summary: Dean let out a slow, heavy breath, looking down at his bandaged hand for a second before looking back up at you. “When I heard him on the phone, and then I heard you scream... everything just went black. The only thing I could think about was getting to you. I didn't care about anything else.”
You blinked, stunned by the fact that he seemed to be explaining himself.
“And what's wrong with that? If it weren't for you, I don't know what would've—”
“I didn't want you to see me like that. I mean, he deserved it but, I didn't want you to see.”
pairing: dean di laurentis x f!reader
w.c: 3.6K
warnings/content: trauma response; harassment; graphic description of violence; hurt/comfort; protective dean; some found family comfort cause I'm a sucker for it.
A/N: thank you so much for the love on ‘I told you so’. my first Dean one shot and I did not expect it to get that much attention. I'm open for off campus requests btw so feel free to hit my dms :) here's part 2 <3
navi
off campus masterlist (TBA)
masterlists
request me something
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
It took a solid three weeks before the yellow-purple bruising on your ankle finally fades into a faint, yellowish tint, and just as long for the raw skin on your arm to fully heal over. You were walking without pain now, you just had to be careful to not put all your body weight on one foot.
Life went back to normal. No looking at corners expecting someone to come out of it out of nowhere. No sense of being watched.
Sometimes you thought you could actually pretend nothing even happened. Except for the nights you'd wake up in a cold sweat at the imminence of a panic attack because reality was a little bit more cruel than just pretending something didn't happen.
It's been three weeks.
Allie had two theater performances. Hannah had one gig. The boys had two big games; and you didn't miss any of it. Instead of being out of the loop completely as your life happened, you were right back on track. Supporting all your friends, having fun and studying as hell.
The morning sun was surprisingly warm for a Friday, casting a bright, golden glow over the university campus. You left your jacket aside, supporting yourself on your elbows and resting your head back. Hannah did the same as Allie laid on her stomach.
“So, movie night today?” You wondered out loud, wanting to confirm it would actually happen. Every month, there was a movie night with everyone. You had missed the last two months of it. But rumor had it that it was tonight, according to Dean.
“Yes.” Allie’s smile widened into a grin as she looked over at you. “You're going, right?”
“‘course. I'm gonna help Tucker cook tonight.”
“You-” Hannah stared at you. “I'm sorry. you'll help who cook what? Please be far from the kitchen.”
“Hey!”
“No, seriously. We've established some rules last time you almost burn the house down, babe.” Allie backed Hannah up and your lips pursed into a pout. “Aw, come here.”
She laughed when you pretended you didn't want her close, but eventually you let her hug you. She kissed your cheek before going back to her spot.
“You can't be everything. You've got the pretty eyes, hot body, great hair… you want to cook too?”
“Oh my god, I am not that bad of a cook.” You complained with a groan. Hannah giggling beside you.
“What is this?”
The three of you turned your necks to watch Garrett and Dean approach your group slowly, backpacks hanging over their shoulders. They must have just left a class.
“Three ladies skipping class, your honor. That's a felony.” Dean joked. His baby blue eyes found yours when he lowered himself to the plaid blanket, throwing his backpack aside before laying on your lap. “Hi.”
“Hi.” You poked his dimple, smiling a little. “Good class?”
“No, boring. Very boring class.” He rolled his eyes. “I was almost falling asleep.”
You made a face. “Ouch.”
“Okay, I got the beers and… the soda, for tonight.” Garrett told them and their attention turned to him, happily accepting a strawberry from his girlfriend. “Dean will bring more. I think we have burgers but I'll ask Logan to check—”
You looked over at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Tucker is not cooking by himself.”
“And who's helping, you?” Dean cracked a quick laugh at his own joke but it died down when you glared down at him. “Oh.”
“The fire alarm that one time?” Garrett gave you a look. Hannah elbowed him, earning an ow!
“If we all help him, I won't bring the house down.” You said matter of fact, then looked down at Dean, whose eyes were shut. His long lashes resting against his cheek. “That includes you, Di Laurentis.”
Dean shook his head, mumbling something unintelligible as he buried his face in your shirt.
“Better get him away from the kitchen too.” Garrett kicked Dean's leg. “I got class right now. Bye, beautiful. Pick you up later.” He gave Hannah a long kiss and stood up “And you too!” He called out for his friend, who still had his face hidden in your stomach.
“Go, and don't be late later.” You whispered in his ear, kissing his cheek.
As he sat up, pushing himself off the plaid blanket, the cool morning breeze hit the exact spot where your breath had just been. A sudden, violent shiver rippled straight up his spine. You watched, a small smirk playing on your lips, as the fine hairs along his arms stood completely on end.
“Jesus,” Dean mumbled, aggressively rubbing at his forearm to chase away the goosebumps. He glared down at you, though his baby blues lacked any real bite. “It's freezing out here. You're freezing.”
“Sure, Di Laurentis. Blame the weather,” you teased softly, leaning back on your elbows.
Dean swung his backpack over one shoulder. He looked down at you one last time, pointing a warning finger at your face. “You're a tease.”
“You look so good walking away, baby!” You hollered and the girls whistled, backing you up.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The walk to the boys' house wasn't terribly long, but as you moved further away from the campus perimeter, the streetlights grew sparser, casting long, overlapping shadows across the pavement. You pulled your jacket tighter around your chest, shifting your bag to your other shoulder to grab your phone from your pocket and send Allie a text, letting her know you would be a few minutes late.
When you were about to put it back in your pocket, the name Elle Woods showed up on your screen with a picture of Dean making a funny face. You had taken that years ago and it still made you smile a little.
“Hey,” Dean’s voice filtered through the line, a low, background hum of a television and the faint sound of Tucker shouting in the distance letting you know he was already at the house. “We’re here. Where are you?”
“Still on my way,” you said, stepping around a cracked patch of sidewalk. “I stayed late to talk to Professor Adeyeme about that internship. I’m just walking over now.”
There was a pause.
“You're walking? Alone? It's past eight, it's pitch black out. What happened to your car?”
“It broke down this morning, again. And I'm gonna walk. Ever heard of feet, Dean?" You teased him, looking both ways to cross the fairly empty street. “Mine works just fine.”
“Ha ha. You are so funny. So so funny,” Dean shot back, his voice deadpan and entirely unamused. You could hear the rustle of fabric through the speaker—the distinct sound of him grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair. “Keep joking, sweetheart. I'm already putting my shoes on. Where exactly are you?”
“Dean, I'm fine. It's only a few more blocks," you insisted, though you subconsciously quickened your pace.
“I don't care if it's two feet from the front porch.” His voice faded a moment to talk to someone there and then he was back. The heavy click of the house's front door shutting echoed through the phone, followed by the crunch of his boots hitting the gravel driveway. “Stay on the line with me. I'm walking down the main street right now. Do not hang up.”
“‘kay.” You rolled your eyes.
The casual warmth of the conversation suddenly evaporated as your boots hit a quieter, residential stretch of the sidewalk. The streetlights here were flicking, struggling against the heavy dark. Beneath the sound of Dean's voice in your ear, you caught a faint, distinct sound.
Scritch. Crunch.
The unmistakable scrape of a shoe hitting a patch of loose gravel right behind you.
Your stomach instantly dropped into a cold, hard knot. You didn't stop walking—your instincts screamed at you to keep moving and go faster—but you subtly tilted your head, your eyes darting to the side to catch the perimeter of your vision.
“Angel?” Dean's voice cut through the phone, sharp and suddenly alert. The easygoing tone was entirely gone. “What's wrong? Why did you stop talking?”
“Sorry.” You brushed your worry off. The street was just dark and you were probably imagining stuff anyway. “Nothing, so which movie are we gonna watch? Tell me you did not choose.”
“You offend me.”
Just as you were about to retort back at him, your blood ran cold at the voice echoing behind you.
“Honey, we can do this the easy way!”
The footsteps suddenly abandoned all pretense of subtlety as they turned into a heavy, aggressive stride.
Once you turn around, you realize you should've listened to your instincts because there it was, your ex, too close to your liking.
Your throat had completely locked up. The adrenaline was a choking weight, making your legs move in a panicked, uncoordinated sprint as the gap between you and your ex closed.
“Don't run from me!” Your ex shouted, his voice closer now, laced with that toxic, volatile anger that had forced you out of a moving car. “We need to talk! You think you can just block my number and hide out with those pieces of shit?”
Your mind started working too fast and you couldn't think straight, but you forced yourself to focus. You weren't unprepared like last time so were you just gonna let him get to you? Again? Fuck no.
Using every ounce of leverage you had, you yanked your arm back, twisting violently against his grip. The sudden movement caught him off guard, his fingers slipping against the slick fabric of your jacket just enough for you to break free.
“Get the fuck away from me!” you screamed, the yell tearing from your throat with a raw, vicious intensity.
You didn't look back to see his expression. Your eyes snapped toward the street ahead, locking onto the harsh, fluorescent glow of a bus stop half a block away.
As the distance closed, the sheer rush of adrenaline suddenly cleared the static in your ears, and you remembered the phone still clutched in your white-knuckled hand.
The speaker was still blaring. Dean hadn't stopped screaming your name. “... are you?! What the hell is going on?”
“Why do I get myself into these shitty situations? Like what the fuck is wrong— Don't you fucking come any closer!” You had successfully found the pepper spray from your backpack and was pointing it right at him. “I'm gonna make you so fucking blind, I swear, Luke.”
“Put that shit down,” Luke warned, his voice dropping into a low, threatening register as he took a cautious, agonizingly slow half-step forward. “You're not going to spray me.”
“Try me.” You challenged him, your thumb pressing down on the safety latch. “Step one inch closer and see what happens. I will empty this entire fucking can in your face!”
“You won't need to.” Dean's voice immediately sent a rush of relief through your body, making the panic lower at least a little.
He didn't look at you first; his gaze locked instantly onto Luke. “You've got some nerve getting close to her again, you piece of shit.”
“Why don't you mind your own business?” Luke spat out. “You got to fuck her what, two times, and now you think you're entitled—”
He grabbed the front of Luke’s jacket, his large hand bunching the heavy fabric tightly, and shoved him backward.
“I made it my business the second you put your hands on her.” Dean snarled, crowding Luke’s space aggressively that his heels practically left the ground. His voice dropped into a dark register that was infinitely more terrifying than a shout. “You think I forgot what you did on that highway? Trapping her in your car? Real classy, dude.”
“Dean. Dean.” You took a step closer but one back in hesitation. The last thing you wanted was for him to get hurt because of you.
Thankfully, you had called the cops and anytime now that would arrive there. Anytime now.
“Dean, for fuck’s sake!” You yelled through the punches. “I called the cops! Stop.”
Dean’s fist froze mid-air, inches from Luke’s bloody nose. He was hovering over him on the pavement, his chest heaving violently, his knuckles already scraped and stained red. Luke was a wheezing, pathetic mess beneath him, shielding his face and groaning in pain, completely broken.
Right on cue, a sharp, distant wail cut through the quiet night air. Blue and red lights began to flash against the brick buildings down the avenue, growing brighter and louder by the second as a police cruiser rounded the corner.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The cool night air hit your face instantly, crisp and grounding. The silence that settled over the empty sidewalk was thick, broken only by the distant rush of cars on the main avenue. You walked side by side down the sidewalk, the sudden drop in adrenaline leaving your limbs feeling exhausted.
Dean walked on your right, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He had a small white bandage taped over the knuckles of his right hand, courtesy of a sympathetic desk officer who had handed him a first-aid kit while you finished signing your statement. His blonde curls all over the place. You couldn't help but think you had ruined yet another night for him.
You cleared your throat softly, bumping your shoulder against his arm.
“So,” you started, a tiny, tentative smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Who would’ve thought I'd be the one making you get into a police matter, and not the other way around?”
He didn't say anything so you drop your funny persona all together. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have walked all the way to your place, I—”
“It's not your fault.” He shook his head, fingers running through his hair. “I'm not mad at you, I wanted to kill him.”
“I know.” You said, looking away quickly. “I saw it.”
Both of you chose silence until you've reached a small dinner that was open 24/7. You were confused for a second and then he opened the door for you. “I'm not gonna make you walk all the way. I didn't bring my car so Logan is picking us up. Let's wait inside, yeah?”
You slid into a corner booth, your body practically sinking into the cracked leather as the absolute exhaustion of the night finally caught up to you. Dean dropped into the seat across from you. The table between you felt incredibly wide all of a sudden. When an incredibly tired looking waiter came to ask if you guys wanted anything, you both said no.
Dean let out a slow, heavy breath, looking down at his bandaged hand for a second before looking back up at you. “When I heard him on the phone, and then I heard you scream... everything just went black. The only thing I could think about was getting to you. I didn't care about anything else.”
You blinked, stunned by the fact that he seemed to be explaining himself.
“And what's wrong with that? If it weren't for you, I don't know what would've—”
“I didn't want you to see me like that. I mean, he deserved it but, I didn't want you to see.”
“Oh.” It all seemed to click in your brain. “No, Dean. I… The only thing I was scared of was of him hurting you. I'm actually a little disappointed I didn't get to use the pepper spray.”
A sudden, startled laugh broke from Dean’s chest, the heavy, suffocating tension that had been hanging over the booth evaporating in an instant. He leaned back against the vinyl seat, shaking his head as a genuine, lopsided smile finally tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“You're unbelievable.” He said, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I thought you were mad at me.”
“No.” Your thumb hovered near his hurt knuckles. “No, thank you for being there for me.”
“That's what I'm here for.” Dean tilted his head, catching your gaze. “Always. Anyday. Anytime.”
Looking down at your hands, your thumb resumed its slow, gentle brushing against the side of his palm, careful to avoid the tender skin around his knuckles. “You say that like it's the easiest thing in the world.”
“Because it is,” he murmured softly. He squeezed your hand, drawing your gaze back up to meet his. “When it comes to you? It’s the easiest choice I’ve ever had to make. Don't ever feel like you have to apologize for calling me, or think that you're a burden. I want to be the person you call.”
“You already are.” You study his face for a reaction and notice his lips twitching slightly. “Next time I'll accept when you offer to pick me up though.” You said, eyes lowering to his lips before you close the distance and kiss him. A short kiss that said a lot. And then you were right back at your side.
Kissing wasn't strange to either of you. Dean had seen you bare on multiple times for different reasons. But he had stopped being simply a fuck buddy to you. You didn't think much about whether that meant feelings or anything, you just felt safe around him.
“Yeah?” he rasped out, his voice dropping an octave.
He didn't let go of your hand. Instead, his fingers tightened, pulling your arm just a little bit closer across the laminate table so you couldn't fully retreat into the shadows of your side of the booth. He leaned forward, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, deliberate second before rising back up to lock with your eyes.
“You think we missed movie night?” You sighed. “I actually wanted to participate this time…”
“We'll just do another one.” Dean shrugged, caressing your hand. He checked over the hour on his wrist watch and raised his brows. “Well, if Logan learns how to drive a little faster, maybe we can get there in time.”
The little bell above the door jingled and you both looked up toward the entrance.
Logan came marching toward the booth, his jacket half-zipped, looking thoroughly bewildered as his eyes darted from your face to the stark white bandage on Dean's knuckles, and finally down to your laced fingers. “What? You guys just go on a date in the middle of the night and decide to scare the shit out of me?”
Dean cleared his throat, giving him a look. Grace rushed to your side immediately.
“Hi, are you okay?” She asked kindly. “I saw your location and I freaked out.”
“I'm fine, Grace,” you said, offering her a tired but genuinely grateful smile as she squeezed in next to you. “Just a really long story. Thank you for coming.”
Dean laid out the timeline of the evening for Logan and Grace on your way back to Logan's car. You relaxed against the backseat and breathed out. You felt a warm hand squeezing your arm before your seatbelt was put on, hearing the little click.
“John, tell me I didn't miss movie night?”
“You didn't miss movie night.” He turned the car on while replying to you, driving out of the parking lot. “We were waiting for the two of you.”
“Sorry bout that.” You share a look with Dean. “I seem to always put your plans on hold.”
“Nope.” Dean popped the p. “None of that.”
“Definitely not.” Grace said, offering her hand from the front seat and you accepted it, squeezing it. “Please tell me you got to pepper spray the asshole.”
You groaned. “No! But that would've been so fun.”
“Aw, what a bummer.”
“Yeah.” You exhaled slowly, and then turned your head toward Dean, a teasing smile lighting up your face. “Thankfully, I had those biceps to protect me tonight.” You said, touching the hard muscle of his bicep through his jacket.
Grace's laughter and Logan's predictable teasing echoed through the car. “Oh! Those biceps. I just want to bite them.”
“They're all yours, Logan. You know that.” Dean muttered, though he casually reached forward and slapped John's shoulder from the backseat to get him to keep his eyes on the road.
The blonde then shifted his arm slightly, trapping your fingers against his bicep and holding your hand there against his warmth. He leaned his head back against the headrest, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes with a look that was entirely private.
‘You okay?’ He mouthed, paying attention to your expression. He was always attuned to your emotions; it freaked you out sometimes.
You nodded softly, giving his bicep a reassuring squeeze to let him know you were really, truly okay.
Dean watched you for a beat longer, his gaze searching your face in the dim, shifting shadows of the car. A comfortable silence envelopes the two of you and you settled for overhearing Grace and Logan's quiet conversation on your way home.
You closed his eyes at some point, leaning your head fully back against the headrest. His grip on your fingers never loosened. That right there was your safe space.
A/N: this is longer and more angst than I planned. the trope is sort of friends with benefits x idiots in love.
navigation
off campus masterlist (TBA)
masterlists
request me something
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“You’ve been distant the entire week.” Dean said as if it was obvious, a bit frustrated that he didn't know if he had done something — his suspicion was almost always right — or if something else happened to you.
Malone's was filled with young energy and loud music. Everyone gathered off campus to enjoy some fun time, including the hockey team after practice.
“What? No, I haven't.” You mumbled distractedly typing away on your phone. The first tell, for Dean, was that you weren't paying attention to Allie's presentation and you always do. She was one of your best friends and he hadn't seen any group of friends closer than you, Hannah and Allie.
He let it go, of course.
But now you've been glued to your phone at Malone's, again, when everyone came here to have a good time.
You weren't having a good time. Not here at least.
“Yes, you have.” Dean inhaled deeply and his eyes drifted from you to the dance floor, where his friends were having fun. Where you both could be doing the same. “Let's dance. C'mon.” He offered you his hand, eyebrows twitching as he forced a smile on his lips. He didn't know what was going on, but he wanted to get your mind off of whatever was bothering you.
You looked up from the screen, the blue light reflecting in your eyes, and then looked down at his outstretched hand. His palm was calloused, warm, and completely safe. You were tempted to take it when the device buzzed against the table.
It wouldn't stop. Dean noticed the non-stoping texting and that was fine. Maybe it was an issue? But you've been glued to your phone almost to the point of obsession. Or was it fear? He hated that he knew that look in your eyes.
“Hey,” Dean’s voice softened, losing its edge of frustration and shifting into genuine concern. He dropped his hand and leaned in closer over the sticky wooden table, his blonde curls falling on his forehead as he tried to catch your downcast gaze. “You look like you just saw a ghost. What's on the phone?”
“Nothing,” you said, your voice a little too high. You quickly flipped the phone face down on the table, but the damage was done.
He didn't even need to ask who it was. That behavior told him everywhere he needed to know and Dean desperately needed to punch someone right now.
It happened before. You and your ex breaking up and going back together in the course of a month, never more than that. And he was there to clean up the mess and pull you out of the slump you put yourself into.
Dean stared at the vibrating device, jaw clenching. You could see the gears turning in his head, the sudden realization flitting across his features. It wasn't work, it wasn't Hannah, and it wasn't Allie. They were all accounted for.
Before you could snatch it away, Dean reached out and flipped the phone over.
“Dean, don't—”
It was too late. The lock screen was illuminated with a string of notifications from a number you hadn't saved, but the opening lines of the texts spoke volumes.
[Unknown]: Malone's? Really? With him?
[Unknown]: Pick up. We need to talk about last month.
“I thought you blocked him?”
He wished he had a poker face but Dean is as transparent as a window. He didn't necessarily wear his heart on his sleeve but he can't hide when something hurts him.
“That's a new number.” You said, exhaling through your frustration. “He just wants to talk—can you give it back? My phone?”
“Oh, this?” He pointed at your cellphone with an expression of innocence. “No, yeah. Here you go.” That smile was nothing but sincere and you sensed a lecture coming up. “Let me know if you guys worked it out. Again.”
“You can stop being sarcastic.” You rolled your eyes and took back your phone. But he did something you weren't expecting, standing up from the table, he pushed his hair back. “Where are you going?”
“To dance.” He shrugged. “You enjoy your evening with your nice guy.”
Something in your chest tugged slightly but you let it go. He could dance as much as he wanted with whoever he wanted — and who didn't want him, honestly? The guilt wasn't about that though.
Why did it feel like he was finally done with your bullshit?
The thought settled into your stomach. Dean never turned his back on you. He was the guy who, six months ago, sat on the floor of your bathroom at three in the morning, handing you tissues and rubbing your back while you cried over the exact same man who was currently blowing up your lock screen. He had been your anchor through every single tremor of that toxic relationship.
He watched you cry over your ex and all that shit. It couldn't be enjoyable to keep doing that.
You just didn't want to lose him.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Logan was holding his wallet and keys, literally a minute away from walking out the door. As soon as he sent a text over to Grace, telling her he was on his way to pick her up, the doorbell rang.
When he opened it, he wasn't ready for what he saw.
Quickly, he helped you to the couch, dropping everything he had on his hands to come to your aid.
There was a cut on your lower lip and you were limping.
“It's fine-Logan, it's fine.” Your tone carried an edge you didn't want to share with him but he was fussing over you, probably because of your few visible wounds. “Seriously, just…” You cut yourself off when you notice the door was still open. “Close the door and lock it. Please.”
Logan’s eyes darted from your bleeding lip to your frantic gaze, the urgency in your voice cutting right through his shock. He didn't ask questions, simply bolting back to the entryway to close the wooden door shut. The sharp click of the key echoed through the apartment, a sudden barrier between you and the dark street outside.
“It's locked. It's locked, you're safe,” Logan said quickly, turning back to the living room. He looked down at his green button-down, then at the blood smudged on his palm from where he’d helped you sit. He didn't care. “Jesus, what happened out there? Were you mugged? Did you walk here? Are you-”
“I got out of the car. It was still moving.” You interrupted his rambling, forcing your hands into your lap so they would stop shaking. Logan was like a brother to you but letting yourself be seen that vulnerable? The answer would always be no. No one but Dean had come to know that part of your life yet.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
“You jumped out of a moving car?” Logan whispered, the color completely draining from his face. “Why? Who did this?” He hesitated on touching you even though he needed to see if you were hurt anywhere else. He didn't know if you wanted to be touched by anyone right now. Shit.
“Is the back door locked?” you interrupted, ignoring his questions as a fresh wave of panic hit you. You gripped your own knees, the fabric of your jeans rough against your trembling fingers. “Just—just in case.”
Logan blinked, snapping out of his daze. “Yeah. Yeah, it is, but I’ll check. I’m checking right now.”
Left alone in the quiet living room for a split second, the silence felt heavy, suffocating. The thumping ache in your ankle was getting louder, a rhythmic, hot pulse that synchronized with the frantic beating of your heart. You stared at the front door, the heavy wood feeling like a fragile shield against the outside world. Your lower lip stung where it was split, the taste of copper faint on your tongue.
I got out. I got out. I got—
“It's locked tight,” Logan called out, his voice breathless as he hurried back into the living room. He stopped a few feet away, running a hand through his carefully styled hair, completely disheveling it. He looked down at his green button-down, noticing a small smear of your blood near the cuff, but he didn't even blink. “Listen, do I need to call the police? Do I need to call an ambulance? Talk to me.”
You shook your head quickly, the mere thought of flashing lights and sirens making your chest tighten. “No. No police. Just... I just need to sit here for a second.”
Logan opened his mouth to argue, his protective instincts warring with his respect for your boundaries, when the heavy sound of the front door's lock turning made both of you freeze.
The front door swung open with a bustling energy of two men laughing about something.
Beau’s grip on the takeout bag tightened, the paper crinkling loudly as his eyes landed on the split, bleeding line of your lower lip, and then on the raw, gravel-torn skin of your forearm. “What... what happened?” Beau blinked, looking at Logan for answers.
Dean wasn't looking at Logan, his eyes found yours immediately and it was like a bucket of cold water had dropped on his head.
His face drained of color. His chest rose and fell in a sharp, heavy breath as his eyes locked onto yours, taking in your trembling frame, your tear-stained cheeks, and the way you were desperately guarding your injured leg.
“Sorry.” You said, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I didn't mean to barge in, I just-This was the closest to and Hannah wasn't picking up her phone-”
“Whoa, no. What? No. Why are you apologizing?” Logan quickly cut in, sitting down beside you again carefully to not hit your leg. “Hey, you're okay. You're family. You're staying. You guys.” Logan addressed the other two frozen near the doorway. “Shut the door. Lock it. Get ready in the kitchen or whatever. Go.” He sent a stern look that you didn't notice because you were burying yourself in the couch, maybe trying to hide from embarrassment.
Logan shifted beside you, blocking your view of Dean for a fraction of a second as he gently reached out, his hand hovering over your shoulder before lightly resting there to ground you. “Hey,” Logan murmured, his voice dropping into that rare, fiercely protective brotherly tone. “Look at me. Ignore them. You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, okay? None of this is on you.”
You didn't look up, keeping your chin tucked against your chest, but you could hear the heavy, deliberate sound of footsteps crossing the hardwood.
Dean didn't listen to Logan's order to stay back. He couldn't.
He approached the couch slowly, any joy from being on a night out with his best friend gone as soon as he saw your situation. When he reached the edge of the sofa, he dropped heavily to his knees right in front of you, his large frame instantly cutting off the rest of the room.
“Get the first-aid kit from the bathroom, Logan,” Dean commanded. “Hi.” He tried to smile a little through the rage burning inside of his chest.
Logan glanced at his friend, saw the rigid tension in his shoulders, and nodded once. He squeezed your shoulder one last time before standing up.
The moment Logan left, the space between you and Dean felt suffocatingly small. He didn't touch you yet—his hands were hovering inches from your scraped arm, trembling so violently he had to ball them into fists to stop it. He was staring at your split lip, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his cheek ticked.
“Look at me,” Dean begged softly, the terrifying edge in his voice cracking to reveal something agonizingly fragile. He leaned closer, trying to catch your downcast gaze. “Please. Look at me.”
You slowly lifted your head, your vision slightly blurred by the threat of fresh tears. The moment your eyes met his, the sheer intensity in his gaze almost made you look away again.
“I didn't know where else to go. I didn't want to be alone.”
Dean inhaled sharply. “Here. You come here. Anytime. Anyday. You know that.” He paused, assessing your ankle. It was swollen. “Can I see that?”
You nodded weakly, swallowing down another sob as you slowly shifted your leg on the cushions. The movement sent a sharp flare of pain straight up to your knee, causing you to hiss through your teeth and instinctively grip the fabric of Dean’s shirt.
"I know, I know. I've got you,” Dean murmured instantly, helping you shift.
He didn't touch the joint itself—he knew better than to aggravate it—but he lightly pressed his fingers against the top of your foot and then the back of your heel, checking your circulation with practiced, steady pressure.
“Can you wiggle your toes for me?” Dean asked softly, his eyes lifting to meet yours, searching your face to gauge your pain.
You tried, gritting your teeth as you forced a tiny, trembling movement out of your foot. A sharp ache rippled through your ankle, but you managed it.
“Good. That's good,” Dean breathed, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders, though his expression remained incredibly grim. He glanced up at an incredibly awkward Beau over his shoulder. “It’s a bad sprain, maybe a hairline fracture from the impact. Grab an ice pack from the freezer. Wrap it in a clean dish towel. We need to get the swelling down before we can even think about moving her again.”
“On it,” Beau said immediately, turning away to do what he was told. Happy that he had something to do.
Right as Beau vanished into the kitchen, Logan hurried back into the living room, holding the plastic first-aid kit. He looked flustered, his hair a little messy from running his hands through it, but his focus was entirely on getting you what you needed. He set the box down on the coffee table with a soft rattle.
Dean immediately reached inside, his large hands finding the bottle of antiseptic and a pack of sterile gauze.
“I'm going to clean the scrape on your arm first, okay?” he whispered, his eyes locking onto yours with total seriousness. “It's going to sting a little bit. You can hold onto me as tight as you need to.”
You nodded in agreement, resting back against the cushions and closing your eyes for a second. Your body finally letting go of the fight-or-flight response, the familiar warmth of the apartment and the low rumble of the boys' voices signaling to your brain that you were finally in a safe environment.
A heavy, exhausted sigh escaped you, and despite the throbbing in your ankle, a tiny, weak smile tugged at the corner of your mouth—wincing slightly as it pulled at your split lip.
You opened your eyes and looked up at Logan, trying to inject a little bit of normalcy into the heavy air. “You're all dressed up,” you murmured, your voice a tired rasp. “You're probably incredibly late because of me. Go get your girl, John. I'll be fine. Thank you. And sorry for keeping you.”
Logan hesitated, shifting his weight from one shoe to the other. He looked down at his green button-down, then at you, clearly torn. “I'm not just going to walk out on you when you look like you wrestled an entire hockey team,” he muttered, though there was an anxious twitch in his jaw. What the fuck happened? Who did he have to kill?
Dean, who had been tearing open a packet of sterile gauze, paused. He lifted his head and exchanged a silent, heavy look with Logan. An unspoken understanding traveled between the two of them. I've got her, Dean’s eyes said. Go.
Logan caught the look and slowly let out a breath, his shoulders dropping. “Alright,” he said softly, reaching down to gently pat your uninjured shoulder. “But if you need anything—anything at all—you make this idiot call me, okay?”
“I will,” you promised with a small smile.
As Logan turned to grab his keys and phone from the entryway table, Beau walked back into the living room, holding a bag of frozen peas wrapped tightly in a clean checkered dish towel.
He handed it to Dean, still looking a bit like a ghost had walked into the room.
Dean took the ice pack, his focus instantly narrowing back down to you. He knelt closer, his thigh pressing against the edge of the couch as he adjusted enough to make you as comfortable as possible.
“Alright,” Dean whispered, uncapping the bottle of antiseptic. He gently took your hand, supporting your forearm with his palm. “Breathe through it. Grip my shoulder if it hurts. And Beau?”
“Here, man. Do you need-”
“Can you go do literally anything else?”
Beau blinked, his hands flying up in a defensive, half-surrendered gesture. “Yep. Loud and clear.” He pointed upstairs. “I'm gonna go check out Garret's… stuff? Yeah.”
The second the antiseptic-soaked gauze touched the raw, gravel-torn skin of your forearm, a sharp, white-hot sting flared through your arm. You hissed, your eyes squeezing shut as your fingers clamped down hard on his shoulder, pulling him closer.
Dean didn't flinch. He absorbed the pressure of your grip, his voice a low, rhythmic murmur against the quiet of the room. “I know, I know. Breathe. You're doing great. Just a little more.”
A ragged, choking sound tore from your throat, and then the tears just came, uncontrollable. You let go of his shoulder to press your uninjured hand over your eyes, your chest heaving as the ugly, suffocating truth crashed down on you.
Again. You had done this again. You had let the texts pull you back into the orbit, you had ignored your friends, you had shut out the one person who actually cared, and you had ended up bleeding on a couch because you couldn't just walk away the first time.
“Hey, hey... look at me,” Dean pleaded, his voice laced with instant panic as he shifted closer, his large hands coming up to gently try and pry your fingers away from your face. “Is it the arm? Did I press too hard? Talk to me.”
“You're not gonna tell me I told you so?” you sobbed out, the words muffled and broken against your palm. You forced your hand down, staring at him through a blur of tears, your split lip trembling. “Because you did. Multiple times, Dean. Months ago, this week, two nights ago at Malone's... you told me. How can I be this stupid?”
“Stop,” Dean shook his head, his voice dropping into a firm, grounding register that cut right through your spiraling thoughts. He moved until his knees were pressed hard against the edge of the sofa, forcing you to look at him. He carefully reached up and took your uninjured hand, squeezing it so tightly you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his pulse. “Look at me. I am not saying that to you. Not tonight. Not ever.”
“But it's true,” you choked out, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes, making his face blur in front of you. “You were finally done with my bullshit. I saw you walk away at Malone's. I brought this on myself. If I had listened—”
“You didn't bring a damn thing on yourself,” Dean interrupted fiercely, his voice cracking. There was nothing he hated more than seeing you like that.
He leaned closer, his chest heaving with a ragged breath as his eyes locked onto yours with an absolute, unwavering intensity. “You got caught in a trap by a guy who knows exactly what buttons to push because he’s spent years building them. That is not on you. You hear me? That is on him.”
"And I wasn't done with you," he whispered, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of your wrist. "I was hurt. I was being a selfish asshole because I hate seeing him occupy space in your head when I'm standing right in front of you. But I am never, ever done with you. Do you hear me?”
“You could call me at three in the morning, you could ruin every single plan I have, you could jump out of a hundred moving cars, and I will always be the one waiting at the door for you. Don't you ever call yourself stupid for trying to handle a monster on your own.”
Slowly, you let your forehead sink forward until it rested against his shoulder, burying your face in the familiar scent of his jacket. Another ragged sob shook your frame, but this time, it felt like a release.
“I'm sorry,” you whispered into the fabric, your voice small and completely spent. “I'm so sorry, Dean.”
“Stop apologizing.” He wrapped his arms around you securely, pulling you into his chest in a way that made you feel completely invisible to the outside world. He buried his face in your hair, his chest heaving as he took a deep, shaky breath. “You're here. You're safe. That's the only thing that matters right now.” And he was telling that to himself too. He didn't know what he would do if you hadn't gotten out of that car.
You hadn't meant to close your eyes, but the safety of his presence was an overwhelming gravity. Your head lolled to the side, settling into the crook of his shoulder, and within minutes, sleep had claimed you.
Dean sat unmoving for a long time, watching the tension finally bleed out of your face. He carefully slid his arm out from under you, wincing slightly as he tried not to jar your injured leg.
“Hey, angel,” he mumbled softly. “Let's get you into bed.”
You didn't answer, only letting out a soft, faint sigh. Moving with agonizing care, Dean slipped one large arm beneath your shoulders and the other under your knees, lifting you from the couch. He held you tight against his chest, hyper-aware of the slight wince that crossed your features as your swollen ankle shifted, but you didn't wake up. You just instinctively buried your face into his neck, your hands weakly clutching at the collar of his shirt.
Dean used his foot to gently nudge the door shut behind him before walking over to the bed. He pulled back the heavy comforter with one hand, then lowered you onto the mattress. He didn't move away immediately. He stayed bent over you, carefully adjusting the pillows beneath your head and lifting your injured leg to rest on a rolled-up blanket he’d grabbed from the closet, keeping the ankle elevated.
As he pulled the covers up to your chin, his thumb lightly brushed a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. He stared down at your sleeping face, the faint outline of the bandage on your arm and the split on your lip still visible.
The what-ifs didn't just leave his head the entire night. He stayed on the couch downstairs, laid on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, one arm slung over his eyes to block out the world. He knew he wouldn't really sleep, not in case you needed anything.
Your ex better be fucking ready for the payback that was coming for him.
summary — jack used to press his thumb inside of your wrist, just to feel your pulse. he’s been thinking that lately. he’s been thinking about that a lot.
content / trigger warnings — 12.6k words. angst, heavy, heavyyy angst, emotional neglect, reader leaves jack, no explicit breakup scene, hurt/no comfort, medical setting, pulmonary embolism, pulmonary embolism most likely presented inaccurately based on what i could find on wikipedia, reader is unconscious, references to ptsd/ptsd implied, jack’s past military service mentioned, insomnia, crying, lots of themes of loneliness, dissociation compared to being a fugue state, grief, pining, jack not being the very best at this relationship so maybe ooc?
author’s note — yes i have no range all i can write is a yearning man after he massively messes up; i wanna try being more versatile though so send in requests so i can make an attempt at being a Little more creative. i wanted to get this out because i started writing it while season 2 was coming out
The coffee maker had been broken for three days because the carafe wouldn’t click into place anymore, so if you didn’t press down on it while it brewed, the coffee pooled around the base and ran out onto the counter. You’d been meaning to tell Jack. You kept forgetting. Or maybe you kept remembering at the wrong times—when he was asleep, when he was in the shower, when he was already halfway out the door—and so for three days you’d been holding the carafe down while scrolling on your phone with the other. The kitchen did permanently smell of burnt coffee because some of it still got under there and cooked against the warmer. Nobody had complained, though.
You were holding the carafe down now.
It was 6:47 in the morning. The light through the kitchen window was the same shade as weak tea. You’d forgotten your socks again, so your feet were going cold against the tile. You’d pulled the cuffs of your sleep shorts down as far as they’d go. You hadn’t slept. You’d gone to bed at eleven and lain in the dark for a while, just to get up at two and read on the couch. You’d ate a piece of toast at four.
He was meant to be home at six-thirty. It was 6:48 now. You checked the clock on the microwave, the clock on the stove, and the clock on your phone, all of which disagreed by between thirty seconds and two minutes, and none of which mattered because the only clock that mattered was the sound of his key in the lock, and you hadn't heard it yet.
You kept thinking about the fucking carafe.
You kept thinking if you told him, if when he came in that you had to hold the thing down, he’d put his hand over yours and it would become a thing. A small, but real thing. You'd been living on smaller ones lately. The other night he'd touched the back of your neck when he passed you in the hallway and you'd thought about it for two days.
The coffee finished. You let go of the carafe. You poured two mugs—his first, the one with the chip on the rim that he insisted he liked because it made the coffee taste better, which wasn't true but was the kind of thing he said sometimes, the kind of thing that used to make you laugh—and then yours, the one your sister had given you for your twenty-eighth birthday, the one with the hairline crack that had been there so long you'd stopped worrying it would split. You put two sugars in his. You put nothing in yours. You stood at the counter holding both mugs by their handles and you waited.
You’d been putting two sugars in Jack’s coffee for almost three years that you’d started doing it without thinking. You thought, briefly, about not putting sugar in his, about making his coffee wrong. You thought about whether he’d notice. You wanted him to notice. No, you didn’t want him to notice. You put the two sugars in, and stirred them with the small spoon you always used. The wrong coffee would have been a test, you realized, and you weren’t ready to give a test you already knew the answer to.
6:53.
You set the mugs down. You picked them up. You set them down again. You went to the window and looked out at the parking lot like you were sixteen and waiting for a boy to pull up, except you were thirty-one and you lived with him and there was no reason to be standing at the window except that you couldn't sit down. Sitting down would mean admitting you were waiting. Standing was a thing you happened to be doing in the kitchen near the window. It wasn't the same.
You heard the key jangle at 7:04.
Your body reacted the same way it had been reacting for three years now. There was an involuntary lift in your chest, this small gladness, and the fleeting, euphoric thought of oh good, Jack’s here. It happened milliseconds before you could decide whether you were allowed to feel it anymore; it happened in the half-second between the key turning and the door opening. You hated that it still happened. You hated that you were unsure whether you hated it.
He came in. He looked at you. He eyed the mugs on the counter. He looked back at you.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” you said.
He left his jacket on and held onto his bag. He stood in the doorway like a man who’d come into the wrong apartment and was figuring out how to exit without being mean about it. His hair was flat on one side from where he’d been pushing his locks through it. There was something on the cuff of his scrubs, a dried, dark spot. He—like always—smelled like the hospital, and underneath that he smelled like himself, and underneath that, faintly, he smelled like coffee that wasn’t yours.
He’d stopped somewhere on his way home.
You filed that thought away into this ever-growing compartment of Jack your subconscious mind had started months ago, and your conscious mind was just catching on. You were getting good at filing things away. You had a whole drawer of them now, in your head, organized chronologically: the night he hadn't come to bed; the morning he'd left without saying goodbye; the Tuesday he'd told you he was too tired to talk and then you'd heard him on the phone in the bathroom, laughing, low, at something somebody else had said. You didn't open the drawer. You just kept putting things in it. You'd open it later. You'd open it when you were ready.
“I made coffee,” you said, because that was how it was supposed to go. That was how it always went.
“I had some,” he said.
“Okay.”
He was looking past you, at the cabinet behind your head, at nothing, you realized. He’d hadn’t met your eyes since he came in, and you were realizing you had stopped considering it avoiding, because to avoid would mean he was putting in the effort to. When had this become the nature of it all? You couldn’t remember the last time he looked at you. You were going to remember the not remembering later. When had you become a thing his eyes had learned to skip over?
“Long night?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
You waited with bated breath. There used to be a ‘yeah,’ then a story. There used to be a ‘yeah, this guy came in, you won’t believe what he did to his hand.’ He’d sit at the counter and tell you, gesturing with his coffee, and you’d put your chin on your palm and listen with both ears. Sometimes you’d laugh and sometimes you wouldn’t and once you’d cried. He’d reached across the counter and put his thumb under your eye and say, “Hey. Hey. Come here.” And then you’d go around the corner and he’d hold you for a long time without saying anything.
You waited.
“I’m gonna shower,” he said.
“Okay.”
He moved past you without touching you. There was a moment—a half-second, less, the time it took for him to pass behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the table—when you felt the air shift. The possible moment he could have put a hand on your hip, on the small of your back, on the top of your head; when he could have done any of the small unthinking touches he used to do without thinking. But he moved through the space like you were a piece of furniture he was navigating around. You heard the bathroom door close. You heard the shower turn on.
You stood at the counter for a while.
You picked up his mug, the one with the chipped rim, and you held it with both hands. It was still warm. The two sugars hadn't dissolved all the way; you could feel the grit at the bottom when you tilted it. You thought about pouring it out. You thought about drinking it yourself. You thought about a lot of things.
You set it down.
You sat at the table. You hadn't sat down all morning. Your hands were colder than they should've been. You put them between your thighs to warm them up. You looked at the chip on the rim of his mug, the small white triangle of it where the ceramic had broken away two years ago—you'd done it, actually, you'd been washing dishes and you'd knocked it against the faucet and you'd stood there holding it and almost cried because it was his favorite, and he'd come up behind you and looked at it and laughed and said ‘Baby, it's a mug, it's fine, I like it better now,’ and he'd kissed the top of your head and taken it out of your hands and put it back in the cabinet—and a thought came unbidden to you, one of those with clarity that came in the morning after a night of no sleep.
He doesn’t love me anymore.
You hadn’t decided the thought. It arrived, came through the kitchen window like a weak-tea light and the scent of burnt coffee. The thought sat across the table from you with folded arms as it waited for you to say something back.
