Hucklebaby

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩, 𝘐’𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘪-𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 23 | dilf enthusiast <3 | I draw (sometimes)

[caffeinegrem]

(probably should have made this a long time ago 😬)

BUT HEY HERE’S ME & MY BULLSHIT! :D

if you’ve stumbled across here and decided to follow, then hi! i’m caffeinegrem or Ella <3

my pronouns are primarily she/her but i’m fine with any of them

THIS IS A FAIR WARNING! SOME OF THE STUFF I REBLOG IS NSFW AND UNSUITABLE FOR MINORS. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMPTION. AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED.

I’m an ‘03 baby and a Gemini <3

I can’t write to save my life but most of my reblogs are fics from some very talented writers that I’ve come across.

If you haven’t noticed by now my fictional and celebrity crushes are men that are twice my age (definitely not to unresolved daddy issues).

I CAN DRAW (somewhat) (@caffeinesart is the art page <3)

current tags:

#gremlin’s grumbles - mainly when i just yap on my page

#caffeine!nsfw - this one’s new for any 18+ content i reblog (minors block this tag please and thank yewww)

#caffeinegrem! @ssamorganhotchner ‘s moot tag for me (i don’t use it but i find it so sweet she made me one so i had to include it 🥹)

#guys gremmie is being horny on main again - also new and self explanatory

#gremmie finally fell into The Pitt - possible headcanons for HBO’s The Pitt, along with any feral rambling (the feral rambling is very normal around here)

I think that’s it, but yeah, only request I have is that don’t be an asshole and we can all be friends :)

[dichterscale]

SURE THING (i) | Dennis Whitaker

It's Holiday season at the Pitt, and you, along with Dr. Ellis, are loaned to the day shift for a month. Long enough to notice two things: (1) there's a betting pool on when your oldest and dearest friend, Trinity Santos, finally gets laid, and (2) Santos looks really good standing next to Ellis. So you do the sensible thing. You rig the odds a little, and you drag Dennis Whitaker in it with you. Thirty bucks says you're right. ㅤ

ㅤ PAIRINGS. dr. dennis whitaker × f!resident!reader + dr. trinity santos × dr. parker ellis WORDS. 6.9k GENRE. medical procedural rom-com (???) WARNINGS. post S2 and slightly off canon, holiday-season ER setting, canonical medical content (trauma, MVA, wound debridement, central lines, brief graphic-medical descriptions), mild alcohol use, mutual pining and slow-burn - no smut in this part NOTE. christmas + end of year vibes in the middle of july, anyone? now this one is a real labour of love and this draft has been torturing me for days on days on days now, so i decided, fuck it, i'm breaking her up into two parts. part two drops next week? maybe?? we'll see we'll see - in the meantime: enjoy! title inspo: Sure Thing by Miguel ㅤ

ㅤ The night shift has a different gravity. Things fall slow. The overheads are dimmed to a sodium hum, the waiting room half-empty, and the ambient panic of the day burned off to a low coal-glow, so that when nothing is actively on fire, you can hear the vending machine in the corridor cycling its compressor like something breathing in its sleep.

Lena comes through the double doors with her coat already on, which is how you know the news is bad before she opens her mouth. On her day off, coming toward you and Ellis at four in the morning, like the eye of a storm you can do nothing but stand there and wait for.

"Don't shoot the messenger," she says, which is how every genuinely irritating thing at the Pitt begins.

The messenger's message is this: Al-Hashimi is drowning. The day shift is down two residents, one to the flu and one to a wedding, Robby is still not back, and the December census is doing what December always does. Which is fill the Pitt with the lonely, the drunk, the newly diagnosed, and the people whose bodies chose the holidays to finally give out. Administration, in its wisdom, has decided the solution is to borrow from nights. For the month. Effective tomorrow.

You already know. You knew the second Lena walked in with her coat on, that you're one of the heads to roll.

"And me," Ellis says, before Lena can say it, because Ellis is never surprised by anything.

"And you," Lena confirms. "Al-Hashimi asked for you specifically."

Ellis looks at you, and there is a whole conversation in it, the kind you can only have with someone you've stood beside at three in the morning while a heart refused to restart. Days, the look says.

"Well," you say helpfully. "At least we'll be miserable together."

"That's the spirit," Lena pats you both on the shoulder. ㅤ

ㅤ Ellis meets you at the entrance to the ER on Monday, bag over her shoulder, her expression the particular blank one she wore when she was bracing for something she couldn't control.

"You ready?" she says.

"No."

"Good. Me neither."

The day shift is already moving when you step inside. Not the night shift's low, spreading murmur; this is a full orchestra tuning up, all the instruments at once, nobody quite in sync but everyone trying. Overhead pages overlapping. A kid crying somewhere in peds. Two nurses arguing about a schedule swap near the med room. The lights feel harsher, somehow, even though they were the same fluorescents. Someone has hung paper snowflakes from the ceiling above the central desk. They turn slowly in the ventilation current.

"Snowflakes," Ellis points a finger to them.

"I see them."

Al-Hashimi materializes beside you before you've taken three steps. She has a dry-erase marker in one hand and her hair is unruly, just slightly, like she's been moving since she got here and hasn't stopped to fix it.

"You're the night owls." She shakes your hand, then Ellis's. Her grip is quick, already moving on to the next thing. "I'm Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi. Dr. Ellis, you're on fast track. Bay Three, they're already backed up. And Dr. Y/LN, you're with me on the incoming. I’ll let you settle two in. Meet me back here in 5?"

"Yes ma’am.” You say, faithfully. 

"Good." She’s already walking. "Coffee's in the break room. It's not good but it's hot." She turns the corner and disappears, in the same fashion she appeared.

