My Byler fix-it set in the months between season 4 and 5. Rated mature for canon typical themes and language. Comments and feedback always appreciated! Status: On-going
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Preview:
And it’s just on that blissful edge of sleep that Mike’s favourite part of the day occurs.
His mental blocks crumble enough for fragments of a memory to slip through. Next to that dark voice in the back of his mind sits a box of black adamant. It’s sealed shut, it’s contents unknown. Anytime Mike approaches it, curious, the dark voice awakens, delighted, and he flees.
But as he begins to fall into unconsciousness, that same memory appears as if it was never in the box. Vivid and warm. His heart skips a beat.
A painting, unrolled in his own grasp.
A hand he knows better than his own, hovering over the subjects, pointing out details.
The boy next to him, so close he can smell his sweat and laundry detergent.
Hazel eyes locked on his revealing a depth of emotions; uncertainty, caution, pride. Hope.
It’s those hazel eyes he sees every night as sleep pulls him under.
I’ve written and posted Chapter One of my new Byler fix-it on AO3! It’s not my usual reader-insert. I’d love it if you gave it a read and let me know your thoughts!
I have to get this out of my system before I can get back into my other writing. The finale of Stranger Things broke my heart—after Shock Drop, it was like we were all in a nightmare where nothing looked or felt like the show we all loved. I don’t know whether it was because of a divorce, or the political bullshit in the states, network pressures, or just plain bad planning and writing by two cis-white men who lost sight of everything but the money. Maybe Vecna won. Maybe there’ll actually be a surprise real finale. Maybe NDA’s will expire and we’ll hear the real reason. In any case, it’s been the creative freaks and outcasts creating art in spite of the finale who have comforted me and inspired me. The writing, the artwork, the TikTok edits, WE are the ones that show was for and we get to decide the ending now. 🩵💛
And these aren’t the memories that had been haunting him. He’s not seeing the kitchen where his mother’s blood soaked every surface, or his bedroom where his father lay, broken, or his little sisters face twisted in terror, or Nancy’s jaw set in rage.
All of those horrible memories had been on an agonizing loop, he thought he would see them again now, in the face of his own demise.
Instead, Mike sees hazel eyes. A soft hand, stained with colourful paints, warm in his own palm. Lips curved into a secret smile that was only ever for Mike.
Will.
As soon as he thinks the name, Mike can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, and he wishes…he wishes so badly he could look into those hazel eyes one more time. Even though he’s memorized every detail, the flecks of gold and moss, the thick lashes, the depths of emotion they could hold.
I’ve written and posted Chapter One of my new Byler fix-it on AO3! It’s not my usual reader-insert. I’d love it if you gave it a read and let me know your thoughts!
I have to get this out of my system before I can get back into my other writing. The finale of Stranger Things broke my heart—after Shock Drop, it was like we were all in a nightmare where nothing looked or felt like the show we all loved. I don’t know whether it was because of a divorce, or the political bullshit in the states, network pressures, or just plain bad planning and writing by two cis-white men who lost sight of everything but the money. Maybe Vecna won. Maybe there’ll actually be a surprise real finale. Maybe NDA’s will expire and we’ll hear the real reason. In any case, it’s been the creative freaks and outcasts creating art in spite of the finale who have comforted me and inspired me. The writing, the artwork, the TikTok edits, WE are the ones that show was for and we get to decide the ending now. 🩵💛
I just can’t believe it—the errors, the clues and crazy good theories, the terrible character endings, Eleven, Byler, the weird Abyss and flesh-Mindflayer. I have genuinely never been so confused, disappointed and heartbroken over a show.
I really believed in Stranger Things.
I have been a day one fan, this show has meant so much to me. I’ve rewatched it so so many times that I cannot understate how jarring and clunky and weird the show became in Volume 2 and the finale. How could the Duffers fail us all this badly? Why have they not made a proper (if brief) statement addressing concerns?
And why does it seem so glaringly evident that the show about freaks and outcasts and family and friends and loyalty and love and grief and acceptance was sabotaged by the toxic, anti-everything American culture in a time when we ALL needed to see the underdogs and love win.
I just don’t get why there’s been so much evidence and build up to January 7th. Why are they (Netflix and ST) feeding into it so much? Why treat us that badly and then go silent on socials after?? Why not come out with an official statement? Why were there so many continuity and editing errors?? Why, just WHY, was the finale so fucking bad!?
This whole thing has honestly been so upsetting. I wish I could have bottled that hope and joy I had after the volume one release. Not just for byler, but for all the characters. Eleven should NOT have fucking died. They literally all stop being friends, seriously?? The final battle made zero sense and took five minutes. I’m genuinely so goddamned confused and hurt uhg
“I mean what did you think, really? That a show about nerds and outcasts was gonna have a well-written queer romance? That, in the end, queer love could help save the world?”
Well if we had any doubt before, we can now safely accept that Netflix was another victim of the current US administrations evil takeover. They took all the ‘woke’ (the HEART) out of the most beautiful universe and gave us crumbs of ambiguous but predictable endings for each character. It’s not the Stranger Things we all loved, because literal fascists have control and they just laughed in our faces at the end playing Heroes like that. I’m so heartbroken. And confused because there are SO MANY things not explained and vol 1-2 make no sense with everything that just happened in the finale. Damn we deserved better. Mike deserved better, he was the heart and it stopped beating long before the end of that finale💔
…There’s embers in your eyes now, “You want to be my friend, Robby?” You practically purr at him and Robby clenches his jaw but the heat still floods his face. You grin, a feral, wicked sort of pleasure at the sight of his blush, “I felt it too, when I first looked at you.”
So you did feel that tether, the undeniable pull that grew taught when you first looked at him. He’s not sure if he’s relieved, or terrified, of the revelation.
Robby reaches out slowly, but doesn’t touch you. Instead, he settles his hands onto the armrests of your chair, maintains that space so that you feel safe and in control. “You really are trouble, aren’t you sweetheart?”
A/N: And here we have it, another oneshot that reveals my desire for men twice my age. Sigh.
You told yourself it was a quirk—like Reid with his obsession with Dr. Who or Penelope with her love of steamy romance novels. You just loved a good high-stakes raid; sure, if it could be avoided you weren’t bothered, but if it was necessary—well, the rush of adrenaline during the preparation, the intense focus that settled over you when you climbed out of the SUV, you were a sucker for it all.
When you first joined the BAU it was the quickest way for you to prove yourself to your new teammates, impressing even Derek Morgan when you wrangled a man twice your size to the ground and had him in cuffs before your colleagues could assist. Once you had established trust with the team, you were able to fill your role more effectively as the expert on tracking and capturing suspects. Drawing up unique plans for each case once the person was identified and then working with your boss, Aaron Hotchner, to ensure they were organized and followed.
You had been in this role for just over two years now and the BAU was basically your family; Spencer was your best friend—you spent most of your social time outside of work with him, usually at his place or the bookstore nearby. You did girls’ nights with JJ, Emily and Penelope, some of which got so wonderfully out of hand that Spencer would pick you up, then tease you endlessly for the next few days as you suffered through a hangover. You liked training with Derek because he pushed you, made sure you worked your ass off whether it was for recertification or just a workout, and he had a calm way of talking about life, often giving you wise advice like whether you should invest in a condo as a rental unit (you did and it worked out amazingly), or if you should give in to JJ’s desire to set you up with a cop friend of Will’s.