You sat there for a long time, listening to the shower run, and somewhere far away you could hear a car door slamming and a dog barking and the building above you starting to wake up, all of it the wrong sounds for this hour, all of it the sounds of a day beginning, and you sat at your kitchen table in your sleep shorts with your cold feet on the tile and you thought, okay.
The shower kept running. You got up to hold the carafe down for the second pot.
It was for you because the act of making coffee was the only thing your hands knew how to do at the moment, and your hands needed something to do or you were going to start crying at the kitchen table, and you weren't going to start crying at the kitchen table because if he came out of the shower and found you crying you would have to explain it, and you didn't have an explanation that would fit in the space he was willing to give you.
‘You don’t love me anymore,’ it’s not a sentence you could say out loud to Jack. It was a sentence you could barely say to yourself. You'd thought it once and now it was in the room and you needed to do something with your hands.
You filled the carafe at the sink. The water ran cold over your wrist and you watched the little bones move under your skin and you thought about how he used to take your hand sometimes and turn it over and press his thumb to the inside of your wrist, just there, where the pulse was, and hold it, like he was checking and making sure. You used to ask him what he was doing and he’d always say, ‘Nothing.’ Then, he’d add, ‘I just like knowing.’
You hadn't felt his thumb on your wrist in—you didn't know. You couldn't remember the last time. That was the thing about the things he used to do. They stopped happening and you didn't notice on the day they stopped, you noticed three weeks later when you reached for the memory of the last time and it wasn't where you'd left it.
You poured the water into the machine. You pressed the button. You held the carafe down.
The shower was still running. The shower had been running for twenty-two minutes.
The coffee maker beeped.
You let go of the carafe. You poured. You added milk—too much, your hand slipped, you didn't bother to fix it—and you took the mug to the table and sat down and you didn't drink it, you just put your hands around it and held on.
You thought about your sister.
You thought about your sister, the phone call you’d had with her four months ago in October. You’d been on a walk and she’d asked how Jack was and you’d said he was good.
She’d been quiet on the other line for a second too long, which meant she'd already heard the answer in your voice and was just giving you the chance to say it out loud. You’d told her you were fine, you were fine. You’d meant it. You were fine in October. You'd been worried about him but you'd been fine. And she'd let it go, because she was good like that, because she didn't push, and you'd gotten off the phone and kept walking and not thought about it again.
You were thinking about it now because you realized she knew before you did.
You were thinking about how lonely had been a slow leak. How you couldn't point to a day. How if someone asked you, later, about when it started, you wouldn’t have an answer that would satisfy them, you'd just have a list of small things and the dawning understanding that the small things had been a shape that had been apparent to everyone but you.
The shower stopped.
You looked up.
The silence after the shower was always loud, for the apartment adjusted, the pipes ticked, the bathroom fan still spun. You heard him moving around in there. The squeak of his palm on the foggy mirror. The click of the cabinet. The small domestic sounds of a man getting ready to come out and face his life. You sat at the table with your hands around your mug and you thought, very clearly, very calmly to not ask him.
Don't ask him what's wrong. Don't ask him if he's okay. Don't ask him if he still wants this. Don't ask him anything. If you ask him he will tell you and you cannot un-hear what he tells you and you are not ready, you are not ready, you are not ready.
He came out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, toweling his hair, as he balanced on his crutches. The steam came out with him in a soft cloud, and for one half-second—the half-second before he saw you sitting there—his face was open. Tired. Wrecked. Human. You saw him. You saw the man you'd loved for almost three years, the man who'd stood at this counter in October and pressed his mouth to the top of your head and asked, rhetorically, what he would do without you. The man who you were pretty sure you would have married if he'd asked, the man you'd been so quietly, stupidly, completely sure of that you'd never even let yourself worry he might not be sure of you.
He saw you and his face closed.
It was the smallest thing. It was a thing you'd seen happen maybe a hundred times in the last few months and never quite let yourself name. It was like a door shut behind his eyes. The towel kept moving in his hand but something in his shoulders went still, the way an animal goes still when it sees you coming.
He stood there with the towel around his neck. He was looking at the floor between you. He had a tan line on the back of his neck from his work badge lanyard, you'd noticed it last week, a small pale stripe. You'd thought about pointing it out to him and you hadn't, because you weren't sure anymore which kinds of small noticings were welcome.
You opened your mouth.
You were sitting at the table with your hands around your mug and you'd made yourself a promise eleven seconds ago and you opened your mouth anyway because some part of you was already past being careful, some part of you was already at the bottom of the hill and rolling, some part of you had decided it would rather know than keep not-knowing, and you opened your mouth and you spoke, “Jack.”
His gaze was still fixed to the floor. “What?”
“Are we okay?”
The towel stopped moving. The kitchen got very quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears in the slow heavy way it did when you were about to be told something that was going to rearrange you, and you sat very still at the table with your hands around your mug and you watched him decide.
He took a long time to decide, enough that you understood what the answer was going to be. He was giving you mercy, you supposed, to prepare your body. You felt your shoulders settle. You felt your jaw loosen. You felt the very small private animal of yourself curl up tight somewhere behind your ribs and go quiet, the way it did before bad news, the way it had done in the doctor's office when you were nineteen, the way it had done at your grandfather's bedside, the way it had done—once, years ago, in a different life—when a different man had told you a different version of the same thing. You knew this feeling. Your body knew this feeling. Your body was already mourning.
He pulled the towel off of his neck and held it beside the crutches.
“I don’t know.”
You waited, eyes fixated on him.
“I don’t—” He started, then stopped. “I’m tired. I’m really tired. Can we not do this right now?”
“Okay,” you said.
“I just got off a fourteen-hour—”
“Okay.”
“Don’t—Please don’t ‘okay’ me that way.”
“What way?”
“Like that. Like you’re—” He lifted his free hand up from the hold on his crutch and gestured vaguely in your direction. “Like you’ve decided what I’m gonna say.”
“Have you?”
“What?”
“Decided.”
He looked at you for the first time since he’d come home. His eyes were on your face as opposed to something past it, and you almost flinched, because you'd forgotten what it felt like to be seen by him and the remembering hurt worse than the forgetting had. His eyes were red. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, even though he'd slept yesterday, you'd watched him sleep yesterday, you'd brought the blackout curtain closed all the way like you always did and you'd put a glass of water on his nightstand like you always did and he'd slept for six hours and woken up and gone to work and now he was standing in your kitchen looking like he hadn't slept in a year.
“Don’t,” he said, voice quiet. “Don’t push this on me right now. Not right this second.”
“When, then? Tomorrow? Next week? March?” Your voice was very even, you were almost impressed by it. “Just tell me when, Jack. I’ll write it down. I’ll wait.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head as he turned away. He was going to walk out. He was going to walk into the bedroom and close the door and you were going to sit at this table for another hour and then go to work and come home and find him gone again and the whole thing would go on, the whole thing would keep going, the slow leak, the quiet drawer, the small white triangle on the rim of the mug.
“I just—” he started, stopping at the threshold of the bedroom. He had his back to you. “I just don’t know how to do this anymore.”
You did not move an inch. You did not move and you did not move and you did not move. You sat at the table with your hands around your mug, watching the back of his head, for he had said it without facing you. He’d hadn’t been brave enough to say it to your face, even though that was the truest sentence he’d said in a month, he’d said it to a doorframe.
You set your mug down on the table.
The sound it made was very small. A soft tock. You'd set it down a thousand times before. You'd set it down this morning. The mug didn't know anything had changed. The mug was a mug. You looked at it. You looked at the small ring of moisture it had left on the wood. You looked at your hands on either side of it, palms-up, empty.
“Okay,” you said.
You went to work that day. You weren’t sure what happened, what you wore, who you talked to, whether you ate lunch, and you won’t be able to. The day will be a white space in your head. A fugue state boiled down to its lowest, least harmful level. Your body had gone to work and answered emails and sat in a meeting and microwaved something for lunch and your mind had been at the kitchen table in your apartment, hands around a mug, listening to Jack’s words like a bruise that keeps being a bruise even after you stop pressing it.
You'd sat in the parking lot of your building for eleven minutes before you'd made yourself get out of the car. You'd looked up at your window—third floor, second from the left, the one with the plant on the sill that you'd bought him for his birthday last year, a stupid little succulent he'd named Gerald for reasons he'd never adequately explained—and you'd seen that the blackout curtain was still closed, which meant he was still asleep. You had maybe forty minutes before he got up for his shift, and you'd thought about driving away. You'd actually thought about it. You'd thought about driving to your sister's, two hours north, and walking into her kitchen and sitting down at her table and letting her ask you what was wrong. You'd thought about it long enough that your hands had moved to the gear shift. And then you hadn't done it, because some part of you was still hoping, standing at the kitchen counter at six-forty-seven in the morning holding two mugs of coffee. Some part of you was going to keep standing there until he told you, in plain words, to stop.
His mug from the morning was still on the counter. The coffee in it had a film on top now, a dull skin you could break with the tip of your finger.
You sat on the couch in the living room and he got up at six-fifteen. You heard the alarm first—the soft one he'd set when you started staying over because the regular one had made you flinch—and then the rustle of the sheets and the soft thud of his feet on the floor and the particular small sound he made every morning when he stood up, a half-grunt, the huh of a man whose body had been disagreeing with him for years and who'd made peace with it. You'd loved that sound. You'd loved being the only person who knew it.
He came out.
He was dressed for work — black t-shirt, scrubs slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from the shower he must have just taken, the second one in twelve hours — and he stopped when he saw you on the couch.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“You’re home.”
“Yeah.”
He stood there for a second like he was going to say something. You watched him consider it, as though there were random english words bouncing in his mind he was trying to piece together to get what he wanted. You didn’t know what. Or you did know what. You weren’t sure.
“You want me to turn on the light?” he asked.
“It’s okay.”
“Okay.”
He went into the kitchen. You heard him open the fridge. You heard him close it without taking anything out. You heard him fill a glass of water at the sink and drink it and set the glass down on the counter—on the counter, where you'd find it later and wash it and put it away—and then he came back into the living room and he stood in the doorway and he looked at you.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said.
You looked at him, trying to force your lips to not turn downwards from the corner. “Are you?”
Your question came out sharper than you wanted it to. The edge had been put on it by the part of you that had been awake for more than a day and had realized, in its wake, that Jack had unlearned how to meet your eyes.
A muscle moved in his jaw. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry—yeah.”
“What are you sorry for, Jack?” Your voice still had that even thing in it, that surprising calm thing, like someone else was operating you from inside. “What part are you sorry for?”
“I don’t—” he said, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
You shrugged stiffly. “What you’re sorry for.”
“I’m sorry I was short with you. I was tired. I shouldn’t have—”
“You told me you didn’t know how to do this anymore.”
He closed his eyes, and you could see the way his face twisted at the action. “That’s not what I meant. I can’t think straight when I haven’t slept and you’re—”
You cleared your throat. “Did you mean it?”
He didn't answer for long enough that you understood he was going to lie about it, and he understood that you understood, and you both sat in that mutual understanding for a second, in the gray light, in the quiet apartment, and you watched him choose.
“I meant I was tired.”
It was the worst possible answer. It was the answer of a man who knew that yes would end the conversation and no would be a lie he couldn't make himself tell, and so he'd found a third door and walked through it, and you stood on the other side of the door and you looked at it and you thought, oh.
Oh. He’s a coward.
This was not a thought you had ever had about him. You had thought he was a lot of things. You had thought he was guarded and tired and weighed down and difficult; you had thought he was kind, in a private way, in a way most people didn't get to see; you had thought he was the smartest person in most rooms and you had thought he knew it and didn't care; you had thought, sometimes, when he was sleeping with his hand on your stomach, that he was the love of your life. You had never thought he was a coward. You had never thought he was the kind of man who would refuse to answer a yes-or-no question from a woman who had loved him because answering would cost him something he wasn't willing to pay.
You were thinking it and you were watching your face not show it and you were watching him relax, fractionally, because he thought he'd gotten away with it, because you hadn't pushed and he thought the conversation was ending in the same manner the conversations had been ending for months now, with both of you agreeing not to look directly at the thing in the middle of the room. And some terrible new part of you—a part that had been born this morning at the kitchen table, a part you didn't recognize and weren't sure you liked—wanted to let him think it. You wanted to let him walk out the door thinking he'd managed it. You wanted to give him this one last small dishonest peace before you took everything else away.
“Okay.”
He looked mildly surprised, but he hardly showed it. “Are you okay? Are we good?”
“Yeah, Jack.”
He looked at you for a long second and you held his gaze, and his face flickered—a part of him that knew that your yes was one with a stone in it—and he chose, once again, to not ask. He chose, again, to be tired.
“Okay,” he said. “I gotta go. I’m gonna be late.” Then, he added, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
You nodded.
He started coming towards the couch. You hadn’t expected that. You'd been bracing for him to just leave, to grab his bag and go, and instead he came over to the couch and he stood in front of you and he leaned down and he kissed the top of your head—like he was your father, like he was your friend, like he was anyone but the man who used to kiss you on the mouth at any opportunity he received—nd his hand brushed the back of your neck, briefly, and he smelled like soap and like him and like the faint trace of the antiseptic that never really came off him.
He said into your hair, quietly, “Get some rest, baby.”
He hadn’t called you that in seven weeks. You had not meant to keep count. You had become aware, somewhere around the fifth week, that you were keeping count in the back of your head, the small ruthless math of being unloved by someone who used to love you. You were certain he was saying goodbye.
He didn't know he was saying it. He thought he was being kind. He thought he was patching it. He thought he was leaving for his shift and he'd come home in the morning and the two of you would keep doing what you'd been doing, the slow leak and the quiet drawer.
He had no idea, but your body knew. Your body had known since the kitchen this morning. Your body had been ahead of you all day. Your body was, even now, in the small private dark of itself, already at the door, already in the car, already three exits down the freeway with one suitcase and the mug from your sister already gone, already gone, already gone.
“You too, Jack.”
He pulled back and looked at you. You saw the whole man, you saw the version of him that loved you and the version of him that didn't know how to and the version of him that was about to lose you and didn't know it yet, all of him stacked up in one face for one stupid second in the gray February light of your living room, and you almost said it.
Don’t go. I’m going to leave you. I’m going to leave you tonight, while you’re at work. I’m going to be gone when you come home. This is our last chance. Look at me. Tell me to stay.
You let him go.
He picked up his bag from the chair by the door. He picked up his keys from the bowl. He paused, very briefly, with his hand on the doorknob—you knew you would lie awake and replay that pause and try to decide if it had meant anything, if he had almost turned around, if he had felt the thing you were feeling and chosen against it the way he chose against everything now— and then he opened the door and he went out and he closed it behind him.
It came up through your stomach. It came up through your chest. It came out of your eyes without your permission and without any of the sounds you'd been expecting, like a quiet steady leaking, the way a faucet leaked, the way a roof leaked, a small humiliating involuntary grief of a body that had been holding still for fourteen hours and couldn't hold still anymore. You sat on the couch and you cried and you didn't wipe your face, because there was no one to see, because the apartment was empty
Because the man who used to put his thumb under your eye and say ‘Hey. Hey. Come here’ was on the freeway going to the hospital and he was never going to do that again.
When you stood up. Your legs were stiff. You went to the bathroom and you washed your face with cold water and you looked at yourself in the mirror —your eyes were red, your mouth was doing a thing—and you decided to go to the closet.
You grabbed the suitcase and set it on the bed. It still had the tag from the August trip on the handle. Some hotel in Vermont. You'd gone for a long weekend. He'd held your hand on the walk to dinner the first night and you'd thought this was it, the thing you wanted for the rest of your life.
The tag had your handwriting on it, with his name and the hotel address as the contact—you'd filled it out for him at the airport because he'd been on the phone with the hospital—and you stood looking at the tag with your own handwriting saying JACK ABBOTT in your slightly-too-loopy capitals.
You took the tag off the handle. You set it on the dresser. You did not throw it away. You weren't ready to throw things away yet. You were ready to take things out of the closet and put them in a suitcase. You'd worry about throwing things away later.
The kid wouldn’t stop crying. Jack didn’t blame the kid. The kid was four and he had a piece of LEGO lodged so far up his left nostril that it was going to need a procedure room, and the mother was crying when she came in, and he knew she’d have to explain to everyone later it was only ninety seconds on the phone. Jack put his hand on her shoulder to stop her from crying, and she didn’t. So, for about thirty minutes, the kid and his mother were like a background noise that nobody had asked for.
He was washing his hands now. He'd gotten the LEGO out—it had been a small red one, a 1x2, and he’d held it up in the forceps so the kid could see, and joked that he’d grown a LEGO, and the kid had laughed once through the snot and then started crying again, and Jack had handed the LEGO to the mother in a specimen cup and told her she could keep it as a souvenir, which had been a joke, which she had taken seriously, and she had thanked him three times on the way out. He was thinking about whether he could get away with eating the second half of his sandwich before the next chart hit.
It was 10:47. The board was light for a Tuesday, which meant the q-word wasn't allowed out loud, which meant he was thinking it in his head, which counted, which meant somewhere in the city right now someone was about to do something dumb with a ladder. He'd been doing this long enough to know better. He kept thinking about it anyway. The board was light. He was going to eat his sandwich.
“You owe me twenty bucks.”
Dana, who’d decided this was her twice-in-a-blue-moon night shift, behind him.
“For what?”
“LEGO. I had a LEGO.”
“You bet on a LEGO? In a four-year-old’s nose?”
“Mateo had a marble. Shen took penny. Ellis took battery.”
He dried his hands. He turned around.
“Eat the sandwich,” Dana said.
“Mhm.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna eat it, Dana.”
He went to the break room. The sandwich was where he'd left it on top of his locker—turkey on rye, the rye going a little stale at the edges, made by him—and he took it back out to the desk and ate it standing up.
He got two bites in before Ellis called from the desk, “Abbott.”
“Hm?”
“Pittsburgh General called. They’ve got a transfer they want to send us.”
“Why?”
“They’re full.”
“Liars.”
“They say they’re full.”
“Tell ‘em to go cry about it.”
“I told them you said that.”
“Really,” Jack drawled.
“I told them we had capacity. Female, early-thirties, came in two hours ago with shortness of breath, chest pain, hemoptysis. Clots in her lungs. Both sides. PE. She passed out in triage. They had to put a tube in to help her breathe and they started her on blood thinners but she's getting worse, not better. They want her transferred.”
Jack chewed. “How bad?”
“They’re scared her heart can’t keep up. They don't know if they need to push the clot-busters or just keep her supported and pray. They want a second set of eyes before they pull the trigger, and we’ve got the beds.”
He swallowed. “Fine. ETA?”
“Twenty minutes. They’re loading her now.”
“Bay?”
“Two.”
“Tell Mateo to set up. I want the ultrasound at the bedside before she rolls in, not after.”
“Already did.”
“You’re showing off.”
“I’m always showing off, Doctor.”
He took another bite of his sandwich. He set the sandwich down. He knew the sandwich would go unfinished. He knew it moment Ellis had opened her mouth, which was a thing he should have learned by now and somehow kept not learning. He looked at it for a second. He picked it up. He took one more bite for the road. He chewed it on the way to bay 2.
Bay 2 was ready. Mateo had the ultrasound at the head of the bed and a tray of intubation supplies on the side table and a runner had hung two bags of saline on the IV pole and the monitor was on, blank and waiting, and the overhead was at the low setting, which Jack liked, which he had asked for once two years ago and which had become a thing that just happened now when he was running the bay, the kind of small institutional accommodation a department made for an attending it had decided to keep.
“You good?” he said to Mateo.
“Always.”
Jack pulled a gown off the rack and shrugged it on over his scrubs. He pulled gloves out of the box on the wall and he stood at the head of the bed and he waited.
He liked the waiting.
This was something he had figured out about himself a long time ago, in a different uniform, in a different country. He liked the minute before. The minute when you knew something was coming and didn't yet know what it was going to ask of you. Other people hated that minute. Other people filled it with chatter or with checking their phones or with the small fidgeting of a body that didn't know what to do with itself. He liked it. He stood very still and he let his hands hang at his sides and he ran the algorithm in his head—bilateral PEs, borderline pressures, tachy to the one-thirties, possible RV strain—and he felt the small clean focus of his brain narrowing down to the work, and underneath the focus, almost imperceptible, the thing he wasn't going to look at directly, the small persistent low-grade hum that lived in his chest now and that he had stopped trying to name.
“Two minutes out,” Ellis called from the desk.
“Copy.”
He pulled his mask up over his nose. He flexed his fingers in the gloves. He looked at the empty gurney space at the foot of the bed and he waited.
The doors banged open at 11:04.
EMS came through first, two of them. The gurney they were pushing had a person on it and the person had a tube coming out of her mouth and her chest was rising in the small mechanical way of a chest being ventilated by someone else, and Jack stepped forward to the head of the bed and he said, ‘gimme the report,’ and the medic at the head said, “Thirty-three-year-old female, history per General is unremarkable, presented to them at twenty-one hundred with two hours of progressive shortness of breath, syncopal episode in triage—”
Jack was examining her chart. He usually took the chart in one hand and he scanned the top line for the name, DOB, the allergies, and that was his muscle memory. His hands started it before his eyes did. His eyes did it before his brain did. His eyes landed on the name on the top of the chart and his brain—
His brain stopped.
His brain stopped like a needle lifted off mid-song. The whole bay went very quiet, which it wasn’t, for it was full of sound—monitors pinging, the medics still talking, Mateo on the other side of the bed saying something—but inside Jack’s head, it was very, very quiet. It was a sort of quiet he hadn’t heard in a long time; it came before bad things, as a result of the absence of his own thoughts.
He looked at the name on the chart. He looked at it for what he would later think was a long time and was actually about a second and a half.
He looked up, and he looked at the face. The ace had a tube taped to the corner of your mouth. Your hair was—someone had pulled it back at General and tied it off with those rubber things they kept in the jar at every ER—
Your face. Your face was your face.
Your face was the face he had—your face was the face that had—your face.
Your face was older.
That was the first thing his brain managed to think after it had finished stopping. Your face was older by two and a half years. There were small things that were different. There was a barely-there line between your eyebrows that had not been there. There was a small softness around your mouth he was trying to name, but failing. Your hair was a slightly different color by a few shades. Maybe you’d stopped getting the highlights you used to. Maybe you’d started getting something different. Jack was clueless what you’d started to do differently, but he knew that you had.
Two and a half years had happened to your face without him, and his brain started taking a clinical inventory of the years he had not been allowed to see. His brain—for the first time in much too long—understood that time had been real. He’d understood time had happened, and you’d been alive for it. That you’d aged, and he’d not been there.
His eyes went down to your throat. He’d made an involuntary decision to look. There was a thin gold chain resting there he didn’t recognize. It was small and the kind of chain you’d buy for yourself or have given it to you from someone else. This chain, Jack realized, had been on your neck for an unknown amount of time, in some unknown place, during unknown evenings he couldn’t be a part of.
His eyes went down further. To your hand on the sheet. To your right thumb. The cuticle was bitten. The cuticle was bitten down to the bed of the nail, the way you used to bite it when you were anxious about something, the way you bit it the night before a big work meeting or the morning of a doctor's appointment or the time you were waiting to hear back from the bone scan on your aunt. The cuticle had been bitten recently. You had been anxious recently. He did not know what about. He did not get to know what about.
“Dr. Abbott?” Mateo called from across the bed, and it sounded like his voice came through a long tunnel. “Dr. Abbot, everything good?”
His hands were on the chart. His hands were still on the chart, and his eyes were on your face, and his mouth was not doing anything. His mouth was a part of his body he had forgotten about. He could feel his pulse in his neck. He could feel his pulse in his hands. He could feel the small mean drop of his stomach that he hadn't felt in two and a half years and that he recognized immediately, the way you recognized a smell from a place you used to live.
“Get me Dana,” he said to Mateo. His voice was the voice he used in the ER. His voice was a small miracle. He didn't know how his voice was doing that.
“Doctor—”
“Now. Please.”
Mateo scrambled off. Jack looked back down at you.
You were—the color was bad. He could see that without looking at the monitor. Your face was the wrong color, it was the exact one of someone whose heart was not pushing blood the way it was supposed to, and your chest was rising in the wrong way, because it was one that was being made to breathe. There was a small patch of dried blood at the corner of your mouth where the tube must have nicked you on its way in, and your eyelashes—Jesus fucking Christ.
Your eyelashes. He had not—there had not been a single day in the last two and a half years when he had not thought about your eyelashes, not specifically, not the small fact of their existence, the fact that they sat on your cheeks when your eyelids were closed, the small fringe of them, the small fringe of them that he had—that he used to—
He stepped back from the gurney, his prosthetic causing him to stumble back slightly. He didn’t mean to, his body had done it. His body had taken one step away from you and his body was, right now, his body was making a series of very small decisions about him without consulting him, his body was the only thing in the room with any sense, his body was controlling him because his brain was haywire.
“Jack,” Dana said firmly at his elbow.
He couldn’t look at her.
“Jack. Look at me.”
He looked at Dana.
Dana had her hand on his elbow. Dana was looking at his face. And Dana. Dana was a woman who had known him for a long time and who was looking at his face and Dana's own face did a thing, did a small terrible quick thing, and then it didn't do the thing anymore, and her hand was on his elbow and her voice was very low and very even and she was saying, “Step out.”
“No.”
“Jack.”
“No, Dana.”
“You can’t—”
“I know. I know what I can’t. Get Ellis. Ellis runs it. I want eyes on. I am not leaving.”
“Jack.”
“I am not leaving, Dana.”
She looked at him for a second that felt like a year, the small assessing look of a woman who had run more codes than most cardiologists and who was, right now, doing math, fast math, the kind of math that took into account him and her and the patient on the gurney and the resident across the bed and the medical board of Pennsylvania and whatever the fuck else lived in Dana’s marvelous head, and then she nodded.
“Stand at the head. Do not touch her. Tell Ellis everything you know.”
“I don’t—don’t anymore—”
“You know her, Jack. That’s what you know. Tell Ellis what you know about her medically. Allergies. Meds. History. Anything you have. Then you stand at the head and you keep your hands behind your back.”
He nodded, because words were foreign to him right now. So, he nodded.
Dana squeezed his elbow once and let go and turned for Ellis, and Ellis came at a jog from the desk. Jack moved up to the head of the bed and he stood there and he put his hands behind his back like Dana had said and he looked down at her face and he thought about the kitchen.
He thought about the kitchen for one second, the kitchen at six-fifty-three in the morning, the cold coffee on the counter and the key beside it and the small tag on the suitcase handle in the closet that he hadn't found until two days later when he was looking for something else, the small tag with her handwriting on it and his name on it.
He thought don’t. Not now. Don’t.
He looked at your face.
He cleared his throat quickly and said, “No allergies. NKDA. She—sulfa makes her stomach hurt but it’s not a real allergy; she’ll say it is because it’s easier. But write down sulfa. She—she was on a dose of OCP a couple years ago, but I don’t know if she still is. I don’t know what she’s on now. I don’t—”
His voice cracked, a little glitch it had not done in a long time. He cleared his throat again.
“She gets migraines, maybe twice a year, with aura. She used to take excedrin for them. I don’t know what she takes now. I don’t know what she takes. No surgeries. Tonsils when she was eleven. That’s it. Non-smoker, was. Is. Drinks socially.”
Ellis nodded. “Got it.”
“She’s—there’s family history. Her mom had a—fuck, she had a—a clotting thing. After her second pregnancy. She was on heparin for a while. Her sister got tested; she got tested. They were both negative. But it’s in the chart somewhere. It should be in the chart.”
“Okay.”
“It is in the chart, Parker. I’m telling you.”
“I believe you, Jack. We’ll look.”
“There’s—she’s got a thing. She said she doesn’t like the idea of being intubated in front of strangers. She’s scared of it. She told me she didn’t want it. If she can hear us, if there’s any way, I know she can’t, but if she can, somebody should tell her she’s safe.”
Ellis looked at him for a moment. “I’ll tell her.”
He nodded and made himself stop. He could feel the next thing he was going to say lining up behind his teeth and he made himself not say it.
‘She sleeps on her left side. She can’t sleep on her back, it gives her bad dreams. If you have to put her flat for any reason, she’s going to wake up panicking. Just—be ready for it.’ He could feel the small careful instruction-manual of you that he had been keeping in his head for two and a half years, the small useful nothings. ‘She likes the room cold when she sleeps and she gets cold hands when she’s scared. She wants water but never says yes to it, so just put it next to her. She always wants water.’
He understood, standing at the head of your bed with his hands behind his back, that none of this was medical. None of that was his to give. None of it belonged in Ellis’s notes about you. Ellis was looking at him for something useful, and the only thing he could think of was that you like the room cold. He could not say it, though what he would not give to be able to spill his guts about you, talk about you to anyone who listened until the sun came up and his throat was raw.
“She’s healthy,” he said. “She—from last time I—she’s healthy.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Ellis nodded again gently and looked at him.
She looked at him with a face he was going to think about later, as she understood in real time, and Ellis, to her enormous credit, the credit of a doctor he was going to think about with gratitude for the rest of his life, did not say anything about it. Ellis took the report from the medic and started moving.
“Okay, let’s get a repeat set of vitals,” she said, turning back to your bed. “Bedside echo, second large-bore IV if she doesn't have one, and someone get me the chart from General, the actual chart, not the summary. Mateo, walk me through the heparin dose.”
Jack stood at the head of the bed with his hands behind his back and he looked down at your face and he did not touch you and he watched your chest rise on the ventilator and he watched the small dried patch of blood at the corner of her mouth and he watched your eyelashes on her cheek and he thought, please.
He stood at the head of your bed with his hands behind his back like a man at a funeral and he thought please, baby and he watched the ventilator breathe for you, and somewhere out at the desk a phone was ringing, and somewhere down the hall a kid with no LEGO in his nose was being discharged with a sticker, and the clock on the wall said 11:07, and Jack Abbott did not move and did not move and did not move.
He thought about how Ellis was good. He’d always known it. He had a file in his head about her, and it was filled it words like competent, fast, doesn’t panic, asks the right questions, and that file was being updated in real time tonight now. Because Ellis, right now, in this bay, with this patient, being the doctor Jack would have wanted in this room for someone he loved if he had been able to choose, which he had not been and could not be, and the choice was Ellis. And Ellis was good, and Jack stood at the head of the bed with his hands behind his back and he watched Collins work and he tried not to be grateful in a way that would make his face do anything.
Mateo gave the probe to Ellis. She took it. She gelled it. She tucked the sheet down off your chest in the small careful way she would for any patient and Jack looked at the ceiling for a half-second because he could not look at your chest under fluorescent light with a stranger's hand moving across it, even Ellis’s hand, even the hand of a doctor he trusted. He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling tile above bay 2 had a small water stain in the shape of nothing, really. The shape of a stain. He had stood under this water stain before. He had stood under it last month and the month before and probably a hundred times. He had never seen it before in his life.
He had the algorithm in his head. He could feel it running. He could feel the part of him that was a doctor doing the thing it did, the small clean calculation of everything to do medically. And underneath, he could feel the other part of him. He could feel the man who had once watched you sleep next to him for six-hundred-and-forty-three nights, and that part was making a sound he could not hear out loud, a small high frantic sound, the sound of a thing being held under water.
“What do you want to do?” Ellis asked.
He realized she knew what to do. Ellis knew exactly what to do. She was asking him because he was the senior attending and because asking him kept him in the room, kept his hands attached to a function, kept him from being a man standing at the head of a gurney watching the love of his life turn the wrong color under fluorescent light. She was throwing him a rope. She was throwing it casually, the way you would throw a rope to someone who didn't yet know they were drowning, and Jack looked at Collins and Collins looked back at him and Collins did not blink and Jack thought, Parker Ellis. Parker Ellis, you good and decent woman. I am going to remember this.
“Half-dose.”
“You sure?”
“She’s young. Full dose risks the bleed. We watch.”
“Agree.”
“Get the Radiology in case.”
“Already paged.”
“You’re showing off again, Ellis.”
“You’re slow tonight, Doctor Abott.”
They looked at each other, and the exchange was the closest thing to mercy he was going to get for a while, and they both understood it, and they both let it pass without naming it, and Ellis turned back to your bed and started working and Jack stayed where he was, at the head, with his hands behind his back, and he watched.
This was a thing he had observed about himself in difficult moments before, mostly in a different uniform in a different country; his perception narrowed in stages. First, the room got smaller; the room got quieter; the room developed a kind of underwater quality, where sound came to him on a small delay, where people's mouths moved a half-second before the words got to him. His own pulse was the loudest thing he could hear. He was at the underwater stage now. He had not been at the underwater stage in a long time. He had forgotten how it was almost peaceful, almost, the small mean peace of a brain that had decided it could not handle the regular speed of things and had slowed everything down.
Your hand was on the gurney with the palm turned up. Someone — the medic, probably, at General, hours ago — had put a pulse ox on your index finger and the small red light of it was glowing through the pad of your finger, and your hand was slack and pale on the white sheet and your fingers were curled in the soft way of a hand whose owner was not currently making decisions about it, and Jack looked at your hand and he thought to make himself stop thinking.
He could feel his thoughts coming behind him like waves, and he tried to brace and he tried to think don't hard enough that the memory would go around him instead of through him, and it didn't work, it never worked, he had been trying not to think about specific memories of you for two and a half years and he had not once succeeded in not thinking about a memory once it had decided to arrive, and the memory arrived like a crash.
It was a Sunday morning a long time ago, in his apartment, in the bed that had been his apartment's bed before it had been your apartment's bed before it had been his apartment's bed again, and you had been asleep on your side facing him and he had been lying on his side facing you, awake, watching you, in the way he sometimes did and never told you about, and your hand had been on the pillow between your faces with the palm turned up, the way it was turned up now, the small slack curl of your fingers, and he had reached out very slowly so he didn't wake you and he had pressed his thumb to the inside of your wrist, just there, where the pulse was, and he had felt it, the small steady beat of you, and he had thought ‘thank you.’
He had thought it as a sentence with no addressee. He had thought it the way men in foxholes thought it. He had thought thank you, and you had not woken up, and he had taken his thumb off your wrist after a while and you had slept on, and he had lain there for another hour watching you sleep, and that had been a Sunday in — he didn't know. He didn't know what Sunday it had been. He had a lot of Sundays like that one filed away and he had stopped, at some point, trying to keep them in order.
He was at the head of your bed and he wasn’t allowed to touch you.
Your hand was on the sheet with the palm turned up and the small red light of the pulse ox was glowing through the pad of your index finger and your pulse was being read by a machine instead of by him and Jack stood at the head of the bed and he did not move and he did not move and he did not move.
When the tPA went in, Jack knew it went in and it went around and it found the clot and it started to break it up, and you started to get better the way ice melted, slowly, in increments you couldn't see while you were watching, only in the aggregate, only when you looked away and looked back.
So the next twenty minutes were a vigil. The next twenty minutes were Jack and Ellis and Mateo and other people standing around your bed and watching the monitor and watching your chest and watching your color, and the monitor pinged in its small mechanical way and your blood pressure stayed at eighty-six and your heart rate stayed at one-forty and Jack stood at the head of the bed and breathed through his nose and counted, in his head, very quietly, because he had nothing else to do with his hands and his mouth and his eyes.
He counted to a hundred.
He counted to a hundred again.
He was on four hundred when his blood pressure went up by four points.
Jack looked at the monitor; he watched your blood pressure. He watched your blood pressure sit at ninety for a few seconds and then go to ninety-two. He watched your heart rate come down from one-thirty-five to one-thirty-two. He watched the numbers and he did not let himself feel anything about the numbers and he stood at the head of the bed and the small slow tide of the room came back up around his ankles and, even though he didn’t, felt like he had one, healthy breath he could take instead of the shallow ones he’d been taking.
He thought, okay. He thought it the way you’d said it that morning. He thought it in your voice, he heard it in your voice, and he stood at the head of the bed and kept repeating the word and he watched the numbers and they kept on being good.
Ellis exhaled. Jack hadn’t even realized Ellis had been holding her breath, and the only reason he noticed it was because she let it out. Ellis shook her head once, very small, and said, “Okay. We’re getting somewhere.” Then, she looked at Jack and said, “Abbott, sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Jack said, not missing a beat.
“You’re gray, Abbott.”
Jack stayed silent because, frankly, he had no idea what color his face was. He had no information about his face—he didn’t care about his face—because it was somewhere far above him being operated by remote. But Ellis was looking at him with a look he’d never seen on her, at least directed on him, and Jack thought he really must’ve looked bad.
“Five minutes,” Ellis said. “Go sit down. Drink some water. I won’t leave her. I’ll call you if anything moves.”
“Please—”
“Five minutes.”
Jack looked at Ellis, then he looked at you. He was not going to win this one and that the smartest thing he could do was to take the five minutes she was offering and come back functional.
He walked through the bay doors and past the desk and past Dana, who did not look up from the phone, who knew not to look up, who was a woman of great and terrible mercies, and he walked down the hall to the supply closet on the left, and he opened the supply closet and he went in and he closed the door behind him and he stood in the dark for a second and then he turned the light on and he leaned against the metal shelving with the gauze and the saline and the small disposable speculums on it and he put his hands over his face.
Jack hadn’t cried in a long, long time. He wasn’t sure if he still could. The mechanism was there, somewhere, but he had not, since the morning he had come back home and seen your key on the counter and the cold, day-old coffee mug beside it, made it work. He’d come close. He had come close a number of times. He’d stood at his own kitchen counter for too long, his weight foot had gotten sore because of how much pressure he was putting on it, and the tears had not come. The only thing that accompanied him was this tug at his chest that started dull, then grew into this feeling of thousands of tiny knives stabbing into his ribcage.
He stood with his hands over his face and his back against the shelving and he breathed for a count of four in and a count of six out, which was a thing he had been taught a long time ago by a therapist with a kind face whose name he could not currently remember. He breathed and breathed, but all his brain could conjure up was the trip the two of you never made it on.
The cabin, the one you were supposed to be going to in June, only months after you left. You’d booked it in October, and you’d been excited about it. Jack had been so, so excited about it. You had a running list of things you wanted to do—a hike, a swim in a strange place, a restaurant with things neither of you had heard of—and you’d emailed him the list with the subject line, “june???” and he’d emailed back, “yes ma’am,” and that was that.
He’d gone to the cabin alone four months after you’d left. He’d taken the time off he’d already booked, gotten in his car, and drove four hours to the cabin. He’d checked in under his own name and the receptionist asked if there had been a change to the reservation, because there were two names on it. He knew it was downright silly to have expected you there; he hadn’t run into you in Pittsburgh, so there was no possibility you would have shown up here. He said no, the other person couldn’t make it. The woman at the front desk had nodded politely and given him the keys.
He’d done none of the things on your list. He had sat on the dock and looked at the lake and thought about you. He’d thought about whether you knew the dates of the trip you’d planned. Were you also thinking about the dates? He had thought about whether you were thinking about him thinking about you. He had eaten badly. He had slept badly.
On the third day, he had walked into the woods behind the cabin and he had sat down on a fallen log and he had stayed on it for an hour as his chest felt like it was caving in. The light had changed while he was on the log. The light had gone from the late afternoon kind to the early evening kind, and at some point he had registered that the light had changed, and he had gotten up off the log and walked back to the cabin, and he had checked out the next day a day early. He had driven home. He had not told anyone he had gone.
He took his hands off his face.
He looked at the ceiling of the supply closet. He turned the light off. He opened the door. He walked back down the hall. He walked past the desk. Dana, again, did not look up. He went back into bay 2.
Ellis looked at him and nodded, which he returned.
Your blood pressure was ninety-six over sixty. Your heart rate was one-twenty-eight. Your color, under the fluorescents, was — your color was a fraction less wrong than it had been five minutes ago. The ventilator was breathing for you in the same small mechanical way. Ellis started charting at the foot of the bed. The new nurse was checking the IV.
Jack went back to the head of the bed and put his hands behind his back.
He didn't know how long he stood there because he had stopped looking at the clock — there was a clock above the door of bay 2 and he had stopped letting his eyes go to it, because every time he looked at it less time had passed than he thought, every time he looked at it the small mean math of the clock told him that the universe was running slow tonight on purpose, and he had decided at some point that he was not going to look at the clock anymore.
“Jack?” Dana’s voice called.
“Mm?”
“Her sister’s here.”
He stood at the head of the bed and he looked at you and he held very still and he thought about something. He thought about the suitcase tag. He thought about your hand on the pillow on a Sunday morning a long time ago.
He thought about the small dried patch of blood at the corner of your mouth where the tube must have nicked you on the way in and which someone, at some point, was going to have to wipe off, and he thought, very clearly, with the small clean clarity of a man in a supply closet, that he wanted to be the one who wiped it off.
He wasn’t allowed.
“You don’t have to, Jack,” Dana said when he didn’t respond.
“I’m going, it’s okay.”
Dana looked at him for a long second with the look she had, the look he had earned over years, the look that said that while she is, in fact, his nurse, she could be his friend or his mother or his nurse, if he needed her to be any of those for the next ten minutes. He looked back at her and he didn't say anything. She nodded, once, and she stepped aside.
He walked out of bay 2.
He could see your sister, standing at the desk, in a coat that was too thin for the weather, with her purse on her shoulder and her phone in her hand and her hair pulled back from her face, which he had only ever seen her do twice, the first time when your father had been in the hospital four years ago and the second time when she had come to yours and Jack’s apartment for Thanksgiving and burned the rolls and cried about it in the kitchen and let him hand her a glass of wine.
She had a wedding band on, which she had not the last time he’d seen her. The ring was a thin gold band. She had a small gold charm on a chain around her neck.
He knew her face. He knew the way she held her phone.
He knew, even from down the hall, that she had been crying in the car on the way over and had stopped before she came in, because that was the kind of thing your sister did, that was a specific habit she had, and he had liked her very much, once, and she had liked him very much, once. It was a kind of likeness that came from knowing the other person loved their mutual person right.
The last thing she had ever said to him out loud had been “She's okay. I just wanted you to know she's okay,” on a phone call four months after you’d left, and she had hung up before he could say anything back. She was the closest he could get to you without getting to you, because the one time he’d tried calling you, it rang five times before he, in the most honest words he could put it, chickened out.
When she turned and saw him, there was the flash of recognition. Then, he could practically hear her think ‘of course it’s you, of course it had to be you.’ Then her face did the thing he had been bracing for, the polite hard face of a woman who had not forgiven him and was not going to and was, right now, going to have to talk to him anyway because her sister was on a ventilator. She stood at the desk with her phone in her hand and she watched him walk toward her.
He put them in the pockets of his scrubs. He took them out. He put them behind his back. He took them out again. He let them hang at his sides.
“Hi,” he said.
She looked at him and seemed like she wanted to frown. “Hi, Jack.”