"She seems efficient," Ellis hums. “Think I’m in love with her, a little bit.” Ellis shoots you a small grin at that.  "Give it a week. You'll revise your feelings.” She hikes her bag up on her shoulder. “Doctor,” She bows her head slightly, by way of goodbye. “Doctor.” You bring two fingers up in a mock salute. She heads down the corridor, weaving through the morning traffic with the ease of someone who's spent years navigating chaos, and you watch her go until the crowd swallows her up.

‘Incoming’ with Al-Hashimi turns out to mean you're running the floor beside her. A chest pain in Central Four that was really just reflux and a man who'd eaten too much spicy food before bed. A kid with a forehead lac who'd fallen off a swing set and was more upset about missing recess than the stitches. A woman in her sixties with abdominal pain that Al-Hashimi palpated once, twice, and then called surgery with the kind of calm authority that made you want to be her when you grew up.

Between traumas she glances at you. "You're quiet."

"I'm taking notes."

"On what?"

"How you got surgery down here in under four minutes. That's a record."

She smiles at that. “I've been feuding with the surgical attending for two months. He knows if he makes me wait, I'll send him every consult on the board out of spite." She checks her pager. "I need to call the ICU about bed space. You good to float?"

"I’m good."

You're halfway to the central desk to check the board when you pass Bay Two and hear a voice you'd know anywhere.

" -- not a suggestion. Lasix, respiratory, and tell the lab I want that troponin back before I finish this scan. If they give you a problem, tell them Dr. Santos is asking."

A med student bolts past you through the curtain, looking like he's just been asked to disarm a bomb. You pull the curtain aside.

Santos has a patient on the table. Older woman, mid-seventies, drifted off under the sedation, her breath coming in short, wet gasps even through the oxygen mask. Santos is running a portable ultrasound over the woman's chest with one hand while the other adjusts the drip. She hasn't seen you yet.

"Poor kid's going to quit before lunch," you say.

Santos looks up. Her face does something: a flash of recognition, then a quick, crooked warmth. "He'll be fine. The scared ones stick around." She turns back to the screen, frowning at something. "Are you going to stand there, or are you going to glove up?"

"What are we doing?"

"Central line. Mrs. Delgado's drowning and her pressures are dropping. She's under, but barely. I want this in before she wakes up and panics."

You pull on gloves and move to the opposite side of the table. The woman's eyes are closed, face slack, her breathing shallow but steadying as the oxygen does its work. Santos has the gown open and is palpating the woman's neck, finding the landmark.

You open the kit on the tray table while Santos gloves up, sterile. She drapes the patient, preps the site, then holds out her hand. "Ultrasound. Transverse."

You position the probe. The internal jugular comes into view on the screen, a dark oval beside the carotid's pulsing circle. Santos works the needle in, slow and steady. The tip appears in the vessel, a bright point of light.

"Nice," you murmur.

"Don't jinx it."

"You haven't missed a line since third year."

She lets that go. She threads the guidewire, slides the catheter in, sutures it down. The whole thing takes maybe eight minutes. When she's done, she strips off her gloves and leans back against the counter, exhaling.

You both watch the monitor for a moment. The sats are climbing. The pressure's stabilizing. The woman's face is peaceful now, the work done.

“So,” you continue. “When are you finally giving me the spare room?” “It’s not a spare room. Whitaker’s in it.” “The spare room in your heart, Santos.” 

She rolls her eyes. “How much longer are you sticking around again?

"Just for the month. Both me and Ellis."

"Ellis." She says the name like she's filing it. "She nearly flattened me in the hall about an hour ago. I had a chart up, didn't see her, just walked right into her. Didn't move. Said, 'You're not the suture kit I ordered.'"

"She does that."

"She just stands there?"

"Unflappable. It's her whole thing."

“Hm.” She checks Mrs. Delgado's line one more time, then lowers her voice. "Garcia texted me last night."

The shift in tone is so sudden you almost miss it. One moment she's trading barbs, the next she's somewhere else entirely. You lean against the counter and wait.

"Said she'd been thinking. Wanted to try again. Try harder." Santos makes a face. "Her words."

"What'd you say?"

"I said I'd think about it."

"And?"

"And nothing. I said I'd think about it." She busies herself with the line, adjusting the drip even though it doesn't need adjusting. "What am I supposed to say? 'Thanks for spending a year treating me like a convenience, let's give it another shot'?"

"You could say no."

"I know I could say no."

"But you don't want to."

She doesn't answer. Mrs. Delgado's monitor beeps softly on the other side.

"I hate this," Santos says finally. "I hate that she can still do this. One phone call and I'm right back there. Waiting. Like nothing changed."

"Has anything changed?"

"I don't know." She looks at you, and for a moment the mask is gone entirely. "I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want her back or if I just want her to want me back. Which is pathetic."

"It's not pathetic."

"It feels pathetic."

"It's human. There's a difference."

She holds your gaze for a beat longer, then looks away. The monitor beeps. The med student reappears at the curtain, clutching a lab printout like it might explode.

"Dr. Santos? The- the troponin-"

Santos glances at it. "Non-STEMI. Page cardiology. Tell them we've got a seventy-four-year-old female with pulmonary edema and elevated troponin, likely demand ischemia. They'll want to admit." The med student nods and vanishes again. Santos turns back to you. "Dinner Friday? My place. Don’t bring anything."

"Not even wine?"

"Especially not wine. You have awful taste." She pauses at the curtain, hand on the fabric. "It's good to see you."

"Going soft on me now, Trincess?"

“Awful, awful taste.” She says it with quiet resignation as she leaves, and you stand there for a moment in the quiet of the bay, the monitor beeping, Mrs. Delgado's breath slowly easing, the familiar, steadying warmth of having your friend back in the same orbit. ㅤ

ㅤ The break room is small and smells like burnt toast and a very particular brand of disinfectant used on the day shift. Someone has left a box of donuts on the table with a sticky note that says TAKE ONE in aggressive capitals, underlined three times. You take one. You're not a coward.

