☁︎ Check out @butyoudidthis4whatrecs for fics, art, gifs, edits, etc.!
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Each tag list is separate, so be sure to interact with each post for each character you'd like to be tagged for! Keep in mind that if you change your username you'll need to re-interact with each post if you'd still like to be tagged!
☁︎ Jack Abbot ☁︎ Andrew 'Pope' Cody
☁︎ Brett Richards ☁︎ Titus Danforth
☁︎ Grant Reilly ☁︎ Robby Robinavitch
☁︎ Rabbot (x Reader) ☁︎ Charlie Reid
Fics are also posted in each character's masterlist below!
☁︎ One Shots
╰━⚡︎ You're Okay
╰━꧞ mental health fic, hurt/comfort, angst
╰━⚡︎ Would You Believe Me If...
╰━꧞ mental health fic, hurt/comfort
╰━⚡︎ It's planned.
╰━꧞ fluff
╰━⚡︎ Use Me
╰━꧞ smut, fluff
╰━⚡︎ Hour Thirteen
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort
╰━⚡︎ Carrier Pigeon
╰━꧞ mental health fic, hurt/comfort, angst
╰━⚡︎ Identify
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort
╰━⚡︎ Call Me
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort, will-they-won't-they
╰━⚡︎ I told you so.
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort
╰━⚡︎ The Sidewalk
╰━꧞ angsty-ish, friends to lovers, fluff
╰━⚡︎ I just wanted you to hear the words.
╰━꧞ hurt/comfort, Jack helps Reader with her SA trauma
╰━⚡︎ Dr. Abbot
╰━꧞ smut, hurt/comfort, angsty-ish
☁︎ Two shots
╰━⚡︎ Perfumer || Something Else
╰━꧞ smut, flirty, fluffy, softdom!jack
╰━⚡︎ Tepid || Lukewarm
╰━꧞ sick fics, hurt/comfort, fluff
╰━⚡︎ Your med school ex. || Your Jack.
╰━꧞ jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff
╰━⚡︎ You could do it with me. || We did it.
╰━꧞ idiots to lovers, angst, fluff, smut
☁︎ A nice bonus AU. Listed in chronological order, but after A nice bonus, they don't necessarily need to be read in that order!
╰━⚡︎ You and Jack meet when he sees you get hit by a car and rushes to take care of you. Your life together follows.
╰━⚡︎ A nice bonus.
╰━꧞ fluff, hurt/comfort, flirty
╰━⚡︎ Flustered
╰━꧞ angst, fluff, flirty
╰━⚡︎ 8:47 a.m.
╰━꧞ smut
╰━⚡︎ Where you belong.
╰━꧞ smut, fluff
╰━⚡︎ 3:47 a.m.
╰━꧞ pregnant!reader, fluff, smutty-ish
☁︎ Across the Hall AU. Neighbor!Jack x Neighbor!Reader.
╰━⚡︎ You and Jack are neighbors and easily become best friends. Best friends who both want more but are scared to admit it. Will you? Wont you?
╰━⚡︎ The Shower
╰━꧞ smut, flirty, just admit you're in love already
☁︎ Peep AU. Husband&Dad!Jack x Wife&Mom!Reader. Listed in chronological order but don't necessarily need to be read in that order!
╰━⚡︎ You and Jack are married and parents to a little girl who takes after her father in so many ways.
╰━⚡︎ Peep
╰━꧞ dad!Jack in action, fluffy, smutty-ish
╰━⚡︎ Six
╰━꧞ fluffy, maybe pregnant!reader
☁︎ No Man's Land: Series Complete. One shots ongoing. I highly recommend reading the series first for context and to avoid spoilers! The one shots will spoil things to varying degrees, so just keep that in mind when deciding the order you want to read! After the series, the one shots are listed in chronological order.
╰━⚡︎ Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5
╰━꧞ series has it all!
╰━⚡︎ Delayed Onset
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, smutty-ish
╰━⚡︎ Your pen dies
╰━꧞ mental health fic, hurt/comfort, fluff, smutty-ish
╰━⚡︎ Dr. Abbot's wife. Here. Bloody.
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort
☁︎ Quiet: Series In Progress. Widower!Jack x Widow&Singlemom!Reader
╰━⚡︎ Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5
╰━꧞ series has it all!
☁︎ The Next Three Things: Series In Progress. Ex!Jack and Ex!Reader
╰━⚡︎ Part 1
╰━꧞ series has it all!
☁︎ One shots
╰━⚡︎ Do you?
╰━꧞ fluff, flirty, smutty-ish
╰━⚡︎ It's snowing.
╰━꧞ fluffy, flirty
╰━⚡︎ You have me.
╰━꧞ hurt/comfort, fluffy, flirty, angsty-ish
╰━⚡︎ No touching.
╰━꧞ smut
╰━⚡︎ I just want you.
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort
╰━⚡︎ In... ever.
╰━꧞ smut
╰━⚡︎ It counts.
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort, fuff
☁︎ She's Here: Series Complete.
╰━⚡︎ Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5
╰━꧞ series has it all!
╰━⚡︎ The Alternate Ending.
╰━꧞ angst
☁︎ One Shots
╰━⚡︎ Take it for yourself.
╰━꧞ smut
╰━⚡︎ Ricochet
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort
╰━⚡︎ Have you ever stopped loving me?
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, smutty-ish
╰━⚡︎ And you stay.
╰━꧞ sick fic (Pope), hurt/comfort, fluff
╰━⚡︎ Both of You
╰━꧞ pregnant!reader, fluff
☁︎ Bartender!Reader AU. Listed in chronological order, but don't necessarily need to be read in that order!
╰━⚡︎ When Deran hires you as his new bartender you never expect to become best friends with his older brother Pope, much less fall in love with him. And Pope certainly never expects to become best friends, much less fall in love with his youngest brother's new bartender.
╰━⚡︎ Mine
╰━꧞ smut
╰━⚡︎ You said maybe.
╰━꧞ angst, jealousy, hurt/comfort, smutty-ish
╰━⚡︎ Safe
╰━꧞ mental health fic, hurt/comfort, fluff
╰━⚡︎ I hear you.
╰━꧞ hurt/comfort, fluff, smutty-ish
☁︎ All That Matters AU.
╰━⚡︎ You and Andrew meet and become best friends. Somewhere along the way you fall in love. Best-friends-to-lovers with a splash of idiots-to-lovers.
╰━⚡︎ Can I just try?
╰━꧞ angst, hurt/comfort, fluff
☁︎ One shots
╰━⚡︎ Remember that.
╰━꧞ mental health, hurt/comfort
☁︎ Coming Soon!
☁︎ Coming Soon!
☁︎ Coming Soon!
☁︎ Coming Soon!
Older ADCU writing from 2020-2021 can be found here.
12.6k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: best-friends-to-lovers; hurt/comfort (physical injury); a splash of idiots-to-lovers; typical Andrew struggles with love; lack of self-worth for both; feelings of worthlessness and being undeserving; feelings of rejection at moments; moderately graphic description of injuries; insecurities; quick allusion to oral and PIV sex; mention of percocet; not canon or canon timeline compliant; allusion to canon typical background for Andrew and his family; mutual pining; Smurf mention; quickest mention of being sick (nobody is and nothing is described); soft; fluffy; no use of y/n.
Summary: After a job goes bad Andrew shows up at your door and learns what it really means to be taken care of.
AN: I don't have too much to say about this, we all know how I feel about my writing and that I've been struggling with it lately so we're just going to skip all that. It didn't turn out as well as I wanted it too and almost feels rushed in some way but I just need to throw it out into the universe lol. I have no idea how it got so long, it's unnecessary, I'm sorry. 😭 My plan is for these two to have their own AU (called All that Matters (maybe)) and to do more with them but time will tell. I didn't think of their backstory really so this doesn't say how they met, just how long they've known each other. Inspired by this prompt for the 3k celebration! On a personal level, things are rough and I wish I had an Andrew in my bed with me at night. 🫠 I hope this is okay and that you'd like to see more of these two and that this is enjoyable! Thank you so much for reading and all of your support! ♥️
You smile to yourself when you hear the familiar knock on your front door.
Andrew.
Andrew Cody. Your best friend. Your best friend with something about his knock that's unique enough for you to recognize immediately. Your best friend who's shown you that you've never truly had a best friend before because you've never been as close with someone as you are with Andrew, never felt so completely accepted. He knows everything about you and you everything about him. He can't believe you're still friends with him and it's ironic, because you can't believe he's still friends with you knowing everything about you and your past.
Your best friend who you're falling in love with. Who you've already fallen in love with and continue to fall more in love with, if you're honest.
In one sense you never expected to become his best friend and for him to become yours and to fall in love with him when you met almost two years ago. But in another there was just something there between you that you and Andrew felt the second you met.
You wish you could tell him how you feel but you can't bring yourself to risk your friendship, especially because you know how important your friendship is to Andrew, how it's the only real friendship he has. How you're his person. You won't jeopardize that and risk him losing you when he doesn't reciprocate, because you know he doesn't, and it becomes awkward.
You didn't expect to see him tonight. He'd texted you that his day hadn't gone as planned, code for something went wrong or at least awry with the job he and his brothers and J were doing today, so he wasn't going to make it over tonight. That made you worry of course, as did him not answering when you called to check on him, but he texted you that he was okay, just had to deal with some stuff.
Andrew was pissed sending that text. He was going to come over like usual, either sleep, as much as he ever really does, on your couch or slip out of your place and use his key to lock up behind him after you go to bed and he hears the TV in your room shut off, a sign he's learned means that you fell asleep and woke up to it on, wake just enough to turn it off and then roll back over and go back to sleep. He can't remember the last time he's gone an entire day without seeing you.
He was also pissed that he couldn't answer your call. It's not that he didn't want to, there was just too much going on and it was within an hour of the accident and he knew you'd easily hear the concussion he's sure he has in his voice and he didn't want to worry you.
But from the texts you exchanged after Andrew could tell you were still worried. He doesn't like making you worry. He's sure you'll worry when you see him, knows he won't be able to hide the extent of his injuries from you even if he tried because you'll just know somehow. You always seem to. Always seem to know how he's feeling and when he's in pain physically or mentally.
He figures that worrying about him with him there in front of you is probably easier for you than worrying about him when you can't see him. And if he's honest he just wants you. He hurts and doesn't feel great and he's pretty sure there's glass in his wounds and he knows you'll help him deal with all of his injuries and cuts and whatever else and you're comfort to him. You're the only thing that comforts him. Just being around you.
Andrew has fallen for you. He's quite certain that he's not just fallen for you but he's fallen in love with you, not that even if you somehow got together right now he'd be anywhere near ready to tell you. Falling in love with you was at once quick and slow. You've known each other for almost two years now and for Andrew you were different immediately.
There's just something about you. You're similar to him in so many ways, but also different. You can be more reserved, shy with social anxiety that can be borderline crippling sometimes, especially in situations where you don't know anyone or only know one person, even if that person is Andrew. You can be feisty though, a force who won't take shit from anyone and will speak her mind. Because while you might hate confrontation as it relates to yourself, hate standing up or advocating for yourself to the point you almost never do, you have no problem advocating and standing up and getting respectfully confrontational for other people, especially those you love and care about.
You become a bit more chatty once you're comfortable in a situation or with people. But you quite like sitting and not saying anything or chatting intermittently as something comes up. You enjoy parallel play, just sitting and doing things in the same room and enjoying each other's presence. You enjoy Andrew and he knows it. You make sure he feels it.
And you know everything. Everything he's done, everything his family has done, everything his family does.
Andrew told you everything one night after some job that really got to him. He expected you to reject him just like everyone else. Expected you to take steps away from him and tell him to get out and never come back. Expected you to block his number and never speak to him again. Expected that you'd realize he isn't the man you think he is. More than anything he expected to see the disgust and loathing and fear of him in your eyes as you finally looked at him like the monster he's so sure he actually is.
But you just hugged him, you just held him on your living room floor where he'd sunk to his knees as he told you everything. You rubbed his back and let him cry into you about everything he was telling you and then about everything that's ever happened to him because once that emotional release started and you stayed and whispered softly to him on repeat, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, You're safe here, Take your time, I've got you, and held him tightly and didn't run away, Andrew let everything out, had an emotional catharsis in your arms. Had the emotional catharsis he's needed to have and been desperate to have and just adding onto for decades.
And after, once he'd finally gotten himself together and his eyes clear enough to see you as much as possible with the way they were swollen from crying, while Andrew could tell you were processing a lot still, you weren't looking at him any differently. You weren't looking at him like he was a monster or in pity or like you were afraid of him and just trying to comfort him because you were scared what would happen if you didn't. You were looking at him how you always have, how you did before he told you.
You'd taken care of him then. Without him asking. Without asking what he needed. You just knew what to do. You offered him a shower because you know how much those help him and how they're a comfort for him, but he'd shaken his head and you'd understood why immediately. He didn't want to be alone. So then you offered a walk on the beach and he'd agreed with a wordless nod.
The first half of the walk was spent in silence, just you and Andrew walking next to each other and the crash and lull of the waves. You knew that's what he needed then. But once you hit your favorite ice cream place you bumped his hip with yours and gave him a sheepish smile before going and buying you both your favorites. On the way back you chatted at him intermittently, just enough, not too much or too little.
And you never made him talk about it, about everything he said that night. You knew that if and when he was ready to discuss it all with you more he would bring it up.
You're good for him. Andrew knows it. Deran and Craig know it. Smurf knows it and it’s a fucking problem to her. Deran's been trying to get him to make a move for a year now since he realized Andrew liked you like that, but Andrew's scared of losing you. His brain can't process the idea that you would ever want to be anything more than just a friend with him. You're you. And he's Andrew. You could never want him like that, romantically. He's lucky you even want him as a friend.
Pining over you in your presence hurts in a way, yeah, but being away is worse, and even if he can't kiss you and have you cuddle him like he wants, he still wants to be around you. You calm him, make him feel better, your presence in the room and getting to look at you and the smell of you, the sound of your voice and your soft touches to his arms or shoulders.
So Andrew just wants you right now. He decided to come over and hope you'd let him in. Deep down he knew you would but he never wants to count on it or get his hopes up, is still worried one day the reality of who he is and all the shit he's done is going to hit you and you're going to be done with him, realize you could do much better for a best friend than him. And so maybe he's less worried about whether you'll let him in and more worried that you'll kick him out and never let him back in again.
"You know, having a key means you don't have to knock, you can just come in whenever you want," you tease him with a smile as you open the door. The smile drops clean off your face as you take him in. "Andrew?" His name comes out in a breath, like you've been punched in the stomach, because you effectively have been.
You're frozen.
Andrew is hurt. He's shown up to your place needing help before, cleaning a cut and bandaging it, a butterfly band-aid here or there, but never anything like this.
He's leaning against your doorframe breathing harder and heavier than he normally does, his expression serious like always but dazed, concerningly dazed. Concussion dazed. Pain isn't written on his features but you can see it at the edges of his eyes and lips, the subtle hint of a grimace that only you would be able to see. You know how bad it must be for him to even let that much be seen.
There's blood smeared all over him, but predominantly his left side, cuts deep and shallow and mostly jagged littering his skin. Dried blood is caked on his left arm, dripping down from under the sleeve of his shirt with bigger pools of it on his forearm and wrist and hand. It's on his neck on that side too, almost completely covers the side, and fresher looking blood is starting to dry on his forehead where it's dripping down from his hairline. Fresh blood drips down his neck and arm in spots too, flows over his dried blood and is getting closer to dripping off his fingers as it runs down his hand.
Bruising is already setting in along his arm and cheekbone and jaw from whatever impact he took, and you're sure there's more bruising underneath all of the dried blood. Andrew fully grimaces in front of you as he brings his right hand up to hold his left side. Your eyes follow the movement and study his dark shirt and pants harder. Blood is seeping through them, and both are ripped in small lines in places.
The few seconds you're frozen feel so, so much longer than they actually are.
"Oh my god," you finally whisper as you come back to. Your eyes snap to his. "Andrew what… What happened?" Before he can even try to answer you're stepping out of the way and starting to worry and fret over him. You just need to make him better and give him as much pain relief as possible. "Come in, come in!"
You hold your hand out for him and Andrew almost starts to reach for it as he pushes himself off the doorframe but has to quickly move it to the wall to help keep his balance as he sways when he starts to walk. "Woah, woah." You move so that you're next to him quickly, slot yourself under his right arm to help support him and keep him stable. "Okay, I've got you. Come on, we're going to go to my bathroom okay?"
He gives you a soft nod in response and the two of you start walking toward your bathroom and you snatch up your water bottle as you walk by the end table. Andrew is leaning on you way more than he wants to be, but he needs your support, literally and figuratively, and your touch, just feeling you against him, is heaven. In addition to the pain his head is spinning quickly at all of the movement, the vertigo making him almost nauseous. Things had gotten worse on the ride to your place he'd made J give him. He knows he's concussed, has been more than enough times to know the feeling, and he's sure that by now you know he is too.
"You should've checked who was here before opening," he mumbles as he limps along with you. Andrew knows you didn't with the way your face fell when you saw him. You would've already known what you were opening the door to if you'd looked.
His voice is strained, more strained than you've ever heard it, and it's tired, you can tell he's tired, physically exhausted by whatever the fuck he's been through today. You can tell he's doing his best to hide how much pain he's in, but the little winces and grunts of pain don't escape your notice. Each one feels like a knife to your heart.
"I could tell by your knock," you mumble back distractedly as you get to your bathroom and turn the light on. You lead him so that he's standing with his back to the counter and get him to lean against it a bit as you slip from under his arm to stand in front of him, set your water bottle down.
"Hold onto me," you instruct him softly, bring his right hand to your shoulder and leave him to decide if his left arm has enough range of movement for him to do the same with his left hand. "Good," you murmur, carefully opening the medicine cabinet behind the side mirror and looking through various pill bottles until you find the leftover percocet from that time you broke your ankle and had surgery and pour two into your hand. "Okay, here," you hold your hand out near his right one, "it's some percocet, it should help."
Andrew blinks at you a few times. You're offering him pain meds, good ones that will probably actually help. That's never happened before. Nobody ever cared before. If he was lucky and he got hurt Smurf would leave a couple of ibuprofen on the counter for him.
"You don't have to waste that on me. Should keep it in case you need it one day," he tells you without making a move to take the pills from you as badly as his body is screaming at him to take them.
You breathe a laugh and shake your head at him as you look him in the eye. "It's not wasting it, Andrew. Not at fucking all. You need it, there's no point in you being in unnecessary pain when I have something that can hopefully help. So please, take it."
The two of you stare at each other for a few seconds as Andrew considers it. “I want to help you, so please let me.” Another few seconds pass but eventually he gives you the slightest nod and takes them from you, takes a drink from your water bottle that you hand to him to wash them down. "Thank you," you whisper.
You turn your attention to his injuries now that he has some pain medication on board, pray that it helps at least a little. You're so focused on what needs to be done that the full meaning and implication of what you say next doesn't fully hit you. "We need to get your clothes off."
It's the way you hear Andrew's breath catch a little at your words and how you have to work hard to steady your hands as you bring them to the button of his pants that make you realize what exactly you just said. You close your eyes and cringe at yourself.
"Fuck," you mutter. You open your eyes and force yourself to look up at him. Hazel eyes you want to drown in are already looking at you when you make eye contact. You can't decide if Andrew is blushing a little or if it's just color to his cheeks from his injuries. Your entire body runs hot with how flustered you get and even though you love giving him the eye contact he seems to love so much you have to look away, focus on a non-existent spot on his shirt. "I'm, I'm sorry I should've asked, just I, I was so focused on trying to help. Um, is it okay to… to take your pants off, to help you get your pants off? Only because, just, your leg, I think it's bleeding."
There's a part of Andrew that's beaming internally at the way you're so flustered by this, a part of him that thinks you're too adorable for words and certainly for this fucked up world and someone as fucked up and as much of a monster as him, but that wants and needs you to be his anyway, no matter how selfish. There's a part of him that wishes he could vocalize that to you, could tell you how he feels, could tell you how beautiful you are to him in every way and how much he wants you and how he's fallen and continues to keep falling in love with you every time he's with you.
And even though this, your help and touch and care, is the reason he came over, there's a part of him that wants to push you away, tell you to stop and to get out and that he'll take care of it, take care of himself like he always has. There's a part of him that needs to protect himself and his heart and push you away and leave you before you can leave him. Before he can be too much and too needy and, especially in this case, too weak and too unable to do the one thing he's good at and protect and keep you safe and feeling safe so you leave him, realize what he already knows, that he's really not good for anything. Because he knows how this plays out, how it always plays out. He'll lose you one day because of himself.
There's a part of him that wishes the accident had just killed him. There's a part of him that wants to grab you and kiss you and tell you that it's okay for you to take his clothes off as long as he can take off yours. There's a part of him that wants to never see you again, never put you at risk because of what he and his family do because it feels like this could so easily be you if he'd even rescued you in time from whoever took you to use against him. There's a part of him that wants to get cleaned up, pack up as much of your shit as the two of you can, stop by the house and get all of the money Smurf has hidden around and leave, get the fuck out of Oceanside with you, out of California, maybe out of the country.
But Andrew is too tired and his brain is too fuzzy, has slammed too hard against his skull today, for him to truly even begin to evaluate all those parts of him and all of his feelings and emotions in the context of this situation. He just wants to be sitting on your couch with you already. Wants this all to be over and everything to just be normal.
He grits his teeth as he moves his left hand up to hold onto your shoulder, squeezes so gently you're not sure if it's deliberate or not. "That's fine."
So not deliberately, then. You swallow hard. It's not exactly the reaction you wanted or hoped you'd get to asking the man you're so completely in love with and so fucking attracted to if you could take his clothes off. That's fine. Not yes, of course. Or just of course, or yeah, or sure, or literally anything with any level of positive connotation. Just that's fine.
Rejection slams into you hard, almost hard enough to take your breath away.
You know you shouldn't read into it. You know Andrew is in a ton of pain and exhausted and isn't thinking clearly or completely processing, that he's just trying to focus on keeping himself upright. But you can't help it. In the moment it feels so real and just confirms what you've always known. That no matter what it feels like sometimes, Andrew has no interest in you beyond being your friend.
"Okay," you whisper.
Even in his concussed, heavily brain-fogged state Andrew hears it, the change in your tone. The concern and worry and almost panic he knows he heard earlier are still there but now there's an obvious sadness to it and something that sounds almost like… rejection. He thinks. Maybe that’s just the concussion talking. For you to sound rejected you'd have to want him romantically to begin with and that has to be wishful thinking on his part. The sadness still concerns him though.
As Andrew goes to ask if you're okay your fingers find the button of his pants and easily unbutton them and pull his zipper down and Andrew can't breathe, has to focus on not ruining this and everything by getting hard and disgusting you, or making you uncomfortable. Both of you have imagined this a million times, you unbuttoning and unzipping and helping Andrew out of his pants, but absolutely never in this context.
It's still happening though. Your thumbs are still hooking the waistband of his pants and pulling them down over his ass, slowly revealing tight, black boxer briefs that you do your absolute fucking best to ignore. "Can you hold onto the counter?" you murmur.
Andrew does so wordlessly and you bend your knees and continue to pull his pants down. Your tongue clicks softly against the back of your teeth and you let out a sad, concerned breath through your nose as the scrapes and cuts and bruises to his left leg come into view as you get his pants down his thighs and calves.
Once you've helped him step out of his pants you toss them to the side and take a better look at his injuries. There are a few proper cuts here and there, enough so that there's streaks of dried blood painting his left thigh and knee and calf just like it does his left arm and hand. It's mostly bruising and scrapes though, nothing as bad as his neck or left arm.
You stand up wordlessly and leave him leaning against the counter just long enough for you to grab a spare towel, fold it, put the lid to the toilet down and the towel on top of it to make it at least a little more comfortable for him. "Here." You hold out your hand for him but don't look at him. Andrew wants to say something about it, wants to just move himself over there but he lets himself take your hand, lets himself take comfort from your touch and your skin on his, lets you guide him to sit.
He winces as you help him lower himself down to sit, lets out the closest thing to a groan of pain you think you'll ever hear from him and it shatters you. Between the concussion and the pain and how tired he is, Andrew almost can't tell where the pain is really coming from or stops or ends. He just knows everything hurts.
You can't stand seeing him in this much pain, can't stand seeing him in any pain. Tears line your eyes, only capable of being held back because you need to take care of him and because you know if you let them fall he'll get concerned about you and try to make you the priority.
"We need to get your shirt off," you tell him quietly, still looking anywhere but his face.
He can still hear it in your voice, how dejected you are. He's not sure whether he should say something. Maybe his mind is just making it up. Why would you be dejected? He's starting to worry he upset you somehow. And yet all he can force out of his mouth right now is an empty, "Okay."
You grab the hem of his shirt and start to lift it up and help get it over his arms and Andrew's wincing and hissing through the pain, face screwed up in it. You should get an award for not bursting into tears. "Do you want me to cut it off?"
"No." He takes a breath and then moves quickly to get his arms out of the fucking shirt, swaying just a little with the movement.
"Okay, woah, I've got you. I've got you," you murmur as you bring your hands to his shoulders to help keep him sitting up straight, eyes still refusing to find his and staring at the bunched up shirt around his neck. He wishes he could explain to you how much your touch helps, how it makes the pain quiet so much, relaxing him so he isn't tensed against it, and giving his mind something else to focus on other than how he's hurting. He knows it doesn't really make any fucking sense and has to all be in his head but he swears it's true, your touch makes him feel so much better.
After a couple seconds holding onto him and another few seconds of you taking your hands off his shoulders but hovering them to the side to make sure he doesn't sway again, you finish getting his shirt over his head and off, toss it to the side near his pants. And then you kneel in front of him, off center a bit in front of his left side.
"Oh Andrew," you breathe as you take in his left side. All of the blood, fresh and old, and all of the cuts, many of which you think might have glass in them, are bad enough and have your heart shattering and stomach flipping. But it's the already purple bruising along the side of his chest creeping onto his abdomen that forces you to swallow hard to settle the overwhelming wave of nausea that makes you want to be sick into the sink. It's not that it's gross, not at all, not even close.
It's that it's Andrew. It's that it's Andrew who went through something physically traumatic enough to cause this kind of damage. You have no idea whether those bruises are truly bruising to his skin or if they're a sign of internal bleeding. And if his side took that level of impact then his head and brain took at least that level of impact, and fuck, what if he has a skull fracture or a fucking brain bleed?
All of his other symptoms could be from any of those things, internal bleeding, a brain bleed, a concussion, who knows what the fuck else. What if he goes to sleep and doesn't wake up? What if you don't force him to go to the hospital and something happens to him? What if you lose him? He might not want you and that might be devastating to you, but having him around you in some capacity is so much fucking better than not having him around you at all.
What the fuck happened?
He still hasn't told you and you need to know. You need that information.
Andrew studies your face as you take in his injuries. They must be worse than he thought based on your reaction. It's not the absolute worst he's ever felt after a job so he's not overly concerned, but he knows you're not used to this. You look like you're in pain as your eyes run over his skin, like you could be sick, but there's something in your expression that makes it clear it's not because you find it gross. It's something else. Something he can't quite place.
Maybe he shouldn't have come here and put you through this. Maybe this will be too much, will make you realize just how fucked up he and his life and his family truly are and you’ll leave him, stop being his friend. His best friend. His only real true friend.
Normally Andrew is okay with silence. But right now it's suffocating and he misses the sound of your voice. He misses you looking at him. He misses your touch. It feels like something is wrong with the way you won't look at him but he doesn't know what.
This is part of the problem with you and Andrew being so similar. Neither of you are good at sharing all of your feelings and you both have a tendency to shut down and retreat inward which makes the other do the same which usually makes the other do the same even more, and so unless and until one of you finds a foothold to help you guys get out and back to normal it easily becomes a painful feedback loop, both of you stuck in your heads and panicking and spinning out, convinced the other is finally done.
Andrew reaches down to his side and touches it gently with his hand, brings his hand back up to see if it's still bleeding. It is. He shifts a little and looks down. It doesn't look great. He's glad he's so good at dissociating to avoid pain, guesses his trauma has at least one positive.
Seeing his side gives him one of those footholds you both need, or at least he hopes it does. He licks his chapped and slightly bloodied lips and then forces the sentence out. You've never not replied to him. You'll reply and things will start to get back to normal and he won't have made the wrong decision in coming here. "I think there's glass."
Andrew's voice brings you back. You were stuck looking at his side and thinking of every worst case scenario and how all of them ended with you never telling him how you felt. He pretty much all but confirmed he doesn't feel for you how you feel for him today with the that's fine in response to you asking to take his clothes off but still. You realize you'll regret it if you don't at least tell him and give it that chance. You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you lose him, if he died and you never told him, never at least made sure he knows he's desirable and lovable and handsome and that anyone would be lucky to have him, no matter what Smurf might try to tell him or what Baz did tell him.
"There is, yeah." You take in a breath and clear your throat. "Let me see what I have," you murmur as you stand up and start rummaging through your cabinets and drawers looking for supplies. You still don't look him in the eye or at his face, you can't. Internally you're still… devastated, as overdramatic as that sounds. By all of it.
It's not something you consciously realize but you love and care about Andrew so much already that even with as devastated and hurt as you are by what you're so sure is the reality that he doesn't like you the same way you like him, you're more devastated about his injuries and the pain he's feeling and the risk to his health and the way he can't go to a doctor. Your eyes blur with tears a little as you empty out a little bowl of random hair things you've collected over the years into the drawer it came out of. You'll fix the slight mess you've made of all your drawers and cabinets later, you couldn't care less about it right now if you tried.
Once you've looked through it all and gathered everything you think you could possibly need and get it set within reach of your spot on the floor you wash your hands well and dry them with a fresh towel. You kneel in front of him in the same spot again and open some of the saline wash you have and soak some gauze so you can clean his cuts before pulling the glass out.
He can't take it anymore. You still haven't looked at him, still haven't fucking looked at him and Andrew's sure he did something wrong and you hate him or at least don't want to be his friend and are just doing this because you feel bad and he wants to know what he did, wants to be able to try to fix it. His brain is just tired and not firing as well as it normally does so it's hard for him to come up with anything, more of the daze and fogginess still fucking with his brain that he wants to admit.
Andrew brings his left hand up and rests it over yours where you've started to clean his skin and says your name a few times, voice just above a whisper and all raw and gravel and anxiety. He almost sounds scared. And he is. He's scared he's losing you.
You hate it. You hate how anxious he sounds. It makes your heart shatter into even tinier pieces. Your head snaps up and your eyes find his immediately, hand still. He looks as worried as he sounds, but there's something in his eyes, an expression in them and the way his face is set that's different, that you haven't seen before and struggle to place until you've held his gaze for a few seconds and it hits you. Andrew is scared. He's scared of something and you're not sure what and you hate all of that too. Somehow the pieces of your heart shatter again, growing closer to sand you're not sure you'll ever be able to put back together.
"The job, the job went…" Andrew trails off, breathing hard and wincing slightly. You're both sure he broke multiple ribs. "It went bad. The job went bad."
Pieces click into place. You get it. You get it.
Andrew is insecure. You’re far and away his best friend and one of his only friends and you know he's worried and insecure and you can tell he thinks he's going to lose you and that you're pulling away with how you've started to retreat into yourself since the taking his clothes off thing. You know it because you recognize the feeling that his eyes are conveying to you, feel it yourself and know how much it sucks and hurts and can be crippling. He's trying to get you back, to find that foothold and he's struggling.
He shouldn't be struggling. You shouldn't be making him struggle. He doesn't need to be struggling or worried or scared about anything in relation to you. You'll always be his best friend, as long as he wants you to be, even if you desperately wish you could be more and even being so sure now that he doesn't want you how you want him.
You know what it feels like. You know how he feels. And it fucking sucks and is awful and you'll never let him feel that way, especially right now when he doesn't need to be. It suddenly becomes easy to set aside all of your own mental bullshit, your sadness and heartache. If anything you start berating yourself for even letting yourself fall into your own mental bullshit. Andrew has needed you since he knocked on your door, he's hurt, badly, and you should never have given him more to struggle with right now.
Maybe you're wrong though. Maybe you're misreading things. He doesn't like you how you like him, doesn't have any romantic interest in you. Maybe you don't give him the comfort you think you do. Maybe you're just here. Maybe this is all physiological and because of his injuries and because you pretty much demanded to know what happened as soon as you saw him.
No. You know better than that. You're Andrew's best friend and he thinks he's losing you while also trying to deal with all of his physical pain and injuries. You can't have that, no matter how you're feeling.
"I know," you nod, giving him a small and what you hope is reassuring smile. "I know, I know it did, I can tell." You rest your free hand on his bare thigh just a bit above his knee and give a reassuring squeeze. "And that's okay. Sometimes they go bad, it's okay. I promise it's okay. I've got you."
You widen your smile a bit as you blink back tears of eighty different emotions and slide your hand up his thigh just a little until your fingers bump into his where his right hand rests on his thigh. "Fuck the job, Andy."
Andy.
You've never called him that before. Not out loud at least. You've called him it in your head a million times, always figured it was far too intimate and close to a pet name a girlfriend might call him, something you knew he didn't want with you, wouldn't want you to call him. Andrew is special enough. You were the only one he let call him it, could never fully understand why you, but he did. He loved the way you helped him take it back from his mom and the way she'd use it to manipulate him.
The thing is, though, you don't even notice you do it, that Andy slips out. Andrew is the only one of the two of you who does.
And it rocks him, mind, body and soul.
He's never been called that before, nobody other than his mom has ever really wanted to call him some sort of special nickname like that and she used baby like she did with all of them. He can't even remember if Amy tried to use a pet name.
He loves it. Loves the way it sounds coming off your tongue, is immediately imagining all the ways it could sound. Andy through a giggle he pulls from you or laughed when he pulls laughter from you somehow or said softly as you squeeze his arm to help calm him and bring him back to you and get him to walk away from a situation.
Andy in that sleepy slur you get when you fall asleep on the couch. Andy in a pleasured and contented sigh when moves from kissing your lips to your jaw and just below your ear. Andy in the prettiest moan as his tongue flicks across your clit and your hands tug at his curls or as he slides inside of you or as you sink down on him. Andy cried through tears of pleasure as he fucks you within an inch of your life into the mattress. Andy moaned as you come for him, panted breathlessly as you ask him to come for you, as you feel his cum warm you.
The name distracts him from the tears he swears he saw in your eyes, concern he'll never understand why you have for him, and from the way your voice changed earlier and how you only just started to look at him again.
You swallow the lump forming in your throat and keep the smile on your face, not quite forced because you are happy he's alive and at least okay enough right now, but a little because you're hurting because he's hurting and because he doesn't want you. "The only thing that matters right now is that you're alive and here with me, I promise. It's okay. You know I'd never lie to you, yeah?" Your eyes search his as you nod softly and raise your eyebrows in emphasis. "It's okay."
It takes a couple of seconds for him to find his voice again but eventually Andrew does. "Okay."
He moves his hand from yours so that you can continue, but you don't, not quite yet. "Once I'm done cleaning and getting the glass out do you want to shower before I bandage everything?"
"No." Both of you are surprised at how fast he says it. Andrew loves showering. But not today, not right now. The thought of it alone is exhausting and he just doesn't have it in him.
"Okay." You give him another reassuring smile. You're kind of glad he doesn't want to, you didn't like the thought of him standing alone right now. "I um, I, I have some wipes I use sometimes. They're pretty much just water so they don't leave like a scent and shouldn't make you itchy. I can wipe you off as I clean everything?"
The intimacy of the act doesn't escape either of you, but you both try to write it off as just circumstance, tell yourself the intimacy it could have isn't really there because the other doesn't want that. "Yeah, okay," he whispers.
You nod and move your hand off him, stay on your knees as you reach over and pull them out of the top drawer of the sink vanity. And then you start cleaning his wounds and wiping off the rest of him as you go, decide to get everything clean before you pull the glass out and bandage everything up.
As you do Andrew finally starts to tell you what happened. He tells you everything, watches the way you react with your face and eyes instead of your voice so he can get it all out, occasionally glance up at him to give him a bigger reaction and so that he knows you're still here with him and the two of you are okay.
The only time you really speak is when you clean one of his wounds or pull out a piece of glass and he winces. You murmurs these soft little apologies that make his heart fucking race and him fall a little more in love with you because he can feel how much you care for and about him, and how bad you feel for causing him pain and how much you love him, even if he thinks it's only as a friend.
It's easy to not really notice just how much gauze you're using and how bloody it and your hands get, and how much glass you're pulling from his skin as you go with how focused on tending to his injuries you are. But once you have what you hope is all the glass out and all of his injuries tended to and wounds bandaged however they need it really hits you as you look around your bathroom.
And it knocks the wind out of you, makes you feel like you've been punched in the stomach all over again as you stare at your bloody hands and the piles of blood soaked gauze and the little bowl full of bloodied glass. "Fuck, Andrew," you breathe out, barely anything behind the words, but just enough that he can hear them.
Something in your tone makes him a little uneasy.
You breathe through a wave of buried panic induced nausea and use one of your wipes to clean your hands. You drop the wipe and dry your hands with your shirt and then look around again. "What the fuck?" You shake your head slowly as you take it all in.
"I mean jesus fucking christ, Andrew. What the fuck?" Terror and panic and fear driven by just how much you love this fucking man sitting in front of you saturate every word. Your entire body starts to shake just a touch, barely noticeable. "Look at all of this. The blood and the glass. Your blood. That's glass I pulled out of you." Your head spins because, yeah, you've fixed him up but he could be bleeding internally or on or in his brain, and you've done all you can for him and he could still be dying right in front of you. He could still die.
"What the fuck? What…" Your voice gives out on you because of how upset you are and how hard you're trying to fight it. You haven't looked at him, have gone back to not looking at him and sharing eye contact the way he loves. You know if you do you'll ruin everything and totally give yourself away and burst into fucking tears.
Andrew's heart sinks and he joins you in fighting back a wave of nausea. He's been expecting this day in a sense but he didn't think it would be today and he didn't think it would be like this. He's always expected the day would come that you'd truly see him and be done. It never occurred to him that your reaction to this would be anger, that you'd be mad at him.
He never thought you'd do that. He never thought you'd be mad at him for something like this, something he couldn’t control and was forced into doing by his family, never thought this would cause the end. He thought you were different. He thought he could truly come to you for anything. But now he can see that the immediate adrenaline of him showing up hurt has passed and you've gotten him patched up and now you're looking around and seeing everything and it's all sinking in and so of course you're mad at him. Of course you're done. You can't even fucking look at him.
It shatters him.
It hurts worse than any pain physical or emotional he's ever felt before.
He trusted you. He trusted you not to do this, not to be like her and the rest of his family. He'll never trust again. He's not even sure he'll live long enough to have the opportunity. But he is sure he can't stay here any longer.
Andrew takes one last look at you and then focuses his gaze at a spot on the wall across from him. He grimaces as he stands. "I'm sorry. Thank you for cleaning me up. I'll leave now."
"What?" Your head snaps up. "Why? You, you can't! You can't be alone right now, Andy, it's not safe. Why? Why do you want to go?"
You scramble to your feet so that you're standing in front of him and half blocking the door. You try to catch his eye but when you get close he just blinks and looks away at a different spot. You start to shake harder.
"Andrew, please, talk to me," you plead with him. Even though you can't catch his gaze, with the change in angle standing has brought you can finally see it.
He thinks you're mad. He thinks you're angry at him. He thinks you don't want him. He thinks you're done with him like everyone else in his life has been at some point.
You almost have to laugh when you realize because he's so fucking wrong.
"I'm not mad at you, Andrew," you murmur. "I'm not mad at all. I'm not mad at you, I promise." You swallow hard again and blink back tears because the last thing you want to do is guilt trip him into believing you.
