𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐞.𝐩
Tags: fem!reader, amnesia, established relationship, forced proximity, fluff!!, comfort, liight angst, mentions of food, soft emily, soft reader, pacing? I don’t know her, petnames, physical therapy as flirting, they're sad but they're getting through it, bantering #marriedcoupleenergy, non sexual nudity, yn are you ready to resist emily's game
Summary: You start to settle—in your home, in your skin.
Word count: 6.9k
Series masterlist
Emily clings in her sleep. There's no other way for you to put it: she clings, molded entirely around you, her limbs hooked into every minuscule space that dares pronounce itself. The bed is big, at least a queen, and yet you feel her in your lungs. Actually in your lungs, her weight pressing down, hair tickling the tip of your nose.
Koala, you think groggily, tilting your head back.
At first, you'd been confused. You had woken up overly hot, sweat-dampened in the creases of your limbs, strangely pinned down. Your arm and legs wouldn't budge. A brief panic had overtaken you, the hospital rushing back in, cold and unfamiliar, but then you felt the rhythm of her chest against yours and you realized. Your spiked pulse had beat loud in your ears.
In the time it took for it to slow down, you'd noticed the faint ache in your arm, weighed down by her head. Noticed your own arm slung across her back. You shift your fingers now, gently bunch them in her sweater.
She runs incredibly warm, bundled in thick pajamas and a sweater over her top, fuzzy ankle socks pressed to your own bare skin where your pant leg had ridden up. All of her heat bleeds into you; you burn in your entirety, all the places where she has you trapped and everywhere else where you're not.
You find, even so, that you don't want to move.
It's all so different to the arctic, lonely spread of the king-sized bed back in your bedroom. Here, your space is not yours. It's hers, claimed in her sleep, and you don't do anything to take it back. You just listen to the rhythm of her breathing. Even asleep, she's—grounding. Solid.
The rooms don't feel the same without her. The air is too empty, the silence, somehow, too heavy, even more than it would be if she was there, just quietly. The way she takes up space…you're constantly attuned to it, her absence taking a big claw out of your chest, a gaping hole left behind.
Ridiculous. You don't remember ever being so attached to a partner—a person—this strongly before. It's not healthy, it can't be.
She shifts in her sleep and your heart lurches, promptly proving your own point. You hold your breath but she stays asleep, her eyes closed, face lax, knee slipping down from your hip and worming into the part between your legs.
Slowly, you let out your exhale.
At least you know your attachment isn't one-sided.
She doesn't let herself show it, too focused on not overstepping, considering and reconsidering her every move to make sure it won't set you off. (It won't. It won't.) This side of her is one you're fairly enjoying. It's nice, to see—feel—her like this, wholly unguarded. She's usually so careful around you. Here she's entirely unaware of her own boundaries, just giving in to instinct.
Pins and needles begin to numb up your hand. They creep up from your fingers, spread to your forearms, up your shoulder. You hold still for another minute before the feeling becomes unbearable.
Slowly, carefully, you try to slip your arm out.
But her sleep is light. You hear the hitch in her breath, a long, deep inhale before she starts to shift, burrowing into you, her forehead rooting into your collarbone with a sound like a whine. The action is so thoughtlessly tender you briefly stop breathing.
Emily doesn't notice. She wakes slowly, like a flower unfurling, all lazy hums and slow shifts of her limbs. A yawn against your shoulder, her cheek rubbing against the meat of your bicep. It's a slow, sweet eternity before her head tips up, her sleep-hazed eyes meeting yours.
She blinks. A smile spreads across her face, small, close-lipped.
"Hi."
Jesus, her voice. It sends a trail of goosebumps down your skin.
"Hi," you breathe. "Sorry I woke you."
Emily shakes her head. "No, no—" She pauses as she takes in your current predicament. Realization creeps up in a faint blush, staining her cheeks. "Sorry I trapped you." She mumbles, shifting back, freeing your arm.
You find your mouth tugging, find your thumb reaching over to brush off a fallen lash from her cheekbone. It's okay, you should say, but you don't. "You're—really clingy." You hum instead, sweeping the lash from your thumb.
The words unfurl something: her head on your collarbone, your legs entangled on a couch—You're clingy, your voice teasing, fingers threaded though her hair. The indignant huff of her breath, buried beneath your laugh.
Warmth flutters through you.