Jack had been bracing for cruelty. It was then he realized she was choosing to be kind to him. Why, he wasn’t sure. But the only conclusion he could come to was that she wouldn’t punish him for what he’d done, and instead let the world do it. The world was doing a fine job.
“She’s stable.” He cleared his throat because it sounded too heavy again. “She’s gonna—she’s gonna be okay. We're moving her to ICU in a little while. She's gonna be okay.”
She looked at him and Jack watched her eyes fill up. Your sister was, like you, a person who did not cry in front of people if she could help it. He stood there and watched her not cry, and he understood, with the clarity of a man who loved you and could not stop doing so, that she didn’t cry in front of people because you didn’t cry in front of people. Because the two of you had learned it from the same kitchen, the same mother, the same childhood with the same set of rules about what was and was not allowed to be done in a room with witnesses.
She let her eyes fill up and she looked at the ceiling for a second and she breathed through her nose and she looked back at him and she said, very quietly, “Okay. Okay. Thank you.”
“I didn’t—Doctor Ellis ran most—”
“Thank you, Jack.”
He gave her one jerky nod. Then, he looked at the floor and nodded again and he stood there.
“Can I—” he started, then stopped himself because he wasn’t sure what he was asking.
Your sister hummed, slightly urging him to continue.
“Can I see her? Once she’s in the ICU. Can I—I don’t have to go in. I just, I would really like to. Once, if that’s okay.”
This woman had stood in your kitchen one Sunday afternoon a long time ago and watched him put his hand on the back of your neck while you laughed at something the neighbor’s dog had done and who had thought, in that moment, that, yes, Jack is the one for her sister. This woman had also, four months later, sat with you on the phone while you cried in a parking lot in a different city. The look she gave him contained both of those things. It was a look that contained more than Jack could parse, and he stood in the hallway of his ER and he looked at your sister and he waited.
“I don’t know, Jack,” she said.
He nodded, and it was more unstable than before.
“I don’t know if she’d want that.”
“I know,” Jack said, and this time, there was no denying the shakiness accompanying his voice. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I’ll think about it, okay?” Jack was nodding along to whatever she said now, because this, this, he’d have to make peace with. “I’ll see how she feels, and maybe I can bring it up—?”
He nodded and he could not say anything and he stepped back from the desk. Before he could turn around, another question slipped from his mouth, “Was—is she okay? In the last while, was she taking care of herself? Happy? Sleeping?”
He was making a mess of it. He could feel his face doing the thing it did when he was making a mess of it.
“She’s been okay, Jack.”
He nodded and nodded and nodded.
Your sister picked up her purse from where it had slid down her arm and she adjusted her coat and she looked at him one more time and she said, “It’s nice to see you, Jack.”
She said it like a small kindness she was giving him because she had decided, in these past few minutes, that she was going to give him this one thing. Like giving a stranger directions to a place you knew they probably weren't going to find. She said it and she meant it and she also did not mean it, and Jack stood as he watched your sister walk past him toward bay 2, where Dana was waiting to take her in, and he stood there until she was gone, and then he stood there a little longer.
warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed too hard
You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.
You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.
Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.
“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly.
“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did.
“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”
“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing.
“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”
She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.
Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.
What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear.
What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.
Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.
“Are you okay?” she signs.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”
The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it.
You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern.
“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.
“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.
Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”
Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”
Dick paled.
“No.”
Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”
“No.”
You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.
“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”
Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.
“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—”
Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident.
“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him.
“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.
You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”
Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done.
You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.
He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”
“Dick.”
He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes.
He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.
“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.
You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”
Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”
You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically.
Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.
“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”
Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”
Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”
A deadpan from Tim.
“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”
Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”
Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”
Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?”
“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.
“Oh my God.”
He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?
He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.
The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”
The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”
Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.”
Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”
Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”
Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.
“I can’t help you.”
Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.
Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”
“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”
Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”
Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”
Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom.
You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you.
“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.
“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.
He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you.
Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back.
You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”
“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”
He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you.
You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”
The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature.
He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.
“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”
You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”
He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.
He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”
You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.
Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt.
“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following.
“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”
He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”
He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”
You nod, happy to ease his mind.
You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.
You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.
You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.
He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.
“Fucking idiot—”
You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.
“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.
“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”
He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.
You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him.
He scoffs, “It better have been.”
You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”
“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”
You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”
“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly.
You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”
He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”
His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”
You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”
He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”
He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”
“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.
“Dick!”
The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.
He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes.
“Where is he?”
Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding.
Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.
He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”
But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.
He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.
There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail.
“Really? Really?” Jason shouts.
“It was an accident! It was a fucking—”
He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.
“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”
Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.
Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”
Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”
He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him.
Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”
Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”
“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option.
“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring.
Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to.
“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—”
Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”
“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”
Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”
“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”
“Yeah, of course I did!”
For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body.
The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.
It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more.
“Jason.”
Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption.
You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.
He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.
“I didn’t hit him.”
⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️
summary: 10 things you hate love about frank langdon
pairing: fem!reader x frank langdon
warnings/tags: abby and kids do not exist in this universe, enemies to lovers!!, frank is a bit of a dick in this (but in a hot way), mention and description of a patient death and the events of pittfest, mysoginistic interns!, reader gets black out drunk in this, swearing, fluff, angst, usual medical descriptions that you’d expect from the pitt!
notes: i love the concept of this fic sm, I haven't written enemies to lovers in a hot minute
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
masterlist
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
one.
Frank Langdon was arrogant.
Every doctor and surgeon had a little bit of an ego, sure. It was practically a job requirement.
But Frank Langdon had somehow mastered the ability of getting under your skin in a way no one else did, possessing a particular kind of arrogance that crawled in and nested there.
The kind that smirked at you across lecture halls.
The kind that leaned too close over your shoulder during labs.
The kind that always, somehow, knew exactly which buttons to press.
It had started in med school.
You’d been paired together for a semester-long assignment during your second year, a fact that had nearly made you consider dropping out on principle alone.
"I graduated summa cum laude, you know."
Frank said it casually, leaning back in his chair like the statement was an objective fact rather than an insufferable introduction.
"That's nice."
You didn’t look up from your textbook spread across the library table between you. Highlighting and neatly scribbled notes littered the pages in organised colour-coded sections. Frank’s side of the table, meanwhile, looked like a tornado had swept through it.
His brow furrowed slightly.
"Oh yeah? What were you, valedictorian or something?" He drawled.
"Actually yes." You answered smoothly, flicking over the page. "I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."
He blinked, staring at you for a moment before he let out a low whistle.
"Geez, alright Ace."
You finally glanced up at him at that, irritation pulling at your brow.
"Don't call me that."
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
And judging by the way his lips twitched, Frank knew instantly he’d struck gold.
The nickname stuck.
It followed you through the rest of med school like a disease. Across lecture halls and internships and far too many crowded house parties.
Sometimes it was murmured under his breath when you answered a question before everyone else. Sometimes it was tossed across a room with an infuriating grin. Sometimes, rarely, it softened into something almost fond when the two of you were the last ones left in the library the night before an exam.
And like the nickname, you couldn’t seem to shake Frank Langdon either.
You thought graduation would finally free you from him.
And for a short, glorious period of time, it did.
Until the two of you matched at PTMC. Both in the emergency department.
"Long time no see Ace."
You looked up from the chart in your hands and felt genuine despair shoot through you.
"You have to be fucking kidding me."
Frank’s grin widened immediately, blue eyes bright with something dangerously close to delight.
You felt like you were right back at med school, the two of you instantly competing over everything. In particular, the attention of Dr Robby, who seemed to have decided that one of you could be his favourite, he just annoyingly refused to pick who.
And as your residency dragged on, Frank Langdon's arrogance never waned. He never got a humbling that you so desperately hoped for.
If anything, it only got worse.
Because -
two.
Frank Langdon was good.
Like, really good.
The kind of good that made senior attendings pause to watch him work. The kind that made nurses trust him instinctively during traumas. The kind that made you grit your teeth every time he pulled off something impressive with that smug look still plastered across his face.
Which only made his arrogance more unbearable.
Because the asshole actually had the skill to back it up.
"Did you hear about Langdon's intubation today?"
You barely glanced up from your chart as Samira fell into step beside you.
"No, but I'm sure he'll find a way to tell everyone himself before the end of the shift."
Samira ignored the jab entirely, completely unphased due to the volume of them she'd heard over the years.
"There was so much swelling you literally couldn't see anything."
You paused, your pen stilling against the chart. "So what, you're saying he did it blind?"
"Completely." Samira nodded. "Robby said he did it perfectly too."
A reluctant pulse of admiration twisted in your chest before you shoved it back down where it belonged with a small huff.
"Nice."
The word came out clipped.
You dropped the chart onto the counter and headed toward the break room before Samira could catch the grimace on your face.
Hour ten of your shift was always when the headaches started.
Like clockwork, tension coiled up the back of your neck and settled at the base of your skull. The fluorescent lighting suddenly became too bright. The overlapping conversations too loud.
You shut the break room door behind you with a quiet exhale and reached for the medicine cabinet.
The door opened again just as your fingers closed around the Advil.
"You hear about my intubation today Ace?"
You rolled your eyes automatically before even turning around as you shut the medicine cabinet.
“I did.”
You grabbed a mug from the cupboard, acutely aware of his gaze following you across the small room.
“Nice work.”
The words were stiff, rolled unnaturally off your tongue, said with an attempt at forced casualness which instead resembled something pained.
Frank blinked.
Then slowly, his mouth curved into a grin.
“Wow.”
You finally looked over at him at that.
He was leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, scrubs stretched tight over his forearms, a smirk present on his face.
“Was that a compliment I just heard? Are you feeling ok?”
This time you rolled your eyes openly as you threw the Advil down your throat.
“I’m mature enough to acknowledge when a peer does something impressive, Langdon.”
His brows lifted slightly. “A peer? Is that all I am to you after all these years?"
He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Describing you as a peer is my way of being nice.”
You could see that a laugh was threatening to spill from his lips.
You turned toward the sink before your own expression betray you. You rinsed the mug beneath lukewarm water, missing the way his eyes tracked down your figure.
“Or maybe you just don’t want to admit that you’re jealous I practically performed a miracle.”
You let out a humourless laugh.
“Don’t worry, I perform miracles too.”
You set the mug down harder than necessary before glancing back at him.
“I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."
You saw his jaw tick slightly, indicating that you’d finally penetrated his thick ego shield.
“You’re a real ball of sunshine today Ace.”
You smiled sarcastically. “Only for you Langdon.”
three.
Frank Langdon loved to rest his arms on things.
Whether it was one arm leant lazily against the nursing station, both folded across his chest when he was thinking, or both braced on either side of your monitor as he loomed over you while you dictated.
His arms were always….there.
It was irritating and more importantly, it was distracting.
Like right now, as a team of you prepped a trauma patient for transport to the OR.
Frank stood on the other side of the gurney, his gloved hands curled around the metal rails as he leant forward. His forearms flexed as he adjusted his grip, the veins there straining, just visible in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Your gaze lingered, traitorous and immediate, tracking the movement of his hands as he tightened his hold on the bed frame. Your eyes ghosted upwards at the shift of muscle beneath fabric, his biceps straining slightly with the motion.
A flurry of images hit you.
His arms around your waist.
His arms flexed as he held his weight above you, steady and controlled, while he-
“Think she’ll make it?”
His voice cut through your thoughts cleanly.
You blinked, snapping your head up too fast.
He was already looking at you, with that infuriating, calm focus fixed directly on your face like you were the only thing in the room that required dissecting.
His tongue brushed briefly over his lower lip. A habit you first observed in med school and had never successfully un-noticed since.
You despised how your body reacted to it.
You turned away too quickly, hiding your burning face under the guise of discarding your gloves into the bin.
“50/50.” You answered, praying your voice was even as you spoke.
You shook your head slightly as you tried to shake yourself out of whatever this was.
You could not find Frank Langdon attractive.
That was not an option. Not a consideration. Not a thing your brain was allowed to do.
You wanted to slap yourself.
“I’m thinking more 70/30.” You heard him remark.
And just like that, mercifully, the fantasy collapsed.
four.
Sometimes, it felt like Frank Langdon could read your mind.
“Incoming trauma, two minutes out.” Dana announced in the middle of the pitt, red phone pressed to her ear. “MVA involving a single car and a motorcycle. The rider’s in a bad way.”
“What’s free?” Robby asked.
“Trauma one.”
You glanced up at Robby as he called out your last name.
“-and Langdon, with me.”
Frank didn’t answer - he was already following you.
You were already scrubbing in as the ambulance bay doors burst open. The gurney rattled violently over the polished floors.
“What have we got?” Robby asked.
“Rider unhelmeted. Found unconscious on scene. Hypotensive en route, tachycardic. GCS eight.” The paramedic answered as they wheeled the patient into the bay.
The room shifted and swelled around you - fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of equipment, the controlled chaos snapping into place like muscle memory.
“C-spine?” Robby asked.
“Immobilised.”
The patient was a young man. Early twenties. Dirt and road rash smeared across his face and chest, chest rising unevenly beneath cut fabric and exposed skin.
“Alright, transfer in three, two-“
Everyone moved together, sliding the patient onto the bed in one practiced motion.
“Airway appears patent but compromised.”
You leaned forward, placing your stethoscope on his chest.
“Reduced breathing sounds on the left.”
Frank was already there on the opposite side, his hands steady as he moved his fingers across the rib cage.
“Subcutaneous emphysema.” He said. “Likely pneumothorax.”
“Pulse-ox is dropping.” Perlah announced. “Eighty-eight and falling.”
“Alright get ready to intubate.” Robby ordered.
“Wait.”
The word left your mouth before you could second-guess it.
Every head turned slightly.
You leaned closer, eyes moving over the monitor, then the uneven rise of his chest, the subtle shift in breathing effort.
“He’s compensating.” You said. “This isn’t primary airway failure yet. If we intubate now without addressing the thoracic injury he'll drop further.”
“Ace is right.” Langdon agreed. “We should do needle decompression first.”
“Left second intercostal space, midclavicular line.” You added. “If it’s tension physiology, that’s what’s driving the instability.”
Everyone turned to Robby, waiting for his call.
The smallest of nods, the slightest flicker of approval.
“You heard them.”
You moved instantly, prepping the site, antiseptic swab snapping across skin, fingers precise as you located the rib landmarks through trauma and swelling.
Frank held the patient steady as the needle went in.
The hiss came instantly.
The patient’s chest expanded easier this time.
“Stats stabilising.” Perlah confirmed.
“Better.” Frank observed.
You exhaled through your nose, already shifting focus. “We still need definitive imaging. He’s not out of the woods, we’re likely dealing with associated haemothorax or pulmonary contusion.”
“Agreed.”
Frank didn’t look at you when he said it.
But somehow, the two of you were entirely in sync anyway.
“Chest tube tray.” Robby ordered. “Let’s move.”
The rest of the procedure blurred into controlled motion - scalpel, incision, blunt dissection, the familiar gravity that settled over a trauma room when everyone locked into the same rhythm.
And through all of it, Frank moved instep with you.
When you moved, he made space like it was instinct. When you reached for instruments, they were already halfway to your hand. When you spoke, he didn’t interrupt - he simply factored your words into the next step.
It was infuriating how seamless it felt, dangerous how easy it was.
“Tube’s in.” Frank said finally.
“Bilateral breath sounds confirmed.” You spoke.
A beat.
Then Robby stepped back, stripping his gloves off.
“Good call both of you.”
You looked up as he pushed open the swinging doors.
“You aren’t staying?”
He gestured between you and Frank.
“I know when I’m not needed.”
Your eyes met Frank’s briefly.
A smile flickered between you before either of you could stop it.
-
The ambulance bay was quieter than the pitt, but not by much. The afternoon sun glared off the cracked bitumen, the distant echo of monitors still lingered in your ears like a phantom rhythm.
You rolled your shoulders back, trying to shake off the adrenaline that always persistently lingered after a trauma.
“Good work in there.”
You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Robby.
“Thanks.”
Silence stretched between the two of you.
His gaze shifted between you and the doors leading back inside.
“You know.” He said slowly after a moment. “You and Langdon work well together.”
You scoffed lightly. “When we’re not at each others throats, you mean.”
Robby’s eyes twinkled with amusement, dipping his chin down to conceal it. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
You exhaled, leaning back against the brick wall.
“Yeah." You admitted. "We do.”
It came out quieter than you intended.
You knew immediately that Robby noticed.
“But if you ever tell him I said that, I’ll deny it completely.”
Robby’s mouth twitched.
“Noted.”
“And, I’ll tell everyone about the time I caught you nearly in tears over a cockroach in the break room.”
Robby turned to you. “It had wings.” He said flatly.
"You still screamed like a little girl.”
five.
Frank Langdon could be thoughtful, when he wanted to be.
It was never loud. Never performative. It didn’t announce itself the way everything else about him did. No smug commentary, no pointed remarks, no expectation of recognition.
It was quieter than that, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.
You saw it in fragments over time, tucked into the spaces between the chaos.
The way his voice would soften when he spoke to patients. Or the way he’d comfort them when he thought no one else was listening.
You’d seen him pay for taxi fares out of his own pocket. You’d seen him quietly remove hospital cafeteria food from a patient's tray and replace it with sandwiches from the deli over the road.
None of it fit easily with the version of Frank Langdon that lived in your head.
And that was the problem.
Because the longer you worked with him, the more difficult it became to keep those versions separate.
You were on hour nine of a shift.
School holidays had transformed the ER into something louder, hotter, more chaotic than usual. The kind of chaos that didn’t spike cleanly, but accumulated in layers until the entire department felt stretched too thin.
The air carried a constant noise of beeping monitors, overlapping voices, crying kids, the scrape of gurney wheels against linoleum.
Like usual, your shoulders had started to tighten without permission, creeping up to your ears no matter how many times you tried to square them.
A slow, familiar clamp at the base of your neck. The kind that crept upward until it turned into something debilitating behind your eyes.
You half-heartedly tried to do your physio exercises in the breakroom before eventually giving up and opening the fridge instead, reaching automatically in for the Red Bull you knew was stashed behind someone’s abandoned lunch bag.
You paused.
A ziplock bag sat neatly on top of your lunchbox.
A plain glazed donut stared back at you through the plastic, alongside two Advil.
You stared at it.
You’d heard that upstairs had sent their usual trolley of unethical donuts down earlier. You’d been drowning in back to back traumas, only resurfacing long after all of the plain glazed, your favourite, were gone.
Or so you'd thought.
You looked over your shoulder. Was this meant for you? Surely not. Someone must have just accidentally chucked it on top of your lunchbox.
Your stomach grumbled.
Although, it looked intentionally placed. Maybe you could eat it and if the owner came asking for it later you could just-
You turned slightly at the sound of your name to see Perlah standing in the doorway.
“Robby’s looking for you.”
You hesitated only briefly before placing the bag back into the fridge, all thoughts of the donut dissolving as you heard the trauma code ring out over the loud speaker.
An hour later, the headache had settled in fully.
You leaned against the desk, elbows planted either side of the computer as pain pulsed behind your eyes. The words on the screen blurred at the edges.
You blinked rapidly, rubbing at your temples as you tried to massage some of the thrumming away.
“You need to take your Advil earlier.”
The voice came from above you.
You looked up to see Langdon towering over you.
“What?”
He slid something towards you.
The donut and Advil now sat on a napkin, a cup of water beside it.
"Your shoulders always start tightening around hour nine." He said. "Which means the headache peaks around now because you never take the Advil early enough."
You stared at him for a moment, then your eyes flickered down to the napkin.
"What's the donut for?"
His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.
"Increased blood sugar helps stabilise headaches." He answered smoothly. "And you haven't eaten lunch today."
You surveyed the donut suspiciously.
“Jesus Christ I haven’t poisoned it.” He huffed as he nudged it closer to you.
“Eat.”
You hesitated for a moment.
"...Fine." You relented as you pulled it in front of your keyboard.
"...thank you."
His eyes lifted sharply at that.
"Don't thank me. This is entirely for my own benefit."
You frowned.
"When you've got a headache you're somehow even more annoying than usual."
Your eyes narrowed immediately.
"You're welcome."
He was already stepping away before you could respond.
You stared down at the donut for a second longer, your stomach tightening hopefully at the smell of sugar.
What you didn’t see was Frank lingering at the end of the corridor just long enough to make sure you actually took the Advil.
Just long enough to watch you finally take a bite, observing the small act of compliance like it mattered more than it should.
You didn’t know that he’d had to almost physically fight Donnie for the last plain glazed donut because he knew they were your favourite.
You didn't know that he'd been buying the double strength Advil and sneaking it into the medicine cabinet for the last six months because he'd noticed your headaches getting worse.
What you did know, was that it was irritating when he did shit like this without explanation.
Because it reminded you that there was more under all of the bolstering and ego. Something softer, something complex.
Something that made you want to peel him apart layer by layer just to understand what lived underneath.
Even when you absolutely shouldn’t.
six.
You couldn’t escape Frank Langdon’s eyes.
It wasn’t just that he looked at you often, it was the timing of it. You would glance up from a chart, be mid-sentence in a handover, reach for a new pair of gloves, and there he would be. Already looking. Already watching.
Those piercing blue irises never seemed to settle on you for long, but they always found you again. It was infuriatingly precise. Like some internal compass had been set to your presence without your permission.
“Are you going to knock off drinks tonight?”
The voice pulled you back into the present. You blinked, realising you’d been staring blankly at your tablet for long enough that the screen had dimmed.
Holland was leaning against the edge of your desk, casual in a way that was unique to interns, half confident, half desperate for approval.
“Oh uh, I don’t know. Maybe.” You said half heartedly.
“Oh c’mon doc, it’ll be fun.” Holland’s grin widened as he studied you, searching for a crack in your resistance. “Especially if you’re there.”
You huffed a small laugh.
“Nice try Holland, but this one here likes to be in bed by 9pm.” McKay smirked as she walked behind you.
Your brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with that?“
“Nothing, if you’re like 80.” Holland shot back, making you roll your eyes.
“I do go out.”
McKay let out a snort that was entirely unconvinced. “Sure you do.”
You straightened slightly, feigning offence. “I just like to keep my work and personal life seperate, so I can avoid doing things like oh I don't know..." You trailed off, pretending to ponder.
"Falling off a table in front of my coworkers in the middle of a drunken rendition of Mamma Mia?" You suggested, raising a brow pointedly at McKay.
McKay flipped you off cheerfully without even slowing down.
Holland, undeterred, was still hovering like a persistent shadow over your desk.
“So… is that a yes?”
“You interns are nothing if not persistent.” You grumbled.
“I prefer passionate.”
You studied him for a moment.
“If you leave me alone to let me finish my charting, I’ll consider it.”
“I’m taking that as a yes.” Holland grinned, tapping the table once triumphantly, like the matter was closed. “See you tonight doc.”
You exhaled through your nose in reluctant amusement as he finally backed away.
Only then did you look up properly.
And, like you always seemed to do, your eyes met Langdon's from across the room.
Something unreadable flickered across his face - too fast to catch, too controlled to decode. It vanished before you could even decide whether you had imagined it.
-
Later, you found yourself alone with him in the trauma bay.
You were halfway through de-scrubbing when his voice cut through the sterile hum.
“Didn’t realise you had a thing for interns.” Langdon remarked as he yanked off his gloves, the latex snapping softly against his wrist.
You glanced over at him as you united your gown.
“Huh?”
“Holland.” He clarified, like it should have been obvious.
You frowned. “What about him?”
“He was flirting with you.”
You scoffed immediately. “No he wasn’t.”
Langdon stopped mid-movement, staring at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“There’s no way you’re that oblivious.” He said flatly.
Your brow knitted. “I’m not oblivious.”
“You are if you don’t notice the way he looks at you.”
You tilted your head slightly. “How does he look at me?”
“Like-“ Langdon cut himself off. His jaw tightened once before he looked away.
“Never mind.” He muttered, scrunching his gloves into a ball and lobbing it into the trashcan with practiced aim.
“Well if he’s flirting with me, maybe I can wrangle a free drink out of him.” You said lightly.
Frank stilled. Not dramatically, but enough for you to notice the tension settling across his shoulders. The brief curl of his fingers before he forced them open again.
You weren’t sure what reaction you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you got.
When he looked back at you, his expression had hardened slightly around the edges.
“So you’re going tonight?”
You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I might.”
He shook his head slightly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He pushed open the glass doors, holding it open for you to pass through first. “Just thought I’d be free of you in a few hours.”
Your eyes narrowed as you stepped past him.
“Don’t worry." You shot back, "I’ll make sure to sit at the opposite end of the table.”
-
The bar the pitt crew frequented was already too crowded for your liking by the time you arrived.
It was loud in a way that pressed against your skin. The kind of place where conversation blurred into overlapping noise and every surface felt slightly sticky.
You’d been nursing a wine for the better part of an hour, perched on the edge of the booth, perfectly content listening to everyone else talk.
"I'll be back." You murmured to Samira beside you, sliding your unfinished glass toward her.
"Don't get lost." She teased.
You threaded your way through the crowd toward the bathroom, shoulders brushing strangers, the air growing hotter the further you moved from your group.
“I can’t believe she’s here.”
“Who?”
You froze when you heard the sound of your last name.
It wasn’t spoken loudly, but it cut through the noise anyway.
“I know, Holland actually managed to convince her.”
You slowed instinctively.
A cluster of interns stood near the bar, half-leaning into each other, already loosened by alcohol and confidence. All oblivious to the fact you were only a few feet away.
“It wasn’t hard, just had to smile at her and call her doc.”
A few of them laughed.
“She definitely has cat lady energy."
"In all fairness." Someone else said. "She is hot. Just way too fucking uptight."
"Seriously." Another voice added. “You can tell she’s never relaxed a day in her life."
The laughter swelled again.
The words landed like barbs in your chest.
The air felt suddenly too thin, too sharp. Your fingers curled instinctively around nothing.
“Holland, honestly, do everyone a favour and take care of her tonight so maybe she chills the fuck out next shift-"
You turned before you could hear the rest, not sure if you'd be able to bear hearing more.
Heat burned behind your eyes as you pushed through the crowd, swallowing the emotion down so aggressively it turned sharp inside your chest. You rerouted, diverting your course to the bathroom back to your table.
There were plenty of other doctors at PTMC who had sacrificed their social lives for this job. Robby and Langdon were self professed life long bachelors because of their obsession with work. But the difference was, they were men.
By the time you reached the booth again, anger had replaced humiliation almost entirely.
As you approached your table, Samira glanced up at you.
"Hey, you ok?" She asked.
"Never better." You answered smoothly, sliding back into the booth as you let the anger spark into something different.
You gestured to the bar.
"Want to get wasted?"
-
What neither you or the interns had realised was that Frank had been standing further down the bar waiting to order. And he had heard every word.
"Hey."
The interns turned.
Frank stood there holding two untouched beers, expression unreadable.
“Maybe be careful of how you talk about your seniors.” Frank said, too calmly for it to be genuine.
Holland, who’d already had one too many, snorted.
“Come on man, you of all people know what she’s like.”
Frank’s jaw ticked.
“I know that she’s a brilliant doctor who deserves your respect."
"Respect?" Holland laughed. "We all see the way you talk to her." Holland continued, the alcohol flowing through his veins hindering his ability to realise that he was walking into a death trap.
Frank stepped forward just enough that the space between them shifted.
"Don't ever try and conflate your working relationship with what her and I have." He spoke evenly, his voice lowering just enough.
A hush descended over the interns.
"And from now on I suggest you watch your fucking mouth." He continued, his eyes moving from Holland to flit over the group. "Because if I hear any of you breath another bad word about her, I'll personally ensure that none of you make it through this internship."
No one dared to speak or move.
"Are we clear?”
Holland swallowed. “Crystal.”
-
You had never been one to hold your alcohol well, and tonight was no exception.
Three shots and four drinks in and your vision was blurring at the edges. You and Samira had managed to convince Dana and a few of the other nurses to join in, the group of you giggling and slurring like a bunch of underage teenagers.
And still, every so often, despite the bodies and the noise and the light, Frank's eyes would find yours.
You had no idea what time it was when you stumbled out of the bar.
The night air hit your face like relief and exhaustion all at once. You dropped onto a bench without fully deciding to, legs slightly unsteady, head tipping back toward the night sky. The music from the bar seeped out into the quiet street, carried by the faint breeze.
You could hear foot steps approaching.
You didn't need to look to know who it was.
"How's your night going?"
You blinked slowly up at him.
"Was going great until about two seconds ago."
Frank studied you carefully. "How much have you had to drink?"
"You tell me." You squinted.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he sat beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth that radiated off his body.
"I'll answer for you." You continued, hiccupping as you folded your arms over your chest. "Not enough."
"You should have some water."
You let out a fake a gasp. "Is Frank Langdon worried about me?"
Despite himself, a small smile tugged at his mouth. "Worried about dealing with you hungover tomorrow? Definitely."
That pulled a laugh out of you. "Don't worry." You said as you leant back. "I've got the next two days off so you'll get a break from me."
He didn't answer you as you looked back up at the sky, your eyes settling on the full moon hanging above the two of you.
Instead, he watched you for a moment longer than necessary, like he was trying to place something unspoken.
"Do you think I'm uptight?" You blurted out.
Frank's brows jerked upward.
"Is that a trick question?"
The teasing disappeared immediately when he saw your expression shift.
"Maybe I should just go adopt some cats and embrace it." You mumbled, barely audible as you hugged your arms around yourself.
"Hey." He said, making you look up at him.
"So what if you're uptight?" Frank asked. "It means you care. Means you don't half-ass things."
A pause.
"Because uptight implies...I don't know.." You let out a small sigh as you glanced down at your hands. "That I'm boring or annoying, or both."
"You're definitely not boring." He said immediately.
"But yes." He added after a beat. "You are definitely annoying."
That loosened a real laugh from you this time.
Frank watched it happen carefully, something softer flickering across his face.
"But I like that about you." He added quietly, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.
You shot him an incredulous look. "Sure you do."
"I do." He insisted.
"Uh huh." Your lips pursed in amusement. "Don't pretend like you wouldn't give me a personality transplant if you could."
"I wouldn't." This time he sounded firmer, too focused on proving you wrong to realise that he was giving away too much.
"I wouldn't change anything about you." He repeated, his eyes locking onto yours.
"I like you. Just as you are."
The words hung between you for a moment.
You stared at him as your body suddenly completely still.
And then the espresso martinis and tequila shots reminded you that they were still swirling around in your stomach, causing a wave of nausea to rip through you.
The colour drained from your face as the alcohol, the heat, the exhaustion - everything surged through you at once.
Frank noticed it instantly.
"Come on, let's get you home."
-
The walk up to your apartment was a blur of stairs, half-coherent instructions, and Frank’s hand steadying you at your elbow whenever you swayed too far.
By the time he guided you inside, you were well beyond the point of being able to remember anything.
Too drunk to notice the way Frank's eyes trained on the interior of your apartment, gaze lingering on family photos, books, decorations, anything that provided him a glimpse of who you were outside of work.
He got you into bed, moving around your space with a familiarity that made it feel like he'd been here a hundred times before.
You watched as he placed a glass of water and a packet of painkillers on your bedside table.
Then he paused.
Your pink bedspread was patterned with tiny cherries.
A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth.
"Try not to vomit all over your fancy bedspread." He remarked.
You looked up at him blearily.
There was something dangerously fond in his voice now.
You watched him hover for a moment, like he was trying to convince himself to leave.
"Thank you."
A smile, small and private, broke through.
"Don't mention it Ace."
He turned to leave when your hand caught his forearm lightly.
He stopped immediately.
"Hey." You whispered.
"What's wrong?" He asked, already shifting back toward you instinctively.
You studied him for a long moment, as if something about his face had changed shape in the quiet. Frank suddenly became aware that your hand was still on his arm.
"Your eyes have a little green in them."
Frank froze.
The words had been spoken so softly he almost thought he imagined them.
He swallowed, glancing down at the floor as he tried to reconcile the emotions flooding his nervous system, tried to formulate a response.
But when he looked at you again, you were already gone - head tilted slightly, lashes fluttered close, breath even, asleep mid-thought.
He stayed there for a moment longer than he should have.
Then he left quietly, closing the door behind him like he was afraid to disturb whatever had just changed between the two of you.
seven.
Frank Langdon could make you laugh like no one else could.
It wasn’t just the words he said. Like everything else, it was the timing of them.
The way he seemed to sense the exact moment your thoughts started tipping somewhere too heavy and quietly redirected them before you could sink too far into yourself, like he refused to let it stay there too long.
Ever since that night out at the bar, things had shifted between the two of you.
Not dramatically. Not in any way anyone else would have been able to point at and name.
But there had been a change in the space between interactions. Less friction. Less sharpness for the sake of it. The edges of your usual back-and-forth softened into something that almost resembled ease - like both of you had, without discussion, agreed to stop pressing on eachother’s bruises.
You couldn’t remember much from that night. Couldn't even remember how you'd gotten home. You only had fragments to analyse - warmth, noise, Frank’s voice close enough to feel like it belonged somewhere under your skin.
"I like you. Just as you are."
That part, unfortunately, you remembered perfectly.
The words had settled somewhere deep and stubborn inside you, resurfacing at the worst possible moments. Mid-shift. Mid-sentence. In the brief seconds before sleep when your brain stopped pretending it wasn’t still at work.
And now, weeks later, you were still carrying them around like something you hadn’t figured out how to put down.
The unspoken truce between you and Frank held anyway.
Sharper jabs were replaced with quieter ones, almost always softened with half-hearted eye rolls and almost-smiles neither of you acknowledged.
If anyone else noticed it, they didn't say it out loud, careful not to disrupt whatever delicate peace treaty had been formed.
You’d been having a good shift, until hour eleven.
Your patient, a young woman with a soft, girlish face that made her look even younger. She’d come in complaining of vague chest discomfort with a documented history of anxiety. No other significant past medical history. Stable vitals on arrival.
She'd been sweet, telling you all about how she had finally worked up the courage to book flights to Italy for the summer.
Then she crashed.
Chest compressions were already underway when you arrived, the rhythm of them loud and brutal in the confined space. Someone was bagging her. Someone else was calling out time intervals.
"Epi’s in." Jesse confirmed.
You were already moving, hands automatically checking rhythm on the monitor, eyes scanning for anything reversible.
Nothing.
Still PEA.
"Again." You said, voice steady in a way you didn’t feel as you swapped in for compressions.
The bedframe rattled faintly beneath the force of it.
Time stretched in that strange, distorted way it always did during arrest, both too fast and painfully slow at once.
You all paused again, stepping away to look at the monitor for another rhythm check.
"Call it."
Robby's voice cut through the room.
"We can still try-" You began.
"You've been going for twenty minutes." Robby voice stayed calm, firm. "Call it."
The room shifted like it always did when a resuscitation failed. That invisible collective acknowledgment that the line had been reached.
You reluctantly moved your hands away from the patients chest, your gaze lingering on her glassy eyes that would never blink again.
You felt your chest tighten.
You glanced down at your watch. "Time of death, 5:17pm."
Your voice remained clinical despite the way your throat had started closing around the words.
Silence settled over the room.
The monitors still beeped softly in the background, almost offensively alive compared to everything else.
"Does she have next of kin listed?"
Robby glanced down at your hands that had started to tremor slightly. Something soft flickered across his face.
"I'll do it."
You shook your head before he even finished the sentence.
"No." Your voice tightened slightly. "She was my patient. I can do it."
A pause.
Robby studied you for a second longer than necessary, then nodded once.
"Ok."
The room began to reset around you, people stepping back, lowering their voices, the clinical transition from emergency to aftermath already beginning.
But your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
-
The wind up on the roof of PTMC was colder than expected. Sharp against your skin, grounding in a way that almost hurt.
You sat curled against the wall with your knees tucked to your chest, staring at your shaking hands.
“Heard you had a rough one.”
You turned your head.
Frank was standing a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets.
“She was only 19.” You murmured, shaking your head. “I just had to tell her parents that their daughter isn’t coming home.”
You turned your head away as he sat down beside you, wiping at your face quickly before he could fully register it.
“I’m sorry.”
"I should have checked for a PE risk or a structural issue or-"
"She presented exactly like most young patients with anxiety do. None of us would have done anything differently." Frank interrupted gently.
You inhaled sharply. "But if I'd just-"
"Ace."
Your nickname, said like that, cut through the spiral before it could finish building.
You looked at him.
His gaze dropped briefly to your hands.
Then, slower, like he was deciding rather than acting, he reached forward and wrapped his hands around yours.
"This wasn't your fault."
The contact grounded you in a way that felt unfair.
The warmth of him grounded you instantly in a way that felt deeply unfair.
You swallowed hard and nodded once.
"I don't know how Robby and Dana are still here." You admitted quietly. "How they just keep... showing up."
Frank raised a brow. "Have you met them? They're both completely unhinged."
Despite yourself, a small sound escaped you - half laugh, half broken exhale.
"I didn't realise unhinged was an official medical diagnosis."
"It is according to me.” He nodded solemnly. “Right alongside basketcase and whacko."
That got another laugh out of you, sharper this time. More real.
He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was checking whether it had actually worked.
"There we go." He said quietly.
You looked down then.
His hands were still around yours.
"I’m scared to know what you'd diagnose me with." You said after a moment, voice steadier now.
A corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"You're your own medical condition entirely." He answered. Pausing as he tried to think of the best way to describe it.
"Ace-itis."
That made you laugh again, properly this time, breath catching slightly at the end, the heaviness in your chest loosening just enough for you to breathe deeper.
Frank watched it happen like it mattered more than it should.
When the laughter faded, the silence between you felt strangely easy.
After a moment, he shifted slightly but didn’t let go of your hands.
“You want to go get a drink or something?”
The question was casual, but it didn't feel like it.
You blinked at him once, processing it slowly through the fog of adrenaline and exhaustion.
A joke rose automatically to your tongue, something defensive, something sharp, but you swallowed it as you studied him.
“Only if the first rounds on you.”
He smiled faintly.
“After the day you’ve had, I’ll even get the second.”
eight.
Frank Langdon could also make you cry in a way no one else could.
Because when he turned on you, it felt like being shut out of something you hadn’t realised you were standing inside of, something that you suddenly didn't want to leave.
It was the day of Pittfest.
It was also the day for new interns and residents, which meant a whole slate of fresh faces trying too hard while the rest of the ER oscillated between mentorship and survival mode.
The halls were louder than usual. Too many voices overlapping, too many unfamiliar footsteps echoing off the linoleum floors.
And through all of it, there was Frank.
You noticed it within the first hour.
Something was off.
He moved like his body was running half a step ahead of everything - conversations, people, decisions. His voice came too quickly, clipped at the edges. His attention snapped between patients and staff with an intensity that didn’t feel controlled so much as driven. Like his nervous system had been turned up too high and forgotten how to come back down.
His pupils were slightly too wide under the fluorescent light, sweat gathered faintly at the back of his neck despite the air conditioning.
And worst of all - his arrogance, usually carefully calibrated, was unfiltered.
Loud.
You caught yourself watching him repeatedly throughout the shift.
Each time, you told yourself you were imagining it.
Then another hour passed.
Then another.
Eventually, you found yourself avoiding him entirely, because something about the way he looked today made you think of a system running too hot right before it failed.
You just hoped that whatever was going on with him would settle and he wouldn’t sweep up too many people in his chaos.
That hope lasted until you heard raised voices coming from trauma two.
You were already moving before you consciously decided to.
Even from the doorway, you could tell the atmosphere was off. A room holding its breath in the wrong place.
Frank was at the centre of it.
One of the new interns, Trinity, stood across from him, her body rigid, eyes wide. You had a brief thought that she resembled a frightened lamb.
Frank’s voice cut through everything.
“-stupid or arrogant, you need to realise that you are a beginner.” His voice was loud and unforgiving.
“Which means your job is to shut up, listen, and learn, because so far today the only thing you have been successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing.”
Trinity’s eyes widened slightly when she spotted you over his shoulder. You couldn’t decide if it was a silent plea or a warning.
Frank turned slightly at that movement.
For one brief second, his expression faltered when he saw you, like seeing you had been pulled back into himself.
Then immediately it hardened again, too fast to hold onto.
You swallowed, attempting to regain your composure as you glanced between them.
“Santos.” Your voice was level as you tilted your head towards the exit. “Dr McKay needs help in Room 4.”
Relief crossed Trinity’s face so quickly it was almost painful.
She nodded once, eyes darting between the two of you before escaping the room like she’d been given permission to breathe again.
The moment she left, the air changed again.
You turned back to Frank slowly, taking a few steps toward him so you were fully enveloped by the room.
He was still standing there, hands half-curled at his sides, like he’d been interrupted mid-impact and didn’t know what to do with the energy still in him.
“What the fuck was that?”
He stood rigidly still now, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with all the energy still vibrating through him.
His eyes snapped to yours.
“What the fuck was what?”
His tone made you bristle.
“Don’t do that.” You said sharply. “Don’t stand there pretending you don’t know what you just did was completely out of line.”
“Have you worked with her yet?” He shot back, words tumbling out too fast. “She’s arrogant and-and completely incapable of-“
“It doesn’t matter.” You interrupted. “That is not how we talk to rookies. Actually, it’s not how we talk to anyone.”
Frank scoffed, sharp and humourless.
“Didn’t realise you were the tone police.”
The agitation radiating off him made you instinctively want to step back.
Your gaze sharpened.
“What is going on with you today?” You demanded. “You’re all twitchy and acting completely fucking manic-“
You stopped when you caught it.
Because you saw it properly now you were up close. His pupils were too dilated, not situational, not lighting, not stress.
Something else.
Something your brain immediately started assembling pieces around before you could stop it.
Sweats at his hairline, restless movement in his jaw, the uneven pacing of his breath.
And then the memory surfaced - uninvited, unwelcome.
Back pain from when he’d helped his parents move. Been too cheap to hire movers, he’d joked.
A prescription.
You remembered him mentioning it offhand weeks ago - something about weaning off them, something about not needing them anymore.
The realization hit so hard it almost made you feel sick.
You went still.
Frank noticed immediately.
Something defensive shifted across his posture like he’d followed your thoughts to their conclusion before you even spoke.
“Frank.” You said slowly.
Your voice softened involuntarily. Careful in a way that didn’t match the argument anymore. Weeks of quiet moments and softened edges bleeding into the argument without permission.
“Are you having withdrawals?”
There was a beat of silence.
Something flickered across his face.
Not denial first, not anger.
Something closer to pain, mixed with a semblance of something like surprise, maybe at the sound of his first name leaving your lips, or being caught, you weren’t certain.
And then it vanished.
“What?” He said, voice sharp enough to cut, “are you seriously trying to ask me if I’m a drug addict?”
“No, I-“ You started immediately, stepping forward again.