That advice you...had not taken. He told you to go for it, that saying yes to a date one time didn’t mean you were obligated to do more than that even if the date went well. The problem was—and you’d never admit this to Derek—that you were already sort of head over heels for someone. The idea of going on a date when you just knew you’d be spending the entire time imagining, wishing it were, a different person across the table from you just didn’t feel right or fair.
So you’d told JJ no thank you. That had been over a year ago and you were in no different of a place in your life, still pining for a man you couldn’t have and whining about it over Ben and Jerry’s during movie nights at Spencer’s, the only person who knew your secret. He was such a good friend that he never stopped you from the inevitable venting that happened every month, usually after a case that had you working closely with the man in question for a few days too long. After being holed up together in a conference room planning and theorizing and then always, always pairing together in the field. You made it up to Spencer by making sure he was never interrupted while in the middle of a ramble unless he got too far off-topic.
Being in love with Aaron Hotchner was no way to live, yet you simply couldn’t help yourself. You didn’t care about the age gap, nor did you mind that he had a child; you adored Jack. But you knew that those would be barriers for Hotch, and you’d seen the last two women he’d dated. They were nearer to his age, soft and sweet and nothing like you at all. It didn’t matter that his relationships didn’t last long, you still gleaned enough information from their brief existence to understand that he wasn’t looking to date another agent, let alone his own, younger, subordinate.
When you had first started with the team, you had wondered if Hotch disliked you. You often found yourself going to Rossi; the warm veteran Profiler always had his door open for you and made sure your onboarding and first few months with the team were smooth and comfortable. It wasn’t that Hotch was rude or cold, it was more like he was wary of you—he would only make brief eye contact, take measured steps away if you happened to be standing near him, and a few times he’d seen the empty seat next to you on the jet and ended up spinning on the spot to take the lone seat at the rear of the cabin, then stand awkwardly if he needed to address the team at any point during the flight.
You tried not to read into it too much but made the mistake of mentioning it to Spencer one movie night. He’d nodded vigorously as you’d spoken and then agreed, saying he’d noticed the odd behaviour as well.
Things were like that until a case in Texas where you saved Hotch’s life.
You remembered that in the moment what you were doing didn’t feel very heroic or grand. It felt terrifying; you had breached a small cabin together on the back of a property where the rest of the team was turning over the main house after having arrested the main suspect. Hotch had gone in ahead of you, standard formation, and at first, it seemed routine and easy.
It was the ease that made the hairs on the back of your neck raise as a chill ran down your spine.
You credited spending so much time with Derek the weeks before learning about his expertise in explosives for how you were able to recognize something was off. You had halted in your tracks and told Hotch to stop and he’d glanced at you uncertainly, stilling nonetheless, and watched you as you stared around the sparse, open room. The spike in adrenaline running through you tipped you over the edge, engaged your fight or flight instincts. You think the only reason Hotch didn’t move or speak was due to the expression on your face, that he realized you were sensing something he wasn’t, and you were grateful for just how good of a profiler, a boss, that he was.
It had clicked as you heard the slow squeak of the cabin’s rickety door falling closed behind you—it had been easy to open, the hinges oiled, so why was it closing slowly and making noise? It was then that you had jumped backward, stopping the door and at the same time you had gripped the back of Hotch’s vest and tugged hard, screaming for him to retreat and he had listened, hurrying to follow you. He’d watched as you grabbed a log off the stack of firewood set just outside the cabin door, taking care to leave it propped opened and unmoving.
You had called for Morgan through the comms while rushing away from the cabin with Hotch. He was regarding you with an expression you never did understand. It was thanks to your quick thinking that you and Hotch weren’t blown to bits. The Bomb Squad had verified the door had been rigged to set off an explosion once it closed behind you.
After that day, that case, Hotch treated you differently. He was warmer, seemed to be more comfortable sitting nearer to you and holding conversations that went beyond the workplace. And in the field, you knew you’d earned his trust and he was arguably the most difficult person to win over; for good reason as he was the Unit Chief.
That trust in you had grown over these past two years working together. It had lead to a friendly relationship that went beyond the workplace, which did nothing to help with your feelings. It was usually a group setting; a party at Rossi’s or a birthday celebration at a nice restaurant. But Hotch would still spend a lot of time talking with you, always made a point of wishing you goodnight warmly when he inevitably ended up leaving first to get home to Jack. Sometimes you swore there was something else he wanted to say to you in those brief moments when he would give you a light hug, but he never did. You convinced yourself it was just your imagination.
And speaking of his son, you had met Jack more than a few times—in fact, Jack often texted you when he had a homework question that he knew his dad would pull his hair out trying to assist with (seriously, Hotch was no good with English or drama, it made you laugh), or once even to tell you he’d been broken up with (that had been a fun one to read to Hotch, who’d expressed that a fifth grader shouldn’t even have a girlfriend and you’d had to break to Hotch that kids grew up too fast for their own good). You were also the third emergency contact for Jack at his school and with any camps or sports he played, but that was because you had the lightest schedule of everyone else on the BAU team, being a homebody. That was all.
Hotch trusted you, with his life, with his sons' life—which was why you were so confused at this very moment.
The world was sideways because he had tackled you.
The unsub you had both been chasing had sprung out from behind a dumpster with a firearm neither of you was aware he’d carried pointed directly at your chest, screaming for you to halt. You were one of the quickest shots on the team, though, and considering his aim was right at your bullet-proof vest, you didn’t even flinch when you’d aimed and pulled the trigger.
Only, Hotch had jumped in front of you at the last possible moment. For one horrifying second, you thought you might shoot him but just managed to jerk the gun higher, the shot going over his outstretched arm; instead of blasting into the suspect's arm as you had intended, it pierced through his skull.
He hit the ground before you did.
Though you weren’t far behind, and fuck you were confused. One moment things were going what you would label ‘standard’ for this type of run or die suspect. Hotch had stopped next to you, joining you in telling the man to lower his weapon-and then all of the sudden he was grabbing you, twisting his body in front of yours. It was the impact to his vest that made you realize the suspect had gotten off a shot as well.
You slammed to the ground with Hotch’s full weight over you, heard him grunt in pain when your head cracked off the concrete because his hand was wrapped protectively around your head—the cracking sound was his hand, rather than your skull. Before you could do more than gasp in surprise, his weight sagged onto you and all the air left your lungs as Hotch crushed you unexpectedly.
You looked down in panic to see Hotch slumped, limp against you, his head on the front of your vest and eyes closed, the pain from the impact of the bullet on his vest having knocked him out cold. You whimpered as you struggled fruitlessly to move him, your mind reeling over what had just happened.
Hotch was a field pro, always calm and calculated and precise. He never fumbled, and yet here he had just taken a very big risk to block a shot aimed at you. You didn’t have the strength to lift him and one of your arms was trapped between your bodies, so you pulled in as much air as you could and reached for his face with your free hand, dropping your gun next to you.
“HOTCH! Jesus—fucking, Hotch wake up!” You screamed, patting his cheek desperately, relief beginning to build as you saw his eyes moving under the lids before they snapped open and you moaned aloud, “Oh god, Hotch are you okay?”