Emily smiles again, her eyes nearly squinting closed, still soft around the corners.
"I've been told. Sleep well?"
You nod. "Warm," you admit.
Maybe a little too warm, but.
Her gaze sharpens as you carefully shift onto your side to face her. There's a little breathing room between you, your head on your pillow and her head on hers, the sheets rumpled, loose with your movement.
"How are you feeling?" She checks in, her eyes sweeping over your face. "Any soreness?"
"No, I'm fine." You've gotten used to the dull pain in your shoulder. It's more manageable than it was, sometimes quieting down for long enough that you forget and pull an abrupt move, sending it flaring again. It's the only thing giving you trouble, apart from your lingering headaches.
You ignore the pins and needles in your arm and adjust the strap of the sling so it doesn't bite into your neck. Emily notices. She shifts an inch closer, tugs up the collar of your sleep shirt and shifts the strap onto the fabric instead of your raw skin. You exhale, warming under the gentle touch of her fingers, the brush of her knuckles against your throat.
"We should get some aloe—"
"I want you to come back." You blurt out, catching her wrist, keeping her hand there on your shoulder.
Emily pauses.
"To the room," you clarify, softer. The words are clumsy in your mouth, heavy with plain want. "You don't have to stay here. I don't want you to."
Her eyes are dark, impossible to read. You drop your gaze.
"I mean—unless you want to, of course—"
"Honey," she huffs, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Come on." She says it so softly, so matter-of-fact, you feel your blood start to boil beneath your skin.
You swallow, leaning into the hand she cups to your cheek. Every inch of you winds a little tighter at the contact. You can feel the slight rush of her pulse under your finger; the faint cloud of her exhales over your jaw.
Soft as down feathers, Emily's thumb draws slow strokes over your cheek. It catches the corner of your mouth as it comes down.
"Are you sure?" She murmurs, earnest, achingly careful.
You nod. Squeeze her wrist. "I'm sure."
It's like watching a sunrise—seeing her face as it softens, melts, totally, with the pleasure. Her lips press together against a smile and there's the faint shadow of a dimple in her cheek; you itch to touch it, smooth your finger over the dent, memorize its spot, press it in—
"I hog the covers." She warns.
"Hog them all you want."
Emily laughs, and it's soft, it's yours, the gauzy cotton of a cloud draping over your skin, wrapping you in it, your ears reverberating with the sound.
"Yeah?" She whispers. "Okay, then."
-
It comes without warning as you're slipping out of bed. Emily suddenly goes still, her hands curling around the edges of the mattress, head ducking down into her chest. Her voice abruptly tapers off into silence.
You frown at her hunched figure. "Emily?"
She makes a faint noise in her throat. You round the bed over to her side, already knowing before you see her swallow hard, inhale sharply through her nose.
"Nauseous?"
"A little," she says, her voice strained. Her grip is so tight, it turns her knuckles bloodless. She squeezes her eyes shut and shoves in a few more deep breaths, her jaw set. "It's fine. It'll blow over."
You don't get a chance to do anything before she jumps and makes a beeline for the bathroom, her hand clamped tight over her mouth.
You wince and follow her in, try your best to hold her hair back with your one hand, offer some semblance of something. But there's little you can do. Her body wages violent war against her; her skin beads with sweat, bruises standing out under her eyes.
It itches in you, drags under your skin. You've never felt more useless.
You're murmuring nonsense when she finally quietens, her skin damp, chilled where you sweep your fingers. You brush the sweaty bangs away from her face and feel her shiver with the motion, shoulders tremulous. Instinctively, you tug her into you, your lips brushing the skin of her temple.
"You're okay, Em." You murmur, rubbing her arm. "You're okay, honey, you did good."
She slumps into your chest, muffling a weary noise in your shirt. Your heart twists. Pulling up your sleeve over the heel of your hand, you dry the sweat on her temple, feeling it wet the fabric.
"I've got you," you say. The floor is hard and cold under you, your back aching from the awkward position, the added strain of her weight, but you force yourself upright and as steady as you can muster.
You'd already left her once. You're not going to do it again.
-
"It's really not that—"
She dies down at the look you give her. It thrills you a little, the way her jaw snaps, but it doesn't last long before she's giving you a look, imploring.
"Sweetheart."