But he was already unraveling faster than you could catch.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Bitterness curled through every word now. “Get your competition shipped off to rehab so you can be the only golden child of the ER.”
Your breath caught painfully.
“That’s not fair.”
"Isn't it?" He studied you for a moment, his eyes intense and unblinking. "This place isyour whole life, it makes sense that you'd be dying to have Robby's attention all to yourself."
The words, slung like arrows, found their mark with deadly accuracy. They penetrated your thick skin, embedding themselves somewhere deep behind your rib cage.
Not because they were true, but because they were thrown like they were, like they were designed to hurt you.
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t know what has gotten into you.” You said quietly, voice shaking now despite your efforts. “But I seriously suggest you stop talking before you say something you can’t take back.”
For a moment something in him wavered. A crack.
Like he could suddenly see you again instead of whatever he was fighting.
Your bottom lip was quivering now.
For a second, he looked horrified by it.
And then his expression closed again, like a door slamming shut.
“Don’t worry.” He said flatly, void of any emotion as he stalked past you. “I was just leaving.”
You stood there frozen for a few seconds before the tears finally came, sliding down your face in hot, fat tracks.
Anger crashed through you almost instantly afterward.
Not just at Frank, but at yourself.
Because you hadn’t cried when you heard interns say horrible things about you, hadn’t cried when you’d lost a patient. You’d been on the brink, but never quite fallen off the ledge.
But somehow, Frank Langdon was the one to push you off it.
And that terrified you more than anything.
Because it meant you’d let him get under your skin in a way that you never thought he would. And now, you didn’t know if you could ever scrub yourself clean of him.
nine.
Frank Langdon left without saying goodbye.
You stood in the descrubbing bay long after your gloves had been peeled off and discarded, staring at nothing in particular. The curtain that separated you from the trauma bay still fluttered slightly, like the room itself hadn’t settled yet.
You didn’t want to move. Didn't want to pull back the curtain and see the blood soaked floor beyond it.
Because if you did, it would become real in a different way. Not just something you survived, but something that stayed.
A dull headache pulsed steadily behind your eyes. Your shoulders ached with tension. Your body felt disconnected somehow, like part of you was still moving even though you’d stopped minutes ago.
Your mind was struggling to process what you'd just witnessed. How many people you saved. How many you didn't.
You swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat.
For one strange second, you genuinely thought you might pass out.
The curtain shifted. You flinched before you could stop yourself.
“Sorry.”
The voice was quiet and all too familiar.
Your stomach dropped before you even turned.
Blue eyes met yours.
Frank stood in the doorway, still in scrubs. Hair slightly dishevelled. Exhaustion carved into his face in ways that you were sure mirrored yours.
The mass casualty had left no room to think about him as anything other than another set of hands beside you. But now, standing here with him again, every emotion you’d shoved aside came flooding violently back.
“What do you want, Langdon?”
Your voice came out flatter than intended as you turned away again, like movement alone might protect you from whatever this conversation was about to become.
"I came to apologise... about earlier." He said quietly. "That was fucked up."
"Yeah. It was." You said.
A humourless breath escaped you.
"Although now it feels kind of trivial after-" You stopped yourself before your brain could drift back toward everything you’d all just witnessed.
You turned back properly then - freezing when you saw the raw emotion on his face.
"I'm really sorry."
This time, you weren’t entirely sure he was only talking about the argument anymore.
You took a step towards him.
"What happened Frank?" You asked quietly.
His jaw tightened.
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
"I fucked up Ace." He admitted, his voice cracking slightly, like it cost him something to say it out loud.
"Really badly."
Your expression softened before you could stop it, and that seemed to break something in him further.
"I think I need help." The confession came out barely above a whisper as tears pooled in the corner of his eyes.
You took a step toward him instinctively.
"Ok." You said immediately, nodding slowly. "Ok. We can get you help."
"Jesus-" He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like he was trying to physically reset himself. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you... like you pity me."
"Jesus Christ Langdon, I don't pity you I-" You stopped yourself, breath catching slightly as you realised what you were about to say.
"I care about you."
The honesty of it startled even you.
Frank went still.
"You do?" He asked.
There was no teasing in his voice now. No arrogance. Only something small and uncertain underneath it that made your chest ache unexpectedly.
"Yeah." You said, softer now. "Even though it pains me to admit it."
That got the smallest flicker of something, his eyes never leaving your face.
"Which is why we're going to figure this out." You continued, stepping closer again without thinking about it. "Whatever this is, we can sort it out, we can-"
You never got to finish your sentence.
Because Frank Langdon kissed you.
It was sudden - like something inside him had snapped beneath the weight of everything he’d been holding back.
You froze completely at first. Hands half-raised, breath caught, brain refusing to process the shift from conversation to collision.
Frank pulled back abruptly, eyes wide, mouth parted.
“I- oh my god." He breathed heavily. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I-”
You grabbed the front of his scrubs and pulled him back down before he could finish.
The second kiss wasn’t hesitant.
It was years of tension collapsing all at once into something sharp and immediate and impossible to take back.
Frank made a quiet sound against your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were kissing him back.
Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back. His breathing uneven, chest rising too fast.
"I'm sorry." He shook his head as he took a step away from you, like he needed the physical distance to stop himself. "I can't- I can't do this."
"Frank-"
But he was already gone.
You didn't see him again after that.
Not in passing, not in corridors, not in all the strange little spaces where the two of you had somehow built an entire relationship out of arguments and eye contact and timing.
You found out a week later from Dana that Frank had admitted himself into a treatment program that same night.
And then he disappeared from your life for ten months.
ten.
The thing you hated the most about Frank Langdon was that you didn't hate him.
Not even a little bit, not even at all.
You’d known it long before you admitted it to yourself. But that moment - that kiss- had made it undeniable in a way you couldn’t pretend to ignore anymore.
And that was the problem.
Because hatred would’ve been easier than this constant, aching awareness of him existing somewhere just beyond your reach.
Fourth of July shifts were universally hated at PTMC.
Too hot, too loud, too many fire-work related disasters waiting to happen.
You could already feel a faint film of sweat start to coat the back of your neck as you opened your locker that morning.
Footsteps approached behind you.
You peered around the locker door out of habit, ready to say good morning to whichever poor colleague was stuck with you on this shift.
Your brain short circuited.
Frank Langdon stood there.
Cap on. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Like he belonged somewhere casual, somewhere outside of this building entirely.
Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life for ten months without a word.
You stared at him for a moment.
Then he opened his mouth, your name formed silently on his lips.
You slammed your door shut with finality, then walked straight past him without saying a word.
Your pulse roared in your ears, your heart bashed against your ribcage.
You knew he’d be coming back, you knew you would have to see him again eventually - you just didn’t think it would be today.
You didn’t think it would hurt this much either.
-
The shift was unbearable in the quietest possible way.
Every time you turned a corner, you expected him to be there. Every time you reached for a chart, you expected his voice behind you.
Every time someone called your name, your body reacted before your brain caught up - a stupid, pathetic flicker of hope you immediately hated yourself for.
And then there were the moments he was there.
Hands steady, voice controlled, face carefully neutral in the way only Frank Langdon could manage when he was actively trying not to look at you.
Even then, you could feel his eyes on you wherever you moved.
It made your skin feel too tight.
By hour four, you had already done two traumas with him. Your body slipped back into your old rhythm together so naturally it made you feel sick.
By hour eight, your scrubs were starting to cling to you in a way that felt suffocating.
By hour ten, your tension headache had made itself home again.
By hour fourteen, you thought you might scream if you stayed in the same room as him any longer.
The stairwell was empty when you found it.
Quiet in the way hospital spaces rarely were - concrete walls absorbing sound instead of reflecting it. The air was cooler here, industrial and slightly damp, smelling faintly of disinfectant and metal.
You pressed your back against the wall and closed your eyes for half a second.
Just one breath.
Just one moment where you didn’t have to think about him.
Your eyes snapped open when you heard the door open.
Frank stood in front of you, his chest rose and fell slightly faster than usual, like he’d decided to follow you on impulse and was only now catching up with the consequences.
You straightened immediately.
"I just want to talk." He spoke, taking a step toward you slowly like you were a wild animal he didn't want to spook.
"There's nothing to talk about Langdon."
He paused. "You know that's not true Ace."
"Don't call me that."
Your voice came out sharper than you intended.
His expression flickered.
“Please Ace just-"
"I said stop." You cut him off again, stepping back slightly without meaning to. "You don’t get to call me that anymore. Not after-"
You stopped.
The words jammed in your throat.
Because saying it out loud meant making it real in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.
His gaze didn’t move from yours.
"Not after what?" He asked quietly.
Something in your restraint finally cracked, frustration pouring out of you.
"I wrote to you in rehab." You said, voice tightening. "Even after everything, I wrote to you. And you didn't write back."
Pain flashed openly across Frank's face.
"I'm sorry."
You shook your head.
"You kissed me Langdon. And then you disappeared without a word and then you just - just appear without any warning, like nothing happened." Your voice grew louder as you spoke, trembling despite your best efforts.
"I didn't want you to get caught up in any of this."
"That wasn't your call to make." You snapped back. "I can make my own decisions."
"You don't think that I know that?" He answered, his own tone sharpening. "There's more to this then my addiction."
"I know."
Frank's eyes flared in surprise.
You exhaled shakily.
"Robby and Santos have been glaring at you all day. And I saw the way he looked at you last year before you left.” Your jaw clenched. “It doesn't take a genius to figure it out."
Frank watched you for a moment, his surprise morphing into one of disbelief.
"And you're saying what? You wouldn't have exiled me too?”
"No. I would have been there for you, if you'd given me the chance to."
His expression faltered as he shook his head slightly.
"What?" You challenged, taking a step towards him. "You don't believe me?"
"You hate me." He countered.
You stared at him, then let out a breath somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief.
"Jesus Langdon, I don't hate you.” You snapped. “And that's precisely the problem."
A pause.
He took a step closer.
"I didn't plan on kissing you like that."
You swallowed as you looked at him, all your frustration seeping out of you.
"Then why did you?" You murmured.
For a moment he didn't answer.
"Because I don't hate you either."
This time when he looked at you, there was something different. Like he wasn’t looking at you as competition, or a colleague, but something more exposed than either of you had ever allowed before.
"You're all I thought about in rehab."
Your heart stuttered violently.
Frank laughed softly under his breath, humourless.
"You're all I've thought about since med school, really."
"That can't be-"
"It is." He cut in gently. His eyes dropped briefly toward the floor.
“Ever since you sat across from me with your colour coded textbooks and looked at me like you wanted to kill me.” A small smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
Your breath caught.
“That's probably why I was always such a dick to you.” He glanced back up. “Because it was the only time you ever really looked at me."
The stairwell felt too small suddenly. Too warm, too honest, too vulnerable.
"It's always been you Ace.” His voice softened. “I just didn’t know what to do about it.”
You swallowed hard.
"You left." You said quietly.
"I know." He said immediately. No defence. No excuse. Just truth.
“I panicked. I wasn't thinking straight."
A beat.
"And I’ve regretted it every day since."
He took another step towards you.
"The kiss, or you leaving?” You whispered.
His eyes heals yours steadily.
"You know which one."
Now he was close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep eye contact. Close enough that you could see the small flecks of green scattered through his eyes.
"I don't think I can keep pretending that I don't want you anymore." He admitted.
Silence hung between the two of you.
"Say something." He said quietly. "Please."
The space between you was nothing and everything at once.
"Frank.." You breathed out.
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to pretend anymore either."
Frank swallowed, his eyes flickering down to your mouth.
"I'd really like to kiss you again.”
Whatever restraint you still had left finally broke.
You grabbed his scrubs first, pulling him down into you.
The kiss wasn’t careful this time.
It wasn’t confused.
It was real in a way that almost hurt.
Like years of wanting each other had finally run out of places to hide.
Frank’s hand came up immediately to cradle your jaw, anchoring you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
You pulled him closer against you, one hand threading through his hair. You felt your back hit the wall, a small breath escaping your mouth at the impact.
The stairwell door creaked somewhere nearby.
You both broke apart instantly.
You both turned, but there was no one there.
Frank looked back at you, breathing unevenly now, a grin slowly pulling at his mouth.
"You know what I just realised?”
"Oh god.” Your fingers scraped lightly against the back of his neck. “What?”
“I never got to tell you I performed a closed cervical reduction like thirty minutes ago.”
Your eyes widened. "Are you serious?"
"Completely." His smile grew as he ghosted his thumb over your jaw. "Guess that's two miracles I've performed today."
You snorted despite yourself. "That was terrible, even for you."
"I know." He smirked as he leant forward, his mouth hovering over yours. "You love it though Ace."
Your grin widened helplessly.
"Just shut up and kiss me Langdon."
-
Robby glanced over his glasses to see Abbot making his way towards him, his face slack like he was trying to process something.
“Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?” Robby asked.
“Because I’m traumatised.”
“I think we all are.”
“No.” Abbot shook his head gravely. “Somehow this was worse than anything I’ve seen in here.”
Robby raised a brow as Abbot shuddered.
“I just caught your two protégées making out in the stairwell.”
“Huh.”
Robby glancing down casually at his watch.
“Well I'll give them credit."
Abbot's eyes narrowed. "For what?”
Robby shrugged as he turned back to his screen.
"They lasted longer than I thought they would.”
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
synopsis – when meds start disappearing from the er and your best friend langdon becomes responsible for it, your name gets dragged down with his. and your boyfriend, jack, decides to take care of it before it reaches any higher.
c/w – drugs and mention of drug use !! medical inaccuracies !!
a/n - first time writing since last month so sorry if this sucks! also this is my first time writing for the pitt so again sorry if this sucks
angst
—can we talk?
you looked back over your shoulder, caught off guard by the tone more than the interruption itself. jack was behind you, standing there with his jaw tight, shoulders straightened, eyes fixed on you like whatever he had to say couldn't wait another second. mel noticed too. the shift in the air was immediate.
—uh... yeah, —you say slowly, studying him, —let us just finish this...
—now.
you blinked, thrown off, but jack didn't show a flicker of hesitation. if anything, he looked like he had already decided how this goes. mel was looking between you two, but your eyes were still locked on jack, trying to read him and find something familiar in his expression.
—i'm asking you as your superior.
the words hit harder than they should. not because of the authority but because he used it with you. you swallowed, trying to hide a reaction. you finally turned to mel, she was looking at you, just as confused as you were. you showed her a little smile, not your usual one, just enough to smooth things over and hit her with an i'll be back in a second.
—come with me, —jack said, and started walking leaving you behind. you gave mel one last glance, surprised by the fact that he didn't even wait for you. you did a little run to catch him.
—can you tell me what's going on?
jack ignored you and opened one if the er rooms, pushing the door open. he stepped aside to let you pass and, even though you hesitated, searching his face for anything, he still won't meet your eyes. jack followed immediately behind you and closed the door behind his back.
the room was empty, except for you and jack and all the medical supplies. but there was something else. a cart with a tray containing a couple of syringes, small labeled vials, and a jar for urination.
—sit, —jack said, pointing at the stretcher with his head.
you hesitated. you weren't liking his tone, much less the fact that he was ignoring you, —not until you tell me what all of this is about.
jack reached for the glove box and pulled two out. he slid one glove on,—your friend langdon left, —your eyes opened wide. without looking up, jack slid the other glove, flexing his fingers once, adjusting the latex, —well, he didn't actually left. robby kicked him. wanna know why?
—what do you mean kicked him? —you asked, a hint of panic slipping through.
jack looks at you for a second too long before answering.
—because your friend langdon has been stealing medsfrom the er.
you shook your head, —langdon wouldn't...
—but he did. and you were too close to him.
—what's that supposed to mean?
he didn't answer right away. jack walked past you toward the cart instead, checking for something on the tray, —it means that when i was hearing about it, your name kept coming up.
your stomach dropped, the accusation finally coming to the surface.
—you covered shifts together, shared patients, shared logins a couple of times. sit, —he said again.
—that's how we work here, everyone does it.
jack nodded, —i know.
—then why are you saying it like it means something?
his jaw tightened, —because robby thinks it means something.
you let out a short laugh, dry and bitter as you slowly nodded. of course it was robby. you could practically picture it. robby standing in front of jack, arms crossed, building patterns out of coincidence because he never liked things that escaped his control. or maybe he never liked this thing you and jack had going on. maybe robby never liked you.
—right, —you muttered, —of course he does.
—he found discrepancies tied to controlled meds. not one. multiple.
—and now he's tying me to it because i'm friends with langdon. yeah, this is perfect. he's been waiting for a reason to come after me since day one.
jack shook his head, —i just need to run some test on you and all of this would be forgotten.
a wave of anger rose fast, you thought this was only about langdon stealing drugs and you helping him, but this took a completely different way, —you think i'm using?
his head moved to look at you, —no.
—but you need to test me.
—if robby pushes this higher, they're are going to...
—that's not whay i asked.
jack exhaled, jaw clenching, —i don't want to believe that, but...
you stepped back from him, shaking your head slowly, a soft wow was the only thing you could let out. jack rubbed his face out of frustration, mumbling a come on, don't do this. you huffed a laugh in response.
suddenly you started replying every interaction from the past days that could've make him doubt about you. the coffee you spilled because your hands shook slightly, the way you snapped at santos for repeating a question. it all felt human but now they looked like evidences.
—it won't take long, baby, and then all of this would be cleared out.
you scrunched your face when jack hit you with the baby. the sudden tenderness felt wrong, —don't call me that right now. not when you're accusing me of being an addict.
jack shook his head again, —please, —he said, —just sit down.
you stood for another second, staring at him. part of you wanted to walk out even though it would make you look guilty. the other part of you wanted to scream at him how unforgivable this felt. instead, you just reached for the sleeve of your scrub top as you shoved it up your arm. then you sat on the edge of the stretcher, refusing to look at him as you exposed the inside of your arm.
jack moved toward you and grabbed your arm gently, his fingers stretching the skin where your forearm met your upper arm, angling your arm toward the light as he looked carefully along the inside of it. looking for puncture marks. he was physically checking your body for signs of drug use. he who knew every inch of you, now examining your skin for evidences. your face scrunched again, now trying not to cry.
his eyes lifted to your face, —hey, —jack said quietly.
you looked away, —don't. let's finish with this, please.
jack nodded. he released your arm and moved to the other one, his thumb paused near the inside of your elbow. nothing. of course nothing. you swallowed, blinking fast as your vision began to blur. jack noticed and let your arm go. no marks, he murmured, professionally, more to himself than to you. you noticed a hint of relief there.
he stepped back toward the tray. you pulled down one of his sleeves while he took his time opening the blood draw supplies. when he came back to you with the needle and an alcohol swab, he paused before touching you again.
—left arm okay?
you nodded once without looking at him.
jack cleaned the inside of your arm, trying to be comforting, yet he no longer knew what would help the situation and what would make it worse. he tied the tourniquet around your arm and tapped gently along your vein.
—small pinch, —he murmured.
you almost laughed. those words pulled a memory too quickly. late nights during your residency when jack started letting you practice blood draws on him after you missed the vein twice on a trauma patient and looked so horrified. after that you nearly convinced yourself you weren't made for emergency medicine until jack found you hiding in an empty supply room. he walked in, dropped into a chair and rolled up his sleeve. alright, vampire, redeem yourself.
you winced when jack pushed the needle in.
the positioning was almost identical, but reversed. now you were the one with your arm exposed while he stood between your knees. you remembered the way he used to look at you during those nights, the way you fell in love with him, and now his eyes kept moving between the vial filling with your blood and your face, trying to hold together two completely different versions of you.
he slid the needle out, immediately pressing a gauze against the inside of your arm.
—i need you to... —he coughed, taking the small container, —i need a urine sample too. there's a bathroom connected through that door, —jack explained.
the blood draw had already felt like being stabbed. this was twisting the knife. it felt even more humiliating, more invasive. your face went still, no expression while the pain turned into anger.
jack saw it happen in real time.
—you don't... —he started.
—yeah, i know where the bathroom is, —you cut, —i work here, thank you.
you took the container form his hand and walked pass him, stepping into the small bathroom attached to the room. you shut the door harder than necessary and leaned against the counter. you stared at your reflection, but the only thing you could pay attention to was the bandage peaking out of your scrub sleeve and what it meant.
when you were done, you walked out. jack looked up immediately when he heard the door but this time, he wasn't alone.
robby was there, standing near the door with his arms crossed. his eyes dropped to the cup in your hand and then moved back to your face, humiliation crashing over you once again, this time so hard you almost dropped the container.
—the'll run a quick toxicology test on both, the blood and the urine... it should be done in couple of minutes.
—what is he doing here? —you asked.
—we found langdon's meds in his locker, —robby explained, —and you know how this works.
—no, —you shot back, —i know how you work.
—then you should know this stopped being personal the moment narcotics started disappearing.
—yeah, —a dry laugh escaped your mouth, —it's not like you've been on my ass since my first day.
robby laughed the same way you did, taking a step toward you. he was about to say something, probably a comment with that soft tone he liked to use when he wanted his words to cut as deep as possible without ever raising his voice, but jack intervened just in time.
—while we wait for the results, robby wants to see your locker, —jack said quickly, as if saying fast would make it less intrusive.
—my locker, —you repeated in disbelief.
—as i was telling you, langdon had narcotics stored in his. we're checking anyone directly connected to him, —robby continued.
—anyone? or just me?
—we do this and it ends here, —jack said to you but looking at robby.
yeah, it definitely ends here, you thought.
robby stepped to aside and walked behind you.
jack arrived later and by then, all your stuff was spread across the floor. your notebooks, your bag, some protein bars, your pair of spare sneakers, pens and receipts everywhere. even the picture you had hanging on the door had fallen during the search, the one after a thirty hour shift with you and jack outside the ambulance. he had one of his arms thrown around your shoulders, kissing your temple while you held up a coffee toward the camera like a survival trophy.
—she's clean, —jack announced, waving the toxicology report to robby, —blood and urine, everything came back negative.
robby took the paper from jack without speaking at first, scanning the results. your eyes lifted and met jack's. he was already looking at you. he was looking at you like he'd always trust you, there was no doubt in his expression now. but it didn't matter, because he'd needed to see those results. the realization hit harder than the locker search, than the blood draw and the humiliation of sitting on that stretched while the man you loved checked your arms for signs of addiction: jack didn't trust you. at least not enough to defend you when you were being pointed at as a drug addict.
robby lowered the report and nodded, —okay, that's what we needed.
—what's gonna happen to langdon?
robby exhaled, he hadn't really thought about it, should he report him? should he give him another chance? —he went home for now, after that... i don't know.
you nodded. robby pressed his lips together and left, smacking the paper against jack's chest. congratulations, your girlfriend's not a junkie. you stared at the floor before kneeling down to start gathering your things. your notebook first, then the pens scattered beneath the bench, the crushed protein bars and the receipts near your sneakers.
jack stepped forward but you mumbled an i don't need your fucking help, and he stopped on his track. jack watched you pick up everything and shoved it into your locker, careless, as if you wanted this done as soon as possible. you picked everything except one thing. you didn't miss it, you left it exactly where it had fallen.
he remembered the shift, the sunrise, the way you'd laughed when he kissed your temple because as dana took the photo, she kept threatening to report both of you for disgusting resident behavior.
you closed the locker, harder than necessary, and walked past jack.
he called your name, alongside with a baby. jack followed you down the hallway. the er buzzed around you the second you pushed through the doors again and you felt completely detached from it. people looked at you, maybe because your eyes were red, maybe because they already noticed langdon's absence and they were asking to themselves if you knew something about it.
you kept walking, straight to the nurses' station. dana looked up the moment she saw you, her entire expression changing.
—what can i... where can i help?
dana pushed her chair back and stood up, —what happened to you?
your face crumpled before you could stop it.
—oh, sweeheart...
her arms wrapped around you before you even realized you were crying, pulling you tightly against her, one hand pressing protectively against the back of your head while the other one rubbed up and down your back. jack approached from behind, eyes fixed on you, and dana understood immediately that this had something to do with him. she lifted one hand from your back and waved it to him. leave. jack looked like he wanted to argue with her, then dana's expression hardened even more and someone yelled dr. abbot, trauma 2.
you hid your face against dana because you just remembered when it first started.
you were looking at the patient board with langdon, knowing you'd both have to stay after hours. we should do drugs, he joked. it'd definitely make this easier, you answered. that day you laughed it off, it was just dark er humor, but a few days later, langdon brought it up again.
you remembered the first time langdon actually offered you something.
you'd both been sitting in the break room. langdon watched you curse under your breath before reaching into his pocket.
—here, —he said, sliding half a pill across the table.
—what is that?
—it'll keep you awake.
you should've said no immediately but instead you just played with it, too exhausted to think about consequences beyond making it through the next few hours.
—you actually take this?
—sometimes.
and langdon looked functional. he charted faster than anyone, worked better in trauma than any other resident, joked around with nurses like nothing was wrong... so you took it, and the worst part was that it worked, and after that, saying yes became easier.
you would spot him by his locker and feel something in your chest loosen with relief because most of the times he'd already have something waiting. a pill to tuck into the pocket of your scrub, a quick you want half? mumbled under his breath... then he started showing up with different pills, sometimes crushed, sometimes asking if you needed something stronger because you looked exhausted.
and living with jack make things difficult because he was one of the best doctors you'd ever met. observant in ways most people weren't, the kind of physician that could diagnose from tiny details everyone else overlooked.
so you knew that if you weren't careful, he'd started to notice things.
you thanked he usually wasn't around at three in the morning because he'd have seen you pacing around the apartment because your brain refused to slow down after your shift ended, would've seen the way when you'd disappear into the bathroom after another nosebleed.
—you should just inject it, —frank suggested. you were both in his car, he was driving you home. you had your tilted forward with a tissue pressed beneath your nose.
—what?
—it'll stop wrecking your nose.
but you couldn't risk it, not when jack knew your body the way he did.
his lips were familiar with the inside of your thighs and the side of your neck, he'd draw little patterns on the inside of your arm while you both watched a movie on the couch, hold your hand whenever he could... every major vein zone of your body, jack knew it intimately. one track mark and it would all collapse. it was positive in some way, because you stayed away from needles and you could tell yourself that things weren't that bad.
as your tears soaked dana's scrubs, all you could think about was what could've happened if you hadn't almost given a patient the wrong dosage four days ago.
langdon reacted fast, grabbing your wrist at the last second, but he looked terrified and you did too. after that, he decided you needed a break. he'd close his locker whenever you were around, he stopped offering you... and you were furious at langdon because your body noticed the absence. the exhaustion came back all at once, you spilled your coffee because your hands shook , you snapped at santos for repeating a question... all of that because you couldn't bear it.
if none of that had happened, the toxicology exam would've come back positive. the thought of it sat in your chest while dana held you together in the middle of the er and you couldn't stop replaying the way jack had looked at you after the results came back, relieved, guilty for ever questioning you in the first place.
and jack stood there hating himself for suspecting you while the truth had only missed him by four days.
summary: landing in an alternate dimension—you're certain this version of damian who finds you should hate you as much as your damian does. but when he pulls you in so tight as if he's experienced losing you before.. you realise he isn't so willing on letting you go.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: alternate dimension damian who finds you which makes the yearning 1000x worse, 'ill choose you in every lifetime' trope, angst-comfort
It's been twenty minutes since you ended up in another dimension. A stupid argument. An accidental trigger. Of course, none of that comes close in comparison to the complete shock of Damian Wayne crushing you with his embrace.
No. Embrace is too soft a term for how tightly squeezed you are—the lack of space making it easy for you to detect how his body is physically shaking.
You're covered in soot, dust particles still emanating from where your form had materialised—from where your first instinct had been to press the emergency contact on your comms. Damian had found you not long after. You still remember how quickly your fury had been extinguished the moment you caught sight of his pale expression, the sheer disbelief in the open gape of his lips.
Damian hates you. That fact is precisely the reason you ended up here, in a whole other dimension. That instinctive reminder is what forces you to push yourself out of his embrace, and his own hands go slack as he stares at you wordlessly.
"Why'd you follow me in—you idiot!" You snap, trying to brush off how taken off-guard you are. "I can't believe we're both stuck here."
He blinks once. "Stuck?"
"You should've pieced this together faster than I did." Gesturing to your surroundings, your arms still ache from having crashed through a construction site. "We're stuck in another dimension all thanks to you."
He blinks again, slower this time. Processing. "Where exactly did you come from?"
"Did the fall injure your head?" Your impatience brims over your exhausted features. "Isn't it enough that you had to start something in the lab? We wouldn't have ended up here if you hadn't been so insistent on triggering the portal."
His features remain stoic, but there's a familiar calculation in his gaze. His lips part after a moment. "Portal."
It's infuriating how long he's taking to catch onto the reality of what's just happened. You give a short nod, your growing panic stuck between your teeth. If Damian's here with you, there's no telling if you'll be able to make a connection back to your dimension.
"I suppose you are right." His brows remain furrowed in consideration. "But there is one thing you're missing."
Leave it to him to counter every point of yours, needing to be right as always. A heavy sigh leaves your lips. "And what is that?"
"I'm not your Damian."
Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.
That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.
"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.
That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.
You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.
"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.
Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.
Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.
You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.
Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.
Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.
"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."
The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.
"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.
"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."
He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."
This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.
"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.
He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.
Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.
"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."
Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.
"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."
Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.
Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—
Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.
Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.
It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.
A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.
Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.
He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.
"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."
You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.
"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"
His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.
"She's dead."
It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.
Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.
When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.
Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.
You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.
It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.
"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.
There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.
"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.
Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.
"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."
You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.
"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."
His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.
"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"
Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.
"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.
Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."
"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."
"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.
"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.
"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"
He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."
You draw a short breath. "Shit."
Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.
You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.
He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.
"There is nothing here." He states.
"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."
His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.
"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.
Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.
You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.
"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."
You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.
The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.
"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.
Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"
"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."
That... sounds very Damian of him.
You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."
Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."
Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.
This time, you take his hand.
Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.
"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.
His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."
Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."
You raise a brow, confused.
He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."
Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.
"What do you want to know?" You shrug.
His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"
Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"
His smile strains a little, and you realise why.
"Ah." You murmur.
"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."
You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."
He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.
"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.
"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."
"So, why are you here?" You push.
A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."
You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.
"What else do you like?" He reiterates.
Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"
"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."
"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."
His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."
"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."
He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"
"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."
He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."
"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."
The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.
He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.
"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."
"I like that."
You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.
"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."
His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."
Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.
"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."
Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.
Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.
It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.
"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."
He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.
He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.
"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."
"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.
You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.
"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."
Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.
"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.
"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"
"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."
"At being fair?" He asks.
"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.
His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."
The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.
He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.
"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.
"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."
Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.
You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.
A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.
"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.
He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.
"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."
"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"
Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.
What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.
"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."
He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.
"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."
"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.
You blink, taken aback by his reaction.
"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."
"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."
His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.
"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."
Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.
"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."
His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."
"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."
"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."
"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."
He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.
"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."
He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"
"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."
He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.
"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."
He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.
"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.
You nod gently.
Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.
When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.
When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.
"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.
As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.
He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.
It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.
"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."
You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."
"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."
This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.
Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.
"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."
That settles it. In two days... you're going home.
"I hate waiting."
"I am aware." Damian murmurs.
"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.
"Alright."
Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.
His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."
You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."
"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.
"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"
"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."
"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.
"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.
"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.
He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.
Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.
"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.
The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.
"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.
Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.
Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.
"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.
"I never got to tell you." He starts.
Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.
"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."
"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."
The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.
He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."
"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."
Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.
"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."
"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."
You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.
Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.
You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.
How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?
Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.
A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.
"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.
He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.
Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.
What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.
"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."
That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.
He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.
"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."
"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."
It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.
In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.
Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.
But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ you spend three years convinced your academic rival sukuna hates you back, only to find out he’s been hopelessly in love with you the entire time.
✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, college!au, secretly soft!sukuna, academic rivals to lovers, forced proximity (paired final project), sukuna wears glasses, miscommunication is the villain, competition as flirting, first kiss, oblivious idiots in love.
the thing about hating ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision.
you couldn't point to a specific day, a singular moment where you looked at him and thought, yes, this is it. this is the person i will dedicate a concerning amount of my emotional energy to despising. it just happened, the way moss creeps over stones or rust eats into metal — it happened slowly, quietly, and then all at once.
maybe it was because you were always neck-and-neck for the top of every class, your names sitting side by side on ranked assignment lists like they were married to each other against both of your wills. maybe it was because sukuna had this infuriating habit of leaning against your shared locker bank every morning, arms crossed, watching you approach with that half-lidded expression that managed to convey how utterly beneath him he found you without him having to say a single word. maybe it was because sukuna never let you win at anything — not group projects, not debate club, not even the stupid karaoke contest at utahime's birthday party last semester where he absolutely butchered a journey song and still somehow got a higher score than you.
whatever it was, the hatred was there. it lived in your chest like a second heartbeat, hot and familiar, something you could always count on when everything else felt uncertain.
you hated ryomen sukuna.
and you were pretty sure he hated you too.
this was simply the natural order of things, as stable and predictable as gravity — you walked into a room, sukuna was there, the air got thicker, you glared at each other, and the universe continued spinning.
it had been like this since freshman orientation when you accidentally took the last chocolate chip muffin from the dining hall cart and sukuna had been reaching for it at the exact same time; your fingers had brushed, and sukuna had looked at you like you'd personally insulted every single of his ancestors, and then he'd muttered something under his breath about how he 'should have known'.
from that day forward, you were locked in.
so when your professor announced the paired final project for advanced literary theory — a fifteen-page analysis of narrative unreliability that would make up forty percent of your grade — and then proceeded to assign partners alphabetically, you felt the universe's cosmic joke land squarely on your shoulders.
"aizawa is with burnham, carlson is with davis... nakamura is with park, and (l/n) is with sukuna."
the room didn't go silent, but you wouldn't have heard it if it had. all you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears as you turned your head, slow and dreadful, like a defendant watching the jury file back in.
sukuna was already looking at you.
he sat two rows over, sprawled in his chair like he'd been poured into it, all sharp angles and lazy menace. his pink hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that made you want to push it out of his face just so you could see him scowl more clearly. his jaw was set, his mouth a flat line, and his eyes — those stupid, arresting eyes that shifted color depending on the light, red one moment and almost brown the next — were fixed on you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
you glared at him.
sukuna raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to be annoyed with you.
"great," you muttered, slumping in your seat. "just great."
the thing you didn't know — the thing you couldn't know, because nobody tells you these things, because love doesn't announce itself with trumpets and flashing signs — was that ryomen sukuna had been in love with you for three years, two months, and approximately eleven days.
it had started with the muffin.
not because of the muffin, exactly, but because of the way you'd looked at him when your fingers touched. everyone else in the dining hall flinched away from sukuna — he knew how he came across, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the kind of person who looked like they'd bite if you got too close. but you hadn't flinched. you'd looked at him, and there had been something in your expression that wasn't fear or deference or any of the other things he was used to seeing.
you'd simply looked at him like… he was just some guy who wanted a muffin.
and then you'd taken it anyway, which was either deeply stupid or deeply brave, and sukuna hadn't been able to decide which, but he'd known, suddenly and completely, that he needed to figure it out.
so he'd started showing up at your locker, not because he wanted to intimidate you but because sukuna wanted to see if you'd look at him like that again. he'd started competing with you for grades not because he wanted to beat you but because sukuna wanted you to notice how hard he was willing to try, how he sharpened himself against you like a blade against a whetstone. he'd challenged you to the karaoke contest because you'd laughed at something utahime said — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled your nose — and sukuna had wanted to be the reason you made that sound, even if it was because he was singing badly on purpose.
none of it had worked the way he wanted.
somewhere along the way, the wires had gotten crossed so completely that sukuna didn't even know how the hell to untangle them anymore; his attention had curdled into something you perceived as hostility. his proximity had become a threat instead of a hope.
and ryomen sukuna, who had never been good at explaining himself, who had spent his whole life building walls instead of bridges, had no idea how to tell you that every time you glared at him, he felt like he was swallowing glass.
so he didn't tell you.
sukuna just kept showing up, he just kept competing, he just kept finding reasons to be near you, and let you believe whatever you wanted to believe.
it was easier that way. really, it was easier than admitting that he thought about you constantly, that he had a folder on his phone full of screenshots of your discussion board posts because he liked the way you structured arguments, that he'd memorized your coffee order from watching you get it so many times (oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top, which was objectively an incorrect way to drink coffee but he loved that about you anyway).
it was easier than saying; i don't hate you. i never have. i think i would burn the world down if you asked me to, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.
so when professor okamoto announced your pairing, sukuna's heart did something violent in his chest, and he had to physically stop himself from smiling. he raised one eyebrow instead, giving you his most unreadable look, and watched your face crumple with displeasure.
god, you were beautiful when you were annoyed.
yeah… sukuna was so, so fucked.
you agreed to meet in the library on tuesday afternoon, mostly because you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. the sooner you started, the sooner you'd be done, and the sooner you could go back to pretending ryomen sukuna didn't exist at all.
he was already there when you arrived.
this was infuriating because you were fifteen minutes early, specifically to avoid this exact scenario — walking in to find him already settled, already comfortable, already looking like he belonged in a way that made you feel like an intruder in your own study space.
sukuna had claimed the corner table by the window, the good one with the natural light and the extra outlets, and he was bent over a laptop with his reading glasses on.
you stopped dead.
sukuna wore glasses.
you had never seen this before, you had no idea sukuna even needed them, and the sight of them — wire frames, simple and unexpectedly kind against the boy’s sharp face — made something in your chest do a strange little flip.
he looked way softer like this, less intimidating, and you hated that you noticed. you hated that you noticed that the sleeves of sukuna’s sweater were pushed up to his elbows, exposing the lean lines of his forearms. you hated that you noticed the way his hair fell when he was concentrating, how he kept pushing it back with an absent hand.
you hated that you noticed anything about him at all.
"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up.
you bristled.
"i'm not staring. i'm assessing the enemy's territory."
now sukuna looked up, and the glasses made him seem almost approachable for half a second before his expression settled into its usual mask of mild disdain.
"the library is not enemy territory. it's simply a library. with books. which we both really need for this project we're both required to complete."
"don't sound so excited about it."
"i'm not excited about anything involving you."
that stung more than you wanted it to.
you told yourself it was because you were proud, because you hated being dismissed, because sukuna's opinion shouldn't matter to you but it did, it always had, in the same way a splinter mattered — small and sharp and impossible to ignore.
you dropped your bag on the table with more force than necessary and sat down across from him, pulling out your laptop and notebook and pens with aggressive efficiency.
"let's just get this over with."
"eager to escape my company?"
"desperately."
something flickered across his face, there and gone so fast you couldn't name it. he looked back at his screen.
"okamoto wants us to focus on unreliable narration in gothic literature. i've pulled some secondary sources. there's a reading list in the shared document i started."
"you started a shared document already?"
"i'm not an idiot."
"i never said you were."
"you were thinking it."
you opened your mouth to argue, then closed it because he wasn't wrong, and also because there was something in his tone that didn't sound like his usual condescension. it sounded almost... tired. like he was exhausted by this dance you two did, even though he was the one who kept leading.
the silence stretched between you, strange and unfamiliar.
you'd never spent this much time alone with sukuna before; your interactions were always in crowded hallways or full classrooms, always brief and barbed, always with an audience. now it was just the two of you and the soft sounds of the library — pages turning, keyboards clicking, someone's phone buzzing somewhere in the stacks.
you could smell his cologne; something woodsy and warm, nothing like the sharp, cold scent you'd imagined he'd wear. it made him seem closer than he actually was.
"so," you said, because you had to say something, "gothic literature. fun."
sukuna looked at you over the top of his glasses.
"is that a genuine statement or are you being sarcastic?"
"do i ever not sound sarcastic?"
"no," sukuna said, and then, quieter, "i know."
you didn't know what that meant, and you didn't ask.
the first week of working together was exactly as miserable as you'd expected.
you disagreed about everything — thesis statements, source selection, whether or not to use first-person in the analysis, the correct way to cite a multi-volume work.
sukuna was methodical to the point of obsession, wanting to outline every paragraph before writing a single word, while you preferred to write freely and shape the chaos into something structured later. he thought your approach was inefficient. you thought his approach was suffocating.
"you can't just write without knowing where you're going," he said on thursday, staring at your laptop screen like it had personally offended him. "that's how you end up with a directionless argument."
"it's not directionless, it's exploratory. there's a difference."
"there isn't."
"there is if you have any imagination at all."
sukuna’s jaw tightened. "i have imagination."
"huh. could've fooled me."
the words came out sharper than you intended, and you saw something shutter behind sukuna’s eyes. he looked away first, which he never did, and when he spoke again his voice was carefully, deliberately flat.
"just write the outline. we can argue about methodology later."
you wanted to push. you wanted to know why he looked like you'd actually hurt his feelings, which was ridiculous because ryomen sukuna didn't have feelings, not ones that could be hurt by the likes of you. but something about the set of his shoulders stopped you, something about the way he'd gone very still, like he was bracing for impact.
so you wrote the outline.
and sukuna was right, which made it worse.
by the end of the second week, something had shifted.
you couldn't point to exactly when the hell it happened, but somewhere between arguing about the reliability of jane eyre's narration and debating whether rochester was a gothic hero or just a guy with too many secrets, the edges of your interactions had started to soften.
you still bickered constantly, but it felt less like warfare and more like... a game. a familiar rhythm you'd both fallen into without meaning to.
sukuna started bringing you coffee.
not every day, and not in an obvious way either; he'd just show up to your library sessions with two cups from the campus cafe, one black for himself and one that smelled like cinnamon and oat milk, and he'd set yours on your side of the table without a single comment.
the first time it happened, you stared at the cup like it might explode at any moment;
"what is this?"
"coffee. it's a beverage. people drink it to stay awake when they're doing academic work."
"i know what coffee is. i meant—why did you get me one?"
sukuna shrugged, not meeting your eyes. "you always look like you haven't slept. figured you needed it."
it was such a strangely considerate thing to say, so unlike the person you thought you knew, that you didn't know how to respond. you just wrapped your hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into your palms, watching sukuna over the rim as he settled into his chair and opened his laptop like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
the coffee was perfect, exactly how you liked it.
you didn't think about what that meant.
you definitely didn't think about how sukuna would have had to pay attention to know your order, how sukuna would have had to remember, how sukuna would have had to deliberately choose to get it for you even though you'd never asked and never thanked him properly.
you just drank the coffee and tried to ignore the way your heart was beating.
on the third week, you caught sukuna staring at you.
not the usual staring — the kind where he was waiting for you to finish a thought or watching your face for a reaction during an argument. this was different; this was soft, this was the way people looked at things they wanted to keep.
you'd been reading a passage from wuthering heights aloud, doing the voices for the different characters because you were a huge nerd and because it made sukuna's lip twitch in a way that was almost — almost — a smile. you were in the middle of heathcliff's "i cannot live without my soul" speech, and you'd gotten dramatic with it, leaning forward with your hand pressed to your chest, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, sukuna was just... looking at you.
not at the book, not at the table, but at you.
sukuna’s expression was naked in a way you'd never seen before. all the usual armor was completely gone — the sneer, the boredom, the casual cruelty he wielded like a shield.
instead he looked almost... awed. like you'd done something miraculous just by existing in his general vicinity.
your voice caught in your throat.
