the curve of a tiny nose, the miniature perfection of ten fingers tucked near a chin, and the long legs that robby joked would make the kid a track star.

“look at that nose,” jack whispers, his finger tracing the print. “that’s your nose.”

“yeah. that’s your chin, though,” you laugh softly, a tear of pure, uncomplicated joy sliding down your face. “the abbot stubbornness is already visible.”

while you are still contemplating the small piece of warmth and joy that was still growing inside of you, jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. you look at him, confused.

“jack? we’re already married.”

“i know,” he says, opening the box to reveal a delicate band with a tiny, shimmering stone on top. the birthstone for the month the baby was due. “but the night of the crash, i realized i’d spent so much time being a doctor and a provider that i forgot to be a good husband. i forgot to celebrate the life we were building.”

he takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger next to your wedding band.

“this is a promise,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “no more double shifts when i don’t have to. no more missed dinners. from here on out, it’s the three of us.”

you lean your head back against the headrest of the wheelchair, looking from the ring to the ultrasound, and then to the man who quite literally pulled you back from the edge of the grave.

the trauma is still there, the scars on your body and the stiffness in your limbs would be reminders for a long time, but as the sun warms your skin, the angst of the past month finally begins to dissolve.

“jack?”

“yeah?”

“i think i want thai food tonight.”

jack laughs. and it’s a real, booming abbot laugh that echoes through the garden. “you heard the boss,” he whispers to your stomach. “thai it is.”

bonus

the spare bedroom at the end of the hall had spent years as a storage space for jack’s medical journals and your half-finished art projects. it had been a room of “maybe someday,” a door you both tended to keep closed, preferring to keep the bad memories on the other side.

now, six months after the rain-slicked pavement nearly took everything, the door stands wide open and the scent of paint lingers in the air. a soft, muted sage green that jack spent three weekends perfecting because he refused to let anyone else touch the walls.

you seat in the newly assembled rocking chair, your hand resting atop the prominent, solid curve of your stomach. the baby is active today, a rhythmic tapping against your ribs that feels like a secret code. you are thirty-four weeks along, a milestone that, for a long time, felt like a destination on a map you weren’t allowed to reach.

“i think the crib is slightly crooked,” jack mutters, kneeling on the floor.

he was wearing an old pittsburgh steelers t-shirt, his hair disheveled, looking less like the formidable dr. abbot of the er and more like… like you husband, who was utterly determined to defeat a piece of furniture.

“jack, it’s perfect,” you laugh softly. “the level said it’s straight. you’ve checked it four times.”

“five,” he corrects, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. he walks over to the crib, shaking the railing with enough force to test a bridge. “i just… i need it to be steady. everything has to be steady.”

you reach out, taking his hand and pulling him towards you. immediately, he sinks onto the ottoman at your feet, resting his head against your knees. the fierce, protective energy he carries is a byproduct of the trauma; a lingering shadow of the man who collapsed back in that trauma room. but it was softening, replaced by a deep, quiet anticipation.

“oh. i just remembered. we haven’t opened michael’s gift yet,” you say, pointing to the changing table.

sitting atop a stack of colorful onesies is a beautifully wrapped box with a heavy silver bow. next to it is a card embossed with the university of pittsburgh medical center logo.

according to jack, robby dropped it off at the nurse’s station for him to bring home.

“he said if he had to hear me talk about ‘fetal heart rate variability’ during a trauma shift one more time, he was going to quit, so he bought this to shut me up,” he said as he lay the box on the changing table the other night.

you open the card first. in robby’s cramped, hurried physician’s handwriting, it read:

to my dear friends (and my future favorite abbot),

i’ve known you two for a long time and i truly can’t think of anyone better to take care of each other. i also know that kid will be so lucky to get to call you two mom and dad. i can’t wait to meet the little one.

congratulations on the final stretch!

— robby

inside the box is a high-tech, medical-grade infant vitals monitor, the kind that synced to a smartphone. it’s exactly the kind of gift dr. robby would give: a way to keep watch even when the lights were out. underneath the monitor was a tiny, hand-knitted sweater with a small stethoscope embroidered on the pocket.

“he’s a softie,” you whisper, running your hand over the wool.

“don’t tell him i said so, but he’s the reason we’re sitting in this room,” jack said, his voice drops into that low, honest tone he saved only for you. he looks up at you, his eyes reflecting the soft nursery light. “when i saw you on that table… i forgot how to be a doctor. i forgot how to breathe. he held the line until i could find my way back.”

jack stands up and leans over you, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your forehead before moving down to press his ear against your belly. he waits, silent and still, until the baby delivers a sharp kick right against his cheek.

“hey there,” jack whispers to the bump, a grin breaking across his face. “i hear you. we’re ready for you. everything is ready.”

he stands back, surveying the room; the crib, the sage-green walls, the gift from his brother, the man who helped save your lives, and the woman who was his entire world. the angst of the pitt, the screams of the monitors, and the cold terror of the icu feel like a lifetime ago. they are just scars now. like faded, silver lines that proved they survived the storm.

“do you think the baby will like the room?” you ask.

jack wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out at the quiet pittsburgh street below.

“she’ll love it,” jack promises.

the sun begins to set outside the window, casting a warm, golden glow over the nursery, turning the sage walls into the color of a new spring. you’re a survivor, jack is a father, and in just a few short weeks, the pitt would be nothing more than a place where jack went to work, while his real life, his whole life, waited for him right here, at home.

[crowdedimagines]

Close Range

Aaron Hotch x reader

Summary: set around the season four episode two titled ‘The Angel Maker’. Hotch can't fly home with his ear after a close range shot, but you would never let him drive back to Quantico all by himself. He may finally have to lean on you.

Word Count: 4.2K

-

It was surprisingly humid in Ohio, you guys have been here for a few days following the murders that imitate a serial killer called the Angel Maker. It all kicked off with the one year anniversary of his execution. 

Emily had figured out that the particular locations of the stab wounds were based on constellations, the Angel Maker killed the first six victims and she was trying to complete his work. It was all based on The Heavenly Waters, it was clear the unsub was in love with the serial killer and acting out of vengeance.

Cortland Bryce Ryan. 

Reading over their letters to each other, even coded, you guys were able to figure out she had lost the child she was planning to bring into the world to keep him alive. When this child died, that was her stressor.

Garcia was able to narrow down a list of when who had children the right timespan that left the father off the birth certificate of their child. There happened to be one repeat name, Chloe Kelcher who was also on the jury for Cortland’s trial. 

You guys turned Chloe’s apartment upside down, but it paid off when you got the clue you needed. Rossi found an appointment book with the victims names on specific days inside. Today had a woman named Faye Landreaux listed with her address. Everyone took off for her house, not bothering for a seatbelt as Hotch sped. 

“Car’s still warm.” Morgan says walking up to you guys, “We have to be right behind her.” 

Hotch looks over the house, “The windows are closed. That’s a good sign.”

Part of the ritual had been opening all of the windows in the house to ‘release their soul’ so you guys weren’t too late yet. 

“Well, my team is ready.” The sheriff draws his weapon, “Let’s get in there.”

“Sherriff,” Hotch starts, “We didn’t recover a gun at Chloe’s apartment. We have to assume she’s armed.”

“Well, so are we.” He argues. 

You roll your eyes, “If you storm in now, she’ll shoot. Chances are she’ll start with Faye.”

Morgan looks between everyone, “So, what should we do?”

“I think we should look for an open window.” His focus remains on the house, “Sheriff, I need you to bring all of your vehicles around to the front with lights and I need a megaphone.” 

Hotch nods and the Sheriff takes off to get his men to move the cars. You start to scope out the house, trying to find the best point of entry that Chloe wouldn’t see coming from a mile away. 

“I-” You start. 

“Morgan, go.” Hotch instructs, “The last thing we need is to give her access to another woman.” 

Derek takes off, a low quick stride toward the back of the house. You remain at Aaron’s side, choosing to bite your tongue. Recently he’s become protective of you, you don’t get sent in first anywhere. Definitely not alone. He makes sure to always put himself in front of danger for you, and that was no different with Morgan now. 

“Hotch,” Emily steps up, “I’m not sure you’re the right person to get through to her.” 

“Can anyone get through to her?” You ask out loud. 

“Probably not.” Hotch admits, “But you'll have a better chance than I will.” 

He passes the megaphone off to you.

“The profile is clear, you can’t talk this woman down.” Reid interjects. 

“No, but I can occupy her.” You say, knowing exactly what Aaron is thinking. You may be able to buy the time for Morgan to get Faye out of the house. 

“Chloe Kelcher,” you call out, “this is the FBI.”

You pause.

“We know you’re in there, and we know what you’re trying to do.”

You wait, holding out for any sign of activity in the dark house. 

“I know you think that finishing what Cortland started will bring you closer to him, but you should know who he really was. I know you thought what you had with him was special, but the truth is he used the same lines in all the letters he wrote.”

Spencer writes quickly on his notepad and holds out the exact phrases for you to say. Using the direct verbiage will no doubt unravel her even further. You can hear the destruction she’s creating inside as you read it off.