"Emily. I'm not going to die if you don't make me breakfast. I can make it myself—"
"I know you can—"
"—and anyway, I'm not hungry. So just." You make an impatient gesture with your hand. "Stay put."
The sweat has dried from her forehead, her usual color back in her cheeks, but you're still uneasy. You can still feel the way she'd gone limp against you on the bathroom floor—tremors along her shoulders, the harsh staccato of her breath echoing on the tiles. You could see her heart beating fast under the thin skin at the base of her throat.
On some level you think you know you're overreacting—overcorrecting, flooded with guilt because you'd left her, you'd seen her go through it but you still left her, too absorbed in your own grief—but the image of her pale and drained is too clear in your head for you to care.
Emily seems to have forgotten the whole ordeal. She looks at you with her eyes soft. Too used to it by now, probably.
The thought makes you sick.
"Y/N," she says gently. "I'm okay. I'm not going to die just because I got sick a few times, it's fine."
"A few times," you echo. "Remind me again, it's been how many weeks of this?"
How far along is she? The question briefly unsettles you, a big blank throwing your head into silence.
It's like she reads it on your face.
"I'll be going into my second trimester next week," she says, her smile small, just a press of her lips. "It should ease up by then."
You don't know how many weeks that is, exactly, but you do know it's in the double digits. Early teens, maybe.
Just a couple of weeks now, and she'll start to show. Your stomach cramps at the thought. Just a couple of weeks, and she'll start to show, and then a few months will blur by and you'll have a baby between you, and you'll raise a kid with her even though she still doesn't fully trust that you will, she still doesn't let you in, she doesn't believe that you can or want to—fuck, you want to—she doesn't—
Emily sits up in bed and takes your hand. Hers is warm, her fingers skating over your knuckles, squeezing. Your eyes snap back to hers.
"Sweetheart, I'll be fine," she reassures. Slowly, as if she's explaining it to a kid. "I am fine. I'm"—she huffs out a laugh—"I'm hardly the first person to get pregnant."
A stone sinks low in your gut.
Just pretend I'm the old me. Please just pretend I'm the old me and stop pretending with me, stop lying, let me in, let me help, I want to help—
"Not the first," you say, "but you're mine, and it's—it all feels so—" You break off, losing your grasp on the words.
It's all jumbled in your head, everything you want to say, everything you don't know you have the right to ask. You inhale roughly, eyes fluttering closed for just a second—"It's so much, Emily, god. It's so much and it's all on you and I just—" The desperation rises in you, "I don't want you to pretend with me. You keep up these fronts and you think I don't notice. I do." Your voice goes thin, bending. You swallow it down, queasy at the way her face collapses back into its familiar guilt.
Her eyes flit away from yours; you cup her jaw, bringing them back, bringing her back.
Let me in, let me in.
"Hey." You say raggedly, holding her gaze. "You can admit that it's overwhelming," you whisper, "or that you're exhausted or just—just sick of it all. You're allowed to be, and you can tell me. This can't just all be on you, Emily."
You're startled at how fast her eyes go shiny, brimming with tears. Your chest collapses in on itself. It's too much, for anyone.
And she keeps taking it all without a word.
You speak past the lump in your throat. "I'm here for you," you mumble. "I'm not going anywhere, but you're not being honest with me."
Emily blinks, swallowing hard. It's like all her indifference drains out of her; she grows uncertain-looking—her face sobering, posture curling small, like a scolded child. She doesn't move, doesn't say a word, the room so quiet you hear the silence ring.
You lean your forehead against hers. "Please, baby." You murmur, pleading—for what, you don't know.
Emily sucks in a breath. "I'm sorry," she says hoarsely. "I'm—this isn't easy for me."
Your eyes flood with heat. "I know it isn't."
"Not you," she rushes out, grabs the hem of your sweater in a fist. "I don't mean you."
Her voice goes cracked, desperate. It gnaws at you, hearing her like this, seeing the glaze of tears in her eyes, but you want her to just stop burying it all.
I could've waited. I wasn't hurt, I was just uncomfortable. I could've waited.
It becomes harder to swallow. "You're not alone." You stroke along her cheek, just as desperate. "Do you know that?"
Emily's eyes close. "I do. I do know that. Fuck, hon, I—"
"You can trust me."
"I do," she breathes. "I swear I do."
"I don't have one foot out the door." The words crack, and Emily's eyes shoot open, go wide and round—and fuck, you're making it about you again, twisting it all to bring it back to—
"I'm not leaving you."