"sukuna?"
he blinked, and the mask slammed back into place so fast you almost believed you'd imagined the moment before.
"what?"
"you were staring."
"no, i was just listening."
"you looked—"
you stopped, not sure what you'd been about to say. you looked like you loved me, maybe, but that couldn't be right because ryomen sukuna didn't love anything, certainly not you, certainly not like that.
"you looked weird."
"i always look weird."
"you don't," you said, before you could stop yourself. "you look, you know, normal? i mean, not weird. usually."
sukuna's eyebrows went up.
for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the library's heating system kicked on with a low rumble, and somewhere across the room, someone laughed quietly, and you were acutely aware of every single inch of space between you, of how easy it would be to reach across the table and touch sukuna’s hand, of how badly you wanted to.
you didn't. of course you didn't. but you wanted to, and that was new, and that was terrifying.
"finish the passage," sukuna said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "you were at 'i cannot live without my soul'."
you looked down at the book, at heathcliff's desperate words, and felt heat rise to your cheeks.
"right. yeah. okay."
you finished the passage, but you couldn't look at sukuna while you did it.
the confession happened on a thursday, and it happened because of a paper cut.
you were both hunched over a stack of printouts, cross-referencing quotes, and you were tired — the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from too many late nights and too much caffeine and the slow, creeping realization that you didn't actually hate the person sitting across from you, that maybe you'd never hated him at all, that maybe you'd been wrong about everything for three entire years.
you reached for a page at the same time sukuna did, your fingers brushing against his, and you both froze.
his hands were warm.
you'd expected them to be cold, because everything about sukuna seemed cold, but no, they weren't. his hands were warm and broad and surprisingly gentle when he pulled back like you'd burned him.
"sorry," you said, and meant it.
"don't be sorry for touching me," sukuna said, and his voice was strange, tight, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "i don't—i don't mind."
you looked at him.
really looked, the way you hadn't let yourself look in years; his hair was messy from running his hands through it, his glasses were slightly crooked, and there was a tension in his jaw that you'd always read as anger but now seemed like something else entirely. something held back, something waiting.
"you always mind," you said quietly. "you always mind when i'm near you."
sukuna's breath caught, and you saw it, the way his chest stopped moving for just a second, the way his fingers curled into fists on the table.
"is that what you think?" he asked. "that i mind?"
"you act like you do. you've always acted like—"
"i know how i act." sukuna cut you off, and there was something raw in his voice now, something that made your stomach drop. "i know exactly how i act. do you think i don't know? do you think i haven't noticed that you flinch every time i walk into a room, that you tense up when i stand too close, that you look at me like i'm something you stepped in?"
you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
"i know," he continued, and now he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking at the table, at his hands, at anything but your face. "i know you hate me. i've known for years. and i don't—i don't blame you. i'm not good at this. i'm not good at people. i don't know how to be anything other than what i am, and what i am is someone who makes you uncomfortable, apparently, which was never—"
his voice actually cracked, and you felt something splinter inside your chest.
"that was never what i wanted."
"sukuna—"
"just let me finish."
sukuna pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was muffled.
"i need to say this. i've been trying to say this for three whole years, and i just keep messing it up, and i don't care if you hate me after, i just really need you to know so i can stop—so i can stop pretending—"
he dropped his hands and looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bright, and all the air left your lungs.
"i don't hate you," sukuna said. "i have never hated you. not once. not even when you took the last muffin at orientation, which was a crime against humanity and i'm still not over it. not when you argued with me about romantic poetry in sophomore lit. not when you told professor tanaka that my interpretation of frankenstein was 'reductive and borderline misogynistic', which, for the record, it wasn't. i don't hate you. i've never hated you. i—"
sukuna stopped, swallowed, and looked at you like you were the scariest thing he'd ever seen.
"i love you," he said, and the words came out small, almost bewildered, like he was discovering the truth of them in real time. "i love you so much it's embarrassing. i love your laugh and the way you argue and how you do the voices when you read out loud even though you think nobody notices. i love that you're competitive and stubborn and terrible at asking for help and you always push your hair behind your ear when you're thinking. i love that you took that muffin even though you knew i wanted it because you don't back down from anything, including me, especially me, and i—"
his voice broke again, and he laughed, a short, helpless sound.
"i've been in love with you since freshman orientation. i've been in love with you for three years, and i've been so busy trying to get your attention that i didn't notice i was just making you hate me. and that's—that's on me. that's entirely on me. but i needed you to know. before we finish this project and you never have to talk to me again. i needed you to know that none of it was hate. not on my side. it was never hate."
the library was silent.
you could hear your own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your hands, every part of you that had suddenly come alive.
sukuna was looking at you like a man awaiting execution, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands shaking slightly where they rested on the table.
you thought about three years of mornings at your locker. three years of competitive grading. three years of him finding reasons to be in your orbit, even when you made it clear he wasn't welcome at all.
you thought about the coffee, the glasses, the way he knew your reading voice and your coffee order and the fact that you pushed your hair behind your ear when you were thinking.
you thought about how you'd actually never hated him either; at least, not the way real hatred felt cold and dead. your feelings for sukuna had always been hot, always been alive, always been demanding your attention when you wanted to focus on anything else.
you thought about the muffin.
"you're an idiot," you said.
sukuna blinked. "what?"
"you're an idiot," you repeated, and your voice was shaking, and you couldn't stop the smile that was spreading across your face, wide and disbelieving and probably ridiculous. "three years. three years of fighting over grades and arguing about literature and competing in karaoke contests, and the whole time you were just trying to get me to look at you?"
"to be fair, it worked. you looked at me constantly. just—not in the way i wanted."
"because i thought you hated me!"
"yeah, i know! i realize that! i'm aware that my communication skills are—"
"abysmal?"
"i was going to say 'deeply flawed', but yes, abysmal works."
you laughed.
you couldn't help it; it bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been wound too tight for too long, and suddenly you were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down your face, and sukuna was staring at you like you'd lost your mind, which honestly you might have.
"i don't hate you either," you managed, between gasps. "i never hated you. i thought i did, but i don't think i know what hatred feels like anymore because every time i tried to hate you, i just—i just kept noticing things. like the way you tap your fingers when you're reading. and how you always hold the door for people even though you pretend not to. and you helped that freshman find their classroom last week even though you were late to your own class. and you look at me like—"
you stopped, swallowed, and looked at him.
"you look at me like i matter," you said softly. "and i didn't know what to do with that, so i called it hatred. because it was easier than admitting that maybe i wanted you to look at me forever."
sukuna made a sound, something wounded and hopeful all at once, and then he was moving — not dramatically, not the way they do in movies, but slowly, carefully, like the boy was approaching something that might spook.
he reached across the table and took your hand, his fingers sliding between yours, and you both looked down at where you were connected like it was the most incredible thing either of you had ever seen.
"so," sukuna said, and his voice was unsteady, "just to be clear. we both wasted three years being convinced the other person hated them, when actually—"
"when actually you have the emotional intelligence of a brick and i'm apparently blind."
"i was going to say we're both complete idiots, but yes, that's also very accurate."
you squeezed sukuna’s hand, and he squeezed back, and the smile he gave you was nothing like the ones you'd seen before; this one was real, this one reached his eyes, softened all his sharp edges, and made him look so sweet and so hopeful and so terrifyingly beautiful.
"what now?" you asked.
sukuna looked at your joined hands, then at your face, then back at your hands.
"well. i have a fifteen-page paper due in two weeks, and my partner is very distracting."
"your partner is sitting right here."
"i know." sukuna lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, feather-light, his eyes never leaving yours. "trust me. i know."
you spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, but you didn't get any work done.
you talked instead — really talked, for the first time in three years. you told him about the muffin, how you'd only taken it because you'd seen him reach for it and wanted an excuse to touch his hand, how you'd spent the rest of the day convinced you'd imagined the whole thing. he told you about the karaoke contest, how he'd picked journey specifically because he'd overheard you say it was your guilty pleasure, how he'd sung badly on purpose because he wanted to see you smile.
"i can't believe you can actually sing," you said, propping your chin on your hand. "and all this time i thought you were just terrible at music."
"i have many hidden talents."
"like secretly being in love with me for three years?"
sukuna’s ears went pink.
"that's not a talent. that's a crisis."
you reached across the table and touched his face, just because you could now, just because he was yours to touch. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, and he closed his eyes when you traced the line of his jaw, leaning into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.
"i'm sorry," you said quietly. "for all the times i was mean to you. for assuming the worst."
"don't be." sukuna turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "you gave as good as you got. it's one of the things i like about you."
"one of the things?"
sukuna slowly opened his eyes, and the look in them made your chest ache.
"i could give you a long list. it would take a while. we might need to order dinner."
"we're still in the library."
"the library has a cafe."
you laughed, and he smiled, and when he kissed you for the first time — soft and slow and a little awkward, both of you smiling too much to do it properly — you tasted coffee and cinnamon and something that felt like coming home.
the thing about loving ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision either.
it just happened — it happened the way spring follows winter, the way flowers naturally turn toward the sun, the way your hand found his under the library table and held on like you'd been doing it your whole life.
𝜗℘ ˖ ࣪ . ˖˙ true form!sukuna finds out you’ve been hiding your injuries from him :: tags. concubine!reader. fluff, angst n comfort. size diff. reader gets called ‘brat, woman’
“i’ve arrived, my lord,” you announce your presence as you step into sukuna’s quarters. the dimly lit room removes all the stress you currently had in your system—the knowledge that you’re safe in his space causes your shoulders to drop.
sukuna turns his head to look at you while he’s laid back on his bed, topless. all four of his eyes roam over your body, which isn’t anything unusual. he always does that.
“tch. took ya long enough,” the king of curses scoffs before gesturing for you to come closer, making that familiar motion with his fingers, “when i order y’ to come, you’re supposed to drop everything and rush to be at my service, woman.”
you hurry over to his side of the bed with a nod. “my apologies,” you mutter.
you can’t tell him why you’re late, because hell would break loose within these walls. and also because you’re scared of what his reaction would be.
before being called over, you were in the kitchen, peacefully trying to get a snack, when two other concubines entered the room. you tried ignoring them, but that didn’t seem to be the smartest move. it wasn’t long before they threw derogatory remarks at you.
of course, you stood up for yourself and yelled some back. that’s when one of them pushed you backwards, causing the skin near your hand to get slightly burned by the fire on the stove.
if it weren’t for the maids around that went to report the ruckus to uraume, god knows what more would have went down in that kitchen.
“oi,” sukuna grabs your jaw and lifts your head up.
he immediately notices the vacant look in your eyes, which is unusual for you. you snap out of your trance and set the nasty memories aside—ignoring the impulse to scratch the injury on your wrist.
“i’m sorry,” you say again before slowly undoing your obi.
you figure that is why sukuna had called you over, to do your job as his concubine. you halt your movements when you realise that undressing meant that he’s going to see the wound on your skin.
you hesitate. that same instant of hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed by the king of curses. a large hand moves to stop both of your wrists from pulling off your robes.
“. . .i’m giving y’ three seconds of my time,” sukuna narrows his eyes after allowing you to speak up and tell him what’s on your mind.
he hears you whimper in pain when he holds onto your wrist, your facial expression clearly uncomfortable. “spit it out,” he impatiently huffs. he wants to hear you say what’s wrong.
you desperately shake your head, biting your bottom lip. you don’t want to tell him—even though you know you’re obligated to.
denying an answer to sukuna was your next big mistake.
“fuckin’ brat,” the man grunts. he yanks your arms up to his face, harshly pulling down the sleeves of your kimono. all four of his red eyes immediately fall onto the wound on your wrist. you obviously haven’t treated it yet, even though you should have done so long ago.
there’s tension hanging in the air almost instantly after your little secret gets revealed.
sukuna’s grip on your hands tightens which causes you to flinch. you close your eyes and expect the worst. you can already hear the insults he’ll throw at you—how he’ll call you useless, weak, stupid and all that.
“look up at me,” his voice rings out in a firm tone. you don’t want to anger him more than he already is, so you obey. you open your eyes and glance upwards, your worried gaze meeting his.
sukuna takes a deep breath to contain the bubbling rage inside of him; a rare sight indeed. he doesn’t want to unnecessarily lash out at you when it isn’t needed. however, he can’t deny that itching urge in his chest, to get mad at whoever caused your skin to get tainted like that.
sukuna stares at you with an intimidating glare. when you expect him to yell profanities at you, the unexpected happens.
“who did this to you?” he asks, deep voice strained like he’s trying to hold himself back.
you blink a few times. sukuna sounds pissed off, and when he’s in that kind of mood, you know he’s not to be played with. you look the other way and try to think of a proper answer.
will you snitch and cause unnecessary bloodbath, or will you spare the lives of the concubines who hurt you and lie?
you’re scared of being seen as useless by sukuna if you tell him the truth. if you lie, he’ll probably call you weak and stupid as well. it’s a lose-lose situation, you conclude.
you swallow the spit that has gathered in your mouth before parting your lips.
“m-miko,” her name echoes in his ears.
you decide to be honest, because you know that there’s no fooling the ryomen sukuna. a second of silence follows and when you look up at him, he stares back at you with furrowed brows.
“ah,” you then realise that he doesn’t know his concubines by name. he has way too many women at his disposal and doesn’t find them worthy enough to remember.
however you have heard from uraume and the others that he does know your name—only yours. it makes you feel special.
you try to describe the concubine you’ve tussled with, “short blonde hair, uhm, mole under her right eye.. brown colored eyes—“
sukuna thinks for a moment before clicking his tongue once he faintly remembers who that’s supposed to be. without a word, he stands up and wraps one muscular arm around your waist, sweeping you off your feet and carrying you under his armpit like some package.
“uraume!”
his voice is loud enough to make the walls shake and it carries a clear hint of pure rage. everyone in the estate should have heard him by now, which means that they know what is going down in just a couple seconds.
sukuna sounding this angry only means one thing; someone is going to die today.
the servants hurriedly scurry around, deeply bowing as he walks past them in the hallway with you still tucked underneath his arms. you let yourself be carried while your heart beats uncontrollably fast in your chest.
you feel your hands shake a bit. seeing someone like sukuna be this mad for your sake—to the point that he’s ready to turn the entire area upside down—is somehow thrilling. though, you can’t help but feel sick because of your own thoughts.
someone is going to die and there you are, cheesing about the king of curses.
you see the white-haired chef appear from a corner, their steps hurried. they glance at you and then back at their master. it’s like they immediately connect the dots.
“treat her in my quarters. don’t let her leave until i come back,” sukuna commands without even looking at uraume. he’s staring ahead, with an ominous aura emitting from his body, one that somebody can sense from miles away.
he puts you down next to uraume before glancing your way one last time. he lets out a deep sigh as he sees the worried expression you’re making. he lowers his head to your level so you’d be face to face.
“and you,” his warm breath hits your cheeks and sends a shiver down your spine. you gulp as sukuna’s hand reaches up to firmly tug at your earlobe, “i’ll deal with your ass later, yeah? i’ll make you feel what it means to hide stuff from me.”
that sentence makes you even more nervous. you know you won’t be able to avoid the punishment sukuna has in mind, so you simply nod.
“understood,” you reply in a squeaky voice. you don’t have the guts to disobey him—he’s already out to kill someone and you don’t want to be the next victim.
sukuna straightens his back again and continues his journey towards the concubines’ quarters. every heavy step makes the floors and walls shake, a sign of his unstoppable rage that’s about to be unleashed.
you feel slightly puzzled. you didn’t expect this outcome when you revealed your injury to the ruthless man. you expected to be belittled and mocked for not being able to prevent a wound from being inflicted on your body.
instead, there he goes, off to get revenge in your stead. you feel a twisted sense of satisfaction after seeing sukuna be this protective over you. actions like these demonstrate more than his dull words can do, even if it may seem like he doesn’t care about what could happen to a human like you.
Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy
Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults
Summary: John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
When you propel yourself out of bed, you’re blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.
You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing.
The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking,
“Yeah?”
“You okay in there?”
You nod, though your youngest sister can’t see you, then manage,
“‘M fine.”
“Can I open the door?”
“...Yeah.”
It’s a moment before Lisa’s opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where you’re still sitting on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Yeah, but that was before I saw you looking like…Well, this.”
“Who taught you to be so sweet?”
“You did.”
You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. “Asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “What the hell, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. “Probably something I ate last night.”
“Could always call your doctor friend and make sure.”
The mention of him has your stomach churning again. “Ha-ha.”
“He should be getting off-shift soon,” Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, “Could invite him over for a check-up.”
You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile.
“Thanks for all of your help, Li.”
Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, “Fiiine. I’m gonna get ready for class.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, Joey’s gonna come pick me up—don’t.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t have to start if you weren’t making bad choices.”
“You never like my boyfriends.”
“That’s because all of your boyfriends—” You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, “Suck.”
When Lisa doesn’t answer right away, you figure that she’s left—but as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” You nod, turning to face her. “I’m working from home today, anyway. We’ve got rice, we’ve got broth, we’ve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. I’m fine.”
Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, then—
“I have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.”
“Go to class and learn.”
Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat.
You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up again, but there’s an pain in your side, one that you hadn’t noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it.
Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask a professional. You didn’t block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little question—
No. No.
You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate.
--
“This is John, the guy I’ve been telling you about!”
The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friend’s place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for.
You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.
“Hi,” You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting:
“One more time?”
You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again.
“Nice to meet you!” He smiled before glancing around. “It’s a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?”
It was cooler on your friend’s fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John.
“Can I ask,” You nodded toward the Dunkin.
“Oh—You want a sip?”
“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was wondering why you brought a…Frankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.”
“I could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.”
“Jeez, what time do you start work?”
“Shift starts at seven. Twelve hours.”
“Explains how big the coffee is.”
“Sure does.” He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. “You sure you don’t want a sip?”
“Uh—No. Thanks.”
John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull.
“You know, I was curious about you,” He offered once he’d swallowed.
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Heard a lot.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good, I think.”
“Like what?”
“Like…You’re the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourself…And that you’re a stickler for punctuality.” His teasing smile made your belly flutter. “Even more surprised that you’re still here, considering I’m late for our little set-up.”
And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommate’s sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. But—
“Maybe I was curious about you, too.”
John’s bright smile made staying all the more worth it.
--
According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once.
And while you could waste your time speculating about something that’ll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing:
You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that you’ve been able to get down.
But that doesn’t stop your body from revolting against you.
You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridge—you just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldn’t really be that, could it? You’d checked all of the dates before you’d cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by.
It’s your period, it has to be. This doesn’t feel anything like the last time you had food poisoning—at least, what you’re pretty sure was food poisoning.
--
“How ya doin’ over there, champ?”
You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. “I feel like death.”
“You’re answering me, so definitely not death.”
“I said I feel like death, not that I’m dying—ugh,” You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where you’d been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, “God.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I really don’t want to disclose that to you.”
“Oh, c’mon,” John chuckled, “I’m a professional.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It can’t be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Honestly? Couple’a days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldn’t have been.”
Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Oh yeah. He thought he’d be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.”
“...Okay, this is one step below that.”
“Just one?”
The slight smile in John’s tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. “Maybe a couple.”
“Uh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. I’ll swing by with a goodie bag.”
“I can’t handle goodies right now, John.”
“Not even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?”
“I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.”
“It’ll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.”
“You have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.”
“Well, this girl I’m dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.”
Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes.
“Fine. Just…give me a five minute warning before you get here?”
“Sure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodies—”
“John!”
--
By noon, you’ve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that you’re a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD.
And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse.
It’s a good plan in theory—but your head hasn’t been down for two minutes before you’re clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade you’d taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom.
You groan, resting your forehead against the sink—and then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Oh—god. Do you have the patience for this call right now?
You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker.
“What’s up, Lilah?”
“Holy fuck, Lisa wasn’t kidding. You sound like shit.”
You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap.
“Mom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.”
“Mm, but you’re the one who really honed them, generalissimo.”
You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that you’ve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line.
You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess.
“Whaddaya want, bean?”
“I can’t just wanna talk to my big sister?”
“Willingly? It would be a first.”
“Are you pregnant?”
The thought nearly triggers another heave.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” You snap. “Did Lisa tell you that?”
“No, but—”
“I’m on birth control, I have always used protection—”
“Those things aren’t always 100%, accidents happen—”
“And it’s been a while.”
“...If you’re sure.”
“John and I broke up months ago,” You remind her, “And even before that, we hadn’t been…” You wince. “Intimate.”
“Blegh, okay, we get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“God forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.”
“Lilah, for godssake—”
“I still don’t understand why you broke up with that man.”
The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. You’ve done your best not to think about John—your ‘how’s and ‘why’s and ‘what might’ve been’s. The closest you’ve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning.
“...Okay,” Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which it’s meant. “Not pregnant.”
“It’s probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when I’m PMSing—and my cramps suck right now. I’ll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.”
“And if you’re not, your uterus will hear about it.”
“Exactly.”
A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end.
“Alright,” Lilah sighs, “The principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.”
“Lilah—!”
“Kidding! Jesus. Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
Lilah’s grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ.
It isn’t as if you haven’t explained your break up to Lilah, because you have—at least twice. But you’ll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesn’t matter. It’s not her relationship, it’s yours—was yours.
--
“I don’t think I’m gonna get Christmas off.”
“Aw, really?” You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. “I thought you asked.”
“I mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came up—more of an informal request.” He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: “I put in for it, but it’s up in the air.”
“Hmm. Well if you can’t, that’s alright. It’s just gonna be me and the girls.”
“What about your parents?”
You waved John off, shaking your head. “They’re going to be on a cruise.”
“Oof,” John sighed, slouching back in his seat, “You think you felt bad when you had food poisoning—”
“Okay.”
“Those floating buffet-laden crap shows.”
“Okay!”
“Nice scenery, though.”
You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him.
“What’s your mom gonna do if you can’t get Christmas off?”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie.
“...John?”
Another moment before he shrugged. “What she does when I usually can’t get the holidays off, I guess.”
You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. “So what’d you get me?”
Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch you’d spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, “As if I’d tell you.”
“C’mon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?”
--
Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.
“You know what, why don’t we reschedule?”
You try to tell her that you’re fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: “I’ll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.”
You manage a weak smile, an, “Okay,” and a, “Ping me if you need anything,” before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you can’t make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed.
It’s nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time you’re through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn’t hold, and there’s nothing more you can do as your world tilts.
--
The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, “Holy shit,” sounds so familiar. It’s chased by, “How long has she been like this,” and a frantic, “She wasn’t this bad this morning!”
You groan as you’re turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.
“Li-Li,” You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisa’s cheek. “How was school?”
“How long have you been on the floor?”
“Did that boy drive you?”
You hear a scoff, a grumble of, “On death’s fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.”
“Lilah, shut up—”
“Bean,” You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. “Lilah, what are you—” You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, “What’re—”
“Christ, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!” Lisa snaps.
“Where’s—” You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, “Where’s my work laptop?”
“Okay,” Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, “Just relax, okay? We’re gonna get you help.”
Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. “I’m okay, Li. Tell bean.”
“Lilah—”
“I’m on with the fucking operator—No, I won’t watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!”
--
You do your best to answer the EMTs, but they’re only a few questions in before they’re loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that you’re being taken to Pittsburgh General.
Lisa’s climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight.
The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC.
--
“Can we talk about Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. Are we rankin’ sides?”
You shot a sidelong glance in John’s direction, eyes narrowed slightly.
“Trying to make plans, actually.”
“Ah,” He nodded. “Yeah, we can try.”
“My parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,” You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? “And…I mean, we’ve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted to…Meet them, finally.”
“You really think they’ll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?”
And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge.
“It’s a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, but—”
“If they’re the deep fried turkey type and I’m on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.”
You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding—”
“Not everything is a joke, John.”
--
There’s so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patients—and somewhere, not far off, your sister’s panicked voice as you’re wheeled into a room.
“I'm gonna be okay, Lisa,” You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You can’t help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure that’s been applied to your right side.
“We’ve got rebound tenderness.”
“What’s that mean?” You hiss.
“That means,” A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, “That we’re looking at—”
You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that it’s you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks.
“Shen?” Someone urges, but he’s breathing out, “Shit,” eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby.
“You know each other?” That same voice presses, and John manages,
“I was—She’s my—”
“Okay,” Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, “Ma’am, I’m Dr. Abbot—”
And you’re trying to listen, you are, but you’re also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you can’t tell—
“Do you understand?” Abbot tacks on, but no, you don’t. You didn’t catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. “Your appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.”
“Surgery?” Lisa pipes up, “Like, now?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Where’s Lilah?” You whimper.
“Oh—Shit, she’s going to the wrong hospital!” Lisa’s out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket.
“Listen,” Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, “If we don’t get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. It’s still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.”
“OR’s prepped,” Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again.
“I’ll go up with her.” John’s at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you don’t understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
“John.”
“Appendix, too, you overachiever. Couldn’t you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?”
Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge.
“I mean, come on,” He’s leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, “All of this, just to get my attention?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you know what you’re gonna be full of if we don’t get that appendix out? Pus.”
“Ugh,” You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, “Stop.”
“Better pus than Darth Vader, though.”
You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse.
“Please stop making me laugh, it hurts,” You whimper, and he mutters, “Alright, alright,” as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, “John?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure they give me the good stuff.” When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as you’re guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly.
“For you? The best,” He promises. “I’ll tell them to check on your funny bone while they’re in there.”
Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But he’s reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away.
“I’m scared,” You whisper.
“I know. But it’s gonna be okay.”
--
“I like him.”
It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilah’s mouth. You’d already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, though—Lisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman).
You didn’t answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“The punchline.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “No punchline. I like him.”
Your brows rose at the insistence. “That’s a first.”
“Well,” She sighed, pushing herself up, “All of your other boyfriends sucked. I’m gonna raid your fridge now.”
You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. “What do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?”
Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily.
“Just what I said.”
“They were all nice guys.”
“No, they were all assholes.”
You scoffed, “They were not all assholes.”
“Fine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.”
“They were all accomplished.”
“Yeah,” Lilah laughed derisively, “Especially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. How’s his prison sentence going by the way?”
You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “He was only fined and you know it.”
“Right, right.”
“Would you close the fridge door if you’re not gonna take anything? You’re letting all the cold out.”
Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet.
“As I was saying,” You added, “They were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can be…Difficult.”
“If by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, you’re usually all over ‘em.”
“That is not what I mean—”
“Hedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that they’re practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.”
“That was one guy!”
“You know why I like John?” Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. “Cause it’s like you’re not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.”
It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldn’t tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on:
“John’s ambitious, sure, he’s a doctor, but he’s also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And you’re not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. You’re not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. You’re just, like…You. It’s good. Kinda freaky, but good.” She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over.
“Anyway,” She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, “Only a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bean.”
“Anytime, generalissimo.”
--
Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. You’re propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoying—but can you really begrudge something that reminds you that you’re alive?
You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside.
John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing steadily. You can’t tell if it’s light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. You’re about to tap again, but—
“Are you snooping through my messages?”
Groggy, soft, warm—there’s that sleep-roughened voice you’ve missed so much. You smile a little.
“No. Trying to see what time it is.”
“Mm,” John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight.
“Maybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?”
“AM,” He chuckles, lowering his wrist.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand.
“You’re up!” Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilah’s joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely.
“Did you grab my phone?” You ask, “And did you call…You know?”
“We didn’t,” Lisa winces, “We weren’t sure—”
“No, no. You did the right thing,” You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask:
“Did you bring my work laptop?”
That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides.
“I—No.”
“Lilah,” You groan, “That was, like, the one thing I asked you to bring—”
You barely get it out before she’s stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, “I’ll get her.”
You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. “Shit.”
“You shouldn’t be working right now, anyway,” John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Here.”
You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once you’re finished, offering, “You want some more?”
“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilah’s sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you.
“Bean, I’m sorry—Hey!” You call out as she turns away again, “I’m not mad at you!” But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. “Great.”
“You want me to go get her?”
“No. Lisa’s gonna try to do that, anyway. And when she’s pissed at me, Lilah needs time to just…Decompress. Trust me,” You huff a laugh, “I’ve pissed her off a lot.” You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed.
“...Shouldn’t you be home?” You finally ask again.
“Mm…You want me to go?”
“No.”
“Then I’m right where I should be.”
And it’s so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but they’re slipping before you can stop them. John doesn’t tut, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers.
“When I’m, um,” You sniffle, “When I’m less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?”
“Using all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.”
“Did they do the surgery?”
“No, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.”
“Oh.”
“...So next time you want my attention, I’m thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.” He keeps on over your quiet giggles—“Getting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, when’s the last time you were on a roller coaster?”
--
It’s nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She won’t tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon.
When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.
--
You can’t remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but you’re coming up with…Well, never. On the odd occasion you’ve gotten sick, you’ve always managed it yourself—but this isn’t just getting sick.
You can get around on your own, but it’s not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you don’t have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. It’s a way of taking back just a little bit of control after you’ve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless.
Besides, you’re usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.
Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, she’s going to have IT lock you out.
You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesn’t answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You don’t try to call, or FaceTime. You’re not sure where you’d start if you did.
So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilah’s at the apartment, and that she’s sitting on your unit’s balcony, it’s sort of a relief.
--
You know those things are bad for you.
It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette.
“I thought you were gonna die, you know?”
It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesn’t stop there:
“I’d never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, just…Laid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like ‘well, shit. I’m not gonna get to say goodbye.’ And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,” Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, “And your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like ‘well fuck. I fucked up again.’” Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.
“You know what I think?” She exhales, “What this was? God or the universe, or fucking whatever—it’s telling you to slow down.” She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. “Because your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop is—”
“I know.”
“Like that’s psychotic. And the worst part is you can’t even blame the meds, like, you’re just like that.”
“I know.” You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. “I’m sorry, bean. I shouldn’t have said that—and you’re right, I can’t even blame the anesthesia.” You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“...Well, you didn’t. Your bitch-ass appendix did.”
You snort, looping your arm around Lilah’s shoulders and drawing her in.
“I love you, bean.”
Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin.
“I love you, too, generalissimo.”
--
“Saw Lilah on the way in.”
“Yeah?” You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bed—gloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.
“Everything okay?”
“...Fine,” You concede, “She just has a shitty sister.”
You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here.”
You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars.
“How’s the pain been?”
“Fine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.”
“Yeah, that’s from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.”
“Hate the use of ‘cavity’ there.”
John’s lips quirk with a smile. “Wounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.”
“Lisa’s been a very good nurse.”
“Mm.” John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. “Has it been itchy at all?”
“Not really.”
“Good…A heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.”
“Okay.”
The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens.
“No fever, chills?”
“Nn-nn.”
“Appetite’s back?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.” John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. “When we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Why’d you wait so long to come in?”
“Just…” You shrug. “I thought it was my period.”
“Your cramps are that bad?”
“They can be.”
“Yeesh,” He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. “When are you due back for your check-up, remind me?”
“Friday.”
“Okay.”
The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for John’s hand, he slips it warmly into yours.
“...What’d your parents say?”
You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand.
“I haven’t told them yet.” Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. “It’s kinda too late now. I mean—I’ll tell them eventually. At this point they’ll just be upset that they weren’t invited.”
“Invited?” He scoffs. “It wasn’t a birthday party.”
“You know what I mean. I should’ve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didn’t, and neither did the girls, so…Now this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Year’s Eve in two year’s time, when they’re good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.”
“Sounds like you already have it all planned out.”
“I like a plan, remember?”
John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. “I remember.” It’s a moment before he hedges: “Remind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?”
You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. “That was some of it. Other times, I just…I felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,” You wave toward your abdomen, “You know, how chaotic it was, how scary…I kinda get it now. Why you’re so level.”
“...Doesn’t mean I should be doing it all the time. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we couldn’t just have a serious conversation.”
You smile. “I’m sorry I was so rigid. I should’ve been more understanding.”
“Hindsight’s 20/20, huh?”
“Famously.”
John gives your hand a little squeeze. “I should let you rest.”
“Okay…Can I selfishly say that I don’t want you to leave yet?”
“Yes,” He chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you don’t roll over in your sleep.”
“Oh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?”
“Oh, all of them.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel spesh.”
John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes he’d worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago.
“Would it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?” You mumbled.
“There’s that word again.”
“Hmm?”
“Selfish.” You feel John tip his head toward you. “Wanting things isn’t selfish. Neither is feeling things.”
You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer.
“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “We’re gonna talk about this later—for now, you need your rest.”
“When are we gonna talk about it?”
“This weekend.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. You’re gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, we’re gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on Saturday—”
“I see—”
“And we’re gonna clear up all this selfish talk.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, just you wait.”
“Do I get a hint?”
John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead.
“You thought that first go-around was something? I’m gonna date the crap out of you.”
You smile. “I’d rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.”
Summary: You wake up from surgery, unfamiliar with the man hovering over you. Your husband copes.
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: Surgery/medical procedures, mention of death, hurt/comfort and cutie a little :)
a/n: I still cannot writeeeee 🥲 but I wrote this so please enjoy it's a fun trope <3 ily bye <3
Masterlist
~~
Jack was not used to being in waiting rooms. He was used to walking through them, maybe taking a glance to grab a family, but he was never the one waiting. He found that he didn’t like it; the chairs were uncomfortable, and the magazines on the side tables were from 12 years ago, all fraying and discolored where others’ hands had been. The light felt off as it filtered through tinted windows, and he could hear each person’s issues as they checked in for their own procedures. Jack leaned his elbow on the thin, wooden arm of his chair, hand over his mouth, and he waited in possibly the worst place on Earth.
You would be fine.
He told you you would be fine, and he believed that.
But Jack was also starting to believe that waiting rooms were intentional harbingers of doubt, and with each tick of the clock sitting above the receptionist’s desk, he felt himself spiralling into anxiety.
What if you weren’t fine? What if you believed him, and then you died or there was a complication or several other things all aligned perfectly, and you were patient zero for some strange, unresolvable medical anomaly? It was all possible, even if the chances were slim, and waiting in this dismal room was making him consider it all. He wished he had gone into surgery. He wouldn’t be going through any of this if he were a surgeon.
Jack’s knee had begun to shake when a nurse finally entered the waiting room and looked around. It was the same nurse who had assured him, several times, that they were aware of your allergies and would call him immediately if anything went wrong, so Jack shot up from his chair. He ignored the ache in his leg and brushed down the material of his jeans, and he walked over to her before she could even register who he was.
“How’s she doing?” Jack greeted, hands pressed together to look casual, but he was anything but casual. His wife was lying in a hospital bed, and he wasn’t there, and that was not casual.
Nurse Caroline, Jack had taken it upon himself to remember, gave him a soft smile. She still had a scrub cap on and didn’t look stressed or nervous, but Jack was familiar with compartmentalizing in front of patients’ families, and he was a patient’s family. He held his breath and tried to look casual again.
“She’s doing just fine, Dr. Abbot. There was a minor complication with bleeding, but nothing we couldn’t handle. We’ve been observing her for the past half hour, and she’s responding well to the titration of meds. Starting to wake up, but she’s pretty out of it. Don’t be alarmed.”
“What kind of complication?” Jack asked, right on the heels of nurse Caroline as she guided him through the maze of patient rooms. “Something surgery-related or a predisposition?”
Caroline hooked her chin over her shoulder. “I’ll give you the full note in her discharge summary, how about that? You can review the entire procedure.”
“Not sure I need to do that,” Jack muttered under his breath, though the thought comforted him. “Just a rundown would be fine.”
“Right. And I’m sure about a thousand follow-up questions after? I know how you doctors are.” She pointed at him with a teasing smile. “And I especially know how you are when we’re working on your wives. You can read the summary and bring any questions to her post-op in two weeks, capiche?”
Jack grumbled something back, the sound left in the hall as he entered your room. And you looked… fine. About what he expected you to look like after surgery. He didn’t particularly enjoy the bleary way you were staring up at the ceiling, your waning skin, or even that you were in a hospital bed at all, but those were all temporary things. He could pack away the comparisons to nightmares he’s had about you in the ED and lower his tone to a comforting decibel. You needed that more than you needed a panicky, nauseous husband.
“Hey, baby,” Jack all but whispered, his hand coming to rest on the top of your head. He leaned down and tried to enter your line of sight. “How you feeling?”
You didn’t answer right away, or even focus your gaze on him. Jack’s thumb rubbed along your forehead, and he looked up to Caroline in the corner of the room, her attention fixed on the computer. “How long did you say she’s been awake?”
“Only a few minutes,” nurse Caroline replied. “Some people just take a little longer to come out of it, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“But—”
“Just give it a sec, Dr. Abbot. Before you freak out.”
Jack nodded—to himself, as Caroline hadn’t looked up from her computer once—and furrowed his brow as he turned his gaze back down to you. He blinked as he realized you were already looking at him, a layer of relief resting atop his panic. He offered you a smile that radiated fondness and adjusted his hand on your head, brushing your hair back.
“There’s my girl,” Jack quietly encouraged. “Feeling pretty crappy, huh?”
You squinted and nodded, and Jack asked, “Do you have her on pain meds?” which nurse Caroline quickly affirmed. She seemed very well-versed in treating doctors and related categories, and Jack was subtly grateful for her nonchalance. He wondered if she was chosen specifically for the ED attending’s case, and then stopped wondering as you started to speak.
“Are you my doctor?” you hoarsely asked, grimacing as you shifted on the bed.
Jack’s smile widened. “Not today. Tried to be, but they told me I don’t have enough specialized training to remove a gallbladder.”
“They took my gallbladder?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. It was causing you more trouble than it was worth. Better to take it out.”
You made a worried sound, your eyes hazy. “Can I live without my gallbladder? Can I have someone else’s?”
Jack quietly chuckled to himself, his fingers continuing to draw shapes along your temples, your forehead, your jaw. “You can live a perfectly healthy life without one. I’ll help you figure it all out, okay? Worst case scenario, I’ll find a way to give you mine.”
You hummed, leaning into his touch, and Jack felt his chest warm. Everything was fine. You were uncomfortable and confused, but you were fine. He was about to ask Caroline more about your post-op appointment and when you could be discharged when you jolted against him. He snapped his gaze down to you instantly, assessing for anything that could have gone wrong. His hands went from caressing you to hovering an inch over your body, afraid to do more.
“What is it?” he pressed out.
But your wide eyes were not filled with pain. Instead, they were tracking the wedding band on Jack’s left hand, a hint of fear in your expression. “Are you married?” you whispered.
Instinctively, Jack rolled the ring in his fingers. He slowly replied, “Yes,” and let caution simmer in the space between you. Somewhere behind him, Caroline had finally turned away from her computer, brows raised at the scene.
“Oh my god,” you groaned, and Jack winced as you shoved your head back against the bed. “And to think I was being all… like that with you. How mortifying.”
“I don’t—”
“And you were being all… touchy. You have a wife.” You ran a hand over your face, your IV trailing alongside you and making Jack wince again as he worried for the tangled lines. “I am so embarrassed.”
Jack didn’t quite know what to say. You were very clearly still out of it, your brows furrowed in confusion and your eyes looking lost, but all the usual tactics he would use to comfort you were not going to work. His adoring husband repertoire was effectively useless. Jack felt his heart break a little at the notion of being a stranger, but this was temporary. You likely wouldn't even remember it.
Jack swallowed, cleared his throat, and shoved his hands in his pockets because he couldn’t just have them hanging. “Hey, no need to be embarrassed. I’m… uh—I do have a wife, but—”
“But he’s your post-op nurse,” Caroline cut in from behind him. She threw him a look that said don’t confuse her when she’s coming off of anesthesia and rounded the other side of your bed. “The touching is necessary. In fact, he’s also going to be your driver home. New service we have.”
“Oh,” you mumbled out, playing with your fingers in your lap. Jack felt his own hands twitch in his pockets at your slight pout. “So everything is fine?”
It took Jack a moment to realize you were looking at him. He sprang into action as he caught your expecting gaze. “Oh, more than fine, sweet—uh, miss. We’re going to get you home, and I’ll be back for more post-op care.”
“Be back at my house?”
“Yeah. I’ll… be there a lot.”
“Lucky me,” you yawned. “But not lucky wife.”
Jack pressed his lips into a line to stave off the laugh. “My wife’s okay with it. She knows it’s part of the job.”
Caroline had begun checking final vitals and milling about your bed. She removed your IV and scanned your hospital bracelet before returning to the computer. Jack watched each step carefully, hands still shoved into his pockets, and nodded when discharge paperwork was sent to his email. He didn’t really need it, but he knew the procedure notes would be attached, so he would read every word as you slept. A quick check-in from the surgeon was the final key to going home, and Jack had carefully guided you into a wheelchair with hands that knew you better than he led on. You were half-asleep by the time you reached his truck.
“Hey, wake up for me, baby. Gotta get you settled in.”
You squinted and grimaced, and Jack wished he could have just carried you in without the hassle, but the nurse said your stitches were in a delicate zone and you needed careful movement. You threw an arm over his shoulders, and Jack fought the urge to kiss your head as he buckled you into the seat. He didn’t want to startle you. It took physical force to shut the door without touching you more.
He opted for a soft smile when your head rested against his passenger-side window, feeling jittery as he started the engine and backed out of the employee parking garage at the PTMC. You spoke again when you were a few miles away from home.
“Your wife must really love you,” you sleepily pointed out, eyes struggling to stay open. “If you treat her like you treat your patients.”
The lingering warmth in Jack’s chest made his heart skip a beat. He kept his eyes on the road. “I like to think I treat her just a little more special.”
“Really love you, then.”
“Yeah, that’s the hope,” Jack smiled to himself. “But pretty sure I love her a whole lot more than that.”
“That’s nice, Nurse.”
And when you got into the house just a couple of minutes later, your wedding pictures sprawled across the walls, Jack’s belongings mixed with yours, your jaw dropped, a starry-eyed gaze turning on your “post-op nurse.”
“Am I your wife?” you gaped.
Jack took the opportunity to finally touch you, bringing his hands from the clinical guidance around your shoulders to rest delicately around your waist—just to help you walk inside. And maybe because it had only been a car ride, but he missed touching you like he was your husband. He smiled at you from over your shoulder.
“Yeah, baby. We had a pretty fun wedding. You’ll remember it when you wake up.”