You're pouring coffee when the door opens behind you.

"Don't drink that," Whitaker says.

You turn. He's in scrubs that have already seen a shift, a granola bar wrapper sticking out of his pocket. "Why not?"

"Because they made it an hour ago and it's already burnt. The day shift pot runs hot." He opens the cabinet above the sink, pulls down a French press. "Dr. Robby got me this for my birthday. I keep it here. You want some?"

"You know how to use a French press?"

"I know how to use a French press. I'm from Nebraska, not the moon."

You lean against the counter and watch him work. He moves slowly. Careful, unhurried, like the coffee will wait for him and not the other way around.

"Heard you got loaned out for the month," he says, spooning grounds into the press.

"Me and Ellis."

"She know about that?"

"She was standing next to me when they told us."

"Not Ellis." He rolls his eyes at your weak joke. "I mean Santos. She know you're in today?"

"Found her in Bay Two earlier today. We put in a central line together. It was nice."

He hums. The kettle clicks off. He pours it over the grounds in a slow spiral. "Lately she's been..." He stops, reconsiders. "Well. You saw her."

Before you can say anything, the door bangs open and a nurse you haven't met strides in, sharp-eyed, making a beeline for the donuts. "Whitaker. New girl." She points at you with the donut. "Y/LN, right. Santos's night shift friend. Oh, French press. Fancy." She bites into the donut. "Ahmad's setting up a new grid. You should come see it. It's educational." Then she's gone.

"Princess," Whitaker says, as though that's an explanation.

"I gathered."

"You get used to her."

"Have you?"

"No." He presses the plunger down, pours two cups, hands you one. It's good. Better than yours, which you don't say. "Come on."

He leads you toward the ambulance bay entrance, where the security dispatch nook is tucked into the wall. It's a small room, more of a booth really, with a bank of camera monitors flickering on the wall: the ambulance bay, the waiting room, the triage entrance. Ahmad is standing in front of a whiteboard mounted on the wall, a dry-erase marker in his hand, wiping it clean. Whatever was on there before, schedules, incident notes, and you think you catch a glimpse of a doodle of a cat, disappears under the eraser.

"New grid," Ahmad announces to no one in particular. "Topic: Dr. Santos."

The room is already gathering staff. Princess slips in first, already pulling cash from her pocket. Perlah follows, typing on her phone. Donnie leans in the doorway. Mohan drifts past, White Monster in hand, stopping briefly to see what's happening.

Ahmad uncaps his marker and starts drawing columns. The whiteboard fills with his blocky handwriting: a timeline across the top, spaces for names and bets down the side. At the very top, in letters larger than the rest: WHEN IS SANTOS GETTING LAID?

Whitaker makes a sound beside you that's somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Of course."

Princess slaps a twenty on the counter beside the whiteboard. "By Christmas."

"You're an optimist," Donnie says.

"She's wound so tight she's going to land on the first person who blinks at her."

Ahmad writes her name on the board in the "Christmas" column. He turns and catches you and Whitaker at the edge of the group.

"New face," he says, pointing the marker at you. "Y/LN, right?"

"That's me."

"You know the rules? Cash only. No IOUs. You pick a column, you lay your money, your name goes on the board. Whoever's closest when it happens takes the pot."

"When what happens?"

Ahmad taps the whiteboard. WHEN IS SANTOS GETTING LAID?

"Right," you say. "Simple."

You're about to add something, a joke, a deflection, when your eye catches one of the security monitors. The camera feed from the central floor is showing the fast track, where Ellis is charting, her back half-turned to the noise. In the same frame, Santos is coming out of Bay Two, stripping off gloves. For a second they're suspended there on the grainy screen: Ellis looking up from her chart, Santos pausing at the sink.

You think about You're not the suture kit I ordered. You think about the way Santos said Hm. One syllable, filed away. You think about Ellis, unflappable. Santos, waiting to be left.

The pieces click together, quiet and final.

"That's a terrible window," you hear yourself say.

Ahmad looks up. "Excuse me?"

"Betting on when. That's a terrible window. She's not going to just trip and fall into someone's bed. You'd have to -- " You stop. The shape of it is still forming, but the edges are there.

Princess tilts her head. "What are you saying?"

You look at her. Then at the whiteboard. Then at Whitaker, who is watching you with the particular expression of a man who knows you well enough to be worried.

"Put me down for December," you say. "Before New Year's. And put Whitaker down too. Thirty." Whitaker blinks. "I didn't --"

"You're in. We talked about this."

"We didn't talk about anything. We talked about coffee."

"Same thing." You turn back to Ahmad. "Y/LN and Whitaker. Thirty. December. Before New Year's."

Ahmad raises an eyebrow. "You're that confident."

"I'm that specific." You chirp, sliding the cash across the counter. "Write it down."

He writes it on the whiteboard, your names side by side in the December column. Perlah is grinning like you've just made her whole week.

Whitaker is still staring at you. "What just happened?"

You grab his arm and pull him out of the dispatch nook, into the corridor, squarely out of Perlah's earshot. She's already turning to Princess with the particular energy of someone about to start a whole new conversation.

"Ellis," you say, low.

"What about her?"

A nurse cuts between you two with a crash cart. You flatten against the wall, and Whitaker pulls you into the alcove by the med room, out of the traffic. The space is small and smells like antiseptic and sanitizer. Through the wall, you can hear the muffled beeping of a monitor in one of the bays, the distant overhead page for respiratory to Central Two.

"She doesn't flinch," you say. "And Santos needs someone who doesn't flinch. They're on the same floor for a month."

"So, what, you want to set them up?"

"I want to bring the water to the horse. See if it'll drink."

Before he can say anything, “Dr. Whitaker." A nurse is calling him from down the hall. "Central Six. Your post-op's asking."