Her face crumples, a sharp sob gasping out of her. She clamps a hand over her mouth but it's too late, the sound is already echoing, her tears are tipping over fast, trailing down the length of her cheeks.
You can feel your own tears wetting your face. Emily's shoulders are heaving silently as you bring her into you, wrap your arm around her shoulder and bring her close—still far, too far—your neck tipping forward into the top of her head.
"I'm not leaving you," you whisper into her hair. "Get the thought out of your head, okay? It's not happening." You say hoarsely, damp patches growing on the front of your sweater. Emily sniffles and everything trembles—her hands, clutching your sides, her shoulders, your strained, pounding heart. The sound of her sobs cleaves through the rush in your ears.
You palm the nape of her neck, smoothing over the the taut muscles there.
"It's not happening."
-
"You can't just not tell me this shit." You're crying, tears pattering down onto the floor like rain. Emily is blurry, but you can still see the bruise staining her side, the bandages cutting across her ribs. "Jesus, Emily, do you think no one cares? You think I don't?"
"I didn't want you to worry." She says, almost desperately. "See, you're worrying—"
"Of course I am! I fucking love you, I'll always be worried!"
Emily sucks in a breath. You barely even notice what it is you've said, never mind that it's been on your mind for weeks now, taunting you. You can only stare at the bruise, her skin marred, marked, violent.
"I'm sorry." She cups your face, thumbs at the wet slip of tears. "I'm sorry, honey, fuck—don't cry. Please don't."
You can't not. You're not a crier, not really, but it's all you can see—someone with a boot to her ribs, an elbow, a gun, a knife splitting her skin open. Someone wanting her harmed. Dead.
You still see it as she brings you into her chest.
"You can't keep doing this."
"I know. I know, I'm sorry. I love you. I love you."
-
The near-empty jar of Will's granola balances precariously on your thighs as you sit in the living room, your neck craned down at the phone in your lap, eyes burning from the strain and everything else. Sergio purrs at your side, warding off the void. He's a welcome companion as the sky darkens around you and leaves you with a time capsule of memories.
You wade through it all with bated breath.
You keep your phone's brightness turned low, your eyes still sensitive to too-bright light. You've been combing it through for nearly an hour now, reading back text threads, searching through the photos in your camera roll, gathering bits of your life like an ant collecting crumbs. It's a bit surreal, to be able to poke around. The person in your phone is clearly you; you haven't changed enough in three years to become unrecognizable to yourself. It's more of a relief than anything, but you still find yourself factoring in the newer variables, wondering how they came about.
Your habits are the same. You text dryly, keep few pictures of yourself, have a hundred more or less useless notes taking up space in your notes app. Your social media accounts are as sparse as they've ever been. Your call log consists of the same three people—Emily taking up most of it.
There's no rhyme or rhythm to your searching. You jump from app to app—your photos to your messages and back, opening up a new text thread, scrolling through another album. There's things you ignore: texts asking after your health, some from people you recognize, others whose names are fuzzy; Christmas well-wishes, continuations to conversations you don't have the context for, fourteen new messages from Pen🩷, three missed calls from Emily—11:17 P.M., 11:18, 11:19, December 16.
You're briefly queasy again.
Some of it comes back, the fog drawing thin. Your high-school best friend is still in your life—you're still just as close—though no longer as easy to see. Your eyes glaze over when you read the latest message, dated six days ago.
I'm here for you, anytime you want.
There's a few more from that same vein. Texts from Emily's friends, in varying degrees of familiarity—none from her mother, which doesn't surprise you. (Your lack of surprise, however, does). A name you vaguely recognize turns out to be a coworker you go out with on occasion; you dig through your camera roll and connect the face to the name when you find a picture, shadowy from the weak lighting of a bar.
Pictures of you and Emily, you find, are laughably rare. It's mostly her, or Sergio, or both of them together. They're sickeningly domestic—blurred, or in warm lighting, or posed up close. Emily mid-laugh, mid-yawn; deep in concentration with a book in her hands, Sergio sprawled across her legs.
It feels like you're intruding, somehow. You're not able to go through half the photos before you click back into your messages, an incessant gnawing in your stomach.
You have two new texts from her. Her name sits a few rows down (Em, the contact photo one of her with a beach splayed behind her). You tentatively open up the thread, not knowing what to expect.