“Ho-ly shit,” you replied, stunned as Jack led you through the living room filled with your life together. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jack let his nose brush along your temple. “Better to leave things simple when you wake up from a surgery. Wouldn’t want to stress you out with big news.”
“Are you actually a nurse?”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Shit,” you repeated. Jack took on more of your weight as you started to fall forward.
“Okay, no more big news until you’re lying down,” Jack stressed, gently tucking your hair back as you approached the bed and struggled to sit down. You swayed slightly where he put you, and Jack crouched down to meet your dazed expression. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know after you sleep some of this off. Promise.”
“Where’s my wedding ring?”
He took your hand into his, kissing the empty space. “No jewelry in surgery. Did you hear me? Sleep first, then information.”
“Am I a doctor? I don’t think I am. Do we have children?”
“I love you so much.” Jack paused, tapping your cheek lightly. “It’s time to sleep.”
content damian wayne x red lantern!reader, gn!reader, angst, angst with eventual comfort, hurt/comfort, getting together, emotional hurt/comfort, damian wayne needs a hug, reader needs a hug, protective damian, aged-up damian, no yn, graphic violence, implied human trafficking, child endangerment, past mass death, traumatic grief, body horror, blood/body-fluid horror, loss of bodily autonomy, forced transformation, non-consensual mind reading, intrusive thoughts, burns/fire injuries, corrosive plasma/flame imagery, league of assassins trauma, nightmares/ptsd symptoms, self-isolation, discussions of killing/revenge, canon-typical vigilantism violence, emotional repression, angst with eventual comfort
masterlist
word count 7.4k
The first thing the ring took from you was your heartbeat.
Not your breath. Not your name. Not your hands, though they shook until your fingers curled into claws. Not your memories, though you wished it had. It took your heartbeat, clean and absolute, as if rage were a blade and your body were only cloth.
One moment, you were dying on the floor of a ship that smelled like burning metal and opened veins. The next, a voice crawled through the wreckage and found you beneath the bodies of everyone who had ever loved you.
You have great rage in your heart.
You wanted to laugh.
There was no heart left worth naming. There was only the hollow inside your ribs where grief had set up a throne.
The ring slid onto your finger like a verdict.
The pain was instant.
Your blood spoiled from the inside.
It boiled. It burned. It became something that did not belong in any living body, something crimson and vicious and starving. You remembered choking. You remembered your spine bowing off the deck. You remembered the first rush of flame tearing out of you, not like blood, not like plasma, not like anything medical or clean, but fire—thick, red, corrosive fire that ate through steel and kept burning in the cold silence beyond the breach in the hull.
After that, there were fragments.
Atrocitus. Ysmault. The Red Lantern Corps howling their oath like the universe deserved to hear how badly it had failed them.
“With blood and rage of crimson red, / We fill men’s souls with darkest dread, / And twist your minds to pain and hate, / We’ll burn you all—that is your fate!”
You had said it until your throat split.
You had said it while your mind drowned.
You had said it with the rest of them, animalistic, furious, ruined, your thoughts reduced to red flashes: teeth, fire, betrayal, vengeance, more, more, more.
Then Atrocitus performed his ritual.
Shamanistic magic, old as hate. He restored your mind without dimming the rage. He gave you language again, memory again, the terrible gift of understanding exactly what you had become.
“You will be useful,” he told you.
That was the closest thing to mercy anyone had offered.
So you became useful.
You learned to hold the flame behind your teeth.
You learned to make weapons out of it: crude axes, jagged hooks, spears that burned through armour and bone. You learned not to waste energy on beautiful constructs. Rage had no patience for beauty. Rage wanted edges. Rage wanted impact. Rage wanted the exact moment an enemy’s arrogance turned into fear.
You learned to read minds.
Not gently. Never gently.
The ring did not knock. It did not ask. It ripped emotion open by the root and showed you the rot underneath. Fear. Guilt. Cruelty. Hatred. Pain. It sang to you in every sentient creature close enough to burn.
Most minds made you sick.
Then you came to Gotham.
And Gotham, the little gothic disaster planet of a city that it was, sang like a wound.
You arrived in winter, under a sky bruised purple by storm clouds, following the trail of alien weapons smuggled through human hands. Your ring had detected traces of yellow fear-energy, green will residue, and something older: a black-market shipment moving through the Narrows.
Gotham greeted you with sleet, sirens, and men laughing inside a warehouse where children were locked in cages.
That was your first mistake.
You listened.
The ring heard their thoughts before you entered.
Profit. Flesh. Power. No consequences.
Your rage rose so quickly that the world went bright at the edges.
You landed through the roof in a shower of broken glass and screaming metal. Red flame burst around your body, wings of heat that turned the sleet to steam. Men raised guns. One fired. The bullet melted before it touched you.
“Run,” you told the children.
They stared.
You turned toward the men.
None of them ran fast enough.
The fire came out of you in a roar.
Not blood. Not vomit. Flame. Terrible and alive. It struck the concrete at their feet, climbed the walls, and crawled like an animal toward the weapons crates. You shaped a blade from it—ugly, broad, made for splitting rather than cutting—and slammed it into the floor hard enough to crack the foundation.
The men dropped their guns.
Good.
You wanted them conscious when they felt fear.
You wanted—
Something sharp struck the back of your hand.
Your construct scattered.
A blade landed between your fingers and the nearest man’s throat. A sword. Not thrown to kill. Thrown to stop.
A figure dropped from the rafters.
Black, green, gold. A cape like a shadow with teeth. A domino mask over eyes that were far too steady for someone standing between you and vengeance.
“Enough,” he said.
His voice was young, but not childish. Cold, but not empty. Sharpened by discipline until even anger had to stand at attention.
You bared your teeth. “Move.”
“No.”
The ring surged.
Mind. Read. Break. Burn.
You looked at him, and the ring reached.
Most minds opened like wounds.
His opened like a locked room full of knives.
You saw a desert under a pitiless sun. A child holding a blade too large for his hand. Blood on stone. A woman’s voice like silk wrapped around a command. A man’s absence shaped like a god. Green water. Resurrection. Rage forced into obedience. Rage punished. Rage perfected. Rage made quiet because quiet things survived longer.
Then the image vanished.
The boy—no, not a boy, not quite, though something in him had been made old far too early—tilted his chin.
“Do not enter my mind again.”
Your flames faltered.
Not because he had threatened you.
Because he had known.
No one knew when the ring looked, not unless they were psychic, magical, trained, or already living behind walls so reinforced that intrusion felt like weather on stone.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are standing between me and monsters.”
“I am standing between you and becoming one.”
Your rage snapped forward so hard the air cracked.
The men behind him whimpered.
“You don’t know what they did.”
“I know enough.” He did not look away. “And I know what you want to do.”
The fire licked up your arms. “Then move.”
His sword came up. “No.”
It should have made you angrier.
It did.
But beneath that anger was something worse.
Recognition.
The ring whispered his rage to you, not loud and volcanic like yours, but compressed. Buried. Dense as a star collapsed in on itself. This was not the rage of someone untouched by consequence. This was rage taught to wear gloves at dinner. Rage trained to kneel. Rage that had learned silence not because it was peaceful, but because silence was safer than screaming.
You stared at him. He stared back.
Then one of the men behind him lunged for a dropped gun.
You moved first.
So did he.
Your flame-spear pinned the gun to the wall. His sword hilt struck the man’s temple.
The man collapsed unconscious.
You looked at the vigilante.
He looked at you.
“Robin,” someone barked through a comm, staticky and older. “Status.”
Robin held your gaze.
“Contained,” he said.
You almost laughed again.
Then the weapons crates exploded.
The blast threw you both sideways.
Instinct drove you before thought. You wrapped yourself in flame, caught the worst of the explosion, swallowed heat into heat until your vision went red and white. Shrapnel screamed past. The cages buckled. A child cried out.
Robin moved like a blade through smoke. He cut locks, dragged children free, shoved debris aside with strength that should have been impossible for someone his size.
You burned through the final cage door with two fingers.
A little girl clung to your wrist before you could pull away.
You froze.
Your skin was too hot. Your ring was too dangerous. You were built out of contagion and acid and wrath.
But she held on.
“Please,” she said.
Your flames died down to embers.
Robin noticed.
Of course he did. He noticed everything.
You carried the child out through the wall you had made by turning brick into slag. Police lights painted the alley blue and red. Another vigilante waited there, tall and dark, with the kind of presence that made humans believe in gargoyles.
Batman.
The ring recoiled from him.
Not fear.
Control. A mountain of it.
Batman looked at you like he had already designed three ways to neutralise you and regretted all of them.
Robin stepped in front of you before Batman could speak.
You looked at him, this sharp-edged human with blood on his gloves and quiet rage in his bones, and wondered what kind of person argued for a monster because he understood the shape of the cage.
Batman approached slowly.
“Your ring,” he said. “It’s Red Lantern technology.”
You smiled without humour. “Ten points to the bat.”
Robin’s mouth twitched.
Barely.
It was gone so fast you might have imagined it.
Batman did not smile. Tragic, honestly. “You’re coming with us.”
The ring flared.
Robin turned his head slightly. “Do not make this difficult.”
“Did you just ask a Red Lantern not to make something difficult?”
“I asked you not to be predictable.”
That landed.
Worse, it worked.
You went with them.
Not because Batman ordered it. Not because the Batmobile—ridiculous name, ridiculous machine, incredible engineering—could have contained you. Not because Gotham’s police had surrounded the block.
You went because Robin sat across from you in the vehicle with his sword across his knees and did not look afraid.
And because when your ring whispered his name from stray police chatter and encrypted comms, something about it fit.
Damian Wayne. Son of Batman. Grandson of the Demon.
Boy made weapon.
Man trying, with visible irritation, to become something else.
You understood that more than you wanted to.
The Batcave was cold.
Not physically. Physically, it was damp, mineral-rich, alive with the restless drip of underground water and the quiet flutter of thousands of bats. But emotionally, it was cold in the way all command centres were cold. Every surface existed for utility. Every screen glowed with information. Every weapon was catalogued. Every exit was marked.
A place built by people who had accepted that disaster was not a possibility but a schedule.
Batman placed you inside a containment field.
You let him.
Mostly.
The ring did not like it. Red light crawled along your knuckles, eager to test the barrier, eager to burn its way through the cave, through the man, through the city, through anything that dared imply you could be held.
Damian stood outside the field. Arms crossed. Spine straight. Blood drying on his cheek from a cut he had not acknowledged.
“You’re bleeding,” you said.
“I noticed.”
“Do you want a medal?”
“I want you to stop looking at me like you are deciding which wall would make the most dramatic exit.”
“That one.” You nodded toward the waterfall. “Good visuals.”
His mouth twitched again.
There it was. A tiny crack in the armour.
Batman worked at the computer, pulling up files on the Red Lantern Corps. Images flashed across the screen: Atrocitus, Bleez, Dex-Starr, Skallox, Zilius Zox. Rage made flesh. Rage made army.
“Your heart,” Batman said, voice even. “The ring replaces it.”
You looked at the red band on your finger. “Yes.”
“And removal would kill you.”
“Very quickly.”
Damian’s gaze sharpened.
You pretended not to notice.
Batman did.
Of course he did.
“How much control do you have?” Batman asked.
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are getting.”
“Have you infected anyone with rage plasma?”
Your flames snapped high enough to make the field hiss.
Damian shifted, one hand moving toward his sword.
You stared at Batman. “No.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Will you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
For the first time since arriving, you looked away.
Because you had seen it happen once.
A soldier on a moon whose name you never learned. He had tried to restrain you after your first week with the Corps, back when your mind was still more howl than thought. Your fire had touched his skin. Not enough to kill. Enough to infect. Enough to let rage bloom in him like a second wound.
He had screamed until the ring found him.
Until it made him one of you.
Until he thanked you with blood boiling out of his mouth and murder in his eyes.
You had never forgotten.
You never would.
“Because some fates should not be contagious,” you said.
Silence settled.
Damian’s posture changed.
Barely.
But you saw it.
Batman did too.
He dismissed Damian later, or tried to.
Damian ignored him.
That was the first thing you learned about Damian Wayne: he obeyed only after deciding whether the order deserved him.
Batman left eventually, called away by a city that never stopped bleeding.
Damian stayed.
He dragged over a chair, sat outside the containment field, and began cleaning his sword.
“You’re babysitting me?” you asked.
“You are not a baby.”
“Prison-sitting, then.”
“You are not in prison.”
You glanced at the field humming between you.
His expression did not change. “You are temporarily detained beneath a billionaire’s house.”
“That is worse. At least prisons have less emotional repression.”
The sword paused.
Then continued.
“You speak often for someone who claims to be dangerous.”
You leaned back against the invisible wall of the field. It burned faintly against your shoulder. “I am dangerous.”
“Yes,” Damian said. “So am I.”
The ring pulsed.
Quietly. Like it had heard a familiar song.
You studied him.
He did not fidget. Did not fill the silence because silence made him nervous. He sat comfortably inside it, as though silence had raised him better than most people had.
“You stopped me,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t hate me for wanting to kill them.”
His hand slowed on the cloth.
“No,” he said.
“Why?”
For a while, the only sound was the cave breathing around you.
Then Damian said, “Because I have wanted to kill worse men for less.”
Your throat tightened.
The ring whispered.
Truth. Rage. Shame. Restraint.
You almost reached for his mind again.
You didn’t.
He noticed that too.
His eyes flicked up.
“Thank you,” he said.
It was so unexpected that you nearly laughed. “For not violating your thoughts?”
“Yes.”
“That is a very low bar.”
“I have met many who failed to clear it.”
Something in your chest hurt.
Not your heart. You did not have one.
Something nearby.
“You have psychic defences,” you said.
“I was trained.”
“League?”
His eyes went cold.
You knew immediately you had guessed right.
“Do not speak of things you do not understand.”
“I understand being recruited by monsters.”
His jaw tightened. The cloth went still around his blade.
A warning lived in the space between you.
You should have stopped.
You didn’t.
“I understand being told rage makes you strong. That mercy is weakness. That obedience is survival. That pain is education.”
Damian rose so quickly that the chair scraped back. “You know nothing of me.”
“No,” you said softly. “But I know the shape of what was done to you.”
For a second, his composure cracked.
Not dramatically. Damian Wayne did not break like glass. He broke like stone under pressure, hairline fractures hidden until the whole cliff came down.
His eyes flashed green.
Then the mask returned.
“You presume too much,” he said.
“Yes.”
That surprised him.
You looked at the ring.
“I do that when I am afraid.”
Damian’s expression shifted. Just enough.
“You are afraid?”
“Constantly.”
His gaze dropped to your ring. “Of losing control?”
“Of enjoying it.”
The cave swallowed the words.
There it was. The ugly truth. The one even Atrocitus did not like spoken plainly. Rage was not only pain. It was power. It was clarity. It made every wound into a weapon. It told you that forgiveness was a lie invented by people who had never had to crawl out from under their dead.
Sometimes, when the flame rose, you wanted it to take the whole universe with it.
Sometimes, that desire felt like relief.
Damian sat down again. Slower this time.
“I know,” he said.
Two words.
No comfort. No absolution. No denial.
Just understanding.
It was the first kindness Gotham gave you.
You hated it.
You stayed in the Cave for three days.
Batman ran tests. Robin argued with him. Nightwing brought food you did not need and tried to make jokes the containment field did not deserve. Red Hood stood outside the barrier once and said, “Well, damn. Angry space jewellery,” before Damian told him to leave.
You watched all of them.
You learned the rhythms of the family through the ring’s emotional static.
Batman was grief with a mission statement.
Nightwing was sunlight over a fracture.
Red Hood was a match held too close to gasoline.
The others came and went in flashes: sharp humour, tired brilliance, watchful silence, stubborn kindness.
But Damian remained the only one whose rage did not scrape against yours.
His rage sat beside it. Parallel.
Not feeding. Not challenging.
Understanding.
On the third night, Batman lowered the containment field.
“You’re free to go,” he said.
You blinked. “That’s it?”
“No. But you’ll leave whether I allow it or not.”
“Smart man.”
“I want your word that you will not kill in Gotham.”
You smiled. “You think I give my word easily?”
“No,” Batman said. “I think you give it rarely. That makes it useful.”
Damian stood behind him, arms crossed, silent.
You looked at him. His expression gave nothing away.
But the ring heard him.
Not words.
Something quieter.
Hope, buried under scepticism so intense it almost became fashion.
You looked back at Batman.
“I will not kill in Gotham,” you said. “Unless there is no other way to prevent greater harm.”
Batman’s mouth compressed.
Damian said, “That is the best you will get.”
Batman did not look pleased.
You respected that.
You left through the waterfall because you were not immune to drama.
Damian followed you onto the cliff above the manor.
The night air was cold. Wet. Gotham spread below like a bruise full of stars, towers spearing upward through fog. Your ring hummed softly, tasting the city’s anger.
“You are leaving?” Damian asked.
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
You both noticed.
He scowled as if betrayed by his own mouth.
You looked away before he could retreat behind pride.
“I have a ship hidden outside city limits,” you said. “I came for a weapons trail. It is not finished.”
“Then neither are you.”
“You inviting yourself?”
“I am informing you that I will be assisting.”
“Does Batman know?”
“He will.”
“That means no.”
“It means he will know.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Small. Rusted. Yours.
Damian looked at you like the sound had done something inconvenient to him.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, that was a face.”
“I have many faces.”
“You have three. Murder, judgment, and secretly pleased.”
“I do not have a secretly pleased face.”
“You do. It’s very tiny. Like a rich person’s empathy.”
His scowl deepened.
There it was again.
Secretly pleased.
That was how it began.
Not softly.
Nothing about you and Damian began softly.
You hunted weapons smugglers through Gotham’s underbelly, through abandoned subway tunnels, through penthouses where men wore suits expensive enough to disguise the rot beneath. Damian fought beside you with terrifying precision. You burned locks, melted guns, split armoured drones in half with axes made from rage.
He never told you not to be angry.
He told you where to aim.
That was different. Vital, even.
“Your left flank,” he snapped one night as three mercenaries opened fire from above.
You twisted, formed a shield of red flame—not elegant, barely stable. The bullets melted. Damian launched off your shoulder without asking, because apparently, trusting him meant weaponising your body midair. He took down the mercenaries before his cape finished settling.
“You could have warned me,” you said.
“You adapted.”
“You used me as a springboard.”
“You were well-positioned.”
“You are impossible.”
“You are loud.”
“I am a Red Lantern.”
“Yes,” he said, landing beside you. “I gathered.”
The ring purred around your finger.
It liked him.
That worried you.
Red Lantern rings did not like people. They liked rage, violence, wounds. But with Damian, it behaved almost curiously. It brushed against his emotions and found no easy entry. His anger was not an explosion. It was architecture.
You met him on rooftops after patrol.
At first, only for mission updates.
Then for tea. That was his doing, though he pretended otherwise.
One night, he arrived with a thermos and two cups.
“I do not know if you can drink,” he said.
“I can.”
“Do you require it?”
“No.”
He poured anyway.
The tea steamed between you, fragrant with mint and something floral. You held the cup carefully, mindful of your heat.
“You’re not going to ask what I eat?” you said.
“No.”
“Everyone asks.”
“I assumed it was rude.”
You stared.
He looked out over the skyline.
“You surprise me, Wayne.”
“Good.”
You drank tea together in silence.
The ring hummed.
Your body had no heartbeat, but in moments like that, you remembered the idea of one.
The relationship grew in fragments.
A text from an encrypted number: You should not patrol Burnley tonight. Freeze’s equipment is unstable in low temperatures.
Your reply: That’s Gotham’s whole personality.
His answer: Do not be deliberately obtuse.
Another night, he found you perched on the cathedral, watching the city with your knees drawn up and your ring glowing faintly.
“You are spiralling,” he said.
“Hello to you too.”
“You missed three check-ins.”
“I didn’t know we had check-ins.”
“We do.”
“Did I agree to that?”
“You continued showing up.”
That was Damian's logic. Infuriating. Accurate.
He sat beside you, close enough that his cape brushed your sleeve.
You should have moved.
You didn’t.
Below, Gotham traffic crawled through wet streets. Neon smeared across puddles. Somewhere, someone shouted. Somewhere else, someone laughed.
“I heard them again today,” you said.
Damian did not ask who.
He waited.
“The people I lost.” Your hands curled around the ledge hard enough to crack stone. “The ring does that sometimes. It finds memory and makes it useful.”
“Useful how?”
“It tells me grief is fuel.”
Damian’s face tightened.
You smiled without humour. “It isn’t wrong.”
“No,” he said. “It is incomplete.”
You looked at him.
He kept his gaze on the city.
“My grandfather believed every wound could be sharpened into obedience,” Damian said. “My mother believed pain could become purpose if one survived it correctly. My father believes pain can become a vow.”
“And you?”
His mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I am undecided.”
The honesty hit harder than comfort would have.
You looked down at your ring.
“Rage kept me alive.”
“Yes.”
“It also made me cruel.”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to argue.”
“I dislike losing arguments.”
A faint smile tugged at your mouth.
Then faded.
“What if there’s nothing underneath it?” you whispered. “What if I am only this now?”
Damian turned to you.
His eyes were very green in the city light.
“I have wondered the same.”
You believed him.
That was the problem. With everyone else, your rage stood between you like a warning flare. With Damian, it became a language.
He understood why you flinched at calm voices more than shouted ones.
You understood why he went still when someone touched him without warning.
He understood why mercy felt dangerous, like lowering a blade before the enemy was truly dead.
You understood why he collected animals, why he spoke to them gently where humans could not hear, why he trusted creatures who bit when hurt more than people who smiled while holding knives.
He met your rage and did not romanticise it.
You met his restraint and did not mistake it for peace.
And somewhere inside that mutual recognition, something tender began to grow.
Terrible timing, really.
The universe had no sense of pacing.
The weapons trail ended with a trap.
It was hidden beneath Gotham Harbour, in a smuggler’s bunker built into old flood infrastructure. Alien tech lined the walls. Yellow fear batteries. Scraps of green construct residue contained in glass. A half-corrupted power cell pulsing red at the centre of a machine that made your ring snarl.
Damian saw it too. “What is that?”
“A mistake,” you said.
Then the doors sealed. The machine activated.
Pain punched through your ring into your nervous system.
You dropped to one knee, flames bursting uncontrolled from your shoulders.
Damian was at your side instantly. “What is happening?”
“They’re trying to siphon the ring.”
“Can they?”
“No.” Your teeth clenched. “But they can make it angry.”
Red light flooded the bunker.
The machine’s purpose became sickeningly clear as your ring translated the energy signature.
It was not meant to steal your power.
It was meant to provoke it.
A rage bomb.
If you lost control, your flame would ignite the corrupted power cell. The blast would contaminate half the harbour. Maybe more. Rage energy would seep into water, infrastructure, bodies. It would not turn everyone into Red Lanterns, not exactly, but it would infect enough.
Gotham did not need more rage.
Gotham was already drowning in it.
Damian’s hand closed around your arm.
Your flames burned through his glove.
He did not let go.
“Tell me what to do,” he said.
You shook your head, vision blurring red. “Leave.”
“No.”
“Damian.”
He went still.
You had never said his name like that before.
Not as a tease. Not as a warning. Not Wayne, not Robin.
Damian.
His fingers tightened.
“Tell me what to do,” he repeated.
The ring screamed.
It dragged every memory to the surface.
The ship. The bodies. The smell of burning metal. The soldier you infected. Atrocitus telling you that usefulness was mercy.
The oath in your mouth.
The red.
The red.
The red.
Your flames surged.
Damian grabbed your face with both hands.
The touch was shocking enough to cut through the noise.
His gloves smoked against your skin.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
You tried.
The world fractured. His face swam in and out of focus, masked and bare all at once, child and weapon and man, all that quiet rage held in human shape.
“Leave,” you rasped. “I can’t—”
“You can.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Stop lying.”
“I am not lying.” His voice sharpened. “You think rage is a beast because that is what your ring wants. Because it is easier to be devoured than to choose, again and again, not to become what hurt you.”
Your flames roared.
The machine whined.
“Do not lecture me,” you snarled.
“Then listen.”
The command cracked through the bunker like a whip.
You froze.
Damian’s eyes burned, not red, never red, but fierce enough to answer.
“I was raised by people who believed anger was useful only when it obeyed. Batman taught me that anger is dangerous unless controlled. I believed both for years. That rage was either a weapon or a failure.” His thumbs pressed against your cheekbones, grounding, steady, alive. “Then I met you.”
Your breath hitched.
“You are rage,” he said. “But you are also the person who stopped burning when a child held your wrist. You are the person who refuses to infect others despite knowing it would give you soldiers. You are the person who makes crude weapons because you do not care if power is beautiful, only if it ends the threat. You are not empty beneath the rage.”
The machine pulsed brighter.
Your ring shrieked.
Damian leaned closer. “You are still choosing.”
Something inside you broke.
Not the way the ring wanted. Not a rupture.
A release.
You sobbed, and flame spilled from your mouth, bright and terrible. Damian did not flinch. He turned his body into yours, cape wrapping around you both as if cloth could shield him from a Red Lantern’s fire.
“Idiot,” you choked. “You’re burning.”
“I have had worse.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It was not meant to be.”
A laugh tore out of you, broken and wet.
Then a scream.
You drove your hand into the machine.
The ring wanted to explode.
You refused.
You took every scrap of rage it offered and shaped it smaller. Denser. Not a blast. Not a flood.
A blade.
Ugly. Crude. Yours.
Damian moved with you without needing instruction. His sword struck the outer casing at the weakest point your ring identified. Your flame-blade followed, piercing the corrupted power cell dead centre.
For one second, the bunker held its breath.
Then the machine imploded.
Red light collapsed inward.
Damian tackled you behind a concrete pillar as the blast rolled over you both. Heat swallowed the room. Metal screamed. Water burst through cracked walls, hissing into steam where it hit your flames.
When silence returned, you were on the floor with Damian half over you, one arm braced beside your head.
His mask was cracked. His gloves were charred. There was a burn along his jaw.
Your rage vanished so abruptly it left you shaking.
“Damian,” you whispered.
“I am alive.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I am often hurt.”
“I hate that sentence.”
“Then stop being dramatic and sit up.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then his arm gave out.
Panic hit so hard your ring flared.
You caught him before he hit the ground.
“Damian?”
“Do not shout.”
“I’m not shouting.”
“You are emotionally shouting.”
“You’re bleeding, you absolute nightmare.”
“It is a shallow wound.”
“You collapsed!”
“Briefly.”
You made a sound somewhere between a growl and a sob.
He blinked up at you, expression softening in increments so small most people would miss them.
You didn’t. You saw too much of him now.
That was terrifying.
You carried him out of the bunker despite his protests because his protests were stupid and also because he had absolutely carried you emotionally through a rage bomb, so physically carrying him felt fair.
Batman met you at the extraction point.
His eyes went immediately to Damian.
Then to you.
Then to your hands, which were careful around his son in a way no Red Lantern should have known how to be.
“He needs medical attention,” you said.
Batman did not waste time.
Neither did you.
In the Cave, Alfred treated Damian’s burns with the kind of calm that made you feel like you were one wrong breath away from being sedated with tea and disappointment.
Damian sat shirtless on the medbay cot, spine rigid, jaw clenched.
You stood in the corner, arms wrapped around yourself, ring dim.
Alfred glanced at you once. “You may sit, if you wish.”
“I’m fine.”
“People who are fine rarely look as though they are waiting to be executed.”
You did not know what to do with that.
Damian did.
“Pennyworth,” he warned.
“Master Damian, you are in no position to intimidate anyone while refusing antiseptics like a feral cat.”
Despite everything, your mouth twitched.
Damian glared at you.
Secretly pleased.
Alive.
Burned because of you.
The smile died.
When Alfred finished and Batman stepped out to contact the others, silence settled over the medbay. Clean. Bright. Awful.
Damian looked at you. “You are doing it again.”
“What?”
“Preparing to leave.”
Your throat closed.
The ring sat heavy on your finger.
“You got hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of smugglers' weaponised alien technology beneath the harbour.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Be accurate?”
“Make it sound like I’m not dangerous.”
“You are dangerous,” Damian said. “You are not singularly responsible for every injury that occurs near you.”
You laughed once, sharp and humourless. “Spoken like someone who has never had their blood turn into a weapon.”
His expression darkened.
“No,” he said. “Spoken like someone raised to believe his existence was a weapon.”
That shut you up.
Damian swung his legs over the edge of the cot.
“You are not leaving because I was hurt,” he said.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No. But I get to call it cowardice.”
Your flames sparked.
He stood, swayed slightly, then steadied himself with visible annoyance.
“Sit down,” you snapped.
“No.”
“You are the worst patient in the universe.”
“I have been told.”
“By everyone?”
“Frequently.”
You crossed the room before you realised you had moved, stopping close enough to feel the warmth of him. Human warmth. Not fire. Not rage. Something softer and more devastating.
“You don’t understand,” you said quietly.
His gaze lifted to yours.
“You think because you know rage, you know this. You don’t. The ring is not a metaphor. It is not trauma with a dress code. It replaced my heart. My blood is poison. My anger is contagious. If I lose control, people suffer. If someone takes the ring, I die. If I keep it, I am one bad day away from becoming a disaster with a pulse made of hate.”
Damian’s face did not change.
But his eyes did.
“You think I don’t know what it is to fear your own nature?”
You looked away.
He stepped closer. “You think I have not looked at my hands and wondered whether they were made only for violence? You think I have not felt something inside me answer when cruelty called my name?”
“Damian—”
“No.” His voice was low now. Rougher. “You do not get to decide you are uniquely monstrous so you can deny everyone else the right to understand you.”
That hit exactly where it was meant to.
Your ring flared defensively.
Damian did not move.
“You should be afraid of me,” you whispered.
“I am.”
The honesty knocked the breath out of you.
He held your gaze.
“I am afraid you will leave because staying requires more courage than burning. I am afraid you will decide isolation is noble when it is merely familiar. I am afraid you will mistake my concern for ignorance because it is easier than accepting care.”
Your vision blurred. “Stop.”
“No.”
“Damian.”
“I am afraid,” he said, quieter, “because I understand you.”
The medbay lights hummed overhead.
Your fingers curled. Not into fists.
Into themselves.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted.
His expression softened.
Neither of you named what this was.
“I am also inexperienced,” he said.
Despite the ache in your chest, a laugh slipped out. “At what? Feelings?”
His eyes narrowed. “At allowing someone to remain close.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
Your laughter broke into something dangerously close to a sob.
Damian looked alarmed for half a second, which was unfairly endearing and very unhelpful.
“I want to stay,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
His breath caught.
Barely. But you heard it.
“I want to stay,” you repeated, because the first time felt impossible and the second felt worse. “I want rooftop tea and your terrible insults and missions where you use me as architecture without warning.”
“You were ideally placed.”
“I want Alfred to keep judging me like I am a stray cat you dragged home.”
“He judges everyone.”
“I want—” Your voice cracked. “I want to be near you. And I am so angry that wanting anything still feels possible.”
Damian looked at you like you had handed him something fragile and on fire.
Then he reached for your hand.
Slowly. Giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
His fingers closed around yours, careful of the ring.
The red light washed over his skin.
No corruption. No burning.
Just warmth.
“I want you to stay,” he said.
The ring went silent.
For one perfect, impossible second, the universe did not scream.
“You do?” you whispered.
“Yes.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I do not say things I do not mean.”
“That is deeply untrue. You told Nightwing his casserole was edible.”
“It was politically necessary.”
You huffed a laugh.
Damian’s mouth twitched.
Then his gaze dropped to your lips.
The world narrowed.
Rage was loud. Fear was louder.
This was quiet. So quiet it terrified you.
“May I?” he asked.
Your fingers tightened around his. “You may.”
Damian kissed you like he approached everything unfamiliar: with focus, restraint, and a visible determination not to fail.
It was soft. Careful. A question pressed against your mouth.
You could have wept from the gentleness of it.
No one had touched you like you were not a weapon in so long. No one had kissed you like your fire was not the most important thing about you.
You lifted your free hand to his jaw, stopping just shy of the burn.
He leaned into the touch anyway.
Stubborn, impossible boy.
No.
Man.
A man who had made himself more than what raised him.
A man who looked at your rage and did not ask it to vanish before he cared for you.
When the kiss ended, Damian rested his forehead against yours.
His eyes were closed.
You had never seen him look so unguarded. It made something inside you ache.
“I still have no heartbeat,” you whispered.
His eyes opened. “I know.”
“My blood is still rage.”
“I know.”
“I may never be safe.”
His hand came up, covering yours against his face. “Neither am I.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It is honest.”
You swallowed.
The ring pulsed, softer now.
Not gentle. Never gentle.
But listening.
“I can’t promise I won’t be difficult,” you said.
Damian’s mouth curved. Tiny.
Secretly pleased.
“You would bore me if you were not.”
You stared at him.
Then laughed so hard you nearly cried.
He looked offended for three seconds before he kissed you again, which was a much better use of his mouth than arguing.
After that, staying was not simple.
Nothing in Gotham was.
Nothing involving Damian Wayne could ever be accused of simplicity without committing a crime against language.
You still had nightmares.
Some nights, you woke above the city with flame in your throat and the oath clawing at your tongue.
“With blood and rage—”
Then Damian would be there, not touching until you nodded, not speaking until you could hear him.
“Name five things,” he would say.
“I hate grounding exercises.”
“I did not ask.”
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
You would name five things.
Stone under your palms. Rain on your face. Red light from your ring. The smell of Damian’s tea. His voice, steady in the dark.
Some nights, Damian woke from dreams he refused to describe, hand reaching for a sword that was not there. You never asked. You sat near him instead, close enough that he could choose contact.
Eventually, he always did.
Shoulder to shoulder. Finger against finger. Forehead pressed briefly to your temple before he pretended it had not happened.
He learned the limits of your ring. You learned the limits of his silence.
He could go cold when overwhelmed, retreating into formality sharp enough to cut. You learned not to chase him with anger when fear would do. You learned to say, “I am not your enemy,” and wait.
You could go bright when overwhelmed, flames rising, voice hardening into something that belonged to the Corps more than yourself. Damian learned not to command unless danger demanded it. He learned to say your name like an anchor, not a leash.
You fought.
Of course you fought. You were both made of blades and bad coping mechanisms. Your arguments could strip paint.
But you returned.
That became the miracle.
Again and again, you returned.
One month after the harbour, Damian took you to the manor gardens at dawn.
You complained the whole way. “It is six in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“Only criminals and billionaires are awake at this hour.”
“You are both adjacent.”
“That was cruel.”
“That was mild.”
The garden was silver with mist. Flowers drooped under dew. Somewhere in the hedges, a peacock screamed like a Victorian ghost being murdered, because Wayne Manor apparently needed ambience.
You looked at Damian.
He looked perfectly unsurprised.
“Is that normal?”
“Yes.”
“Of course it is.”
He led you to a stone bench beneath a tree just beginning to bloom.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
That was easier now.
Your silences had stopped being empty.
Damian held out a small box.
You stared at it.
“No,” you said automatically.
His eyebrows drew together. “You have not opened it.”
“That is exactly when gifts are most dangerous.”
“It is not a weapon.”
“That sounds like something someone would say about a weapon.”
“Open it.”
You took the box.
Inside was a bracelet made of dark beads threaded with tiny red stones. Not rubies. Something rougher. Warmer.
Your throat tightened. “What is this?”
“A grounding tool,” he said, far too stiffly. “The stones can withstand high temperatures. The beads are carved from volcanic rock. They will not melt easily.”
You lifted it carefully. “You made this?”
“Tt. Do not sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m—” You stopped.
Overwhelmed. Touched. Afraid.
Loved, maybe, though the word was still too enormous to hold.
Damian watched your face with the wary focus of someone waiting to see if affection would be accepted or thrown back like a grenade.
You slid the bracelet over your wrist.
It fit perfectly.
Of course it did.
“You measured me?”
His ears went pink.
Amazing. Incredible.
A scientific discovery.
“I estimated.”
“You absolutely measured me.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Damian.”
“Medically unconscious.”
“That does not make it less weird.”
“It was for accuracy.”
You leaned in. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are. At the ears. That’s devastating.”
He turned his face away. “You are insufferable.”
“You like me.”
His blush deepened.
Then he looked back at you, and the teasing died in your throat.
“Yes,” he said.
The garden stilled.
“I do.”
Your fingers closed around the bracelet.
Damian inhaled once, controlled.
“I have been attempting to determine the appropriate moment to say this. I have concluded there may not be one. So.” His jaw tightened, courage gathering behind his teeth. “I care for you. Deeply. In a manner that is inconvenient, persistent, and… and not unwelcome.”
You blinked.
“That is the most Damian Wayne confession anyone has ever made.”
His expression flashed with panic. “Was it insufficient?”
“No.” You laughed softly, reaching for his hand. “No, it was perfect.”
He looked down as your fingers linked.
“I care for you, too,” you said. “Deeply. In a manner that is also inconvenient, persistent, and completely terrifying.”
His thumb brushed over your bracelet.
“But not unwelcome?” he asked.
You smiled. “Never unwelcome.”
His shoulders eased.
Just slightly.
You leaned against him, careful at first. Damian went still, then relaxed by degrees until his shoulder pressed firmly into yours.
The sun rose over Gotham.
Not cleanly. Gotham did not do clean. It dragged light over rooftops and gargoyles, over smog and sirens, over grief and grit. But still, the light came.
Your ring warmed on your finger.
The rage remained. It always would. It lived where your heart used to be, crimson and relentless, a furnace built from every loss you could not bury.
But Damian’s hand was in yours.
His rage sat beside your rage, quiet and watchful.
Not fixing it. Not feeding it.
Simply understanding.
For once, the fire inside you did not feel like the end of everything.
For once, it felt like warmth.
Damian turned his head, lips brushing your temple.
“You are thinking too loudly,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes. “You can’t even read minds.”
“No. But you have a face.”
“I have many faces.”
“You have three,” he said. “Murder, sarcasm, and secretly fond.”
You laughed, and he smiled like dawn had done something right for once.
Below the hill, Gotham woke hungry.
The world remained cruel. The ring remained red.
But Damian Wayne held your hand like choosing you was not an act of bravery, not a risk, not a defiance of everything both of you had been made to believe about yourselves.
Pairing: batfam x it girl! batsis! reader (Mainly Bruce Wayne x daughter! reader)
A/N: the way that i was SHOCKED to see how much hype "always, forever, running back to you got." wow. thank you all so much! i didn't even revise it so i know it's probably mid LOL but i am humbled by all the love. we focused a lot on the siblings…but now it's time for bruce. as mentioned previously, reader is bruce's bio daughter so it's implied she's part white but she doesn't necessarily have to be full!
Word Count: 7.9k
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything related to DC, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot. I do not consent for my works to be reuploaded on other websites, plagiarised, translated, or fed into AI media.
Warnings !: Mentions of Jason's death, reader can be mean, lowkey daddy issues? Idk LMAO.
age: 14 hours
The papers are in his hands. The weight of the pen feels staggering, and he thinks maybe if he dropped it he'd be absolved of all responsibility. It could be something he could ignore. Beside him, Alfred, the only parental figure Bruce can remember, is silent. That's never a good sign.
He didn't even know that his ex was pregnant, let alone at a high risk for maternal mortality. She was good for him. Steady, even, but he stopped it because of the life he chose. There's no way he could have a family— not when he risked his life every night for his city— but with the papers in his hands he knew he had no other options. Complicated, real human life all printed in black ink. Legal jargon that all asked the same thing:
Do you want to keep your child?
"The situation has been clarified, Master Bruce." Alfred says at last, gently. “The hospital has finalized identification. The mother’s wishes, as recorded, are… unambiguous.”
Bruce has yet to look away from the papers. "And the child?"
"She is stable."
She. Is the first thing that comes to mind. He has a daughter now. Stable is the second. Stable doesn't mean okay, nor does it mean safe, happy, or healthy. Stable is not the word that should ever be used in the context of children, certainly not his child. He looks down at the document again. Guardianship transfer awaiting approval.
"Where is she?" he asks, hoping for something good, something better than stable. Alfred pauses before responding.
"Mercy general. Neonatal Intensive Care Unit." His chest tightens in the way any parent's would, yet he is not a parent. Not yet. It's the clench in his chest that makes him sign the paper, handing them to Alfred without another word.
A promise, all done up in black ink.
"You could still—" Alfred begins.
"No." Is all Bruce can manage in reply. He tucks his pen back into place on his desk, and before he even knows it, he's on his way to the hospital. It's not a matter of being ready anymore— just a matter of what's in front of him.
~
The hospital lights are far too bright for this moment. The smell of sterile cleaner singes his nostrils, but he is here for one thing and one thing only.
They know him before he even says his name. His suit is pressed and fitted perfectly as it always is, tie loosened in a way that is grabbing the attention of the other people here. His reputation most certainly precedes him. He knows for a fact that this will become a hot topic in the media as soon as he's gone. That's gotta be a HIPAA violation. He thinks to himself. When he finally rounds the corner to the NICU, he's face to face with a glass panel, separating him from the fragile infants.
For a moment, Bruce stops. Everything stops.
A row of incubators, some warm lights, and the sound of machines beeping, but most importantly you. His daughter, laying amongst the others. "Jane Doe" is written on your chart, and the thought of that alone is enough to send him to his knees— yet he can't. Not when he needs to take you home, not when this machine is the only thing keeping you alive.
"She's mine." he says simply. Alfred is there as he always is.
"Yes, Master Bruce."
A beat of silence settles between them.
"I believe that she will be very fortunate for that. In time."
Bruce is hardly thinking about fortune right now. Without any preparation, and without any guidance from his own parents he is now responsible for a life. Your life.
"How long will it take for her to be able to come home?"
"I am unsure, Master Bruce. I have contacted your lawyers to make the transfer go smoothly."
"Can you get the manor set up?"
"I can. Would you like me to prepare a nursery near your room?"
"No. Put her crib in mine."
"Already on it, Sir."
While Alfred goes to get those things settled, Bruce finds himself rooted in his spot. He's still watching you. Leaving would be easy, but staying? Staying is much harder.
~
Later, much later, when the paperwork is complete and the signatures are final and the world has officially agreed that she belongs to him, Bruce stands in his room, staring down at the crib Alfred has prepared.
Alfred adjusts a folded blanket in the crib. “I took the liberty of selecting something neutral,” he says. “In case you object to my taste.”
Object to his taste. Bruce doesn't have a taste for this. Not yet, at least.
Slowly, Bruce puts down the bag he was carrying. He kind of blacked out when he was at the store and just started grabbing. Clothes that felt too small to be real, bottles, diapers, toys, all just objects that he has yet to form an attachment to. He's nothing if not prepared— but preparation doesn't make way for experience. The silence stretches for just a moment.