He groaned in pain before lifting his head and meeting your worried gaze with wide eyes, “S-shit, Happy, are you alright?” He gasped, surprising you further by using the nickname you’d been dubbed with by the team because you were always smiling, always quick to laugh. He never called you that in the field. The hand he had under your head curled into your hair as he gazed at you in panic mirroring your own.
You gawked up at him, his face just inches from your own, “Hotch, what the fuck—I’m fine, you just, just,” There was a hysterical note in your voice, “You jumped in front of me! What the hell were you thinking?”
You saw it in his eyes at that moment, his body tensing at your exclamation but his face revealing the surprise, the shock at his actions. Like he hadn’t been thinking at all, but rather reacting. A mixture of emotions crossed his face before he schooled his features to neutral, but you were too worked up to understand any of them. You saw enough, you read what he wasn’t saying out loud—that he’d reacted on instinct, without thought.
He grunted as he adjusted his body and you hoped he hadn’t broken a rib, before he lifted his weight off of you carefully so that he was on all fours above you, the hand cradling your head pulling gently to help you sit up. You were sucking big breaths into your now weightless lungs and came to rest on your elbows, glaring up at him. Hotch barked into his radio to call for the team, his eyes on you with a burning intensity that made your stomach turn over.
Once Morgan confirmed they were coming to your location, Hotch released his hold on your head and surveyed you as if seeking out injuries. “He—I thought he had aimed higher,” He supplied rather lamely, not meeting your eyes. You narrowed yours at him, your adrenaline still pumping, and out of nowhere, it hit you that he had been protecting you, that he was currently acting completely out of character because he was afraid.
Afraid you were going to put it all together.
It was all casual touches, mild flirtatious banter-coffees on your desk in the mornings working at Quantico or passed from his warm hand to yours in the mornings in the hotel lobby’s when on a case. And then every moment together over the last year began to replay in your mind in quick succession. Something about your expression must have given away how you were connecting the dots because he was watching you now like he was witnessing a car accident.
Just last month, you recalled, he had lost his temper on a bartender that had, not knowing you were FBI agents undercover, tried to cop a feel as you passed him in a hallway that led to the main dance floor of the club. Hotch had thrown him into the wall and growled at him not to touch you, before turning to you as the bartender scrambled away and gently touching your arm, his eyes softening as he asked if you were alright.
And back during early spring last year, when you were walking with a search party together on a missing woman case in Denver and tripped over a root in the dense brush. You had gasped and Hotch had caught you so quickly you remembered thinking he must have already been watching you, his hand grasping the back of your jacket and hauling you back up before you could hit the ground. He had brushed some locks of hair that had fallen forward over your shoulder before looking away quickly and setting off to continue searching.
And the most recent memory, just last month at Rossi’s annual Christmas party. You had been sitting with Spencer at the kitchen island, listening to your genius best friend as he rambled off facts about why Christmas trees became a thing when you saw from over his shoulder as Hotch slipped quietly out the doors to the patio area, alone. Something inside you had driven you to excuse yourself, jerking your head toward the windows you could see Hotch through, and Spencer had smirked knowingly before you walked away.
You slipped outside into the cool night and Hotch hadn’t seemed to even notice, his arms resting on the balcony railing as he gazed out into the dark, deep in thought. When you leaned your back against the railing to stand next to him, he’d started slightly before shooting you a little smirk you’d grown to adore. It was something he did only with you and every time it sent butterflies through your stomach.
“Hi, Happy,” He had looked away as he’d spoken, back out at the night sky.
You had smiled up at him, “You may need to dip into more of Garcia’s very alcoholic egg nog if you’re feeling short of Christmas spirit,” He had chuckled at that, a sound that shot heat through you and ensured you didn’t feel the chill in the air, “I only had one glass and I feel it.”
You’d been kidding, though it had been pretty strong. But the way Hotch had glanced back down at you, that brief flash of concern as he searched your face, it had surprised you. “Are you feeling alright?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you, actually.”
Hotch blinked a few times, then sighed, “I am,” His eyes were so warm, you remember thinking. “I just have trouble turning off my brain sometimes.” He’d admitted a little shyly, looking away again.
You’d reacted on instinct, your hand sliding across the railing to lay over his own comfortingly. You looked towards the windows, seeing your friends inside all laughing and cheerful, and ignored how Hotch had stiffened in surprise next to you—he could pull his hand away if he wanted to.
“You want me to help sneak you out?”
His hand turned over beneath yours, twisting to capture it in a soft hold, and you had tilted your head to peer up at him, those warm eyes gazing at you with a sudden intensity you couldn’t understand. “No, I don’t want to leave yet.”
Struggling to quell the sudden nerves within, you’d looked away before replying, “I can’t always quiet mine down either. And I have considerably less trauma in my life compared to you,” You tacked on the joke, relieved when he’d laughed fully, his deep baritone cutting through the air in a rush of joy that made your heart thud hard against your rib cage.
“You have, uh,” He broke off, still laughing, and his hand squeezed yours again, “A real way with words, honey.”
Honey. You had liked that.
At what point in the last year had you fully convinced yourself he could never feel anything toward you like you did for him? Because as you laid there on the concrete it seemed almost glaringly obvious how wrong you were. You had thought all of those moments, most little and some a bit more were just signs of a close friendship, respect for one another as both Agents and individuals. It made you work better together, you’d thought, until right now.
Before you could say anything or even think of what the hell to say to him, voices and heavy footfalls filled the alley. Hotch was looking to your team and had lifted himself completely away from you.
Spencer was the first to grab you and pull you to your feet, his features twisted in concern.
“You okay, Happy?” He asked, smoothing back your hair as his eyes roved over your body to assess the damage-or, lack thereof.
You nodded, giving him a tight smile, “I’m fine Spence. Had to take him out though, he had a gun.” You jerked your chin in the direction of the dead suspect—Emily and Derek were already standing over the man, while Rossi was helping Aaron to his feet, leading him toward the street to the paramedics for assessment.
Spencer hugged you, a rare thing for him to do, “We heard the shots, thought you—I’m so relieved you’re alright,” You smiled up at him reassuringly when he pulled back, “Let’s go see the medics.”
“Oh, no need,” You grumbled, giving him a look the silenced any argument he might have otherwise made. With a careful shrug, Spencer led you from the alley with a hand at your back. He made you sit on a nearby bench within the blocked-off area for the investigation.
“So,” Spencer began, taking a seat next to you and fixing those kind eyes on you, “What happened? You’re angry.”
He knew you too well, you thought, shrugging and glancing away so that he couldn’t read you. Your eyes landed on the ambulance; Hotch was being given a once over and you found him glaring hard at the ground as he sat silently for the paramedic. Rossi was sitting next to him with a knowing expression on his face.
The anger and confusion you were feeling intensified as you replayed everything that had just occurred. Your boss had just broken basic protocol to jump in front of a fucking bullet for you, shoved you hard to ensure he caught the hit and then went so far as to protect your head when you hit the ground.
You could have shot the suspect in the shoulder, but Hotch prioritized you the moment he saw the man's gun.
You’d always had such high regard for Aaron Hotchner, even before you developed feelings for the older man. He was a storm, a man who could as easily and swiftly shift from calm and cool to harsh and powerful depending on what the situation warranted in the field and it had always impressed you. Today, he had quite literally taken your breath away but at the cost of his safety and the suspect's capture.
You were stunned.