You take in a deep breath to help pull yourself together and then slowly reach up, make sure he sees your hands, and cup his face with a tenderness and lightness and reverence he knows he doesn't deserve. That same touch gives him plenty of room to pull away and refuse to move as it so gently coaxes his head to turn and look down at you.
One look at your face and a split second of shared eye contact is all Andrew needs to realize that he was wrong. About all of it. He sees it all for what it is now, knows that he's mistaking the terror and panic and fear in your voice for anger because that's all he's ever known and learned.
"I'm not angry or upset or mad. I'm sorry for making you think that I am, but I'm truly not Andrew." You keep your voice steady enough but start to lose the battle with your tears as you stare into the eyes of the man you love more than anything and can't stomach the thought of losing.
"I'm not mad. I’m worried and scared and don’t like seeing you in pain, and you need to go the hospital you have a concussion, what if you have a brain bleed, and the bruising, you could have internal bleeding and you won’t go, I mean, I, you can't go, I know. I know you can't and it's not that you won't." Tears start to accumulate along your lash lines and your voice grows a little shaky. "But I hate that and so I'm just worried and scared and need you to be okay. I'm not mad at you though. I'm not, I promise. And I don't blame you or anything. I just wish I could make it all better and take it on for you. I really don't like seeing you in pain. I don't like seeing you injured. But that doesn't mean don't come to me, because I'd hurt worse knowing you're hurt like this and didn't come to me. I want you to. I need you to come to me."
Andrew's head spins because you're not mad, you're really not, that's undeniably clear. Nothing about you has changed in the way his brain catastrophized. "Oh," he whispers.
Something inside you breaks.
You can't fucking do this anymore. He could've died and you could've never had the chance and you know now you'll regret it, regret never trying. You know he doesn't want you like this, his reaction to asking to take his clothes off told you that for sure, and you know this could ruin everything, could mean he couldn't be your friend anymore. But you're so caught up in the moment and your emotions about him dying and having never tried or never told him or never made sure he knows he's desirable and lovable that you just have to do it. You have to try.
"Can I just…" A few tears spill over and fall down your cheeks as you continue to hold his face in your hands. Andrew takes a little step closer as concern and protectiveness pull onto his face and start to take over his brain because he hates seeing you cry, hates it. "Can I just try? Can I… Can I do something I've been wanting to do for a really long time now? Because life is short and fragile and you could've died today and you still could and I just, I, I, I… You, you could've died, Andy you could've died and I know it's over and you're here and everything's okay right now, but you still could've died and I'm still so, so scared and worried. I'm so scared. So I need to do this, please. You can push me away and leave and never speak to me again when you hate it and it makes things weird. But I just need to try and to tell you, I have to have tried, and I don't, I don't know how to tell you, how to say it, so can I just… try?"
Andrew nods slowly, confusion evident on his face and in his tone. "Yeah."
You sniffle and wipe as many tears from your face as you can. They seem to have stopped for this. It's funny because you always imagined that if this happened you'd have to do it quickly, before you lost your nerve. But right now it's not about having the nerve. It's about having the chance and him being here and okay and you needing to tell him because he could've died, and that isn't something you can lose.
You share a few seconds of eye contact with him, that confusion still present in them that's kind of so adorable your stomach aches. You step closer to Andrew so that your chests are touching, take his face back in your hands and pull his head down toward you as you lean up and into him, your nose nuzzling against his for just a second.
And then you press your lips to his in a kiss so soft and tender and loving that it's almost devastating in the best sense, completely erases every memory of kissing Andrew has up to now. You let the kiss linger long enough for him to know you mean it and to give him a chance to kiss you back.
But Andrew's so caught off guard and frozen by the kiss, by this thing he's dreamed of actually happening that he can't even get his lips to begin moving to kiss you back by the time you're realizing you were right and pulling away, releasing his face from your hands.
You take a step back and shake your head just a little, let out a small, embarrassed laugh as you try to play it off. "I'm sorry." You shrug shallowly and have to look over his shoulder and past him because you can't face him right now, aren't sure how you'll ever face him again, but you know you'll get there. He's your best friend. Or at least you hope he still is and that he can move past this with you. Tears start to stream down your face again.
"I, I didn't think you'd like me like that back, I mean, I guess, I… I should've known and just trusted that instinct after the clothes thing, I just thought maybe… I don't know. I don't know why I ever thought you might like me. But, um, after this," you gesture at the bloody gauze and bowl of glass and his wounds, "I just needed to tell you so that I didn't regret it and so that you know you're so, so incredibly lovable and desirable, and I didn't know how else to tell you I want you like that, that I'm, that, that, I've fallen, am falling in love with you. I'm sorry, I really am, and I hope we can still be friends and-"
You're cut off by Andrew's lips pressing against yours as he kisses you this time, steps toward you and takes your face in his hands and holds it with a delicacy and reverence that nobody but you would think he was capable of. After the initial shock wears off you immediately kiss him back, bring your hands up to his wrists and hold onto them gently.
Andrew ends the kiss much sooner than either he or you would like, but he doesn't go far, pulls back just enough so you can see each other clearly. "I'm falling…too." He can't quite bring himself to say the word love yet for a number of reasons, all of which you understand without him even beginning to try to explain. You know how complicated of an emotion that is for him. His eyes are glassy as a few tears spill over and slide down his face because he can't believe this and he wants you and needs you and he's so happy even if he can't understand why you want him like that and are falling in love with him. "I want you like that too. I want you."
"Yeah?" you whisper.
"Yeah," he murmurs back as you close the short distance between your lips and kiss him again.
The kiss starts the same but quickly escalates into something much deeper, Andrew's tongue gliding along yours as the two of you start to find your rhythm and confidence, bodies pressing together gently. You both let out gentle sighs and pull soft moans from the other, neither of you really able to hold back now that this is happening. You've both dreamed about it for too long.
You don't know how long you stand there making out and getting lost in each other and your feelings for each other. The only reasons you break apart and Andrew lets go of your face are your shared need for more oxygen than you can get while making out and because you realize that standing must hurt for him right now, leaning down to kiss you is probably the same.
"I've wanted this, wanted you, this entire time, for almost two years," Andrew admits softly once he's caught his breath.
A slow smile pulls onto your face. "I've wanted this and you for that long too, Andy. I want to be yours and I want you to be mine."
You're so beautiful it burns him. The smile you're wearing etches itself into his brain. He'll never forget it. He can't imagine living without you.
"I want to be yours and you to be mine too. I want everything with you. I want, I want you." There's so much more he wants to say, wants to tell you, but it's getting harder to just keep himself standing. The percocets you gave him have helped with the pain but intensified how drowsy and foggy-headed he feels. The last thing he wants to do to you right now is pass out in your bathroom.
You can tell there's more he wants to say but you can also see how tired he is, how his body is really starting to truly physically exhaust out more than he can continue to fight, because you know he's been fighting it since he got here.
"Then consider me yours and you mine," you murmur, bringing your hand up to push some curls off his forehead and resting your fingertips on his cheek after. You lean back up and give him a quick kiss just because you can now. "We can talk more tomorrow or once you're feeling better, yeah?"
"Is that okay?" he whispers. He doesn't want to fuck this up before he really gets the chance to experience this and you fully.
"More than," you nod. "You don't need to push yourself. I'm your girl and that's not changing because we need to defer a conversation because you're seriously injured and exhausted, I promise. I'm not going anywhere Andy." You give him a soft, reassuring smile. It's so cliché and dramatic but Andrew sees his entire future and reason for being in your eyes. "Come on, I'll grab you a pair of sweatpants and a shirt from the stash you keep here and help you get dressed."
You shift and slot yourself under his shoulder again and help him walk over to the side of your bed. The fact that he has an entire drawer in your dresser in your bedroom in your apartment really should've been the writing on the wall for both of you in retrospect. But hindsight is always 20/20.
Getting his sweatpants on is relatively easy. It hurts because he has to stand up, but it's nothing in comparison to the pain his broken ribs cause when he tries to lift his arms up enough for you to get his shirt on. You chew your lip so hard that it bleeds as you try to make it work, and eventually you all but beg him to just say fuck it to the shirt and be shirtless. He's quick to agree.
You decide to go watch something on the couch together for a while. You help him walk out to it and sit. Andrew can't lie. When you sit a bit away from him, no parts of you touching, your thighs not even anywhere near brushing each other's, he's bummed. Maybe even a little hurt, rejection stinging through him. He thought it would be different now that you've kissed and you said you're his and he's yours. And then it hits him and he's honestly surprised he isn't leaning forward in blinding pain from his ribs and being sick on your floor at the thought.
What if you're changing your mind?
What if helping him get dressed and out to the couch was enough time for you to come to your fucking senses and realize you can do better than him and that he's a monster and a terrible person and so far away from even approaching good enough for you? What if you don't want him anymore? What if you don't need him anymore? Need him in that pure way you make him feel where you just need him, not what he can do for you or what he can provide.
What if you're not falling in love with him anymore?
"Andrew?"
Your voice finally breaks through his thoughts and he looks over at you. "Yeah?" he mumbles.
You smile at him and cock your head. "You okay? You zoned out on me there a little." When he nods you don't push the issue, something he's immensely grateful for because he has no idea what he would say. "Did you… Would you like, or, or can you lay down on your side?" You gently pat your lap once and he realizes you want him to put his head there. You want him to lay with his head in your lap. "Might be more comfortable than sitting up, though I'm sure getting down and comfy will hurt like a bitch. And it's okay if you don't want to, of course."
The intimacy of the ask alone could make him cry.
"Yeah, okay." Andrew shifts and then starts to lay down and like you said, it hurts like a bitch and he can't help the winces and grimaces he makes as he gets as comfortable as possible and settles with his head in your lap and his hand on your knee. It's heavenly. It’s perfect.
You grab the blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over him so he doesn't get cold being shirtless. You bring one of your hands to his curls and start running your fingers through them and stroking his hair. You rest your other hand under the blanket on his shoulder, don't want to overwhelm him with too much loving touch that he's not used to at once.
"Is this okay Andy? If it's hurting your head or making things worse with the concussion, I can stop," you murmur.
"No, it's not hurting, it… It feels good." His cheeks flush with something that's not quite embarrassment but approaching it. "Nobody's ever, I've never had someone do that. I like it."
Something about his admission breaks your heart. You guessed that was going to be the case but it doesn't make it easier to accept. You've wanted to do it since the day you met him. And there's nobody you know who deserves this small gesture of comfort more than Andrew. It kills you that he's never had it.
"Good," you whisper.
You find something random to watch and put it on, hope that Andrew will be in and out of sleep as you sit out here together. With every pass of your hand through his curls or over his head you can feel him get sleepier and relax even more.
Your chin trembles a little and you have to bite your lip when Andrew moves his hand from your knee up across his body to hold your hand that's resting on his shoulder. "I like it when you call me that." His voice is adorably sleep slurred, a sense of vulnerability in everything he's doing and saying right now that makes you want to weep because you can't believe you're lucky enough that he trusts you like this.
You're not sure what he's talking about though. You haven't consciously realized you've been calling him Andy. "Call you what?"
"Andy." He nuzzles his face into your thigh a little and lets out a soft sigh, sleep coming for him harder than it has since he was a child before Smurf fucked him up so much. "You've been calling me Andy all night. I like it."
"Oh." You laugh through a breath as you think about it. "I… I, wow, that's kind of embarrassing. I didn't even notice that's what I was saying. Honestly, I've called you that in my head for so long."
"It's not embarrassing." All of his words slur together as he fights off sleep to finish the conversation and because he doesn't want to leave you, doesn't want to wake up to you not here with him and this whole thing having been a concussion induced dream. "I'm glad it slipped out."
You giggle at how fucking adorable and precious and cute and perfect he is this sleepy. "I'm glad you like it."
Andrew hums and you think he's too close to asleep to verbally reply. But then he does. "I like everything about you, Doll."
Doll.
You could actually fucking scream. Andrew, your Andrew, your Andy, who you've been pining over for almost two years, just called you Doll as your own special pet name because you're his. You're his. He wants you to be his.
He's falling in love with you.
Before you can say anything to him about you liking him calling you Doll you feel Andrew relax all the way and know he's fallen asleep on you.
You could actually fucking scream about that too.
A few episodes pass with Andrew drifting in and out of sleep, the two of you talking a little when he's awake. When the episode you're currently watching starts to end and Andrew's awake you tell yourself to take the chance and ask.
"Will you stay with me tonight?" you ask quietly as the episode ends.
He pauses for a second. It's not that he doesn't want to stay with you, it's not that at all. He loves staying with you, he stays on your couch most of the time because it's comfortable and he likes being with you in your space and being able to keep you safe and when he stays awake most of the night it makes him feel a little less alone even though you're asleep in your bed. But with how bad his injuries are and how tired he is he was actually kind of looking forward to climbing into a bed. He'd rather be with you though, especially with everything that's been revealed tonight. "Yeah. I'll stay."
You smile softly to yourself. "No, Andrew." You know what he's thinking based on that pause, know that what you meant isn't even something he's thinking about despite the fact that you both admitted you're falling in love with each other. "I mean stay with me. Sleep in my bed with me." Now it's you who pauses as you realize that could be way too pressuring or too much too soon for him. "It's okay if you don't want to, I promise. You don't have to. I only want you to if you want to."
"I want to," he's quick to confirm, eager, almost, in the most adorable way that has his ears burning and you biting your lip. He's wanted to for nearly two full years. "Are you sure though? I might get your sheets or comforter bloody."
You nod even though he can't see it. "I'm positive. I don't care about the sheets or comforter at all. I just want you and to be close to you. I want to know you're okay," you whisper, the longing and need and want so clear in your voice it almost hurts. "I want to hold you. I've wanted you in my bed and to hold and be held by you for so long."
"I want that too," he whispers back, looks up and back at you as much as he can. The pain is so much more than worth the smile you're already wearing that he's rewarded with.
You help him sit up and get up off the couch and walk back into your room. When you slip into your bathroom to change into a pair of pajamas Andrew slides his sweatpants off. He wants to feel as much of you as he possibly can. He's not really sure how this is going to work, how you're going to be able to be close to him when the most comfortable position for him is on his side. Now that he's had a taste of snuggling with you on the couch he's incredibly bummed there's not likely to be any more tonight. At least he'll get to open his eyes and look at you, maybe hold your hand.
Those thoughts go out the window and his brain buffers when you walk in from the bathroom in a satin camisole and short shorts. Even through the pain Andrew can feel himself getting hard at the sight of you, of your legs and your nipples the satin does nothing to hide. He hates that you can't have sex right now, that he can't have sex right now and is the reason you can't. But then he chastises himself for even assuming you want to have sex with him right now, that you would this early in your relationship.
Your relationship. It's still so strange to think about. For both of you.
You pad over to your hamper and toss your clothes in. "Why don't you get in and get comfy? I know it'll probably be on your side."
"Okay," he nods.
Andrew winces as he gets into bed and gets comfortable on his side, but it's not as bad as he thought it would be. He's never slept in a bed this comfortable before. He can't decide if it's truly the mattress or just the fact that he knows it's your bed and that it smells like you.
When you slide into bed behind him Andrew frowns to himself. He guesses he won't at least get to see you or hold your hand.
But then you keep scooting yourself over toward him, spoon him from behind, working so incredibly gently to get as much of yourself pressed up against the back of him without causing him any pain. By the time you're settled you're pretty much adhered to his back as much as you can be with the size and height difference between you. Your nose and lips rest at the nape of his neck and you press a soft kiss there, your bottom arm under the pillow and bending back toward you so that your fingers can find their home in his perfect auburn curls again. Your top arm is a little more awkward as your hand rests on his shoulder since you don't want to rest it on his side and his broken ribs.
This, spooning, being held and loved on from behind, never occurred to Andrew because it's just another one of those things he's done for others that nobody has ever done for him.
"Is this okay?" you murmur, nuzzle your nose into the curls at the nape of his neck.
"Yeah, Doll." Andrew reaches up with his lower hand and hooks your fingers with his to pull your hand from his shoulder. He lifts his top arm up with a grimace and you seem to understand, put your arm under his and as high up under his shoulder in his armpit as you can to keep pressure off his ribs. As he rests his arm back down his bottom hand finds yours again and laces your hands together before he pulls your hand to his chest and holds onto and snuggles it like his own stuffed animal for comfort. "It's more than okay."
You're quiet for a moment, brain glitching out over Doll again. You want to acknowledge it like he acknowledged Andy, but it feels so hard. "I like it when you call me that." The words are a bit rushed out, but it doesn't really matter. Andrew hums in question and confusion at you. "Doll," you clarify. "You've called me it a couple of times now."
"Oh," he murmurs. Like you with Andy, Andrew had no idea that was slipping out. "You do? I don't know where it came from."
You bite your bottom lip and stifle a small giggle, kiss his neck again. "Probably the percocet." Andrew laughs softly with you and the sound makes your heart soar. "Yeah, I really do like it. It's incredibly sweet and there's something very you about it, Andy."
He's quiet for a second. You already admitted something similar but it feels so risky in the moment for some reason. Like it could shatter everything even though he knows it won't. Or maybe it'll shatter something in a good way.
"You were Doll in my head before the percocets," he admits through a whisper.
"Really?"
"Mhm." A couple moments of comfortable silence pass, your hand continuing to run through his curls because you're pretty sure it helps lull him to sleep and god knows he needs to sleep to start recovering.
You think Andrew is pretty close to sleep again but then he breaks the silence. "I like this."
He can feel you smile against his neck. "I like this too." You swallow thickly, more emotion and love and gratefulness that he's here and okay and yours creeps into your voice, the tears that have pooled in your eyes so very clear to him even though he can't see them. "I like you. I like you a lot, Andy."
Somewhere earlier tonight like stopped meaning like and started meaning love and you both know it. You both know Andrew's relationship with love is complicated and that it's not going to be as easy as saying it just because he feels it. It's going to take time. He's going to need to convince himself that he can love you right, properly, how you deserve. And you want time to love him how he's always deserved and to show him love doesn't have to be conditional or a tool for manipulation. So you wordlessly agree to use like for now.
"I like you." Andrew's voice is just as thick with all the same emotions as yours, his own tears clear to you just the same. "I like you a lot too, Doll."
I need him and to love him and take care of him and cuddle him and make him feel better. 🫠😮💨 I love him. I LOVE HIM. Anyway. Do we want more of these two? Thank you so much for reading! I hope it was okay and that you were able to enjoy! ♥️
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12.6k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: best-friends-to-lovers; hurt/comfort (physical injury); a splash of idiots-to-lovers; typical Andrew struggles with love; lack of self-worth for both; feelings of worthlessness and being undeserving; feelings of rejection at moments; moderately graphic description of injuries; insecurities; quick allusion to oral and PIV sex; mention of percocet; not canon or canon timeline compliant; allusion to canon typical background for Andrew and his family; mutual pining; Smurf mention; quickest mention of being sick (nobody is and nothing is described); soft; fluffy; no use of y/n.
Summary: After a job goes bad Andrew shows up at your door and learns what it really means to be taken care of.
AN: I don't have too much to say about this, we all know how I feel about my writing and that I've been struggling with it lately so we're just going to skip all that. It didn't turn out as well as I wanted it too and almost feels rushed in some way but I just need to throw it out into the universe lol. I have no idea how it got so long, it's unnecessary, I'm sorry. 😭 My plan is for these two to have their own AU (called All that Matters (maybe)) and to do more with them but time will tell. I didn't think of their backstory really so this doesn't say how they met, just how long they've known each other. Inspired by this prompt for the 3k celebration! On a personal level, things are rough and I wish I had an Andrew in my bed with me at night. 🫠 I hope this is okay and that you'd like to see more of these two and that this is enjoyable! Thank you so much for reading and all of your support! ♥️
You smile to yourself when you hear the familiar knock on your front door.
Andrew.
Andrew Cody. Your best friend. Your best friend with something about his knock that's unique enough for you to recognize immediately. Your best friend who's shown you that you've never truly had a best friend before because you've never been as close with someone as you are with Andrew, never felt so completely accepted. He knows everything about you and you everything about him. He can't believe you're still friends with him and it's ironic, because you can't believe he's still friends with you knowing everything about you and your past.
Your best friend who you're falling in love with. Who you've already fallen in love with and continue to fall more in love with, if you're honest.
In one sense you never expected to become his best friend and for him to become yours and to fall in love with him when you met almost two years ago. But in another there was just something there between you that you and Andrew felt the second you met.
You wish you could tell him how you feel but you can't bring yourself to risk your friendship, especially because you know how important your friendship is to Andrew, how it's the only real friendship he has. How you're his person. You won't jeopardize that and risk him losing you when he doesn't reciprocate, because you know he doesn't, and it becomes awkward.
You didn't expect to see him tonight. He'd texted you that his day hadn't gone as planned, code for something went wrong or at least awry with the job he and his brothers and J were doing today, so he wasn't going to make it over tonight. That made you worry of course, as did him not answering when you called to check on him, but he texted you that he was okay, just had to deal with some stuff.
Andrew was pissed sending that text. He was going to come over like usual, either sleep, as much as he ever really does, on your couch or slip out of your place and use his key to lock up behind him after you go to bed and he hears the TV in your room shut off, a sign he's learned means that you fell asleep and woke up to it on, wake just enough to turn it off and then roll back over and go back to sleep. He can't remember the last time he's gone an entire day without seeing you.
He was also pissed that he couldn't answer your call. It's not that he didn't want to, there was just too much going on and it was within an hour of the accident and he knew you'd easily hear the concussion he's sure he has in his voice and he didn't want to worry you.
But from the texts you exchanged after Andrew could tell you were still worried. He doesn't like making you worry. He's sure you'll worry when you see him, knows he won't be able to hide the extent of his injuries from you even if he tried because you'll just know somehow. You always seem to. Always seem to know how he's feeling and when he's in pain physically or mentally.
He figures that worrying about him with him there in front of you is probably easier for you than worrying about him when you can't see him. And if he's honest he just wants you. He hurts and doesn't feel great and he's pretty sure there's glass in his wounds and he knows you'll help him deal with all of his injuries and cuts and whatever else and you're comfort to him. You're the only thing that comforts him. Just being around you.
Andrew has fallen for you. He's quite certain that he's not just fallen for you but he's fallen in love with you, not that even if you somehow got together right now he'd be anywhere near ready to tell you. Falling in love with you was at once quick and slow. You've known each other for almost two years now and for Andrew you were different immediately.
There's just something about you. You're similar to him in so many ways, but also different. You can be more reserved, shy with social anxiety that can be borderline crippling sometimes, especially in situations where you don't know anyone or only know one person, even if that person is Andrew. You can be feisty though, a force who won't take shit from anyone and will speak her mind. Because while you might hate confrontation as it relates to yourself, hate standing up or advocating for yourself to the point you almost never do, you have no problem advocating and standing up and getting respectfully confrontational for other people, especially those you love and care about.
You become a bit more chatty once you're comfortable in a situation or with people. But you quite like sitting and not saying anything or chatting intermittently as something comes up. You enjoy parallel play, just sitting and doing things in the same room and enjoying each other's presence. You enjoy Andrew and he knows it. You make sure he feels it.
And you know everything. Everything he's done, everything his family has done, everything his family does.
Andrew told you everything one night after some job that really got to him. He expected you to reject him just like everyone else. Expected you to take steps away from him and tell him to get out and never come back. Expected you to block his number and never speak to him again. Expected that you'd realize he isn't the man you think he is. More than anything he expected to see the disgust and loathing and fear of him in your eyes as you finally looked at him like the monster he's so sure he actually is.
But you just hugged him, you just held him on your living room floor where he'd sunk to his knees as he told you everything. You rubbed his back and let him cry into you about everything he was telling you and then about everything that's ever happened to him because once that emotional release started and you stayed and whispered softly to him on repeat, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, You're safe here, Take your time, I've got you, and held him tightly and didn't run away, Andrew let everything out, had an emotional catharsis in your arms. Had the emotional catharsis he's needed to have and been desperate to have and just adding onto for decades.
And after, once he'd finally gotten himself together and his eyes clear enough to see you as much as possible with the way they were swollen from crying, while Andrew could tell you were processing a lot still, you weren't looking at him any differently. You weren't looking at him like he was a monster or in pity or like you were afraid of him and just trying to comfort him because you were scared what would happen if you didn't. You were looking at him how you always have, how you did before he told you.
You'd taken care of him then. Without him asking. Without asking what he needed. You just knew what to do. You offered him a shower because you know how much those help him and how they're a comfort for him, but he'd shaken his head and you'd understood why immediately. He didn't want to be alone. So then you offered a walk on the beach and he'd agreed with a wordless nod.
The first half of the walk was spent in silence, just you and Andrew walking next to each other and the crash and lull of the waves. You knew that's what he needed then. But once you hit your favorite ice cream place you bumped his hip with yours and gave him a sheepish smile before going and buying you both your favorites. On the way back you chatted at him intermittently, just enough, not too much or too little.
And you never made him talk about it, about everything he said that night. You knew that if and when he was ready to discuss it all with you more he would bring it up.
You're good for him. Andrew knows it. Deran and Craig know it. Smurf knows it and it’s a fucking problem to her. Deran's been trying to get him to make a move for a year now since he realized Andrew liked you like that, but Andrew's scared of losing you. His brain can't process the idea that you would ever want to be anything more than just a friend with him. You're you. And he's Andrew. You could never want him like that, romantically. He's lucky you even want him as a friend.
Pining over you in your presence hurts in a way, yeah, but being away is worse, and even if he can't kiss you and have you cuddle him like he wants, he still wants to be around you. You calm him, make him feel better, your presence in the room and getting to look at you and the smell of you, the sound of your voice and your soft touches to his arms or shoulders.
So Andrew just wants you right now. He decided to come over and hope you'd let him in. Deep down he knew you would but he never wants to count on it or get his hopes up, is still worried one day the reality of who he is and all the shit he's done is going to hit you and you're going to be done with him, realize you could do much better for a best friend than him. And so maybe he's less worried about whether you'll let him in and more worried that you'll kick him out and never let him back in again.
"You know, having a key means you don't have to knock, you can just come in whenever you want," you tease him with a smile as you open the door. The smile drops clean off your face as you take him in. "Andrew?" His name comes out in a breath, like you've been punched in the stomach, because you effectively have been.
You're frozen.
Andrew is hurt. He's shown up to your place needing help before, cleaning a cut and bandaging it, a butterfly band-aid here or there, but never anything like this.
He's leaning against your doorframe breathing harder and heavier than he normally does, his expression serious like always but dazed, concerningly dazed. Concussion dazed. Pain isn't written on his features but you can see it at the edges of his eyes and lips, the subtle hint of a grimace that only you would be able to see. You know how bad it must be for him to even let that much be seen.
There's blood smeared all over him, but predominantly his left side, cuts deep and shallow and mostly jagged littering his skin. Dried blood is caked on his left arm, dripping down from under the sleeve of his shirt with bigger pools of it on his forearm and wrist and hand. It's on his neck on that side too, almost completely covers the side, and fresher looking blood is starting to dry on his forehead where it's dripping down from his hairline. Fresh blood drips down his neck and arm in spots too, flows over his dried blood and is getting closer to dripping off his fingers as it runs down his hand.
Bruising is already setting in along his arm and cheekbone and jaw from whatever impact he took, and you're sure there's more bruising underneath all of the dried blood. Andrew fully grimaces in front of you as he brings his right hand up to hold his left side. Your eyes follow the movement and study his dark shirt and pants harder. Blood is seeping through them, and both are ripped in small lines in places.
The few seconds you're frozen feel so, so much longer than they actually are.
"Oh my god," you finally whisper as you come back to. Your eyes snap to his. "Andrew what… What happened?" Before he can even try to answer you're stepping out of the way and starting to worry and fret over him. You just need to make him better and give him as much pain relief as possible. "Come in, come in!"
You hold your hand out for him and Andrew almost starts to reach for it as he pushes himself off the doorframe but has to quickly move it to the wall to help keep his balance as he sways when he starts to walk. "Woah, woah." You move so that you're next to him quickly, slot yourself under his right arm to help support him and keep him stable. "Okay, I've got you. Come on, we're going to go to my bathroom okay?"
He gives you a soft nod in response and the two of you start walking toward your bathroom and you snatch up your water bottle as you walk by the end table. Andrew is leaning on you way more than he wants to be, but he needs your support, literally and figuratively, and your touch, just feeling you against him, is heaven. In addition to the pain his head is spinning quickly at all of the movement, the vertigo making him almost nauseous. Things had gotten worse on the ride to your place he'd made J give him. He knows he's concussed, has been more than enough times to know the feeling, and he's sure that by now you know he is too.
"You should've checked who was here before opening," he mumbles as he limps along with you. Andrew knows you didn't with the way your face fell when you saw him. You would've already known what you were opening the door to if you'd looked.
His voice is strained, more strained than you've ever heard it, and it's tired, you can tell he's tired, physically exhausted by whatever the fuck he's been through today. You can tell he's doing his best to hide how much pain he's in, but the little winces and grunts of pain don't escape your notice. Each one feels like a knife to your heart.
"I could tell by your knock," you mumble back distractedly as you get to your bathroom and turn the light on. You lead him so that he's standing with his back to the counter and get him to lean against it a bit as you slip from under his arm to stand in front of him, set your water bottle down.
"Hold onto me," you instruct him softly, bring his right hand to your shoulder and leave him to decide if his left arm has enough range of movement for him to do the same with his left hand. "Good," you murmur, carefully opening the medicine cabinet behind the side mirror and looking through various pill bottles until you find the leftover percocet from that time you broke your ankle and had surgery and pour two into your hand. "Okay, here," you hold your hand out near his right one, "it's some percocet, it should help."
Andrew blinks at you a few times. You're offering him pain meds, good ones that will probably actually help. That's never happened before. Nobody ever cared before. If he was lucky and he got hurt Smurf would leave a couple of ibuprofen on the counter for him.
"You don't have to waste that on me. Should keep it in case you need it one day," he tells you without making a move to take the pills from you as badly as his body is screaming at him to take them.
You breathe a laugh and shake your head at him as you look him in the eye. "It's not wasting it, Andrew. Not at fucking all. You need it, there's no point in you being in unnecessary pain when I have something that can hopefully help. So please, take it."
The two of you stare at each other for a few seconds as Andrew considers it. “I want to help you, so please let me.” Another few seconds pass but eventually he gives you the slightest nod and takes them from you, takes a drink from your water bottle that you hand to him to wash them down. "Thank you," you whisper.
You turn your attention to his injuries now that he has some pain medication on board, pray that it helps at least a little. You're so focused on what needs to be done that the full meaning and implication of what you say next doesn't fully hit you. "We need to get your clothes off."
It's the way you hear Andrew's breath catch a little at your words and how you have to work hard to steady your hands as you bring them to the button of his pants that make you realize what exactly you just said. You close your eyes and cringe at yourself.
"Fuck," you mutter. You open your eyes and force yourself to look up at him. Hazel eyes you want to drown in are already looking at you when you make eye contact. You can't decide if Andrew is blushing a little or if it's just color to his cheeks from his injuries. Your entire body runs hot with how flustered you get and even though you love giving him the eye contact he seems to love so much you have to look away, focus on a non-existent spot on his shirt. "I'm, I'm sorry I should've asked, just I, I was so focused on trying to help. Um, is it okay to… to take your pants off, to help you get your pants off? Only because, just, your leg, I think it's bleeding."
There's a part of Andrew that's beaming internally at the way you're so flustered by this, a part of him that thinks you're too adorable for words and certainly for this fucked up world and someone as fucked up and as much of a monster as him, but that wants and needs you to be his anyway, no matter how selfish. There's a part of him that wishes he could vocalize that to you, could tell you how he feels, could tell you how beautiful you are to him in every way and how much he wants you and how he's fallen and continues to keep falling in love with you every time he's with you.
And even though this, your help and touch and care, is the reason he came over, there's a part of him that wants to push you away, tell you to stop and to get out and that he'll take care of it, take care of himself like he always has. There's a part of him that needs to protect himself and his heart and push you away and leave you before you can leave him. Before he can be too much and too needy and, especially in this case, too weak and too unable to do the one thing he's good at and protect and keep you safe and feeling safe so you leave him, realize what he already knows, that he's really not good for anything. Because he knows how this plays out, how it always plays out. He'll lose you one day because of himself.
There's a part of him that wishes the accident had just killed him. There's a part of him that wants to grab you and kiss you and tell you that it's okay for you to take his clothes off as long as he can take off yours. There's a part of him that wants to never see you again, never put you at risk because of what he and his family do because it feels like this could so easily be you if he'd even rescued you in time from whoever took you to use against him. There's a part of him that wants to get cleaned up, pack up as much of your shit as the two of you can, stop by the house and get all of the money Smurf has hidden around and leave, get the fuck out of Oceanside with you, out of California, maybe out of the country.
But Andrew is too tired and his brain is too fuzzy, has slammed too hard against his skull today, for him to truly even begin to evaluate all those parts of him and all of his feelings and emotions in the context of this situation. He just wants to be sitting on your couch with you already. Wants this all to be over and everything to just be normal.
He grits his teeth as he moves his left hand up to hold onto your shoulder, squeezes so gently you're not sure if it's deliberate or not. "That's fine."
So not deliberately, then. You swallow hard. It's not exactly the reaction you wanted or hoped you'd get to asking the man you're so completely in love with and so fucking attracted to if you could take his clothes off. That's fine. Not yes, of course. Or just of course, or yeah, or sure, or literally anything with any level of positive connotation. Just that's fine.
Rejection slams into you hard, almost hard enough to take your breath away.
You know you shouldn't read into it. You know Andrew is in a ton of pain and exhausted and isn't thinking clearly or completely processing, that he's just trying to focus on keeping himself upright. But you can't help it. In the moment it feels so real and just confirms what you've always known. That no matter what it feels like sometimes, Andrew has no interest in you beyond being your friend.
"Okay," you whisper.
Even in his concussed, heavily brain-fogged state Andrew hears it, the change in your tone. The concern and worry and almost panic he knows he heard earlier are still there but now there's an obvious sadness to it and something that sounds almost like… rejection. He thinks. Maybe that’s just the concussion talking. For you to sound rejected you'd have to want him romantically to begin with and that has to be wishful thinking on his part. The sadness still concerns him though.
As Andrew goes to ask if you're okay your fingers find the button of his pants and easily unbutton them and pull his zipper down and Andrew can't breathe, has to focus on not ruining this and everything by getting hard and disgusting you, or making you uncomfortable. Both of you have imagined this a million times, you unbuttoning and unzipping and helping Andrew out of his pants, but absolutely never in this context.
It's still happening though. Your thumbs are still hooking the waistband of his pants and pulling them down over his ass, slowly revealing tight, black boxer briefs that you do your absolute fucking best to ignore. "Can you hold onto the counter?" you murmur.
Andrew does so wordlessly and you bend your knees and continue to pull his pants down. Your tongue clicks softly against the back of your teeth and you let out a sad, concerned breath through your nose as the scrapes and cuts and bruises to his left leg come into view as you get his pants down his thighs and calves.
Once you've helped him step out of his pants you toss them to the side and take a better look at his injuries. There are a few proper cuts here and there, enough so that there's streaks of dried blood painting his left thigh and knee and calf just like it does his left arm and hand. It's mostly bruising and scrapes though, nothing as bad as his neck or left arm.
You stand up wordlessly and leave him leaning against the counter just long enough for you to grab a spare towel, fold it, put the lid to the toilet down and the towel on top of it to make it at least a little more comfortable for him. "Here." You hold out your hand for him but don't look at him. Andrew wants to say something about it, wants to just move himself over there but he lets himself take your hand, lets himself take comfort from your touch and your skin on his, lets you guide him to sit.
He winces as you help him lower himself down to sit, lets out the closest thing to a groan of pain you think you'll ever hear from him and it shatters you. Between the concussion and the pain and how tired he is, Andrew almost can't tell where the pain is really coming from or stops or ends. He just knows everything hurts.
You can't stand seeing him in this much pain, can't stand seeing him in any pain. Tears line your eyes, only capable of being held back because you need to take care of him and because you know if you let them fall he'll get concerned about you and try to make you the priority.
"We need to get your shirt off," you tell him quietly, still looking anywhere but his face.
He can still hear it in your voice, how dejected you are. He's not sure whether he should say something. Maybe his mind is just making it up. Why would you be dejected? He's starting to worry he upset you somehow. And yet all he can force out of his mouth right now is an empty, "Okay."
You grab the hem of his shirt and start to lift it up and help get it over his arms and Andrew's wincing and hissing through the pain, face screwed up in it. You should get an award for not bursting into tears. "Do you want me to cut it off?"
"No." He takes a breath and then moves quickly to get his arms out of the fucking shirt, swaying just a little with the movement.
"Okay, woah, I've got you. I've got you," you murmur as you bring your hands to his shoulders to help keep him sitting up straight, eyes still refusing to find his and staring at the bunched up shirt around his neck. He wishes he could explain to you how much your touch helps, how it makes the pain quiet so much, relaxing him so he isn't tensed against it, and giving his mind something else to focus on other than how he's hurting. He knows it doesn't really make any fucking sense and has to all be in his head but he swears it's true, your touch makes him feel so much better.
After a couple seconds holding onto him and another few seconds of you taking your hands off his shoulders but hovering them to the side to make sure he doesn't sway again, you finish getting his shirt over his head and off, toss it to the side near his pants. And then you kneel in front of him, off center a bit in front of his left side.
"Oh Andrew," you breathe as you take in his left side. All of the blood, fresh and old, and all of the cuts, many of which you think might have glass in them, are bad enough and have your heart shattering and stomach flipping. But it's the already purple bruising along the side of his chest creeping onto his abdomen that forces you to swallow hard to settle the overwhelming wave of nausea that makes you want to be sick into the sink. It's not that it's gross, not at all, not even close.
It's that it's Andrew. It's that it's Andrew who went through something physically traumatic enough to cause this kind of damage. You have no idea whether those bruises are truly bruising to his skin or if they're a sign of internal bleeding. And if his side took that level of impact then his head and brain took at least that level of impact, and fuck, what if he has a skull fracture or a fucking brain bleed?
All of his other symptoms could be from any of those things, internal bleeding, a brain bleed, a concussion, who knows what the fuck else. What if he goes to sleep and doesn't wake up? What if you don't force him to go to the hospital and something happens to him? What if you lose him? He might not want you and that might be devastating to you, but having him around you in some capacity is so much fucking better than not having him around you at all.
What the fuck happened?
He still hasn't told you and you need to know. You need that information.
Andrew studies your face as you take in his injuries. They must be worse than he thought based on your reaction. It's not the absolute worst he's ever felt after a job so he's not overly concerned, but he knows you're not used to this. You look like you're in pain as your eyes run over his skin, like you could be sick, but there's something in your expression that makes it clear it's not because you find it gross. It's something else. Something he can't quite place.
Maybe he shouldn't have come here and put you through this. Maybe this will be too much, will make you realize just how fucked up he and his life and his family truly are and you’ll leave him, stop being his friend. His best friend. His only real true friend.
Normally Andrew is okay with silence. But right now it's suffocating and he misses the sound of your voice. He misses you looking at him. He misses your touch. It feels like something is wrong with the way you won't look at him but he doesn't know what.
This is part of the problem with you and Andrew being so similar. Neither of you are good at sharing all of your feelings and you both have a tendency to shut down and retreat inward which makes the other do the same which usually makes the other do the same even more, and so unless and until one of you finds a foothold to help you guys get out and back to normal it easily becomes a painful feedback loop, both of you stuck in your heads and panicking and spinning out, convinced the other is finally done.