December 16, 10:47 PM
You
Want anything else?
Em
My wife back.
You
T-minus ten minutes
Em
That's a little more than ten minutes.
Honey, where are you?
Missed voice call
Missed voice call
Missed voice call
December 13, 10:04 AM
Em
Are we out of Advil?
You
There's a strip in my bag
What's wrong?
Em
Mother called.
You
Jesus
Em
Good news, though, she'll be out of state this Christmas.
You
Sweeeeet
December 11, 2:36 PM
You
Hey
Do you have a minute?
Em
Tell me.
Voice call
December 8, 7:23 PM
Em
Boarding.
It's around five hours, don't wait up.
You
Don't tell me what to do
Em
Seriously?
You
My bad for missing you
And for being a good wife
Em
A perfect wife, you mean.
You
Flattery will get you everywhere
Em
I love you.
Please don't wait up.
December 7, 8:14 AM
You
How's the nausea, baby
Em
Not so bad. I at least made it through breakfast today.
JJ caught me, though.
You
Better her than Pen
Em
That's what I thought.
December 3, 6:53 PM
You
Okay so
Does anyone in your office happen to like peanut butter cookies?
Em
Babe.
How much did you make?
You
Well
Emily
I'm still waiting for an answer.
December 1, 5:18 PM
Em
In the store, you want anything?
You
Takis!!!
Em
Those things will genuinely kill you.
You
Two takis :))
"Hey."
Your head snaps up at the sound of Emily's voice. You turn the phone off. "Hi."
She sits down next to you, close enough for your arms to brush. Sergio trills and eagerly migrates onto her lap. She gives his chin a few lazy scratches, the sound of his purrs taking up space in the silence.
You notice, as your fingers itch to smooth out the reddened sleep lines on her cheek, that she sits on your good side. She always sits on your good side.
You set your phone down and reach over to stroke an idle path down Sergio's back. With the movement, your shoulder gently presses into hers. She turns to steal a glance at you, her wayward bangs brushing your cheek, lightly ticklish on your skin.
Her free arm shifts against yours and you feel her reach into your lap, pick up the abandoned—depleted—jar of granola, the few grains left inside rattling as she turns it over.
"Hungry?"
"Very." You sift your fingers through Sergio's fur, only a slight bit embarrassed. His purring cranks louder, seeping into your bones.
"What do you say to takeout?"
Her voice is so close, brushing your jaw, that you have to fight not to shiver. You take your hand back and keep your shoulder pressed against hers and suddenly feel it, all around—the stillness, in you, in her, in the house.
There's too much grief clouding you.
"Why don't we go for dinner?" You venture. "If you're feeling up to it."
Emily's eyes snap up to yours. "Yeah," she says, eager if a little surprised. "Yeah, sure."
"Sure?" You reiterate.
"Yes," she insists. "Anything particular in mind?"
You shake your head. "Just nothing fancy. Take me…" your arm loosely hooks around her hers, "take me somewhere I like."
Emily smiles, then. It still throws you off—how it softens her face, the shine of unadulterated pleasure making her glow. Beautiful, your stomach twists, tying itself in knots. Beautiful even with her eyes still shot through with red, the skin around them puffy with sleep, with tears, the heartache clinging to her even now.
"Okay."
-
The neon lights of a 24/7 diner glint off of her hair.
"Is this okay?" She asks, a thread of hesitation ringing in her voice.
You can't fathom the warmth flowing through you. You yourself hadn't known what to want or expect, but standing in front of the restaurant, a sense of rightness clicks. And, warmer than the weight of your hand in hers—
She knows you. Even when you don't.
You turn to kiss her cold cheek and feel the doubt slump out of her. "Perfect." You murmur.
Emily blushes a faint pink, pleased.
Inside, the lights are warm, the leather of the booths soft and worn. The whole place smells like sticky maple and deep-fried chicken. It's familiar, sugar and grease, setting off the hunger in you again.
A young, bored-looking waitress seats you.
"You sure this won't upset your nausea?" You ask Emily as she settles opposite you.
"I don't think so, this place is tried and tested. We've been a couple of times," she shrugs, "seems to be okay. What are you feeling?"
"Breakfast," you say resolutely, picking up the menu and skimming the options. "You?"
"Anything with maple."
Your mouth quirks. Much the same, your eyes skip over the egg combos and head straight down to the griddle dishes.