“He wasn’t who you thought he was,” you continue, “He was a narcissist. He wasn’t capable of loving anyone but himself. He wrote to dozens of women.” 

Morgan is quickly dashing along the side of the house, Faye protectively at his side until they make it safely behind the police line. 

“It’s over, Chloe.” You call out again, “We have Faye.” 

You can hear her reaction from out here, things being destroyed and her repeatedly yelling out ‘no’ over and over. She has nowhere to go. 

“Well, maybe she’ll put herself down.” The sheriff mutters. 

“No.” Hotch shakes his head, “She isn’t finished.” 

A minute later the screen door on the front of the house slowly creaks open, everyone draws their gun seeing the weapon in her hand. 

“Chloe, drop the gun.” Hotch demands. She continues off the steps, not even hesitating in her steps. Her face looks emotionless, she looks done. 

“Chloe.” He repeats as she continues to advance, “Drop the weapon.”

“Dammit lady, drop it!” The sheriff yells. 

She looks up to the sky, “I’m coming to you, baby.” 

“Wait-” You shout. 

Chloe lifts her arm, but she barely raises her arm before the sheriff has fired off a shot directly into her chest. The gunshot shattered everything, it was loud and violent and right next to Hotch. He flinched hard, his entire body seizing as his hands flew up to his ear. 

“Hotch-”

He staggers, bracing himself against the cruiser. He ducks his head and squeezes his eyes shut like it was still stuck ringing in his head. You know ever since the explosion in New York he’s been having problems that he’s been trying hard to hide. 

“Aaron.” You are at his side, one hand on his arm, “Talk to me.”

“I..” He presses harder against his ear, his chest rising a little faster as he winces again. 

You can see EMTs rushing around you guys, moving toward Chloe but you know it’s useless. The sheriff was precise with his aim. You step directly in front of him, forcing his focus. 

“Aaron, look at me.” You say it softly and as clearly as possible, “Just breathe, okay? Slow.” 

His jaw remains tight with pain, “It’s ringing…”

“I know.” You nod, “That shot was way too close. You probably shouldn’t be in the field like this yet.” 

He raises his brows, reminding you he’s the boss and you so badly want to comment about how that he was able to hear crystal clear. 

"Try to relax." You sigh, "Breathe."

He focuses on you and takes a few deep breathes. Rossi watches you both from a few feet away, he holds off Reid from approaching with a quiet ‘give them a second’ causing everyone to back off and give him some space. After a few minutes, he starts to seem closer to his normal self. He slowly releases the tight hold over his ears, letting his arms drop. 

“You with me?” You ask softly. 

He manages a small nod, “Yeah.” 

“Okay good,” you exhale, “You scared me for a second.” 

That got a faint reaction, more than what he’ll typically allow. The corners of his mouth tick upward for a few seconds. 

“I’m fine.” 

You tilt your head immediately to show that you absolutely did not believe him, but you wouldn’t push it. At least not right now. The sheriff approaches to discuss the case with Aaron. You look over your shoulder once before leaving his side to head over to where Morgan and Emily stand despite their smirks and stares.

“Did she make herself the final victim?” You ask, nodding to Chloe’s body. 

Emily nods, “Yeah, how’d you know?” 

“She loved him, she was going to finish his work one way or another.”

-

The next morning came fast, it was a late night processing the scene. The small town motel had stale air and thin walls, but it was a short few hours of rest before the jet would be fueled up. Everyone met down in the parking lot by the SUVs to pack up. Aaron is off to the side with his phone in hand. 

“Morning.” You call, falling into step beside him. 

Morning.” He puts his phone in his pocket and looks up, his gaze softening. 

“How’s your ear?” 

He hesitates. 

“It’s manageable.”

You squint, “That bad, huh?”

He doesn’t answer, which is an answer. 

Everyone has loaded up so you follow Hotch to one of the SUVs and he gets in to drive, and you get in the passenger seat. You notice two cups of coffee sitting in the cupholders and look at him. 

“I know how you’ll be without caffeine.” He explains, raising a brow but avoiding eye contact. He’s saved from your response when Rossi and Reid get in the backseat and then it’s a quiet ride to the small airport. He pulls up to the jet and everyone wordlessly gets out, Morgan, Emily, and JJ get out of the other SUV. 

Bags are unloaded in a quick familiar rhythm that only comes with a team that does this so frequently. Until Hotch clears his throat and stops everyone in their tracks. 

“I’ll be driving back.” He holds the car key in his hand. 

Rossi steps back toward him, “Aaron… that’s an eight-hour drive.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“You shouldn’t be flying with your ear, right?” You comment, realizing why he won’t be joining the team. 

He nods once, “The pressure change could make it worse.” 

Reid nods, “He’s right, actually. If there’s already trauma to the auditory system, cabin pressurization could exacerbate it.” 

“That’s a long drive alone.” Emily adds. 

Hotch nods and steps back toward the SUV like the conversation was already over. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

The team exchanged looks. 

“Have a safe flight.” 

He walks back toward the SUV and the team still hasn’t moved, aside from Rossi who steps directly in front of you. 

“Kid.” He starts, “You’re not gonna make him do it alone, are you?”

He raises his brows and you can feel the attention of everyone on you. Emily lets out a snicker and you shoot her a glare before looking back at Rossi. He’s right, you would never make him do that drive alone. 

You shake your head and yell over your shoulder, “Hotch, wait up!” 

You turn to take a couple of quick steps over to where he’s getting in the SUV. Your duffle bounces on your shoulder and you toss it in the backseat.

“Y/n-” He starts as you haul yourself into the passenger seat. 

“Nope.” You buckle in. 

“You should go with the team.” He insists with a firm tone, “It’s a short flight, you’ll be back in Quantico in an hour. You can rest-”

“And you can’t.” You interrupt, finally looking over at him but mainly so you can grab your coffee and take a sip. 

“You just took a gunshot to your hearing yesterday, do you really think I’m letting you drive for eight hours by yourself?”

“I’ll manage.” 

“Probably, but that’s not the point.” 

He exhales slowly, “Y/n-”

All you have to do this time is raise your brows, ready to go back and forth all day and he can see it. 

The car ride started quiet, both of you settling into the car and honestly being so intimately just the two of them. The road stretched far ahead of you, you have one leg tucked under the other to get comfortable. Hotch glances over briefly.

“You planning on staying like that the entire drive?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, “You planning on letting me drive at all today?”

His glare tells you that’s a no.

Hotch had no plans to make any stops other than the necessary gas and bathroom breaks. But somewhere along the stretch of highway you had grown fidgety, “If we don’t stop soon, I’m going to start critiquing your driving out of boredom.” 

He doesn’t look over, “You’ve already been doing that.” 

“Yeah, but now it’ll get personal.” 

He looks over at your serious expression before eventually throwing on a blinker. The gas station was nothing special, but it was the first stop since the two of you had left the tarmac. A couple of pumps and a convenience store, heat rising off the pavement in visible waves. You step out of the car and stretch right away, ditching your jacket in the car leaving you in a tank top. 

Hotch rounds the back of the car, “I’ll get the gas.” 

You nod, “I’ll grab snacks.” 

By the time you come back out, Hotch is leaning against the car waiting. His posture is relaxed in a way that only happens when he thinks no one is watching. You slowed a little as you got closer. He looks a lot less like a unit chief like this, he's just a man waiting for you to return.

“Miss me?” You grab his attention, his eyes drop briefly to where the fabric of your shirt clings to you. He can see a sliver of skin exposed where it’s riding up slightly. You catch him, and raise a brow to show it. 

“...Something you want to say?” You step closer, your voice is teasing. 

He clears his throat and pushes off the car, “It’s warm out.” 

“Oh, is that what it is?” 

“Yes.”

“Not you staring at me like you forgot how your eyes work?” You chuckle, enjoying every single second of this. 

“I was not-”

“You were,” You grin wider, “I thought you were having hearing problems, not vision-”

“Get in the car, Y/n.”

You laugh harder, sliding into the passenger seat. “That’s what I thought.”

The car felt different after that. It was still quiet but it wasn’t comfortable like it had been earlier, it was buzzing. The radio played lowly which he didn’t have on before. You stare out the window, but you aren’t really paying attention to the scenery. Aaron’s focus is locked on the road, his grip a little too tight on the wheel. 

Minutes pass, then it hits sharp and sudden. Hotch sucks in a breath, flinching as his hand shoots up to his ear. 

“Dammit.” 

“Aaron?” You turn instantly, “What-what is it?” 

“Just-” He winces again and presses his palm harder against his ear, “It’s sharp.”

“Okay, pull over.” You say immediately. 

“I’m fine-” He tries. 

“Hotch.” Your voice firm, “Pull over.” 

Another sharp pain rings out in his ear and he eases onto the shoulder, putting the car in park a little harder than necessary. The second the car is stopped you unbuckle and turn fully toward him. 

“Hey hey!" Your voice is soft but pleading, "Look at me, talk to me. Is it still ringing?”

“Yeah, it’s worse,” He admits, “It’s pressure.” 

“Okay,” You nod, “take your hand off for a second.” 