"Be there in a minute." He's already moving toward the central bays, and you fall into step beside him. "Well, whatever you did, you just bet thirty dollars of my hard earned money."

"You'll thank me when we win."

"If we win. If Santos doesn't kill us first." He shoulders open the door to Central Six, and you catch the shift in his voice as he crosses the threshold, the warm, easy register he uses for patients. "Mr. Okonkwo. How's that incision feeling?"

The door swings shut. You're still standing there when Dana's voice cuts across the floor from the central desk.

"Y/LN. Incoming MVA, two critical, one's coding in the rig. Bay One and Two." She's already on the phone, already gesturing at a nurse with her free hand, directing the traffic only she can see. "Al-Hashimi is on her way. Go." ㅤ

ㅤ The building is a fourth-floor walk-up in Squirrel Hill. The stairwell smells like onions and garlic and someone's wet dog, and the light on the second-floor landing flickers the way it's flickered for two years because the landlord won't fix it and Santos has stopped asking. You've been climbing these stairs long enough that your legs know the rhythm without your brain getting involved: third step creaks, fifth step has a loose nail, the railing wobbles at the turn.

You let yourself in with your key. The apartment hits you warm and immediate: the sour-rich smell of sinigang that's been simmering since the afternoon, mixing in with the faint chemical tang of the cleaning spray Santos uses on the counters obsessively. An unlikely combination of smells, and still somehow just right. The radiator is clanking in the corner, a sound you've learned to tune out the way you tune out the vending machine on nights.

"Kitchen," Santos calls.

She's at the stove with her back to you, stirring a pot that's big enough to feed six, because she never learned to cook for fewer than that. The windows behind her are fogged with steam. Whitaker is at the small table, a half-empty beer in front of him, another one waiting at the empty seat beside him. The mail from the week is piled on the counter where neither of them has sorted it. 

"You brought wine," Santos says without turning around.

"It’s the fancy kind. Twelve dollars, but you can't tell from the label."

"I can tell from you." She points the ladle at you. "Come taste this."

You lean over the pot. She holds out the ladle, one hand cupped beneath it so it doesn't drip. The broth is rich and sour, the way sinigang should be, but there's something missing at the back of it, a depth that hasn't quite arrived yet.

"Salt," you say.

She adds more salt. Tastes. Nods once. "Garcia texted again. Yesterday."

You don't say anything. You lean against the counter and wait.

"I told her no." She sets the ladle down, wipes her hands on a towel. "She said she understood. Said she hoped I'd find what I was looking for. Like a blessing. Like she was releasing me from something."

"And how do you feel?" Whitaker prompts from outside the kitchen. 

"Like I got hit by a truck. Also fifty pounds lighter. Both." She picks up the ladle again. “Soup’s ready.”

Dinner moves the way dinners at Trinity’s always move. Loud, overlapping, full of the shorthand that comes from knowing each other too long. She tells a story about a med student who fainted during an arterial line and knocked over a whole tray of instruments, and Whitaker counters with one about a man who came in with a ferret in his pants that he'd been trying to smuggle into a Penguins game, and by the time Santos pushes back from the table the wine is half gone and the kitchen is warm and easy and you've almost forgotten why you're really here.

"You know," Whitaker says, holding up his glass, "This is actually not bad. For a twelve-dollar bottle."

"Right? Thank you! It has good mouthfeel," you say.

Santos stares at you with the mildest look of disgust. "Did you just say mouthfeel?"

"It's a wine term, Trincess. Top note, middle note, bouquet, mouthfeel.”

Whitaker is laughing now, the quiet, helpless kind that makes his shoulders shake. "Please stop saying mouthfeel."

“And stop calling me Trincess.” Santos snaps, but the bite isn’t really there. She gets up to clear the bowls, and the moment passes. The radiator clanks back to life.

"So this Dr. Ellis," she says, scraping rice into a container. Her back is to you, her voice carefully flat.

You silently swat at Whitaker's knees under the table, raising your eyebrows at him with wide, urgent eyes. He blinks back at you and you mouth ELLIS! with what you hope is a meaningful expression. Realization crosses over his face and he mouths back OH! just as fervently.

"Yeah?" you say to Santos. "What about her?"

"She showed me a photo of a degloving. In the break room." Santos closes the container and puts it in the fridge. "Just pulled it up on her phone while I was eating. Said, 'Isn't the fascia beautiful?' Like she was talking about a sunset."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. I looked at it." She leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "It was beautiful, she was right.”

The radiator clanks again. Whitaker gets up and kicks it, a practiced motion, and it quiets.

"She's interesting," Santos says. "I thought she was just no-nonsense. Methodical, you know?" She pauses, searching for the word. "But she's pleasant. To be around. I don't know. I feel like I could learn a lot from her."

She says it the way she'd say I think I'll pick up an extra shift or the cafeteria's out of the good yogurt. Flat. Casual. A fact among facts.

You don't look at Whitaker this time. You don't have to. You both know exactly what pleasant to be around means in Trinity's language. It means she's been paying attention. It means she's been watching Ellis the way she watches a complex case, running differentials.

"Anyway," she says, pushing off the counter. "I switched my shift around. Earlier starts for a bit." She turns off the water, dries her hands. "See how it goes."

She hangs the dishtowel over the oven handle and disappears down the hall. The bathroom door clicks shut.

You let the silence sit for a moment. Then you turn to Whitaker. "Earlier starts," you say.

He shakes his head, that quiet, reluctant smile spreading across his face. "You were right."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said you were right. I'm not saying it again."

"That's fine. I heard it the first time." You reach for your wine. "It's okay to admit I'm always right, you know. It gets easier with practice."

"It doesn't. It gets harder." He tips his beer toward you.

By the time Trinity comes back, you're on the couch with Whitaker's blanket over your lap, and he’s scrolling through the movie options with the particular indecision of a man who's been asked to choose something and immediately forgotten every film he's ever seen.