Spencer was silent next to you, no doubt understanding from where you were looking that you weren’t going to elaborate. He knew you preferred to speak about personal matters outside of work, and being the amazing friend that he was he didn’t pressure you. A comforting arm did land around your shoulders, which you leaned into gratefully.
You weren’t sure how long you were glaring over at Hotch, but eventually, the paramedic moved away and he glanced up, his eyes finding yours. For a brief moment, he merely stared at you, though his gaze tightened after a beat as if he were annoyed.
That did it.
Without a word to Spence, you abruptly shot off the bench and stormed across the sidewalk and onto the partially cordoned-off road. A flash of understanding crossed his face and he glanced over to Rossi, speaking something quietly to him. Rossi nodded before stepping away, leaving you alone with Hotch by the time you were standing right in front of him where he sat at the back of the ambulance.
He was so much taller than you that standing before him you were only given a slight advantage now, but you allowed the fact that you were looking down your nose at him to encourage you. “Seriously, what the hell were you thinking, Hotch?” You hissed, crossing your arms.
His expression still dark, Hotch met your gaze without faltering, “I reacted out of instinct, Agent—something that we’ve all done before. I prioritized your safety over that of the suspects.”
“You mean over your own safety, Hotch!” You stepped closer, your arms squeezing your torso so that you didn’t reach out and shake him, “We both know his shot wasn’t high. It would have hit my vest. It’s happened before, I can handle it.”
Hotch sighed, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of agitation, though his stern voice didn’t waver as he replied. “I know that you can handle it, Agent. Nonetheless, what’s done is done and I won’t apologize for—”
He broke off when you leaned down so that your face was directly in front of his, your voice coming out choked as your fury reached its peak. “Don’t call me agent, Aaron, not when we both know you aren’t being honest about what that was about.” You didn’t even care that he was your boss at that moment, just like he hadn’t been thinking of you just as one of his agents back in the alley.
You spun away then, your eyes pricking with tears you desperately blinked back. When you looked around, you saw Spencer standing by one of the SUV’s and you made your way over to him. When he saw you coming, his expression fell at the pinched look on your face and he surprised you by pulling you in for another hug when you reached him.
If you had looked back at Hotch, you would have seen the pained expression flicker across his face as he watched you go to Spencer for the comfort he wished so badly he could have given you. You would have seen the way his hands clenched, his jaw ticking as he held himself back from following you, a mixed look of longing and jealousy burning in his dark eyes.
It was a late departure from the airport that night, the team arriving at the jet well past midnight with heavy eyes, all unusually quiet. The fact that it was also a long flight made you want to cry—you could never sleep on the jet. You weren’t sure why exactly, it was as though you were cursed, you were incapable of falling asleep when on any kind of airplane. And you weren’t afraid to fly, quite the contrary you enjoyed it, even found the cabin of the BAU jet to be one of your favourite places. Regardless, as everyone else settled in with headphones or earplugs, reclining their seats, or in Spencer’s case stretching out on the couch to fall asleep, you sat alone at the back of the plane with your legs curled up on the seat, gazing out the window.
You had your headphones on, though they weren’t connected to your phone. You had gone through the motions when you first sat down, but then gazed at the Spotify app on your phone and went blank, unable to decide if you wanted to listen to music or a podcast, your brain too tired and distracted. You pocketed your phone without selecting anything, then rested your head on your hand against the wall and stared out the window.
You hadn’t even looked at Hotch since walking away from him earlier, though you think you felt his gaze on you at times as you’d wrapped up on the scene and later when you’d climbed out of the SUV to clear the security at the airport. You had determinedly avoided him as best you could, fearing what you’d see on his face if you did look. Anger, disappointment, or worse—nothing at all.
It was maybe an hour later, the cabin dark and silent, that you shifted in your seat and realized you needed to pee. You stood slowly, pulling off your headphones and dropping them onto the seat, and then slipped through to the bathroom. When you were standing at the sink washing your hands, you felt a fresh wave of exhaustion roll through you and closed your eyes, resting them as you dried your hands. You kept them closed as you took a moment to breathe and then opened the door.
When you stepped out into the small galley area that was the rear of the plane, divided by only a curtain from the cabin area, you walked directly into something solid and your eyes flew open in surprise. Hotch’s large hands grabbed your arms to steady you when you bounced off of his chest, releasing you just as quickly once he’d ensured you weren’t going to fall.
“Wha—” Your mouth snapped shut at the expression on his face; it was torn, as though he weren’t certain he should be standing so close to you, yet unable to move away. Your eyes flicked down, noting how dishevelled he looked at that moment—his tie gone, shirt partially unbuttoned, hair messy enough that you knew he was running his hands through it.
For a long minute, he didn’t speak, he just stared at you, yet the air around you felt suddenly thick with tension you couldn’t help but shift nervously, your lower lip drawing between your teeth.
Hotch’s eyes were on your lips before he glanced away from you entirely, his eyes closing as if he were attempting to draw strength or patience. Words failed you because you had no idea what he wanted, what he was doing back here. You thought he had been asleep like the others in the seat across from Rossi, that he had been happy to let you ignore him.
He took a deep breath, “We should talk.” He murmured, eyes on you again and you nodded, nervous under his intense gaze. “I need to apologize to you. What I did today...I realized in after that it was the first time in a while where we’ve been in such a close call like that, where one well-placed shot would—well,” He paused, his pinched brow and dark eyes saying what he couldn’t so much in words, “It’s not an excuse, for my behaviour. But I—I feel, protective, of you. It’s not professional, or fair, or a reflection of any distrust in your capabilities.”
Stunned as you were at his honesty, at how much he was sharing, you couldn’t help but frown, “Hotch, you scared the hell out of me,” You whispered, needing him to understand how worried you had been, “Do you think you’re the only one who doesn’t want to see someone they care about get hurt? Not to mention if there had been any witnesses, then you’d be getting in a lot of trouble for breaking protocol like that!” Unable to raise your voice, you punctuated your words by prodding his shoulder and shooting him your best glare.
He looked away, his eyes landing somewhere over your head as he seemed to consider your words. When he started to nod, his eyes fell back to meet yours and you finally saw a glimpse past that stern exterior, a brief window to his vulnerability and fear and...there was something there you didn’t understand, but it made your legs a little weaker.
“I shouldn’t—fuck,” Hotch crowded you then, quietly pushing you back into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him as he stood against you in the small, dimly lit space. Your breath caught in surprise when his hands suddenly came up to cup your cheeks gingerly, and you could see the colour rise from his neck as he struggled with himself, “I thought I could get past this. I—It’s inappropriate. It’s unfair to you, but I can’t seem to fight it anymore. Fight how I feel about—”
You felt all the air in your lungs evaporate as you realized what he was saying. With a burst of confidence you reached your hands up to take hold of Hotch by the front of his suit jacket, your voice a steady whisper as you breathed out, “I don’t want you to fight it anymore, Aaron,” He stiffened, pulling in a sharp breath as you sighed softly, “Please don’t fight it.”
And then you tilted your head, pushed up to your tiptoes, and captured his soft lips against yours in a passionate kiss.