You reach for his wrist to pull his hand away, he slowly lets go and lowers it. You shift closer and your hand hovers over his ear before adjusting the angle of his head. 

“Tilt a little.” Your voice is softer than Aaron has ever heard it. 

He follows your lead, but his jaw is still tight. 

“Breathe,” You add quietly, “You’re tensing up, it’s going to make it worse.” 

“I am not.” 

“You are,” You hold his head there, “It’s okay, just breathe.”

Slowly his breathing returns to normal, coming out softer. His shoulders loosen a fraction when your hands curl around his head. His eyes are closed and he finally looks relaxed for a few minutes. The pain didn’t disappear, but it did help dull the ache. 

You pull back slightly while studying his face, “Better?”

He opens his eyes, “A little.” 

“Okay, good.” You sit fully back in your seat again, “Switch.”

He blinks, “What?”

“I’m driving.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” He repeats more firmly this time, “I’m fine.” 

“Aaron-”

“I said I’m fine.” 

You stare at him, really stare, “You aren’t and that’s okay. When was the last time you let someone take care of you?”

His expression didn’t change right away, but his gaze did drop to his hands briefly. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. This is probably the first time you’ve seen him speechless. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” You say gently.

A long stretch passes between you two before he eventually unbuckles his seatbelt. A few minutes later and they were back on the road, only now Hotch sat in the passenger seat. He has one hand resting loosely near his ear and the other is bracing the door. Somehow he looks bigger in the seat you typically occupy. 

“Try to relax,” You glance over briefly, “You’re allowed to, you know.” 

He exhales what you think might be a laugh, “I don’t think I remember how.” 

You smile and let your gaze flick over to him, his eyes already on you. 

“Well, you’ve got at least another five hours to figure it out.” 

You look back to the road, but can tell he’s still looking at you. He says your name so softly you weren’t sure you actually heard it, but look back. 

“Thank you.” He nods. 

“Anytime.”

Somehow that meant more to him than anything else you could’ve said. 

The road continued to stretch on for miles, it was the kind of drive that blurred time a little. You kept things smooth and glance over at him once and notice he’s fallen asleep at some point. His head was tilted toward the window, his posture loosened. You blink a few times, darting back and forth between him and the road. Aaron did not fall asleep in moving vehicles, he didn’t relax enough. But now?

His breathing was even, his face softer than you’d ever seen it. He had no lines between his brows, and the tightness in his jaw had evaporated. He looks so peaceful you’re half tempted to run a hand back through his hair. You don’t, instead you turn the music down another notch and keep driving. 

Time passed. A lot of it. 

The sun was starting a slow descent in the late afternoon, casting the whole car in a soft gold glow. He gradually stirred, a shift in his breathing before he blinked his eyes a couple times. You can see the disorientation and then he straightens almost immediately. 

“How long?” He looks over at you. 

You smile, “Long enough.” 

He exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck, “I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t have had to drive the whole time.” 

You finally glance at him, “I didn’t have to, I wanted to.”

“That’s not the point.” He argues. 

“Isn’t it?” 

He frowns, “Y/n-”

“You needed sleep!” You shrug, “You got it, that’s a win.”

The guilt is written on his face. 

“I should’ve stayed awake.” 

You let out a huff of disbelief, “You cannot help yourself, can you?”

“I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” Your tone coming off far less teasing, “You were exhausted, Aaron. And in pain and you still weren’t going to stop.” 

He doesn’t argue with that, because he can’t. 

“You don’t have to do that all the time,” You look back at him again, “Carry everything by yourself.” 

He looks at you for a long moment, taking in everything you said and how honest and genuine it all was. Your hands are steady on the wheel, focused and calm. Your face is unguarded, revealing that this wasn’t some burden to you. He wasn't a burden.

“I’m not used to it.” He finally admits. 

“Yeah, I figured.” You smile, “When was the last time you slept like that?”

He thought about it, he actually thought about it and he was stumped. 

“I don’t remember.” 

Your chest tightens at his admission. 

“You don’t have to earn rest, Aaron.” You add after a moment, “It’s not something you should ever have to justify.” 

Hotch let out a slow breath, leaning his head back against the headrest. 

“I know that.” 

“But you don’t do it.” You call out.

“No.”

You smile slightly, “Good thing I’m here then.” 

That gets the corners of his mouth to flick up, you catch it. 

“I suppose it is.” 

His words were quiet, but they hang over the car. The man sitting next to you is so far from your typical unit chief. As much as you’ve felt something between the two of you, it’s never been something either of you have vocalized. 

“Ear any better?” 

“A little.” He nods. 

“Good.” 

There’s a comfortable pause before he clears his throat.

“Y/n?” You look over and you can see him hesitate for a second while deciding his words, “Thank you. Thank you for staying.”

He finally looks unguarded to you, genuine and honestly a little unsure of himself. It softens you completely knowing he’s showing you a new side of himself. 

“I was never going to leave you.” You say simply, “Besides, you talk in your sleep so that kept things interesting.” 

He blinks, “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“How would you know?” You turn and smirk, catching him rolling his eyes. 

After a couple more hours of highway, the roads started to become familiar. You pulled into the parking garage, the tires echoing softly against the concrete. You turn off the car and neither of you move to get out right away. 

“Well,” You exhale, “we made it.” 

He doesn’t answer immediately, he’s already looking at you. Not the quick glances from earlier, this was steady and intentional. You could feel it in your bones. 

Your breath catches slightly, “What?”

“It was nice.” 

You blink. 

“The drive?”

He softly shakes his head, “No.” 

He pauses. 

“...This.” 

You shift in your seat, turning to face him a little more. He exhales, his gaze dropping to the steering wheel before coming back to you. 

“I meant what I said earlier about not being used to being taken care of.” He continues and you don’t interrupt or make a joke this time, “It’s not something I’ve ever relied on or even allowed.”

Your chest tightens slightly.

“But with you-” He carries on, “It didn’t feel like something I had to resist.” 

“Aaron.” You say softly. 

He shakes his head like he needed to get it out before he lost the nerve. 

“It felt right”

Your eyes hold his. 

“You’re the only person I would want it from.” 

That did it.

Whatever line they’d been dancing for months, especially while on this drive, was gone. You let out a small breath of disbelief. 

“Well,” A small smile tugging at your lips, “good. I’m not exactly offering that kind of treatment to just anyone.” 

His own smile begins to appear.

“Glad to hear it.” 

“Can you hear it?” You tease and he rolls his eyes, but the smile doesn’t waver. 

“So, what does that make us?” You ask, reaching out your hand for his. He takes it and his hands are warm and callused. 

“Something we should’ve acknowledged sooner.” He jokes. 

“That sounds dangerously close to a real answer.” You smirk. 

His hand reaches up to cup your face, his thumb passing over your cheekbone. 

“I’d like to give a relationship a chance, if that’s something you want.” 

You search his face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt. All you see is Aaron. 

“I would like that.” 

The words leave your lips and he chases them. You have to fight a smile to kiss him back, relishing in the warmth of his lips. You reach out to pull him closer by the collar of his shirt and his hand reaches back into your hair. You sigh and he swallows it. 

“We should probably go upstairs.” He pants after a moment. 

You look around the mostly empty garage and nod. The bullpen was mostly empty by the time the elevator dropped the two of you off. It was late enough that the team had gone home. 

Except for one. 

Garcia was walking back to the lair, realizing she left her keys behind but she stops in her tracks when she hears an unfamiliar laugh. She turns and looks back to see you and Aaron walking side by side, in sync. Hotch has a wide smile on his face, looking down at you and Garcia’s jaw nearly hits the floor. 

Hotch holds the glass door open for you and the two of you disappear from Garcia’s view but she can’t move a muscle. Did she really just see that? She starts digging for her phone in her purse, the click of her loud heels following her back to the lair. 

“Derek Morgan you will never believe what I just saw.”

an// awe this was kinda fun! i was rewatching and love the idea of continuing on where the episode left off! plz lmk your thoughts!

[applecidertears]

ᨳ a cushy landing

dean winchester x hunter!reader (gn)

tags: early season dean. mutual crush. reader wears chapstick.

wordcount: 1.4k

a/n: I kinda don't like the execution of this one so I might delete it...but I'll just post it as a filler for now, enjoyy! (pls pardon any errors esp on the grammar tenses, a girl was struggling TT)

Normal people come home after work, sit down with their family and have a nice dinner. Normal people are washed up and all cozy in bed before 11pm. Normal people certainly don't break into people's houses in the dead of the night to play Ghostbusters.

But, unfortunately for you, who had long resigned all sense of normalcy when you signed up to hunt with the Winchester brothers, you were currently standing next to the shards of broken glass that were once a window. Right in the middle of some poor guy's living room, as the other two males made a mess of the whole place, looking for…you don't even know what they were looking for. All you knew was that you wanted just one night off, but instead you were dragged out of bed at 3am because the boys needed "backup" for whatever reasons.

"You know, why can't we just have a normal night for once where we're all tucked in and ready for bed by 11pm?" You asked to no one in particular as the brothers continued redecorating the place as they liked.