Andrew reaches down to his side and touches it gently with his hand, brings his hand back up to see if it's still bleeding. It is. He shifts a little and looks down. It doesn't look great. He's glad he's so good at dissociating to avoid pain, guesses his trauma has at least one positive.
Seeing his side gives him one of those footholds you both need, or at least he hopes it does. He licks his chapped and slightly bloodied lips and then forces the sentence out. You've never not replied to him. You'll reply and things will start to get back to normal and he won't have made the wrong decision in coming here. "I think there's glass."
Andrew's voice brings you back. You were stuck looking at his side and thinking of every worst case scenario and how all of them ended with you never telling him how you felt. He pretty much all but confirmed he doesn't feel for you how you feel for him today with the that's fine in response to you asking to take his clothes off but still. You realize you'll regret it if you don't at least tell him and give it that chance. You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you lose him, if he died and you never told him, never at least made sure he knows he's desirable and lovable and handsome and that anyone would be lucky to have him, no matter what Smurf might try to tell him or what Baz did tell him.
"There is, yeah." You take in a breath and clear your throat. "Let me see what I have," you murmur as you stand up and start rummaging through your cabinets and drawers looking for supplies. You still don't look him in the eye or at his face, you can't. Internally you're still… devastated, as overdramatic as that sounds. By all of it.
It's not something you consciously realize but you love and care about Andrew so much already that even with as devastated and hurt as you are by what you're so sure is the reality that he doesn't like you the same way you like him, you're more devastated about his injuries and the pain he's feeling and the risk to his health and the way he can't go to a doctor. Your eyes blur with tears a little as you empty out a little bowl of random hair things you've collected over the years into the drawer it came out of. You'll fix the slight mess you've made of all your drawers and cabinets later, you couldn't care less about it right now if you tried.
Once you've looked through it all and gathered everything you think you could possibly need and get it set within reach of your spot on the floor you wash your hands well and dry them with a fresh towel. You kneel in front of him in the same spot again and open some of the saline wash you have and soak some gauze so you can clean his cuts before pulling the glass out.
He can't take it anymore. You still haven't looked at him, still haven't fucking looked at him and Andrew's sure he did something wrong and you hate him or at least don't want to be his friend and are just doing this because you feel bad and he wants to know what he did, wants to be able to try to fix it. His brain is just tired and not firing as well as it normally does so it's hard for him to come up with anything, more of the daze and fogginess still fucking with his brain that he wants to admit.
Andrew brings his left hand up and rests it over yours where you've started to clean his skin and says your name a few times, voice just above a whisper and all raw and gravel and anxiety. He almost sounds scared. And he is. He's scared he's losing you.
You hate it. You hate how anxious he sounds. It makes your heart shatter into even tinier pieces. Your head snaps up and your eyes find his immediately, hand still. He looks as worried as he sounds, but there's something in his eyes, an expression in them and the way his face is set that's different, that you haven't seen before and struggle to place until you've held his gaze for a few seconds and it hits you. Andrew is scared. He's scared of something and you're not sure what and you hate all of that too. Somehow the pieces of your heart shatter again, growing closer to sand you're not sure you'll ever be able to put back together.
"The job, the job went…" Andrew trails off, breathing hard and wincing slightly. You're both sure he broke multiple ribs. "It went bad. The job went bad."
Pieces click into place. You get it. You get it.
Andrew is insecure. You’re far and away his best friend and one of his only friends and you know he's worried and insecure and you can tell he thinks he's going to lose you and that you're pulling away with how you've started to retreat into yourself since the taking his clothes off thing. You know it because you recognize the feeling that his eyes are conveying to you, feel it yourself and know how much it sucks and hurts and can be crippling. He's trying to get you back, to find that foothold and he's struggling.
He shouldn't be struggling. You shouldn't be making him struggle. He doesn't need to be struggling or worried or scared about anything in relation to you. You'll always be his best friend, as long as he wants you to be, even if you desperately wish you could be more and even being so sure now that he doesn't want you how you want him.
You know what it feels like. You know how he feels. And it fucking sucks and is awful and you'll never let him feel that way, especially right now when he doesn't need to be. It suddenly becomes easy to set aside all of your own mental bullshit, your sadness and heartache. If anything you start berating yourself for even letting yourself fall into your own mental bullshit. Andrew has needed you since he knocked on your door, he's hurt, badly, and you should never have given him more to struggle with right now.
Maybe you're wrong though. Maybe you're misreading things. He doesn't like you how you like him, doesn't have any romantic interest in you. Maybe you don't give him the comfort you think you do. Maybe you're just here. Maybe this is all physiological and because of his injuries and because you pretty much demanded to know what happened as soon as you saw him.
No. You know better than that. You're Andrew's best friend and he thinks he's losing you while also trying to deal with all of his physical pain and injuries. You can't have that, no matter how you're feeling.
"I know," you nod, giving him a small and what you hope is reassuring smile. "I know, I know it did, I can tell." You rest your free hand on his bare thigh just a bit above his knee and give a reassuring squeeze. "And that's okay. Sometimes they go bad, it's okay. I promise it's okay. I've got you."
You widen your smile a bit as you blink back tears of eighty different emotions and slide your hand up his thigh just a little until your fingers bump into his where his right hand rests on his thigh. "Fuck the job, Andy."
Andy.
You've never called him that before. Not out loud at least. You've called him it in your head a million times, always figured it was far too intimate and close to a pet name a girlfriend might call him, something you knew he didn't want with you, wouldn't want you to call him. Andrew is special enough. You were the only one he let call him it, could never fully understand why you, but he did. He loved the way you helped him take it back from his mom and the way she'd use it to manipulate him.
The thing is, though, you don't even notice you do it, that Andy slips out. Andrew is the only one of the two of you who does.
And it rocks him, mind, body and soul.
He's never been called that before, nobody other than his mom has ever really wanted to call him some sort of special nickname like that and she used baby like she did with all of them. He can't even remember if Amy tried to use a pet name.
He loves it. Loves the way it sounds coming off your tongue, is immediately imagining all the ways it could sound. Andy through a giggle he pulls from you or laughed when he pulls laughter from you somehow or said softly as you squeeze his arm to help calm him and bring him back to you and get him to walk away from a situation.
Andy in that sleepy slur you get when you fall asleep on the couch. Andy in a pleasured and contented sigh when moves from kissing your lips to your jaw and just below your ear. Andy in the prettiest moan as his tongue flicks across your clit and your hands tug at his curls or as he slides inside of you or as you sink down on him. Andy cried through tears of pleasure as he fucks you within an inch of your life into the mattress. Andy moaned as you come for him, panted breathlessly as you ask him to come for you, as you feel his cum warm you.
The name distracts him from the tears he swears he saw in your eyes, concern he'll never understand why you have for him, and from the way your voice changed earlier and how you only just started to look at him again.
You swallow the lump forming in your throat and keep the smile on your face, not quite forced because you are happy he's alive and at least okay enough right now, but a little because you're hurting because he's hurting and because he doesn't want you. "The only thing that matters right now is that you're alive and here with me, I promise. It's okay. You know I'd never lie to you, yeah?" Your eyes search his as you nod softly and raise your eyebrows in emphasis. "It's okay."
It takes a couple of seconds for him to find his voice again but eventually Andrew does. "Okay."
He moves his hand from yours so that you can continue, but you don't, not quite yet. "Once I'm done cleaning and getting the glass out do you want to shower before I bandage everything?"
"No." Both of you are surprised at how fast he says it. Andrew loves showering. But not today, not right now. The thought of it alone is exhausting and he just doesn't have it in him.
"Okay." You give him another reassuring smile. You're kind of glad he doesn't want to, you didn't like the thought of him standing alone right now. "I um, I, I have some wipes I use sometimes. They're pretty much just water so they don't leave like a scent and shouldn't make you itchy. I can wipe you off as I clean everything?"
The intimacy of the act doesn't escape either of you, but you both try to write it off as just circumstance, tell yourself the intimacy it could have isn't really there because the other doesn't want that. "Yeah, okay," he whispers.
You nod and move your hand off him, stay on your knees as you reach over and pull them out of the top drawer of the sink vanity. And then you start cleaning his wounds and wiping off the rest of him as you go, decide to get everything clean before you pull the glass out and bandage everything up.
As you do Andrew finally starts to tell you what happened. He tells you everything, watches the way you react with your face and eyes instead of your voice so he can get it all out, occasionally glance up at him to give him a bigger reaction and so that he knows you're still here with him and the two of you are okay.
The only time you really speak is when you clean one of his wounds or pull out a piece of glass and he winces. You murmurs these soft little apologies that make his heart fucking race and him fall a little more in love with you because he can feel how much you care for and about him, and how bad you feel for causing him pain and how much you love him, even if he thinks it's only as a friend.
It's easy to not really notice just how much gauze you're using and how bloody it and your hands get, and how much glass you're pulling from his skin as you go with how focused on tending to his injuries you are. But once you have what you hope is all the glass out and all of his injuries tended to and wounds bandaged however they need it really hits you as you look around your bathroom.
And it knocks the wind out of you, makes you feel like you've been punched in the stomach all over again as you stare at your bloody hands and the piles of blood soaked gauze and the little bowl full of bloodied glass. "Fuck, Andrew," you breathe out, barely anything behind the words, but just enough that he can hear them.
Something in your tone makes him a little uneasy.
You breathe through a wave of buried panic induced nausea and use one of your wipes to clean your hands. You drop the wipe and dry your hands with your shirt and then look around again. "What the fuck?" You shake your head slowly as you take it all in.
"I mean jesus fucking christ, Andrew. What the fuck?" Terror and panic and fear driven by just how much you love this fucking man sitting in front of you saturate every word. Your entire body starts to shake just a touch, barely noticeable. "Look at all of this. The blood and the glass. Your blood. That's glass I pulled out of you." Your head spins because, yeah, you've fixed him up but he could be bleeding internally or on or in his brain, and you've done all you can for him and he could still be dying right in front of you. He could still die.
"What the fuck? What…" Your voice gives out on you because of how upset you are and how hard you're trying to fight it. You haven't looked at him, have gone back to not looking at him and sharing eye contact the way he loves. You know if you do you'll ruin everything and totally give yourself away and burst into fucking tears.
Andrew's heart sinks and he joins you in fighting back a wave of nausea. He's been expecting this day in a sense but he didn't think it would be today and he didn't think it would be like this. He's always expected the day would come that you'd truly see him and be done. It never occurred to him that your reaction to this would be anger, that you'd be mad at him.
He never thought you'd do that. He never thought you'd be mad at him for something like this, something he couldn’t control and was forced into doing by his family, never thought this would cause the end. He thought you were different. He thought he could truly come to you for anything. But now he can see that the immediate adrenaline of him showing up hurt has passed and you've gotten him patched up and now you're looking around and seeing everything and it's all sinking in and so of course you're mad at him. Of course you're done. You can't even fucking look at him.
It shatters him.
It hurts worse than any pain physical or emotional he's ever felt before.
He trusted you. He trusted you not to do this, not to be like her and the rest of his family. He'll never trust again. He's not even sure he'll live long enough to have the opportunity. But he is sure he can't stay here any longer.
Andrew takes one last look at you and then focuses his gaze at a spot on the wall across from him. He grimaces as he stands. "I'm sorry. Thank you for cleaning me up. I'll leave now."
"What?" Your head snaps up. "Why? You, you can't! You can't be alone right now, Andy, it's not safe. Why? Why do you want to go?"
You scramble to your feet so that you're standing in front of him and half blocking the door. You try to catch his eye but when you get close he just blinks and looks away at a different spot. You start to shake harder.
"Andrew, please, talk to me," you plead with him. Even though you can't catch his gaze, with the change in angle standing has brought you can finally see it.
He thinks you're mad. He thinks you're angry at him. He thinks you don't want him. He thinks you're done with him like everyone else in his life has been at some point.
You almost have to laugh when you realize because he's so fucking wrong.
"I'm not mad at you, Andrew," you murmur. "I'm not mad at all. I'm not mad at you, I promise." You swallow hard again and blink back tears because the last thing you want to do is guilt trip him into believing you.
You take in a deep breath to help pull yourself together and then slowly reach up, make sure he sees your hands, and cup his face with a tenderness and lightness and reverence he knows he doesn't deserve. That same touch gives him plenty of room to pull away and refuse to move as it so gently coaxes his head to turn and look down at you.
One look at your face and a split second of shared eye contact is all Andrew needs to realize that he was wrong. About all of it. He sees it all for what it is now, knows that he's mistaking the terror and panic and fear in your voice for anger because that's all he's ever known and learned.
"I'm not angry or upset or mad. I'm sorry for making you think that I am, but I'm truly not Andrew." You keep your voice steady enough but start to lose the battle with your tears as you stare into the eyes of the man you love more than anything and can't stomach the thought of losing.
"I'm not mad. I’m worried and scared and don’t like seeing you in pain, and you need to go the hospital you have a concussion, what if you have a brain bleed, and the bruising, you could have internal bleeding and you won’t go, I mean, I, you can't go, I know. I know you can't and it's not that you won't." Tears start to accumulate along your lash lines and your voice grows a little shaky. "But I hate that and so I'm just worried and scared and need you to be okay. I'm not mad at you though. I'm not, I promise. And I don't blame you or anything. I just wish I could make it all better and take it on for you. I really don't like seeing you in pain. I don't like seeing you injured. But that doesn't mean don't come to me, because I'd hurt worse knowing you're hurt like this and didn't come to me. I want you to. I need you to come to me."
Andrew's head spins because you're not mad, you're really not, that's undeniably clear. Nothing about you has changed in the way his brain catastrophized. "Oh," he whispers.
Something inside you breaks.
You can't fucking do this anymore. He could've died and you could've never had the chance and you know now you'll regret it, regret never trying. You know he doesn't want you like this, his reaction to asking to take his clothes off told you that for sure, and you know this could ruin everything, could mean he couldn't be your friend anymore. But you're so caught up in the moment and your emotions about him dying and having never tried or never told him or never made sure he knows he's desirable and lovable that you just have to do it. You have to try.
"Can I just…" A few tears spill over and fall down your cheeks as you continue to hold his face in your hands. Andrew takes a little step closer as concern and protectiveness pull onto his face and start to take over his brain because he hates seeing you cry, hates it. "Can I just try? Can I… Can I do something I've been wanting to do for a really long time now? Because life is short and fragile and you could've died today and you still could and I just, I, I, I… You, you could've died, Andy you could've died and I know it's over and you're here and everything's okay right now, but you still could've died and I'm still so, so scared and worried. I'm so scared. So I need to do this, please. You can push me away and leave and never speak to me again when you hate it and it makes things weird. But I just need to try and to tell you, I have to have tried, and I don't, I don't know how to tell you, how to say it, so can I just… try?"
Andrew nods slowly, confusion evident on his face and in his tone. "Yeah."
You sniffle and wipe as many tears from your face as you can. They seem to have stopped for this. It's funny because you always imagined that if this happened you'd have to do it quickly, before you lost your nerve. But right now it's not about having the nerve. It's about having the chance and him being here and okay and you needing to tell him because he could've died, and that isn't something you can lose.
You share a few seconds of eye contact with him, that confusion still present in them that's kind of so adorable your stomach aches. You step closer to Andrew so that your chests are touching, take his face back in your hands and pull his head down toward you as you lean up and into him, your nose nuzzling against his for just a second.
And then you press your lips to his in a kiss so soft and tender and loving that it's almost devastating in the best sense, completely erases every memory of kissing Andrew has up to now. You let the kiss linger long enough for him to know you mean it and to give him a chance to kiss you back.
But Andrew's so caught off guard and frozen by the kiss, by this thing he's dreamed of actually happening that he can't even get his lips to begin moving to kiss you back by the time you're realizing you were right and pulling away, releasing his face from your hands.
You take a step back and shake your head just a little, let out a small, embarrassed laugh as you try to play it off. "I'm sorry." You shrug shallowly and have to look over his shoulder and past him because you can't face him right now, aren't sure how you'll ever face him again, but you know you'll get there. He's your best friend. Or at least you hope he still is and that he can move past this with you. Tears start to stream down your face again.
"I, I didn't think you'd like me like that back, I mean, I guess, I… I should've known and just trusted that instinct after the clothes thing, I just thought maybe… I don't know. I don't know why I ever thought you might like me. But, um, after this," you gesture at the bloody gauze and bowl of glass and his wounds, "I just needed to tell you so that I didn't regret it and so that you know you're so, so incredibly lovable and desirable, and I didn't know how else to tell you I want you like that, that I'm, that, that, I've fallen, am falling in love with you. I'm sorry, I really am, and I hope we can still be friends and-"
You're cut off by Andrew's lips pressing against yours as he kisses you this time, steps toward you and takes your face in his hands and holds it with a delicacy and reverence that nobody but you would think he was capable of. After the initial shock wears off you immediately kiss him back, bring your hands up to his wrists and hold onto them gently.
Andrew ends the kiss much sooner than either he or you would like, but he doesn't go far, pulls back just enough so you can see each other clearly. "I'm falling…too." He can't quite bring himself to say the word love yet for a number of reasons, all of which you understand without him even beginning to try to explain. You know how complicated of an emotion that is for him. His eyes are glassy as a few tears spill over and slide down his face because he can't believe this and he wants you and needs you and he's so happy even if he can't understand why you want him like that and are falling in love with him. "I want you like that too. I want you."
"Yeah?" you whisper.
"Yeah," he murmurs back as you close the short distance between your lips and kiss him again.
The kiss starts the same but quickly escalates into something much deeper, Andrew's tongue gliding along yours as the two of you start to find your rhythm and confidence, bodies pressing together gently. You both let out gentle sighs and pull soft moans from the other, neither of you really able to hold back now that this is happening. You've both dreamed about it for too long.
You don't know how long you stand there making out and getting lost in each other and your feelings for each other. The only reasons you break apart and Andrew lets go of your face are your shared need for more oxygen than you can get while making out and because you realize that standing must hurt for him right now, leaning down to kiss you is probably the same.
"I've wanted this, wanted you, this entire time, for almost two years," Andrew admits softly once he's caught his breath.
A slow smile pulls onto your face. "I've wanted this and you for that long too, Andy. I want to be yours and I want you to be mine."
You're so beautiful it burns him. The smile you're wearing etches itself into his brain. He'll never forget it. He can't imagine living without you.
"I want to be yours and you to be mine too. I want everything with you. I want, I want you." There's so much more he wants to say, wants to tell you, but it's getting harder to just keep himself standing. The percocets you gave him have helped with the pain but intensified how drowsy and foggy-headed he feels. The last thing he wants to do to you right now is pass out in your bathroom.
You can tell there's more he wants to say but you can also see how tired he is, how his body is really starting to truly physically exhaust out more than he can continue to fight, because you know he's been fighting it since he got here.
"Then consider me yours and you mine," you murmur, bringing your hand up to push some curls off his forehead and resting your fingertips on his cheek after. You lean back up and give him a quick kiss just because you can now. "We can talk more tomorrow or once you're feeling better, yeah?"
"Is that okay?" he whispers. He doesn't want to fuck this up before he really gets the chance to experience this and you fully.
"More than," you nod. "You don't need to push yourself. I'm your girl and that's not changing because we need to defer a conversation because you're seriously injured and exhausted, I promise. I'm not going anywhere Andy." You give him a soft, reassuring smile. It's so cliché and dramatic but Andrew sees his entire future and reason for being in your eyes. "Come on, I'll grab you a pair of sweatpants and a shirt from the stash you keep here and help you get dressed."
You shift and slot yourself under his shoulder again and help him walk over to the side of your bed. The fact that he has an entire drawer in your dresser in your bedroom in your apartment really should've been the writing on the wall for both of you in retrospect. But hindsight is always 20/20.
Getting his sweatpants on is relatively easy. It hurts because he has to stand up, but it's nothing in comparison to the pain his broken ribs cause when he tries to lift his arms up enough for you to get his shirt on. You chew your lip so hard that it bleeds as you try to make it work, and eventually you all but beg him to just say fuck it to the shirt and be shirtless. He's quick to agree.
You decide to go watch something on the couch together for a while. You help him walk out to it and sit. Andrew can't lie. When you sit a bit away from him, no parts of you touching, your thighs not even anywhere near brushing each other's, he's bummed. Maybe even a little hurt, rejection stinging through him. He thought it would be different now that you've kissed and you said you're his and he's yours. And then it hits him and he's honestly surprised he isn't leaning forward in blinding pain from his ribs and being sick on your floor at the thought.
What if you're changing your mind?
What if helping him get dressed and out to the couch was enough time for you to come to your fucking senses and realize you can do better than him and that he's a monster and a terrible person and so far away from even approaching good enough for you? What if you don't want him anymore? What if you don't need him anymore? Need him in that pure way you make him feel where you just need him, not what he can do for you or what he can provide.
What if you're not falling in love with him anymore?
"Andrew?"
Your voice finally breaks through his thoughts and he looks over at you. "Yeah?" he mumbles.
You smile at him and cock your head. "You okay? You zoned out on me there a little." When he nods you don't push the issue, something he's immensely grateful for because he has no idea what he would say. "Did you… Would you like, or, or can you lay down on your side?" You gently pat your lap once and he realizes you want him to put his head there. You want him to lay with his head in your lap. "Might be more comfortable than sitting up, though I'm sure getting down and comfy will hurt like a bitch. And it's okay if you don't want to, of course."
The intimacy of the ask alone could make him cry.
"Yeah, okay." Andrew shifts and then starts to lay down and like you said, it hurts like a bitch and he can't help the winces and grimaces he makes as he gets as comfortable as possible and settles with his head in your lap and his hand on your knee. It's heavenly. It’s perfect.
You grab the blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over him so he doesn't get cold being shirtless. You bring one of your hands to his curls and start running your fingers through them and stroking his hair. You rest your other hand under the blanket on his shoulder, don't want to overwhelm him with too much loving touch that he's not used to at once.
"Is this okay Andy? If it's hurting your head or making things worse with the concussion, I can stop," you murmur.
"No, it's not hurting, it… It feels good." His cheeks flush with something that's not quite embarrassment but approaching it. "Nobody's ever, I've never had someone do that. I like it."
Something about his admission breaks your heart. You guessed that was going to be the case but it doesn't make it easier to accept. You've wanted to do it since the day you met him. And there's nobody you know who deserves this small gesture of comfort more than Andrew. It kills you that he's never had it.
"Good," you whisper.
You find something random to watch and put it on, hope that Andrew will be in and out of sleep as you sit out here together. With every pass of your hand through his curls or over his head you can feel him get sleepier and relax even more.
Your chin trembles a little and you have to bite your lip when Andrew moves his hand from your knee up across his body to hold your hand that's resting on his shoulder. "I like it when you call me that." His voice is adorably sleep slurred, a sense of vulnerability in everything he's doing and saying right now that makes you want to weep because you can't believe you're lucky enough that he trusts you like this.
You're not sure what he's talking about though. You haven't consciously realized you've been calling him Andy. "Call you what?"
"Andy." He nuzzles his face into your thigh a little and lets out a soft sigh, sleep coming for him harder than it has since he was a child before Smurf fucked him up so much. "You've been calling me Andy all night. I like it."
"Oh." You laugh through a breath as you think about it. "I… I, wow, that's kind of embarrassing. I didn't even notice that's what I was saying. Honestly, I've called you that in my head for so long."
"It's not embarrassing." All of his words slur together as he fights off sleep to finish the conversation and because he doesn't want to leave you, doesn't want to wake up to you not here with him and this whole thing having been a concussion induced dream. "I'm glad it slipped out."
You giggle at how fucking adorable and precious and cute and perfect he is this sleepy. "I'm glad you like it."
Andrew hums and you think he's too close to asleep to verbally reply. But then he does. "I like everything about you, Doll."
Doll.
You could actually fucking scream. Andrew, your Andrew, your Andy, who you've been pining over for almost two years, just called you Doll as your own special pet name because you're his. You're his. He wants you to be his.
He's falling in love with you.
Before you can say anything to him about you liking him calling you Doll you feel Andrew relax all the way and know he's fallen asleep on you.
You could actually fucking scream about that too.
A few episodes pass with Andrew drifting in and out of sleep, the two of you talking a little when he's awake. When the episode you're currently watching starts to end and Andrew's awake you tell yourself to take the chance and ask.
"Will you stay with me tonight?" you ask quietly as the episode ends.
He pauses for a second. It's not that he doesn't want to stay with you, it's not that at all. He loves staying with you, he stays on your couch most of the time because it's comfortable and he likes being with you in your space and being able to keep you safe and when he stays awake most of the night it makes him feel a little less alone even though you're asleep in your bed. But with how bad his injuries are and how tired he is he was actually kind of looking forward to climbing into a bed. He'd rather be with you though, especially with everything that's been revealed tonight. "Yeah. I'll stay."
You smile softly to yourself. "No, Andrew." You know what he's thinking based on that pause, know that what you meant isn't even something he's thinking about despite the fact that you both admitted you're falling in love with each other. "I mean stay with me. Sleep in my bed with me." Now it's you who pauses as you realize that could be way too pressuring or too much too soon for him. "It's okay if you don't want to, I promise. You don't have to. I only want you to if you want to."
"I want to," he's quick to confirm, eager, almost, in the most adorable way that has his ears burning and you biting your lip. He's wanted to for nearly two full years. "Are you sure though? I might get your sheets or comforter bloody."
You nod even though he can't see it. "I'm positive. I don't care about the sheets or comforter at all. I just want you and to be close to you. I want to know you're okay," you whisper, the longing and need and want so clear in your voice it almost hurts. "I want to hold you. I've wanted you in my bed and to hold and be held by you for so long."
"I want that too," he whispers back, looks up and back at you as much as he can. The pain is so much more than worth the smile you're already wearing that he's rewarded with.
You help him sit up and get up off the couch and walk back into your room. When you slip into your bathroom to change into a pair of pajamas Andrew slides his sweatpants off. He wants to feel as much of you as he possibly can. He's not really sure how this is going to work, how you're going to be able to be close to him when the most comfortable position for him is on his side. Now that he's had a taste of snuggling with you on the couch he's incredibly bummed there's not likely to be any more tonight. At least he'll get to open his eyes and look at you, maybe hold your hand.
Those thoughts go out the window and his brain buffers when you walk in from the bathroom in a satin camisole and short shorts. Even through the pain Andrew can feel himself getting hard at the sight of you, of your legs and your nipples the satin does nothing to hide. He hates that you can't have sex right now, that he can't have sex right now and is the reason you can't. But then he chastises himself for even assuming you want to have sex with him right now, that you would this early in your relationship.
Your relationship. It's still so strange to think about. For both of you.
You pad over to your hamper and toss your clothes in. "Why don't you get in and get comfy? I know it'll probably be on your side."
"Okay," he nods.
Andrew winces as he gets into bed and gets comfortable on his side, but it's not as bad as he thought it would be. He's never slept in a bed this comfortable before. He can't decide if it's truly the mattress or just the fact that he knows it's your bed and that it smells like you.
When you slide into bed behind him Andrew frowns to himself. He guesses he won't at least get to see you or hold your hand.
But then you keep scooting yourself over toward him, spoon him from behind, working so incredibly gently to get as much of yourself pressed up against the back of him without causing him any pain. By the time you're settled you're pretty much adhered to his back as much as you can be with the size and height difference between you. Your nose and lips rest at the nape of his neck and you press a soft kiss there, your bottom arm under the pillow and bending back toward you so that your fingers can find their home in his perfect auburn curls again. Your top arm is a little more awkward as your hand rests on his shoulder since you don't want to rest it on his side and his broken ribs.
This, spooning, being held and loved on from behind, never occurred to Andrew because it's just another one of those things he's done for others that nobody has ever done for him.
"Is this okay?" you murmur, nuzzle your nose into the curls at the nape of his neck.
"Yeah, Doll." Andrew reaches up with his lower hand and hooks your fingers with his to pull your hand from his shoulder. He lifts his top arm up with a grimace and you seem to understand, put your arm under his and as high up under his shoulder in his armpit as you can to keep pressure off his ribs. As he rests his arm back down his bottom hand finds yours again and laces your hands together before he pulls your hand to his chest and holds onto and snuggles it like his own stuffed animal for comfort. "It's more than okay."
You're quiet for a moment, brain glitching out over Doll again. You want to acknowledge it like he acknowledged Andy, but it feels so hard. "I like it when you call me that." The words are a bit rushed out, but it doesn't really matter. Andrew hums in question and confusion at you. "Doll," you clarify. "You've called me it a couple of times now."
"Oh," he murmurs. Like you with Andy, Andrew had no idea that was slipping out. "You do? I don't know where it came from."
You bite your bottom lip and stifle a small giggle, kiss his neck again. "Probably the percocet." Andrew laughs softly with you and the sound makes your heart soar. "Yeah, I really do like it. It's incredibly sweet and there's something very you about it, Andy."
He's quiet for a second. You already admitted something similar but it feels so risky in the moment for some reason. Like it could shatter everything even though he knows it won't. Or maybe it'll shatter something in a good way.
"You were Doll in my head before the percocets," he admits through a whisper.
"Really?"
"Mhm." A couple moments of comfortable silence pass, your hand continuing to run through his curls because you're pretty sure it helps lull him to sleep and god knows he needs to sleep to start recovering.
You think Andrew is pretty close to sleep again but then he breaks the silence. "I like this."
He can feel you smile against his neck. "I like this too." You swallow thickly, more emotion and love and gratefulness that he's here and okay and yours creeps into your voice, the tears that have pooled in your eyes so very clear to him even though he can't see them. "I like you. I like you a lot, Andy."
Somewhere earlier tonight like stopped meaning like and started meaning love and you both know it. You both know Andrew's relationship with love is complicated and that it's not going to be as easy as saying it just because he feels it. It's going to take time. He's going to need to convince himself that he can love you right, properly, how you deserve. And you want time to love him how he's always deserved and to show him love doesn't have to be conditional or a tool for manipulation. So you wordlessly agree to use like for now.
"I like you." Andrew's voice is just as thick with all the same emotions as yours, his own tears clear to you just the same. "I like you a lot too, Doll."
I need him and to love him and take care of him and cuddle him and make him feel better. 🫠😮💨 I love him. I LOVE HIM. Anyway. Do we want more of these two? Thank you so much for reading! I hope it was okay and that you were able to enjoy! ♥️
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12.6k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: best-friends-to-lovers; hurt/comfort (physical injury); a splash of idiots-to-lovers; typical Andrew struggles with love; lack of self-worth for both; feelings of worthlessness and being undeserving; feelings of rejection at moments; moderately graphic description of injuries; insecurities; quick allusion to oral and PIV sex; mention of percocet; not canon or canon timeline compliant; allusion to canon typical background for Andrew and his family; mutual pining; Smurf mention; quickest mention of being sick (nobody is and nothing is described); soft; fluffy; no use of y/n.
Summary: After a job goes bad Andrew shows up at your door and learns what it really means to be taken care of.
AN: I don't have too much to say about this, we all know how I feel about my writing and that I've been struggling with it lately so we're just going to skip all that. It didn't turn out as well as I wanted it too and almost feels rushed in some way but I just need to throw it out into the universe lol. I have no idea how it got so long, it's unnecessary, I'm sorry. 😭 My plan is for these two to have their own AU (called All that Matters (maybe)) and to do more with them but time will tell. I didn't think of their backstory really so this doesn't say how they met, just how long they've known each other. Inspired by this prompt for the 3k celebration! On a personal level, things are rough and I wish I had an Andrew in my bed with me at night. 🫠 I hope this is okay and that you'd like to see more of these two and that this is enjoyable! Thank you so much for reading and all of your support! ♥️
You smile to yourself when you hear the familiar knock on your front door.
Andrew.
Andrew Cody. Your best friend. Your best friend with something about his knock that's unique enough for you to recognize immediately. Your best friend who's shown you that you've never truly had a best friend before because you've never been as close with someone as you are with Andrew, never felt so completely accepted. He knows everything about you and you everything about him. He can't believe you're still friends with him and it's ironic, because you can't believe he's still friends with you knowing everything about you and your past.
Your best friend who you're falling in love with. Who you've already fallen in love with and continue to fall more in love with, if you're honest.
In one sense you never expected to become his best friend and for him to become yours and to fall in love with him when you met almost two years ago. But in another there was just something there between you that you and Andrew felt the second you met.
You wish you could tell him how you feel but you can't bring yourself to risk your friendship, especially because you know how important your friendship is to Andrew, how it's the only real friendship he has. How you're his person. You won't jeopardize that and risk him losing you when he doesn't reciprocate, because you know he doesn't, and it becomes awkward.
You didn't expect to see him tonight. He'd texted you that his day hadn't gone as planned, code for something went wrong or at least awry with the job he and his brothers and J were doing today, so he wasn't going to make it over tonight. That made you worry of course, as did him not answering when you called to check on him, but he texted you that he was okay, just had to deal with some stuff.
Andrew was pissed sending that text. He was going to come over like usual, either sleep, as much as he ever really does, on your couch or slip out of your place and use his key to lock up behind him after you go to bed and he hears the TV in your room shut off, a sign he's learned means that you fell asleep and woke up to it on, wake just enough to turn it off and then roll back over and go back to sleep. He can't remember the last time he's gone an entire day without seeing you.
He was also pissed that he couldn't answer your call. It's not that he didn't want to, there was just too much going on and it was within an hour of the accident and he knew you'd easily hear the concussion he's sure he has in his voice and he didn't want to worry you.
But from the texts you exchanged after Andrew could tell you were still worried. He doesn't like making you worry. He's sure you'll worry when you see him, knows he won't be able to hide the extent of his injuries from you even if he tried because you'll just know somehow. You always seem to. Always seem to know how he's feeling and when he's in pain physically or mentally.
He figures that worrying about him with him there in front of you is probably easier for you than worrying about him when you can't see him. And if he's honest he just wants you. He hurts and doesn't feel great and he's pretty sure there's glass in his wounds and he knows you'll help him deal with all of his injuries and cuts and whatever else and you're comfort to him. You're the only thing that comforts him. Just being around you.
Andrew has fallen for you. He's quite certain that he's not just fallen for you but he's fallen in love with you, not that even if you somehow got together right now he'd be anywhere near ready to tell you. Falling in love with you was at once quick and slow. You've known each other for almost two years now and for Andrew you were different immediately.
There's just something about you. You're similar to him in so many ways, but also different. You can be more reserved, shy with social anxiety that can be borderline crippling sometimes, especially in situations where you don't know anyone or only know one person, even if that person is Andrew. You can be feisty though, a force who won't take shit from anyone and will speak her mind. Because while you might hate confrontation as it relates to yourself, hate standing up or advocating for yourself to the point you almost never do, you have no problem advocating and standing up and getting respectfully confrontational for other people, especially those you love and care about.
You become a bit more chatty once you're comfortable in a situation or with people. But you quite like sitting and not saying anything or chatting intermittently as something comes up. You enjoy parallel play, just sitting and doing things in the same room and enjoying each other's presence. You enjoy Andrew and he knows it. You make sure he feels it.
And you know everything. Everything he's done, everything his family has done, everything his family does.
Andrew told you everything one night after some job that really got to him. He expected you to reject him just like everyone else. Expected you to take steps away from him and tell him to get out and never come back. Expected you to block his number and never speak to him again. Expected that you'd realize he isn't the man you think he is. More than anything he expected to see the disgust and loathing and fear of him in your eyes as you finally looked at him like the monster he's so sure he actually is.
But you just hugged him, you just held him on your living room floor where he'd sunk to his knees as he told you everything. You rubbed his back and let him cry into you about everything he was telling you and then about everything that's ever happened to him because once that emotional release started and you stayed and whispered softly to him on repeat, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, You're safe here, Take your time, I've got you, and held him tightly and didn't run away, Andrew let everything out, had an emotional catharsis in your arms. Had the emotional catharsis he's needed to have and been desperate to have and just adding onto for decades.
And after, once he'd finally gotten himself together and his eyes clear enough to see you as much as possible with the way they were swollen from crying, while Andrew could tell you were processing a lot still, you weren't looking at him any differently. You weren't looking at him like he was a monster or in pity or like you were afraid of him and just trying to comfort him because you were scared what would happen if you didn't. You were looking at him how you always have, how you did before he told you.
You'd taken care of him then. Without him asking. Without asking what he needed. You just knew what to do. You offered him a shower because you know how much those help him and how they're a comfort for him, but he'd shaken his head and you'd understood why immediately. He didn't want to be alone. So then you offered a walk on the beach and he'd agreed with a wordless nod.
The first half of the walk was spent in silence, just you and Andrew walking next to each other and the crash and lull of the waves. You knew that's what he needed then. But once you hit your favorite ice cream place you bumped his hip with yours and gave him a sheepish smile before going and buying you both your favorites. On the way back you chatted at him intermittently, just enough, not too much or too little.
And you never made him talk about it, about everything he said that night. You knew that if and when he was ready to discuss it all with you more he would bring it up.
You're good for him. Andrew knows it. Deran and Craig know it. Smurf knows it and it’s a fucking problem to her. Deran's been trying to get him to make a move for a year now since he realized Andrew liked you like that, but Andrew's scared of losing you. His brain can't process the idea that you would ever want to be anything more than just a friend with him. You're you. And he's Andrew. You could never want him like that, romantically. He's lucky you even want him as a friend.
Pining over you in your presence hurts in a way, yeah, but being away is worse, and even if he can't kiss you and have you cuddle him like he wants, he still wants to be around you. You calm him, make him feel better, your presence in the room and getting to look at you and the smell of you, the sound of your voice and your soft touches to his arms or shoulders.
So Andrew just wants you right now. He decided to come over and hope you'd let him in. Deep down he knew you would but he never wants to count on it or get his hopes up, is still worried one day the reality of who he is and all the shit he's done is going to hit you and you're going to be done with him, realize you could do much better for a best friend than him. And so maybe he's less worried about whether you'll let him in and more worried that you'll kick him out and never let him back in again.
"You know, having a key means you don't have to knock, you can just come in whenever you want," you tease him with a smile as you open the door. The smile drops clean off your face as you take him in. "Andrew?" His name comes out in a breath, like you've been punched in the stomach, because you effectively have been.
You're frozen.
Andrew is hurt. He's shown up to your place needing help before, cleaning a cut and bandaging it, a butterfly band-aid here or there, but never anything like this.
He's leaning against your doorframe breathing harder and heavier than he normally does, his expression serious like always but dazed, concerningly dazed. Concussion dazed. Pain isn't written on his features but you can see it at the edges of his eyes and lips, the subtle hint of a grimace that only you would be able to see. You know how bad it must be for him to even let that much be seen.
There's blood smeared all over him, but predominantly his left side, cuts deep and shallow and mostly jagged littering his skin. Dried blood is caked on his left arm, dripping down from under the sleeve of his shirt with bigger pools of it on his forearm and wrist and hand. It's on his neck on that side too, almost completely covers the side, and fresher looking blood is starting to dry on his forehead where it's dripping down from his hairline. Fresh blood drips down his neck and arm in spots too, flows over his dried blood and is getting closer to dripping off his fingers as it runs down his hand.
Bruising is already setting in along his arm and cheekbone and jaw from whatever impact he took, and you're sure there's more bruising underneath all of the dried blood. Andrew fully grimaces in front of you as he brings his right hand up to hold his left side. Your eyes follow the movement and study his dark shirt and pants harder. Blood is seeping through them, and both are ripped in small lines in places.
The few seconds you're frozen feel so, so much longer than they actually are.
"Oh my god," you finally whisper as you come back to. Your eyes snap to his. "Andrew what… What happened?" Before he can even try to answer you're stepping out of the way and starting to worry and fret over him. You just need to make him better and give him as much pain relief as possible. "Come in, come in!"