You kept it light and brief, pulling back only slightly to meet his gaze after a minute. At first, he merely stood frozen before you, processing what had just happened. You were both keenly aware of the lines you’d both just crossed, at what was at stake, and you didn’t mind waiting for him. His eyebrows had risen high on his forehead as he gazed at you in wonder, and you had to resist the urge as you looked into his warm ochre eyes to tell him that he was beautiful.
When Hotch finally spoke, his voice shook more than you’d ever heard before, “Please know—you don’t have to pretend, I...this is so inappropriate of me and I promise you don’t have to even say—”
“Hotch,” You interjected, tugging him a little closer, “I feel the same, I really do.”
You turned your head to try and kiss along his jaw, only one of Hotch’s hands shot up and stopped you, gripping your chin, then pushing into your hair. You watched him take a steadying breath, your heart threatening to burst from your chest, and then he was everywhere—his lips on yours, his broad, muscular body pressing you into the sink counter, his other hand now trailing softly up your neck. It was almost frantic, and you matched his energy swiftly, each of you putting what you couldn’t say in words right now into the kiss.
Reaching up between your bodies, you slid your hands over his wide shoulders before pushing them into his short hair and pressing him harder against you, your tongues now dancing together as you each deepened the kiss. You were desperate for more, the heat in your belly settling low and you felt wetness pool between your thighs as Aaron Hotchner kissed the living hell out of you in the bathroom of the BAU jet.
You each pulled back at the same time, your bodies still tightly wound together, and gazed into each other’s eyes as you panted. You broke the silence first, giving a little laugh, “We sure picked the worst possible location to do this.”
Hotch chuckled, the smile that spread over his face so beautiful you felt your heart stutter in your chest. He brought the thumb of the hand on your chin to brush over your lips, “I’ve been wanting to do that for quite some time, honey,” His voice was low, the timbre of it sending heat through your veins, “I’m sorry I didn’t do it in a better location, though.” He added, laughing again.
“Don’t apologize, Hotch,” You murmured, smiling up at him, “This was perfect, I just...wish we could talk more somewhere comfortable.”
He nodded in understanding, then pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, “We should go and get some sleep, and when we land I’ll take you for coffee anywhere you want to go and we can figure this out.”
You leaned back and gave him a sheepish smile, “Hotch I...I’ve never been able to sleep on airplanes. I might be dead on my feet by the time we land,” You admitted somewhat regretfully, “And if I’m honest, I’m a little too worked up right now to even try.” Hotch’s grip on you tightened slightly at your words, his eyes now searching your face with a mixture of curiosity and desire; the latter of which you were sure he recognized in your expression.
You saw him drink in the way you were now biting your lip, the not-so-subtle clenching of your thighs and the heat flaming your cheeks. “Hey now,” He murmured, his voice so husky you nearly whimpered, “Oh, I know just what you need, sweet little thing.”
You have to admit, you almost crumbled right on the spot at his words, the heat of them shooting straight to your throbbing core and you blinked up at him in surprise. Before you could say anything, Hotch pressed his lips to yours again, his tongue sliding over them hungrily. You immediately opened your mouth, allowing him to lick into you and moaning quietly at the sudden storm of intensity that was Hotch.
His hands dropped and gripped at your waist, thumbs sliding along the band of the leggings that you had changed into back at the station. You shuddered at the slight skin-to-skin and unconsciously rolled your hips. “Shit—Hotch!” You couldn’t help but mutter, the reality of Hotch touching you so much more arousing than you could have ever imagined.
He pulled back from you by only a whisper, “Is this okay? Do you want me to stop?” His warm eyes searched your face for any signs of discomfort.
“God, no!” You whimpered, and Hotch smirked at you in a way that made your insides turn to jelly before he was sliding his dominant hand below the waist of your leggings and seeking out where you needed him most.
He ghosted his fingers over the front of your panties, and you trembled in anticipation. His eyes were on your face, and you couldn’t look away from him even as he dipped below the cotton fabric and found the dripping mess that you were, though your face flushed in embarrassment.
Hotch grunted, “Is that all for me, pretty girl? Fuck,” He’d been teasing along your folds but now pressed up and expertly found your clit with his thumb at the same moment he sunk one finger inside of you. The low, desperate moan that ripped from your chest made him growl and he brought his free hand up to grip your jaw and kiss you firmly before pulling back to give you a mock-stern look, “Quiet. Stay nice and quiet for me and I’ll give you what you need, okay?”
You nodded eagerly, biting your lip, and his expression smoothed out before he started moving his fingers again. His thumb worked little circles over your clit, but it was his thick fingers that were making it hard to keep quiet. He pushed a second inside of you now, pumping them in and out and curling them in just the right way, so expertly that you were seeing spots in your vision before long.
“Oh, oh god, Hotch,” You whispered, slamming your hands against his chest and gripping at the fabric of his suit jacket, “S-so fucking good...”
“I know, pretty girl, you just need someone to take care of you,” He was still watching your face as he fucked you with his perfect fingers. You’d never been so turned on in your life, both never wanting him to stop and wishing you were somewhere more private. His voice wavered slightly when he spoke next, “I can’t believe this is happening, I never thought—”
“What?” You interjected softly, beaming at Hotch, “Was I really that good at hiding how I felt?”
His fingers were moving slowly now, dragging you along the edge as he surveyed you with surprise, “I thought...yes, you were very good.” He didn’t elaborate, and though you think he meant to say something more, you were too distracted by his touch to clarify his meaning. You would ask him about it during that coffee. You trembled and his eyes refocused, the pupils blowing back out, “Does this feel nice, pretty girl? You like being a good girl for me?”
Shit, he was fucking hot. His words were erotic and perfect and you had no idea you had such a praise kink but here you were, getting even wetter for him every time he spoke. You nodded, sucking in a sharp breath when he suddenly picked up the pace, thrusting his fingers in and curling them exquisitely. “Fuck, I’m so close already—”
Hotch pressed his body closer to yours, making a sound in his throat of approval, but when his hips had ground against you involuntarily, you felt the hard length of him at your waist and that was what did it for you. Knowing he was enjoying this as much as you were, that he was so turned on by you coming apart at his fingers, it sent you over the edge. You felt yourself clamp down around his fingers, your hands pushing at his chest as your eyes fluttered closed and you had to bite your lip hard to prevent yourself from crying out.
He didn’t make it easy for you, though; Hotch grunted when he realized you were coming, his voice in your ear low and wrecked, “That’s it, such a good girl for m-me. So fucking sexy,” His movements slowed but didn’t stop completely, drawing out your bliss unexpectedly and making you whine quietly. “Fuck—feel how hard I am for you. Do you feel what you do to me?”
His commanding voice was almost enough to shoot you right over the edge again. You barely managed to access enough of your brainpower to drop one hand to his pants, palming over his thick erection before gasping at not only how hard he was, but how long—Hotch was packing. Holy shit.
You leaned forward desperately, wrapping your hand behind his neck and drawing him down to kiss you again. It was messy and delicious; he tasted masculine, warm, like a fucking summer evening, and you could have stayed wrapped around him forever.
When he finally pulled back, you were both flushed and panting, the pink on Hotch’s cheeks beautiful enough to make you stare. He smiled nervously and relaxed his posture before slowly sliding his hand from within you. You watched as he raised his fingers, soaked in your essence, and gazed at them for a moment before looking you straight in the eye as he brought them to his mouth.