"Well that's 'cause we're hunters, we're basically nocturnal," Dean grunted, lifting one of the extra-large bags of salt he hauled from the car and plopping it down in front of you.

"Alright, c'mon. We gotta make this ring before 4am, or we're gonna be the ones with our asses busted by this ghost instead of the other way around. Hey Sammy, you good to cover upstairs?"

"Yea," the younger one replied, "You guys go ahead. I have something I want to check out." his voice already faded out as he disappeared around the corner and up the stairs.

Sighing, you slipped a hand into your jeans pocket and pulled out the engraved blade Dean had gifted you for your birthday. It was the first birthday you had spent on the road as a full-time hunter with the boys. Dean had engraved your initials and a quote from a movie you both enjoyed and bonded over in the early years of your partnership. It was sweet, and came in extremely handy on the job, like right now. You dig the blade into the bag, making a small enough incision for a decent amount of salt to flow through.

Dean had already started lining the floor with salt when you started adding on, the ring would've been done in no time. Theoretically. Had Dean and Sam not done a little rearranging of their own to the place.

It all happened so fast. One moment you were focused on making sure your end of the salt ring could meet Dean's end nicely, and the next, all you could feel was your foot snagging an oddly placed lamp, then the extra-large bag of salt was pulling you towards the floor for a musky kiss. There was a brief string of startled curses and a flurry of motion, before you shut your eyes and the world went dark.

You felt the air get knocked out of your lungs as you hit the ground and a huge thud sounded through the room.

The floor was just as hard as it looked on your back. But with how dramatic the buildup was, you definitely expected a nastier landing. It's a good thing you had worn a thick fleece-lined jacket that helped cushion your fall. You silently thanked your past self for being sensible and slowly opened your eyes.

You blinked once. Then twice. Attempting to recover from the disorientation as you waited for the world to right itself. You couldn't really figure out what part of the room your eyes were trying to focus on, but then it's eyelids lifted, and all you could see was a familiar shade of green staring right back at you.

Suddenly, you were both all too aware of the way your bodies were currently pressed flush against each other.

Your hands were gripping onto his shirt, dangerously close to his chest, where his heart was beating like crazy in tandem with yours. Your legs so tangled up with each other's that honestly, neither of you could tell which pair belonged to who.

And most pressingly, the weight of his lips against yours, giving him a personal taste test of the chapstick you applied back in the impala.

For a second, none of you dared to move. You lay there on top of one another, barely processing the situation you both landed in. Then Dean makes the first move and breaks his lips from yours. He straightened his arms, lifting his crushing weight off you, but stayed hovering not even an inch away from you, lips still parted. His cheeks were slightly flushed, from the fall or from…something else—you couldn't be sure—and his eyes were wide with shock, flickering between your eyes and lips. The amulet he wore as a charm silently swayed side to side like a pendulum as his mind tried to comprehend what had just happened.

"Uhm…Dean?" He flicks his gaze back up to meet you.

"Could you, uh…maybe get off?" you spoke softly, breaking the silence hanging over the room.

Dean blinks at your request. Then, seemingly snaps out of his trance.

"What?"

"I kind of need you to get off so I can get up."

"Oh—shit, sorry. Right, I'll uh get off of—" he stuttered out, flustered as he scrambled to his feet. "Uhm, here," he offered you a hand, looking anywhere at the floor but you.

You grabbed it with thanks and tried to haul yourself upright. But Dean, being the helpful partner he is, tries to pull you up too. And before you could prepare yourself, you were launching straight back into his arms, coming to an abrupt stop so close that your hands were back to where they were pressed against his chest before, and you could feel his breath against yours. You think his heart might be beating even faster than before.

Dean couldn't help the way his eyes flickered down to your lips again—where his had been just moments ago—before he seemed to realise that he was staring, and consciously dragged his gaze back up to meet yours. You searched his eyes for a moment, inhaled sharply, and pulled away from him with great effort.

Dean is suddenly self-conscious, clearing his throat and muttering something like an apology while he scratches the back of his neck.

"It's fine, I mean, it was my fault for being so unaware of my surroundings anyway. Thanks for the effort though, really." You gave him a small, reassuring smile, hoping he wouldn't see the heat creeping up the back of your neck and ears.

"Uhm, next time though, maybe try not to go down with me. I think that just really defeats the purpose of your heroic act," you jokingly teased, hoping to ease up the mood.

He plays along, rolling his eyes and scoffing slightly, "Or you could just try not to trip over literally everything."

"Hey! You were the one who put that damn lamp there!"

"Well, I'm not the one who walks like a newborn fawn now, am I?" he throws his hands up and raises his brows at you. "And now our salt ring is everywhere. Okay, go grab your salt bag. We gotta redo this—"

"Hey, guys! I found a journal in the upstairs study and—" Sam chimes in as he reappeared around the corner. "Uh…why is there salt everywhere?"

"Oh, uh…" you and Dean both looked at each other.

"Don't worry 'bout that, we were uh—we'll fix it." Dean mumbled out, hands rubbing the back of his neck again as he did.

"Yea, sorry, I just got my legs into a bit of a tangle and…well you know how clumsy I can be sometimes…" you added on, trailing off and giving an awkward chuckle.

"Right…well, glad you're fine? Be more careful next time," Sam replies, looking between you and Dean like he knew there was something more to that but didn't press.

As he continued rambling about some ink pot a journal told him about, you and Dean locked eyes again.

The tension was palpable and you could feel all the things left unsaid. But neither of you would let yourselves go there. You couldn't, not with the fate of the world still resting on all your shoulders.

But maybe one day, when the world is ready, you and dean will finally be able to see what the two of you could be together.

────── ⋆₊˚꒰ঌ ໒꒱⋆₊˚ ──────

take two on attempting to post this fic w/o being silenced (flagged) by tumblr

hope y'all enjoyed this!! tsym for reading once again and I'd love to hear any constructive feedback/suggestions from y'all ^^

[applecidertears]

writing my fics and formatting my posts could be rlly fun rn but unfortunately I have this thing where I keep procrastinating on the stuff I rlly rlly want to do

[applecidertears]

I finished formatting and tried posting but tumblr silenced me by flagging it as explicit </3

edit: appeal went through but when I tried editing the post to add a cut they hid it for good wtf,, ig this was not meant to be

edit x2: uhm woke up to see the post up and running,, idk what happened but yay!!

[applecidertears]

writing my fics and formatting my posts could be rlly fun rn but unfortunately I have this thing where I keep procrastinating on the stuff I rlly rlly want to do

[hopelessbrain]

SHARED HABITAT

...i'm hoping to make couple chapters out of this so let me know if you like it!!

wordcount: 766

summary: you were always the “quirky” one back home, a small– careful– deer; Sam was always the “freak”, too tall for his own body– moose.

warnings: fem!reader, reader described as short, living my truth as big eyed girl, slight angst (social outcasts), fluff, pinning idiots, mutual feelings, bestfriend!sam, somewhat young au (late teens), eventually kissing!

Lawrence, Kansas wasn’t exactly the best place to be anything but loud, confident and traditional; much less a high school. High School's always brutal. Bunch of teenagers crammed into classrooms, teachers who couldn’t care less, the awkwardness of growing into yourself…

Growing.

Jesus that guy took it to heart– you think to yourself as you spot a tall, lanky kid standing by the lockers. Despite his towering height, he seemed to be trying his best to take up the least space humanly possible.

Huh, weird.

Usually it’s the other way around, especially for a guy his size. Still focused on your inner dialogue, you’re too busy to spot the group of people planted firmly in the middle of the hallway– great, just what you needed– you think to yourself, notebooks falling from your hands as the group turn to throw you a nasty glare. You ignore their dirty looks, fairly used to them by now; but as your knees hit the ground to grab the notebook, the grating voice of an entitled little– not the point– the voice of one of them, pointed down at you.

“Eager for a fresh start, Bambi?” His voice asks with mockful pity. God, you’d hoped that stupid nickname had disappeared during the summer— guess your luck isn’t that good.

“Sorry, got distracted.” You answer, not really focused on giving them their much desired attention as you get back up.

As you scurry to leave them behind as fast as possible, you can’t help but notice the soft, awkward but weirdly kind smile the giant guy offers you.

Huh, double weird.

The first couple days were no different than the hundreds of ‘back to school’ days you’d had along your life but hey, at least this one would be your last year in this stupid high school.

Annoying high schoolers in your town had one benefit– absolutely none of them were spending their ‘precious’ time in the library, this gave you a safe enough space to h̶i̶d̶e̶  read during breaks. You push open the wooden doors, shoulders tensing in anticipation when seeing you're not alone.

The messy brown haired head perks up when hearing the door, your wide eyes only softening upon realizing it was huge guy from the hallway.

“Hey”, he greets quietly. His voice is soft– you like soft.

People around here don’t ‘do soft’, until now at least. “Hi”, your reply is quiet– still guarded despite the warmth his dimpled smile offered you.

Once more you see him shrink into himself, pulling his stuff closer to him on the table and straightening up in his seat as much as his long limbs allowed him to.

“You do that a lot”, you point out, probably sounding weird given the few interactions you’d had with him.