"She still needs a name, Master Bruce." Bruce looks down at the empty crib. The doctor said you'd need to stay for another week. Regardless, that crib was about to become yours. For the first time since he's signed those papers, he feels a shift. Not dramatically, but it's enough to know that this is irreversible.
"…I know." he finally responds. "I'll think of one."
Alfred inclines his head slightly. "Of course, sir."
For the time being this is what it is. Perhaps he did not choose this life— but he was certainly going to take responsibility.
~
age: 3 years old
When you finally manage to stumble to Bruce's study, the door is unlocked like always. You stand up on your tippy toes and play with the door knob, as you have many times in the past. You've already been fed and bathed courtesy of Alfred, but now you seek him out. When you finally succeed, you push open the door and toddle over to his desk.
Bruce spots you immediately. He's become well acquainted with this little routine of yours, and does not rush to get you to him. He knows you can do it on your own— that you want to do it on your own. Though busy with work, his gaze flickers to you every so often to check on your progress. He feels his heart rate pick up a little when you walk past the open fireplace, but you pay it no mind. The fire is always there, and is not something to be ogled at, not when your father is sat at his desk.
When you make it to him, you see his gaze still on his work, so you pat his knee in hopes of getting his attention. He doesn't look up, but responds.
"You're supposed to be with Alfred, Sweetheart." He says plainly. He's not scolding you, never would he scold you for seeking him out, but he can't drop everything at this point in time.
"No." you reply back with a pout.
He glances down at you, and a beat passes.
"Alright." He murmurs, clearing off the reports on the right hand side of his desk. Without a word, you climb up onto his lap. Bruce steadies you with his right hand, and you, with the skill and grace of a three year old, perch yourself in the space he's created for you on his desk.
"Good?" He asks, just to be sure, and you nod yes. He returns to his work after, every so often checking on you to make sure you're alright. You, on the other hand, care very little about what he's doing and find yourself much more intrigued with the pens resting near his free hand. First you examine it, as if it is something you've never seen before, then start to click it. Wordlessly, Bruce reaches into one of his drawers and offers you a blank legal pad, which you take happily.
It continues for a while, the sound of two pens scratching against paper, the reorganizing of papers whenever Bruce puts one down, and your "sketches" on his notepads. At one point, you lean a little too far into his right arm, and he goes to steady you out of instinct. You don't react. Eventually, you ditch the pen altogether and climb back into Bruce's lap.
He pauses for a second, letting you press your face into his chest, then he wraps his right arm around you, to accommodate you, his left hand continuing to write.
"You're tired." he says after a moment, to which you shake your head against him.
"Noooooo." You whine sleepily. He almost chuckles, but doesn't. Instead, he presses a small, tentative kiss to the top of your head. You stay where you are, half-asleep, draped against him and kind of sitting up.
The room settles around you two. The fire crackles softly.
Bruce continues working, but slower now, more deliberate. Every so often, his attention flicks toward you—not enough to interrupt what he’s doing, but enough to make sure you’re still there, still steady. You of course, are. This is the only thing you know— warmth in the home that has a space carved out for you.
The interruption only comes when you're about to fall asleep. A soft knock on the study door, definitley Alfred. He debates whether or not to ignore it when a second series of knock rapt against the wood, more insistent.
"You may enter." He says outloud. You stir, but not enough to completely wake you up.
When Alfred steps in, he's got his usual sense of composure, but there's something off about it. His eyes dart to you first, then to Bruce.
"Apologies for the interruption, sir," he says quietly as to not disturb you, "but there is something that I believe you'll want to see."
Bruce doesn’t like that phrasing. He shifts slightly, careful not to wake you as he reaches for the remote resting near the edge of the desk. Alfred crosses the room and turns on the television.
“…tragedy tonight at Haly’s Circus…”
Bruce stills.
“…the Flying Graysons—” On screen, shots of the police taping off the scene and guiding the crowd away. Lights are flashing. Cameras are out.
“…leaving behind their young son…” Bruce’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. His left hand comes to cup the back of your head. He's seen this film before— he's lived this film before. A child watches his parents die and can do nothing about it. Public spectacle, private devastation. His gaze flicks down to your little body, small, and safe in his arms. Alfred watches on carefully.
"You're thinking about it." he says, a note of caution that Bruce picks up on. Bruce is smart enough to know that Alfred is not completely on board.
"Just…find out what you can. About the situation." He murmurs. Alfred pauses for just a moment, looking between Bruce and you, cuddled in his embrace. He notices just how tight Bruce's grip on you is.
"This is not the same situation, Master Bruce." he offers. Bruce knows that, but a different part of his brain— the father part of his brain is telling him it is.
"No. It's not…but he shouldn't be alone." His hand shifts slightly against your back in a grounding way, confirming you’re still there. Still his. Still safe. It's this moment where his mind is made up.
No matter how much it takes, no matter how many days he'll have to be in court, he knows he wants to do this. Needs to.
~
age: 9 years old
Wayne Manor is particularly quiet. It's 4:06 am, and it's been storming for the last week and a half. Your father is nowhere to be found and neither is your adopted brother, Richard.
You've noticed this strange pattern in the past— dad tucks you in at 7pm and Alfred stays awake a couple hours before retreating elsewhere. You swear you can hear Dick tumbling around his room for a while before it ultimately stops, a squeaky door hinge and nearly silent footsteps leaving his bedroom. Every time you ask him or your dad about it, they wave you off like they have no clue what you're talking about.
But you know something isn't quite as normal as they make it seem.
So you stayed up. You're perched right at the top of the staircase, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and clutching your favorite stuffed animal— a red white and round bird shaped to be abnormally round, obviously a gift from your father. Waiting.
Eventually you hear the patter of footsteps, the hushed voices of the very people you were waiting for. The low sound of the door opening downstairs. The quiet, familiar rhythm of someone stepping inside without turning on all the lights. You straighten up immediately, and call out into the darkness.
"Daddy? Dick?" you call out— not loud, but enough to be heard. The hushed voices automatically pause, and you are met with a response from your father from down below.
"Go back to bed." he calls back. You naturally pout at the idea. Dick wasn't in bed, so why should you be?
You grip the railing slightly, leaning forward so you can see them better from where you sit. He’s already halfway across the entryway, jacket still on, movements efficient, like he’s already thinking about the next thing. Dick is beside him, looking a little wind swept and tired, but in normal everyday clothing.
“I was waiting,” you say. The both of them stop, sharing a look. You hate it when they do that. Bruce waves Dick off to his room, and as he passes you, Dick scratches your scalp affectionately, muttering a quick 'Goodnight bug'. You lean into the brief touch, watching him walk away, then look back at your father. Why is he being so weird? Why were they out so late?
Before you can verbalize any thoughts, he scoops you up into his arms, carefully adjusting the blanket around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your head. Despite the darkness, you swear you can see a bruise forming on his cheek.
He carries you back to your bedroom, and you complain just about the whole way there.
"I wanted to see you."
"You saw me. It's time for bed now."
You frown a little at that. "You know that's not what I meant."
When he pushes your bedroom door open, he gently walks you over to your bed. You half expect him to just leave you here and not say anything else, but instead he reaches for your blanket and helps to tuck you in. Your eyes already feel heavy, but you're on a mission.
"Where were you?" for a moment, Bruce's heart stops. He nearly mistook the sleepiness in your voice as disapointment— but when he looks down at you all he can see is your furrowed brows on your tiny face. He hesitates before finally responding.
"Sweetheart?" he says softly. You hum in response, leaning into his side while he's still here. Bruce can't help himself, can never say no to you, so he sits on your bed. He's a little bit too big, but to save space he pulls you onto his torso.
"Have you ever…do you know…" he trails off. What the fuck is he even doing right now? Is this the way to go about this conversation? He wavers in his confidence before finally just blurting out.
"I'm Batman." He mentally facepalms himself. You probably don't even know what he's talking about, or that he's joking. How could you possibly understand the weight of those words?
"…Is that why you and Dick are always leaving me out?" you mutter sleepily, face nuzzling into his chest even more.
If Bruce doesn't feel like the biggest asshole ever right now. You noticed— of course you had noticed something was up. Every parent-teacher conference, instructors had sung your praises, highlighting just how inquisitive and kind you were. A natural leader, they had said. Someone who rotates who she plays with at recess just so nobody in class ever had to be alone. He told himself he wanted to keep you safe, but really, he underestimated just how well you understood.
"I thought that it'd be better if you didn't know. If I could just be dad when I am with you. I didn't think about how it might affect you— seeing us be so secretive." he says honestly. You prop your chin onto his chest, looking straight at him.
"That's dumb." you say lightly, sleep still on the verge of taking you. He can't help but laugh, his hand gently patting your back. For someone so sweet, your blunt observations always took him off guard. You could see right through your heart and know exactly what you were feeling, and were always able to clearly voice it. He had a feeling that same ability helped you to be so attuned with other's feelings as well.
"…I'll try to be more honest, sweetheart. All of us. You can't tell anybody, okay? Only the people in the house."
"Alfie knows?"
He nods emphatically.
"Okay…Do you always get hurt?" Your hand gently swipes at the bruise forming on his cheek.
"Yes," he answers honestly, "But I'll always try to get back home." he pushes back some of the hair from your face.
"Okay." you don't exactly seem reassured by his words— but he's always come home thus far. Whether it be after work, or a gala, or apparently, fighting crime in Gotham, he has always returned home to you. You have no reason to not believe him.
As you slowly drift off, you whisper. "I love you daddy. Be safe." His heart clenches once again, and he could almost get choked up. There's something about the way you operate this is just so inherently different from himself, in a good way, he thinks. He can only take a deep breath to steel his emotions. He's never been good at that— but he hopes he can be different with you. For you.
~
age: 13 years old
Alfred is the one to tell you. Not Bruce. That's enough to set you off.
"Your father has requested that you begin training." You stare at him, blinking. You're completely unamused.
"For what?"
Alfred hesitates to answer. Within seconds, you're bounding to the study where your father has been for hours, anger burning in your chest and just about ready to spill out at your nearest target. Of course he would make Alfred tell you. Of course this is how he chooses to continue on.
The door rattles when you slam it open. If you heard a crack in the perfect mahogany door you wouldn't care. Bruce's head immediately whips to you.
"You're making me train?" you demand. There's no greeting, no buildup. Straight into it. Something akin to surprise flickers across his face, but disappears just as quick. Ever stoic.
"I was going to discuss it with you, yes."
"Through Alfred, apparently." you snap. His face tightens just a little.
"That wasn't the intention."
"Then what was?"
He sets whatever he was working on aside, attention fully on you now. “I want you to be prepared,” he says.
"For what exactly?"
"For this city," he says your name so sharply you forget he never calls you by it, "For the realities of it."
"You mean like Jason was?" The silence is immediate, and certainly deafening. You were going there. You feel it hit him, but you don't relent.
"That didn't really work out for him, did it—"
"That's enough." It's firm and controlled, the tone of voice he only ever takes up with you when he's serious. Normally, it would be enough to stop you, but this time you keep going. You want to push. To get a reaction, to get something, anything, from him right now.
"From where I stand, it looks like you're trying to fix something that already happened."
Bruce's jaw tightens, the same way yours is tightened now. "I'm trying to make sure it doesn't happen again."
Something in your chest twists painfully at that.
“By doing what?” you demand. “Putting me through the same thing?”
“You will not be in the same position he was.”
“You don’t know that! You don't know what could happen to me at every given moment! You say you know what you're doing and that you've thought it through and then—" you cut yourself off, but it's too late. The implication is in the air.
"I will not lose you." he says. It should be comforting. He's actively trying to comfort you. Yet, the words do nothing for you. Mean nothing to you.
"You don't get to choose that for me. You certainly couldn't choose it for Jason." That lands harder. You see it this time, and you nearly find yourself relenting for his sake…But you’re too far in to stop now. You run your hands through your hair, the culmination of every emotion becoming a river creating canyons out of something that was once steady.
"I'm not going to let you turn me into some—"
Soldier. Some risk. You don't say that.
Bruce stands, slower, trying to be purposeful. "This isn't a punishment."
"That only makes it worse." you say honestly. A beat. Your voice doesn't soften, but it drops. "You think this will help you, but it won't." Bruce doesn’t answer right away— because he does think that. And that’s the problem.
You swallow hard, something tight and burning climbing up your throat. “I don’t want this,” you say, quieter now but no less firm. “I don’t want to do what you do.”
"You won't be." he replies, just as firm.
"Then why?" You press on.
"You need to know how to protect yourself in a world that will not hesitate to hurt you." You do your best to swallow down the lump in your throat. Your eyes sting from the sheer will you are putting in to not cry.
"The world has already hurt me." you say. It's softer.
Bruce doesn't speak. For a second, you hope that your dad will say something to make it better. Something that will fix this. He doesn't.
“I expect you in the training room tomorrow,” he says instead.
You stare at him. If you were in a cartoon, there'd be steam floating off of you. Fine. Bruce Wayne, maker of all important decisions, has chosen for you. He decides, and then you just have to deal with the consequences. You shake your head, heading towards the study door.
"I'm not Jason." you say, the words slipping out of your mouth.
"I know." Bruce says. It doesn't sound like an agreement. You don’t stay long enough to figure out what. You turn and leave, the door slamming harder than you intend behind you.
The second you're out of the room you run to your own, tears already streaming down your face. The yelling did fuck all to make you feel better. It didn't even fix the problem. Dick isn't home, Jason is dead— and he will never be back. Now you're stuck with that. Bruce will continue to act as if this is the best way to go about things. Like training will make you feel any safer or sure about his promise to keep coming home to you.
However,
You do show up the next morning to train. You glare daggers at your father as he tries to teach you defensive stances, and how to throw a punch. You hate this— you might even hate him— but you can't change how he grieves. In the sick, twisted, and emotionally repressed logic of your father, this is how he can keep you safe.
So you do it. Not because you want to or because you want to be okay with him— but because you can't get over the part of yourself that aches for him.
~
age: 16 years old
"Dad, your son is fucking crazy." Bruce heaves a heavy sigh, pinching his eyebrows in exhaustion at your words. He's sat in front of the batcomputer, working on a case, and you have chosen here to ambush him. He says your name in the familiar warning tone, but you continue in your rant.
The day that Damian got here, he had been silent. He never knocks— always just appearing out of thin air. To be fair, Cassandra had been the same way, but that was unintentional. This kid? He just materializes around you.
Then it was the blunt digs. The insults about your abilities, your intellect, even your posture— what ten year old cares about posture? You do your best to ignore it, really, you do, but it's been weeks and it has yet to relent. You're tired. You can tell the others are tired of it too. Another shift, another adjustment. One more petty insult that you should be taking in stride.
"He's adjusting." your father says. But you know that already.
"I know." You nod, one hand leaning onto the desk of the Batcomputer so that you can encase his attention. The words come easy. The feeling behind them doesn’t.
"He's had a very different upbringing." Bruce says. You deadpan at him, tone becoming slightly sharper.
"Yeah. I think I noticed that." You take in a deep breath in an attempt to chill, bring more softness to the front, like you're trying to level yourself out.
"I'm trying with him, really I am, but fuck he is giving me nothing in return." you stop in an attempt to find words to convey your feelings.
"My patience is wearing thin." you decide. That makes Bruce stop what he's doing.
"You've always been good at meeting people where they're at, sweetheart." he offers in return. You sigh, hand coming to run through your hair.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.” It’s not agreement, not really. Bruce can tell. He waits for you to say how you're really feeling.
"It's just…a lot to ask from me. All the time." you admit. The words hang in the air for a little bit as he processes them. He shifts, then continues, his tone not defensive— but not entirely understanding either.
"He's a child." Bruce says, quieter.
"I know he is." You snap back in response. Your father pauses, shoulders looking just so slightly more tense. You reel it back. You didn't mean for it to be so sharp, but admittedly, you're at your limit.
"I just—" you shake your head lightly, trying to reset, "I'm trying to keep up. You keep bringing new kids in— and that's fine, I want to be good about it, and I try to…but it feels like I have to be good about it always, and I really don't want to make them feel unwelcome, but I can't be perfectly understanding and a role model when I am barely keeping my shit together…I guess…" you trail off. Your rant is spiraling into something that could be even more complicated.
"I don't want to get it wrong." You finish.
That’s the part that matters. Not the frustration, not even the resistance.
That.
Bruce’s gaze softens, just slightly, something more grounded settling in. "You're going to get it wrong." You whip your head to look at him, surprised by his words.
"Great. Amazing pep talk. I guess I'll go fuck myself—" You start, feet already heading towards the elevator, but Bruce stops you with both hands on your shoulders, turning you back around to face him.
"First of all, watch your language. Second of all, I don't say that to discourage you." He gestures towards the desk chair he was previously on. You dramatically plop down in the seat. He almost chuckles at the action.
"You have always had a lot of eyes on you. From the moment I brought you home, from when you were a toddler in my arms at galas. I know how you felt when I brought Tim home. I watched it play out. You were angry, and grieving, and then you became an older sister. I know that was hard for you."
You think about the time, just a couple years ago at this point, when Tim was adopted. You hate to think about it considering you were not a good sister. You were icing him out— scared to lose another sibling if you grew attached, and honestly? You hated no longer being the youngest. Your gaze falls to your hands as you think about it, but Bruce doesn't let you wallow in it for too long.
"But— you made the choice to be better. You realized you were being unfair, and you corrected it. Apologized, and proved to him that you are better than that."
"I didn't do a good job. It's hardly something to look up to, not like Dick." Bruce almosts laughs at that. You don't even seem to see the irony in this situation.
"Sweetheart, the point is that you did it. You changed. You learned. When Cass came you did considerably better…" He puts his hand on your head and shoulder, simultaneously correcting your posture and comforting you. He hates to see you look so closed in on yourself, unsure and not confident in your own abilities. His smart and kind little girl.
"I know it's not easy. I'm sorry that you are put back into a position of discomfort because Damian is here— but I know you. I'm not telling you to be nice to him because I expect kindness from you— but because you have shown just how compassionate you can be even when you're hurting."
He doesn't say the rest of it— how you are the only reason that he has learned how to model it. That you are the reason he knows what's good for the others. That it's because of you he even started adopting kids in the first place. He smooths down your hair in a comforting manner.
"You are going to get it wrong. Yet, it is you I trust to recover from it."
You close your eyes and nod, standing from the chair to wrap your arms around his torso. If Bruce is taken aback by the hug he doesn't show it. It feels like forever since you have initiated a hug. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, like always, and lets you pull back first.
"…I'll be nicer tomorrow. I'll…get used to it. Eventually…Probably." you add lightly, just to lighten the mood a bit.
It earns the faintest shift in his expression.
“Thank you,” he says.
You nod, then slip back out of his embrace, and into the elevator back in the manor. Bruce sits back down at the batcomputer, thinking about you and Damian. He too, feels unsure about this. He silently wonders if having Damian here will continue to change the dynamic the both of you have now— but deep down he feels that Damian can adjust. That he too, despite his hard upbringing, can grow and become more like you…and hopefully a little less like him.
~
age: 18 years old
You have been posting content for a year now. Nothing too crazy— studying, getting ready with me's, anything really— and Bruce still knows nothing about it.
It's you senior year of high school, about a month out from graduating from Gotham Academy, and you're about to go to college. You'd already been accepted into GU, so you weren't scared…except for the fact that you have no idea what you're going to major in. After a long day, you're stumbling in the manor and up to your bedroom— something that does not go unnoticed by your father. You toss your bag somewhere and immediately flop down onto your back in your bed.
This uniform blazer is too tight around your shoulders. You should change. You force yourself out of bed just to put on a sweatshirt and sleep shorts, and then get back in bed. Your desk is a mess— you're gonna have to clean it later. Your head is pounding from staring at your computer all day. Maybe your bun is too tight? You try and let it out but nothing. Your makeup is still on, and you can't be bothered to wash your face. That's when you hear a knock, and then are met with the sight of your father.
"You alright? You look tired." You do nothing in response but hum. Wordlessly, he navigates into your ensuite bathroom, grabbing makeup remover and some cotton rounds. When he returns he holds them up.
"Can I?" You nod, letting him sit on the edge of your bed. He soaks a cotton round in remover and begins to gently swipe at your face, removing the makeup for you. When he finishes, you offer him a small smile.
"Thanks, dad."
He nods in response, letting his hands continue in your hair. This feels like a weekly ritual at this point. Sometimes, you will seek him out, or he will just show up. He likes to hear you talk about your day— you're his only normal child. The only one who is unburdened by the need to play vigilante.
"Have you thought about majors?" He asks curiously, but not pushing. He trusts you to find your own footing.
"Yeah. I'm just indecisive. There's so much I could be." Bruce listens calmly, but entirely focused on you. He doesn't offer any advice because you're not seeking it. Honestly, you're right. He knows you could be anything. Doctor, lawyer, artist, business, psychology, journalism. You're brilliant. Not just academically intelligent, but also emotionally. You have been vocalizing your emotions (and criticizing his lack there of) since you were young.
"Take your time. It's not a decision for tomorrow." You nod in understanding, heading his advice.
"I've been…posting videos online. They do well. It's fun too…not really related to this, but I thought you should know." He hadn’t known that. Not the details, anyway. He’d seen you filming sometimes—quietly in your room with lights set up, phone on a stand—but he assumed it was for school projects or something casual. He's intrigued. Truth be told, he's not very internet savvy.
"What kinds of videos?" He asks, curious. He's not being judgmental. His own people at Wayne Enterprises say he should be on social media but he can't really be bothered.
"I don't know. Studying. Life. Beauty." You try to shrug it off nonchalantly.
Bruce’s mind immediately jumped to logistics—audience, engagement, brand potential—because of course it did. But he quickly reined that in. This wasn’t a business pitch; this was his daughter’s passion.
"People like it?"
“Yeah, I think so. I like it too. I guess…” you pause, trying to figure out why you're bringing it up in the first place.
“I thought you should know. It’s like a big thing for me right now. Maybe it won’t be in a year but I care about it. I want to keep doing it, but it makes me worry too— cause it also reflects on you.”
"…You don't have to worry about that." Bruce has never cared what the headlines had to say about him. He had a team of people who would make something go away in a second if it were ever too slanderous, but he's never hit that point. Why dignify rumors with a response?
“I know. I guess i’m just thinking about what happens if I keep going— like visibility I guess. I’ve always been in the headlines but the headlines were about you.”
It's then that he understands what you're getting at. For 18 years you've been a Wayne— golden girl of Gotham Academy, daughter of the billionaire. Your name was only ever written in articles in mention. But this? Your content was entirely based around you. You are the personality that the audience keeps coming back for. You're right in the other regard too. High visibility comes with negatives too— Stalkers, online hate, paparazzi— and he understood. You were scared of being judged on your own character.
"I am not worried about how your presence online will affect the perception of me."
"Why not?"
"Because you are my daughter. If you want to post online I support you. I know you well enough to say that you have likely ran through the risks of it through your own mind millions of times— but you keep doing it. Don't you see why?"
And you did. You just needed the reassurance. Feeling a little bit more sure of yourself, you lean into him. The weight on your chest feels completely gone now. You're happy.
The next day, you tell the family at dinner how you decided to major in communications— a perfect fit for the online sensation you were quickly becoming. You studied branding, digital media strategy, public speaking… all while actually living it. Your content evolved alongside you, but more importantly, your platform became a way for you to champion and uplift others and yourself. The way you lit up and started to excitedly tell him about the invites you got for charity galas only made him that much more sure of what he was about to offer you next. A position at the Wayne Foundation.
~
age: 21 years old
You don't bother knocking on the study door. You honestly, never have. Bruce looks up the second you enter, taking in your facial expression. You seem okay— maybe a little frazzled, but okay, but the way you fidget with the rings on your fingers tells him something is up.
"You're still awake." You note, leaning against the fire place. There is no fire, but you can feel the warmth radiating off of it like it was just on.
"I could say the same."
You don't smile in return, which is how he knows something is really up. He gestures to the chair in front of his desk. You walk over but don't take a seat, putting your phone face down on his desk with a little more force than either of you anticipated. You shoot him an apologetic look, but all he does is sit a bit straighter.
"What happened?"
"There's a donor— covers three of our major programs, housing, sustainability, and waste management,— but they're tied to something. I don't know if it's necessarily something shady but I have a sneaking suspicion the money isn't as clean as it seems. If I keep them on it goes against the foundation's principles of serving our community for all people. Not just the ones who can afford it…"
"And if you don't keep them on?"
"The funding gets pulled immediately. Our most vulnerable beneficiaries get hurt. Programs get stalled, at least in the short term." You finally sit down, but your foot taps incessantly on the rug below you.
“I’ve already talked to legal. PR. They all gave me the same answer.”
“Which is?”
“To wait. Be careful. Don’t make a move without proof.” Bruce hums quietly.
“And you don’t agree?" he assumes. You snap back.
"Of course I don't agree. I've asked them to pull records, I have been searching news outlets, public declarations, court documents and it's just not adding up—" He raises a hand to cut you off, not in a rude way, but because it's clear you're spiraling.
Your arms cross, and you rein it back in. "So," you sight, "What would you do?" It's his turn to cross his arms. His brows furrow as he looks at you.
"You're asking me?"
"It's your foundation."
"Which you work at and play a major role in."
"You're the boss."
"This is your project as much as it's mine. You are in charge because I know you can handle it." You huff, frustrated by his lack of substantial response.
"Well I am doing a shit job of it right now, and I am looking for your advice." He leans back and studies you.
"What happens if you do nothing?" he asks again, to which you groan.
"I just told you—"
"Answer me." You exhale, annoyed, but say it again anyway.
"We keep our funding. Everything continues running as it should."
"And?" he presses.
"…And I ignore all the evidence that tells me I shouldn't trust this man."
"Which means?"
"…I'm allowing someone with our company who doesn't have pure intentions— that might actively be working againsst ehat we stand for." He nods in agreement.
"And if you cut them off?"
"We lose a major share holder. We have to find new ones. People are affected immediately." At this point, you know exactly where this conversation is going.
"And long term?" You look away, eyes flickering towards the portrait of your paternal grandparents above the fireplace's mantel. The very reason that the foundation was started was to honor their legacy as philanthropists. Two people who wanted what was best for the people of Gotham, and whose lives were stolen from them before they could see it through. Two people who despite only getting to raise your father for six years, taught him the value of humanity.
"…It shows that we actually practice the principles we push." There it is. You both know that it's settled as soon as you say the words. He doesn't tell you what to do— but you know which choice he believes is correct.
"You don't get both outcomes." he says. You huff out a laugh.
"I figured."
"You choose whichever consequence you can live with." He's kinda got you there. You know for a fact that it would keep you up at night to continue with receiving funds from the donor. Immediately, your mind jumps to optics and strategy— What will you need to do immediately in order to cover the losses?
You stare at the desk for a second, then nod slowly. “…Okay.”
Not confident, not comfortable, but decided. You reach for your phone again, ready to contact everyone. Bruce speaks again, just as you turn.
“You’ll need to move quickly.”
"I know."
He speaks quieter, "Not everyone is going to support you on this." You shrug, a little bit more determined.
"Then they're not people I want working with me." He nearly smiles at that, something in his face looking like approval. Maybe even pride. He nods one more time.
"Then your decision is final."
~
The next morning you hold an emergency meeting with your team. You give the leads a heads up, and sit them down for a very hard conversation about what was going to happen going forward. Decidedly, you stop receiving your own paycheck. It's not like this is the only source of income you have— and you'd much prefer that your employees are taken care of.
When the news goes public, you stop looking at the notifications. Emails, articles, comments on your personal social media unrelated to the foundation. You do your best to ignore it, the pre-written statements you did making their rounds. Yet, you can't shake the feeling. If you did what was right, why is this so hard?
You're currently sat in your office in the Wayne Foundations' building. Your phone is facedown, silenced, and out of your way. You're doing what you can— transferring funds, answering all emails, even preparing statement posts for your own social media accounts if it gets to that point. You hear a knock, followed by a familiar voice calling out to you. It's your father. You let him in.
“…You’re avoiding it.” he says simply.
"Great observation." You dont look up from your desk, doing your best to not dissociate when really all you want to do is crawl into your bed and never get out.
"Programs are slowing down. I decided it would be best to focus on housing." Silence. You take that as a sign to keep going.
"Staff is split. Half of them think I'm doing the right thing— the other half think I'm wasting years worth of efforts to the graveyard for the sake of optics." you shake your head softly, laughing quietly, "and the people who benefit? They don't understand the good it will do long term. They just know they don't have what they need now. They're scared. Fear makes way for anger because of a lack of knowing." That’s the part that sticks. Your voice dips slightly.
“I made a decision that hurt them.” you finally look at your father, waiting for a response.
"Yes." You blink, chest tightening.
"That's it?"
"Would you rather I tell you it didn't?"
"No," you say quickly, "I just—" You stop, because you don’t actually know what you want. He steps a little closer.
"You made a choice knowing what the consequences would be," he continues, "They're happening."
You exhale sharply. "Not helpful."
"It isn't…but it's honest."
You wait for a second, considering his words.
"I've been thinking about what you said. About choosing which consequences I could live with…" You glance down at your hands, playing with the rings once again.
"I thought I could."
"You are, sweetheart."
"Then why do I feel like shit?"
"You don't measure your choices based on how comfortable you feel after them," he walks around your desk to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You measure choices based on whether or not you'd make them again."
Your jaw tightens slightly, thinking about all the people whose lives you have affected. Right now it sucks, but you know for a fact you'd choose it all over again.
"I would." you say quietly.
"Than it's not the choice that's the problem." It makes you feel a little bit better.
"It still sucks."
"Of course it does." He agrees, squeezing you gently. "But you won't let it stay like this." You look up at him.
"I won't?"
"No. You're a Wayne. We learn to adapt. To pick up the pieces and rebuild despite all of the broken parts. You will find another way to support these people." He says the words like it's inevitable— like he truly knows exactly how this is going to play out. When you were a child, it felt like his certainty was a taunt, an expectation that you were sure you were going to fail. But now as an adult? You know that in some twisted, Bruce Wayne, way, this was him showing you just how much confidence he had in you.
You let out a little breath, slower this time. "Okay."
He gently leads you to lean into him, which you do happily.
It's not perfect, but it's yours.
a/n: the problem with me and writing fics is that I always get ideas for new fics in the process of writing and this one is no exception!! i will write them but if there's something interesting that you wanna know more about send a request in the inbox pleaseeeeee. thank you again for all the love! <3
pls pls pls write something for clark kent / superman where reader finds out lois lane knew about clark being superman before she did. except she takes it in the way that clark trust lois more than her despite being in a relationship with him || maybe even thinks he’s cheating on her with lois
In this moment, both felt like the most appropriate option.
You had no idea when or how but a seed of doubt had taken root in the center of your relationship with the love of your life, Clark Kent.
None of it made sense at all, but it was true because seemingly out of nowhere you were no longer on the same wavelength as him.
You thought back to the beginning of your relationship, when you met almost a year ago.
He worked in the building next door, the Daily Planet, a reporter. Cute, you remembered thinking.
You worked in a little espresso and book nook. It was your sanctuary, a tiny, warm-lit shop that smelled of roasted coffee beans and old paper.
The first time you saw him, he was a study in adorable clumsiness. The doorbell jingled and in he walked, all broad shoulders and nervous energy, his glasses slightly askew. He’d been so focused on the notepad in his hand that he’d walked straight into the low-hanging antique sign that read ‘Mind Your Head.’
Thwack!
You’d winced in sympathy from behind the counter. “Oh my! Are you okay?”
He’d blinked, dazed, a hand flying to his forehead. A deep, delicious blush spread across his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he met your worried gaze.
“Golly, I’m sorry about that, really I didn’t see that there.”
His voice was warm, a little shy, and it did something funny to your stomach. And he was apologizing for getting hurt, that was a first.
You smiled, “It’s fine, it happens all the time. A hazard of the job, I’m afraid. We like to keep our customers on their toes.”
You started to quickly make a makeshift ice pack for him, doing it so efficiently seeing as it had happened more times then you could count. You slid it over to him and he grinned lopsidedly as he took it and placed it on his forehead, despite not really needing it.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” You checked again, since you never really got an answer the first time.
“Yes- you’re fine. I mean I’m fine.” you raised an amused brow, and he suddenly thought that maybe it sounded like he was insulting you. “You’re fine too, really uh great.” he trailed off sheepishly.
“Thanks,” you mumbled shyly, starting to blush despite yourself, “Can I get you anything? On the house since you got hurt.”
“Oh you really don’t have to do that. I don’t mind really.”
You just waited expectantly with a pointed look not taking no for an answer.
Seeing this, Clark caved, dropping his shoulders that didn’t quite fill out his too large suit and spoke, “I’ll just take a coffee. Extra sugar.”
“Ok, one large extra sweet coffee coming right up.”
Clark smiled and sat at an open seat as you made his coffee. He took in the small but homely place, surprised he didn’t try this place out sooner since it was right next door to his job.
Despite himself, Clark’s eyes kept flickering towards you though as you flitted around and when you turned back around with the coffee in hand smiling, he got up and made his way back to the counter.
“Here you go, sorry again for the whole sign thing.”
“Don’t worry about it really.” Clark paused, and he suddenly got the overwhelming urge to hold out his hand and introduce himself to you, “Clark Kent,” he said that day, “Daily Planet. Next door.”
“I know,” you’d responded, and then immediately felt your own face heat up. “I mean, your press pass. It’s… visible.”
He looked down at the lanyard he always forgot to take off, his blush deepening. “Right. Of course.”
That was it. A five-minute interaction.
But he came back the next day. And the day after that. Not for the coffee, he admitted later once you started officially dating, but for the barista who blushed as much as he did.
Your first official date was a disaster in the best way.
He’d taken you to a county fair, and you’d challenged him to a game of ring toss. He was impossibly, hilariously bad at it, his throws either comically weak or shockingly strong, sending the rings flying over the booth entirely. You’d laughed until your sides ached, and when you finally won a tiny, stuffed bear with one graceful flick of your wrist, he’d looked at you with such unabashed admiration you thought you might melt into the sawdust-covered ground.
“I’m clearly out of my league here,” he’d murmured, his hand finding yours as you walked past the Ferris wheel.
The first time he’d said “I love you” was under the muted glow of your apartment’s fairy lights that he took upon himself to hang for you. It had slipped out, quiet and sure, as he’d watched you absently hum along to a song on the radio while washing dishes.
You’d gone still, your hands submerged in soapy water, and turned to look at him. There was no grand gesture, which you appreciated deeply. Just Clark, on your sofa, looking at you like you’d hung every star he’d ever flown past.
“I love you, too,” you’d whispered back, and it was the easiest truth you’d ever spoken.
He was your Clark. Clumsy, kind, endlessly patient Clark, who burned toast and wore mismatched socks and whose heart was so big it sometimes seemed to physically pain him when he saw suffering on the news. He was your home.
But that Clark felt like a memory now.
The man sitting across from you at your kitchen table, his dinner growing colder by the second, was a stranger. His smiles were strained, his eyes distant.
He’d been late more times than you could count and sometimes downright MIA even more times then that, his excuses flimsy and always delivered with a strange evasiveness.
It was something you were able to ignore in the beginning of the relationship, as the two of you still got to know one another. But you live together now. You were in love. You’ve done practically everything together.
What was the need for secrecy?
Weren’t you passed that?
A darkness came over you as you realized that you really had no idea. A pit started to form in your stomach at the alternative thought. No, you thought, Clark would never, he’s a faithful man.
But was he? Because now as he made an excuse for the thousandth time to leave dinner, you didn’t have the heart to even argue back with him this time.
The seed of doubt had blossomed into a thorny vine, choking the air from your relationship and you knew, with a cold, sick certainty, that he was hiding something. Something big.
The silence stretched, taut and unbearable, as he waited for your response, your permission to allow him to leave. Sometimes you don't know why he even bothered, he was going to leave anyway.
You studied his profile but said nothing, the way his jaw was clenched tight, the way he couldn’t quite meet your gaze. The love of your life was slipping through your fingers, and you had no idea why.
“Perry needs me to run down a lead on the Westside,” he said, the words practiced, hollow. “It… it can’t wait. I’m so sorry, honey.”
Honey.
The endearment felt like a shard of glass in your heart. You just nodded slowly, your eyes fixed on the congealing gravy on your plate. “Okay.”
He looked almost disappointed by your lack of fight. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Promises. They were just words now. Empty calories. You simply nodded again, the motion robotic.
He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, but you subtly turned your head, and his lips grazed your hair instead. He froze for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something—pain? guilt?—in his eyes before the shutters came down again.
“I love you,” he said, his voice thick.
The words felt like a taunt. You couldn’t say them back right now. The lie would have choked you. You just watched him grab his coat and leave, the click of the door echoing in the silent apartment like a gunshot.
The moment he was gone, the air rushed out of you in a ragged sob. You buried your face in your hands, the weight of your paranoia crushing your chest.
You were going insane. You had to be. This was Clark. Your Clark. The man who cried during sappy movies and helped little old ladies carry their groceries.
But the evidence was building bigger and bigger right before your eyes.
If only you knew that you’re breaking point would come just three days later.
You’d gone to the Daily Planet to surprise Clark with lunch. You entered the building pretty inconspicuously, those who knew you offering you a quiet greeting. Just as you reached the bullpen however, you stopped abruptly.
Clark was at his desk, swiveled around in his chair, but that wasn’t the problem. It was her. Lois Lane who stood awfully close to him with a soft hand on his shoulder. She was leaning down to be closer to his ear, as she whispered something that Clark seemingly found really funny.
Not a problem, right, just two close coworkers you gulped, hoping to convince yourself you weren’t seeing what you thought you were.
And then Clark spoke, and though you couldn’t hear the words, you saw the shape they made on his lips: “I just don’t know how to tell her.”
Your blood had turned to ice. Her. You knew, with every fiber of your being, that her was you.
Lois had nodded, her expression one of understanding and sympathy.
You’d backed away, your lunch meant to be shared suddenly feeling like a lead weight in your hands, and fled before anyone else could see you.
You stumbled home, the city blurring around you. The walls of your shared apartment felt like they were closing in. You made it to the bathroom just in time, sinking to your knees as your stomach revolted, heaving up nothing but acid and anguish. The cool tile against your forehead was a small mercy against the feverish heat of your heartbreak.
You hated this. You hated the jealous, paranoid person you were becoming. You hated the constant knot of anxiety in your stomach.
But most of all, you hated the chilling clarity that was now staring you in the face. It wasn't just a feeling anymore. It was a truth you'd seen with your very own eyes.
You pulled yourself together, piece by shattered piece, scrubbing your face with cold water until the redness around your eyes was less obvious. You were just putting the abandoned, now-cold lunch in the refrigerator when you heard the key in the lock.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, thinking about how you could approach the subject. You wanted to yell at him and demand answers, and pray that what you saw was just a big misunderstanding, but another part of you just wanted to curl up in bed and rot heartbroken forever.
Sigh, is it better to speak or to die?
Clark walked in, a tired but genuine smile on his face. “Hey, you.” He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling you into his arms and pressing a warm, familiar kiss to your lips.
You froze for a fraction of a second before forcing yourself to respond, the kiss feeling like a betrayal of your own crumbling sanity. It was stiff, unyielding.
He noticed immediately. Of course he did. He pulled back, his smile fading as his eyes searched your face, taking in the puffy eyes you couldn't fully hide, the tension in your jaw.
“Hey… what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice soft with concern, his thumb brushing your cheek. The gentleness of it almost broke you.
You took a shaky breath.
His brow furrowed speaking before you had the chance to. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“Yeah, Clark. Something happened.” You stepped out of his embrace, needing space to breathe, to think. “I stopped by the Planet today. To bring you lunch.”
The color drained from his face, because something must’ve happened on the way to him, seeing as you never made it to give him lunch.
“I saw you,” you continued, your voice trembling. “With Lois. You looked… very cozy.”
His expression shifted from concern to defensive panic. “Honey, it’s not what you’re thinking. Lois is just my friend, my work partner. We were just talking about a story.”
“A story?” you let out a bitter, broken laugh catching him in the obvious lie. “What story requires her to whisper in your ear and touch you like that? What story has you saying ‘I don’t know how to tell her’?” You threw his own words back at him, watching him flinch.
“Who is ‘her,’ Clark? Am I the ‘her’? What is it you can’t tell me that you can so easily discuss with her?”
“I am not cheating on you with Lois,” Clark said, his voice firm, desperate. “I would never do that to you. You have to believe me.”
“Then what is it?” you pressed, tears welling up again. “What is the big secret? Because something is going on! You’re gone all the time, you’re distant, you have whispered conversations you think I can’t hear! And she knows! I saw it on her face! She knows whatever it is that you’re hiding from me! So just tell me! What does Lois Lane know about my boyfriend that I don’t? And don’t you dare lie to me right now.”
The plea was raw, ripped from the deepest, most vulnerable part of you. You were begging him to prove you wrong, to shatter this nightmare.
Clark looked torn apart. His eyes were wide with a mixture of love and sheer terror. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He was physically wrestling with the words, and losing. “I… I can’t,” he finally whispered, agony in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s… it’s not safe.”
The admission was a knife to the heart. You scoffed, the sound wet with unshed tears. “You can’t tell me. But it’s safe for her?” The pieces were clicking into a devastating picture. “So there really is something. And she’s in on it. And I’m… what? Not trustworthy? Too fragile to handle it?”
Your insecurities, fed by weeks of doubt, roared to the surface. “What is it then? Is she better at it than me? Is that it? Smarter? More exciting? Does she not ask questions when you run off in the middle of the night?”
Just then, his phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up. A text message preview from Lois.
Lois: Did you tell her yet?
The timing was so cosmically cruel it was almost funny.
You stared at him as he reached for his phone, your expression one of utter devastation. “Let me guess. Lois?”
Clark flinched, scrambling for the phone. “No—I mean, yes, but it’s not—she’s just asking about you.”
“Oh, wonderful!” you cried, your voice rising hysterically. “So you do discuss me! In between whatever other secrets you share, you give her updates on your clueless girlfriend! ‘No, Lois, not yet, she’s still blissfully ignorant!’”
Suddenly, Clark stiffened. His head tilted slightly, a familiar, distant look entering his eyes. The sound of distant screams, of crashing concrete, of terror, inaudible to you, flooded his super-hearing.
Metropolis needed Superman. But you needed Clark. He was torn.
His face fell. “Honey, I… I have to go.”
The absurdity of it shattered the last of your composure.
“Really, Clark?” you spat, the words dripping with venomous disbelief. “Right now? You’re going to run away from this? Of course you are. Go on. I’m sure Lois needs you more than I do right now.”