Your jaw dropped as he smirked at you like he just knew you’d never had a lover or partner do something so bold. You couldn’t tear your eyes away as he sucked his fingers clean, closing his eyes as if appreciating the taste. Your taste.
“Holy shit, Hotch,” You murmured when he lowered his hand. He chuckled, reaching behind you for a paper towel and wiping his hands dry before cupping your face gently.
“Do you feel okay? Was that alright?”
There was that concern again; it was never gone for long, and you were starting to feel like an idiot for not realizing how often, just how much Aaron Hotchner cared for you. You felt your pussy throb again from the expression on his face and you knew you couldn’t stand another minute without him inside of you. “More,” You reached forward, grabbing at his belt, “I need you, Aaron. I need you inside me, please.”
You started to unbuckle him, only his hands pushed yours away. You looked up, afraid you’d gone too far, only to find Hotch wide-eyed and...and feral. He looked fucking wrecked, like what you had just said was the single hottest thing he’d ever heard, and his hands only expertly worked at undoing his belt and working his fly down.
“Are-are you sure?” He gasped out, pausing as he moved to push his pants down. You answered him by shoving your leggings and panties down, kicking them away from your feet and nodding eagerly as you looked up at him.
You’d never been in such a passionate situation, where every touch and movement felt meaningful and right, and you had to work hard to keep yourself quiet. When Hotch pushed his pants down and stood up straight, his hard cock sprung up and you slapped your hand over your mouth to hold in your gasp. Fuck, was he even going to fit? You could feel the slick running down your thighs now, grateful he’d already made you cum once—nonetheless, it would be no easy feat to take all of that.
Hotch reached up over your head, grabbing a towel from the shelf and throwing it on the counter behind you before he stooped and lifted you gently, settling you on the edge. He stepped right up to you, your bodies pressed together, his thick, long erection hot on your thigh. He then looked at you closely, “This is about more than sex for me. I have feelings for you, pretty girl, this isn’t a one-time thing.”
You think he needed you to understand this as much as he needed to be sure you felt the same. “I’m yours, Aaron,” You whispered back, gazing at him softly even as your body raged with a fire he had lit, “All yours, forever.”
His eyes softened, and he kissed you again before pulling back and gripping your hips with his strong hands. You reached one hand down to grasp his length, leaning back into the mirror, and put your other hand over your mouth again. You gave him two pumps, and Hotch hissed, his eyes on your bodies below as he let you line him up and then he was slowly thrusting forward.
The stretch was immediate, you had certainly never been with someone bigger, your eyes wide as you looked down at him splitting you open. He took his time, easing back every time he sunk another inch in to ensure you experienced no pain, the expression on his face focused. It took a few minutes before he was fully inside of you, and he just let you clench around him at first, his eyes falling shut in pleasure.
The full, stretched feeling was everything, your eyes rolled in your head as you bite back your moans.
“Fuck, pretty girl, you are so tight,” He whispered, adjusting his grip on you so that one hand splayed across your lower back, pressing your body into his. “Going to make this quick, okay? So we don’t get caught.”
The way he said it suggested he intended to take his time with you again soon, the implication driving you to clamp down on him in excitement, and Hotch groaned low. He hugged you close, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, and started to fuck you, hard. He set a pace that instantly had you biting into your own hand to ensure you didn’t scream, his cock hitting you in all the right places. You felt a rumbling in your neck and realized he was using you to muffle his sounds, unable to keep himself fully quiet.
“F-fuck,” You whimpered as you pulled your hand away to grab at his hips, the feel of his muscles flexing as he pounded into you turning you on even more. You pressed your face into his shoulder as you began to see bright lights behind your eyelids. “Going t-to cum again, oh shit—”
He turned his face slightly and breathed into your ear, hot and sinful, “Cum for me, little girl, cum for daddy.”
Oh.
Oh god, you’d never hurled so fucking fast over the edge in your life. Your orgasm swept over you like the wave of a tsunami; Hotch must have realized what his words had done because he frantically slammed one hand over your mouth as you arched away from him and came. Your head tilted back and mouth opened against the skin of his palm in a cry you tried to contain, the only sounds escaping pathetic little mewl’s. Hotch was panting, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he neared his peak, “Shit, I’m g-going to cum!”
You felt him begin to pull out, and even in the haze of your orgasm managed to wrap your legs around him and pull him so that he was deep inside of you. “IUD,” You murmured, desperately trying to open your eyes and watch his face. “Cum inside me, daddy, please.”
Hotch gave one last, strong thrust, his eyes wild as he started to cum, filling you deeply, “Fuck!” He hissed your name, biting his lip and then dropping both hands to your hips to pull you even closer against him, his eyes on where he was pumping you full of cum, yours watching his face.
The sight of Aaron coming undone for you so completely was captivating. You’d never known something could be so perfect and you soaked up every expression that crossed his handsome face like it was oxygen you needed to live by. When he stilled, the only sound was that of each of your heavy breathing. You relaxed your legs and slumped into the counter, exhausted, and he leaned over you to capture your mouth against his.
This kiss was slower, dizzying, delicious—you were blissed-out and nearly ready to pass out from it all, the intense emotions and explosive second orgasm exhausting everything you had left. “Aaron, Jesus Christ,” You giggled lightly, running your fingers over his cheeks as he smiled down at you. You could feel him beginning to soften within you, but he didn’t pull out right away and you found you liked the sensation, enjoyed keeping him warm within you as you each caught your breath in the cramped space of the bathroom.
Hotch pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his eyes gazing at you so lovingly you could have cried, and then brushed a hand across your face, pushing back some hair, “How are you? Was that too much?”
Your heart constricted again as he concerned over you, “That was amazing, Aaron. Might need you to help me down in a minute, though,” You admitted, giving him a sleepy smile, “Are you always going to worry over me so much?” You added, and he gave you a rueful smile.
“Yes pretty girl, I probably will.”
“Hmm, I think I could get used to you being so protective,” You replied, grinning and stroking your thumb over his cheek, “Just no more jumping in front of bullets, maybe?”
Hotch laughed warmly, slowly pulling away from your body and reaching for paper towels to help clean you up. “I’m making no promises there,” He paused, looking you in the eye and you stilled at the intensity there, “I love you too much.”
His confession brought tears of happiness to your tired eyes, and you let a few slip out as you sat up carefully, “I love you too, Aaron.”
You realized then that nothing in life had ever felt so thrilling and right as admitting you loved Aaron Hotchner.
You smiled warmly as he pulled you against him in a strong embrace, then let him take care of you before leading you to the seat next to him in the main cabin. Tucked into Hotch's side with your head on his chest, you slept for the first time in your life on an airplane. Surrounded by all the people you loved most while being held by the man of your dreams.
Love Hotch? Read my newest Hotch story here!🍍
Did you enjoy this story? Please consider reblogging or commenting to ease my inner turmoil as a writer. Likes are basically just a bookmark!
I am actively writing my Robby x Reader fic but also started a Dennis Whitaker x Reader fic that will be a oneshot! I love myself an age gap relationship sure but I’m in my thirties, the idea of Dennis falling for someone his age is very relatable—the actor is the same age as my husband. So it’ll be more of a self-indulgent oneshot where the reader is curvy and works in administration at the Pitt (Emergency Department front desk staff which my research indicates would be something like an Access Coordinator).
As a frontline civil servant this is also something I can relate to and it’s been fun to write Dennis falling for and becoming protective of the reader while also being a clumsy sad boy.