“Hm?” He looks up, a confused head tilt that is two floppy ears away from making him a puppy. “Curl into yourself”, you explain in a voice not as judging as genuinely curious.

“Oh– yeah,” he chuckles awkwardly, “m’ kinda big so I try not to take up too much space.” His reasoning seems so simple and genuine that it almost makes you feel bad for even calling him out on that. “You can take up space– I don’t need much”, you shrug your shoulders as you offer him a small peace treaty.

It was true, what he had in towering height– you lacked, clearly.

It became a quiet, comfortable ritual for you two, the library serving as a safe haven for two dorky outsiders. School life became somewhat tolerable with Sam by your side– that’s his name, Sam, you had to stop calling him ‘tall hallway guy’ at some point. Turns out he wasn’t just an awkward teenager with a random growth spurt– but he was also sweet, smart and nice in a refreshing way that made you instantly warm up to him.

People weren’t exactly kind to him either, only difference was that Sam didn’t let them cut too deep– he simply offered them a polite smile, a small nod and walked off. It also probably helped that he was a sasquatch…

The Bambi jokes didn’t stop– that name was practically a second skin by now– though the rest of students were quick to jump on the opportunity to crown Sam as Moose. He always saw the positive side of it– he always tried to do so, especially when he saw the stubborn tick of your jaw– saying that it was somewhat poetic they thought you were a deer and him a moose. For now– things were easier, better– sharing a habitat.

[emeritusemeritus]

Occam’s Razor.

Occam’s Razor- a philosophical principle of simplicity. It suggests that when faced with multiple competing hypotheses or explanations, the one that makes the fewest assumptions and is the simplest is most likely to be correct.

[Aaron Hotchner x BAUAgent!Reader]

2.2.k.- Secret relationship, hidden relationship. Boss/Employee relationship, power play. Kissing. Rossi stirring the pot. Poor Spence. Reader went to Northeastern University for her degree (unspecified). The team finding out about their relationship.

Hotch Masterlist

You gasp as the cold night air bites at your skin, the warmth of the hotel lobby having deceived you as to the true temperature outside. It's early, not even 3am as every hotel guest pours out from the exits to gather outside in the courtyard upon the insistence of the fire alarm that was blaring even outside the building. Just as everyone else, you'd panicked from the sudden and very unwelcome wake up call and had thrown on the first items of clothing you could find before evacuating the building. Upon your descent down the stairs, you'd joined up with Spencer, Hotch and Emily before finding the rest of the team outside.

It was freezing, the wind whipping at your body and plunging your body temperature almost instantly. You fought to stop your teeth chattering, your limbs visibly shaking and you cursed yourself for not having your uniform with you at the time.

Thankfully, your favourite sweatshirt has been on hand to throw over yourself but the little sleep shorts you had on were not offering any warmth or protection from the cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the long sleeves of the sweatshirt protecting your hands slightly. You weren't wearing a bra, mainly because you're not a sadist and wouldn't dream of torturing yourself like that when asleep. The cold permeated your clothes with ease and your nipples were hard and aching, almost sore to the touch from the cold alone. Your arms covered your chest the best you could and you prayed that nobody noticed your predicament.

The team were in the same boat, with most of them in various levels of undress wearing only their pyjamas, with the exception of JJ who wore a remarkably warm looking cardigan that made you want to step forward and hug her.

It was odd, you had to admit, seeing everyone's preference for nightwear and how varying their choices were. Spencer was wearing a two piece set of pyjamas with little coloured triangles all over. Looking closer you noticed that written between the various printer triangles were prints of Pythagorean theorem across the fabric.

You'd never considered what the team wore as pyjamas before but most of them were true to character, even if it was odd to view. Rossi especially piqued your interest, seeing him in a crisp two piece set with the hotel bathrobe fastened tightly around his waist.

"What's that look?" Rossi says, sensing your somewhat amused gaze.

"Nothing," you say entirely unconvincingly, a smirk blooming on your face. "I just never imaged you wearing pyjamas."

"What did you expect? It's three in the morning," Rossi counters, humouring you.

"Honestly? I expected you to walk out looking like Hugh Hefner, robe and all," you laugh. The team around you chuckles at the vivid mental image, all of their faces lighting up in amusement.

"It was a satin smoking jacket, and I don't own one," Rossi says steadily, unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

"It was silk and you definitely do," you snark, flashing an innocent smile.

Even Hotch laughs along with that one. Rossi laughs with a slight nod, his left eyebrow rising as if he is going to challenge you but instead he leans in closer, patting your shoulder.

"At least I'm wearing pants."

Your eyes flash down to your exposed legs, your shorts hardly covering anything past where your oversized sweatshirt falls. At the sight of your exposed skin you feel a shiver run over you at the cold wind biting your legs. You hug your arms tighter around your body and look up to deliver a clever retort only to find that he had slipped away from the group.

"Excuse me, " Hotch says, spotting the hotel Manager in the crowd and beelining towards him, ready to offer assistance. You only hoped that said assistance did not involve you or the team for once.

"The first night we get off in weeks and we're dragged out here in the cold at 3AM," Derek complains, standing with his hands tucked into his armpits. At least he'd had the sense to throw on his combat trousers with his FBI T-shirt.

You'd worked three cases back to back, each one of them a harder toil than the other both physically and mentally. You'd lost countless hours of sleep both due to action, scouting and paperwork and you'd finally been given the chance to go home in the morning after a night of undisturbed and well deserved sleep.

"Ughr don't remind me," JJ says, folding her arms across her chest and snuggling down into the cardigan she'd thrown over herself. You wholeheartedly agreed with her frustration. "I mean what are the chances."

"You know there's around 3,700 hotel and motel fires annually in the US, so the chances really are-."

"Rhetorical, Spence."

"Right," he nods, his entire body doing an involuntary dance to fight off the cold.

You look up as Hotch approaches once again, stepping back into the group huddle opposite you, relaying the information he'd dragged out of the manager which was practically nothing. You nod along, your eyes closing to stop them aching from exhaustion and from the wind.

"Coffees for everyone," Rossi says as he approaches the group holding two carriers of cups that he distributes throughout the team.

"Where did you..." Derek begins to ask, taking a miscalculated sip of the burning hot coffee, his words dying out as he winces.

"There's a coffee cart down the street, figured we'd need something to fight against the cold. Who knows how long we'll be out here."

You sneak a glance at Hotch, seeing his brow knitted together as usual as his eyes survey the scene around you, inevitably seeking out someone else in charge. He'd already approached the hotel manager and the fire chief to ascertain the situation, finding out that a fire alarm had been raised on the fourth floor and that they were investigating it further. You quickly look away as Rossi approaches you and you thank him profusely for the welcomed warmth. You take the drink from his hands with an appreciative smile and hold it to your chest, hoping the warmth will permeate through and raise your body temperature slightly. You readjust the sleeves of your oversized sweatshirt so they are hanging over your hands, the coffee cup nestled between them. Raising the cup to your lips, you take small steady sips, having observed Derek's eagerness moments before and you smile softly as you feel the liquid warming you as you swallow.

"Huh." Rossi says from beside you, drawing your attention back to him. You realise he hadn't moved on since handing you your cup.

"What?" You ask, seeing an expression in his face that instantly makes you nervous.

"Nothing," he shakes his head with a smirk tugging at his face, an ominous sight from a profiler. "I could have sworn you went to Northeastern."

You try not to react, try not to look at the team around you who are freshly intrigued by Rossi's words, their eyes all falling to you. And instantly the realisation dawns on you of the error you'd made.

In your haste to dress, you'd instinctively thrown on the old sweatshirt you had claimed as your own months prior, stolen from your boyfriend. It had become your go-to comfort item, much too oversized and old enough that it was well worn. It was huge on you and fell to your thighs, sleeves overhanging your hands by inches and a faded navy colour with a slightly frayed neckline. And most notably, cracked and slightly faded gold text that proudly read 'George Washington University, '92'.'

Which would have been fine, in principle, if the team didn't know about your exemplary record and recommendation from Northeastern University.

It may have also been fine if you weren't surrounded by the best profilers in the United States.

But it was not fine, because only one person known to this group had attended George Washington University and had infamously graduated his law degree with honours, notably in 1992.

And that man was Aaron Hotchner, Unit chief of the BAU.

The same man stood pretending not to shiver in his black T-shirt and plaid pyjama pants making a regular sized cup of coffee look comically small in his hand.

The same man who was now averting the multiple sets of eyes falling upon him, ignoring the gasps that the group emitted as the realisation swept through them and the very same man who had the audacity to be holding back a smirk.

It was then that the hotel manager appeared with fortuitous timing to loudly announce that you could all begin returning to your rooms as there was no emergency. Complimentary coffee and pastries would be offered in the dining room for anyone wishing to partake. You hardly listened to what was being said, the tension of the eyes upon you too distracting.

"Night you two, keep it down the walls are like paper," Rossi says with a smirk, his eyes flicking between you and Aaron as he shifts through the group towards the entrance of the hotel, stopping briefly to pat Aaron on the shoulder.