The words were designed to wound, and they hit their mark even if they weren’t true. He looked at you, his heart breaking in his eyes, wanting nothing more than to stay and fix this. But the screams in his ears were a siren’s call of duty he could never ignore.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the apology a tortured breath. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. Just… Please trust me.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone in the silent, suffocating apartment.
You stood there for a full minute, numb. Then, a broken sound escaped you, and you stumbled into the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed you shared.
Sobs wracked your body, great, heaving cries that felt like they would tear you in two. You cried for the trust that was clearly broken, for the love that felt like a lie, and for the agonizing, inescapable truth: the man you loved was keeping a world-shattering secret with another woman, and he had just chosen that secret over you.
When Clark finally returned, it was later in the evening.
He was hoping that you would still be awake so you could finish the conversation, but the apartment was quiet apart from your soft breathing indicating that you were asleep.
Clark slowly creaked the bedroom door open and saw you were on top of the covers, still in your clothes sleeping on a wet, tear-stained pillow.
Clark’s heart dropped even more. It was all just a big misunderstanding that had spiraled out of proportion. He needed to fix this, and soon, before he loses you forever.
But the next few days after that you had done everything in your power to avoid him. You didn’t want to speak anymore, you just wanted to die.
The apartment became a minefield of silence. You slept on the bed, Clark claimed the couch only agreeing because he wanted to give you your space. You left for work before he woke and came home after you were sure he’d be out. Meals were eaten separately, the clinking of cutlery the only sound in the heavy quiet. When he tried to speak, you’d shut him down with a terse, “I’m not ready,” or simply walk into another room.
Your heart was a raw, open wound, and every look from him, every hesitant attempt to bridge the gap, felt like salt being ground into it.
Against your will the image of him and Lois, their heads bent together in shared confidence, was burned onto the back of your eyelids.
The worst part was the logic that tried to break through the pain: Clark wouldn’t cheat. He said that himself. He’s not that man. But the secrecy. The intimacy with Lois. His refusal to explain. That’s what hurt.
He was still trying, in his own clumsy way. He left a single red tulip—your favorite—on the coffee table. He made your morning coffee just how you liked it, leaving it in the thermos for you to find. He’d look at you with those soulful, pleading eyes, full of a love that seemed so real it made the betrayal hurt even more.
“Please, honey,” he begged one morning, finally cornering you by the door as you tried to leave. “Just talk to me. Let me explain. It’s really not what you think.”
“Then what is it, Clark?” you asked, your voice flat, devoid of the fire from before. You were just so tired. “Unless you’re ready to tell me the actual truth, the whole truth, we have nothing to talk about. Your ‘explanations’ are just more lies wrapped in pretty apologies.”
He looked utterly helpless, his shoulders slumping. “I’m trying to protect you.”
A hollow laugh escaped you. “You’re protecting yourself. And you’re protecting her.” You shouldered your bag and left, leaving him standing there.
The chasm between you grew wider. You felt yourself shutting down, building walls around your heart to survive the constant ache. You were mourning the relationship while still living in its corpse.
It was on the fourth day of this frozen war that you decided you couldn’t live like this anymore. You needed to know, one way or another. The not-knowing was a special kind of hell.
If he wouldn’t give you the truth, you would find it yourself. You could be an investigative journalist too. Besides, you were past asking for permission, past respecting boundaries that he had already shattered.
So, you waited until you knew he was at work.
With a resolve that felt like walking to your own execution, you searched the entire place. You started with his desk—drawers of pens, notepads, mundane reporter things. Nothing.
You moved to the filing cabinet, finding old tax returns and article drafts. Your hands were shaking, guilt warring with desperation. You moved to the bedroom, checked under the bed, by the nightstand. Nothing.
And then you saw it.
Tucked in the very back of his closet, behind his collection of identical plaid shirts. It was out of place, something red and blue peeking out.
You gently pulled it out, unfolded it and paused.
It was a suit. But not any suit. A fabric unlike anything you’d ever felt, a brilliant, alien blue, with a familiar, unmistakable crest emblazoned on the chest. The S-shield.
The symbol of Superman.
Your mind short-circuited. It rejected the information outright. This was a costume. A joke. A… a prop for a story?
But then your eyes fell on the boots beside it also poorly hidden, heavy, red, and undeniably real. And on a small shelf, tucked away in the back, a pair of old cracked lenses rested beside a small, lead-lined box.
The world tilted on its axis. The floor fell away. You gripped the doorframe to keep from collapsing.
The missed dates. The disappearances. The impossible strength. The whispered conversations.
Oh, God.
It wasn’t cheating.
It was this.
Relief, white-hot and dizzying, washed over you for one single, blissful second. He wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t lying about that.
And then the second wave hit, a tsunami of a far more profound and devastating betrayal.
Superman.
Clark was Superman.
The man you loved, the man you slept beside, the man you thought you knew better than anyone on this earth, was an alien hero. And he had never told you.
But he had told someone else.
The thought slithered into your mind, cold and venomous.
Lois knows.
You saw it all again, the scene in the bullpen with horrifying new clarity. Clark’s anguish wasn’t about an affair. It was about this. About his secret.
And Lois Lane was comforting him about you. She was advising him on how to break the news to his poor, fragile, human girlfriend. She was in on it. She had been, all along.
How long? How long had she known? Since before you? During?
The relief curdled into something black and poisonous. This was worse. So much worse. An affair would have been a betrayal of your heart. This was a betrayal of your entire reality, of the very foundation of your trust.
He had given the truth of himself to her and hidden it from you. He trusted Lois Lane with his universe, and he trusted you with… what? A carefully constructed fiction? A lie he came home to?
You heard the key in the lock. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You stood there, in the doorway of his closet, holding the blue suit in your trembling hands, the brilliant S-shield staring back at you.
“You…” you whispered when he finally stopped in front of you, your voice a broken thing. “You’re… him.”
He took a step forward, his hand outstretched, his eyes wide with panic. “Oh gosh, I didn’t want you to find out like this,” Clark starts taking in the room that was clearly searched.
“Please let me explain everything…”
“Explain?” The word was a laugh, a hollow, ugly sound. “Explain what, Clark? How you’re literally Superman? Or how about you explain why Lois Lane knew before I did?”
He flinched as if you’d struck him. “What? Lois… it’s not what you think, we’ve been over this.”
“Isn’t it?” you countered back, the sound tearing from your raw throat. You threw the suit at him. It fluttered to the ground between you, a banner of his deceit.
“How long has she known? Before me, right? Was I your little experiment in normalcy? Your pet human while she got to know the real you? The super you? Do you trust her more than me?”
“No! God, no!” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “It’s not like that! I was going to tell you, I swear! I just… I needed to find the right time. I was scared—”
“You were scared?” you interrupted, tears streaming down your face now, hot and furious. “You’re S-Superman! What could you possibly be scared of?”
“Of this!” he cried, his own eyes glistening. “Of losing you! Of seeing the look on your face that’s there right now! Of you being afraid of me!”
“You don’t get to say that!” you spat, advancing on him. “You don’t get to use your fear as an excuse! You’ve been lying to me every single day for almost a year! You looked me in the eye and you lied! And she knew! She knew every time you kissed me goodnight, every time you told me you loved me, every time you held me while you were living this… this double life! Did you two laugh about it? Did you tell her how convincing your clumsy farm boy act was?”
The words were vile, born of a pain so deep it had turned septic. You wanted to hurt him. You wanted to crack the invulnerable shell he hid behind and make him feel a fraction of the agony you were feeling.
He looked utterly devastated. “How can you say that? I love you! Everything I feel for you is real! Lois… she found out on her own. It was during a story, it was dangerous, it just happened. It wasn’t a choice!”
“But it was!” you shouted. “Every day after that was a choice! You chose to keep her in your confidence! And you chose, every single second of every single day, to look at me and lie! You chose her to be your partner in this! Not me! Never me!”
You were sobbing openly now, your body shaking uncontrollably. “I thought you were cheating. For so long, I’ve been going out of my mind thinking you were with Lois. But this… this is so much worse. You gave her your truth. You trust her with your life, with your secret. And you trust me with nothing. I’m just the girl you come home to when you’re done saving the world. I’m your… your cover story.”
“That is not true,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He took another step, but you recoiled as if his touch would burn you.
“Don’t,” you choked out. “Don’t you dare come near me.”
The pain that crossed his face was absolute. It was the look of a man watching his entire world crumble to dust. And a small, broken part of you, the part that still loved him, recognized that his anguish was real. But it was too late.
“Go away,” you said, your voice suddenly quiet, drained of all emotion.
“Honey, please… we need to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you stated, staring at a point on the wall behind him. “You made your choices. Now get out. Go to her. I’m sure she’ll know exactly what to say to make you feel better, Superman.”
He stood there for a long moment, a statue of grief and regret. You could see the war in his eyes, the desire to stay and fix the unfixable, warring with the respect for your wishes.
Finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat and he walked out the apartment. The Man of Steel, brought to his knees not by kryptonite, but by the devastating consequences of his own secret.
You stood alone in the silence, surrounded by the artifacts of your broken life. The fairy lights he’d hung for you twinkled mockingly. The tiny stuffed bear from the fair sat on the shelf, its beady eyes oblivious to the cataclysm.
You had your answer. You had chosen to speak, and in doing so, you had killed everything anyway.
━━━━━━━
After kicking Clark out of your shared apartment, you had expected him to return. You were just hoping that when he did you would have processed everything a bit more than you have right now.
He came in late, probably flying around to clear his head, you thought now. Still such a weird thought to get used to.
He sat down next to you on the couch but kept a distance, close enough where you still feel his large presence looming over you but far enough that no part of your bodies touched.
You spoke first.
“You came back,” you said, your voice flat.
“I will always come back to you,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion. “Always.”
The silence stretched again, but this time it was different. The lies were out. The secret was exposed. There was nothing left to hide behind.
“Honey, I really am sorry.” Clark began.
“Lois found out two years ago,” he began, his voice quiet, forcing the words out. “A story we were working on… it got dangerous. I had to… intervene. She’s one of the best investigative reporters on the planet. She pieced it together. I didn’t choose her over you. The circumstances chose for me.”
He turned towards you, rising from the couch and standing in front of you now.
“Telling someone… it’s the most terrifying thing I can do. Every time, I risk everything. My life, their life, my parents' lives. With you… it was different. The thought of you looking at me like I’m a monster, or worse, a target… it paralyzed me. I kept waiting for the perfect moment that would never come because I was too much of a coward to create it.”
He sank to his knees on the floor before you. He looked up at you, utterly vulnerable, blue eyes watering. “I was wrong. So wrong. I thought I was building a wall to protect you, but I was just building a wall between us. I trust you with my life, honey. I trust you with my heart. I just… I forgot to trust you with the truth.”
Tears were streaming down his face now, tracing paths through the dust on his cheeks. He reached for your hands, and you let him, mainly because he was literally on his knees apologizing for you and the sight was pathetic (hot).
“The reason I was talking to Lois… the reason I said I didn’t know how to tell you… it was because I had finally decided to do it. I was asking her how she thought you’d react. I was scared and she was trying to make me feel better by joking with me. I was seeking advice from the only other person who knew, because I was terrified of losing you.”
“I love you. All of you. Not the idea of you. Not the normal life you represent. You. Your kindness, your strength, the way you hum when you make coffee at your shop, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. I love being Clark Kent because he gets to love you. And I am so, so sorry that I ever made you doubt that or my trust in you.”
You looked at him—this impossibly powerful man brought to his knees by his love for you. The anger was diminishing, nothing but a dull ache. The betrayal still stung. But the hollowness was beginning to fill with something else. Understanding. And a love so stubborn it had survived this.
You slowly lowered yourself to the floor off the couch, sitting before him, your hands still interlinked.
“You hurt me,” you whispered, the words finally feeling true without being venomous. “You made me feel small. And foolish. And… second best.”
“I know,” he breathed, his voice thick with regret. “And I will spend every day for the rest of my life making it up to you. If you’ll let me.”
You looked at the suit, then back at his face—the face of the man you loved, now superimposed with the hero you admired. They were one and the same. The clumsy reporter who walked into signs and the god who caught falling planes. It was all him.
“You really aren’t cheating on me?” you asked, the last vestige of your insecurity needing to be vanquished.
A pained, genuine smile touched his lips. “The only person I’ve ever been in love with is you. Lois is my friend. But you… you are my home.”
You reached out and placed your hand on his face. His fingers closed around yours instantly, warm and strong and familiar, and he let out a shuddering breath, as if he’d been holding it for days.
“You have to promise me,” you said, your voice gaining strength. “No more secrets. No more lies. Even if it’s scary. We face it together. Or we don’t face it at all.”
“I promise,” he vowed, his eyes locking with yours, pouring every ounce of his sincerity into the words. “No more secrets. Just us.”
He leaned forward slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn’t. You met him halfway.
The kiss was nothing like the stiff, painful one from days before. It was soft, a little salty from tears, and full of a desperate, aching tenderness. I
When you pulled apart, you rested your forehead against his dropping your joined hands into your lap. “So,” you said, a shaky but real smile finally gracing your lips. “Superman, huh?”
He let out a wet laugh, a sound of pure relief. “Yeah. Is that… is that okay?”
You looked at your joined hands, then back up at him, seeing both the man and the hero, and finally accepting them as one. “It’s going to take some getting used to,” you admitted honestly. “But… yeah, Clark. It’s okay.”
He surged forward and kissed you again, this time with more passion. You responded in kind, your hands coming up to cup his face, pulling him closer. The world outside, with all its dangers and secrets, ceased to exist. There was only this. Only him. Only you.
And as he kissed you again, slow and sweet and full of promise, you finally understood the answer to your question.
It was always, always better to speak. Because on the other side of the painful truth was the chance for a love more honest, and more real, than you could have ever dreamed.
━━━━━━━
author's note: once again, thanks for the request and i hope it somewhat lived up to your vision!
as always, my requests are always open if you want to send me a message about a story you'd like for clark or lowk any other character, im happy to write it for you. thanks for all the love and check out my other work<33
Summary: A routine IT call in the ED turns into an unexpected reveal when Santos realizes the quiet IT specialist she’s been talking to is married to the doctor she works with.
A/N: Requests are welcome! This work is entirely mine and has been proofread with Grammarly.
Masterlist
Your pager went off mid-sip.
The page had come in as “urgent” which, in hospital terms, usually meant one of the doctors couldn’t figure out how to access their records without their badge automatically logging them in.
It was one of those calls that could be quickly fixed if they bothered to remember their hospital-given access codes.
You grabbed your coffee, badge swinging against your chest as you made your way down to the ED.
The second the elevator doors slid open, the chaos hit you. Phones were ringing, stretchers rolling in, voices overlapping. All of it made you grateful to be hidden away in a room for most of the day.
You made your way to the nurses' hub; it was bound to be the location of the confused doctor.
“Someone called for IT?”
“That would be me.”
You followed the voice to find Dr. Trinity Santos sitting there, staring at a frozen screen as if it had personally betrayed her.
“I’ve been trying to fill out charts forever,” she huffed. “Damn thing kicked me out.”
You stepped in beside her, setting your coffee down carefully before leaning over the keyboard.
“Let me guess,” you said, already reaching for the mouse. “ You tried a couple of passwords, got locked out, and now it's not letting you in.”
Santos pointed at you as you’d just insulted her personally. “First of all, I tried multiple passwords. It’s the damn computer that won't take them.”
“Incorrect passwords are still incorrect to the computer,” you mention lightly, finger moving across the keys as you pull up the backend system.
She groaned, dropping back in her chair. “I swear, technology has it out for me.”
You smiled to yourself, suppressing a laugh. “Technology is a neutral party, but user error isn’t, however–”
“Don’t,” she warned, though there was no real heat behind it.
You hummed, still working. “Alright, I’m going to unlock your account. It might take a couple of minutes.”
She leaned back in her chair, eyes catching on your ring while you typed.
“That’s a really nice ring.”
You glanced down, almost like you’d forgotten it was there, your thumb brushing over the band without thinking.
“Oh yeah, thanks,” you said, a small smile slipping through. “My husband actually picked it out on his own.”
“Did he?” Santo leaned forward slightly, interest replacing her earlier frustration. “Damn girl, he must make a pretty penny. That’s a good choice.”
You laughed at her comment, a grin spreading. “He’s a doctor.”
Santos blinked. “Of course he is.”
“How do you even make that work?” she continued. “I barely have time to see my fling that works here, let alone manage to date or marry anyone.”
“You get used to it.” You shrugged, “Schedule lines up sometimes. Other times you just make time even if it's not very long.”
“That sounds way too functional,” Santos muttered. “Are you sure he’s actually a doctor?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Does he work here?” she asked, curiosity creeping in now.
You tilted your head, like you were considering whether to answer, before just focusing back on the screen. “Try logging in again in a minute.”
Santos huffed, watching you work. “You computer people are too calm. If my job locked me out of patients, I’d lose it.”
“You are losing it,” you pointed out.
“Fair.”
There was a pause while you worked, the hum of the ED filling the space.
“So,” she said again, clearly not done talking, “married life.”
You glanced at her briefly. “What about it?
“How long have you been with Mr. Fancy pants?”
“A while,” you said vaguely.
“That’s not an answer,” she said immediately, narrowing her eyes at you.
You smiled slightly. “It’s a safe answer.”
“You’re funny. I like you.”
“Dangerous combination,” you muttered.
She ignored that. “Okay, seriously though, what’s it like being married to a doctor?”
You leaned back in the chair, still working as you spoke, as the words came easily now.
“It’s kind of funny, actually,” you started. “We met here at the hospital. I was fixing a printer no one wanted to deal with, and he was hovering like I was about to make it worse.
Santos snorted. “That tracks.”
You smiled slightly, shaking your head. “I thought he didn’t trust me at first. Kept asking if I knew what I was doing.”
“Please tell me you humbled him.”
“Oh, immediately,” you said. “I finally turned around and snapped at him, told him if he was that concerned, he could fix it himself.”
Santos let out a sharp laugh. “No—”
“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “And he just” you paused, mimicking it slightly, “kind of froze for a second.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious,” you said. “Then he goes all quiet and goes, ‘I just figured you might need help lifting it…’”
Santos blinked. “…lifting what?”
“The bottom panel,” you said, gesturing slightly. “The paper tray was jammed. He thought I wouldn’t be able to lift it.”
There was a beat.
Then Santos’ face lit up.
“Oh my god,” she laughed. “He was trying to help you.”
“Yeah,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee. “Just… very badly.”
“And you snapped at him?”
“I didn’t know,” you defended, smiling. “He was hovering.”
“That is so much worse for him,” she said, shaking her head. “He tried to be nice and got told off.”
You hummed. “To be fair, I fixed it without his help.”
Santos let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Wow.”
She leaned forward again, interested now. “Does he still work here?”
You hesitated just long enough to be annoying on purpose. “Sometimes.”
Before she could even question it, a voice cut in from behind you both.
“Dr. Santos, trauma room four needs your signature before we can send the patient home.”
You didn’t look up right away, your gaze still on the computer loading screen, fingers idly tapping against the desk.
Santos did. “Yeah–got it, I–”
She stopped mid-sentence because Dr. Jack Abbot was standing right next to you, tablet in hand.
He was calm, as usual, not caring that he just walked into the middle of someone's conversation.
You finally glanced up, meeting his eyes for half a second.
It was hard to notice, but the small shift at the corner of his mouth gave him away. Quick enough that anyone not paying attention would’ve missed it, he added the slightest wink to match.
Your fingers stilled for just a second against the desk before you picked your coffee back up, as if nothing had happened.
Santos definitely didn't miss that.
Her brows pulled together instantly, eyes flickering between the two of you.
You, who suddenly looked just a little too composed.
Him, who was already looking back at her like nothing had happened, one hand resting against the counter just beside yours. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, you guys would touch.
Her eyes slid back to you. Then to your ring.
Then to him.
And something clicked.
Her posture straightened just a little too much.
You took a slow sip of your coffee, unbothered.
Jack didn’t help her either.
Santos looked between the two of you one more time.
Her eyes widened.
“No way.”
You set your coffee down, pushing your chair back just slightly like you were getting ready to leave.
“Try logging in now,” you said casually.
She didn’t move.
Her mouth opened slightly. “…that’s your husband.”
You tilted your head, a small smile pulling at your lips.
“You asked if he worked here,” you reminded her lightly. “You managed to answer your own question.”
For a second, Santos just stared at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.
Her jaw dropped.
She just stared at the two of you, eyes wide, as her brain had stalled completely.
You stood, grabbing your coffee like nothing had just happened.
“You’ll be fine, Dr. Santos,” he said evenly. A beat. “Try not to make it a department event.”
That made it worse.
Santos made a strangled sound, still staring between you and him like her brain refused to cooperate.
You stepped back from the desk. “Try logging in now,” you said, already turning away.
Jack’s eyes followed you for a moment as you walked off, expression holding the faintest hint of amusement that lingered a second too long before he looked back at Santos.
based on this request
wc: 4.8k
pairing: jack abbot x nurse!reader
summary: when you first heard of code hoola hoop you'd whished you'd never have to use it, but the pitt is full of surprises. when jack abbot finds you on the hospital roof, defeated and hurt, he makes the decision to change both your lives for good.
c.warning: hurt-confort; lots of fluff specially at the end !!; mentions of physical violence (reader gets punched in the face); mentions of blood; medical distress; reader is burntout and wants to stop working at the er; mentions of the death of a patient.
a.n.: i absolutely LOVED writing this omg !! i enjoyed so much i couldn't help but add one last scene with jack treating reader's injury. hope you liked it !!
masterlist | requests
hoola hoop. it had been a long time since the last time anyone in the er had heard those words be screamed in the middle of a shift.
the code is supposed to be a bit of dark-humored shorthand designed to go unnoticed by the general public but meant to send every available set of hands sprinting towards a colleague in trouble. it’s signal for a patient gone violent and physically dangerous.
and, as you lay on the cold linoleum floor of bay 4, the taste of copper blooming in your mouth and your vision swimming in fractured shards of light, you realize you were the one who had screamed it.
today’s shift has been a slow-motion train wreck from the very moment you clocked in at 7:00 am. it started with a pediatric respiratory distress that ended in a harrowing, narrow save, followed immediately by a veteran patient you had known for years finally losing his battle with heart failure. you had held his hand as he slipped away, his daughter sobbing against your shoulder, the weight of his final breath settling into your bones like lead.
by noon, your head was pounding with the kind of tension that makes the fluorescent lights feel like needles pressing into your pupils. you were dehydrated, emotionally drained, and starving, but the pitt doesn’t care about your basic human needs, and so the sirens kept blaring.
then came mr. henderson.
he was in bay four, brought in for “altered mental status”, which is usually er code for a bad reaction to medication or an uti in an elderly patient. but henderson wasn’t elderly and he wasn’t just confused. he was in the throes of a stimulant-induced psychosis, a fact that became violently clear the moment you stepped within arm’s reach to check his vitals.
one second you were reaching for a blood pressure cuff. the next, the world tilted.
a heavy, calloused hand had gripped the front of your scrubs, jerking you forward with a strength that didn’t seem humanly possible. you barely had time to gasp before his fist connected with the side of your face. the impact was a wet, dull thud that vibrated through your skull. immediately, you hit the floor, hard, the air driven from your lungs, and as he lunged over the bed rail towards you, the old instinct kicked in.
“hoola hoop!” you shrieked, your voice shaking. “hoola hoop in bay four!”
the response was instantaneous. you heard the thunder of clogs on the floor, the shouting of the security guard and the sharp authoritative bark of dana. hands grabbing you, dragging you backward out of the bay as a sea of blue scrubs swarmed in to submerge mr. henderson.
twenty minutes later, you are sitting in the darkened breakroom, a chemical ice pack pressed against your left eye and a stinging sensation on your lip where your own teeth had sliced through the skin.
“keep it steady,” murmurs dana, her voice uncharacteristically soft as she tilts your chin up. she’s holding a sterile gauze pad soaked in saline, gently dabbing at the cut on your lip. “you’re lucky you didn’t loose a tooth.”
“i don’t feel so lucky,” you rasp out, the words coming out thick and clumsy.
dana sighs, dropping the gauze into the trash and opening a fresh tube of antibiotic ointment. across from you, doctor al-hashimi leans against the counter. she came in a couple of minutes ago, having heard about the commotion in bay four and wanting to check on you. she’s only been working with you for a couple of months, but it was more than enough time for her to realize you were one of most essential members of the pitt team, and for the two of you to become friends.
“it’s been one hell of morning. even for this place.” she says. “i heard about mr. morrison in six. i’m really sorry. i heard you were fond of him.”
you feel a hot pickle of tears behind your good eye. “he was supposed to go to hospice tomorrow. he just… he didn’t make it.”
“and then this,” dana gestures vaguely to your face, her expression a mix of fury and weariness. “i swear, some days this job feels like a toxic relationship. we give it everything; our sleep, our sanity, our physical safety… and it just asks for more.”
you look down at your hands, still trembling slightly. “why do we do it, dana? honestly. i spent thirty minutes consoling a devastated daughter as i tried to hold my own tears at bay and then got punched in the face by a stranger as i was trying to help him. i could work in a clinic. i could work in insurance. or even better, i could be home right now, and my face wouldn't be changing colors.”
al-hashimi crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes distant. “the perks are few and far between, aren't they? it’s the three minutes of quiet when a patient finally stabilizes. or the look on a mother’s face when you tell her her baby boy will be fine. but the downside...” she trails off, looking at the bruise already forming on your cheekbone. “the downside is we sometimes get to see people at their absolute worst, and sometimes, their worst leaves a mark.”
you glance at her for a second, then at dana, who tries to comfort you with a soft smile. you shake your head in return.
for months, the doubt has been following you like a dark shadow. you love what you do; helping people when they need it most, listening to them and offering a shoulder to cry after the worst of outcomes. you love the feeling of fulfillment every time you hear one of the patients you helped with made it out of the er safe and sound.
still, in days like these… you realize the pressure, the shitty wage, the extra hours and double shifts… they are drowning you. and maybe… maybe it’s not really worth it.
if you left this job, you could have a normal life, with normal friends, a normal work schedule. you could actually enjoy the light of the sun, instead of having to thank god every time you got a few rays of sunshine on your skin on the brief breaks at the ambulance bay. you could… hell, you could go out, have fun… live, instead of surviving every day shift.
“i think i’m done,” you whisper, the thought finally crystallizing. and it’s not just the punch that brings you to this conclusion. it’s the accumulation of a thousand tiny fractures over the years. “i don’t think i can do this anymore.”
dana and dr. al-hashimi exchange a long, heavy look. they don’t try to talk you out of it because they know, in the er, everyone has their own “quitting day” every once in a while. today’s been rough for you, and if there's anyone who understands how you must be feeling right now, that’s dana. but she also knows that, like her, once you come out of the darkness and take a deep breath, you’ll realize this is what you’re meant to do. this is who you are.
“why don’t you take a break?” dana says, patting your shoulder. “go get some air. we’ve got the floor covered. and don’t worry about the paperwork; i’ll handle the incident report.”
you look up at her, eyes shining with exhaustion. “really?”
“of course, kid. go. i’ve got it.”
you nod dumbly, still clutching the ice bag in one hand. you slip out the back door of the breakroom. the last thing you want to do right now is walk through the er. you don’t want to see the mess left in bay four or the pitying looks of the residents. instead, you head straight for the service stairs, climbing until your legs burn, and finally pushing open the heavy steel door that leads to the hospital roof.
the air is biting and cold, making you shiver the second you step outside. it’s a sharp contrast to the humid, recycled oxygen of the hospital. you walk to the edge of the helipad, leaning your arms on the low railing and looking out at the pittsburgh skyline. the city is gray and indifferent, a sprawl of steel and stone that doesn’t know or care that you are breaking apart.
you take a deep breath, trying to control the wave of anxiety curling inside you chest. usually, coming up here for air helps you after a bad shift.
you found out about robby’s and jacks’s favorite hiding spot months ago, after secretly following the night shift attending up the stairs. you had noticed him slip through the double doors leading to the stairs, briefly checking over his shoulder if anyone was watching him, and of course that had peaked your curiosity.
it wasn’t the first time you’d seen either him or your attending, sometimes even both, sneaking up to the roof. but that night, after a long, slow, day shift, you decided to follow dr. abbot.
when you came out to the roof, you felt your heart rush to your throat at the sight of jack jumping over the railing and walking to the very border. but he simply stood there, hands in his pockets, chin titled up as he scanned the city underneath, just like you’re doing now.
you didn’t know him back then. well, you did know of him. you had heard robby and other doctors talk about him, mostly to praise his work. but you hadn’t had the chance to work with him just yet. that night was the first time you ever heard him speak, the first time he glanced at you and you got to see the tiredness and steadiness in his eyes.
“here to join the bungee jumping club?” he said, eyes still glued to the horizon. “m’sorry, we're not taking any more members at the moment.”
right there and then you had two options. either you turned around, went back downstairs to a horrible double shift that had your head spinning and pounding, or you stayed up there for a couple of minutes, enjoying the quiet and warm breeze of the summer night.
you took a step forward, letting the metal door close behind you with a thud. jack didn’t turn around, not even when you walked to the metal railing and leaned against it. not even when you introduced yourself.
“dr. jack abbot,” he simply said.
“i know. robby talks a lot about you.”
he huffed a laugh. “he talks about you too.”
it was then that he dared look at the nurse his brother seemed to be in awe of. he'd shared entire conversations about your amazing work with the team in that same roof countless times with robby. the man seemed to be so proud of being able to have you in his team. but when he looked at you then, he didn’t see the energetic, quick-minded nurse robby used to describe. jack saw someone utterly exhausted.
“rough shift?”
you nodded, letting out a heavy sigh. “yeah. i guess you could say that.”
“one of the many that will come,” he murmured, finally turning to look at you.
and when he did, he felt the air rush from his lungs. you were looking away, so all he could admire was your profile; the curve of your nose, the soft lines of your lips, the few tendrils of hair flying around with the breeze.
your eyes were glossy with unshed tears, and without you needing to verbalize it, jack knew exactly what was going on in your head. the noise, the doubt. he fully turned in your direction, leaning against the railing so that he was facing you.
“do you come up here often?” you asked.
“only when the pitt feels too suffocating.”
“so, most days?”
jack chuckled. “yeah.”
that night you and jack spent way more time that you should’ve talking about ways to get thought a terrible shift, reasons to believe that everything would get better… eventually. at the end, jack jumped to the other side of the railing, offering you his hand.
“well, welcome to the club.”
“i thought you weren’t taking in any new members,” you murmured, shaking his hand, a soft smile pulling at your lips.
he shrugged. “it was stupid rule anyway.”
now, as you stand on the wrong side of the railing, the tears finally come. not the quiet, professional tears you shed when your patients aren’t looking, but a raw, ugly sobbing that rips your throat. you cry for the man in six, for the sting of your lip, for the exhaustion that feels like it’s woven into your very dna. you feel hollowed out, a shell of the person who started nursing school with so much hope and so much eagerness. now… now you’re tired of being brave. you are tired of being the anchor for everyone else’s storm.
downstairs, the double doors of the ambulance bay hiss open.
jack abbot steps into the er, shaking the chill from his shoulders as he checks his watch. he’s early for his night shift, as he usually is when he knows you are on the floor. over the last few months, the "thing" between you—the dates, the late-night texts, the shared glances when you cross path in the hallways—has become the highlight of his day. he has been thinking about you all afternoon, wondering if you’d like to grab dinner or go out to your favorite museum when you both are free from the shackles of the pitt.
he scans the nurse’s station, expecting to see your head bent over a chart or your quick, efficient stride as you move between bays. but you aren’t here.
“hey, dana,” jack says, leaning against the counter, his eyes still searching the room. “have you seen our favorite nurse today?”
dana looks up, and the moment jack sees her expression, the easy, relaxed smile vanishes from his face.
“she’s had a pretty bad shift,” she says, her voice strained.
jack’s posture straightens instantly, his protector mode clicking into place before he even realizes it.
“how bad?”
“quitting-day-crisis bad,” dana sighs. “she was pretty shaken up when she left.”
“where is she?” he asks, his voice low.
dana shrugs. “i told her to go get some air.”
jack doesn’t wait for another word. he turns on his heel and moves toward the stairs, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. he doesn’t care about the shift change or the patient lists waiting for him. the only thing that matters right now is finding you.
when he pushes open the roof door, the first thing he hears is the wind, and the second is a soft, broken hitching sound.
he sees you standing by the edge, your silhouette small compared with the vastness of the city. you look fragile in a way he has never seen before, not even that night months ago. jack walks slowly, his boots crunching on the gravel, until he’s standing a few feet behind you.
“hey,” he says softly.
you flinch, spinning around, and jack’s breath hitches in his throat. even in the dim twilight of the roof, he can see the damage. your left eye is swollen and darkened with a deep purple bruise, and your bottom lip is split and crusted with blood after it started bleeding again a couple of minutes ago.
he frowns, a fury so strange to him immediately swallowing every thought but quickly overturned by a wave of worry.
“what happened? who did this to you?” he rasps, crossing over the railing and stepping closer to you. his hands reach out on instinct before he catches himself. “dana said you had a rough shift, but... jesus, sweetheart.”
you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to pull the pieces of your professional mask back together, but it is far too late. “it doesn't matter, jack. it’s just... it’s just part of the job, right? occupational hazard.”
“no,” jack says firmly, closing the distance until he’s standing right in front of you. he reaches up, his thumb hovering just inches from your bruised cheekbone, his touch as light as a feather. “this is not part of the job. you’re a healer, not a punching bag.”
“i’m not anything anymore,” you whisper, your voice breaking again. “i can’t do it. i can’t go back down there and wait for the next person to hit me or the next patient to die. i’m empty, jack. i’ve got nothing left to give this place.”
jack looks at you, his hazel eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes you want to hide. he sees the defeat weighting your shoulders down, the way the light has gone out of your gaze.
“you think you’re hurting because you’re failing,” jack says, his voice dropping into that deep, steady register that usually calms the most chaotic trauma rooms. “but you’re wrong. you’re hurting because you care. you put your heart in every case, and you treat every patient with so much respect and love that it hurts you when they are hurting.”
“it’s not enough,” you sob, shaking your head. “i’m not brave enough for this.”
“not brave enough?” jack laughs, though there is no humor in it. he takes your hands in his, his grip warm and solid. “you’re the bravest person i know. i’ve watched you walk into rooms that make residents vomit. i’ve watched you stay calm when the rest of us are losing our minds. you’re the smartest, most capable nurse in the pitt, and if you leave... that place is going to lose its heart.”
“they’ll find someone else. the hospital keeps moving.”
“the hospital might,” jack concedes, stepping even closer, his chest nearly brushing yours now. one inch closer and you might be able to heart the frantic beating of his heart against your own “but the people won't. i won't.”
he reaches up then, finally cupping your face in both hands, his palms are warm against your cold skin. he is so close you can see the flecks of amber in his eyes and the way his breath puffs out in the cold air.
“don't let one bad night take away the gift you have,” he whispers. “stay. not for the hospital, and not for the paycheck. stay because there are people who are going to walk through those doors tomorrow who need exactly what you have to give. and stay... because i don't think we can handle this place without you.”
you look at him, the weight of his words sinking in. for the first time all day, the hollow feeling in your chest starts to fill with something other than grief. you look at jack abbot, the man who usually holds the city’s lives in his hands, and you realize he’s offering to hold yours.
“you really think i’m that smart?” you ask, a tiny, watery smile tugging at the uninjured side of your mouth.
“terrifyingly so, yeah,” jack smile, chin tilting back to get a better look at your face as his thumbs stroke your cheekbones. “and i think you’re beautiful, even when you’re trying to grow a second head out of your eye.”
you laugh then, a small, genuine sound that makes the tension in jack’s shoulders finally break. you lean forward, resting your forehead against his chest, and for a long moment, the two of you just stand there in the wind.
jack wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight, protective embrace. he buries his face in your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo and the lingering trace of the hospital. he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, his hands splayed across your back.
“i’ll stay,” you whisper into his shirt.
jack squeezes you tighter, a long, shaky breath escaping him. “good. that's good.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, the romantic pull between you finally snapping into focus. all that back and forth during these past months, it all led here, to this very moment.
jack leans down, his eyes searching yours for permission. when you don’t pull away, he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, right above the bruise, and then another to the corner of your mouth, careful to avoid the cut on your lip.
it’s a promise. a silent vow that as long as he is here, you’d never have to face the worst of the pitt alone again.
“come on. let’s get you home,” jack says, taking your hand and interlacing his fingers with yours.
“your shift starts in…” you start. but he interrupts you, shaking his head.
“i’ve got time. for you, i’ll always make time.”
as you walk back toward the stairs, leaving the cold wind of the roof behind, you don’t feel like a victim anymore. you feel like a nurse from the pitt, like a survivor. and as you look at the man walking beside you, his grip firm and his gaze steady, you realize that maybe the perks of the job weren't just the narrow saves or the broken fevers.
bonus
jack’s hand is a warm, grounding weight in the small of your back, his presence a silent barrier between you and the prying eyes of both the day and night shift staff just beginning their rotation.
you are halfway to the parking garage when you feel a sharp, stinging heat across your lower lip. you try to press your lips together, but the skin feels tight. then, a single drop of blood escapes the wound, trailing down your chin.
“oh, come on,” you mutter. “not this again.”
“what’s wrong?” jack asks, turning around to look at you. his eyes narrow as they scan your face, his focus immediately dropping to your mouth. “it’s opening up again.”
he looks around, looking for an unoccupied room. he doesn’t ask, he simply guides you inside, the door clicking shut behind you and muffling the distant chaos of the er.
“jack, there’s no need. really, i can deal with it when i get home,” you rasp, though the movement only made the sting intensify.
“and miss the opportunity of having the best doctor in this entire hospital take care of you?” he jokes, already getting everything set. “i don’t know, honey, but it sounds like a really shitty decision.”
you huff a laugh, and jack’s chest swells at the sight of your smile
he points at the exam table. “sit. please.”
you sigh, the exhaustion finally winning the battle, and sit down on the exam table. jack moves with the same practiced efficiency of someone who’s spent a big part of his life in trauma bays. still, there’s a different energy from him now, as he readies sterile saline, some gauze and some other materials.
he pulls your legs apart, making room for himself, and he stands so close that you can smell his cologne and the fabric softener he likes so much.
“look at me,” he whispers.
you lift your gaze, and for a moment, the world narrows down to the intensity of his eyes on yours. he reaches out, his large hand cupping your jaw with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. his thumb rests just bellow your chin, steadying you, while his other hand brings a damp piece of gauze toward your lip.
“this might sting a little,” he warns.
as he begins to dab away the blood, his touch it incredibly light. feathery and meticulous. he is cleaning the wound like he’s treating something so delicate. every time you flinch on instinct, his thumb strokes the underside of your jaw in a soothing, rhythmic motion, like a silent apology.
“i hate that this happened to you,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum. he’s not looking at the bloody gauze anymore, his eyes are glued to your lips, his brow furrowed in concentration. “i hate that i wasn’t here to prevent it.”
“you weren’t even on the clock, jack,” you remind him gently, “you can’t be my bodyguard twenty-four-seven.”
“try me,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile.
when jack finishes with the antiseptic, he reaches to discard the swab but he doesn’t move away. his hand still on your jaw and his eyes still glued to your mouth.
“you know,” he starts, his voice barely a whisper, “i spent the whole drive in today thinking about how i was going to ask you to dinner on friday. i had this whole plan, and i was going to be so charming and so professional.”
you look at him, your heart doing a strange, fluttering dance against your ribs. “and now?”
“and now,” he says, “i realized that life is too short to wait for the perfect moment in a place like this. this job… it takes so much from us. it takes our sleep, our patience, and sometimes,” he gestures to your bruised eye. “it tries to take our peace.”
he looks up then, and you see the vulnerability in his expression.
“i don’t want to be the guy you’re “seeing”. i don’t want to be the guy who only gets to check in on you in the rush between traumas or to send you a “get home safe” text every afternoon.” he gently traces the line of your cheekbone. “i want to be your person.”
you smile, ignoring the persistent sting of your lip, not paying any attention to the tears that prick your eyes.
“so,” jack continued. “go on another date with me. this friday. but not as colleagues who happen to like each other. let’s make it real this time.”
you squeeze his hand, smiling softly. “i think i’d like that a lot, jack.”
jack’s entire body seems to relax, a log huffed breath of relief escaping him. he leans forward, and for a second, you think he might kiss you, but he stops mere inches way, mindful of your split lip.
“as much as i adore that beautiful smile of yours, i don’t think it’s the best for the cut,” he murmurs.
“i can’t help it.” as you say it, you smile only grows wider.
“god, you’re beautiful,” he whispers. “let’s get you out of here. i’m driving you home and i’m making sure you actually eat something before you crash.”
“yes, doctor,” you tease.
jack chuckles, pulling you to your feet and keeping your hand tucked firmly in his. as you walk out of the room and toward the exit, the hospital feels different, less heavy. dana sends a knowing look towards jack when you pass her desk and he only grins at her, shaking his head.
“called it,” dana mutters to herself as she turns around to finish up her work.
when you get to your place, jack insists on walking you to your door, even though you remind him more than once that his shift is about to start.
“so… friday?” he asks, leaning against the frame of your front door.
“friday.”
“can’t wait,” he admits and you love the brightness in his eyes as he says it. “ i’ll call you later, okay?”
you nod. “i’ll see you in the morning, jack."
“of course.”
and he knows he really needs to get going, but his feet seem to be glued to your front porch. he looks like he wants to say something else, but before he can utter a word, you ask:
"aren't you forgetting something?”
“what? no, i-”
he’s interrupted by the press of your lips against his. it’s something soft, gentle. a little taste of what you both have been craving for a long time now. jack melts almost immediately, hands cradling your face on instinct. that is until he remembers.
“wait,” he mutters against your mouth. “your lip. the cut.”
“i really don’t care about that right now, abbot. just kiss me.”
and him, being the good, obedient man he is, leans down to kiss you one more time. still aware of the split lip, but exploring and cautious. it’s only when you hiss in between kisses that he forces himself to step back.
“okay. no more kissing until that is fully healed,” he says.
“doctor’s orders?”
“i’m afraid so, yeah.”
you huff a laugh, raveling in the sad look in his face, as if the idea of not being able to kiss you for a couple of days is the worst piece of news anyone could ever give him.
“have a good night shift, doctor abbot.”
“i’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers, dropping one last kiss on your forehead, right next to the bruise.
and you stand there, leaning against the doorframe until you see his car disappear down the street, a dumb, lovesick smile pulling at your cut lip.
i can turn you into poetry @aurorsworld - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
kaledo-art
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
vaporwave