Anywho just thought I would share what I’m up to! Any thoughts, comments, suggestions etc are welcome and please check out my Masterlist for my previous works! ❤️
Prologue - Do you remember the night we fell in love?
Warnings: 18+, abusive relationship, minor injuries mentioned, just the prologue so nothing detailed.
A/N: okay this is my first post in a few years on here. See my page for details. I’m setting up the story here but not giving away much so like, bear with me, trust that I will deliver slow burn romance and plenty of smut in future parts. The pov will mostly be Robby’s going forward but you know I like my fun. If you saw the teaser then you’ll read this and be, hopefully, excited for the full scene in part one. 💛
Dr. Robby took his job extremely seriously. As Chief Attending, it was on him to ensure his staff, patients, really anywho who came into the Pitt, felt safe, seen, and heard. He carried the weight of that responsibility, of all of it, proudly and with determination to make every day better, despite administrative pressures, budget issues, even fucking politics.
Like anyone, he had his bad days, the ones that had him wandering around Pittsburg instead of going home. Rethinking every call, replaying every moment, moving like he was searching for something until it got too dark or he became so hungry he ended up at his doorstep almost instinctively. He’d eat, shower, move through the motions of existing, barely, until the next shift.
And he would do it all again; aiming higher, pushing himself harder because he was the example, the North Star everyone looked to, depended on. He kept everyone at arms length, emotionally, as self preservation and to protect them from the storm he always had raging away under the surface. It wasn’t anger; he was never quick to fire up, his level-head and sense of duty too strong to allow himself to devolve, to break, though he’d had his fair share of moments that came close.
Michael Robinavitch never wavered; at his core, he was a healer, a carer. Steady hands and careful consideration could not coexist with a tumultuous, unpredictable temper. But repressing the emotions, never letting them out to fully examine, it had an affect that took a long time to build beneath the layers that made him Robby, Dr. Robby, Chief Attending, leader, mentor.
Festering and mutating like a cancerous layer, expanding, taking over more and more, and he was ignorant. He allowed it, as a sort of penance for his failures or bad calls, and no one could see it. He never let anyone close enough to really see, because he was terrified of what they’d find.
And then there was his best resident—though he’s lucky to have an amazing group to teach and takes care not to show favouritism. But Robby sees the fire in the younger man, the bone-deep need to tackle every bad thing the universe sent through their doors, no matter the cost. He had wondered on more than one occasion why it mattered so much to Frank Langdon, because he put on a cocky attitude and really needed to work on his bedside manner yet he seemed to care so deeply.
Robby got his answer on a Tuesday afternoon that was no different from the rest; too busy, overcrowded with no beds to send patients they’d admitted; drug overdoses, heart attacks, a few too many car accidents. Langdon was having a good day, riffing with the residents from surgery, ortho, cardio, but not losing focus or needing Robby to knock him down a peg.
Until a social worker came in with minor head trauma after being pushed.
To Robby, it was a case he saw many times, in a few forms, and his empathy for her injury, for the hard work she put in to an impossible job, was at his standard of care.
Frank, on the other hand, had discovered the details of her work in his questions about what had happened and had seemed overly interested, beyond that professional curiosity. Robby didn’t mind it, at first, because the patient was happy, eager, to talk about her work and vent about the system she had spent over thirty-five years working in.
Robby had stepped away to check on Mackay and Collins, on the rest of the Pitt, before returning to oversee Frank’s discharge instructions to the social worker. When he stepped around the curtain, it was to find her outlining the signs of domestic abuse and writing her email on his residents notepad. Unnoticed by either of them, he watched as she gave Langdon’s hand a short squeeze, eyes kind, and assured him there were a lot of ways he could help his sister.
Robby had waited until the end of the day to talk to Frank. He’d been turning it over in his mind, wondering how much he wanted to know, if he was really in any position to be helpful, or if he was jumping to conclusions.
He has never regretted the decision to open the door, figuratively, to Frank, never wavered in following his gut instinct. Because in the end, it led Robby to you.
“Listen, I know the dynamic here makes it seem like you can’t be human, but you gotta know you can talk to me, Frank,” Robby’s pulled him out to the quiet of the ambulance bay, takes care to keep his voice low. “And family stuff, it can get messy, it can be a lot.”
He watches the younger man think, careful to keep his expression patient, neutral, he knows he’s intimidating, that he’s one to talk when he shares nothing of himself. Robby thinks it would be fair if Langdon brushed him off or played dumb, but instead, after a few moments, his shoulders drop and he lets out a sigh that hints at a long-building frustration.
“My younger sister, she’s with a guy that I-I never liked, right from the start,” He’s pacing now, unable to stay still under Robby’s scrutiny. Frank scoffs, “He was always just…so nice, too nice, you know? She didn’t see it, but it was like he was playing a part.”
Robby runs a hand over his neck, leans against the brick wall because he wants Frank to know he’s there to listen, for as long as it takes. “How long they been together?”
“Just over two years,” He pauses, thinks a moment before nodding to himself, “Yeah, anyway, I tried to just ignore it at first, because she seemed happy and excited, and we’re close. She’s stubborn and a little insane,” Frank smiles affectionately and Robby finds himself curious of this new side to the man, “I didn’t want her to push me away, if she thought I didn’t like him.”
“That’s reasonable, especially when things first start out,” Robby shrugs, carefully adds, “But I know you have extremely good instincts.”
That has Frank pausing, glancing up at Robby in mild surprise. He thinks he should probably do a little better at praising all of his residents.
“That’s just it, though, I ignored them for too long. And with this,” He gestures vaguely toward the hospital, “And Abby having Tanner, I think I missed the red flags.”
Robby nods his head in the same direction, “So what was that today, with the social worker?”
“At first I was just trying to get her talking and comfortable, and she told me how today it was push from a woman half her size that caught her off guard,” He’s pacing again, hands moving as he talks, “And I asked her of that happens often, her clients pushing her. She said it was nothing compared to when she worked for a women’s shelter that helped women and their kids escape rough situations, that she had a few bad cases where the abusers came around, made threats, waited in the staff parking lot to try and scare her.”
Frowning now, Robby asks, “You think this guy is physically hurting your sister?
“Until today, not really, or,” He pauses, hands rubbing over his face, which is tight with emotion, “I don’t know. I guess, I must have suspected, because I asked what to look out for when the abuser plays nice and you can’t be sure. I told her the things I noticed and she just started writing her email for me and…and, fuck.”
Robby pushes off the wall and moves to Frank, pausing briefly before reaching out, placing his hands on his shoulders, his mind briefly flitting to a memory of Adamson doing the same to him, long ago.
“Alright, this is heavy, and I’m not an expert. But we can figure it out, try to get her some help.”
Frank stares at him for a beat, like he’s seeing Robby in a whole new light, and it makes his cheeks heat because yeah, this was a step into friendship, into caring too much, and he’s not even sure what exactly it is that’s urging him to step up like this.
“Boss, I-I can’t ask you to help, but I don’t really know what to do.”
“You didn’t ask, I’m offering.”
+
‘Someone is at your front door’
The vibration from the security app notification startles Frank Langdon enough that he nearly drops the container he holds in his shaky hand. Cursing under his breath, he quickly shoves it back into the depths of his medicine cabinet, and then checks his doorbell camera, avoiding looking at his reflection.