You were certain your blush was vividly pink by now and could only hope that the darkness of the night concealed the vibrancy of it. You dared cast a glance at Aaron, finding him already gazing at you with a somewhat amused look in his eyes and the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. His hand discreetly finds your hip and he traces your side with his thumb, a sneaky and silent declaration of love. Unbelievable.

The team slowly begins to disperse, each retreating to their rooms except for JJ and Emily who are planning to take full advantage of the free offerings in the dining room before bed. Each of the team gives you a knowing smile, a playful wink, a wiggle of their eyebrows or a small playful comment about what had been discovered. Morgan even playfully asked if he could swap rooms with you to be further away from Hotch's room, now knowing that yours would remain unoccupied. Aaron had muttered a reply and you had simply glared, though there was absolutely no power behind your glare.

"We're discussing this tomorrow," JJ whispers to you as she leaves, rubbing your shoulder gently with a sweet smile upon her face that Emily mirrors.

And then it was you and Aaron once again. He pulls you into his chest with a resounding chuckle, his body moving up and down against you as you bury your head into his collar with a groan.

"Let's get you inside," he says, reaching out for your hand and leading you back inside. With everything that had transpired you had temporarily forgotten about how cold you were until you step back into the lobby and feel yourself begin to defrost.

"My room or yours?" He asks as you wait for the elevator, an amused look on his face.

"You're enjoying this!" You accuse, shooting him a look.

"A little," he admits, squeezing your hand as the doors to the elevator open. He guides you in first, his hand reaching for the small of your back as you step in and press the button to your shared level. "Mostly I'm very much enjoying the blush on your cheeks."

You bury your face into his chest once again with a groan and he chuckles once more.

"You're seriously not bothered that they know?" You mumble against his cotton t-shirt, amazed that he still feels moderately warm.

"We've discussed this honey. It's never been my intention to hide our relationship, it was just a precaution to avoid Strauss for as long as possible. I don't mind the team knowing, though it's been nice to have you all to myself for so long."

"I'm still yours, even if they know."

He leans down to kiss you, your words clearly having an impact on him. The kiss is surprisingly intense for how exhausted both of you are, with Aaron's hands reaching down to your butt, keeping you anchored to him as his lips dance against yours.

The door opens on your floor and you're met with none other than Dr Spencer Reid, who looks like he wants to be anywhere except for here right now. Aaron clears his throat, pulling away slightly from you and nods towards Spence as he guided you out of the elevator.

"Um, JJ convinced me to grab some pastries," he says awkwardly gesturing to the phone in his hands, shifting weirdly around the two of you and stepping into the elevator.

"Enjoy," you say awkwardly, wanting nothing more than to just get to your room and crawl back into bed.

"You too," he says quickly, only to realise the connotation of his words, his eyes widening comically. "I mean, um, well I didn't mean."

"Night Reid," Aaron says definitively from beside you, reaching out for your waist to gently pull you away, no longer bothering to hide the clear amusement on his face. If Spencer sees you stepping into Hotch's room together, he doesn't say anything.

Nor does he say anything the next morning when Hotch interrogates the group to find out who had placed the 'Do not disturb' sign on your door handle the next morning.

[limeletters]

aaron hotchner x whimsical!reader ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆ you meet aaron's team 1k

The midnight breeze brings goosebumps to your bare arms, the bench slats under your thighs like popsicles through the thin fabric of your skirt. You’re underdressed, but you couldn’t be more elated to wait out in the cold. You stoke the flicker of warmth in your chest with more thoughts of Aaron. His nice nose and his long eyelashes. He’s so pretty when he’s not pouting. 

It’s not much later that you spot his dark head of hair, passing through the glass front of the building. You shout his name. 

His head snaps toward the sound, jaw tight with that unshakable composure of his. You wonder if that level of equanimity is written in his job description. 

You hope it’s not, as he’d be failing the BAU the second your eyes meet. His shoulders settle, and his frown twitches into the faintest smile. 

You trip to your feet in such a hurry. The toe of your shoe catches on the pavement, but your stumbling doesn’t keep you from barreling straight into his chest. You can’t hug him properly, not with the flower bouquet crushed in the crook of your elbow, but Aaron fixes his arms around you anyway. 

“Missed you,” you gush. 

You feel his chuckling more than you hear it. “It was barely three days,” he says gently. 

You pull back with that bright face he missed just as much. Pure excitement, your voice roaring like a child's. “Might as well have been a year! Did I surprise you?” 

“Very much.” 

“I just saw these at one of those stands, and I thought of you, and you were landing, and well, I thought it was just perfect. It was fate.”

Fate. He has an urge to roll his eyes. At the idea, not at you— never at you. Is it absurd that for half a second, though, he considers that fate is the thing that brought him and you together and not the bakery on Ninth? 

He takes the heavy bundle from your arms. It’s a riot. He couldn’t think of a combination of colors that fits him less. But he’s glad that it’s more you than it is him. He’d prefer a rainbow to the neat assortment he’d receive from anyone else. 

A thank you falls short on his tongue when a heel clicks at his six. He recalls the audience behind him, and he’s somewhat embarrassed as their unit chief to have forgotten. 

Aaron clears his throat, ears going red as he turns toward the semicircle of smug faces. He glances back at you for courage. You’re full of it. Surely some of it would have rubbed off on him by now.  

“This is my partner,” he states, as factual as the details in his case files. But you adore the way he says your name, all proper-like. You shake a few willing hands and offer more than enough smiles to go around. But the sad realization dawns on you that you don’t know anything about these people he spends so much time with. 

But not for a lack of trying. Aaron is just so private. He says he likes to leave his work at the office, despite it overflowing onto his kitchen table. You hypothesize it might just be his way of protecting you from the darkness that greets him every time he steps inside these boring brick walls. 

The handsome man in the middle has a sparkly smile. It’s almost bigger than yours, as he says, “So you are the reason Hotch has been all smiley lately.”

Aaron furrows his brow. “I haven’t been all anything,” he corrects. 

The blonde with wonderful, pink streaks in her hair looks you up and down. “Oh my God. You’re like if spring were a person. I love your boots. Where did you find those?”

You get distracted by the dark-haired woman beside her, muttering, “You owe me twenty bucks.” 

Mr. Sparkly Smile laughs despite this sudden misfortune. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your money Monday, Prentiss.” 

You’re hit with another round of questions before you can properly answer the last, something about how you met, what you do, whether you’ve always been like this. Somewhere in the noise, you catch a statistic about opposites attracting, as if that explains everything about you and Aaron’s relationship. Laughter follows. And then, mercifully, someone claps their hands together and says, “Well, we’ll let you two lovebirds go.”

“I expect more professionalism from everybody by the time I see you next. Goodnight.” Aaron tries to be stern about it, but he’s gone all soft with you gleaming by his side. 

They peel off in different directions, calling goodnights over their shoulders, grateful for the glimpse of something they don’t often get to see. They’re sweet, each one of them. You tell Aaron so. 

“They are,” he agrees, scooping up your hand the second he’s certain everybody is out of sight. 

You stir on your words for a moment, a rare crack in your confidence as you pull your lip between your teeth. “I hope I’m not being overbearing by showing up here.”

“You’re not.”

“You would tell me if I was?”

“I would.” He loves that you don’t care what others think. In the several months that Aaron has known you, you never seemed to have until now. He’s relieved when you leave the topic at that. 

“So, then. How does Chinese takeout sound… Hotch?” you test, dragging him onto the asphalt toward your car. 

You turn in time to see the funny face he’s made. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s strange. It’s work.” 

You couldn’t disagree more. “It’s family. It’s a nickname. That’s love.” 

He shakes his head. It’s efficient. The kind of shorthand underpaid federal employees use for their boss. 

“What should I call you then, Aaron? Ron? Ronnie?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Then what?”

“Aaron. Just Aaron.”

You thread your arm through his bent elbow as you walk side by side, your ear pressed to the curve of his shoulder. “Okay, fine. May I take you to dinner, Just Aaron?”

He does roll his eyes this time, but he drinks in every second of it. Of you and your radiant, chaotic, impossible energy. Somewhere between now and the day you spilled your coffee all over his shoes, he stopped pretending this was casual. And God help him, he’s already all in.

[applecidertears]

finally made my intro/navigation posts,, that took so long but hopefully this will motivate me to write more (fingers crossed)

[applecidertears]

ℛ𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝓘𝒏𝒇𝒐 ໒꒱⋆.˚

🍎 reqs: open!

feel free to send in any reqs or chat w me through my asks ^^

(currently into supernatural, but I'm also into criminal minds, harry potter, the pitt, and uh I can't rmb what else I've watched before..)

do take note that I'm a newbie writer,, so I might not take up requests that I'm not comfortable or confident writing sry!

that being said, I'd love to grow as a writer and will try my very best to tackle any ideas y'all have <3 (might take a while for me to get to it tho but I will eventually, trust...)

*unless explicitly stated/requested, my works are written w (fem/gn) reader in mind!

constructive criticism and suggestions are always welcomed,, thank you for reading my works and being here w me!!