"You can't pick Die Hard," She’s saying, dropping onto the couch beside you. She's changed into pajamas, her hair down now, pulling the other end of the blanket over her legs.

"It's literally December," Whitaker says.

"It's early December. Die Hard is for Christmas."

"That's not a rule."

"It's absolutely a rule. Tell him, Y/N."

You just lean back into the couch and let the warmth and softness of the night settle around you. "I’m not getting in the middle of this." You sigh happily. 

"Coward." ㅤ

ㅤ The next time you see Ellis, it’s in Bay One on a morning that feels brutal, like a Monday.

She has a man on the table. Intubated, sedated, his left thigh laid open from hip to knee. Motorcycle accident. The wound has been festering since the weekend, and the smell of it is thick enough to taste at the back of your throat, a sweetness that doesn't belong in a living body. Surgery's backed up. Ellis has decided not to wait.

She's debriding the necrotic tissue in sections, her scalpel moving in short, precise strokes. The dead skin comes away in wet, dark strips. You're across from her, gloves on, passing instruments as she needs them. She doesn't have to ask for what she wants. She just holds out her hand, and you put the next tool in it. You've done this together a hundred times on nights. 

"Now this may pinch a little," she murmurs, cutting away a strip of blackened skin from the edge of the wound.

The man's face stays slack. The ventilator sighs. He's deep under, his body completely still.

"He can't hear you," you say.

"He might." Ellis doesn't look up from her work. "Some studies suggest patients under anesthesia retain auditory processing. It's controversial." She sets the scalpel down and holds out her hand again. "Saline."

You pass her the bottle. She irrigates the wound, and the fluid runs pink into the basin, carrying the last fragments of dead tissue with it. Underneath, the muscle is red and angry but alive. Bleeding slightly at the edges, a good sign. 

"Surgery would have waited another hour," Ellis says, reaching for the dressing. "He would have lost more. You can't wait for someone else to do the thing. Sometimes you just have to do it yourself."

"Mhm, mhm. Santos has a post-op in Bay Four," you supply. "The wound's not closing right. She's been on broad-spectrum antibiotics for a week and the white count is still climbing."

Ellis smooths the dressing down over the clean wound and strips off her gloves. "Sure, I’m happy to take a look." She pulls off her mask and drops it in the bin beside the table. "Doctor," 

You pull off your own gloves. "Doctor."

And then she's already walking toward the door, already thinking about the next thing. You watch her go, and through the glass window of the bay you see her pass Whitaker in the corridor. He's outside Central Six, a chart tucked under his arm, a granola bar in his free hand. His head turns as Ellis passes him. He watches her turn the corner toward Bay Four, and you can see him putting it together in his head: Ellis, Bay Four, Santos's post-op.

Then he glances toward Bay One and catches you watching him through the glass. You don't look away fast enough. He raises the granola bar in a small salute. You give him a thumbs up. ㅤ

ㅤ You're walking toward Radiology to chase down a chest film when you pass Bay Four.

The curtain is only half-drawn. Through the gap, you can see Ellis at the bedside, her back to you. She's got the dressing pulled back from the post-op wound, and she's pointing at something on the patient's chart with her free hand. Santos is beside her. Her arms are crossed, but loosely. Not the tight, defensive fold she's worn for weeks. Just crossed. Just standing.

" -- debrided it pretty aggressively," Ellis is saying. "The tissue underneath looks good. I'd keep the antibiotics going another few days, but I think she's turning the corner."

"You think," Santos says.

"I think. Wound care isn't an exact science."

"Surgery is."

"Surgery is plumbing. This is gardening. Different skill set. Remove the dead stuff, let the healthy stuff grow."

Santos makes a sound, a short exhale through her nose, that's closer to a laugh than anything you've heard from her since before the summer. Ellis glances at her, and something passes between them, quick and unreadable. Then Santos uncrosses her arms and reaches for the chart, and Ellis steps back to give her room. Neither of them notices you at all. ㅤ

ㅤ The first case you take with Whitaker happens to land on a Wednesday. Bay Two. 

A young woman, early twenties, abdominal pain that turned out to be a ruptured ovarian cyst. The attending is upstairs with a trauma, the consult is backed up, and for an hour it's just the two of you in the bay.

When her pressure drops and she starts to crash, Whitaker doesn't flinch.

"Fluid bolus," he says. "Wide open."

You're already hanging the bag. "Got it."

"Pressure's coming back up. She's stabilizing."

"I can see the monitor."

"I'm narrating. Sorry, it's a habit."

His hands are steady. That's the thing you keep noticing. Not just steady. Calm. Unhurried. When the monitor starts screaming, he reaches over and silences it with one hand, his eyes still on the ultrasound, and says, "She's fine. She's just dry. Keep the fluids going."

Afterward, when the patient is stable and Al-Hashimi has come and gone and the bay is quiet again, you're both at the sink, washing up. The water runs over your hands. Neither of you speaks for a moment.

"My first suture was on a cow," He says.

You look at him. He's not looking at you. He's drying his hands on a towel, his movements as unhurried as they were during the procedure.

"A cow," you repeat.

"I was fifteen. My parents’ farm. One of the heifers got caught in a barbed-wire fence and tore a gash about this long down her side." He measures the length with his hands, maybe eight inches. "My dad said, 'You want to be a doctor, you're going to learn to sew.' So I learned to sew. On a cow."

"And did this cow live?"

"She lived for another eight years. Had four calves." He pauses. "The sutures were terrible. They were crooked and too far apart and I think I used the wrong kind of thread. But the cow lived."

You're smiling now. You can't help it. "Why are you telling me this?"

He shrugs. "I thought you should know where I started."

"In a barn. With a cow."

He turns off the tap. "Everyone's got to start somewhere."