You hold your hand out for him and Andrew almost starts to reach for it as he pushes himself off the doorframe but has to quickly move it to the wall to help keep his balance as he sways when he starts to walk. "Woah, woah." You move so that you're next to him quickly, slot yourself under his right arm to help support him and keep him stable. "Okay, I've got you. Come on, we're going to go to my bathroom okay?"
He gives you a soft nod in response and the two of you start walking toward your bathroom and you snatch up your water bottle as you walk by the end table. Andrew is leaning on you way more than he wants to be, but he needs your support, literally and figuratively, and your touch, just feeling you against him, is heaven. In addition to the pain his head is spinning quickly at all of the movement, the vertigo making him almost nauseous. Things had gotten worse on the ride to your place he'd made J give him. He knows he's concussed, has been more than enough times to know the feeling, and he's sure that by now you know he is too.
"You should've checked who was here before opening," he mumbles as he limps along with you. Andrew knows you didn't with the way your face fell when you saw him. You would've already known what you were opening the door to if you'd looked.
His voice is strained, more strained than you've ever heard it, and it's tired, you can tell he's tired, physically exhausted by whatever the fuck he's been through today. You can tell he's doing his best to hide how much pain he's in, but the little winces and grunts of pain don't escape your notice. Each one feels like a knife to your heart.
"I could tell by your knock," you mumble back distractedly as you get to your bathroom and turn the light on. You lead him so that he's standing with his back to the counter and get him to lean against it a bit as you slip from under his arm to stand in front of him, set your water bottle down.
"Hold onto me," you instruct him softly, bring his right hand to your shoulder and leave him to decide if his left arm has enough range of movement for him to do the same with his left hand. "Good," you murmur, carefully opening the medicine cabinet behind the side mirror and looking through various pill bottles until you find the leftover percocet from that time you broke your ankle and had surgery and pour two into your hand. "Okay, here," you hold your hand out near his right one, "it's some percocet, it should help."
Andrew blinks at you a few times. You're offering him pain meds, good ones that will probably actually help. That's never happened before. Nobody ever cared before. If he was lucky and he got hurt Smurf would leave a couple of ibuprofen on the counter for him.
"You don't have to waste that on me. Should keep it in case you need it one day," he tells you without making a move to take the pills from you as badly as his body is screaming at him to take them.
You breathe a laugh and shake your head at him as you look him in the eye. "It's not wasting it, Andrew. Not at fucking all. You need it, there's no point in you being in unnecessary pain when I have something that can hopefully help. So please, take it."
The two of you stare at each other for a few seconds as Andrew considers it. “I want to help you, so please let me.” Another few seconds pass but eventually he gives you the slightest nod and takes them from you, takes a drink from your water bottle that you hand to him to wash them down. "Thank you," you whisper.
You turn your attention to his injuries now that he has some pain medication on board, pray that it helps at least a little. You're so focused on what needs to be done that the full meaning and implication of what you say next doesn't fully hit you. "We need to get your clothes off."
It's the way you hear Andrew's breath catch a little at your words and how you have to work hard to steady your hands as you bring them to the button of his pants that make you realize what exactly you just said. You close your eyes and cringe at yourself.
"Fuck," you mutter. You open your eyes and force yourself to look up at him. Hazel eyes you want to drown in are already looking at you when you make eye contact. You can't decide if Andrew is blushing a little or if it's just color to his cheeks from his injuries. Your entire body runs hot with how flustered you get and even though you love giving him the eye contact he seems to love so much you have to look away, focus on a non-existent spot on his shirt. "I'm, I'm sorry I should've asked, just I, I was so focused on trying to help. Um, is it okay to… to take your pants off, to help you get your pants off? Only because, just, your leg, I think it's bleeding."
There's a part of Andrew that's beaming internally at the way you're so flustered by this, a part of him that thinks you're too adorable for words and certainly for this fucked up world and someone as fucked up and as much of a monster as him, but that wants and needs you to be his anyway, no matter how selfish. There's a part of him that wishes he could vocalize that to you, could tell you how he feels, could tell you how beautiful you are to him in every way and how much he wants you and how he's fallen and continues to keep falling in love with you every time he's with you.
And even though this, your help and touch and care, is the reason he came over, there's a part of him that wants to push you away, tell you to stop and to get out and that he'll take care of it, take care of himself like he always has. There's a part of him that needs to protect himself and his heart and push you away and leave you before you can leave him. Before he can be too much and too needy and, especially in this case, too weak and too unable to do the one thing he's good at and protect and keep you safe and feeling safe so you leave him, realize what he already knows, that he's really not good for anything. Because he knows how this plays out, how it always plays out. He'll lose you one day because of himself.
There's a part of him that wishes the accident had just killed him. There's a part of him that wants to grab you and kiss you and tell you that it's okay for you to take his clothes off as long as he can take off yours. There's a part of him that wants to never see you again, never put you at risk because of what he and his family do because it feels like this could so easily be you if he'd even rescued you in time from whoever took you to use against him. There's a part of him that wants to get cleaned up, pack up as much of your shit as the two of you can, stop by the house and get all of the money Smurf has hidden around and leave, get the fuck out of Oceanside with you, out of California, maybe out of the country.
But Andrew is too tired and his brain is too fuzzy, has slammed too hard against his skull today, for him to truly even begin to evaluate all those parts of him and all of his feelings and emotions in the context of this situation. He just wants to be sitting on your couch with you already. Wants this all to be over and everything to just be normal.
He grits his teeth as he moves his left hand up to hold onto your shoulder, squeezes so gently you're not sure if it's deliberate or not. "That's fine."
So not deliberately, then. You swallow hard. It's not exactly the reaction you wanted or hoped you'd get to asking the man you're so completely in love with and so fucking attracted to if you could take his clothes off. That's fine. Not yes, of course. Or just of course, or yeah, or sure, or literally anything with any level of positive connotation. Just that's fine.
Rejection slams into you hard, almost hard enough to take your breath away.
You know you shouldn't read into it. You know Andrew is in a ton of pain and exhausted and isn't thinking clearly or completely processing, that he's just trying to focus on keeping himself upright. But you can't help it. In the moment it feels so real and just confirms what you've always known. That no matter what it feels like sometimes, Andrew has no interest in you beyond being your friend.
"Okay," you whisper.
Even in his concussed, heavily brain-fogged state Andrew hears it, the change in your tone. The concern and worry and almost panic he knows he heard earlier are still there but now there's an obvious sadness to it and something that sounds almost like… rejection. He thinks. Maybe that’s just the concussion talking. For you to sound rejected you'd have to want him romantically to begin with and that has to be wishful thinking on his part. The sadness still concerns him though.
As Andrew goes to ask if you're okay your fingers find the button of his pants and easily unbutton them and pull his zipper down and Andrew can't breathe, has to focus on not ruining this and everything by getting hard and disgusting you, or making you uncomfortable. Both of you have imagined this a million times, you unbuttoning and unzipping and helping Andrew out of his pants, but absolutely never in this context.
It's still happening though. Your thumbs are still hooking the waistband of his pants and pulling them down over his ass, slowly revealing tight, black boxer briefs that you do your absolute fucking best to ignore. "Can you hold onto the counter?" you murmur.
Andrew does so wordlessly and you bend your knees and continue to pull his pants down. Your tongue clicks softly against the back of your teeth and you let out a sad, concerned breath through your nose as the scrapes and cuts and bruises to his left leg come into view as you get his pants down his thighs and calves.
Once you've helped him step out of his pants you toss them to the side and take a better look at his injuries. There are a few proper cuts here and there, enough so that there's streaks of dried blood painting his left thigh and knee and calf just like it does his left arm and hand. It's mostly bruising and scrapes though, nothing as bad as his neck or left arm.
You stand up wordlessly and leave him leaning against the counter just long enough for you to grab a spare towel, fold it, put the lid to the toilet down and the towel on top of it to make it at least a little more comfortable for him. "Here." You hold out your hand for him but don't look at him. Andrew wants to say something about it, wants to just move himself over there but he lets himself take your hand, lets himself take comfort from your touch and your skin on his, lets you guide him to sit.
He winces as you help him lower himself down to sit, lets out the closest thing to a groan of pain you think you'll ever hear from him and it shatters you. Between the concussion and the pain and how tired he is, Andrew almost can't tell where the pain is really coming from or stops or ends. He just knows everything hurts.
You can't stand seeing him in this much pain, can't stand seeing him in any pain. Tears line your eyes, only capable of being held back because you need to take care of him and because you know if you let them fall he'll get concerned about you and try to make you the priority.
"We need to get your shirt off," you tell him quietly, still looking anywhere but his face.
He can still hear it in your voice, how dejected you are. He's not sure whether he should say something. Maybe his mind is just making it up. Why would you be dejected? He's starting to worry he upset you somehow. And yet all he can force out of his mouth right now is an empty, "Okay."
You grab the hem of his shirt and start to lift it up and help get it over his arms and Andrew's wincing and hissing through the pain, face screwed up in it. You should get an award for not bursting into tears. "Do you want me to cut it off?"
"No." He takes a breath and then moves quickly to get his arms out of the fucking shirt, swaying just a little with the movement.
"Okay, woah, I've got you. I've got you," you murmur as you bring your hands to his shoulders to help keep him sitting up straight, eyes still refusing to find his and staring at the bunched up shirt around his neck. He wishes he could explain to you how much your touch helps, how it makes the pain quiet so much, relaxing him so he isn't tensed against it, and giving his mind something else to focus on other than how he's hurting. He knows it doesn't really make any fucking sense and has to all be in his head but he swears it's true, your touch makes him feel so much better.
After a couple seconds holding onto him and another few seconds of you taking your hands off his shoulders but hovering them to the side to make sure he doesn't sway again, you finish getting his shirt over his head and off, toss it to the side near his pants. And then you kneel in front of him, off center a bit in front of his left side.
"Oh Andrew," you breathe as you take in his left side. All of the blood, fresh and old, and all of the cuts, many of which you think might have glass in them, are bad enough and have your heart shattering and stomach flipping. But it's the already purple bruising along the side of his chest creeping onto his abdomen that forces you to swallow hard to settle the overwhelming wave of nausea that makes you want to be sick into the sink. It's not that it's gross, not at all, not even close.
It's that it's Andrew. It's that it's Andrew who went through something physically traumatic enough to cause this kind of damage. You have no idea whether those bruises are truly bruising to his skin or if they're a sign of internal bleeding. And if his side took that level of impact then his head and brain took at least that level of impact, and fuck, what if he has a skull fracture or a fucking brain bleed?
All of his other symptoms could be from any of those things, internal bleeding, a brain bleed, a concussion, who knows what the fuck else. What if he goes to sleep and doesn't wake up? What if you don't force him to go to the hospital and something happens to him? What if you lose him? He might not want you and that might be devastating to you, but having him around you in some capacity is so much fucking better than not having him around you at all.
What the fuck happened?
He still hasn't told you and you need to know. You need that information.
Andrew studies your face as you take in his injuries. They must be worse than he thought based on your reaction. It's not the absolute worst he's ever felt after a job so he's not overly concerned, but he knows you're not used to this. You look like you're in pain as your eyes run over his skin, like you could be sick, but there's something in your expression that makes it clear it's not because you find it gross. It's something else. Something he can't quite place.
Maybe he shouldn't have come here and put you through this. Maybe this will be too much, will make you realize just how fucked up he and his life and his family truly are and you’ll leave him, stop being his friend. His best friend. His only real true friend.
Normally Andrew is okay with silence. But right now it's suffocating and he misses the sound of your voice. He misses you looking at him. He misses your touch. It feels like something is wrong with the way you won't look at him but he doesn't know what.
This is part of the problem with you and Andrew being so similar. Neither of you are good at sharing all of your feelings and you both have a tendency to shut down and retreat inward which makes the other do the same which usually makes the other do the same even more, and so unless and until one of you finds a foothold to help you guys get out and back to normal it easily becomes a painful feedback loop, both of you stuck in your heads and panicking and spinning out, convinced the other is finally done.
Andrew reaches down to his side and touches it gently with his hand, brings his hand back up to see if it's still bleeding. It is. He shifts a little and looks down. It doesn't look great. He's glad he's so good at dissociating to avoid pain, guesses his trauma has at least one positive.
Seeing his side gives him one of those footholds you both need, or at least he hopes it does. He licks his chapped and slightly bloodied lips and then forces the sentence out. You've never not replied to him. You'll reply and things will start to get back to normal and he won't have made the wrong decision in coming here. "I think there's glass."
Andrew's voice brings you back. You were stuck looking at his side and thinking of every worst case scenario and how all of them ended with you never telling him how you felt. He pretty much all but confirmed he doesn't feel for you how you feel for him today with the that's fine in response to you asking to take his clothes off but still. You realize you'll regret it if you don't at least tell him and give it that chance. You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you lose him, if he died and you never told him, never at least made sure he knows he's desirable and lovable and handsome and that anyone would be lucky to have him, no matter what Smurf might try to tell him or what Baz did tell him.
"There is, yeah." You take in a breath and clear your throat. "Let me see what I have," you murmur as you stand up and start rummaging through your cabinets and drawers looking for supplies. You still don't look him in the eye or at his face, you can't. Internally you're still… devastated, as overdramatic as that sounds. By all of it.
It's not something you consciously realize but you love and care about Andrew so much already that even with as devastated and hurt as you are by what you're so sure is the reality that he doesn't like you the same way you like him, you're more devastated about his injuries and the pain he's feeling and the risk to his health and the way he can't go to a doctor. Your eyes blur with tears a little as you empty out a little bowl of random hair things you've collected over the years into the drawer it came out of. You'll fix the slight mess you've made of all your drawers and cabinets later, you couldn't care less about it right now if you tried.
Once you've looked through it all and gathered everything you think you could possibly need and get it set within reach of your spot on the floor you wash your hands well and dry them with a fresh towel. You kneel in front of him in the same spot again and open some of the saline wash you have and soak some gauze so you can clean his cuts before pulling the glass out.
He can't take it anymore. You still haven't looked at him, still haven't fucking looked at him and Andrew's sure he did something wrong and you hate him or at least don't want to be his friend and are just doing this because you feel bad and he wants to know what he did, wants to be able to try to fix it. His brain is just tired and not firing as well as it normally does so it's hard for him to come up with anything, more of the daze and fogginess still fucking with his brain that he wants to admit.
Andrew brings his left hand up and rests it over yours where you've started to clean his skin and says your name a few times, voice just above a whisper and all raw and gravel and anxiety. He almost sounds scared. And he is. He's scared he's losing you.
You hate it. You hate how anxious he sounds. It makes your heart shatter into even tinier pieces. Your head snaps up and your eyes find his immediately, hand still. He looks as worried as he sounds, but there's something in his eyes, an expression in them and the way his face is set that's different, that you haven't seen before and struggle to place until you've held his gaze for a few seconds and it hits you. Andrew is scared. He's scared of something and you're not sure what and you hate all of that too. Somehow the pieces of your heart shatter again, growing closer to sand you're not sure you'll ever be able to put back together.
"The job, the job went…" Andrew trails off, breathing hard and wincing slightly. You're both sure he broke multiple ribs. "It went bad. The job went bad."
Pieces click into place. You get it. You get it.
Andrew is insecure. You’re far and away his best friend and one of his only friends and you know he's worried and insecure and you can tell he thinks he's going to lose you and that you're pulling away with how you've started to retreat into yourself since the taking his clothes off thing. You know it because you recognize the feeling that his eyes are conveying to you, feel it yourself and know how much it sucks and hurts and can be crippling. He's trying to get you back, to find that foothold and he's struggling.
He shouldn't be struggling. You shouldn't be making him struggle. He doesn't need to be struggling or worried or scared about anything in relation to you. You'll always be his best friend, as long as he wants you to be, even if you desperately wish you could be more and even being so sure now that he doesn't want you how you want him.
You know what it feels like. You know how he feels. And it fucking sucks and is awful and you'll never let him feel that way, especially right now when he doesn't need to be. It suddenly becomes easy to set aside all of your own mental bullshit, your sadness and heartache. If anything you start berating yourself for even letting yourself fall into your own mental bullshit. Andrew has needed you since he knocked on your door, he's hurt, badly, and you should never have given him more to struggle with right now.
Maybe you're wrong though. Maybe you're misreading things. He doesn't like you how you like him, doesn't have any romantic interest in you. Maybe you don't give him the comfort you think you do. Maybe you're just here. Maybe this is all physiological and because of his injuries and because you pretty much demanded to know what happened as soon as you saw him.
No. You know better than that. You're Andrew's best friend and he thinks he's losing you while also trying to deal with all of his physical pain and injuries. You can't have that, no matter how you're feeling.
"I know," you nod, giving him a small and what you hope is reassuring smile. "I know, I know it did, I can tell." You rest your free hand on his bare thigh just a bit above his knee and give a reassuring squeeze. "And that's okay. Sometimes they go bad, it's okay. I promise it's okay. I've got you."
You widen your smile a bit as you blink back tears of eighty different emotions and slide your hand up his thigh just a little until your fingers bump into his where his right hand rests on his thigh. "Fuck the job, Andy."
Andy.
You've never called him that before. Not out loud at least. You've called him it in your head a million times, always figured it was far too intimate and close to a pet name a girlfriend might call him, something you knew he didn't want with you, wouldn't want you to call him. Andrew is special enough. You were the only one he let call him it, could never fully understand why you, but he did. He loved the way you helped him take it back from his mom and the way she'd use it to manipulate him.
The thing is, though, you don't even notice you do it, that Andy slips out. Andrew is the only one of the two of you who does.
And it rocks him, mind, body and soul.
He's never been called that before, nobody other than his mom has ever really wanted to call him some sort of special nickname like that and she used baby like she did with all of them. He can't even remember if Amy tried to use a pet name.
He loves it. Loves the way it sounds coming off your tongue, is immediately imagining all the ways it could sound. Andy through a giggle he pulls from you or laughed when he pulls laughter from you somehow or said softly as you squeeze his arm to help calm him and bring him back to you and get him to walk away from a situation.
Andy in that sleepy slur you get when you fall asleep on the couch. Andy in a pleasured and contented sigh when moves from kissing your lips to your jaw and just below your ear. Andy in the prettiest moan as his tongue flicks across your clit and your hands tug at his curls or as he slides inside of you or as you sink down on him. Andy cried through tears of pleasure as he fucks you within an inch of your life into the mattress. Andy moaned as you come for him, panted breathlessly as you ask him to come for you, as you feel his cum warm you.
The name distracts him from the tears he swears he saw in your eyes, concern he'll never understand why you have for him, and from the way your voice changed earlier and how you only just started to look at him again.
You swallow the lump forming in your throat and keep the smile on your face, not quite forced because you are happy he's alive and at least okay enough right now, but a little because you're hurting because he's hurting and because he doesn't want you. "The only thing that matters right now is that you're alive and here with me, I promise. It's okay. You know I'd never lie to you, yeah?" Your eyes search his as you nod softly and raise your eyebrows in emphasis. "It's okay."
It takes a couple of seconds for him to find his voice again but eventually Andrew does. "Okay."
He moves his hand from yours so that you can continue, but you don't, not quite yet. "Once I'm done cleaning and getting the glass out do you want to shower before I bandage everything?"
"No." Both of you are surprised at how fast he says it. Andrew loves showering. But not today, not right now. The thought of it alone is exhausting and he just doesn't have it in him.
"Okay." You give him another reassuring smile. You're kind of glad he doesn't want to, you didn't like the thought of him standing alone right now. "I um, I, I have some wipes I use sometimes. They're pretty much just water so they don't leave like a scent and shouldn't make you itchy. I can wipe you off as I clean everything?"
The intimacy of the act doesn't escape either of you, but you both try to write it off as just circumstance, tell yourself the intimacy it could have isn't really there because the other doesn't want that. "Yeah, okay," he whispers.
You nod and move your hand off him, stay on your knees as you reach over and pull them out of the top drawer of the sink vanity. And then you start cleaning his wounds and wiping off the rest of him as you go, decide to get everything clean before you pull the glass out and bandage everything up.
As you do Andrew finally starts to tell you what happened. He tells you everything, watches the way you react with your face and eyes instead of your voice so he can get it all out, occasionally glance up at him to give him a bigger reaction and so that he knows you're still here with him and the two of you are okay.
The only time you really speak is when you clean one of his wounds or pull out a piece of glass and he winces. You murmurs these soft little apologies that make his heart fucking race and him fall a little more in love with you because he can feel how much you care for and about him, and how bad you feel for causing him pain and how much you love him, even if he thinks it's only as a friend.
It's easy to not really notice just how much gauze you're using and how bloody it and your hands get, and how much glass you're pulling from his skin as you go with how focused on tending to his injuries you are. But once you have what you hope is all the glass out and all of his injuries tended to and wounds bandaged however they need it really hits you as you look around your bathroom.
And it knocks the wind out of you, makes you feel like you've been punched in the stomach all over again as you stare at your bloody hands and the piles of blood soaked gauze and the little bowl full of bloodied glass. "Fuck, Andrew," you breathe out, barely anything behind the words, but just enough that he can hear them.
Something in your tone makes him a little uneasy.
You breathe through a wave of buried panic induced nausea and use one of your wipes to clean your hands. You drop the wipe and dry your hands with your shirt and then look around again. "What the fuck?" You shake your head slowly as you take it all in.
"I mean jesus fucking christ, Andrew. What the fuck?" Terror and panic and fear driven by just how much you love this fucking man sitting in front of you saturate every word. Your entire body starts to shake just a touch, barely noticeable. "Look at all of this. The blood and the glass. Your blood. That's glass I pulled out of you." Your head spins because, yeah, you've fixed him up but he could be bleeding internally or on or in his brain, and you've done all you can for him and he could still be dying right in front of you. He could still die.
"What the fuck? What…" Your voice gives out on you because of how upset you are and how hard you're trying to fight it. You haven't looked at him, have gone back to not looking at him and sharing eye contact the way he loves. You know if you do you'll ruin everything and totally give yourself away and burst into fucking tears.
Andrew's heart sinks and he joins you in fighting back a wave of nausea. He's been expecting this day in a sense but he didn't think it would be today and he didn't think it would be like this. He's always expected the day would come that you'd truly see him and be done. It never occurred to him that your reaction to this would be anger, that you'd be mad at him.
He never thought you'd do that. He never thought you'd be mad at him for something like this, something he couldn’t control and was forced into doing by his family, never thought this would cause the end. He thought you were different. He thought he could truly come to you for anything. But now he can see that the immediate adrenaline of him showing up hurt has passed and you've gotten him patched up and now you're looking around and seeing everything and it's all sinking in and so of course you're mad at him. Of course you're done. You can't even fucking look at him.
It shatters him.
It hurts worse than any pain physical or emotional he's ever felt before.
He trusted you. He trusted you not to do this, not to be like her and the rest of his family. He'll never trust again. He's not even sure he'll live long enough to have the opportunity. But he is sure he can't stay here any longer.
Andrew takes one last look at you and then focuses his gaze at a spot on the wall across from him. He grimaces as he stands. "I'm sorry. Thank you for cleaning me up. I'll leave now."
"What?" Your head snaps up. "Why? You, you can't! You can't be alone right now, Andy, it's not safe. Why? Why do you want to go?"
You scramble to your feet so that you're standing in front of him and half blocking the door. You try to catch his eye but when you get close he just blinks and looks away at a different spot. You start to shake harder.
"Andrew, please, talk to me," you plead with him. Even though you can't catch his gaze, with the change in angle standing has brought you can finally see it.
He thinks you're mad. He thinks you're angry at him. He thinks you don't want him. He thinks you're done with him like everyone else in his life has been at some point.
You almost have to laugh when you realize because he's so fucking wrong.
"I'm not mad at you, Andrew," you murmur. "I'm not mad at all. I'm not mad at you, I promise." You swallow hard again and blink back tears because the last thing you want to do is guilt trip him into believing you.
You take in a deep breath to help pull yourself together and then slowly reach up, make sure he sees your hands, and cup his face with a tenderness and lightness and reverence he knows he doesn't deserve. That same touch gives him plenty of room to pull away and refuse to move as it so gently coaxes his head to turn and look down at you.
One look at your face and a split second of shared eye contact is all Andrew needs to realize that he was wrong. About all of it. He sees it all for what it is now, knows that he's mistaking the terror and panic and fear in your voice for anger because that's all he's ever known and learned.
"I'm not angry or upset or mad. I'm sorry for making you think that I am, but I'm truly not Andrew." You keep your voice steady enough but start to lose the battle with your tears as you stare into the eyes of the man you love more than anything and can't stomach the thought of losing.
"I'm not mad. I’m worried and scared and don’t like seeing you in pain, and you need to go the hospital you have a concussion, what if you have a brain bleed, and the bruising, you could have internal bleeding and you won’t go, I mean, I, you can't go, I know. I know you can't and it's not that you won't." Tears start to accumulate along your lash lines and your voice grows a little shaky. "But I hate that and so I'm just worried and scared and need you to be okay. I'm not mad at you though. I'm not, I promise. And I don't blame you or anything. I just wish I could make it all better and take it on for you. I really don't like seeing you in pain. I don't like seeing you injured. But that doesn't mean don't come to me, because I'd hurt worse knowing you're hurt like this and didn't come to me. I want you to. I need you to come to me."
Andrew's head spins because you're not mad, you're really not, that's undeniably clear. Nothing about you has changed in the way his brain catastrophized. "Oh," he whispers.
Something inside you breaks.
You can't fucking do this anymore. He could've died and you could've never had the chance and you know now you'll regret it, regret never trying. You know he doesn't want you like this, his reaction to asking to take his clothes off told you that for sure, and you know this could ruin everything, could mean he couldn't be your friend anymore. But you're so caught up in the moment and your emotions about him dying and having never tried or never told him or never made sure he knows he's desirable and lovable that you just have to do it. You have to try.
"Can I just…" A few tears spill over and fall down your cheeks as you continue to hold his face in your hands. Andrew takes a little step closer as concern and protectiveness pull onto his face and start to take over his brain because he hates seeing you cry, hates it. "Can I just try? Can I… Can I do something I've been wanting to do for a really long time now? Because life is short and fragile and you could've died today and you still could and I just, I, I, I… You, you could've died, Andy you could've died and I know it's over and you're here and everything's okay right now, but you still could've died and I'm still so, so scared and worried. I'm so scared. So I need to do this, please. You can push me away and leave and never speak to me again when you hate it and it makes things weird. But I just need to try and to tell you, I have to have tried, and I don't, I don't know how to tell you, how to say it, so can I just… try?"
Andrew nods slowly, confusion evident on his face and in his tone. "Yeah."
You sniffle and wipe as many tears from your face as you can. They seem to have stopped for this. It's funny because you always imagined that if this happened you'd have to do it quickly, before you lost your nerve. But right now it's not about having the nerve. It's about having the chance and him being here and okay and you needing to tell him because he could've died, and that isn't something you can lose.
You share a few seconds of eye contact with him, that confusion still present in them that's kind of so adorable your stomach aches. You step closer to Andrew so that your chests are touching, take his face back in your hands and pull his head down toward you as you lean up and into him, your nose nuzzling against his for just a second.
And then you press your lips to his in a kiss so soft and tender and loving that it's almost devastating in the best sense, completely erases every memory of kissing Andrew has up to now. You let the kiss linger long enough for him to know you mean it and to give him a chance to kiss you back.
But Andrew's so caught off guard and frozen by the kiss, by this thing he's dreamed of actually happening that he can't even get his lips to begin moving to kiss you back by the time you're realizing you were right and pulling away, releasing his face from your hands.
You take a step back and shake your head just a little, let out a small, embarrassed laugh as you try to play it off. "I'm sorry." You shrug shallowly and have to look over his shoulder and past him because you can't face him right now, aren't sure how you'll ever face him again, but you know you'll get there. He's your best friend. Or at least you hope he still is and that he can move past this with you. Tears start to stream down your face again.
"I, I didn't think you'd like me like that back, I mean, I guess, I… I should've known and just trusted that instinct after the clothes thing, I just thought maybe… I don't know. I don't know why I ever thought you might like me. But, um, after this," you gesture at the bloody gauze and bowl of glass and his wounds, "I just needed to tell you so that I didn't regret it and so that you know you're so, so incredibly lovable and desirable, and I didn't know how else to tell you I want you like that, that I'm, that, that, I've fallen, am falling in love with you. I'm sorry, I really am, and I hope we can still be friends and-"
You're cut off by Andrew's lips pressing against yours as he kisses you this time, steps toward you and takes your face in his hands and holds it with a delicacy and reverence that nobody but you would think he was capable of. After the initial shock wears off you immediately kiss him back, bring your hands up to his wrists and hold onto them gently.
Andrew ends the kiss much sooner than either he or you would like, but he doesn't go far, pulls back just enough so you can see each other clearly. "I'm falling…too." He can't quite bring himself to say the word love yet for a number of reasons, all of which you understand without him even beginning to try to explain. You know how complicated of an emotion that is for him. His eyes are glassy as a few tears spill over and slide down his face because he can't believe this and he wants you and needs you and he's so happy even if he can't understand why you want him like that and are falling in love with him. "I want you like that too. I want you."
"Yeah?" you whisper.
"Yeah," he murmurs back as you close the short distance between your lips and kiss him again.
The kiss starts the same but quickly escalates into something much deeper, Andrew's tongue gliding along yours as the two of you start to find your rhythm and confidence, bodies pressing together gently. You both let out gentle sighs and pull soft moans from the other, neither of you really able to hold back now that this is happening. You've both dreamed about it for too long.
You don't know how long you stand there making out and getting lost in each other and your feelings for each other. The only reasons you break apart and Andrew lets go of your face are your shared need for more oxygen than you can get while making out and because you realize that standing must hurt for him right now, leaning down to kiss you is probably the same.
"I've wanted this, wanted you, this entire time, for almost two years," Andrew admits softly once he's caught his breath.
A slow smile pulls onto your face. "I've wanted this and you for that long too, Andy. I want to be yours and I want you to be mine."
You're so beautiful it burns him. The smile you're wearing etches itself into his brain. He'll never forget it. He can't imagine living without you.
"I want to be yours and you to be mine too. I want everything with you. I want, I want you." There's so much more he wants to say, wants to tell you, but it's getting harder to just keep himself standing. The percocets you gave him have helped with the pain but intensified how drowsy and foggy-headed he feels. The last thing he wants to do to you right now is pass out in your bathroom.
You can tell there's more he wants to say but you can also see how tired he is, how his body is really starting to truly physically exhaust out more than he can continue to fight, because you know he's been fighting it since he got here.
"Then consider me yours and you mine," you murmur, bringing your hand up to push some curls off his forehead and resting your fingertips on his cheek after. You lean back up and give him a quick kiss just because you can now. "We can talk more tomorrow or once you're feeling better, yeah?"
"Is that okay?" he whispers. He doesn't want to fuck this up before he really gets the chance to experience this and you fully.
"More than," you nod. "You don't need to push yourself. I'm your girl and that's not changing because we need to defer a conversation because you're seriously injured and exhausted, I promise. I'm not going anywhere Andy." You give him a soft, reassuring smile. It's so cliché and dramatic but Andrew sees his entire future and reason for being in your eyes. "Come on, I'll grab you a pair of sweatpants and a shirt from the stash you keep here and help you get dressed."
You shift and slot yourself under his shoulder again and help him walk over to the side of your bed. The fact that he has an entire drawer in your dresser in your bedroom in your apartment really should've been the writing on the wall for both of you in retrospect. But hindsight is always 20/20.
Getting his sweatpants on is relatively easy. It hurts because he has to stand up, but it's nothing in comparison to the pain his broken ribs cause when he tries to lift his arms up enough for you to get his shirt on. You chew your lip so hard that it bleeds as you try to make it work, and eventually you all but beg him to just say fuck it to the shirt and be shirtless. He's quick to agree.
You decide to go watch something on the couch together for a while. You help him walk out to it and sit. Andrew can't lie. When you sit a bit away from him, no parts of you touching, your thighs not even anywhere near brushing each other's, he's bummed. Maybe even a little hurt, rejection stinging through him. He thought it would be different now that you've kissed and you said you're his and he's yours. And then it hits him and he's honestly surprised he isn't leaning forward in blinding pain from his ribs and being sick on your floor at the thought.
What if you're changing your mind?
What if helping him get dressed and out to the couch was enough time for you to come to your fucking senses and realize you can do better than him and that he's a monster and a terrible person and so far away from even approaching good enough for you? What if you don't want him anymore? What if you don't need him anymore? Need him in that pure way you make him feel where you just need him, not what he can do for you or what he can provide.
What if you're not falling in love with him anymore?
"Andrew?"
Your voice finally breaks through his thoughts and he looks over at you. "Yeah?" he mumbles.
You smile at him and cock your head. "You okay? You zoned out on me there a little." When he nods you don't push the issue, something he's immensely grateful for because he has no idea what he would say. "Did you… Would you like, or, or can you lay down on your side?" You gently pat your lap once and he realizes you want him to put his head there. You want him to lay with his head in your lap. "Might be more comfortable than sitting up, though I'm sure getting down and comfy will hurt like a bitch. And it's okay if you don't want to, of course."
The intimacy of the ask alone could make him cry.
"Yeah, okay." Andrew shifts and then starts to lay down and like you said, it hurts like a bitch and he can't help the winces and grimaces he makes as he gets as comfortable as possible and settles with his head in your lap and his hand on your knee. It's heavenly. It’s perfect.
You grab the blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over him so he doesn't get cold being shirtless. You bring one of your hands to his curls and start running your fingers through them and stroking his hair. You rest your other hand under the blanket on his shoulder, don't want to overwhelm him with too much loving touch that he's not used to at once.
"Is this okay Andy? If it's hurting your head or making things worse with the concussion, I can stop," you murmur.
"No, it's not hurting, it… It feels good." His cheeks flush with something that's not quite embarrassment but approaching it. "Nobody's ever, I've never had someone do that. I like it."
Something about his admission breaks your heart. You guessed that was going to be the case but it doesn't make it easier to accept. You've wanted to do it since the day you met him. And there's nobody you know who deserves this small gesture of comfort more than Andrew. It kills you that he's never had it.
"Good," you whisper.
You find something random to watch and put it on, hope that Andrew will be in and out of sleep as you sit out here together. With every pass of your hand through his curls or over his head you can feel him get sleepier and relax even more.
Your chin trembles a little and you have to bite your lip when Andrew moves his hand from your knee up across his body to hold your hand that's resting on his shoulder. "I like it when you call me that." His voice is adorably sleep slurred, a sense of vulnerability in everything he's doing and saying right now that makes you want to weep because you can't believe you're lucky enough that he trusts you like this.
You're not sure what he's talking about though. You haven't consciously realized you've been calling him Andy. "Call you what?"
"Andy." He nuzzles his face into your thigh a little and lets out a soft sigh, sleep coming for him harder than it has since he was a child before Smurf fucked him up so much. "You've been calling me Andy all night. I like it."
"Oh." You laugh through a breath as you think about it. "I… I, wow, that's kind of embarrassing. I didn't even notice that's what I was saying. Honestly, I've called you that in my head for so long."
"It's not embarrassing." All of his words slur together as he fights off sleep to finish the conversation and because he doesn't want to leave you, doesn't want to wake up to you not here with him and this whole thing having been a concussion induced dream. "I'm glad it slipped out."
You giggle at how fucking adorable and precious and cute and perfect he is this sleepy. "I'm glad you like it."
Andrew hums and you think he's too close to asleep to verbally reply. But then he does. "I like everything about you, Doll."
Doll.
You could actually fucking scream. Andrew, your Andrew, your Andy, who you've been pining over for almost two years, just called you Doll as your own special pet name because you're his. You're his. He wants you to be his.
He's falling in love with you.
Before you can say anything to him about you liking him calling you Doll you feel Andrew relax all the way and know he's fallen asleep on you.
You could actually fucking scream about that too.
A few episodes pass with Andrew drifting in and out of sleep, the two of you talking a little when he's awake. When the episode you're currently watching starts to end and Andrew's awake you tell yourself to take the chance and ask.
"Will you stay with me tonight?" you ask quietly as the episode ends.
He pauses for a second. It's not that he doesn't want to stay with you, it's not that at all. He loves staying with you, he stays on your couch most of the time because it's comfortable and he likes being with you in your space and being able to keep you safe and when he stays awake most of the night it makes him feel a little less alone even though you're asleep in your bed. But with how bad his injuries are and how tired he is he was actually kind of looking forward to climbing into a bed. He'd rather be with you though, especially with everything that's been revealed tonight. "Yeah. I'll stay."
You smile softly to yourself. "No, Andrew." You know what he's thinking based on that pause, know that what you meant isn't even something he's thinking about despite the fact that you both admitted you're falling in love with each other. "I mean stay with me. Sleep in my bed with me." Now it's you who pauses as you realize that could be way too pressuring or too much too soon for him. "It's okay if you don't want to, I promise. You don't have to. I only want you to if you want to."
"I want to," he's quick to confirm, eager, almost, in the most adorable way that has his ears burning and you biting your lip. He's wanted to for nearly two full years. "Are you sure though? I might get your sheets or comforter bloody."
You nod even though he can't see it. "I'm positive. I don't care about the sheets or comforter at all. I just want you and to be close to you. I want to know you're okay," you whisper, the longing and need and want so clear in your voice it almost hurts. "I want to hold you. I've wanted you in my bed and to hold and be held by you for so long."
"I want that too," he whispers back, looks up and back at you as much as he can. The pain is so much more than worth the smile you're already wearing that he's rewarded with.
You help him sit up and get up off the couch and walk back into your room. When you slip into your bathroom to change into a pair of pajamas Andrew slides his sweatpants off. He wants to feel as much of you as he possibly can. He's not really sure how this is going to work, how you're going to be able to be close to him when the most comfortable position for him is on his side. Now that he's had a taste of snuggling with you on the couch he's incredibly bummed there's not likely to be any more tonight. At least he'll get to open his eyes and look at you, maybe hold your hand.
Those thoughts go out the window and his brain buffers when you walk in from the bathroom in a satin camisole and short shorts. Even through the pain Andrew can feel himself getting hard at the sight of you, of your legs and your nipples the satin does nothing to hide. He hates that you can't have sex right now, that he can't have sex right now and is the reason you can't. But then he chastises himself for even assuming you want to have sex with him right now, that you would this early in your relationship.
Your relationship. It's still so strange to think about. For both of you.
You pad over to your hamper and toss your clothes in. "Why don't you get in and get comfy? I know it'll probably be on your side."
"Okay," he nods.
Andrew winces as he gets into bed and gets comfortable on his side, but it's not as bad as he thought it would be. He's never slept in a bed this comfortable before. He can't decide if it's truly the mattress or just the fact that he knows it's your bed and that it smells like you.
When you slide into bed behind him Andrew frowns to himself. He guesses he won't at least get to see you or hold your hand.
But then you keep scooting yourself over toward him, spoon him from behind, working so incredibly gently to get as much of yourself pressed up against the back of him without causing him any pain. By the time you're settled you're pretty much adhered to his back as much as you can be with the size and height difference between you. Your nose and lips rest at the nape of his neck and you press a soft kiss there, your bottom arm under the pillow and bending back toward you so that your fingers can find their home in his perfect auburn curls again. Your top arm is a little more awkward as your hand rests on his shoulder since you don't want to rest it on his side and his broken ribs.
This, spooning, being held and loved on from behind, never occurred to Andrew because it's just another one of those things he's done for others that nobody has ever done for him.
"Is this okay?" you murmur, nuzzle your nose into the curls at the nape of his neck.
"Yeah, Doll." Andrew reaches up with his lower hand and hooks your fingers with his to pull your hand from his shoulder. He lifts his top arm up with a grimace and you seem to understand, put your arm under his and as high up under his shoulder in his armpit as you can to keep pressure off his ribs. As he rests his arm back down his bottom hand finds yours again and laces your hands together before he pulls your hand to his chest and holds onto and snuggles it like his own stuffed animal for comfort. "It's more than okay."