Belgian waffles, strawberry French toast, cinnamon roll pancakes…
"We missed pancake Sunday." You say idly. The image blooms in your head: your sun-drenched kitchen, Emily in just a t-shirt, humming some aimless tune and stirring pancake batter. You cutting up fruit, dotting chocolate chips on the still wet puddles she scoops out onto the pan. It's a ritual of sorts, implicitly sacred. Yours and hers.
Surprise washes over Emily's face. "Oh," she says. "Yeah—right. Slipped my mind."
"That's quite a serious offense, Mrs. Prentiss."
Her eyes go pinched, smiling. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, velvet-soft as she leans across the table. "How do you want me to make it up to you?"
She's teasing, you can distantly tell. But her voice, already low, drops lower, pours over your skin like honey. She looks at you from under her lashes and it sets you on fire, your wife toying with you, flirting.
"Are you guys ready to order?" The waitress comes over, clicking her pen, saving you.
You lean back into your seat and nod a little too quickly, the heat of Emily's eyes still on your face. You can hear the barest hint of a smile in her voice as she places her order—her menu still closed, hands folded neatly on top of it. You—a few degrees above your normal temperature, the words on the menu blurring before your eyes—go for the pancakes.
Outside, flecks of snow start fluttering down. They streak through the dark backdrop of the evening, sweep up against the window, stick and melt on the glass. A bell chimes as the door of the diner pushes open, a belated gust of wind rushing past you.
It cools your cheeks enough that you can pick up the conversation again.
"So." You look back at your wife. "How did we find this place?"
Emily's mouth softens, pulls up into a half smile. "It's not anything special, really. We were going out for dinner, but we didn't make it in time for our reservation. My flight was delayed coming back," she explains. "But we were starving and everywhere else was packed, so..."
As she talks, threads of memory start to connect.
It was a weekend. You'd been annoyed with her, but—I'm not the one flying the jet, babe.
"Our old complex is close by." You mention.
This earns you a proper smile. Dimpled and all. "Yeah. Yeah, it is." Emily says.
There's a new weight to her gaze, a heavy fondness, her eyes bright with it. It warms you up on the inside as she takes your hand from the table and lifts it up to her lips. "You're doing good," she whispers, kissing the ridges of your knuckles.
Air thins in your lungs, a swooping feeling rushing through your gut.
You're doing good.
You carefully twist your hand in her grip and reach over to cup her cheek. You see the breath rush in her, fast, then slower, quieter, like she's trying to pace herself. The table edge digs into your ribs as you brush your thumb over her cheek, not quite where her dimple lays—too high up.
Her eyes are so dark you can see tiny, twin reflections of yourself in them, pulled over her irises.
"How can you stand it?" You ask quietly.
She doesn't need to ask what you're talking about. She knows, squeezes your wrist, ghosts her thumb over your pulse.
"Because I love you, and you're my best friend."
She says it so plainly. It's near laughable—almost childishly simple. Still, your eyes grow hot, a lump expanding in your throat as Emily keeps her hand over yours, lightly skates her thumb over your skin. "I've always been alone," she murmurs. "Ever since I was a kid. I never had many friends, and the ones I could make—" she shrugs, "it was impossible to stay in touch. That kind of stuck, I think." Her voice seeps into your bones, through muscle, through skin. "Even as I grew up, I wasn't exactly popular. It was hard to…connect."
Your chest twinges. Emily rubs absent, soothing circles on your skin, almost like she can feel it.
"The BAU was my first time feeling like I belonged. Sappy, I know, but—I'd never really had friends, much less family." She says softly, passively. A tiny bit amused, like she's laughing at herself.
"And then, you came along." Her lips tug, brushing the heel of your hand—not quite a kiss, but not quite not. It's enough to send your heart in a tailspin, but then her eyes pin you in place, impossibly dark, brimming with such focus you nearly squirm. She exhales heavily, warmth fogging over your skin. "I've kind of been waiting my whole life for you."
The words burrow deep. There's such a palpable tenderness to them that you have to look away, catch your breath.
You. All of this is for you. Somehow, for some reason.
"Charmer," you muster out.
Emily smiles. She clasps your hand between both of hers and gently lays it back on the table. You barely notice the strain that loosens in your arm, your head overfull with her. She lets you stay in it, a little dazed, but before long she's nudging your ankle under the table, trapping your leg between both of hers, your knees knocking into each other.