[applecidertears]

ℳ𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ໒꒱⋆.˚

🍎 supernatural

dean winchester

⋆ highschool au headcanon - fem!reader

sam winchester

⋆ glasses - gn!reader

[aseafullofstars]

night in the life of cas ☆ castiel

summary: what castiel gets up to on a night where he's patiently waiting for you to come back home to him

pairing: castiel x reader (gn) | genre: fluff | word count: 2.8k

warnings: none methinks, just a slightly lovesick cas who misses you very very much and is very very happy when you return

notes: requested !! apologies for the wait but i got it done !!! this was super super cute i love this :] i may keep making little installments of this over time because this as a concept is actually kind of adorable !! also !! happy 600+ followers to us :]

taglist

Castiel does not have a routine most nights. Nighttime when you are here is for him to follow you around, to let himself indulge in the aspects of your life that you so kindly share with him. Sometimes, you will suggest a movie and he will watch, enthralled by the human fascination with storytelling. Angels have no need for stories, not when they remember all of it; and those who are cast down to Earth do not deserve to remember the legends of Heaven. He tells you these stories, though, because you are as close to an angel as a human can be, and that alone should allow him to tell you all he knows about where you should have been born.

Some nights, he reads to you, from a book of your choosing. He settles on the bed or the couch and gives you room to curl against his chest. You’ve told him you like the vibrations of his voice in his chest; perhaps it is the same reason why humans enjoy the purring of cats. He always makes sure he has your favourite blanket ready to set over your shoulders, because you’ve told him the bunker gets colder at night. Castiel doesn’t notice, because he has no reason to, but if he listens closely, he can hear the bunker settling in its foundations, curling in on itself as though falling asleep. Temperature is not a necessity for a building at rest, although its occupants desire it.

Tonight, however, is not like most nights. You’re coming home tonight, having sent him a prayer earlier about being on your way. He estimates you’re maybe three hours out, although those three hours feel like an eternity when you’re not at his side. For someone who’s lived so long, there’s nothing more excruciating than the time it takes for you to be reunited. And yet, he still finds himself thinking he would wait for you for thousands of years if he must, because nothing really matters if you are not there to experience it with him.

On these nights, Cas has a routine that he sticks to without wavering. One alteration feels as though he’s made the biggest mistake of his existence, and he will never be caught letting you down in such a way. He has a checklist in his mind for these nights, for the ones where he’s certain he can read exactly what you feel and know exactly what you’ll do next, even without divine intuition. It’s the same dance each time, the same steps and patterns and the same soundless music that fills the space as though it has learned to live in the shape of your love.

He glances at the clock on the wall of the library to catch the time. He knows the time without it, because his very soul and existence is tied to the movement of the cosmos, and he can’t help but know the alignment of the stars. But he checks the clock anyway, because you’ve taught him the human joy of reading it, and he’s fascinated by how time moves in circles everywhere; all the way from the orbits of space to the hands of a clock on the wall. It’s late; not late enough to make him worry about your tiredness or health, but still enough that the sky’s been dark for an hour already and the stars are making an appearance. The bunker is relaxing too, the faint humming and creaking like a cat stretching out in a patch of sunlight, a mechanical yawn as it prepares to sleep.

Standing from the library chair, Cas rolls his shoulders in an imitation of a stretch, relieving the tension that builds up in his wings from prolonged disuse. It’s an unfortunate part of being confined to a human vessel; the wings cannot manifest as they should, yet they still take up space. His footsteps take him into the bedroom to begin the first of his tasks, light steps that leave a faint echo behind like the air remembers he was there. He speaks as he walks, narrating his day to the bunker.

He knows the bunker cannot understand words, and he knows that it cannot respond in words either, yet the sentiment remains. The words mean nothing, but the emotions are where objects thrive. The energies of a space, the divine iterations of speech that hum through every word of English Cas speaks; these are what the bunker picks up on, and these are what the bunker returns to him as an answer. A question makes the pipes hum louder, a compliment makes the furnace warmer, a simple observation makes the lights flicker in an imitation of a blink. He is most fluent in the language of between.

He knows these trials far too well. Inanimate objects have the unfortunate consequence of only being spoken to when used or needed. The words are appreciated and kept close to heart each time, yet they mean nothing than the act of casual conversation when nothing is required. Cas knows this, because he too has spent eons abiding only to the beck and call of prayer; it was only once he met you that he understood the value of simple conversation. Now, he is determined to let the ancient soul of the bunker understand what it means to be loved through chatter.

Once in the bedroom, he strips the sheets off the bed, balling them up in his arms. The pillowcases come too, and your sleep clothes that are nestled on the floor find their way into his arms. While he could fly to the laundry room and save time, he doesn’t. You wouldn’t. And so, as is custom of his sacred routine, he walks. He can’t speak to the bunker as he flies either, and he would never miss out on their conversations. The bundle of laundry gets thrown into the washer, timer set for the transfer to the dryer, your laundry detergent put in as well.

While he waits for the timer to sound, he wanders around the bunker, helping it to drift off into sleep. He starts in the most forgotten rooms, walking through them with a hand along the wall as if petting the back of a dog. Cas’s fingers traces the dips and grooves in the stone, and he finds himself wondering where these stones originated, or if those features were simply marks of the bunker’s existence. Perhaps there are stories there if he has time to listen, or perhaps they’re simple facts of the life of rocks. He should ask your opinion on this tomorrow, when you’ll be awake enough to give him an appropriate answer. He moves his way along, shutting off the lights in unused rooms as he goes, a slight flex of his grace clearing dust from unloved corners.

He stops in the kitchen, preparing a snack for you to have when you return. You may not end up eating it, but whether you do or not isn’t the point. The point is that he makes the same thing every time, because it’s simple and comforting and it gives you the chance to enjoy something made of love rather than need. Crackers go to a plate, some dried fruit from a cupboard follows. He leaves the frozen grapes and vegetables for later, because he’s worried that leaving them out for too long will make them inedible. He doesn’t have as good a grasp on this as you, because food left out wouldn’t harm him, but he can appreciate the disgust that comes with discovering a grape is too soft or a carrot too bitter.

The laundry is changed to the dryer when the timer goes, signaling your return on the horizon. With the timer set a second time, he enters the library to search for a story for tonight. He doesn’t want to find anything heavy, yet he still feels something new may be interesting to you. He grabs a new novel from the shelf, rescued by you from a charity event a week ago, tucking it safety under his arm after running his fingers along the glossy cover. Something in the bunker behind him shifts, and he turns to find a book sticking a few inches out from its usual place, the spine almost glowing. Cas examines it, finding it to be your favourite that had gone missing. Upon whispering a thank you to the bunker, it hums in content, air surrounding himself in a hug.

The air buzzes with the incessant hum of your attempts at contact, and Castiel opens his mind to you, letting you take the space you need for your thoughts.

Hey, Cas. I’m maybe twenty minutes out, Dean’s really sending it so…I hope I’m not intruding on anything by being early. If you haven’t already, could you make me some tea? The one in the yellow bag, please, it’s my good chamomile that Sam doesn’t know about. I missed you and…uh…yeah, I’ll be back soon. Love you.

Cas’s heart warms at your request. He hadn’t thought to make tea, but he’s more than happy to indulge in it for you; a deviation from his ritual might be helpful tonight. The soothing process of brewing tea is one delight of humanity he’s recently learned to enjoy, now that he understands the art of the kettle and the leaves. He knows exactly how many seconds must pass for the kettle to boil, the exact amount of breaths it takes to steep to your liking. Even the amount of honey put in is down to a science he’s spent months perfecting, because nothing means more to him than you experiencing joy from something he did.

The leaves fall into the mug gracefully, dancing in the air like the oncoming of fall within a mug. Cas watches their patterns, admiring how nature imitates the angels; they, too, fall in these patterns, spiraling and swirling until they meet the ground. He doesn’t dwell long on this, because he doesn’t want to have such an integral part to your humanity be destroyed by his celestial pain. Pouring the water over the leaves, he hears the timer go for the final time of the night, ears tuned to the sound as though he’s been waiting for it.

While the tea steeps, the sheets are returned to the bed, tucked around the mattress until they’re snug, just the way you like them to be. Your sleep clothes are folded neatly for you and laid on top of your pillow, with your novels stacked on the bedside table. He almost leaves your fluffy blanket in the dryer for a while longer, intending to take it out when you come home, until the bunker appears to tap his shoulder and whisper a promise of keeping it warm for you in his ear. Cas can’t help the smile that splits his face at the way the building is so intent on loving you the way he does as he spreads the blanket out on the bed.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and the building hums in reply. “Actually…I have a request for you, if you are willing to accommodate it.”

There’s a pause in the air, like the holding of breath, a sign for Castiel to continue with his ask.

“The floor in this room is frequently loud. Perhaps you could…soften it?”

Another pause follows, a warm puff of air drifting through. Experimentally, Castiel touches the creaky floorboards with his shoe, finding, to his delight, that no sound is made.

“Thank you, again,” he whispers, voice gravelly.

Your tea eventually finds its way into the room too, resting on the side table underneath the golden halo of the lamp, making pretty reflections in the surface of the drink. Soft ripples as the liquid moves within the mug, filling space it takes up as it changes, the surface tension holding the shape of movement. Your snack appears too, all parts resting on the plate. He finds himself staring into it for long enough that he loses track of what time it is, only startled back into awareness by the sound of heavy boots on the stairs and the loud voices of the Winchesters.