You're quiet for a moment, brain glitching out over Doll again. You want to acknowledge it like he acknowledged Andy, but it feels so hard. "I like it when you call me that." The words are a bit rushed out, but it doesn't really matter. Andrew hums in question and confusion at you. "Doll," you clarify. "You've called me it a couple of times now."
"Oh," he murmurs. Like you with Andy, Andrew had no idea that was slipping out. "You do? I don't know where it came from."
You bite your bottom lip and stifle a small giggle, kiss his neck again. "Probably the percocet." Andrew laughs softly with you and the sound makes your heart soar. "Yeah, I really do like it. It's incredibly sweet and there's something very you about it, Andy."
He's quiet for a second. You already admitted something similar but it feels so risky in the moment for some reason. Like it could shatter everything even though he knows it won't. Or maybe it'll shatter something in a good way.
"You were Doll in my head before the percocets," he admits through a whisper.
"Really?"
"Mhm." A couple moments of comfortable silence pass, your hand continuing to run through his curls because you're pretty sure it helps lull him to sleep and god knows he needs to sleep to start recovering.
You think Andrew is pretty close to sleep again but then he breaks the silence. "I like this."
He can feel you smile against his neck. "I like this too." You swallow thickly, more emotion and love and gratefulness that he's here and okay and yours creeps into your voice, the tears that have pooled in your eyes so very clear to him even though he can't see them. "I like you. I like you a lot, Andy."
Somewhere earlier tonight like stopped meaning like and started meaning love and you both know it. You both know Andrew's relationship with love is complicated and that it's not going to be as easy as saying it just because he feels it. It's going to take time. He's going to need to convince himself that he can love you right, properly, how you deserve. And you want time to love him how he's always deserved and to show him love doesn't have to be conditional or a tool for manipulation. So you wordlessly agree to use like for now.
"I like you." Andrew's voice is just as thick with all the same emotions as yours, his own tears clear to you just the same. "I like you a lot too, Doll."
I need him and to love him and take care of him and cuddle him and make him feel better. 🫠😮💨 I love him. I LOVE HIM. Anyway. Do we want more of these two? Thank you so much for reading! I hope it was okay and that you were able to enjoy! ♥️
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6.2k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: hurt/comfort; fluff; reader struggling; overwhelm; sadness; reader has one of those days; crying; nondescript mention of reader's cycle causing sore breasts; gets a little smutty at the end; reference to oral and PIV sex; no use of y/n or related.
Summary: Jack takes care of you when you have one of those days.
AN: They're backkkkkkkkkk!! Nobody may care, but I care, I love them 😂. Honestly shocked I managed to stay away from them for so long. You don't really need to have read the series for this to make sense (though I'd encourage it because I love these two), but some things will make much more sense and maybe there will be more depth? Idk. Reader is in such a specific mood it's not like it necessarily screams them the entire time. You can find Part 1 here if you'd like to read or refresh! If you haven't read, Jack calls Reader Doll as a pet name and Reader calls Jack Peter as a pet name which is explained more in the series lol. Inspired by this ask for the 1k celebration! I'm not sure if any of reader's words about what one of those days feels like will make sense or resonate with anyone but I tried lol. I hope this turned out comforting and fluffy and that you enjoy! ♥️
You need Jack.
You need your husband.
If you walk in the door and find him getting ready for work and he tells you they need him to come in you'll come fully fucking unglued.
You know it's ridiculous that you feel this way but you just fucking do. It was a day. You're not sure how else to describe it. It was just one of those days.
"Peter?" you call as you finish unlocking the door and push it open. "Please tell me you're not getting ready to go to work."
"I'm not getting ready to go to work," Jack confirms for you.
You look over at him as you shut and lock the door. Jack nods toward where his crutches are balanced against the couch. If he had to go to work he'd already have his prosthetic on and crutches set aside. He's smiling at you softly from where he sits on the couch, blanket spread over his lap, looking like he was waiting for you. There's something in his expression, in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners this time that tells you he knows. He knows it was a fucking day for you.
He beckons you with a finger. "Come here, Doll," he says quietly, delicately, like he's worried the sentence might be too much for you. He's not wrong to worry about it.
You take in a deep breath and sigh deeply, set down your purse. "If I don't go change first I won't at all until we go to bed and I want to be out of these pants and this fucking top so badly."
Jack smiles at you, his hands pulling the blanket off him a little. He holds up one of your favorite pairs of comfy lounge pants and your favorite shirt of his that you love to steal and then puts them back under the blanket against his body. "Been cuddling them so they're warm for you and smell like me." Your shoulders drop and a small pout pulls onto your face. Jack furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head. "Was that not the move?"
You nod at him, swallow hard and then laugh through your nose. "It was the perfect move," you reassure him as you start walking over to him, vaguely teary because it’s so sweet and perfect and Jack. "You have done so, so many sweet things for me over the years, Jack, but this…" You shrug. "This is one of the sweetest."
"Good," he nods as he shifts so that he's sitting normally on the couch but closer to the edge than normal, spreads his legs for you to step between. "Though I'll admit there's a caveat," he smirks at you.
"Oh yeah?" You step between Jack's legs and rest your hands on his shoulders. You don't wear the smirk you normally would, don't have that lilt in your voice, that teasing playfulness that is so you.
It confirms everything Jack was thinking. He continues to be flirty and lighthearted but not overly so. "If you want the comfy clothes you have to let me strip you," he tells you, voice low and full of the smirk he's still wearing.
You click your tongue and sigh dramatically. "You drive a very hard bargain Dr. Abbot, but I accept."
Jack winks at you and brings his hands to your waistband, and unbuttons them and pops the clasp. He unzips them and then pushes them down your legs, helps you step out of them. He hums appreciatively at the pair of underwear you're wearing. "I like this pair," he murmurs, leans forward and kisses at the waistband over your hip. "On or off?"
"Off," you murmur back, run a hand through salt and pepper curls you'll never stop loving and finding unreasonably hot.
"Yes ma'am." Jack hooks his thumbs under the waistband and pulls them down where you easily kick them off. He holds out the pair of pants he has for you, helps you step in them and get them pulled up before his hands grab the hem of your shirt and start to pull it off. Jack hums again as you finish getting your shirt off and toss it aside, his eyes adorably intent as they roam your exposed abdomen and chest. "I love you so much, Doll," he whispers before leaning in and pressing kisses across your exposed skin, not focusing on but certainly lingering on some of your scars.
"I love you so much too, Peter." And you do. You really, really fucking do. He is so good to you, treats you so well, makes you feel so much better just by being him and loving you. He makes everything so much better just by being his sweet, affectionate, teasing self.
Jack presses one lingering kiss to your skin and then pulls back, bunches up his shirt for you and holds it out for you to stick your arms through and then pull on properly. The second you have it on Jack's pulling you onto his lap perpendicular to him, has your ass closer to the outside edge of his thigh so that you're leaned back in his arms and he's almost cradling you. "You hungry?"
You shake your head at him. "Not right now."
He nods, is quiet for a few seconds. "You wanna talk about your day?"
You let out a soft breath. He always knows. It’s like a sixth sense. You've almost never had to tell him or say anything in particular or do something out of the ordinary for him to know. You're not quite ready to yet though, so you defer. "How'd you know?"
Jack gives you a small smile. "You were quiet today." He leans his head down close to yours and kisses one of your cheeks. Normally you text him fairly regularly. Not today.
"I could've just been busy." You nuzzle your nose against his when he keeps his face close to yours, rub your cheek against his lower cheek and jaw to feel the slightly longer than usual stubble scratch your skin.
"No," Jack drawls. He kisses your other cheek. "There's you normally," he murmurs, presses an achingly sweet kiss to your forehead. "There's you busy." His voice stays low and this time his lips find the tip of your nose. "And there's you quiet." Jack's lips finally find yours and yield to you, let you control the kiss, the kisses, because it always turns into more than one with you guys. He pulls away after a few kisses, moves his head back up and looks down at you. "You were quiet today, pretty girl."
You could legitimately scream at how fucking sweet and adorable and healing Jack is being right now. How fucking perfect. How he's being everything you need and then a whole lot more.
"I don't know Jack." Your words aren't whispered or murmured but they're soft and low. A kind of dejection to them almost that makes Jack sad in the truest sense. He keeps his face as it is though, loving and admiring. "It was a day. Not a bad day, just… a day." You let out a long breath. "It was one of those days."
You don't know what else to say and that frustrates you. You know that Jack understands and that he doesn't care that you don't have the words to describe it right now but you do. You care. "Nothing was even that wrong or that bad, some stuff went well even, but it was just so fucking bad at the same time. They day felt so, so…" You trail off because the words don't magically appear for you.
"I don't know," you sigh, looking away from him but not really at anything at all. "I don't know, I don't know how to describe it and that makes it fucking worse somehow, it makes it feel manufactured, like I'm just making it up so that I can feel this way and wallow in it and my self pity and whatever else."
Jack nods slowly. "You're not though," he murmurs, just barely audible on purpose. He wants you to know that he heard you and he understands and that you don't need to respond to what he said and that he isn't invalidating your feelings, but he also wants you to know that he knows you're not making it up.
When you don't say anything Jack sits you back up fully and squeezes your thigh. You stand almost on instinct and Jack grabs a couple of pillows and puts them at the end of the couch and then leans back against them and spreads his legs out so he's laying on the couch but sitting up a little. Once he's comfy he beckons you with his finger and there's no hesitation, you're laying cuddled on top of Jack in seconds, quick enough that it makes him chuckle as he pulls the blanket he'd set on the back of the couch over the both of you.
He gives you some quiet to think about and figure out what you want and need right now, wraps his arms around you under the blanket and holds you and rubs your back and lets you soak in his warmth and smell and listen to his heart beating under your ear. When you start to shift on him Jack loosens his arms for you and smiles to himself as you wiggle your way up him a little so that you can burrow your face into his neck.
Jack wraps his arms back around you and starts rubbing your back again. It would be impossible to explain how loved you feel in the moment, how much you love this, getting to snuggle with him like this, getting to come home to him after one of those days and be able to exist how you need to with no judgment or expectation. It would be impossible to explain how much you love him.
You swallow hard and then ask even though you know you don't need to. "Can I just…?" Your words are muffled and mumbled against Jack's neck but he hears them. And he understands them.
He holds you a little tighter, brings one hand to cup the back of your head. "You never have to ask, Doll. Never. You do whatever you need to." Jack feels the first of your tears against his neck. "I've got you, okay? I've got you, let go if you want, Sweetheart."
Your tears are quiet and somewhat light for a moment before Jack feels you shake your head against his neck a little bit and then finally let go, start crying into him in earnest. You let out the indescribable and inexplicable emotional pain and suffering that has plagued you all fucking day for reasons you either don't know or can't understand or that your brain won't let you fully realize through sobs into Jack's neck as your hand fists at his shirt.
Jack holds you through it, rubs your back and strokes over your hair, whispers soft words of reassurance that he has you and he's here. He's your constant as you fall to pieces in his arms, steady and strong and unwavering as he holds you and catches every piece of you. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now Doll, and that's okay and understandable and more than allowed, but you're going to be okay and even if you don't know what exactly you're feeling, these feelings at this intensity will pass."
It takes what feels like forever but eventually Jack is proven right and the feelings ebb, your tears slow until they've finally stopped completely, replaced by wracking and hiccuped breaths. "I don't, don't, I don't know," you start, cut off by a series of hitched breaths.
"Shhh, Doll, just let this pass. Let yourself recover a bit, yeah?" Jack grabs your hand that's still fisting his shirt and uncurls it gently and places it flat on his chest, his hand on top of yours. "Breathe with me. You don't need to force words out right now or explain. Just breathe. I'm not going anywhere."
You do your best to listen to him and sync your breathing with his. It takes a bit but eventually you're able to. Jack smiles to himself, knows you're recovered enough to talk without making yourself choke and hyperventilate when you pull a corner of the blanket up and move your head and wipe off the side of his neck so that it's not covered in your tears and mucus. He makes a mental note to throw the blanket in the washer.
When you're satisfied with your cleaning job you wipe your face and then put the blanket back and then burrow your face right back into Jack's neck, smiling to yourself a bit when you feel his chest shake and vibrate a little with a quiet laugh.
"What?" you murmur. Jack can hear the small smile in your tone.
He shrugs as best he can in your current positions. "You're just fucking precious and you're all mine." His arms squeeze you a little tighter for a second to emphasize his words.
You sigh noncommittally into his neck, thankful for his words and knowing how much he means the first part and loves the second part but you don't feel particularly precious right now or like anyone much less Jack should love that you're all theirs. You're quiet for thirty seconds and then you finally make yourself pull your face from Jack's neck so you'll be understandable when you talk, adjust yourself so that your head is tucked under his chin.
Jack considers telling you not to apologize preemptively because he knows that's what you're about to say but he doesn't. He knows that you need to say it, knows what it feels like to need to say it.
"I'm sorry," you whisper.
"You have nothing to apologize for, I promise," Jack murmurs.
"I just hate it, Peter. I hate it when I do that to you." You sigh angrily at yourself. "When I just fucking cry for no fucking articulable reason and don't even say anything to you really. I just fucking cry. And it's worse when I walk in the door and basically straight into your arms and just start crying after barely saying hello or asking how you are or how your day was. I hate it."
"I know," Jack says softly. "But sometimes that's what we need. I do it sometimes, and no, before you can say it, it's not different."
"It is though, Jack" you tell him emphatically. "It is because when you do this it's for a reason, a good reason, it's something really bad or sad or difficult or scary. Something you can name. I do it because it was a day, but then I can't even articulate what that means or why it was a day. I'm going to start doing it for no fucking reason here soon I bet."
"That's okay. Your feelings are still valid, your needing to cry or have whatever kind of catharsis is still valid, even if you have no reason." Jack slows his hand as he moves it up and down your back. "You don't need a reason to feel the way you feel, at any time, ever. You can just feel it. So even if you have no reason, I'll still hold you just like this. I'll still have you. I'll still think how lucky I am that you trust me like this, that you feel safe enough to be this vulnerable around me. I'll still think about how lucky I am that you're mine."
"So you don't need words, Doll. You don't need to be able to explain how you're feeling or what you're feeling. You don't need to spin or overstimulate or overwhelm yourself even more by trying to figure out how to articulate how you're feeling and why." He takes in a breath and lets it out slowly. "At least not for me. But I understand the urge and the need to know for yourself. I know that not being able to articulate your feelings and the reasons for them makes it feel like they're winning, like they're in control of you."
"Yeah," you agree quietly. Jack's words are so sweet, pull at your heartstrings and make you feel so loved and accepted you're almost not sure what to do with yourself. You feel so restless, not even in a physical sense though, it's all mental. It's like the words you want and need to say to get this to pass are right on the tip of your tongue but you can't find them to get them out.
You try to reset yourself a little, nuzzle your nose against Jack's chest and breathe him in deeply. "Nothing bad even happened." You can't help but shrug. "Especially in comparison to some days that don't even turn into actual bad days."
Jack brings one of his hands up and cups it over your cheek that's not pressed against his chest, thumb running back and forth over your skin soothingly. "It can just be one of those days even if some stuff went well or better than you could've ever hoped for or good things happened. The day can just be one of those days because it is and because that's how it feels to you, regardless of what's happening externally in the world around you."
"I don't want it to." The words sound as small as you feel.
And Jack knows it and it hurts him, kills him that there's not more he can do. His hand leaves your face so he can hold you tighter to him. "I know, Doll, and I don't want it for you either. Ever."
He feels you turn your head slightly and press your lips against his chest over his shirt in acknowledgment, are quiet for a moment or so before speaking again. "I just should be able to articulate it if it's making me this upset."
Jack is careful to keep his next words loving and not teasing like they could be. He knows that teasing isn't what you need right now, isn't going to help anything. "Well, you know what we say about should in this household," he murmurs, starts rubbing circles over your back.
You huff a small laugh. You're not upset, don't roll your eyes. If anything, like Jack hoped, it makes you smile to yourself just a touch. Because he would catch you using that word and remind you.
And Jack smiles to himself at your small, huffed laugh. "You want me to try to describe how it feels for me? See if that kind of prompting works. Maybe it'll be easier to add onto what I’m saying and not have to figure out where to start."
"Please," you whisper. You really need to get this shit out of your head. You know it'll make you feel so much better.
Jack takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I guess for me… when it's one of those days it's usually because it feels like everything is too much, everything is overwhelming but not in the kind of way where you can take a few minutes to yourself and calm down and feel better. It's just constant overwhelm. But you can't find the source of the overwhelm, so you can't try and make it better, so you're stuck. Which makes you feel helpless, which makes you feel out of control, which exacerbates everything."
"Yeah," you agree before Jack can continue. "You're stuck and you can't figure out what it is, in part because there isn't anything. Or there isn't anything that should be overwhelming. Even all the little things added up don't feel like they should be overwhelming, which contributes to the overwhelm itself, but they fucking are overwhelming and it's impossible to let them go and then you pick one and ruminate on it and then pick another one and so you're just constantly in it. So then everything feels overwhelming and it becomes one of those days."
"It feels like whatever happens next will be the last goddamn straw." Now that you've found the words they pour out of you easily. You have no idea if they make sense or will be understandable to another human but it doesn't matter. You need them out. "And you put on this fake smile and try to hide it and act like you're not dying inside because somewhere between the constant overwhelm and bouncing from thing to thing to ruminate on, you've just gotten sad."
You blow out a small breath from your nose and swallow hard. "You've gotten so fucking soul-consumingly sad, but even that's almost blunted in some way. Like you feel it all, you feel that fucking sad, but you don't. You almost can't. At least you're able to recognize the emotion though. But as soon as you start to really feel and identify the sadness you just jump back to feeling totally overwhelmed with just a side of sadness, and so you go from stuck in overwhelm to stuck in limbo somewhere between overwhelm and crushing sadness and that feels awful. So you're feeling it all but you're still not. And you're back to not knowing what 'it' is. Not being able to define how you're feeling."
"You still feel like the next small thing could push you over the edge but never does because the ledge is moving with you. You're constantly chasing it. You're restless, so fucking restless, mentally more than physically, but sometimes it feels like you need to just go run as hard and fast as you can for as long as you can to try and get it out, whatever it is, and to try and clear the fog from your brain. And you're agitated in this sad and overwhelmed way." You let out a sad sigh through your nose. But you can feel it helping, can feel yourself getting a little better and perking up a little as you get it all out.
"You know that in some ways it feels better to go over the ledge and get it out but you can't. Until you can and it's too fucking much as you start to fall and you don't want to go over the ledge anymore and get your hand out just in time to hold on, but then your pen dies or your Diet Dr Pepper spills or you get one more thing at work and you're falling and maybe you hit the ground and you're crying or maybe you're trying not to cry and so you're stuck feeling like you're falling while still having to work." You shake your head slightly against Jack's chest as you think back on feeling it today. So many fucking times. "And so you're sucking on your tongue and pushing it against the roof of your mouth as hard as you can while still looking normal to not let the tears you feel fall or you're crying silently at your desk at work and trying to pass it off as allergies or you're sobbing into your husband."
"And you fucking still can't explain why." The 'still' is harsh, sounds desperate, as desperate as you were before you found these words. "You still can't explain why it was one of those days. You can't explain why everything was too much today. You can't explain how you feel. And then it starts all fucking over again because none of it ever really went anywhere. You didn't really work through any of it, you didn't cry it out and work through it that way, unless you're lucky and you finally did and it's the end and you're coming out of it, so it just starts all over again and you realize you're still stuck."
"You know there still isn't anything or any combination of things that should make you feel like this. Sometimes on one of those days, if you're honest with yourself you can step outside it for a second and can see the things, objectively, you can see how they stack and would be too much for anyone. But then you step right back in it and that objectivity and realization is kind of gone. And on the rest of them, on most of them, your brain shuts off all your insight so there's no stepping out of it and so as far as you're concerned there truly is nothing that explains why you're feeling like this." You pause, quiet for a moment as you catch your breath and realize how much lighter you feel just from talking, from being able to finally get it out, like you knew you would if you could just find the words. And Jack helped you find them. Like he always does.
"I don't know if that made any sense." You huff a laugh and sigh. "Probably not, but saying it all helped, getting it out, talking it out. It helped. A lot I think." You're quiet for a moment and Jack lets the silence linger, waits patiently for you to say more. "It's just… it's all there and you can feel it all, but it's not and you can't feel any of it and so you don't understand how you've ended up here feeling the way you are." You shrug against him. "And so you say it's been a day, that it's been one of those days."
You pull your head off his chest and shift yourself. You need to see him, need him to know how much you love and appreciate him, need him to know you know how lucky you are to have him. Jack makes a little noise of displeasure when you start to move off him but is quickly soothed when you just shift so that you're laying on top of him somewhat, your forearms on his chest as you hold your head up so you can look at him.
"And if you're really fucking lucky you have someone who knows exactly what it's been one of those days means without you saying a word. Who senses it over text. Who gets it. Who relates. Who knows that there's nothing he can do to fix it but also knows that he can make it better and will do anything to do so." You look at him with what you hope is enough adoration and love he could drown in it.
Jack smiles tenderly at you, puts his hands on your back just above your ass under the blanket and listens as you continue. "You have someone who helps you try to articulate it and listens, without interrupting, to you go on and on and on once you find the words when he already knows and you know he listened, he really fucking listened and didn't just space out and he could probably repeat some of it verbatim."
Your voice grows a little shaky. "You have someone who's been there and helps lead you out of it, someone who, if he hasn't been there, jumps into the fray, your fray, where he abso-fucking-lutely doesn't have to go, he jumps into it with you and helps you look for and find the way out of it."
"You have someone who loves you and won’t give up on you. Ever. For any reason. Even when you feel like he should." Your eyes are slightly glassy now as they bore into his, saying thank you and you love him and you're grateful for him and need him and want him. You and Jack stay like that for just a moment, eyes locked on each other's, soft, almost mushy, smiles on both of your faces. So much is said between the two of you with no words, only your eye contact and expressions.
"And if you're really lucky," you whisper, "he has salt and pepper curls you fucking love and hasn't shaved in a day so his stubble is a little longer and-"
Jack snorts a laugh at the abrupt change and shakes his head at you, glad to see you perking up as you sniffle a laugh. "Come here, you." He slides his hands up your body, one to the back of your neck so he can pull you in for a kiss. You giggle but it quickly fades once your husband presses his lips against yours. There's the perfect give and take, Jack letting you take what you want and need before he starts seeking more and you let him take, let him give you what he thinks you need, really, back and forth as you kiss until you're breathless.
When you're finally forced to break apart from air you stay as you are, your hands resting flat against Jack's upper chest. His lips are lightly flushed from kissing you, his hazel eyes sparkling and pulling so beautifully green in the lighting.
"Everything you said makes sense." You give Jack a little look of disbelief. "It does. I promise," he murmurs, returning his hands to your back and pressing just the tips of his index fingers into your skin and running them up and down your mid to lower back. "Feeling a little better?"
"Yeah," you nod, looking and feeling lighter. "I needed to be able to get it out. Thank you for helping me get there, and…," your smile turns so sweet Jack can nearly taste it, "For everything, Jack."
"Always. And you have nothing to thank me for, Doll. I'm your husband." Jack brings his left hand up and stretches it, wiggles his ring finger a little bit to emphasize his wedding band. "I'm here for you. Today, tomorrow and every day after."
You grab his hand with one of yours and bring it to your lips, kissing over his ring a couple of times before lacing your fingers so that you're palm to palm. "I love you."
"I love you too." Jack sticks his lips out requesting another kiss and you're quick to drop his hand and lean up to give it to him, giggle into the kiss a little when Jack uses his hands to grab your ass and pull you up his body a little closer. "You wanna keep talking about it?" he asks once you've both had enough kisses for the moment, his hands not leaving your ass.
You shrug a little. "Only if it flows. Like if it comes up or out when we're talking normally because I think I need normalcy right now and not to focus on it."
"Okay," he nods. His eyebrows raise slightly as he gives you a little bit of a look. "We should get you some food."
You scrunch your nose at him. "I'm fine," you mumble, already knowing he's right. "I'm not hungry."
Jack knows you're telling the truth, that you aren't hungry, because he knows how appetite vanishes when you're feeling how you are, it happens to him too. "It'll make you feel better." He gives you a knowing smile. "You know I'm right."
You sigh over-dramatically and rest one side of your head on his chest. Jack chuckles nearly soundlessly but you can feel the vibrations and movement of his chest. His arms wrap around you tightly, one running parallel up your spine so he can cup the side of your face to keep you close. He starts listing off names of places and eventually one sounds good and you nod against him telling him you'd like that.
Food gets ordered and you and Jack stay as you are while you wait for it, talking about whatever comes up. Once the food arrives you guys turn the TV on to the show you're currently making your way through, sit on the couch with the side of your thighs touching, still chatting some as you watch. You get everything tossed once you're both finished and settle back on the couch, Jack laying out on it and you cuddling on top of him, your back to his chest with the blanket on top of you.
You alternate holding Jack's hands and playing with his fingers under the blanket as you watch and chat. At the end of one episode you sigh softly, not really wanting to move but knowing you should. "You wanna go shower?"
Jack hums, low and from his chest, his hands slipping from yours and sneaking their way under your back. "Maybe in a bit." You can tell what he means from the tone of his hum, his growing hardness against your ass also a give away.
He pops the clasp of your bra and moves his hands back around to your front. You think he's going to reach for your shirt to take it and your bra all the way off at the same time but he doesn't. His hands slide up the front of your shirt and dip under the cups of your bra, pushing it off and up enough to be out of his way.
You sigh when your breasts are released, a light hint of a moan to it. That bra is cute and makes your boobs look good, but it's so uncomfortable so you always get that sensation of relief and aching soreness that feels good when it comes off. You're also at that point in your cycle where your breasts get a little sore.
Jack's warm hands squeeze your breasts, fingers kneading with the perfect pressure. He's well acquainted with the sighs of relief you make when you take off the bra you were wearing, watched you put it on this morning and made a point to remember. He knows you're at that point in your cycle, too.
It's when his thumbs and index fingers pinch and roll each of your nipples that you finally give him a proper moan, arch your back some. Jack hums a laugh telling you he knew exactly what he was doing and how it was going to feel for you. "Yeah," he murmurs, the confidence verging on a subtle cockiness in his voice making you shiver, "I thought that would feel extra good right now, Doll."
"God, you have no fucking idea," you moan, eyes fluttering closed as you let the sensation consume you, feel yourself get wetter and wetter for him the longer he plays with your breasts and nipples. You swear to god Jack could probably make you come just like this, that's how fucking good it feels. "I'm gonna give you the best blow job of your life or whatever the fuck you want as a thank you, fuck Jack."
"While I'd never turn that down," Jack emphasizes his words with a particular rough twist of your nipples that sends a shockwave of pleasure over you, "you don't have to thank me."
You moan again. "Yeah, yeah, you know what I mean, I don't feel like I have to, I want to. Because this… this feels so, so good Jack." He swears he can already hear a little bit of a slur to your words from the pleasure he's giving you. "We could continue this in the shower?"
"How about I take you to bed first," he rasps, fingers rolling over and massaging your breasts so deliciously it's hard to breathe. "No sense showering and then getting all sweaty."
You bite your lip and try to think of anything to say while also thinking about all the things he could possibly do to you. "Does that mean you have plans?" you finally get out.
"I have a thought or two," he hums.
You clench around nothing at the edge in his tone. "Like what?"
"I'd like to taste how wet just my hands on your tits has made you. Keep my hands on them as I do." He brushes his thumbs over your nipples teasingly light.
You jolt at the sensation, already feeling shaky from the pleasure. "Jack if you eat me out and play with my tits and nipples right now I might cease to be." He's too fucking good at eating you out, it's obscene how good he is at it, how much he loves it.
"Well the general idea is to clear your mind for at least a little bit, yeah." You whine at his words, thinking about his mouth on you and his hands still at your breasts and his stubble in between your legs and what it would feel like against your extra sensitive nipples and breasts.
"What else?" you pant.
"I'd like to fuck you." Jack lifts his head up and leans it forward a bit so his lips can be right next to your ear as he murmurs. "Hard."
Jack doesn't need to say more the way some men might to make their words hot as all fuck. It's in his delivery of the word, the way his voice sounds when he says it, how he murmured it right at your ear as his hands continue to make you wetter and wetter for him.
"How?" you breathe.
Jack hums a dark laugh. "Gotta keep some secrets, Doll." He moves his hands from your breasts and takes them out from under your shirt. "Go get on the bed."
My pen dying or my diet dr. pepper spilling or getting one more (sad) thing at work have definitely NEVER been my last straw. I don't really know what the end was or where it came from but I had that feeling of relief and good soreness pain taking a bra off while writing this and thought to myself what if Jack Abbot was here to make the most of this feeling and you know, here we are.
Anyway, I hope it was okay and comforting and fluffy and that you enjoyed! I have so much I'd like to do with these two still, they are my original babies. 🥹 If you have any ideas or things you'd like to see with them, feel free to let me know! I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments, they mean so much to me! Thank you so much for taking the time to read! ♥️
Want more Jack and the Pitt content? Check out my masterlist here. I also write for Pope from Animal Kingdom!
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5.8k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: discussions of Smurf; self-hate; feelings of worthlessness and being undeserving; not canon or canon timeline compliant; foreplay; allusions to oral sex, reader receiving; dad!Andrew; pregnancy; getting pregnant while on the pill; quickest mention of being sick (nobody is and nothing is described); soft; soft; soft; soft; fluffy; fluffy; fluffy; fluffy; no use of y/n.
Summary: As you and Andrew stroll along the beach Christmas evening you have one last present left to give him.
AN: I don't know friends lol. This one feels particularly meh to me for some reason. Maybe it's just because I'm so blah and meh right now. Maybe it just is meh. 😂 In any event, I had a chunk of this drafted so I just went ahead and finished it up, and so we're having Christmas in May. This is set on Christmas day but there's nothing religious about it, and I tried to keep it so that it doesn't necessarily say or imply that reader celebrates Christmas, especially in any religious sense, it's more about Andrew and his Christmas and it being a holiday. I don't think I have much more to say about it lol. I stuck with Andrew again because it feels so soft and right. I hope it's fluffy and cute and okay and that you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading and all of your support!! ♥️
If he did this little smile into a mouth thing™️ in front of me I'd cease to exist 🤠:
It's Andrew's first real Christmas.
Maybe that's dramatic and maybe even somewhat horrible to say given that Smurf at least ostensibly gave him Christmases as a kid. But that's what it feels like, both to him and to you. It's how his siblings and J feel too.
It's his first Christmas without his mother around to use it as another tool to manipulate and hurt him with. He's never liked the holiday, but then he's never liked any holidays. He couldn't stay away from the house and his mother on holidays, he always had to be home.
All of them did.
And when you and Andrew started dating you were expected to be there too. Not because Smurf really wanted you there, she hated you and the way you took Andrew away from her, but because she'd never turn down an opportunity to be as subtly nasty to you as possible in an effort to get you to leave her son.
It didn't work out well for her. You and Andrew celebrated six years together earlier this year, bought a house and there's been two beautiful rings on your finger and one on his for over two years now.
The two of you had considered waiting to get married until she wasn't around to taint a wedding. But one day Andrew decided no, the two of you were going to get married whenever the hell you wanted to, however the hell you wanted to.
If you wanted to wait until Smurf was gone, then that was okay with him, he'd happily wait. If you wanted to get married while she was still around then he'd make it happen. If you wanted a big wedding, he'd make sure you had the big wedding of your dreams. If you wanted a small wedding then he'd make sure you had the small wedding of your dreams.
In the end you'd eloped, driven up the coast to Big Sur and exchanged vows on a quiet, hidden beach. It was just you, Andrew, the officiant and his wife, the one witness you needed for the marriage certificate.
Smurf was pissed when she found out. And when you said you didn't want a party or anything at the house that pissed her off even more because she couldn't find a way to make it about herself.
You'd spoken to Andrew a lot about what he wanted to do this Christmas since it's the first where he's truly been able to decide for himself and without Smurf around and without any expectations. You were happy to have it be a cozy day with just the two of you in your recently purchased beach front house, but you were also happy to host his brothers and J because you recognize it's their first real Christmas too and know that despite Smurf, family means a lot to Andrew. He's grown particularly close with Deran. Andrew is your priority though, always, so if he wanted it to just be the two of you then that's what you'd do.
He didn't really have any preference with the holiday not really meaning anything to him. In the end you guys decided to have the morning together and then invite his brothers and J over around noon or so for Christmas dinner, or Christmas lunch, really, you guess. That way Craig, Ren and Nick could go to her family, Deran and Adrian could make it to Adrian's family, and J and his new girlfriend could make it to her family.
Normally you wake up to Andrew's eyes on you if he's up before you, and he almost always is. But today when you finally flutter your eyes open he's propped himself up with some pillows and is staring at the ceiling, lost in thought while his thumb absentmindedly brushes over the back of your hand that he's holding. He always has to be touching you, your Andrew.
You stay still as you lay on your side next to him, smile to yourself as you admire the man you love desperately. You trace his profile with your eyes, his strong nose and plush lips, continue down and take in his neck, the slightest bit of stubble there from not having shaved yet today, move down to his broad chest that you love to rest your head on and that houses a heart that you know beats only for you.
After a couple of moments you let him know you're awake. "Thinking awfully hard over there, Mr. Cody." Andrew's head snaps over to look down at you. "Morning, Handsome," you smile at him. "And Merry Christmas."
"Morning, Beautiful." His voice is still thick with sleep so he hasn't been up too long, cheeks flushing just a touch at you calling him handsome even after all this time. "Merry Christmas."
His hand tugs on yours gently and you do as he wordlessly asks, bring your lips to his for what's always the sweetest good morning kiss.
"You wanna talk about it?" you ask him as the two of you settle in bed, Andrew sliding down a bit and you curling into his side, resting your head on his chest. You run your hand up and down his chest and tummy, the perfect level of definition and softness, and warm, so very, very warm just like the rest of him.
He shrugs, arm wrapping around you and running up and down your back in time with your hand on him. "I was thinking about how nice it is… Getting to lay here with you Christmas morning and enjoy it, not have to worry about going over to the house later and what Smurf will do this time."
"It is pretty nice," you murmur, roll your head into him a little further and kiss his chest where your lips happen to reach. "You know, I was thinking. Maybe tonight we could go on a walk along the beach. We could make it our own little tradition."
Andrew takes in a deep breath and lets it out through his nose slowly. "I'd like that." He shifts slightly so that he's a bit further down and on his side a little, his arm still under you almost like he's cradling you a little. Hazel eyes that look almost golden in the morning light trickling in through the curtains search yours. "I love you."
You smile at him and you're so beautiful he can't believe you're real and you're here and you're his. Before you can even say it back Andrew has rolled the two of you a little more, one of his legs slotted between yours and half of his body pressed against yours with half of your back pressed against the mattress. He kisses you, slow, but deep, licking into your mouth and sighing happily into the kiss when he pulls a breathy moan from you.
Your eyes stay closed for a few seconds after he pulls away, a smaller version of that same smile that made him kiss you lighting up your face. You open your eyes and reach up to cup your husband's face. "I love you too."
You bite your lip and giggle a little because Andrew is your husband. He's been your husband for over two years now but it's still surreal in some ways, almost unbelievable. You can’t believe he’s yours, not just because of how attractive he is, but because of what a good man he is despite the reputation his mother forced upon him. He’s treated you better than any of the supposedly stand up guys from your past.
Your giggle and lip bite earn you a slight raise of his brows and amused quirk of his lips. You shrug. "I just can't believe you're my husband. You're the best, Andrew. You treat me better than anyone ever has, you care so deeply for those you love and you show it in all of the things you do for everyone. You’re such a good man. Sometimes I just can’t believe I got so lucky."
You move your hands down to rub at his chest, drop your voice. "Not to mention how handsome and hot and sexy you are." You press your fingertips into his chest a little more firmly, tilt them slightly so that your nails drag lightly over his skin and move them down his chest and abdomen. "You know, there's still some time before I need to get up and get the roast in the oven and start cooking."
He smirks at you, but you can feel him growing hard against your leg. "You don't even know what time it is."
"I can tell by the brightness of the sun,” you quip.
He huffs a laugh. "Bullshit,” he whispers against your lips as he kisses you again.
You hum at him. "Well, I really don't care if we eat later than planned. I wanna have sex with my husband."
"That sounds more like my girl," he smirks at you, head spinning at the prospect of getting to have you. He gets those same overwhelming moments of disbelief that you do, ones where he can’t seem to process how you’re truly his wife. But you are. You’re his wife, who wants to have sex with him and who bought a house with him and who took his last name. He rolls you further, adjusts the pillows so that you’re laying flat against the mattress for him.
"Yeah?" you breathe, run your hands up his arms and thread your fingers into his curls.
"Yeah,” Andrew breathes back at you before kissing you again, harder this time, devouring you as he drops his hips against yours and starts to grind. His lips leave yours only to find your jawline, kiss along it until he reaches your neck, lips moving down and taking turns pressing the softest teasing kisses to your skin and sucking at all the most sensitive spots he has memorized.
"Say it again," you pant softly, moaning when he nibbles at your collarbone. “Please.”
"Say what?" He nuzzles his nose into the top of one of your breasts before kissing down and taking one of your nipples in his mouth.
You whine at how good his mouth feels, at how he always seems to know the perfect movements and perfect pressure and exactly what you need to have you desperate for him in seconds. "That I'm your girl, Andrew, fuck.”
He releases your nipple and kisses across your chest to the other. "You're my girl," he murmurs before taking your other nipple in his mouth, laving at it briefly and sucking hard when he pulls away. "My woman." Andrew kisses down your abdomen, presses kisses to each of your hips before trailing his lips inward. "My wife."
You swallow hard, almost ruin your own surprise and blurt out everything right then and there. But you manage to keep yourself from saying anything, only moan in response as his lips grow closer to where you're now desperate for them to be.
"Oh, Andrew," you sigh, breathy and low, as he kisses just above your clit and puts one arm over your hips to help hold you down. His other hand takes yours, laces your fingers together so you're palm to palm, and you tangle the fingers of your other hand in his auburn curls.
Andrew doesn't say anything in response, just gives your hand a soft squeeze and licks you cunt to clit.
As the sun sets on the day you and Andrew walk along the path at the edge of the beach, the sounds of the waves crashing and lapping at the shore and seagulls cawing a familiar soundtrack to some of your most important moments together. You think it's fitting that it'll become the soundtrack to this one.
You squeeze his hand when your bench comes into view. He looks down and over at you with slightly raised brows. Andrew's eyes are golden again in the light of the setting sun just like they were this morning in the light of the rising sun. You give him a soft smile, glance over at your bench and flick your chin at it. "Wanna sit for a little?"
There's something to the tone of your voice that gives him a second of pause. You sound almost… nervous. It's strange. But the smile you're wearing is so warm and genuine he tries not to overthink it too much. "I'd like that," he nods.
You squeeze his hand and the two of you continue walking, sit on the bench with the sides of your thighs pressed together. This bench has seen a lot. It's seen almost everything. You sat on this bench when Andrew asked you out for the first time. You shared your first kiss here, said I love you for the first time sitting on this bench. Andrew got down on one knee as you sat on this bench and asked you to marry him. It's truly your bench.
So it's the perfect place for this.
Andrew wraps his arm around you and pulls you close. You rest your head against his shoulder and chest for a minute as he kisses the top of your head, let him have these last few seconds before everything changes.
Once you're ready you pull a small, flat box from the pouch of his sweatshirt that you're wearing. You'd worn it not just for the usual reasons, it's comfy and warm, and is too big and smells like him and makes you feel wrapped up in him even as you walk, but also because it's oversized enough to make the box less obvious.