"Most people start on fruit. Or cadavers."

He considers this for a moment. "The cow was warmer."

You laugh. It comes out before you can stop it. A surprised, genuine sound that fills the quiet bay, and Whitaker looks at you with an expression you can't quite read. Pleased, maybe. It makes you almost want to take off in the other direction.

"We should check on the patient," you say instead.

"We just checked on her."

"Then we should check again."

He doesn't argue. But as you're walking out of the bay, he says, "You know, you're not as hard to read as you think you are."

You don't turn around. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I know," he says. "That's what I mean."

ㅤ The ER is a living, breathing animal, one that gets angry from time to time. 

A grinding, full-capacity fury that fills every bed and spills into the waiting room and keeps the ambulance bay doors opening and closing like a set of lungs that can't catch their breath. Someone's pager has been going off for three minutes and no one has answered it. Dana's voice cuts through the noise like a blade: "Figure it out later. I need someone in Bay Six. Now."

Princess is in triage, and she's moving. A kid with a fever of a hundred and four, limp in his mother's arms. She gets the history in thirty seconds and sends them straight back to peds. A man clutching his chest, his wife white-knuckled beside him. She waves over a transporter before he's finished describing the pain. A woman who doesn't speak English, her eyes wide and frantic, pointing to her stomach, her throat, her head in a sequence that seems random until Princess catches the look on her face and switches to Tagalog without missing a beat.

"Saan ang masakit?"

The woman's eyes well up with relief. Filipina, in Pittsburgh three weeks. Her son is in the waiting room. Princess gets the full history in under a minute: gallbladder, probably, the pain radiating to her right shoulder, worse after eating. She marks her chart, and sends her to Bay Two.

In Bay Three, Perlah is with an elderly woman who came in dehydrated and confused. The woman is small under the hospital blanket, her eyes darting around the room. Perlah has a line in, fluids running wide, and she's talking in a low, steady voice while she checks the sats. Her hands move with automatic precision.

"Mrs. Anders, you're at the hospital. You're safe. We're giving you fluids. You're going to feel better soon."

The woman's daughter is in the chair beside the bed. She's asked the same question three times. Is she going to be okay? Perlah answers it three times without her voice changing. "She's going to be fine. She just needs fluids. A few hours on this drip and she'll be much better."

The daughter nods, not convinced. Perlah squeezes her shoulder and slips out of the bay. She's heading toward the nurses' station when McKay emerges from Bay Four with an empty IV bag and a suture kit.

"Santos just paged Ellis for a consult," McKay says, falling into step. "Chest tube in Bay One."

"That's the third time this week. Different patient each time."

McKay hums in response. "The post-op went to surgery on Monday. The lac repair went home Tuesday. Now there's a chest tube." She drops the empty bag in the bin. "So has anyone put Ellis on the line yet?"

"Ahmad added her last week," Perlah says. "Twenty to one."

"Twenty to one." McKay considers this. 

They reach the nurses' station. Princess is already there, catching her breath between triage calls, candy-cane earrings glinting under the fluorescent lights.

"Festive," McKay says. "I like them."

Princess touches one earring lightly. "Thanks,”

McKay leans against the counter. "Twenty to one on Ellis. You get in early?"

"Before Ahmad even capped the Sharpie."

"And what's the over-under on the other two?"

"Whitaker and Y/LN?" Princess tilts her head. "No official line yet. Ahmad hasn't opened a grid for them."

"That's an oversight."

"That's what I said."

Mohan rounds the corner from Central Four, a patient file in one hand, her reading glasses on. She's scanning the corridor with the particular focus of someone looking for a specific person in a crowd. "Has anyone seen Whitaker? I need to hand off the labs for his post-op in Six before I go off service. Oh wait. There he is."

The others follow her line of sight. Across the floor, near the central desk, Whitaker is leaning against the counter, his shoulder almost touching yours. He's holding a coffee in one hand, a chart in the other, and he's saying something to you. Low, close, his head tilted toward yours. You're looking up at him, your chart forgotten on the desk. 

Mohan is still watching, the file forgotten against her chest. "How long has that been going on?"

"Since the start of the month."

“Ah, young love.” McKay’s fingertips drum against the counter like a little song of goodbye. "Anyways, I need to get to Bay Four. But someone should tell Ahmad to open a second grid. He's leaving money on the table.” Princess's earrings jingle, as if in agreement, as she drifts towards Triage. Mohan and Perlah smirk at each other. They collectively glance toward Bay One, where Ellis and Santos are behind the curtain, and then toward the central desk, where Whitaker is still standing beside you. ㅤ

ㅤ Your next case with Whitaker is a man in his sixties, bowel obstruction, writhing on the gurney. The NG tube won't go down. You've tried three times now, and every time you get close, the patient gags and the tube curls back on itself. Your hands are steady but your jaw is tight, the muscles in your neck starting to ache from the tension.

Whitaker steps in. He doesn't take over. He doesn't push you aside or reach for the tube. He just moves to the head of the bed and puts his hand on the patient's shoulder.

"Mr. Reyes." His voice is low and steady, the same voice he used during the crash. "I know it's uncomfortable. We're almost there. I need you to breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. That's it."

The patient's eyes are wild, darting between you and Whitaker, but he's listening. His breathing starts to slow. His hands, which have been gripping the rails of the gurney, unclench slightly.

"There you go," Whitaker says. "You're doing great. Now I need you to swallow for me. Just one swallow. Can you do that?"

The patient swallows. The tube slides in. You tape it down, check the placement, step back. Whitaker keeps his hand on the man's shoulder for another moment, murmuring something too low to hear, and then he steps away.

Out in the corridor, you lean against the wall and let your head fall back. "You're good at that," you say.

"NG tubes?"

"At talking to people. Calming them down."