It’s not his younger sister standing at his door at two in the morning that has Frank seizing with panic, but the state you appear to be in. Barely discernible on the night vision feed, because it was so late even the porch light was off, yet it’s clear things are wrong. You’re leaning against the wall opposite the camera, fingers waggling in hello like you think he won’t notice the cotton sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt clinging to your frame, or the absence of a phone, purse, even keys.
He thinks about the conversation with Robby as he rushes downstairs, grateful both Abby and Tanner are deep sleepers because he’s not being as quiet as he should be. He’d told his boss, his mentor, just last month that he suspected your relationship was off. After a patient came through their care who was a social worker with over thirty years of experience, he’d confessed his concerns and admitted he didn’t know what to do.
Robby had been more than understanding. He had come in just as Frank was finalizing the discharge for the social worker, overheard the conversation about recognizing signs of toxic, potentially abusive relationships, and waited until the end of shift to pull him aside and ask him if he was okay.
His mentor had offered his help, had set up a private meeting with Kiara outside of the hospital so Frank could keep things private as he navigated the resources and advice the emergency department social worker could offer.
Now, as he’s pulling open his front door, he half-wishes Robby was here, because he would know what to do. But it’s just him, so worried he rips open the door with enough force that he stumbles to prevent it from slamming against the wall, then he’s lurching forward because the light from the hall reveals the state you’re in.
His medical training kicks in, eyes sweeping from your bare, bloodied feet up to the miserable and defeated expression twisting your features. “What the fuck, Sleepy?” He gasps, reaching out to carefully scoop you up, his heart beating loud enough he wonders if you can hear it.
In the back of his mind, he’s registering that you really had nothing else with you, no phone sitting on the ground, just you in pyjamas covered in sweat. You don’t speak, just let him help you inside, head pressing into his neck as he shuts and locks the door behind him with one hand, then carries you down the hall to the guest bedroom.
He’s gentle as he places you on the bed, then kneels down and waits for you to speak. He’s wants to hurry to care for you, but he needs to know what’s happened—how bad this is—before he can leave you alone to get the first aid kit.
“I’m sorry, Frankie,” He hates the defeat in your voice, and he hates that he couldn’t stop this from happening. “Things have been bad. I should have told you, I just, I thought I could handle it.”
“You don’t have to apologize or explain yourself to me,” Frank’s remembering the articles, the pamphlets, Robby’s advice to take everything extra slow in the beginning. “I just want to know what’s happened tonight, so I can help you.”
He’s staring into your eyes and a fleeting memory of being a little boy and getting to hold you for the first time—while mom and dad hovered—plays in his mind. You always had the best eyes, even then, looking at him for the first time, face scrunching to cry until he said your name and told you he was your big brother and would always take care of you.
The light behind those eyes had dimmed, but it was still there. He finds your hand and clutches it, brings it to his mouth to gently kiss. You whimper, tears welling up and then he’s climbing onto the bed and pulling you into his arms while you cry in a way that breaks his heart into a million pieces.
Frank cries too, silent but steady tears you can probably feel dripping onto your scalp.
When you pull back enough to look up at him, you don’t let go and it reassures him you aren’t going to downplay what happened. The contact is grounding, something you always did with him when you needed your big brother.
He’d almost forgotten that feeling, being your big brother, being leaned on.
“We were fighting, he has bad days, takes them out on me,” You pause to wipe at your face, he notices a redness around your wrist now, as though a much bigger hand had gripped it. “Usually, I can manage it, just sort of, I don’t know, disassociate. But he started saying he wouldn’t let me come to Tanner’s birthday this weekend…”
You look away, jaw clenching, lips pursing like it’s harder to admit than you thought.
“It’s okay, Sleepy, just tell me what you’re comfortable with.”
Nodding, you keep your eyes cast down as you continue, “I said I did everything he asks me to, take his bullshit day after day, and there was no way I was missing it,” A few more tears slip out and Frank wipes them from your cheeks, “Set him off, he’s yelling all the usual bullshit and I just, I had it, I hate him, and I tell him that, tell him I’m done. He grabbed me and I didn’t fight, I just fucking froze because he’s hit me before, only he was literally carrying me and I was scared about what that meant, but he just threw me into the truck and drove to East Carnegie and made me get out at the side of the highway.”
Frank is dumbfounded, “He just left you—wait, so you’ve walked here from East Carnegie?” You just nod and he’s fighting an internal battle not to scream because that’s easily over two hours of walking, alone at night, in the middle of a heatwave. He’s staring at you, unsure of how to respond, when he registers the shirt you’re wearing.
It’s an old band tee of his that he grew out of after hitting his mid-twenties and bulking up. He’d taken you to see your favourite band as your sixteenth birthday present and you had insisted on buying him the shirt as a thank you. He thinks waiting in the line to buy it was his favourite part of that night; you glowing with joy and chattering away about the set list, the light effects and how cute the drummer was, distracting him from the pressures of medical school and reminding him to just have fun once and a while with his favourite person.
“I know I haven’t been there for you like I should, Sleepy,” He moves off the bed, presses your shoulder so that you stay put, “But that changes now. I’m going to get you cleaned up. You’re moving in with us, you’re never going to see that fucking piece of shit again, okay? It’s done, I won’t let him hurt you ever again.”
You’re lower lip quivers, “All of my things—“
“That’s easy,” Frank pauses at the door and gives you a wicked smile, “You know how many cops we get in the Pitt? I’ll get a few of them to tag along with me to your place, we’ll get everything that you need, and it’ll be a fresh start.”
It’s not the end, he knows this. It’s going to be hard to move forward, to make you feel loved and safe again, but he’s not going to fail you. He can’t ever fail you again.
Frank sees it, finally, when you chew this over and then glance back at him. That quiet mischief, his favourite thing about you, just beneath the surface but, with time he thinks it’ll come back out.
“I want the big screen, too.”
He laughs, gives you his best smile because he’s so relieved, “That’s my girl, Sleepy.”
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summary: a backyard barbecue. frank overthinking, protective. robby burnt out and self-loathing. your unhappy marriage is only the beginning. or, robby meets you for the first time at your nephews birthday, a spark hitting gasoline; he burns for you.
My Masterlist
tw: toxic marriage/abusive relationship, physical violence, trauma, allusions to drug abuse, suicidal ideation (dr. robby please get a therapist), strong sexual themes, cheating, probably a lot of medical lingo mistakes. No use of y/n. 18+ mdni!
teaser
// prologue //
part one // can’t recall the last time I was kissed
This story is turning into a bigger beast than I anticipated and I’m so excited to share it soon! I’m aiming to post the prologue in the next few days. Gird your loins people, it’s a bit heavy!
summary: a backyard barbecue. frank overthinking, protective. robby burnt out and self-loathing. your unhappy relationship is only the beginning. or, robby meets you for the first time at your nephews birthday, a spark hitting gasoline; he burns for you.
My Masterlist
tw: toxic/abusive relationship, physical violence, trauma, allusions to drug abuse, suicidal ideation (dr. robby please get a therapist), strong sexual themes, probably a lot of medical lingo mistakes. No use of y/n. 18+ mdni!
teaser teaser ii
// prologue // posted oct. 19th
part one // can’t recall the last time I was kissed