"Andrew?" He hums at you in response and you lick your lips. "I um, I have one last thing for you." You offer him the box and shift so that you're looking up at him. "Merry Christmas, my love."
Pope looks down at the small box with slightly furrowed brows and a confused expression as he takes it from you. It's adorable. He's adorable. You guys did presents with his brothers and their respective partners and family so you understand his confusion. "I thought we already did presents?"
"We did," you laugh softly. "I just…" You trail off, look out over the ocean for a second and try to get your heart rate to come down, your nervous energy just growing and growing. This is a surprise. It was a big fucking surprise for you and it'll be just as big of one for him. Bigger, probably.
You worry about his reaction, whether he'll be happy, or not want this right now or ever. Deep down, you know he'll be fucking thrilled, that Andrew wants this, has always wanted this even if he hasn't let himself fully express it. It's just hard for you in the moment with how unexpected this is, your brain all over the place, the hormones swamping your system pulling your thoughts in every direction.
You take in a deep breath and let it out as you turn back to him with a small smile on your face. "I don't know. I wanted this one to be by itself… and out here on our bench."
Andrew picks up on your anxiety easily, has to work hard to not let it trigger his own. The furrow to his brows deepens, corners of his mouth pulling down slightly. He's far more concerned about you than he is the gift. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." You give him a small, genuine smile that meets your eyes and nod. "Open it," you whisper.
He studies you for another moment but then does as you ask, pulling the top of the small box off. Andrew has no idea what he expected to be in the box but what looks almost like a neatly folded pair of boxer briefs wasn't far up his list of possibilities. His eyes glance up to you, uncertainty present in all his features.
You nod encouragingly for him to take it out, chew the inside of your cheek as he returns his focus to the box to do so. Andrew pulls whatever it is out of the box and then holds it out in front of him, lets it unfold.
As he takes in what he's holding and what it says, Andrew stops breathing.
It's a newborn sized onesie that reads 'Daddy's future skating buddy' with skateboards all over it.
Andrew knows what it means, he knows what you're telling him, what you have to be telling him, but his brain can't process it because there's no fucking way. You're on birth control.
You knew he'd have a reaction like this, something quiet and almost slightly delayed as his brain wraps itself around the news and the idea of himself as a father. You just didn't realize how anxious it would make you feel.
"I know it's a surprise, it was for me too. I'm not perfect with my pill, I don't take it exactly at the same time every day and stuff, but it's worked this far, and I, I…" You laugh softly. "I never thought for a second I'd be a part of the 7 to 9 percent that would get pregnant."
Andrew's eyes tear from the onesie over to you as he brings his arms back in, gripping onto the onesie like a lifeline and subconsciously holding it over his heart. "That you'd what?" he whispers, voice strained, but not in a bad way. His eyes are glassy like he's about to cry. He can't believe he isn't crying already.
You realize he needs to hear it from you to truly process it. "That would get pregnant." You smile at him, eyes just as glassy as his. "I'm pregnant, Andrew. You're going to be a daddy."
Hearing you say it rocks him to his core, sends pure happiness and joy coursing through him in a way he's only ever experienced in relation to you. But his mind tears it apart in a second and his eyes fall from yours down to stare at the sandy sidewalk.
Baz's words ring loudly through his head.
No one is ever going to have a kid with you. Ever.
You can't possibly actually want this with him.
You can't possibly actually want this with him, especially with it being unplanned. You said it yourself, it was a surprise. You must be upset by this, maybe you don't want to go through with it. Yes, you look happy, you sound happy, you seem genuinely happy, but maybe he's making that all up because he wants this so badly.
Or maybe you are happy. The two of you have talked about kids before, of course, both of you open to them but not necessarily dead set on having them. It was always something you guys said you'd talk about when the time felt like it might be right. So maybe you're happy now, but maybe as it all settles in your mind you'll change it, decide that no, you don't want kids with him, how could you be so stupid for even a second to think that might be a good idea.
Maybe you'll decide not to move forward with the pregnancy. Maybe the idea is slowly going to freak you out so much that you realize even the potential of getting pregnant again is too much for you and so you'll leave him.
And regardless, he doesn't deserve this. He can't have this. He'll be a terrible father. He lost Lena. Sure, a lot of that was circumstance and him not wanting to subject her to Smurf, and yes it was before he even knew you, but still. Baz said what he did for a reason. Every child deserves so much better than him for a father. It's bad enough he's selfish and subjects you to himself, he can't do that to a child, especially his own.
His own baby. A little piece of you and him, a little piece of your love physically manifested in the world. God he wants that. He wants this. He wants this baby with you.
Andrew's thoughts are all but written on his face and he's all but saying them out loud for you to hear with how easily you read him. You can tell how excited he is and how his brain is destroying this for him. You know he's telling himself he doesn't deserve this and that you probably don't truly want this and that you shouldn't want this. You know he's telling himself how bad of a father he'll be, that he shouldn't subject a child to himself.
"Andrew," you murmur. You slide yourself onto his lap as he continues to clutch the onesie to his chest. You take his face in your hands and kiss his forehead gently. When his gaze comes back up to you, you hold it, smile widely at him.
"You're not upset?" he whispers.
"No, Sweetheart," you shake your head gently. "I'm the opposite of upset. I'm excited and happy and so fucking in love with them and with you, and thanking everything out there that I'm getting to do this with you and have you and have you by my side for all of this. I'm nervous, yeah, but in that way most people are when they find out they're going to be a parent for the first time."
It hits you then. You're making a whole lot of assumptions right now. You're assuming Andrew wants this. That he isn't upset. That he wants to go through with this.
You're suddenly whispering like he has been and Andrew can feel the change in your mood, a worried nervousness of a different kind. "Are you upset? Because we don't have to… go through with the pregnancy if you don't want to. We can talk about it, I didn't mean for there to be any pressure and I shouldn't have assumed."
"No," he shakes his head quickly, brows furrowing. "I'm not upset. I'm, I'm…"
That's all the confirmation you need that what you thought was correct. He's deep in his head and struggling to get out despite wanting to be happy and excited with you. "Andrew, this is a good thing. This is the best thing. Let yourself have this my love. Let yourself have this moment with me. Be here with me, yeah? Just be here with me."
He nods slowly, that part of his mind destroying this for him shutting off. It'll never cease to amaze him how you can do that, how you've always had the ability to get his mind to quiet so that he can focus on the present with you and just existing in the moment.
Your thumbs brush over his cheekbones as he lets go of the onesie with one hand so he can wrap an arm around you but keeps it clutched against his heart with his other hand. "I'm pregnant," you tell him again once you can see he's back in the moment with you. "You're going to be a daddy. And you're not going to be anything like her Andrew. I know you're worried about that and I promise you I know you're going to be nothing like her. You're going to be the best fucking father in the whole world and this baby is already so, so fucking lucky in life because they have you as their father, even if you can't believe that yet. I know it."
You lean in and give him a kiss, soft and loving and trying to pour how much you mean your words into him. "This baby is going to want for nothing and know nothing but love. They'll always feel safe and protected and know that they are, and they'll always feel so, so special to their father, feel so incredibly loved by him, because they will be. They already are." You swallow thickly, a few tears finally escaping and slipping quickly down your face. "This baby couldn't have a better father. I couldn't have picked or, or created a better man to have a baby with, a better father for my child."
Andrew isn't sure he agrees with everything you just said but he finally lets all of the happiness and excitement and joy and shock out. He finally lets himself truly have this.
"I'm going to be a father," he breathes out, words wet with the tears that finally start to fall. "We're having a baby. You're giving me a baby."
"Yeah," you whisper, laughing through happy tears. "You are and we are. We're having a baby. You're going to be the best daddy ever and I can't wait to get to watch you love them." The two of you lean in for the kiss you share naturally, let it linger and deepen as you both continue to have tears stream down your face, the whole thing so reminiscent of the way you kissed after you said yes to Andrew's proposal. You sniffle when the kiss breaks, use your thumbs to try to wipe away some of the tears on his face. "You know when we take our Christmas walk next year they'll be with us."
"They'll be here. Our baby will be here," he whispers. Another wave of tears flood his eyes and spill down his cheeks onto your thumbs. He smiles at you, something small and genuine, disbelief and a happiness you can feel written in it. His chin trembles hard, harder than you've ever seen before. "You're pregnant. You're really pregnant?"
"I'm pregnant," you nod, smiling at him through your own tears.
Andrew lets out a wet laugh and accepts the kiss you give him. "Thank you. Thank you so much. You're giving me a baby, thank you. I love you, I love you so much more than I know what to do with. Thank you."
He lets the onesie fall between the two of you as you shift on his lap so that you're chest to chest, your legs wrapped around him through the gap in the bench. "I love you too," you murmur. "I love you so much."
You wrap your arms around each other tightly, hold each other close as you bask in the news and this moment together. One of Andrew's hands holds the back of your head to keep you close as he nearly sobs into your neck, the reality that he's going to be a father and that you think he's going to be a good father and that he's going to have the opportunity to give his baby the childhood and life and support he never had sinking in and healing a piece of him.
"I'm sorry," he sniffles against you. "They're good, I promise. I'm just so happy." His voice breaks over the last word as more tears wet your neck.
You hold him tighter, rub his back with one hand and gently lean the side of your head against his. "Don't apologize," you murmur, voice watery with your own tears. "I know they are. I know, Handsome."
At some point both of you pull it together enough to look at each other and laugh through the rest of your tears before sharing kiss after kiss. You let the sleeve of Andrew's hoodie slip over your hand and use it to clean his face, let him use it to clean yours and your neck.
You stay sitting as you are, keep your arms wrapped loosely around his waist. You smile to yourself as you watch Andrew grab the onesie and hold it up again. He stares at it for a moment and you follow his eyes as they trace the edges and read the words over and over. "It's so small," he whispers, voice full of awe, his brain still somewhat trying to catch up with the idea.
"They're going to be that small upon arrival," you laugh softly, bring your lips to his forehead and press a lingering kiss there.
He shakes his head slightly and looks up at you. "How do you keep something this small safe?"
You know it's not literal and somewhat of a rhetorical question, but that there's also some genuineness there, that he's voicing his fear about being a good dad who's able to keep his child safe. You shrug. It's one of those things that's hard to articulate. "The same way you keep me safe, Sweetheart."
Andrew nods, his mind racing and flitting from thought to thought so fast he struggles to hold onto one long enough to voice it. But once he gets one thought out they all seem to pour out of him at once. You bite your lip at how adorable he's being, at how much he cares and loves them and you.
"When can we go see them? How far along are you? How are you feeling? Have you, have you been getting sick in the mornings?" He'll hate himself if you've been throwing up in the mornings and he hasn't even noticed. "How long have you known? Sex, we, we had sex this morning. Are we allowed to? Is that okay? Could it hurt the baby?"
You giggle slightly and rest your forearms on his shoulders, hands coming back to play with the curls at the nape of his neck. "I've known since yesterday morning. I realized I missed my period last month and was late this month and was like it's probably just stress, it's not like I'm the most regular with how I skip my periods sometimes with the birth control. But I figured I'd take a test and it would be negative and I’d be like ha ha what was I thinking and then that test lit up like a fucking Christmas tree. I think I'm about eight weeks."
"I don't have an appointment scheduled yet. My doctor was closed yesterday, but I'm planning to call as soon as they're open again. I'm not sure if that first appointment will include an ultrasound so we can see them, but I can ask." As you stare into Andrew's eyes you find yourself trying to imagine what your baby will look like. You hope they're a mini-him, or as much of one as they can be.
"I haven't been sick, though I have been a little nauseous and looking back it does feel like it's been getting worse slowly, so it wouldn't surprise me if some morning sickness started soon." Andrew frowns at that and you lean in and kiss his down-turned lips. "It's okay, it'll be okay. It'll be so much more than worth it."
"I know," he says quietly. "I just hate the thought of you not feeling well and being sick."
"I know Sweetheart. But maybe it'll never happen and I'll just have a little nausea. And exhaustion. I've been feeling so exhausted lately. That's normal, from the brief look online I did. It has to do with hormones sustaining the pregnancy right now." You give him another kiss and smirk a little when you look at him again. "And sex is perfectly safe."
The corners of his lips quirk up for just a second and you giggle again, fall into him and bury your face in his neck. Andrew huffs a small laugh, can't help it with how infectious your giggles are. He hopes they get your laugh.
He turns his head and pushes his lips to the side, kisses your temple as much as he can in this position. "Will you stand for me? Just for a minute."
"Of course." You pull your head from his neck and steal a quick kiss from him before maneuvering off his lap and standing between his legs when he opens them for you.
You already know what he wants, what he probably needs. And you know that with the slight December chill in the air he won't ask for it. So you do it for him, pull the waistband of your sweatpants down a little so they're low on your hips and then lift his sweatshirt and the t-shirt you're wearing under it up enough so that your lower abdomen is revealed to him.
Andrew lets out an audible breath when your skin comes into view. He feels a little ridiculous for it, there's been no change yet. You aren't showing. Nobody would know just by looking at you that you're pregnant.
But you are.
He looks at you there with a kind of wonder you don't think you've ever seen from him before. It makes you smile to yourself. He's already the best father, has already shown your baby more true parental love than his mother showed him over the span of his entire life. And you know Andrew doesn't even realize it because loving them and showing them love isn't something he has to think about. It's natural. Despite everything he's been through, the childhood he didn't have and the love he was never truly shown, loving his child and showing them how much he loves them even before they're born is instinctual because of how good of a man and person he is, regardless of what he might think and what the world may try to tell him.
Andrew brings his hands to your hips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against you as he moves his head closer to you until his lips brush against the skin over your womb. "Hi," he whispers, "I'm your dad." He thinks it should feel weird, almost vaguely embarrassing maybe, talking to them like this, like they can hear him. But it doesn't and it isn't. It feels right. It feels like a dream coming true, like another dream you're making come true for him.
You feel something wet against your skin and realize Andrew's crying again, his chin wobbling as he lets out a little laugh of disbelief and smiles before pressing his lips to your skin in the gentlest kiss. You shift your hands so you can keep your tops pulled up and out of the way for him with one hand, run the other through perfect curls you'll never get enough of.
Andrew presses kiss after kiss after kiss to your skin. When he finally pulls back he blinks away the last of his tears and looks at you there again for a moment before he moves one of his hands and rests it there over your womb.
And then his eyes find yours, that same wonder still there. "My baby's in there. Our baby. You're carrying our baby." He squeezes your hip gently, presses the pads of his fingers against your skin where his hand rests. "I love you so much. Both of you."
You smile down at him as a few tears fall down your cheeks. The hand holding your tops slides to rest on top of Andrew's, the fabric falling over them, not that either of you notice. You move your other hand to cup half of his face and lean down and kiss him, whisper against his lips. "We love you so much too."
I want to give him allllllllllll the babies he desires and love him and make him the happiest man in the world who knows how amazing and loved he is!!🥹😫🫠😮💨 I adore him. He would be the best dad. I need it. Thank you so much for reading and I hope it was okay and that you enjoyed! ♥️ I love hearing your thoughts and comments so much!
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He would be so so fucking devoted and soft and give them everything he never had and always wanted and he would make damn sure they knew they were loved just for being them and existing. 😭😭 Thank you so much, I'm so glad you enjoyed!! ♥️
7.9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: neighbor AU; will-they-won't-they tension; another famous rabbit nickname because it's me; self-doubt/self-consciousness; hand job; oral sex; PIV sex; masturbation; pretty much just fluffy and smutty!
Summary: When your hot water heater breaks Jack lets you grab a shower at his place. After you leave he finds himself enveloped by warm steam that smells like you. What's a man to do?
AN: I've wanted to do a neighbor AU with Jack for soooooo long and finally gave in! I'm calling it the Across the Hall AU (there will eventually be a fic titled Across the Hall 😂). I don't really love this but I'm doing my best to ignore that because I do love the AU so much and have a lot of other ideas for it, so I hope it's enjoyable enough to want more. We're not starting with them meeting because this is what inspired me the most and what my brain wanted to write for some reason and I needed to run with whatever it would give me right now lol. Thank you so much for all of your support and for reading and I hope it's okay and you enjoy! ♥️
The ding of the elevator draws your attention.
Jack must be getting home. Your apartments are the only ones on this floor, your doors directly across the hall from each other. As you go to lock your door you do your best to try not to think about where Jack has been and why he's getting home at 10 p.m. on a Thursday. You know from chatting last week that he got off this morning and is off the next few days.
Your entire body freezes when the realization hits you, preemptive jealousy and rejection flooding your system. What if he walks off the elevator with someone?
It's been over nine months of this… thing between you and Jack. You're neighbors, yes, but you're clearly so much more. And while it's clear that you're more than neighbors, it's unclear what you actually are, together and to each other.
The two of you flirt, sometimes subtly and with an intimate gentleness that almost makes your hearts ache, and sometimes intensely, both of you lit on fire by the other's words and body movements and facial expressions. There have been so many what you're both 99% sure were almost-kisses that you've lost count.
You have nicknames for each other. One day you'd called him Bugs, it had just slipped out without you even realizing. It took Jack about twenty seconds to put it together and figure out where it came from. You were going to apologize and assure him you'd never call him it again but he spoke first, responding to whatever you said and calling you Tweety.
Jack has invited you over and cooked you dinner and the two of you have eaten at his table sharing a bottle of wine or a six pack of whatever before you chill on his couch until you start to fall asleep, sometimes watching something on TV, but most of the time just facing each other and chatting. You've invited Jack over and the two of you have eaten takeout on your couch while showing each other your favorite movies and watching new ones together, trying to find movies that are so bad they're good and leave you both crying with laughter on your couch.
You’ve met his friends and the people who he’s closest with and who mean the most to him, some from the Pitt, some from his army unit, some from his SWAT unit. He’s met a couple of your more casual friends, knows that your closest and who mean the most to you don’t live in or particularly close to the city.
Jack has hugged you so tightly and for so long on some of your worst days, until enough pieces of you have been put back together that you feel like you can function again, made you your favorite or ordered it in if you could stomach it, made you something light if you couldn't so that you had some food in your system. He always seems to know just what to do and just what you need.
You've made Jack breakfast and eaten with him while he sat silently on your couch trying to process some of his worst shifts, ones that were hell or where there was more death than life or patients that particularly got to him, been with him however he needed on some of his worst days, never expect or ask him to talk or explain what's going on. You always seem to know just what to do and just what he needs.
He knows all the gossip from your job. You know all of the Pitt gossip that Jack knows, which is pretty much all of it because people just tell him things without him asking or even hinting that he'd like to know.
You tease each other in every sense. You've both been obviously jealous when there have been the occasional dates the other has gone on, have both acted out a little bit over said jealousy.
You text each other every day, some days more than others. It's not uncommon for you to go four or five days without seeing each other in person or hearing the other's voice, you're not spending every night at each other's house or constantly going over for dinners or just to hang or whatever. While there's less pressure to have a reason, much less a legitimate sounding one, to invite the other over, you both still frequently try to offer one, no matter how lame it ends up sounding.
You know each other's secrets, things neither of you have admitted to anyone else except maybe your therapists. You know each other's past, each other's present and each other's dreams for the future. You've become best friends in the most unique way despite how little time you actually spend together. You can't imagine life without each other.
Jack knows he's falling in love with you.
You know you're falling in love with Jack.
But Jack can't understand for a single second why you'd ever be interested in him, convinces himself that he’s making up all the evidence that you are.
And you can't understand for a single second why Jack would ever be interested in you, convince yourself you’re making up all the evidence that he is.
You're both scared. Neither of you want to lose the other.
So you just continue on in this perpetual state of limbo that's so far beyond better than nothing at the same time as it's absolutely fucking nowhere near enough.
You're fumbling with your key when you hear Jack step off the elevator. There's no footsteps behind or next to him. He's alone. A sense of relief you know you have no business having washes over you.
"Hey, Tweety." Jack watches you turn your key the opposite direction than he expects. His eyebrows raise slightly. "Heading out this late on a Thursday?"
As he makes his way closer and stops walking he realizes you have a duffel bag with you, though it doesn't look like there's a ton in it. That observation has his eyebrows furrowing. He didn't realize you were going somewhere and wouldn't be around the next few days. He does his best to keep his voice light, curious but not intrusive. "Ah," he drawls, nodding at your duffel. "Escaping somewhere this weekend?"
He won't lie, he'll be disappointed if you are. He was kind of hoping to invite you over this weekend just to hang out at his place and make you dinner.
"Not quite," you laugh softly. "My, um, my hot water heater broke. I was planning on just dealing since they're either fixing it or replacing it tomorrow, but I don't know." You shrug at him. "I just need to wash the day off me." You let out a breath and smile at him. "A coworker sent me a pass to her gym so I'm going to go use the shower there. What about you? 10 p.m. on a Thursday." You force a smirk and raise your eyebrows. "Hot date?"
Jack snorts. "Hardly. A group of us from work went out to a bar to decompress."
You hold your smirk and tilt your head at him despite the way you want to cry and your heart sinks at the potential for what you say next to be true. "Could still be someone special there you haven't told me about who made you want to go."
He rolls his eyes at you playfully, but he can feel the butterflies in his stomach and fluttering of his heart caused by you seeming to care and maybe even being jealous at just the thought that there could be someone else. "I can assure you there's nobody special at work. You know there's absolutely nobody at work I'm remotely interested in and that I don't shit where I eat," he smirks back at you. "Why don't you just use my shower? Save yourself the time of getting to the gym and back."
"Oh, I, I," you titter, lick your lips and force yourself to pull it together. "I couldn't impose like that. It's getting late and it'll take up your time and, and… you know. It's very sweet of you to offer though, truly."
"You using my shower is so fucking far away from being an imposition. And it is getting late, yeah. Which is all the more reason for you to do the much safer thing and use my shower that's just across the hall." He cocks his head at you and raises his eyebrows. "You know if you go to the gym I'm going to stay up until you text me that you're home safe."
You let out a breathy laugh. He's right. You know he will. And you know there's something so protective with almost a possessive edge to it that makes your heart race and warmth bloom in your lower abdomen. "You don't have to do that, Bugs."
"I know," he nods once, "but I will anyway." Jack's voice drops to a murmur, his eyes dark and piercing yours as he holds your gaze. "I won’t be able to help it."
You're not sure how or when it happened exactly, but there's something in the air and the look in Jack's eyes that makes you think it might finally happen, that the two of you might finally kiss and give into this thing between you. When Jack's eyes leave yours and drop down to look at your lips you swear the tension in the hallway becomes so great that it's physically harder to breathe from the weight of it. Suddenly all you can really think about is Jack dragging you into his place and having his way with you until he's sated and ready to take a shower with you and scrub the day and his cum and sweat off you.
Jack's eyes drag back up to yours just in time for him to watch yours drop down and look at his lips. When you bring your eyes back to his the look you give him is so doe eyed and wanting and almost fucking demure Jack can feel the blood start to rush to his cock as he thinks about how you'd wear that look with your mouth full of his cock.
"I know… You’re silly like that aren't you?" you breathe, take a small step toward him.
"Yeah." The word is almost all air as Jack mirrors you and takes a small step toward you. "Only for you, though." And then the tension shatters.
But not how either of you want it to. It's the loud thud of someone dropping something in the elevator on the floor below you that does it. Both you and Jack look away from each other, annoyed at the noise and regretting not having acted quicker on the moment you were clearly having. He clears his throat as you look at each other again. "I wasn't like that for the guy that lived there before you," he smirks. He takes the few steps to his door. "Come on."
You give him a small smile and shift on your feet. "You're sure?"
"100%." Jack winks at you and opens his door, holds his one arm up and out to invite you in.
You feel lightheaded at his wink. So lightheaded you have to bite your lip hard to ground yourself with the pain. You shake your head at him and laugh softly as you walk into his place. "Thank you."
"Of course," Jack hums as he steps in behind you and shuts and locks the door.
As he sets his keys down and gets his shoes off he realizes he's been saying my shower this whole time. But it can't really be his shower. He has to show you to his guest bathroom's shower. Right? It would be weird to take you to his shower in the en suite bathroom off his bedroom because then you'd have to walk through his bedroom and that feels weird and what if it was somehow pressuring? Or felt like he was trying to say something?
Obviously there's this thing between the two of you that you haven't defined or given into, this thing you both know is there and want but just haven't let happen because there's no way the other can truly feel the same. With the attraction, physical and sexual and emotional, between you a permanent undercurrent whenever the two of you are together now, the last thing Jack wants to do is make you feel like he's using that, or trying to, or being weird or creepy or like he's doing anything other than just trying to help you out. Because that's all he's doing, trying to help you out.
As you stand by Jack and get your shoes off and move them out of the way near a pair of Jack's while he does the same you're struck by how familiar and comfortable Jack's apartment has become. If you're honest with yourself you wish you never had to leave.
"I'm guessing you don't need anything other than towels?" he asks as you both walk further into his place. He loves seeing you in his space. If he's honest with himself he wishes you never had to leave.
"I don't even need towels. I packed some." You smile at him, a hint of a smirk to it. "I can use them, save you the laundry."
"Yeah, okay." He rolls his eyes at you playfully. "Or I can just give you proper towels so you don't have to use the thin pool towels I know you packed."
You scoff at him with mock offense and a wide smile. "I resent that."
"But noticeably didn't deny it." You can hear the smirk in his voice as he turns and starts walking down to his hall closet. "Where's the gym anyway?" Jack calls to you as he pulls out a couple towels of various sizes.
"Squirrel Hill South."
"Squirrel Hill South?!" Jack repeats with teasing incredulousness, huffing. He starts walking back toward you, holding your eye contact how he loves to do. "You were seriously going to trek to fucking Squirrel Hill South for a shower instead of just asking me?"
"Well, I don't know," you shrug, voice a little higher pitched with mock defensiveness. "I don't like to be a burden or impose and I didn't know if that was appropriate or would be awkward or weird or what!" you laugh. "I didn't want to put you in an awkward position."
"You could never be a burden or an imposition and it's not inappropriate or awkward or weird." Jack offers you the towels and you take them. He stays standing in front of you, raises his brows and gives you a small smile. "Would it feel that way if I asked you if I could use your shower?"
"Well, no. But, but that's-"
He shakes his head and interrupts you gently, sets his hands on your shoulders, fingers a little too far in toward your neck to be strictly platonic, his thumbs against your collarbones. There's an intimacy to it that makes you breathe a little harder. You have half a mind to drop the towels and your bag and grab his face, pull it down to yours as you step even closer to him. "No buts." He flicks his eyebrows up at you and nods in a silent yeah? "And no it's not different. Anytime you need, yeah? Anything. A shower, a bed, someone to listen, stitches, a distraction." He smirks deeply at you. "A cup of sugar or whatever it is they say."
You try to match his smirk but it's a little too soft and smiled. Jack's words warm you from your core. You want whatever this is between you so badly. Those are things you say to a close friend, sure, but they're things you say to your partner too. Your girlfriend or boyfriend. And the way Jack said it, his tone of voice and his facial expressions, there was something so boyfriend reassuring his girlfriend about it all that drives you insane and makes your heart flutter and makes you want and need him and makes you a little sad almost. Because he's not your boyfriend.
"The same goes for you with me at my place, you know?" You click your tongue and bob your head to the side. "Minus the stitches, of course."
"I know," Jack chuckles. He gives your shoulders a little squeeze and then releases them and takes a step away from you.
"Good." You don't know why you do it or where the move comes from or where the confidence to comes from but you reach out and squeeze his upper arm. "Thank you, Jack."
The way you say his name there isn't special. It isn't whispered or breathy or giggled or moaned or anything special. It's normal. Like you always say it. And it rips through him in the best way, like hearing you say his name always does. It makes him want to kiss you and hold you and never let you go, makes him want to take you to bed and hear you moan it over and over again underneath him as he makes you feel better than you've ever been made to feel before, makes him want to cry with how much care you always say it with, how much warmth. It makes him want to get on his knees in front of you and ask you to be his, to go on a date with him, give him one chance.
As though all the times you've shared takeout on your couch or he's cooked you dinner and you've eaten at his place weren't, in reality, dates, even if you didn't label them as such.
"Did something happen today?" You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, confused. "To make you need to wash the day off. You don't have to say, just I'm… here, like I said. To listen or distract or talk or whatever. Help how I can."
"Oh." You shake your head and shrug. "No, nothing happened. It was just a long day and sometimes showering helps me let it all go. I like my long, hot showers, you know," you laugh softly, your words a throw back to you telling Jack while you were both a little tipsy on his couch one night how much you love taking long, hot showers.
"Okay, good." Jack gives you one of those small, closed lip smiles that's all in his eyes and you melt.
"Thanks for checking." You give him a similar smile back and then start to walk toward the guest bathroom.
"Oh," Jack calls after you. "The fan in there doesn't work by the way, sorry. I've been meaning to get it fixed but never really had a reason so I just haven't."
"That's okay." You turn and look at him when you get to the door. "I like the extra steam."
"Perfect then. Take your time. They're good hot water heaters when they're not broken. Perfect for long, hot showers," Jack teases you with a smile.
You fake glare at him. "You better not have spoken them replacing mine with some shitty one into the universe."
Jack laughs and the sound makes you weak. You want to hear that sound always, every day, you want to be the one to pull it from him, the one to make him laugh and smile and be happy. "If they do, I promise I'll give you a key to my place so that you can come take your long, hot showers as frequently as your heart desires."
You swallow hard at the thought of Jack giving you a key to his place so that you could come shower. Your mind can't help but think about whether he'd ever join you eventually, whether that would be the start of something more, of you both just finally saying how you feel and exploring what's so obviously between you.
"Guess we'll have to see." You give him a lopsided smile and open the door.
"Guess so," he nods. "Enjoy."
"Thanks, Jack." You hold his gaze for a moment and then step inside the bathroom.
Jack knows he's going to think about the way you just said his name and the smile you gave him for the rest of his life.
Being in Jack's shower, even just his guest bathroom's shower, is a fucking trip.
You're pretty sure you spend the first five minutes just standing there thinking about it. Nothing actually specific. Just the fact of it, of where you are. It's almost like you're frozen in a way, mind present and thinking about how you're in Jack's fucking shower, but also so spaced out.
It's only once you unfreeze and come back to yourself that specific thoughts start to hit you as just below scalding water rains down on you. And all of those thoughts, of course, involve you in Jack's shower, but in Jack's shower, in the en suite off his bedroom. With Jack in the shower with you.
You know he has a nice built in bench in his shower, you guys talked about it once, how they let him build it in. You don't remember why or how it came up, but it doesn't matter.
You wonder if he'd let you kneel between his legs and suck him off. Your mouth feels so empty at the thought that you're pretty sure you pout to yourself a little. You think Jack might fight it a little at first, not want you to hurt or bruise your knees. But as you convinced him it's what you really want, what you need, you think he'd let you.
Maybe he'd let you take control and set the pace. Maybe sometimes he'd take control, hold your head with one hand, maybe both, and move you up and down just how he wants.
You're sure he's too seasoned of an emergency room doctor to be super into shower sex, has probably seen some gnarly injuries from it, but maybe your mouth on his cock would help convince him otherwise.
Maybe Jack would say your name lowly, voice even more gravelly than it usually is, dripping in need and lust and affection. Maybe he'd get you positioned perfectly standing between his legs and then tell you to turn around so that your back is facing him. Maybe he'd reach forward and run his fingers through you planning on rubbing your clit to get you nice and wet for him, huff a groaned laugh when he realizes you're already beyond ready for him. Maybe he'd guide you back further with his hand on your hips, get you in the right position and himself notched right at your entrance and then pull you down onto his cock before letting you fuck yourself on him.
Maybe… Maybe you need to get a fucking grip, you chastise yourself when you realize how deep into that day dream you are and how wet you know you must be with how prominent your heartbeat feels between your legs.
You force yourself to actually start showering. You know Jack said to take your time but you should still be considerate. It's late enough.
But as you shower the thoughts don't really stop. All you can think about when you finally turn the shower off and wrap one of Jack's towels around you are his hands all over your body and soft words of adoration and appreciation and maybe even love being whispered into your ear as he helps dry you off.
Once you disappear into the bathroom and he hears the shower start Jack realizes he's going to have to do everything possible to keep himself busy so that he doesn't just sit on his couch and think about showering with you. He makes himself act like it's just any other night, do what he would normally do and what he would've done if he'd gotten home tonight without seeing you. Or at least he makes himself try to act like it's just any other night.
Jack heads into his room and changes his shirt, grabs a pair of sweatpants and sits on the side of his bed and takes his prosthetic off, checks over his leg and cleans it and his prosthetic, pulls his sweats on and knots the one leg to keep it from getting caught under his crutches. From his room he goes to his kitchen to grab a drink and then crutches to his couch and sits in his usual seat, grabs the medical journal and opens it to the page he left off on and starts to read. Or at least he tries to read.
By the time you get out of the shower and walk out of his bathroom Jack's read a single paragraph about twenty times and has absorbed approximately none of it, his head far too full of thoughts of you. It's a miracle he hears you leave the bathroom and shut the door behind you and that you don't just walk out to him staring at a page of the journal completely spaced out and lost in his own little world. And hard.
Very obviously hard in his gray sweatpants.
You smile at him almost a little bashfully as you get closer. "Thank you for that."
Jack sets the journal in his lap and returns your smile with an easy one of his own. "Anytime. Feel better?"
"Yeah," you nod, "I do. I really appreciate it. It was very nice not having to trek across the city."
"I'm sure it was," he chuckles.
There's a beat of comfortable silence between you. There's no awkwardness to it at all. Something about it is almost poignant and expectant. You and Jack find yourselves where you always seem to. Both of you desperately wanting the other to make a move to confirm this thing between you is real and reciprocal and wanted and needed, followed by neither of you making it, you unconvinced that Jack could feel for you how you do for him and Jack unconvinced that you could feel for him how he does for you.
"Well." You let out a long breath and then walk over to his front door, Jack sitting up a bit to keep a better view of you. "I'll let you get back to your night." You pause with your hand on the door handle and look over at Jack.
The words are on the tip of his tongue. You can stay if you want.
Words that would be an unspoken ‘please want to stay.’
But he can't get them out. Not quick enough at least.
"Thank you again, Bugs." The smile you give him this time is absolutely unquestionably bashful and Jack wants to make you his, needs to. "I really appreciate it. And you. I really appreciate you. I hope you know that."
"I mean it. Anytime." Jack's smile is a little flustered and there's something so adorable about it that you bite your bottom lip which just makes him more flustered and his cock throb. "And I know. You make sure I know. I hope you know I really appreciate you too."
"I know," you nod, "you make sure I know." You shift your duffel and give Jack one last smile for the evening. "Goodnight, Bugs. Make sure you lock up." You wink at him, teasing him playfully about the way he always reminds you. You mean it though, you care about him just as much as Jack does about you.
Jack is floored the wink doesn't stop his heart or make him come untouched.
"Goodnight, Tweety." He gives you one last teasing smile for the night as you walk out, already knowing what he's going to call to you as you do. "Make sure you lock up too!"
Jack can hear your soft giggles as you pull his front door shut behind you. He's still for a moment, his brain trying to process everything that's happened tonight.
Jack has absolutely no idea what compels him to do it, but something in his subconscious does. He tells himself he's going to get the towels you used to throw them in the washer. He tosses the medical journal aside and gets up and crutches to the guest bathroom.
When he opens the door he's greeted with warm steam that smells like you, like your body wash mixed with your shampoo and conditioner. Jack immediately realizes his subconscious knew that's what would happen. He's frozen by it for a second before he quickly crutches into the bathroom and shuts the door so that no more steam can escape.
As he stands there, Jack's cock throbs even harder, the racing beat of his heart quickly the only thing he can hear. The thought crosses his mind as he breathes in deeply through his nose.
No. Absolutely not. No. He can't. It's wrong.
Before he fully realizes what he's doing Jack crutches over and puts the lid down on the toilet and sits, rests his crutches against the wall. It's not particularly comfortable but it doesn't matter. He's not going to be here long, he tells himself. Just another thirty seconds or so. He'll let himself sit in the steamy warmth that smells like you for just another thirty seconds or so.
Jack's hand brushes over his cock and his breath catches at the feeling. He didn't really mean to do that. He just didn't pay enough attention to where his hand was as he was bringing it up to run through his hair.
But it felt good. God, it felt so fucking good.
The way he brings his hand back down and starts to palm at his cock over his sweatpants is undeniably deliberate. This is wrong. He shouldn't. He can't.
Jack palms himself a little harder, bites his lip and groans. Does he seriously have this little self-control when it comes to you? So little that he can't just get up and go back to his couch or to bed and let his erection fade away?
Apparently he seriously has this little self-control when it comes to you because instead of getting up Jack shifts and pulls his sweatpants and boxer briefs down enough to free his cock and then nearly tears his shirt off. He lets out a heavy breath as he takes in another deep breath of your scent through his nose and rubs the bead of precum that leaks from his slit into his head.
This is so, so wrong. Getting off to the scent of you. This is so fucking dirty and probably a little creepy and, god what would you think of him if you knew what he was doing?
The thoughts fade quickly as he lets his eyes flutter closed and starts stroking himself properly as he continues breathing you in. You're all he's been thinking when getting himself off for a good while now, but this, this is different. The warmth of the air around him and the way it smells like you and the way the scent clings to him because of the steam makes it so different, makes it feel more real.
Maybe you'd like it, if you knew. Like that he was touching himself to the smell and thought of you. If the situations were reversed, though, he wouldn't mind. If he'd showered in your guest bathroom and you walked in once he left to warm steam that still smelled of him he wouldn't mind at all if you sat somewhere and touched yourself while you breathed him in and thought of him. He'd fucking want you to.
Jack doesn't know why, doesn't truly have a single fucking thing to draw the conclusion from, but he thinks you'd like it too. He thinks you'd find it hot.
If you knew he was doing this would you ask to watch? Ask him to show you what he likes? Would you slowly get closer to him so you could study every movement? Would you ask him what he was thinking about? Ask him to tell you all the things he thinks about when he touches himself? All the things he wants to do to you? Would you tell him all the things you want to do to him? Would you drag him to bed so you could both be more comfortable? Would you ask to take over? With your hand? With your mouth? Would you want to watch him come? Would you take your pants and underwear off and position yourself so he could come all over your cunt? Would you sink yourself down on him just as he started to come?
A million questions and possibilities run through Jack's mind, a million scenarios, ones he's imagined before and new ones. But his mind eventually settles.
"Jack?"
You and Jack are in his bed together, naked. You're tangled together on your sides, both of you breathless from making out. You press a couple of kisses to his jaw and scratch your nails at the v of his hips and whine slightly at the way you can feel his cock throb.
"Show me, please. Show me what you like," you whisper. "How you touch yourself. Please."
He swallows hard but nods. In addition to how fucking hot it is, there's something incredibly intimate about the ask, about the idea of touching himself with you watching. "Okay, Baby." Both of you shift and sit up against the headboard, Jack’s back propped up against it with some pillows comfortably and you pressed into his side, the position easier for you to bring your dominant hand across his body. Jack brings a hand that he has to focus way too hard on keeping steady to his cock.
"No, Jack," you interrupt before he can truly start, shaking your head at him. You hold your hand out to him. "Show me. Teach me. I want to be able to make you feel good."
"Fuck," Jack breathes, a heavy jolt of pleasure running up his spine. "I don't need to show you, Sweetheart. Just you touching me will make me feel good. Shit, just you watching makes it even better."
"But I want to know what makes you feel the best. I want to make you feel good, the best you've ever felt." You hit him with a pout that has him squeezing the base of his cock hard so he doesn't lose it just from that. "Please."
"Yeah, of course," Jack pants, reaches out and grabs your hand. "Anything you want, Baby. Anything and everything."