He shrugs and leans against the wall beside you, his shoulder not quite touching yours. "My dad was the same way. With the animals. If you're calm, they're calm. It works on people, too. Most of the time."

You don't answer. You're thinking about his voice. You're thinking about the way his hand looked on the patient's shoulder. You're thinking about a lot of things you're not going to say out loud.

"You were fine in there," he continues. "He was just scared. Sometimes they need someone to talk to them."

"You talked to him. I just shoved a tube down his nose."

"That's a skill too." He's smiling now. "You're good at the tube part. I'm good at the talking part. We make a good team."

You turn your head to respond. With what, you're not sure, and realize he's closer than you thought. His shoulder is almost touching yours. His face is inches away. He's looking at you with an expression you've never seen on him before, or maybe you have, maybe you've been seeing it for weeks and refusing to name it.

Down the hall, the break room door opens. Santos and Ellis walk out together, coffees in hand, their shoulders brushing. They don't see you. They don't see anyone. They're talking, their heads bent close, and Santos is almost smiling.

The corridor is quiet for a moment after they disappear around the corner. The break room door swings shut behind them with a soft pneumatic hiss, and then it's just you and Huck.

He follows your gaze. "Ellis has been orbiting Santos every day this week," he notes. "Sometimes twice. It’s like clockwork."

"I noticed."

He shifts beside you. "Did you have something to do with that?"

"I may have gently helped things along, but no, this is all them."

"Wow." He chuckles, and lets the word hang there for a moment. "That's good. It's all coming together."

You're still looking at the spot where they disappeared. You think about the way Ellis had said gardening that day, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You remove the dead stuff. You let the healthy stuff grow.

"Think they'll toast us at their wedding ceremony?" you say, still watching the empty corridor.

Whitaker laughs his quiet laugh at that. When you turn your head, he's already looking at you. "For betting on them? No. I’m thinking something bigger." he says. "They’ll be so grateful, they’ll name their children after us."

"First and middle."

"First and middle. Little Baby Y/N Dennis Santos-Ellis."

"That's a terrible name."

"It's a beautiful name. Rolls right off the tongue."

"It's four names. It doesn't roll. It limps."

He grins, and the grin stays on his face a beat longer than the joke needs, and you realize you're both still leaning against the wall, neither of you moving. 

"I should.." you start.

"Yeah," he says. "Me too."

Neither of you moves.

Then a nurse calls his name from Central Six, and he pushes off the wall with a small, reluctant exhale.  ㅤ

TO BE CONTINUED!

[armpittlings]

꩜✩ controlled chaos ｡𖦹°‧ || the pitt smau

(XII) - gambling on the clock

summary: the pittlings make a bet with dire consequences (money loss and bragging rights.) but not without rigging it ofc!

warnings: MDNI 18+, swearing, typical crack fic, slight bullying of frank langdon and james ogilvie, ogilvie is a reddit warrior???, shen is reader's evil twin, roommates with santos & whitaker trope, jack abbot x reader

a/n: hey people (insert that one shy wolf pic), sowwy this took 5ever, daddy's life is getting busier as the weather gets warmer </3 ANYWAYS!! that new episode you guys...chills, seriously. i'm so nervous for next week ahaha :') love you guys fr!!! next chapter sometime this week, pinky promise <3

masterlist

✎ ̼ TAGLIST: @true1411 @harringtonsbowgirl @imstressed17 @xoxo-aubs @midnghtprentiss @lunawfc @maesmayhem @xreader1989 @amterasuu @itzpixiebabe @tabisswag @cosmosnkaz @dorotheareid @momdancingtomcr @love-pluto-love @iheartrosalia @sunnlyfe @none3456789 @emotionalstrawberries @peachyfckingkeen @kgzs @ziggy0stardust @letszuuz @siruslyloony4u @iwasmothman @julllliiiii86 @urfavhanna @clowninavan @sotragedynut @rabidabbot @perksofbeingatrex @archxve @mewmew222 @hhusbuds @linasmarbles @twiceasmanystars1122 @skagelynn @surftrips @modernvenuss @sidders127 @heartsforts @i-do-not-care-bear @pu11ingteeth @kashee-h @horanghaepaws @rocklandhoax @pennyploorp @munsonmundays @midnight-sun-bright-star @ellie-mwah

[armpittlings]

꩜✩ controlled chaos ｡𖦹°‧ || the pitt smau

(IX) - cabin fever? hospital fever.

summary: a blizzard??? in the middle of march??? time for a hospital sleepover ofc!!

warnings: MDNI 18+, swearing, typical crack fic, slight bullying of frank langdon and james ogilvie, shen is reader's evil twin, roommates with santos & whitaker trope, jack abbot x reader crumbs... om nom nom

a/n: hello armpittling nation!! come get y'all food !!! we got sooo much snow where I live, i couldn't help but think about if a blizzard hit ptmc and the incidents that would happen with that like...might just write a drabble about it or something. lmk if you would be interested, and if you want to be on the taglist!! <3 you guys :)

masterlist

✎ ̼ TAGLIST: @true1411 @harringtonsbowgirl @imstressed17 @xoxo-aubs @midnghtprentiss @lunawfc @maesmayhem @xreader1989 @amterasuu @kaiparkerwife @tabisswag @cosmosnkaz @dorotheareid @momdancingtomcr @love-pluto-love @iheartrosalia @sunnlyfe @none3456789 @emotionalstrawberries @peachyfckingkeen @kgzs @ziggy0stardust @letszuuz @siruslyloony4u @iwasmothman @julllliiiii86 @urfavhanna @clowninavan @sotragedynut @rabidabbot @perksofbeingatrex @archxve @mewmew222 @hhusbuds @linasmarbles @twiceasmanystars1122 @skagelynn @surftrips @modernvenuss @sidders127 @heartsforts @i-do-not-care-bear @pu11ingteeth @kashee-h @horanghaepaws @rocklandhoax @pennyploorp @munsonmundays @midnight-sun-bright-star @ellie-mwah 