When the sounds of their conversation have faded down the hall and the place has returned to the comfortable silence it usually inhabits, Castiel hears the bedroom door creak open. Looking up, he sees your tired face in his view, still gorgeous despite the weight of sleeplessness under your eyes and the shadows of a ghost hunt in your soul.

“Hello,” he breathes, standing.

“Hey, Cas,” you reply, stepping into his open arms.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and his arms tighten around you, palms flat against your back. He doesn’t rub circles, doesn’t murmur words or ask you questions; he knows you will ask for those in your own time. Instead, he offers stability, comfort, a love where you crave it the most. It ricochets off the deepest parts of your soul, illuminating them in the kind of care an angel could only give.

“I made your tea,” he says when you break apart.

“Thanks, angel,” you reply, already drifting toward the bed.

“Would you like to shower?”

You pause, clearly torn. “I showered at the motel before we left…tomorrow morning?”

Castiel nods, taking this in stride. “Tomorrow morning. I will wash your hair.”

You press a faint kiss to his cheek, and Castiel feels his entire body warm at the feeling of your lips on his skin. He’s missed how you feel, how you sound and smell, how you take up space. He doesn’t realize how lonely he is without your presence, how lost and untethered his mind is when you aren’t there to bring him back to reality and ground him.

“Cas?” you ask.

He blinks once, twice, eyes refocusing.

“Hey. Where’d you go?”

He clears his throat, seeing you already in your sleep clothes and under the warm blankets, mug of tea in hand nibbling on a carrot stick.

“I have been here the whole time. Perhaps you should rest,” he says.

You smile softly. “It’s an expression. You looked very lost in thought.”

“Oh.” Cas nods. “Yes, I suppose I was. I have returned, if that’s what you were asking.”

“Come sit down with me.”

You pat the bed beside you, gentle expression on your face. You look relaxed, possibly for the first time in a few days, and it makes Cas melt all over again. As long as you look like that, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. He sheds his trenchcoat and tie, sliding his shoes off and neatly placing the laces inside them. Stiffly, as if still not accustomed to sharing a bed with you, he pulls back the covers and slides in at your side.

He takes a book from the bedside table, turning out the light in the process. He doesn’t need the light to read, his angelic eyes granting him the ability to see in the dark. Turning it off will help you too, leading you easier into the arms of sleep, cradled in the crook of Cas’s neck and the bunker’s ambience. He clears his throat as you settle against his chest, head resting over his heart. It may not beat, because he has no need for blood, but he allows the sound to exist, nevertheless. A symphony to your comfort, a backtrack to what lets you sleep at night without interruptions of ghosts long dead.

Cas doesn’t know how long he reads for, nor at what point the words on the page sounded like background noise to you rather than a story. He’s only aware of your grip on the half-empty mug loosening slightly as it rests on your thigh, your breathing evening out against his chest and drifting warm over him. Setting the book down with a bookmark on the page, he takes your mug without protest, resting it back in its spot on the table where it returns to the ring of condensation it left behind before.

“Sleep well,” Cas murmurs under his breath, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head when he’s settled.

You don’t acknowledge it verbally, but you snuggle closer to him in your sleep, one arm wrapping securely around his waist and pulling him tighter against you. Castiel smiles softly at your actions, brushing your hair from your face with the back of his hand and the tips of his fingers, slow so as not to wake you. He shuffles down the bed with you in tow, letting himself lay back with his head on the pillows, closing his eyes in the darkness. He won’t sleep, not really, but he’ll let himself drift into semi-consciousness like he always does with you.

These nights are few, yet special nonetheless. A night in the life of Cas, spent tending to the one he loves dearest; you, his darling.

tags : @sayras-blogg, @sweetbabygirlsworld, @otteropera, @spectralgalaxygauntlet, @ser4phim-on-e4rth, @andmeiamherdagger, @k4renp4ge, @bejeweledinterludes2, @castielscaplan, @miyasfatass

[applecidertears]

ᨳ glasses

sam winchester x hunter!reader (gn)

tags: s4 sam. established relationship. dean is in hell. sam wears glasses when he's reading. stressed sam. fluff?

wordcount: 902

a/n: glasses!sam came to me in a dream and somehow I ended up writing the first draft during the dream idek how

divider cred: bonnieknowsbest

The frantic flipping of paper and rapid clicks of a keyboard are all you can hear echoing through the room. You pull the flimsy blanket higher above your head, annoyed, but the thin fabric served no protection against the persistent clicking and page flipping. Not to mention the constant sighing.

It had been a long week of working back-to-back cases, and all you wanted was just 3 measly hours of sleep. Instead, all you're getting is the unwanted asmr of keyboard typing and page flipping that you definitely didn't sign up for. You pull the blanket even tighter around yourself, but still the noise persists.

That's it. You open your eyes and tug the useless blanket off, pushing your torso up with all the strength you could still muster, determined to put an end to the noise.

Still dazed with remnants of the peaceful sleep you were having, you scanned the cramped motel room briefly, using the warm, amber rays spilling in from the windows by the door as your only guiding source of light. It didn't take you long to spot the figure hunched over a seat, laptop screen shining just bright enough to softly illuminate the lenses of their glasses and all the books splayed across the wooden round table.

"Sam?" you called out. No response.

"Sam." Only the silence of the room greeted you back.

It looked like he was deep into the pages of his book, eyes methodically running across the pages, brows slightly furrowed, hair fluffier than usual as if he'd been tousling with it. An endearing habit you noticed he did whenever he was frustrated while reading. Well, he's definitely not going to be able to hear you like that.

Letting out a small sigh, you kicked the blanket back further and reluctantly made your way to him, wincing as your bare feet pad across the freezing cold floorboards. How engrossed can this boy be that he still hasn't noticed you coming up right next to him?

Slightly annoyed now, you tried his name once more, slipping into his lap as you did. This time, it elicits a response.

"Wha—oh, uh—hey?" confused hazel eyes stared back at you as his hands find their way onto your waist, in an attempt to steady you.

"Hey my ass, I called like twice but you didn't respond. What could you possibly be researching so intensely at three in the morning?" you asked, hooking your arms over his shoulders.

"Uhm…" he hesitated, eyes shifting to the mess on the table behind you.

You instinctively follow his shifting gaze, eyes landing on the open pages of the hefty, dusty book he probably borrowed from this towns library earlier today.

"Highway to heaven…?" you read out loud. Squinting and tilting your head at the contents of the pages as you tried to make sense of why Sam was basically reading how to get into heaven 101, mind still addled with sleep.

And then it clicks. Dean.

"Sam…" you exhaled, tone softening. "We've been over this, you need to rest. It's not healthy to stay up every night mulling over every book you can find that has the word 'heaven' or 'hell' in it."

He sighs. "I know, I just…I can't just sleep peacefully every night, knowing Dean is down there somewhere—reliving the worst nightmares, over, and over again, without doing something." He shakily inhales before continuing.

"Look, there's gotta be some book out there that can tell us how to get Dean out of hell and back here, with us." Sam looks everywhere but you, voice getting tighter as if he was choking out his next sentence, "I—I just need to keep looking. I know I can find a way to bring Dean back and—"

"Hey," you interrupted, hands cupping his face. He finally meets your gaze, eyes weary and filled with quiet desperation. "I get that, I do. I want Dean back just as much as you, but you're not doing anyone any favours by exhausting yourself like this."

"You don't get it—" he tries to continue, but you quickly cut him off, moving to unhook his glasses as you speak. "Okay, maybe I don't fully. But I do know that you're more useful to all of us if you actually get your beauty sleep in. So let's go to bed, okay?" you finish off, closing his laptop shut and placing his neatly folded glasses on top.

He taps his fingers on your waist like he's contemplating something, then eventually lets out a defeated sigh. He pulls you in closer, resting his head into the crook of your neck and takes deep breaths as you thread fingers through his brown locks in a soothing rythym.

"Come on, let's get you to bed. we can go over the books again tomorrow, together." you gently coaxed, giving him a reassuring smile when he finally lets you go.

Sam nods, offering a small smile in return and let's you lead him by the hand into the bed which you both collapse into, exhausted. As the two of you gradually drift off into sleep, you press a quick kiss onto Sam's temples, whispering good night and pulling the flimsy blanket tighter around yourselves.

Tomorrow, you find a way to bring Dean back. But for now, you only hope Sam rests a little easier with you by his side.

────── ⋆₊˚꒰ঌ ໒꒱⋆₊˚ ──────

heyyy...I'm backk...sorry y'all I was busy finishing the last semester of sch, but dobby is a free elf now !! (sorta)

finally managed to see a piece to completion after 4 months omg, I rlly need to train my writing skills to fulfill the visions I have </3 hope y'all enjoyed this !

[bonnieknowsbest]

꒰‎ :‎ ‎ Ｄｅｅｒ Ａｎｔｌｅｒｓ Ｄｉｖｉｄｅｒｓ﹒﹒꒱

╰› [ m.list ]

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