The groan Jack lets out as he imagines your hand wrapping around his cock at the guidance of his is ripped from deep in his chest. He knows that the feeling he's imagining would be nothing compared to the real thing, to how small your hand would feel in his and wrapped around him and how soft your skin would be against his cock.
Jack starts moving your hand up and down his cock slowly at first, picking up the pace with each pass until you're at a steady rhythm. He twists when he gets to his head and as Jack watches you watch your hand he can almost see you noting in your brain exactly where to start the twist to give him the most pleasure. He can't believe anybody, let alone you, would care for him enough to pay such close attention just so you can make him feel good.
"You're so big Jack," you moan softly as you work his cock. "I don't know how you're going to fit." Jack's hips buck at your words and your eyes meet as you look up at him. "You will fuck me tonight, right Jack? I need it. Need you."
"Yeah," Jack pants, "yeah, I'll fuck you tonight. I'll do whatever you want to you tonight."
"I want you to take whatever you want, want you to use me however you want." You look so truly desperate for it that Jack's hips buck just as desperately again. "I want you to do everything you've ever wanted to me, Jack."
He lets out a shuddery breath with a hint of a laugh to it. "That list is way the fuck too long for one night, Baby."
You giggle and bite your lip, twist your hand on your own just to surprise him and pull a loud groan of your name from his chest. It's like you can tell he's getting close despite this being the first time you guys have ever given in and done this, seen each other and kissed each other and touched each other like this. Jack can feel the way he's about to come, starts to draw in air to try to form the words to tell you, but instead his brows furrow in confusion when you slow your hand and then pull it away. He just barely swallows down most of a whine.
You hum soothingly, roll your head a little to kiss his skin wherever you can as his orgasm ebbs and then look up at him with an eager need in your eyes. "I want you to show me something else now."
"Oh yeah?" Jack has a feeling he knows what you mean, his heart somehow thundering harder at just the thought.
"Yeah." You move so that you're between his legs and facing him. And then you start to lower yourself and get comfortable laying between his legs on your stomach.
"Oh, Baby, you don't, you don't have to do this." He brings a hand down to your face where you rest it on his thigh and look up at him. "Your hand is more than enough."
"I know I don't have to, Jack." You smile at the precum he leaks when you say his name. You lift your head up and kiss his inner thigh up to his cock. "I want to, I promise" you murmur. "Show me how you like it, Baby, please."
You take his head in your mouth and swirl your tongue around it as you suck and moan. "Fuck!" Jack rasps, voice strained with pleasure. "Oh god, Baby, fuck. Fuck your mouth is so good, oh fuck."
As you slowly start to bob your head up and down one of your hands grabs one of his and brings it to your head as you look at him pleadingly. Jack knows it's a silent request for him to take control and show you how he likes it. He lets out a shuddery breath as he does what you asked.
Jack's hand speeds up, tightens around himself even more. He's close. He's so fucking close and it hasn't even been that long and he should be embarrassed but he's not. He's just fucking not. That's what you do to him. This is what you do to him.
And you’re not even fucking here.
He thinks he might be drunk off your scent. Jack never wants this to end, never wants the steam that smells like you and envelops him to dissipate. Not unless he can have the real thing. Not unless he can be fucking you with his nose pressed up against your neck or hauling you into the shower with him to make more steam that smells like you. Not unless you're his and he's yours.
"Jack." The way you say his name is almost moaned, your lips fluttering against his tip so you can take him back in your mouth as soon as you finish speaking. "Come for me."
Jack does with a breathy groan of your name, body almost trembling at how fucking good it feels as he watches his cum paint his chest and abdomen, a little hitting his collarbones and lower neck. His head drops back and he lets his eyes close as he keeps working himself through it, your name falling off his tongue over and over.
He works himself to a little painful overstimulation and then lets go of his cock as he pants and tries to come back down, aftershocks of pleasure ripping through his body as he basks in the post-orgasm haze and the smell of you. Jack can't remember the last time he came that hard. He's not sure if he ever has before. And all it took was the scent of you.
He's so astronomically fucked.
He's falling in love with you. With your beauty and smile and laugh and your personality and wit and how vibrant you are. With the light you bring into his life just by being his neighbor.
He craves you, wants you like he's never wanted someone before. He wants all of you, the good and the bad and the parts you haven't shown him yet and the parts of you that you haven't even discovered yet, in every possible way, sexual and otherwise. Jack wants you. All of you. All the time.
You guys have your thing, but it's probably harmless flirting to you, not something that would ever go anywhere. He told himself you'd probably find this hot, but would you? Would you really? Or would you find it sad? A man his age touching himself.
Jack finally comes back around to where he always seems to land. Why would you ever want him?
He grabs some toilet paper and cleans his chest off. He stands up and opens the lid, tosses it in the toilet and flushes. It's as he pulls his shirt back on that his hearing apparently fucking comes back.
There's a knock on his door. "Bugs?" His unlocked door. He never locked it after you left, and he knows you, he knows you'll be concerned that he hasn't answered and you'll try it and he's in the fucking bathroom you were just in, that he has no reason to be in, that he never uses, always just goes to his, and you're too smart for your own fucking good and you'll put together why. You'll know.
So he needs to get out of here.
"Jack?" He hears the door start to open. "I'm coming in."
He just gets the lights off and makes it out of the bathroom and into the hallway a little bit, hopefully enough that it doesn't seem like he was coming out of there. "Hey, sorry," he calls to you as he crutches closer as you walk in. "I didn't hear at first…" He tries to think of some sort of excuse about why he didn't hear when he's always heard every other time, but he decides to let it go. You'll see right through him and the lie.
"That's okay." You smile at him, cocking your head just slightly with a subtly suspicious smile. Jack looks different than you've ever seen him before. He looks… caught, almost.
As you move closer to each other and you get a better look at him you realize he's flushed from the neck up, skin red and pink and a little blotchy, sweat making some of his curls stick to his forehead and his temple and neck a bit shiny. He looks hot. Literally and metaphorically.
You're so transfixed by him and thinking about what it would be like to have him on top of you while looking like he does right now that you don't even stop to think about why he looks like that right now, about what he could've been doing.
"You didn't lock your door." You raise your eyebrows at him and give him a teasing smile. "You need to."
Jack smirks at you. "Worried about me?"
"Yeah, actually," you laugh, the teasing sliding out of your smile and replaced by something so genuine Jack has to cover the way his breath hitches. "You'd be so mad if you discovered my door unlocked."
"Not mad," he shakes his head, "concerned and worried."
You shoot him an oh please look, but you know he's telling the truth. You know it would be that kind of anger that's really just a mask for intense and deep worry and concern. You lick your lips and take a breath. "I came back because I think I left my body wash."
Jack nods. "Ah, well we couldn’t possibly have that sitting in my guest bathroom until the next time you came over and grabbed it at your convenience. Absolutely required you getting out of bed and coming back over," he teases, crutching toward the bathroom with you.
"Nope," you pop the 'p.' "You might use it when you miss me," you smirk at him as you step by him to walk into the guest bathroom, your chests nearly brushing, something that isn't completely unusual, it's happened before and you guys hug. But there's something much more keyed up to the way your chests almost touch when combined with your words.
Your words that make Jack glitch for a moment. Do you know? Could you have figured out what he was doing before you came back in? No. There's no way you could've. You're just fucking around. He needs to fucking relax and be normal before he gives it away.
"Oh," Jack drawls with teasing amusement as you grab the bottle from the shower and then turn back to him and walk toward him, "is that your way of asking for a bottle of my body wash for when you miss me?"
The beat before you reply is just a few seconds too long for it to mean nothing, and fuck, Jack realizes, you might actually want that. But why? How? He has to be wrong. He's projecting.
You're undeniably a little flustered though, that much is obvious to Jack, but not flustered in a he made you uncomfortable way, more in a you've been caught kind of way. It makes his head spin.
Where the fuck everything that happens next comes from, where the confidence to do any of it comes from, you have no idea. It just seems to happen.
You stop in front of Jack, chests less than a centimeter from brushing. "You know one time you had me over you'd left a bottle of your body wash on the kitchen table for you to take into your bathroom the next time you went back there," you murmur, eye contact with him direct and unbelievably heady, a small ghost of a self-satisfied smile on your face. "So for all you know I already have a bottle in my shower just for that purpose."
Your smile pulls up a little wider on your face when Jack's breath catches in his throat and he swallows heavily. His brain tries to come up with something to say but just fucking can't because you just said that. You just said that and it’s how you said it and that smile and your murmured voice and the look in your eyes and fuck.
You really just said that.
And Jack has no idea whether you do or don't but is now so beyond desperate to know.
"Thank you again, Bugs." You lean into him and up and press a soft kiss to his cheek, something you've never done before. "Have a good rest of your night."
You step back and smile at him before turning and walking to his front door, Jack almost frozen to his spot because you just said that and then kissed his cheek. Your lips had contact with his skin. Your lips.
You pause at his door again and turn back to him. "Make sure you really lock up this time, Bugs, yeah?" You flick your eyebrows up at him for a second in emphasis. "And have sweet dreams, Jack."
I want to be his neighbor he's falling in love with so badly. 😭 I hope it was okay and enjoyable enough that you'd like to see more of them! Let me know if you would! I love hearing your thoughts and comments and reactions, they often make my day and give me so much joy! ♥️ Thank you again for all of your support and for taking the time to read!! ♥️
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ꕤ 2.4k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: Semi-public sex; PIV sex; brief manhandling; reference to oral; sweaty Pope; no y/n.
ꕤ Summary: Pope just looks so good when he skateboards that you can't help yourself.
ꕤ AN: Friends, I have missed writing for Pope so much (especially happy sweaty skateboarding Pope). 😭 I love him. I was so happy to include him in Kink/Angstober! This fic incorporates this request sent in for the 1k celebration! It's smut, so, you know, I hope it's okay and that you enjoy! Thank you so much for reading and your support! ♥️
"This is your fault, you know."
It's moaned softly. Teasingly almost. It’s you blaming him for the situation you find yourselves in like it wasn’t you who couldn’t control herself and dragged him here.
"What?" Pope almost laughs incredulously through a groan as you change your rhythm and start bouncing on his cock. "How? You're the one who grabbed my hand and sprinted to the car and then shoved me in the back seat and climbed on my fucking cock."
You're currently in the back of Pope's jeep with your shorts and underwear off, straddling him and now pushing yourself up off him just to drop back down on his cock, already embarrassingly close to falling apart around him. It's a benefit of him having a jeep with tinted windows again and parking somewhere more private, as in not directly by the skate park, for once. Pope has your shirt pushed up and your tits out of the cups of your bra, his large hands switching between kneading them and teasing your nipples.
You've been together over five years now. Being together for so long means that there's a comfortableness between the two of you that comes from the knowledge that there's complete and total acceptance of one another. That's particularly huge for Pope. You've known everything, everything, about Pope now for years and haven't gone anywhere. Nothing that's happened has been too much. You accept him as he is. Always.
Because of this, Pope is much more relaxed in general, but in particular with you. He's also much more comfortable and open about sex, is able, the vast majority of the time, to not get in his head about it constantly and just enjoy the moment with you. He's gotten to a point where he's not afraid to get a little rough with you when you want him to, has learned how much you love it. Nor is he afraid to want and ask for what he wants and take what he wants, once you've consented of course. He's not afraid to be a sexual being, doesn't feel like he doesn't deserve to feel good anymore. All because of you.
That said, he's still on the quiet side in the bedroom, both in volume and how much he says. But when he does talk it's frequently some of the hottest, filthiest shit you've ever heard. His reactions are still more controlled, quieter and half-swallowed down but they're far less controlled than when you first got together. He still lets you take the lead most of the time, still wants you to. But he has his moments where he wants to be in charge. That’s all just who Pope is, how he is, and you wouldn’t trade or change any of it for the world.
"Because!" you moan, words escaping you for a few seconds. "Because you just look so fucking hot like this," you pant as they come back to you. "Skating and happy and smiling and in those fucking jeans and this tight shirt. All sweaty everywhere, sweaty curls, sweaty neck, makes you smell so fucking good…" You move your hands from his shoulders to run up his sweaty neck and through sweat-slicked curls you love an unholy amount. "I had to. How am I supposed to see you like that and know you're mine and I'm yours and function and not drag you away to get you inside me?"
It's just the truth. He looked positively fucking edible out there skating, still does. You had no choice but to jump him or you would've exploded, you swear.
"You see me like that all the time," he points out lowly, a hint of teasing there only you would recognize. He's starting to pant a little, voice all gravel and rasp for you. Pope takes your nipples between his thumb and forefingers and rolls them, gives a little twist to get you to gasp for him.
You whine at him, but arch your back slightly to push your tits against his hands telling him you want more. When he gives you what you want, flicking and twisting your nipples even harder you let your head fall back and shiver hard as you keep fucking yourself on his cock. "I don't know, I don't know why today was different, I just needed you."
“I’m not complaining,” Pope grunts, leans forward to make the most of your exposed neck, kissing and brushing his lips over and teasingly sucking all the right spots he knows drive you insane and make you wetter for him. Because he has you memorized, your entire body, yes, but also a map of all the spots that do the most for you, all the moves he can make to bring you as much pleasure as possible.
Sex feels beyond fucking good for him with you and he's always aware of how fucking good he feels and you make him feel, and how nobody else has ever made him feel this way, and he's no longer afraid to ask for what he wants. But making you feel as good as possible and come as hard and long as possible is still and always will be his primary concern and one of the most important parts of sex to him. Even when you're letting him use you to relieve tension or feel close to you or when you're trying to make it all about him. He's always focused on you. With no other man is it truer that making his partner feel good makes him feel good. It's a necessary component of sex for him, one of the driving forces behind his ability to come.
His lips move down your neck, he sucks at your collarbones and moves down to the top of one of your breasts, sucking and nibbling his way down until he takes one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over it teasingly while his fingers work your other one. "Pope!" you moan for him, fingers fisting his curls and tugging as you get lost in the feeling. "Angel, Angel, Angel," you breathe, cunt clamping around him even harder as you have to go back to rolling your hips to work him in and out of you, anything else too difficult with how pleasure drunk you are.
He hums in response and bites down gently on your nipple, pulling it taut as he pulls his head away until it slips from between his teeth. His mouth immediately finds your other nipple and gives it the same treatment as his hips start to rock against yours, his pleasure building just as fast and furious as yours.
This isn't going to last much longer. You're not going to last much longer. You need him too badly, need to come too badly, need to feel him fill you too badly.
You bring your head back up and flutter your eyes back open, let your nails drag down his scalp and neck until your hands can fist his shirt at the top of his shoulders. Pope groans at the feeling, his cock throbbing inside of you, hips rocking a little harder.
He kisses his way back up your neck to your lips and captures them with his. The kiss is sloppy, tongues moving in and out of the other's mouth almost haphazardly, and has a ferocity and neediness reminiscent of new lovers who can't get enough of each other fast enough. Together over five years and it's still like that, you still feel that way about each other.
Pope's hands find your hips and squeeze them tightly, help move you back and forth along his cock and you have to break the kiss to breathe.
"God, fuck, Pope! You make me so wet! Do you feel that? Hear that?" You take his face in your hands and hold his gaze, keep as quiet as you can so that the obscenely slick squelch of your cunt is almost embarrassingly loud. Pope groans at the sound, fingers digging into your hips a little harder, hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow. "That’s all you, Love," you moan as his hands move you along him faster, your hands falling back to his shirt, "fuck, that’s all you!"
Pride blooms in his chest and he's pretty sure his cock grows harder at the thought, pretty sure you can tell based on the little whimper you let out as you clench and flutter around him. "Look at you." Pope's eyes flash down to where you're connected and he watches you take his cock. "Fuck!" he groans, dragging his eyes up your tummy and chest to your face, finding you already looking at him, face furrowed in desperation and pleasure as you get closer to your orgasm. "You look so fucking hot this desperate for me," he growls.
"Fuck, Pope," your eyes roll back a little at his words, "touch my clit," you pant desperately at him. "Please! Touch my clit, I'm close!" Your voice is high-pitched and needy and your eyes drop down to watch you fuck yourself on his cock. "You, you started this, this is your fault. Now finish it. Please, please finish it!"
He breathes a moan-strangled laugh. "No. You started this. You brought us to the car and, and pushed me in the backseat. So you finish it. Take it for yourself." He moves one of his hands from your hips and positions it between you so that you can grind down against it as you ride him. "Use my hand. Use my cock." His other hand finds the back of your neck and wraps around it, manhandles you just a little so that you're looking at him again. "Use me, Angel." It's an order, uncommon from Pope during sex, but something you absolutely love and that is so hot to you it almost rockets you over the edge itself.
"Oh fuck, Pope!" One of your hands finds the curls at the nape of his neck, tangling in them and tugging on them hard enough to pull a grunt from Pope. The pain shoots through him deliciously, brings him closer to the edge with you and has him planting his feet and fucking up into, changing the angle slightly so he's hitting that spot inside of you even better and your clit rubs more insistently against his calloused palm. "Yes!" you cry out for him. "Fuck, yes, yes, please don't stop!" You pant heavily. "Just like that, don't stop, oh don't stop!"
"Love hearing you like this," he rasps, keeping his movements exactly the same as requested, living for how good he knows it's making you feel. "Cock drunk and whining for me." His voice is strained as he staves off his own orgasm. He needs you to come first, needs you to be what makes it so he can't hold back.
"I'm gonna come, Angel, gonna come," you start to babble, eyes fluttering closed as the ecstasy crests, your entire body tensing and trembling slightly. "I'mgonnacome, I'mgonnacome, I'm…" High-pitched breaths are all you can get out for a moment as your orgasm breaks over you and you shatter around him. "Pope!" you moan. "Oh, I love you-"
Pope swallows the rest of your words, kissing you hard and licking into your mouth as you come and drinking down every moan and whine and whimper you make for him. He follows just after you, refusing to stop kissing you and groaning your name into your mouth as pleasure only you can give him sears through his body.
"Yeah Angel," he groans once he has to pull his lips from yours so you can both get some air. He continues to work you both through it, pressing his hand against your clit as he continues to fuck up into you like his entire being depends on it. "Yeah, so good, you're so so good, I love you." His words are a little slurred, Pope just as pussy drunk as you are cock drunk.
He stills his hips and moves his hand from you before you need to ask, knowing how to read your body and tell when the overstimulation is going to hit too much. "Oh, Pope," you pant, collapsing into him with a giggle and burying your face in his neck. "Love you so much." You mumble it straight into the side of his neck and anyone other than him would have no idea what you just said.
Pope laughs softly, holds you close with one arm and runs his other hand up and down your back soothingly, for both of you. "I love you so much too."
The two of you stay like that for a while, Pope holding you close and starting to soften inside of you as you both recover. You don't need to speak any further words to each other right now, the way Pope rubs your back and occasional squeeze and the way you nuzzle into his neck and sigh softly every now and then say everything that needs to be said.
Eventually you pull yourself from his neck and smile at him, still catching your breath a bit. "Back to skating?" Your hands start to run through his hair to clean it back up and look less 'just fucked' and then move to smooth out his shirt where you clung to it so tightly it wrinkled.
"Mm," he hums, a lilt to it that gives it a hint of a laugh. "No." His arms wrap around you tighter and he has you laying across the back seats in seconds. Pope tucks himself away and then shifts you both again so he's in a position letting him bring his head down to hover in front of your cunt.
You run a hand through his hair and tug, get him to look up at you. "Love, I want this, believe me, I fucking do, but that is going to be such an uncomfortable position for you."
He tilts his head at you slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looks at you with that intense Pope gaze. "Do you think I give a fuck?"
You make a little noise of discontent at him not caring. "Okay well I do! I don't want you to hurt or be sore!"
He smirks at you with his eyes, the smallest quirk upward at the corners of his lips, and he speaks with that typical Pope seriousness that is so fucking hot to you, especially in these situations. "I'll just have to eat that concern out of you."
Happy sweaty skateboarding Pope supremacy!! I hope you enjoyed and thank you so much for reading! I really love hearing your thoughts and comments, they give me so much joy and motivation! ♥️
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i know it’s going to sound like i’m “just saying this” because of what you said, but i truly believe that your work has gotten even better over time!! i think you are too hard on yourself mich! everything you write is great and fantastic, and i’m so grateful you share this gift of yours with us! i’m sorry people are giving you a hard time about getting things out sooner. you just take your time and we will be here when you’re ready! it’s not worth you stressing and feeling bad over it. i love everything about your blog and i’m sure many others can relate to that sentiment!!!! we love you!!! 💗
Thank you so much friend. ♥️ I'm so sorry I've been super absent this week and that it took me this long to reply to this, it was just the actual longest seventy year week with days that felt like ten years each and I didn't have the energy to give a good reply. 😞 It means a lot that you think I've gotten better over time! And I'm really grateful that you take the time to read what I write and publish! I would never be someone to write for just myself and writing has become such an important escape and release for me, so I feel really lucky that people read and interact and give me the motivation to keep writing. ♥️ I try not to feel bad or stress about getting things out, but it's hard when I also just really want to. It makes me feel very restless. I keep hoping things will calm down and then looking at my work calendar and it feels never ending. 🫠 But hopefully I'll at least be able to set a new normal soon and get out everything that I want to! Thank you so much for your support and for taking the time to send this in. It truly means so so much to me! ♥️ I love you all too!! ♥️
I genuinely never thought I would write fanfic again and even when new characters and hyperfixations came I didn't, no matter how much the urge was there. I just could never go through with it. I write for a living currently and so the last thing I wanted to do when I got home from work was more writing, even if it was a different style and all my own. And then Jack Abbot entered my life at a time and I went on vacation where I had absolutely no access to work and was refreshed while also emotionally going through it and really had the urge to write and so here we are. A perfect storm.
In typical me fashion I decided I was so sad and anxious that I just wanted some happy fluffy stuff and wrote the exact opposite. I'm just an angst with a happy ending girl what can I say. But also I just really want someone to comfort me like this and it was cathartic to write. However, I'm not going to lie that I started feeling a bit better when writing this so it became a bit harder to write, weave together, and finish and I'm just rusty. Read the CWs please, it's rough stuff and potentially triggering, so protect yourself, and if I missed any please (nicely) let me know.
I have a number of other ideas and thoughts for this man and am desperate to yell about him so feel free to send your thoughts in the ask box or DM me to yell about Jack.
Titles and summaries are unlikely to ever get better. Please be gentle with me as this is my first foray back into writing and posting in years. Please let me know if you like it. I thrive on positive feedback.
Again, please read the CWs: suicidal ideation; self harm ideation; extreme depression and anxiety discussed; discussion of anxious depressive attack; reference to rescue meds; self hate; reader is not okay; reader tries to push Jack away; abandonment issues and themes.
Summary: You have an anxious depressive attack for no readily apparent reason. Jack is the best and gets you through it. Happy ending. Established relationship. You and Jack live together. Age gap but not specified or referenced. No use of y/n or related. Absolutely zero proofreading, I mean none. No beta. This is also a bit open ended and could be conducive to a part two depending on reception and if anyone would be interested.
The sadness consumes you, sticks to you like the tegaderm you apply to patients. The most irritating part is how it just seemed to have come out of nowhere. Sure, you were feeling a bit more anxious and depressed than usual, but nothing horrific. And then it got a little worse towards the end of your first twelve hours. But then around hour sixteen it was like you just walked into a black hole and were totally consumed by it as you took a few minutes to yourself to use the bathroom.
It was the crying out of absolutely fucking nowhere for no apparent reason kind of sadness. The kind that left you perpetually teetering on a ledge and unable to breathe. The kind that makes you think this is it, you’re so broken now you’re past the point of fixable. Makes you think you will just be here forever, stuck in this sadness, unable to move or enjoy anything, condemned to a life of faking it. Makes you itch to hurt yourself. The kind that is so consuming and distorting it makes you ideate and think that ending it all might be an act of kindness to yourself and your closest; you no longer consumed by the sadness and them no longer burdened with you. The kind that is so frustrating for you because one sliver of logical, rational brain large enough to understand what is happening and that your brain is manipulating you escapes, so you know that you’re being unreasonable, that it’ll pass and yet you can’t seem to believe it. Or maybe it’s that you do believe it, it’s just that surviving until it does pass seems so hard and you are so tired.
Work keeps you busy. Busy enough to be able to push the thoughts to the side and just live with the feelings for now, both mentally and physically. You can focus on others, on fixing others, saving others, solving other people’s problems. It’s a good distraction, but just that. A distraction. It does nothing to fix anything and the second it’s gone you know it will all come crashing down.
Jack’s eyes are scanning for you the second he walks in the ED. Something was off with you when he finished his shift and left you for the second half of your double. You’d assured him you were just tired and would get some more caffeine and be good and he hadn’t pushed you. He’d told you to text or call him if you needed him, that he would probably get some sleep but would sleep with his phone on loud and near his head in case you needed him. He could just sense it on you.
You hear him make some sarcastic remark back to someone before you see that he’s here and it makes your heart race. There’s a little burst of happiness at seeing him of course, but then even that is overcome again by the sadness that rules your mind currently. You don’t want to ruin his mood, don’t want him to have to deal with you. It makes you more anxious, threatens to rip you in half in deciding what to do, tell him or try and pretend. You know that would be pointless though and you don’t really have a choice. Not when it comes to him. One look at your face and he’s going to read you like a chapter book. You thought the time getting home and ability to take some meds since you wouldn’t be working might help you calm down enough for it to not be quite as bad once you got home. You look back down at your tablet but chew hard on the inside of your cheek, taste the iron of your own blood, and when Mel walks up to you with a question you shift your tablet so that you can dig your nails into the skin of your hand. Just something to ground you. Just a little physical pain to match the internal.
Jack clocks it from where he is, finding you just as you look back down at your tablet. Your nails and cheek. There’s something else about the way you’re holding yourself that’s off too. His own anxiety ticks up. Were you hurt? Did something happen? He turns back to ask Santos if something happened this shift but she’s already gone. When he looks back over to where you were standing with Mel he finds you and Mel gone. He thinks you just went with her until he spots her alone with a patient.
You had to flee after answering her question and telling her you were off and to spread the word if anyone asked. You wouldn’t know how else to describe it other than giving into this urge to run and hide. Some sort of flight or fight thing undoubtedly, you’d just never had the feeling before. You had to get out of there before you lost it in front of everyone.
Jack being here isn’t good. It wasn’t the plan, the one you’ve been preparing and repeating to yourself all day to get through it without losing it. You’d get off, go home, he’d be there and you’d be okay and not feel like this because he’d be there. Or at least if you still were feeling like this he would be there and that would make it a little better, a bit less suffocating. It would make it all feel survivable.
But now he’s here and you can only assume that means he picked up a shift and you’ll have to go home to an empty place, something you’re not sure you trust yourself with right now. You try and tell yourself it’ll be fine, that you’ll take some meds at home and just sleep through it until he gets back and then sleep more with him and that the feelings will pass. And you know it’s true. Your logical brain knows that these feelings will pass. Your emotional brain that tells you you’re going to be stuck in this all-consuming sadness and anxiety wins, however, and the thoughts just won’t stop. The physical feeling of sadness and anxiety won’t leave. It’s enough to make you gag.
You don’t want to ruin his roof for him but you don’t know where else to go and think maybe you’ll find whatever it is Jack finds up here that seems to help him. And really you know you want him to find you. Need him to. Need him to take one look at your face and know how to help you, how to comfort you, like he always does. You hate putting that on him, though.
You don’t even consciously do it. You just look up and realize where you are. Right on the ledge. It’s so metaphoric it’s disgusting. It’s odd though, being on the other side of the guard rails. It feels like it should be scary or exhilarating in some kind of way but it’s just not. It’s nothing. Everything is nothing except that everything is also abhorrently and suffocatingly sad in a way you can’t explain. You let your hands come out a little and catch the wind. Some part of you hopes it’ll carry you away. It doesn’t and you’re so in your head you don’t hear the door or him as he walks over to you until he speaks.
“You’re in my spot, Doll.” His voice is gentle, feeling you out and giving you room. He’s desperate to see your eyes, to read your face in the way only he can.
You shrug. “I suppose I am.”
He walks a little closer, rests his arms on the bar. He doesn’t know yet, how bad things are, how bad you are right now. You’re just a little too good at hiding it with your back to him when he can’t see your eyes or face. “Bad shift?”
It takes you a minute to respond and when you do it’s a single word and an iciness starts to seep through him. “No.”
The way you say it is off. The way you sound, the way you’re standing, body leaning just slightly forward.
“What’s up? You don’t seem okay. What happened?” The genuine concern in his voice melts you but at the same time a large part of you feels bad for it, for making him concerned and worried about you. It’s unfair of you to do.
You shake your head a little in response. “Nothing.” As much as it sounds like a lie, it’s really the truth, at least to his last question. Nothing happened.
“Did you pick up a shift tonight?” You ask him quietly.
“No.”
“Why are you here then?”
He gives a soft laugh, almost a touch of disbelief to it. “I don’t know, the way you seemed when I left and we said goodbye. I thought you were just tired but it sat with me, stayed with me when I woke up. I just felt, I don’t know, drawn to come pick you up. Get my eyes on you as soon as I could.” There’s a pause. “I’m glad I came.”
You hum. You hate that he can pick it up off of you, that you can’t hide it better to protect him.
He’s never seen you go past the guard rail and combined with your demeanor and body language and the aura radiating off you it scares him, scares the fuck out of him right now. “Will you come here, please? Even if not to me, just to the other side.” There’s a pause as you consider. He leans back up off the rail to keep his hands free, ready to jump and grab you by the scrub top if he has to.
You don’t want to scare him, to hurt him. That’s the whole problem. And then you end up doing so anyway. He deserves so much better. You hate yourself.
“I’m afraid if you touch me I’ll shatter. Just totally fucking lose it. And you shouldn’t have to deal with that.” The way you say it tells him you want nothing more than to be in his arms. He’s right of course. He recognizes it for what it is beneath your words, an invitation for him to pull you back to him. Physically, mentally, and emotionally.
“Alright.” It’s his normal voice. Just Jack. He reaches and grabs your arm with his hand, gentle, but firm enough to keep you from going anywhere and show his seriousness. “You’re coming back on this side. Now.” It’s his Dr. Abbot voice, the one you know he must have developed in the service. “Please Doll.” And there’s your Jack, the tone he only uses with you, soft and sweet, empathetic, vulnerable in a strong way. Full of the love he has for you. You know if you pulled away he’d let you, but you don’t want to. You want him. Want to be close to him.
You don’t shatter from his touch. Not yet anyway. You let out a long breath but nod, let him help you back to the safe side. His hands are on your face, one thumb brushing over a cheekbone as he searches your eyes. You try to look away but he follows you. He hates what he sees, how sad and small you look and must feel, the nondescript anxiety coursing through you.
“Doll,” he says a little breathless, aching to make it all better. “I need you to talk to me, please.” It’s desperate, on the cusp of begging. “Let me help. Let me in.” If anything the dialogue is normally reversed, but it’s been a good while since you’ve had to ask him to talk to you or let you in. You’ve been together so long now that it’s automatic for him. The only things he tries to keep you out of sometimes are his PTSD and flashbacks and phantom limb pain, but even then. He’s an easy lock for you to pick.
You scrunch your shoulders up hard for a few seconds as you take a deep breath and let them fall back down as you let it out through your nose. “And if I say I’m fine?” You give him a hint of a smile.
He gives a little scoff of a laugh. “Then I’ll be hurt by how much of a blind idiot you think I am.” It’s a little reassuring though. That you still have it in you to joke. It tells him you’re still in there.
You give him the smallest smile before your face fades back into a heartbreaking sadness. “I don’t know Jack,” you say softly. “I… Nothing is even wrong. Nothing has happened. I just…” You trail off and he lets you, gives you the space to gather your thoughts even as he watches you with concern etched into his features. You look away from him, out at the city. He can still see your eyes get glassy though, the slightest tremble of your chin before you recover. “I’m too mentally ill for you. You deserve better.”
He has to give another laugh at that. “Have you met me?”
You look at him, and while he sees sadness and hurt he also sees terror.
“I’m just… sad. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s all consuming and feels never ending even when I can sit and rationally tell myself I have nothing to be sad or anxious about. It just doesn’t fucking matter. It still feels like I can’t breathe except I am and I’m aware of it because I’m still alive and still thinking, still sad and spiraling. I’m almost like, fucking lightheaded it’s so bad, I shake, I can’t get that pit in my stomach and burn at my diaphragm to go away and over what? There’s nothing. There’s absolutely fucking nothing for me to be this sad or anxious or upset over.” You close your eyes and bring a shaky hand to your lips. “I’m just a huge mess for no god damn reason and I fucking hate it, Jack. And you deserve better, so, so much better, even if you don’t think so or want to admit it. You deserve not to be stuck with this, with whatever it is I am.”
He opens his mouth to speak but then shuts it. There’s so much he wants to say he doesn’t know where to start. He just wants to hold you. To hug you until all the pieces of you fit back together the way you’ve done for him so many times. He wishes he had a way to let you into his mind so that you could see how much he loves you, how much he needs you.
“I feel so fucking melodramatic. The shift was fine. Nobody died. It was a good shift if anything. Life is good. I have friends who love and care about me. I’ve got you for christ’s sake, I’m the luckiest woman in the fucking world.” You shake your head a little. “And yet here I am. Like this. Feeling like the world is falling out from under me and so sad I almost want to jump for no reason. No fucking reason. And now I’m making you deal with it, with me. I hate it. I hate myself. You would be better off without me, you really would.”
“That simply is not fucking true,” he almost gasps out, just needing to get something out to you. “Jesus fucking christ I don’t know that there would still be me without you.” You shrug. “No. Don’t shrug, please do not shrug. This is not whatever. You are not whatever. It’s true, I don’t know if I’d still be here without you. I don’t know if I could go on without you. That’s just the truth. You’re not too mentally ill for me. You’re not too sad for me, or too anxious or too whatever. I can’t deserve better when I already have the best, regardless of whether you don’t think that’s true or want to admit it.” He sees you shaking a little. “I need you.”
His voice cracks a little on ‘need.’ “Your brain is lying to you, no matter how real it seems in this moment, I promise. It’s okay to feel this way and to need to lean on me, to need my support. It won’t push me or make me go anywhere. I want to be here for you. I want to help you, help you feel better and not so sad. The depression and anxiety don’t care if the shift was good and nobody dies and you have friends and me. That doesn’t mean you can’t feel as deeply and as badly as you do right now. It doesn’t mean it’s melodramatic. It doesn’t mean you don’t deserve your life or me. You’re struggling. That’s okay.” His thumbs wipe some tears away from your face and his heart cracks. He feels so helpless, this is one of the only things he can’t just fix for you, can’t protect you from. He wants to cry himself. “I’ve got you. This is an anxious depressive attack,” he reminds you. “You are so strong and you will come out of it. It will pass.”
“It’s just been happening more and more, Jack! I’ve been having this happen more and more. And one day you’re going to wake up and realize you’re exhausted by it. And I,” a few tears slip out as you take a shuddery breath, “I feel so fucking guilty making you deal with me and watching you deal with it, with me. How much it scares you and makes you sad. I just want the best for you, happiness and easiness and a calm, steady, good life. You deserve that. After everything you’ve been through you deserve that and more and I don’t think I’m that. I’m just more stress, more exhaustion, more to deal with. And that’s not fair and you deserve better.” The tears flow more freely now and your voice shakes with every word but you haven’t totally fallen apart somehow.
“I get this exact same way too. I struggle too. I feel the darkness consume me just like you are now. I lean on you, ask for your help, or accept it when you have to offer because I can’t ask for myself. Why should or would I not do the same for you? Why would I give up on and abandon you when you’d never dream of doing it to me?” He asks, hands a bit firmer where they’re still holding your face.
“It’s different,” you mutter.
“How? How is it any different?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. It just is. You’re different. It’s okay when it’s you.”
“Well that’s bullshit, Doll, and I know you know that,” he says with loving sternness. He softens again. “It’s okay when it’s you too, I promise. The way you feel about me when it’s me is the way I feel about you right now. It’s okay if you don’t know why you’re feeling like this and it’s okay if the reason is buried deep inside and it’s okay if there is no reason and you’re just feeling like this. It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m not dealing with you, even though your mind is telling you that. You’re not a burden. You’re not pushing me away by being like this. Your brain is lying to you right now. I’m not going anywhere. For better or worse you got yourself stuck with me when you agreed to that first date. Because I knew it was you then. And I won’t lose you and certainly not to this.” His thumbs brush over your cheeks again, one going to brush over your thumb. His eyes are so earnest it almost hurts.
You look at him for a moment and then he’s pulling you into his chest and arms as you’re falling into them. He lowers you both to the ground with you in his lap as you do finally shatter in his arms.
You sob into him. Not soft tears that are silent or even heavy tears with some sniffing and stuttered words. It’s ugly, chest heaving. You almost seem to scream into his chest at times in between the huge breaths you try to take in. There are times where you choke, cry so hard you dry heave. But Jack doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to get away or pull away with any kind of disgust at any of it. He just holds you, his arms warm and steady and solid around you, keeping you grounded, even if just. He rocks softly at times, shushes you softly but not to get you to be quiet, just to reassure. There are whispered words, “I know,” “It’s okay, you’re okay,” “I’ve got you,” “I’m not letting go,” “Let it out Doll, I’m here, I’ll always be here,” “I love you.” He kisses the top of your head and rubs your back, squeezes you tight to try and help you regulate, desperate to do anything he can to help.
Eventually you cry yourself out and are reduced to small sniffles and hiccups. You go so still a couple of times he thinks you may have fallen asleep in his arms, knows how tired crying can make you, but then you let out a sigh. You pull your head from his chest a little, look up at him with sheepish eyes. It’s heartbreaking, how swollen and red your face and eyes are, how beautiful you look even this sad.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he whispers when you go to speak. He knows you too well, better than he knows himself sometimes, you both swear.
“I just hate it. Feeling like this. And having the rational part of my brain know at the same time that it’s ridiculous and unnecessary and all wrong but it losing to that emotional part of my brain that drags me into panic and all consuming sadness. I hate it.” You sniffle hard, try to wipe your face with your hand but it does nothing. Jack pulls his shirt up a little so that he can use it to wipe your face for you.
“It just feels like it’ll never get better. Like I’ll be stuck in this darkness and sadness and anxiety forever.” Your words are muffled against him and make him hold you a little tighter.
“I know. But I promise these feelings, especially at this intensity, will pass. I’m not dismissing them or saying they aren’t real, at all, but they will pass.” He kisses your hair a few more times, continues rubbing your back. He knows there’s not much he can say right now and doesn’t want to overwhelm you with words, just reassure you.
“Yeah,” you murmur. He doesn’t push you to accept it.
“Did it help? The cry?” He asks gently.
You shrug in his arms. “I don’t know, probably.” You let the steady thump of his heart in your ear regulate yours. After a few moments you amend your answer. “It wasn’t the cry. It was you.”
The corners of his lips turn up just slightly. He likes hearing he helped. “I’m glad.”
“Thank you,” you whisper. He gives you a squeeze in response. A couple more minutes pass as you sit there just trying to recover.
“I got your shirt all gross.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. I’ve had worse on me from people I don’t love more than anything.” He kisses the side of your head. “Plus it’s the one you like to steal anyway,” he whispers in your ear.
That makes you laugh, laugh enough that you start crying and let your head fall back into the side of his neck and shoulder again. “I’m sorry,” you almost squeak out.
“Oh baby,” he gives a sad little laugh. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”
This round doesn’t last anywhere near as long, largely because you’re just too fucking tired. A bit because he was right, it was an acute anxious depressive attack that’s starting to lift. You sigh into him. “I think I’m done.”