"So, does that mean you'll let me sleep in your bed tonight?"
You're surprised when you laugh, so loud you have to clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle it.
-
With a sling, every normal activity takes about ten times longer. Changing; eating; showering; even sleeping is tedious. Brushing your teeth and washing your face take an eternity when Emily's not helping you—she insists, but so do you, that you've got it. Because you have. It just takes about two hours to get through what used to take you five minutes.
You flick open the cap on the bottle of aloe gel and squeeze out a cool dollop. Emily had gotten you the squeezable bottle after you'd struggled with the jar—you don't know when she'd gotten it, only that it was there on your nightstand the next time you needed to switch out your bandage. At the reminder, you find yourself biting down on a smile as you spread the gel on the half-healed burn.
Sweet. She's sweet—in a way that makes you fuss and flounder and go hot despite yourself. It's nothing overly loud or frivolous, just deeply earnest. You've never met anyone so thoughtful.
At least, you think.
Every day, it just becomes more surreal—the fact that she's yours, unwavering and entirely devoted. Funny. So beautiful it physically aches in your chest. You feel like you've done nothing to deserve her, like you just woke up and she was there, hovering over your hospital bed, her eyes glazed with tears.
Honey. Talk to me, please.
Honey, breathe. Honey, you're killing me.
Honey, I'm kidding. Honey, let me in, honey I love you, fuck, honey, there you go—
You wipe off the excess gel with a towel, somersaults in your stomach.
It's a strange thing, to be falling in love with your wife. You love her, you know you do, you feel it. It's dormant, living inside your bones.
But this, it's different. It trips along your insides, burning hot and growing hotter, glowing, in your chest, the pit of your stomach. You look up at yourself in the bathroom mirror, eyes bright, the ghost of a smile lingering around your mouth, and you think—yes.
You're falling in love with her.
-
"Oh—god, I'm sorry—"
"Hm?" Emily turns, to you, topless—nearly entirely topless, a shirt clutched in her hand, and that's—
That's a tattoo. Arched over her hip, curling to wrap around her waist.
A tattoo. She has a tattoo.
"I—" You mouth goes achingly dry. You swallow, hard. "Fuck, sorry, I didn't—I didn't know you were changing. Or that you have a tattoo," you blurt out, cringing as the words echo in the silence. Your back is still to the bathroom door, your feet firmly planted on the ground even as your eyes rove, heat ripping through you.
Your first thought is: she's not as soft as she feels. There's lean muscle in her arms, toned and firm even from afar, her shoulders strong, chest rounded and soft. Your eyes are gluttonous, eating across every inch of her pale skin. They skate up the plane of her stomach, to her exposed collarbones, to the curve to her neck, down to the ink splayed on her side—
The corner of Emily's mouth ticks up. You're still glued in place as she steps closer, much to the dismay of your poor, weak knees.
"I have a couple," she says easily. "You like this one?"
You tell yourself not to look—don't look, don't, don't, don't—but you fail yourself.
Your eyes drop to it.
Up close, it's even more catching—a little faded, worn into her skin. The inkwork is elegant—a string of lilies, arching up, curving around to cup her waist. Pale white stretch marks ripple through it. Loose, curling tendrils of stem reach up just to her ribs; the rest of the tattoo dips below her waistline, snaking down her hip, a petal peeking over—
You avert your eyes, too late, the ink already burned into your brain.
"Sorry," you mutter belatedly, blood rushing to your cheeks.
"What for?"
Your eyes snap back to hers. Emily's smile is now a full-blown grin, more than a little pleased.
"You can look, honey, it's okay." Her voice is faintly teasing. "Touch, even. I won't bite."
You swallow, feeling your back press against the door. "I'm sorry." Your voice is embarrassingly ragged. Her gaze is impossible to hold; you flick your eyes away, rubbing skittishly at your brow. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot."
"So polite," she murmurs, unbearably fond. "Sweetheart, you're my wife. I'm not on any spot."
Your brows scrunch. You look back at her to find a similar look on her face. It fades into a smile when your eyes meet, her shrug easy and careless. "You get what I mean. Really, it's okay." Her voice softens. Coaxing. "If you want to."