“Let’s get up and go home. Get some food in you, maybe some of your rescue meds if you want, and some sleep. It’ll help even though I know everything feels kind of helpless right now.” He kisses the top of your head, your forehead and then your lips. Nibbles on your nose just to pull a smile from you. He goes to pull away so that you can get up but you make a little whine of protest and just hold onto him tighter, nuzzle your nose against his neck.
“I’m already home.” You murmur. “You’re home.” You’ve both said it to each other before and he knows how fucking true it is for him but it still makes him smile, knowing he’s that safe place for you.
He gives a fake exasperated sigh just to see if it’ll pull anything from you. “Let’s get up and go to our house, then, little miss pedantic. Get in our bed.”
You smile against his neck and it makes him relax a little, makes him feel good knowing he’s the only one who could pull you out of this and make you smile. “I’m not pedantic, it’s just the truth. And even if I am pedantic I’m your little miss pedantic.”
You don’t say it as a question but he knows it is one, a subtle way of asking for reassurance when being direct is too hard.
“Yes you are. All mine.” He squeezes you a bit tighter to drive home the point. “I happen to find pedantism so hot. Gets me all bothered when you get so concerned about all the little details.” He mouths at your neck, rubs his scruff against you lightly because he knows it tickles you and wants to draw a little laugh.
It’s just barely successful, you give him a little huff of a laugh, but with how you were, he’ll take it. You finally let yourself fall out of his arms and stand up with him. He can tell by your face that while you might be feeling the slightest bit better in the moment, you’re not really. You’re still deep in that hole and struggling. You see the recognition of it flicker in his eyes. “I’m sorry.” You whisper. “That I made you think I wanted to… end myself and for scaring you. And that I’m not better. That I might never be better.”
He shakes his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. I really do, Doll. And I don’t expect it to be better with one conversation or two or three. And I’m not going to get tired of it, of you, as much as your brain wants you to believe that. I’ll be here and helping you through it just like you will with me until we’re in the ground together, okay?” You nod at him.
He winds his fingers through yours and squeezes. “Let’s go home,” he says again, “to our house, the physical building where we reside together, where our bed is.” You go to open your mouth. “Yes, I still want you in my bed,” he cuts you off. “I could shower you first if you wanted.”
“Shower me? First?”
He holds the door of the roof open for you and you step in and hit the elevator button. “I know me washing your hair and body calms and grounds you,” he murmurs. He drops his voice a little lower, in volume and pitch and moves his face closer to yours so that his lips brush yours when he speaks. “And I say the shower is first because the second thing I could do for you, well, hopefully it would give you some oxytocin, dopamine and serotonin,” he smirks, gives you a teasingly light kiss on the lips. “Or if that’s all too much right now then we’ll just go home and get in bed and I’ll hold you while you sleep. Whatever you want. Whatever you need.”
You grin at him as he pulls away. It actually meets your eyes, even if it’s not the biggest smile he’s ever pulled from you. “I’m not sure what I did to deserve you Jack Abbot.”
“You were born.”
You start laughing. Like can’t breathe laughing, tears streaming, laughing. A smile pulls onto his face and he has to start laughing because yours is so contagious. “What?”
“I don’t fucking know,” you get out in between laughs, “just the way you said ‘you were born’ so seriously was so fucking funny. It was so… you.” You look up at him, eyes sparkling from tears but also love. “I’m so lucky,” you whisper, words a bit shaky. “I love you.” The laughing so hard you cried has brought you back to the precipice of tears.
“I love you more,” Jack tells you as he wraps you back in his arms. The elevator opens though and you’re able to take in a deep breath and keep it together.
“You wanna go out the side and I’ll meet you outside the ambo bay? I’ll swing back to the ED and grab your stuff.” He wipes a few tears from your face. It’s an offer to save some face and not look like a mess in front of everyone.
“That bad?”
“You never look anything less than gorgeous, but the crying is obvious, yeah. It’ll draw questions.” He says it so matter of fact, that you’re never anything less than gorgeous in his eyes and that the crying is so obvious and people will gossip and it’s just another thing that feels so him that it helps tether you to reality.
You nod. “Thank you,” you whisper.
When you reach the door he squeezes your hand. You can see a little fear in his eyes. “You’ll be waiting, yeah? On the sidewalk?”
You give him a soft laugh and smile. “Yeah, on the sidewalk.”
“Good.” He leans in to give you a quick kiss. “I need you, you know? Just as much as you need me.”
“I know. I do, I promise.” As he walks away you call his name and he’s back by your side in a second. “I am sorry, you know. I would never actually do anything and leave you, and I’m sorry for hurting you by insinuating otherwise.”
He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t need to feel guilty for saying how you feel or felt. You don’t need to apologize. I want you to talk to me, even if it is painful for me to hear. It’s the only way I can help.”
“It’s just hard to say, especially when I worry so much that it’ll make you go away. And I promise that’s not a reflection on you, or that I think you would-” He silences you with a kiss. It’s uncharacteristic for him at work, even if you’re not in the ED. That makes the fact of it happening a little better in some way, you think.
“I know. I understand, I promise.” He pulls back and looks at you. “I would tell you if it was becoming a problem or something I couldn’t handle. But I’m never going to have to tell you that. Now go wait for me.” He flicks his chin at the side door and gives you a little tap on the ass, flashes you one of his smiles that’s almost a smirk and makes you melt. You nod, do as instructed. And Jack watches you walk away until you disappear out the door, a whole piece of his heart out there existing outside of him. He knows you’ll be okay, that you’ll get through this. But it still scares him, still kills him to see you struggle like this. He wants to protect you from everything, does everything he can to, but always ends up trying to grapple with and accept the fact that he can’t really protect you from yourself.
Outside, you wait for him on the sidewalk like you promised. Things are a bit lighter now that you’ve been able to speak to Jack, to just let yourself fall apart and cry. The guilt still eats at you even though you try not to let it. You watch him walk up to you, see the way he smiles when he spots you. It makes your heart ache. “I really love you, you know?” You murmur to him when he’s back at your side.
“I do,” he nods. His lips pull up in a teasing smile as he starts up his favorite ‘argument’ you guys are always having. “I also know I love you more.”
7.9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: neighbor AU; will-they-won't-they tension; another famous rabbit nickname because it's me; self-doubt/self-consciousness; hand job; oral sex; PIV sex; masturbation; pretty much just fluffy and smutty!
Summary: When your hot water heater breaks Jack lets you grab a shower at his place. After you leave he finds himself enveloped by warm steam that smells like you. What's a man to do?
AN: I've wanted to do a neighbor AU with Jack for soooooo long and finally gave in! I'm calling it the Across the Hall AU (there will eventually be a fic titled Across the Hall 😂). I don't really love this but I'm doing my best to ignore that because I do love the AU so much and have a lot of other ideas for it, so I hope it's enjoyable enough to want more. We're not starting with them meeting because this is what inspired me the most and what my brain wanted to write for some reason and I needed to run with whatever it would give me right now lol. Thank you so much for all of your support and for reading and I hope it's okay and you enjoy! ♥️
The ding of the elevator draws your attention.
Jack must be getting home. Your apartments are the only ones on this floor, your doors directly across the hall from each other. As you go to lock your door you do your best to try not to think about where Jack has been and why he's getting home at 10 p.m. on a Thursday. You know from chatting last week that he got off this morning and is off the next few days.
Your entire body freezes when the realization hits you, preemptive jealousy and rejection flooding your system. What if he walks off the elevator with someone?
It's been over nine months of this… thing between you and Jack. You're neighbors, yes, but you're clearly so much more. And while it's clear that you're more than neighbors, it's unclear what you actually are, together and to each other.
The two of you flirt, sometimes subtly and with an intimate gentleness that almost makes your hearts ache, and sometimes intensely, both of you lit on fire by the other's words and body movements and facial expressions. There have been so many what you're both 99% sure were almost-kisses that you've lost count.
You have nicknames for each other. One day you'd called him Bugs, it had just slipped out without you even realizing. It took Jack about twenty seconds to put it together and figure out where it came from. You were going to apologize and assure him you'd never call him it again but he spoke first, responding to whatever you said and calling you Tweety.
Jack has invited you over and cooked you dinner and the two of you have eaten at his table sharing a bottle of wine or a six pack of whatever before you chill on his couch until you start to fall asleep, sometimes watching something on TV, but most of the time just facing each other and chatting. You've invited Jack over and the two of you have eaten takeout on your couch while showing each other your favorite movies and watching new ones together, trying to find movies that are so bad they're good and leave you both crying with laughter on your couch.
You’ve met his friends and the people who he’s closest with and who mean the most to him, some from the Pitt, some from his army unit, some from his SWAT unit. He’s met a couple of your more casual friends, knows that your closest and who mean the most to you don’t live in or particularly close to the city.
Jack has hugged you so tightly and for so long on some of your worst days, until enough pieces of you have been put back together that you feel like you can function again, made you your favorite or ordered it in if you could stomach it, made you something light if you couldn't so that you had some food in your system. He always seems to know just what to do and just what you need.
You've made Jack breakfast and eaten with him while he sat silently on your couch trying to process some of his worst shifts, ones that were hell or where there was more death than life or patients that particularly got to him, been with him however he needed on some of his worst days, never expect or ask him to talk or explain what's going on. You always seem to know just what to do and just what he needs.
He knows all the gossip from your job. You know all of the Pitt gossip that Jack knows, which is pretty much all of it because people just tell him things without him asking or even hinting that he'd like to know.
You tease each other in every sense. You've both been obviously jealous when there have been the occasional dates the other has gone on, have both acted out a little bit over said jealousy.
You text each other every day, some days more than others. It's not uncommon for you to go four or five days without seeing each other in person or hearing the other's voice, you're not spending every night at each other's house or constantly going over for dinners or just to hang or whatever. While there's less pressure to have a reason, much less a legitimate sounding one, to invite the other over, you both still frequently try to offer one, no matter how lame it ends up sounding.
You know each other's secrets, things neither of you have admitted to anyone else except maybe your therapists. You know each other's past, each other's present and each other's dreams for the future. You've become best friends in the most unique way despite how little time you actually spend together. You can't imagine life without each other.
Jack knows he's falling in love with you.
You know you're falling in love with Jack.
But Jack can't understand for a single second why you'd ever be interested in him, convinces himself that he’s making up all the evidence that you are.
And you can't understand for a single second why Jack would ever be interested in you, convince yourself you’re making up all the evidence that he is.
You're both scared. Neither of you want to lose the other.
So you just continue on in this perpetual state of limbo that's so far beyond better than nothing at the same time as it's absolutely fucking nowhere near enough.
You're fumbling with your key when you hear Jack step off the elevator. There's no footsteps behind or next to him. He's alone. A sense of relief you know you have no business having washes over you.
"Hey, Tweety." Jack watches you turn your key the opposite direction than he expects. His eyebrows raise slightly. "Heading out this late on a Thursday?"
As he makes his way closer and stops walking he realizes you have a duffel bag with you, though it doesn't look like there's a ton in it. That observation has his eyebrows furrowing. He didn't realize you were going somewhere and wouldn't be around the next few days. He does his best to keep his voice light, curious but not intrusive. "Ah," he drawls, nodding at your duffel. "Escaping somewhere this weekend?"
He won't lie, he'll be disappointed if you are. He was kind of hoping to invite you over this weekend just to hang out at his place and make you dinner.
"Not quite," you laugh softly. "My, um, my hot water heater broke. I was planning on just dealing since they're either fixing it or replacing it tomorrow, but I don't know." You shrug at him. "I just need to wash the day off me." You let out a breath and smile at him. "A coworker sent me a pass to her gym so I'm going to go use the shower there. What about you? 10 p.m. on a Thursday." You force a smirk and raise your eyebrows. "Hot date?"
Jack snorts. "Hardly. A group of us from work went out to a bar to decompress."
You hold your smirk and tilt your head at him despite the way you want to cry and your heart sinks at the potential for what you say next to be true. "Could still be someone special there you haven't told me about who made you want to go."
He rolls his eyes at you playfully, but he can feel the butterflies in his stomach and fluttering of his heart caused by you seeming to care and maybe even being jealous at just the thought that there could be someone else. "I can assure you there's nobody special at work. You know there's absolutely nobody at work I'm remotely interested in and that I don't shit where I eat," he smirks back at you. "Why don't you just use my shower? Save yourself the time of getting to the gym and back."
"Oh, I, I," you titter, lick your lips and force yourself to pull it together. "I couldn't impose like that. It's getting late and it'll take up your time and, and… you know. It's very sweet of you to offer though, truly."
"You using my shower is so fucking far away from being an imposition. And it is getting late, yeah. Which is all the more reason for you to do the much safer thing and use my shower that's just across the hall." He cocks his head at you and raises his eyebrows. "You know if you go to the gym I'm going to stay up until you text me that you're home safe."
You let out a breathy laugh. He's right. You know he will. And you know there's something so protective with almost a possessive edge to it that makes your heart race and warmth bloom in your lower abdomen. "You don't have to do that, Bugs."
"I know," he nods once, "but I will anyway." Jack's voice drops to a murmur, his eyes dark and piercing yours as he holds your gaze. "I won’t be able to help it."
You're not sure how or when it happened exactly, but there's something in the air and the look in Jack's eyes that makes you think it might finally happen, that the two of you might finally kiss and give into this thing between you. When Jack's eyes leave yours and drop down to look at your lips you swear the tension in the hallway becomes so great that it's physically harder to breathe from the weight of it. Suddenly all you can really think about is Jack dragging you into his place and having his way with you until he's sated and ready to take a shower with you and scrub the day and his cum and sweat off you.
Jack's eyes drag back up to yours just in time for him to watch yours drop down and look at his lips. When you bring your eyes back to his the look you give him is so doe eyed and wanting and almost fucking demure Jack can feel the blood start to rush to his cock as he thinks about how you'd wear that look with your mouth full of his cock.
"I know… You’re silly like that aren't you?" you breathe, take a small step toward him.
"Yeah." The word is almost all air as Jack mirrors you and takes a small step toward you. "Only for you, though." And then the tension shatters.
But not how either of you want it to. It's the loud thud of someone dropping something in the elevator on the floor below you that does it. Both you and Jack look away from each other, annoyed at the noise and regretting not having acted quicker on the moment you were clearly having. He clears his throat as you look at each other again. "I wasn't like that for the guy that lived there before you," he smirks. He takes the few steps to his door. "Come on."
You give him a small smile and shift on your feet. "You're sure?"
"100%." Jack winks at you and opens his door, holds his one arm up and out to invite you in.
You feel lightheaded at his wink. So lightheaded you have to bite your lip hard to ground yourself with the pain. You shake your head at him and laugh softly as you walk into his place. "Thank you."
"Of course," Jack hums as he steps in behind you and shuts and locks the door.
As he sets his keys down and gets his shoes off he realizes he's been saying my shower this whole time. But it can't really be his shower. He has to show you to his guest bathroom's shower. Right? It would be weird to take you to his shower in the en suite bathroom off his bedroom because then you'd have to walk through his bedroom and that feels weird and what if it was somehow pressuring? Or felt like he was trying to say something?
Obviously there's this thing between the two of you that you haven't defined or given into, this thing you both know is there and want but just haven't let happen because there's no way the other can truly feel the same. With the attraction, physical and sexual and emotional, between you a permanent undercurrent whenever the two of you are together now, the last thing Jack wants to do is make you feel like he's using that, or trying to, or being weird or creepy or like he's doing anything other than just trying to help you out. Because that's all he's doing, trying to help you out.
As you stand by Jack and get your shoes off and move them out of the way near a pair of Jack's while he does the same you're struck by how familiar and comfortable Jack's apartment has become. If you're honest with yourself you wish you never had to leave.
"I'm guessing you don't need anything other than towels?" he asks as you both walk further into his place. He loves seeing you in his space. If he's honest with himself he wishes you never had to leave.
"I don't even need towels. I packed some." You smile at him, a hint of a smirk to it. "I can use them, save you the laundry."
"Yeah, okay." He rolls his eyes at you playfully. "Or I can just give you proper towels so you don't have to use the thin pool towels I know you packed."
You scoff at him with mock offense and a wide smile. "I resent that."
"But noticeably didn't deny it." You can hear the smirk in his voice as he turns and starts walking down to his hall closet. "Where's the gym anyway?" Jack calls to you as he pulls out a couple towels of various sizes.
"Squirrel Hill South."
"Squirrel Hill South?!" Jack repeats with teasing incredulousness, huffing. He starts walking back toward you, holding your eye contact how he loves to do. "You were seriously going to trek to fucking Squirrel Hill South for a shower instead of just asking me?"
"Well, I don't know," you shrug, voice a little higher pitched with mock defensiveness. "I don't like to be a burden or impose and I didn't know if that was appropriate or would be awkward or weird or what!" you laugh. "I didn't want to put you in an awkward position."
"You could never be a burden or an imposition and it's not inappropriate or awkward or weird." Jack offers you the towels and you take them. He stays standing in front of you, raises his brows and gives you a small smile. "Would it feel that way if I asked you if I could use your shower?"
"Well, no. But, but that's-"
He shakes his head and interrupts you gently, sets his hands on your shoulders, fingers a little too far in toward your neck to be strictly platonic, his thumbs against your collarbones. There's an intimacy to it that makes you breathe a little harder. You have half a mind to drop the towels and your bag and grab his face, pull it down to yours as you step even closer to him. "No buts." He flicks his eyebrows up at you and nods in a silent yeah? "And no it's not different. Anytime you need, yeah? Anything. A shower, a bed, someone to listen, stitches, a distraction." He smirks deeply at you. "A cup of sugar or whatever it is they say."
You try to match his smirk but it's a little too soft and smiled. Jack's words warm you from your core. You want whatever this is between you so badly. Those are things you say to a close friend, sure, but they're things you say to your partner too. Your girlfriend or boyfriend. And the way Jack said it, his tone of voice and his facial expressions, there was something so boyfriend reassuring his girlfriend about it all that drives you insane and makes your heart flutter and makes you want and need him and makes you a little sad almost. Because he's not your boyfriend.
"The same goes for you with me at my place, you know?" You click your tongue and bob your head to the side. "Minus the stitches, of course."
"I know," Jack chuckles. He gives your shoulders a little squeeze and then releases them and takes a step away from you.
"Good." You don't know why you do it or where the move comes from or where the confidence to comes from but you reach out and squeeze his upper arm. "Thank you, Jack."
The way you say his name there isn't special. It isn't whispered or breathy or giggled or moaned or anything special. It's normal. Like you always say it. And it rips through him in the best way, like hearing you say his name always does. It makes him want to kiss you and hold you and never let you go, makes him want to take you to bed and hear you moan it over and over again underneath him as he makes you feel better than you've ever been made to feel before, makes him want to cry with how much care you always say it with, how much warmth. It makes him want to get on his knees in front of you and ask you to be his, to go on a date with him, give him one chance.
As though all the times you've shared takeout on your couch or he's cooked you dinner and you've eaten at his place weren't, in reality, dates, even if you didn't label them as such.
"Did something happen today?" You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, confused. "To make you need to wash the day off. You don't have to say, just I'm… here, like I said. To listen or distract or talk or whatever. Help how I can."
"Oh." You shake your head and shrug. "No, nothing happened. It was just a long day and sometimes showering helps me let it all go. I like my long, hot showers, you know," you laugh softly, your words a throw back to you telling Jack while you were both a little tipsy on his couch one night how much you love taking long, hot showers.
"Okay, good." Jack gives you one of those small, closed lip smiles that's all in his eyes and you melt.
"Thanks for checking." You give him a similar smile back and then start to walk toward the guest bathroom.
"Oh," Jack calls after you. "The fan in there doesn't work by the way, sorry. I've been meaning to get it fixed but never really had a reason so I just haven't."
"That's okay." You turn and look at him when you get to the door. "I like the extra steam."
"Perfect then. Take your time. They're good hot water heaters when they're not broken. Perfect for long, hot showers," Jack teases you with a smile.
You fake glare at him. "You better not have spoken them replacing mine with some shitty one into the universe."
Jack laughs and the sound makes you weak. You want to hear that sound always, every day, you want to be the one to pull it from him, the one to make him laugh and smile and be happy. "If they do, I promise I'll give you a key to my place so that you can come take your long, hot showers as frequently as your heart desires."
You swallow hard at the thought of Jack giving you a key to his place so that you could come shower. Your mind can't help but think about whether he'd ever join you eventually, whether that would be the start of something more, of you both just finally saying how you feel and exploring what's so obviously between you.
"Guess we'll have to see." You give him a lopsided smile and open the door.
"Guess so," he nods. "Enjoy."
"Thanks, Jack." You hold his gaze for a moment and then step inside the bathroom.
Jack knows he's going to think about the way you just said his name and the smile you gave him for the rest of his life.
Being in Jack's shower, even just his guest bathroom's shower, is a fucking trip.
You're pretty sure you spend the first five minutes just standing there thinking about it. Nothing actually specific. Just the fact of it, of where you are. It's almost like you're frozen in a way, mind present and thinking about how you're in Jack's fucking shower, but also so spaced out.
It's only once you unfreeze and come back to yourself that specific thoughts start to hit you as just below scalding water rains down on you. And all of those thoughts, of course, involve you in Jack's shower, but in Jack's shower, in the en suite off his bedroom. With Jack in the shower with you.
You know he has a nice built in bench in his shower, you guys talked about it once, how they let him build it in. You don't remember why or how it came up, but it doesn't matter.
You wonder if he'd let you kneel between his legs and suck him off. Your mouth feels so empty at the thought that you're pretty sure you pout to yourself a little. You think Jack might fight it a little at first, not want you to hurt or bruise your knees. But as you convinced him it's what you really want, what you need, you think he'd let you.
Maybe he'd let you take control and set the pace. Maybe sometimes he'd take control, hold your head with one hand, maybe both, and move you up and down just how he wants.
You're sure he's too seasoned of an emergency room doctor to be super into shower sex, has probably seen some gnarly injuries from it, but maybe your mouth on his cock would help convince him otherwise.
Maybe Jack would say your name lowly, voice even more gravelly than it usually is, dripping in need and lust and affection. Maybe he'd get you positioned perfectly standing between his legs and then tell you to turn around so that your back is facing him. Maybe he'd reach forward and run his fingers through you planning on rubbing your clit to get you nice and wet for him, huff a groaned laugh when he realizes you're already beyond ready for him. Maybe he'd guide you back further with his hand on your hips, get you in the right position and himself notched right at your entrance and then pull you down onto his cock before letting you fuck yourself on him.
Maybe… Maybe you need to get a fucking grip, you chastise yourself when you realize how deep into that day dream you are and how wet you know you must be with how prominent your heartbeat feels between your legs.
You force yourself to actually start showering. You know Jack said to take your time but you should still be considerate. It's late enough.
But as you shower the thoughts don't really stop. All you can think about when you finally turn the shower off and wrap one of Jack's towels around you are his hands all over your body and soft words of adoration and appreciation and maybe even love being whispered into your ear as he helps dry you off.
Once you disappear into the bathroom and he hears the shower start Jack realizes he's going to have to do everything possible to keep himself busy so that he doesn't just sit on his couch and think about showering with you. He makes himself act like it's just any other night, do what he would normally do and what he would've done if he'd gotten home tonight without seeing you. Or at least he makes himself try to act like it's just any other night.
Jack heads into his room and changes his shirt, grabs a pair of sweatpants and sits on the side of his bed and takes his prosthetic off, checks over his leg and cleans it and his prosthetic, pulls his sweats on and knots the one leg to keep it from getting caught under his crutches. From his room he goes to his kitchen to grab a drink and then crutches to his couch and sits in his usual seat, grabs the medical journal and opens it to the page he left off on and starts to read. Or at least he tries to read.
By the time you get out of the shower and walk out of his bathroom Jack's read a single paragraph about twenty times and has absorbed approximately none of it, his head far too full of thoughts of you. It's a miracle he hears you leave the bathroom and shut the door behind you and that you don't just walk out to him staring at a page of the journal completely spaced out and lost in his own little world. And hard.
Very obviously hard in his gray sweatpants.
You smile at him almost a little bashfully as you get closer. "Thank you for that."
Jack sets the journal in his lap and returns your smile with an easy one of his own. "Anytime. Feel better?"
"Yeah," you nod, "I do. I really appreciate it. It was very nice not having to trek across the city."
"I'm sure it was," he chuckles.
There's a beat of comfortable silence between you. There's no awkwardness to it at all. Something about it is almost poignant and expectant. You and Jack find yourselves where you always seem to. Both of you desperately wanting the other to make a move to confirm this thing between you is real and reciprocal and wanted and needed, followed by neither of you making it, you unconvinced that Jack could feel for you how you do for him and Jack unconvinced that you could feel for him how he does for you.
"Well." You let out a long breath and then walk over to his front door, Jack sitting up a bit to keep a better view of you. "I'll let you get back to your night." You pause with your hand on the door handle and look over at Jack.
The words are on the tip of his tongue. You can stay if you want.
Words that would be an unspoken ‘please want to stay.’
But he can't get them out. Not quick enough at least.
"Thank you again, Bugs." The smile you give him this time is absolutely unquestionably bashful and Jack wants to make you his, needs to. "I really appreciate it. And you. I really appreciate you. I hope you know that."
"I mean it. Anytime." Jack's smile is a little flustered and there's something so adorable about it that you bite your bottom lip which just makes him more flustered and his cock throb. "And I know. You make sure I know. I hope you know I really appreciate you too."
"I know," you nod, "you make sure I know." You shift your duffel and give Jack one last smile for the evening. "Goodnight, Bugs. Make sure you lock up." You wink at him, teasing him playfully about the way he always reminds you. You mean it though, you care about him just as much as Jack does about you.
Jack is floored the wink doesn't stop his heart or make him come untouched.
"Goodnight, Tweety." He gives you one last teasing smile for the night as you walk out, already knowing what he's going to call to you as you do. "Make sure you lock up too!"
Jack can hear your soft giggles as you pull his front door shut behind you. He's still for a moment, his brain trying to process everything that's happened tonight.
Jack has absolutely no idea what compels him to do it, but something in his subconscious does. He tells himself he's going to get the towels you used to throw them in the washer. He tosses the medical journal aside and gets up and crutches to the guest bathroom.
When he opens the door he's greeted with warm steam that smells like you, like your body wash mixed with your shampoo and conditioner. Jack immediately realizes his subconscious knew that's what would happen. He's frozen by it for a second before he quickly crutches into the bathroom and shuts the door so that no more steam can escape.
As he stands there, Jack's cock throbs even harder, the racing beat of his heart quickly the only thing he can hear. The thought crosses his mind as he breathes in deeply through his nose.
No. Absolutely not. No. He can't. It's wrong.
Before he fully realizes what he's doing Jack crutches over and puts the lid down on the toilet and sits, rests his crutches against the wall. It's not particularly comfortable but it doesn't matter. He's not going to be here long, he tells himself. Just another thirty seconds or so. He'll let himself sit in the steamy warmth that smells like you for just another thirty seconds or so.
Jack's hand brushes over his cock and his breath catches at the feeling. He didn't really mean to do that. He just didn't pay enough attention to where his hand was as he was bringing it up to run through his hair.
But it felt good. God, it felt so fucking good.
The way he brings his hand back down and starts to palm at his cock over his sweatpants is undeniably deliberate. This is wrong. He shouldn't. He can't.
Jack palms himself a little harder, bites his lip and groans. Does he seriously have this little self-control when it comes to you? So little that he can't just get up and go back to his couch or to bed and let his erection fade away?
Apparently he seriously has this little self-control when it comes to you because instead of getting up Jack shifts and pulls his sweatpants and boxer briefs down enough to free his cock and then nearly tears his shirt off. He lets out a heavy breath as he takes in another deep breath of your scent through his nose and rubs the bead of precum that leaks from his slit into his head.
This is so, so wrong. Getting off to the scent of you. This is so fucking dirty and probably a little creepy and, god what would you think of him if you knew what he was doing?
The thoughts fade quickly as he lets his eyes flutter closed and starts stroking himself properly as he continues breathing you in. You're all he's been thinking when getting himself off for a good while now, but this, this is different. The warmth of the air around him and the way it smells like you and the way the scent clings to him because of the steam makes it so different, makes it feel more real.
Maybe you'd like it, if you knew. Like that he was touching himself to the smell and thought of you. If the situations were reversed, though, he wouldn't mind. If he'd showered in your guest bathroom and you walked in once he left to warm steam that still smelled of him he wouldn't mind at all if you sat somewhere and touched yourself while you breathed him in and thought of him. He'd fucking want you to.
Jack doesn't know why, doesn't truly have a single fucking thing to draw the conclusion from, but he thinks you'd like it too. He thinks you'd find it hot.
If you knew he was doing this would you ask to watch? Ask him to show you what he likes? Would you slowly get closer to him so you could study every movement? Would you ask him what he was thinking about? Ask him to tell you all the things he thinks about when he touches himself? All the things he wants to do to you? Would you tell him all the things you want to do to him? Would you drag him to bed so you could both be more comfortable? Would you ask to take over? With your hand? With your mouth? Would you want to watch him come? Would you take your pants and underwear off and position yourself so he could come all over your cunt? Would you sink yourself down on him just as he started to come?
A million questions and possibilities run through Jack's mind, a million scenarios, ones he's imagined before and new ones. But his mind eventually settles.
"Jack?"
You and Jack are in his bed together, naked. You're tangled together on your sides, both of you breathless from making out. You press a couple of kisses to his jaw and scratch your nails at the v of his hips and whine slightly at the way you can feel his cock throb.
"Show me, please. Show me what you like," you whisper. "How you touch yourself. Please."
He swallows hard but nods. In addition to how fucking hot it is, there's something incredibly intimate about the ask, about the idea of touching himself with you watching. "Okay, Baby." Both of you shift and sit up against the headboard, Jack’s back propped up against it with some pillows comfortably and you pressed into his side, the position easier for you to bring your dominant hand across his body. Jack brings a hand that he has to focus way too hard on keeping steady to his cock.
"No, Jack," you interrupt before he can truly start, shaking your head at him. You hold your hand out to him. "Show me. Teach me. I want to be able to make you feel good."
"Fuck," Jack breathes, a heavy jolt of pleasure running up his spine. "I don't need to show you, Sweetheart. Just you touching me will make me feel good. Shit, just you watching makes it even better."
"But I want to know what makes you feel the best. I want to make you feel good, the best you've ever felt." You hit him with a pout that has him squeezing the base of his cock hard so he doesn't lose it just from that. "Please."
"Yeah, of course," Jack pants, reaches out and grabs your hand. "Anything you want, Baby. Anything and everything."
The groan Jack lets out as he imagines your hand wrapping around his cock at the guidance of his is ripped from deep in his chest. He knows that the feeling he's imagining would be nothing compared to the real thing, to how small your hand would feel in his and wrapped around him and how soft your skin would be against his cock.
Jack starts moving your hand up and down his cock slowly at first, picking up the pace with each pass until you're at a steady rhythm. He twists when he gets to his head and as Jack watches you watch your hand he can almost see you noting in your brain exactly where to start the twist to give him the most pleasure. He can't believe anybody, let alone you, would care for him enough to pay such close attention just so you can make him feel good.
"You're so big Jack," you moan softly as you work his cock. "I don't know how you're going to fit." Jack's hips buck at your words and your eyes meet as you look up at him. "You will fuck me tonight, right Jack? I need it. Need you."
"Yeah," Jack pants, "yeah, I'll fuck you tonight. I'll do whatever you want to you tonight."
"I want you to take whatever you want, want you to use me however you want." You look so truly desperate for it that Jack's hips buck just as desperately again. "I want you to do everything you've ever wanted to me, Jack."
He lets out a shuddery breath with a hint of a laugh to it. "That list is way the fuck too long for one night, Baby."
You giggle and bite your lip, twist your hand on your own just to surprise him and pull a loud groan of your name from his chest. It's like you can tell he's getting close despite this being the first time you guys have ever given in and done this, seen each other and kissed each other and touched each other like this. Jack can feel the way he's about to come, starts to draw in air to try to form the words to tell you, but instead his brows furrow in confusion when you slow your hand and then pull it away. He just barely swallows down most of a whine.
You hum soothingly, roll your head a little to kiss his skin wherever you can as his orgasm ebbs and then look up at him with an eager need in your eyes. "I want you to show me something else now."
"Oh yeah?" Jack has a feeling he knows what you mean, his heart somehow thundering harder at just the thought.
"Yeah." You move so that you're between his legs and facing him. And then you start to lower yourself and get comfortable laying between his legs on your stomach.
"Oh, Baby, you don't, you don't have to do this." He brings a hand down to your face where you rest it on his thigh and look up at him. "Your hand is more than enough."
"I know I don't have to, Jack." You smile at the precum he leaks when you say his name. You lift your head up and kiss his inner thigh up to his cock. "I want to, I promise" you murmur. "Show me how you like it, Baby, please."
You take his head in your mouth and swirl your tongue around it as you suck and moan. "Fuck!" Jack rasps, voice strained with pleasure. "Oh god, Baby, fuck. Fuck your mouth is so good, oh fuck."
As you slowly start to bob your head up and down one of your hands grabs one of his and brings it to your head as you look at him pleadingly. Jack knows it's a silent request for him to take control and show you how he likes it. He lets out a shuddery breath as he does what you asked.
Jack's hand speeds up, tightens around himself even more. He's close. He's so fucking close and it hasn't even been that long and he should be embarrassed but he's not. He's just fucking not. That's what you do to him. This is what you do to him.
And you’re not even fucking here.
He thinks he might be drunk off your scent. Jack never wants this to end, never wants the steam that smells like you and envelops him to dissipate. Not unless he can have the real thing. Not unless he can be fucking you with his nose pressed up against your neck or hauling you into the shower with him to make more steam that smells like you. Not unless you're his and he's yours.
"Jack." The way you say his name is almost moaned, your lips fluttering against his tip so you can take him back in your mouth as soon as you finish speaking. "Come for me."
Jack does with a breathy groan of your name, body almost trembling at how fucking good it feels as he watches his cum paint his chest and abdomen, a little hitting his collarbones and lower neck. His head drops back and he lets his eyes close as he keeps working himself through it, your name falling off his tongue over and over.
He works himself to a little painful overstimulation and then lets go of his cock as he pants and tries to come back down, aftershocks of pleasure ripping through his body as he basks in the post-orgasm haze and the smell of you. Jack can't remember the last time he came that hard. He's not sure if he ever has before. And all it took was the scent of you.
He's so astronomically fucked.
He's falling in love with you. With your beauty and smile and laugh and your personality and wit and how vibrant you are. With the light you bring into his life just by being his neighbor.
He craves you, wants you like he's never wanted someone before. He wants all of you, the good and the bad and the parts you haven't shown him yet and the parts of you that you haven't even discovered yet, in every possible way, sexual and otherwise. Jack wants you. All of you. All the time.
You guys have your thing, but it's probably harmless flirting to you, not something that would ever go anywhere. He told himself you'd probably find this hot, but would you? Would you really? Or would you find it sad? A man his age touching himself.
Jack finally comes back around to where he always seems to land. Why would you ever want him?
He grabs some toilet paper and cleans his chest off. He stands up and opens the lid, tosses it in the toilet and flushes. It's as he pulls his shirt back on that his hearing apparently fucking comes back.
There's a knock on his door. "Bugs?" His unlocked door. He never locked it after you left, and he knows you, he knows you'll be concerned that he hasn't answered and you'll try it and he's in the fucking bathroom you were just in, that he has no reason to be in, that he never uses, always just goes to his, and you're too smart for your own fucking good and you'll put together why. You'll know.
So he needs to get out of here.
"Jack?" He hears the door start to open. "I'm coming in."
He just gets the lights off and makes it out of the bathroom and into the hallway a little bit, hopefully enough that it doesn't seem like he was coming out of there. "Hey, sorry," he calls to you as he crutches closer as you walk in. "I didn't hear at first…" He tries to think of some sort of excuse about why he didn't hear when he's always heard every other time, but he decides to let it go. You'll see right through him and the lie.
"That's okay." You smile at him, cocking your head just slightly with a subtly suspicious smile. Jack looks different than you've ever seen him before. He looks… caught, almost.
As you move closer to each other and you get a better look at him you realize he's flushed from the neck up, skin red and pink and a little blotchy, sweat making some of his curls stick to his forehead and his temple and neck a bit shiny. He looks hot. Literally and metaphorically.
You're so transfixed by him and thinking about what it would be like to have him on top of you while looking like he does right now that you don't even stop to think about why he looks like that right now, about what he could've been doing.
"You didn't lock your door." You raise your eyebrows at him and give him a teasing smile. "You need to."
Jack smirks at you. "Worried about me?"
"Yeah, actually," you laugh, the teasing sliding out of your smile and replaced by something so genuine Jack has to cover the way his breath hitches. "You'd be so mad if you discovered my door unlocked."
"Not mad," he shakes his head, "concerned and worried."
You shoot him an oh please look, but you know he's telling the truth. You know it would be that kind of anger that's really just a mask for intense and deep worry and concern. You lick your lips and take a breath. "I came back because I think I left my body wash."
Jack nods. "Ah, well we couldn’t possibly have that sitting in my guest bathroom until the next time you came over and grabbed it at your convenience. Absolutely required you getting out of bed and coming back over," he teases, crutching toward the bathroom with you.
"Nope," you pop the 'p.' "You might use it when you miss me," you smirk at him as you step by him to walk into the guest bathroom, your chests nearly brushing, something that isn't completely unusual, it's happened before and you guys hug. But there's something much more keyed up to the way your chests almost touch when combined with your words.
Your words that make Jack glitch for a moment. Do you know? Could you have figured out what he was doing before you came back in? No. There's no way you could've. You're just fucking around. He needs to fucking relax and be normal before he gives it away.
"Oh," Jack drawls with teasing amusement as you grab the bottle from the shower and then turn back to him and walk toward him, "is that your way of asking for a bottle of my body wash for when you miss me?"
The beat before you reply is just a few seconds too long for it to mean nothing, and fuck, Jack realizes, you might actually want that. But why? How? He has to be wrong. He's projecting.
You're undeniably a little flustered though, that much is obvious to Jack, but not flustered in a he made you uncomfortable way, more in a you've been caught kind of way. It makes his head spin.
Where the fuck everything that happens next comes from, where the confidence to do any of it comes from, you have no idea. It just seems to happen.
You stop in front of Jack, chests less than a centimeter from brushing. "You know one time you had me over you'd left a bottle of your body wash on the kitchen table for you to take into your bathroom the next time you went back there," you murmur, eye contact with him direct and unbelievably heady, a small ghost of a self-satisfied smile on your face. "So for all you know I already have a bottle in my shower just for that purpose."
Your smile pulls up a little wider on your face when Jack's breath catches in his throat and he swallows heavily. His brain tries to come up with something to say but just fucking can't because you just said that. You just said that and it’s how you said it and that smile and your murmured voice and the look in your eyes and fuck.
You really just said that.
And Jack has no idea whether you do or don't but is now so beyond desperate to know.
"Thank you again, Bugs." You lean into him and up and press a soft kiss to his cheek, something you've never done before. "Have a good rest of your night."
You step back and smile at him before turning and walking to his front door, Jack almost frozen to his spot because you just said that and then kissed his cheek. Your lips had contact with his skin. Your lips.
You pause at his door again and turn back to him. "Make sure you really lock up this time, Bugs, yeah?" You flick your eyebrows up at him for a second in emphasis. "And have sweet dreams, Jack."
I want to be his neighbor he's falling in love with so badly. 😭 I hope it was okay and enjoyable enough that you'd like to see more of them! Let me know if you would! I love hearing your thoughts and comments and reactions, they often make my day and give me so much joy! ♥️ Thank you again for all of your support and for taking the time to read!! ♥️
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