It feels like uneven ground. You're bared open, every inch of your want out on display and it's—it's new to you but it's not new to her and even though, in all technicality, she's the one stripped to her skin but you feel exposed down to your bones, falling after she's already fell, her feet steady on the ground while you're still tumbling and tripping over yourself.
Unfair.
But you still can't help yourself.
Swallowing your heart, you let your eyes drift lower.
"Twenty-year-old me was onto something, huh?" She murmurs.
Twenty-year-old you would have straight fainted at the sight. Current-age-you isn't faring much better, really.
"It's pretty." You manage.
"You think?"
"Emily," you inhale, swallowing to dispel the dryness in your throat, "I mean this in the nicest way possible—please put on your goddamn shirt."
She laughs, ducking her head. "Okay, okay. Sorry."
"No, you're not." You mutter, relieved and disappointed in equal measure when she shrugs her shirt on. It becomes marginally easier to breathe, a relentless flame flicking out.
Her smile is in her eyes as she pulls out her hair from under the shirt. "Want me to help? You didn't ice your shoulder today, did you?"
"Didn't, no." You finally find the strength to push off of the bathroom door and make your way to the closet.
You pick a considerably lighter pair of pajamas to account for the clinginess. (King bed, yes, but can you really trust her to stay on her side?)
There's no good reason to let her help you, but you hand her the shirt anyway.
It's become a routine of sorts. You sit down on the edge of the bed and take your arm out from your sling, carefully holding it stiff. Emily kneels down in front of you and reaches for the hem of your sweater, bunches it up to help you get your arm out of the sleeve.
It's easy to pull your good arm out, but the other one needs more maneuvering. Emily guides the collar over your head and gently tugs the sleeve down your injured shoulder.
"Bruising's getting better." She murmurs, eyeing the discoloration around the joint. She sets your sweater aside. "Have you been doing the exercises?"
You wince a little.
"Honey."
"Forgot."
She sighs. "Can we do them now, do you feel up for it?"
You're not sure she realizes it, but her voice does the thing. Sweetens, almost, goes softer than it already is. She doesn't push, but she does this. Gently coaxes and poses it all as a question, gives you the illusion of making a choice when, really, she makes it impossible to refuse.
"Fine."
Emily squeezes your knee, pleased. She helps you slip your pajama shirt on then shifts closer to your left, picking up your hand from its perch on your thigh.
"I've been doing the finger ones." You allow.
She hums. "What about this one?" She keeps your arm supported with one hand and takes your wrist in the other, gently bending it down.
You shake your head. She holds the position for a few seconds then switches, pushing your wrist up until your hand hovers in a high-five. Your head quietens as you let her guide you through the motions. It's nothing tedious or painful, but having her do it is strangely relieving.
Her hands are warm, the room quiet but for the shift of her knees on the floor, the springs in the bed as your weight eases and settles. You feel every thud of your heart in your chest.
Emily is quiet as she moves on to the other exercise—this one to help you bend your elbow. She gently guides your arm, searching your face for signs of pain, a faint crease between her brows. You're not really thinking when press your thumb to it, but she huffs out a sound like a laugh, her skin smoothing out, the crease disappearing.
As she brings your arm back down, she lays a soft kiss to the side of your wrist.
You're acutely aware that she has all of your hurt in her hands. Your biggest physical vulnerability, entirely in her control. She could pull an abrupt move, push or pinch or grab where it hurts, but she doesn't. You don't know why the thought even creeps up; she's almost unbearably cautious, sitting, on her knees, for you. Everything she's done has been to ease your pain. You don't even believe that she'd do anything to hurt you, but she just.
She could.
"You seem well practiced." You remark quietly.
Emily hums. "I've dislocated my shoulders enough for a lifetime."
You frown.
"How many times?"
Her lips purse. "Two on my right, I think. Three on my left."
"Jesus."
"Yeah." She smiles humorlessly. "Perks of the job. They heal a lot faster after that first time, though."
Your nose wrinkles. "It's still awful."
She gives a little hum. "It's not something I ever wanted you to know the feeling of." Her brows draw together, lips thinning as she sets your hand down. Quick and nimble, she grabs the sling and eases your arm back into it, careful to adjust the strap so that it sits on your pajama shirt.
"How's that?" She checks in.
"Perfect," you nod. "Thank you."
She straightens, takes your face in her hands and kisses your forehead. "Bed?"
"Bed."
-
You dream of her.
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