[armpittlings]

꩜✩ controlled chaos ｡𖦹°‧ || the pitt smau

(VIII) - intubation on rainbow road

summary: the gang starts playing mario kart & jack abbot is a jealous man

warnings: MDNI 18+, swearing, typical crack fic, slight bullying of james ogilvie, shen is reader's evil twin, roommates with santos & whitaker trope, hucklerobby, garsantos, jack abbot x reader crumbs once again

a/n: HAPPY PITT THURSDAY MY FELLOW PITTLINGS!!!!! i can't wait to see what our faves are getting into...genuinely scared haha.... anyways, enjoy the jack abbot of it all in this chapter lol! lmk if you want to be added to the taglist!! LOVE YOU ALL <33

masterlist

✎ ̼ TAGLIST: @true1411 @harringtonsbowgirl @imstressed17 @xoxo-aubs @midnghtprentiss @lunawfc @maesmayhem @xreader1989 @amterasuu @kaiparkerwife @tabisswag @cosmosnkaz @dorotheareid @momdancingtomcr @love-pluto-love @iheartrosalia @sunnlyfe @none3456789 @emotionalstrawberries @peachyfckingkeen @kgzs @ziggy0stardust @letszuuz @siruslyloony4u @iwasmothman @julllliiiii86 @urfavhanna @clowninavan @sotragedynut @rabidabbot @perksofbeingatrex @archxve @mewmew222 @hhusbuds @linasmarbles @twiceasmanystars1122 @skagelynn @surftrips @modernvenuss @sidders127 @heartsforts @i-do-not-care-bear @pu11ingteeth @kashee-h @horanghaepaws @rocklandhoax @pennyploorp @munsonmundays @midnight-sun-bright-star @ellie-mwah 

[armpittlings]

꩜✩ controlled chaos ｡𖦹°‧ || the pitt smau

(VI) - new characters unlocked

summary: the new med students get added to the group chat and whitaker shares robby’s proposal with the roomies

warnings: MDNI 18+, swearing, typical crack fic, slight bullying of frank langdon & james ogilvie, reader is referred to as burn, roommates with santos & whitaker trope, hucklerobby, jack abbot nude yoga mention

a/n: DADDY JOY KWON HAS ENTERED THE BUILDING IKTR!!!!!!! last episode was so good you guys like we ate so well.... had to put this one out before the other ones i have in stock. can't wait for thursday again!!! enjoy & lmk if you want to be on the taglist <3

masterlist

✎ ̼ TAGLIST: @true1411 @harringtonsbowgirl @imstressed17 @xoxo-aubs @midnghtprentiss @lunawfc @maesmayhem @xreader1989 @amterasuu @kaiparkerwife @tabisswag @cosmosnkaz @dorotheareid @momdancingtomcr @love-pluto-love @iheartrosalia @sunnlyfe @none3456789 @emotionalstrawberries @peachyfckingkeen @kgzs @ziggy0stardust @letszuuz @siruslyloony4u @iwasmothman @julllliiiii86 @urfavhanna @clowninavan @sotragedynut @rabidabbot @perksofbeingatrex @archxve @mewmew222 

[armpittlings]

꩜✩ controlled chaos ｡𖦹°‧ || the pitt smau

(V) - archive induced psychosis

summary: the gang deals with the AO3 shutdown in the worst way possible-- telling their bosses about it!

warnings: MDNI 18+, swearing, typical crack fic, slight bullying of frank langdon, roommates with santos & whitaker trope, hucklerobby if you squint

a/n: i wrote this before last nights episode and oh wow.... life is so good but so bad at the same time!!!! my garsantos truthers, we will come out of this </3 enjoy & lmk if u want to be added to the taglist :)

masterlist

✎ ̼ TAGLIST: @true1411 @harringtonsbowgirl @imstressed17 @xoxo-aubs @midnghtprentiss @lunawfc @maesmayhem @xreader1989 @amterasuu @kaiparkerwife @tabisswag @cosmosnkaz @dorotheareid @momdancingtomcr @love-pluto-love @iheartrosalia @sunnlyfe @none3456789 @emotionalstrawberries @peachyfckingkeen @kgzs @ziggy0stardust @letszuuz @siruslyloony4u @iwasmothman 

[caffeinegrem]

roommates with trinity and dennis trope BUT eventually r and trinity sync up and force dennis to go on the late night cvs period products run

EDIT: forgot to add this was heavily influenced by @armpittlings crackfic!smaus of the pitt (mother please accept by humble offering)

no clue if anyone else has thought of this btw i just be talking on here

[str4wbsstuff]

OUUUU HE WANTS MY STRAP. OH HES BEGGING FOR IT ACTUALLY. PUTTING ALL 8 INCHES OF IT IN HIM TODAY!!

[caffeinegrem]

also impatiently waiting for re9 to release so I can play it

w husband for gifting the preorder for me on steam

photo evidence of me going stir crazy until it releases:

[caffeinegrem]

key notes i have:

- 20/10 beautiful masterpiece

- Grace Ashcroft i love you but for the love of god ma’am you’re in the fbi i know you can run faster than 2 miles an hour

- ending had me stressing and crying

- DILF Leon Kennedy, just cause the wrapper is wrinkled don’t mean the candy ain’t sweet (sweet baby claire can I be the third in yours and leon’s marriage pretty please? 🙏)

- 100/10 Leon grunting and panting asmr with noise canceling headphones

- legit had to buy the game twice (on steam & ps5) bc i was being dummy dumb and bought a new graphics card and didn’t even think about upgrading my power supply as well (jumped from a 3060 to a 5060) so i had to order that and wait for it, did enjoy on both platforms with no issues

- anywho if it doesn’t get GOTY in december i will actually riot (Geoff Keighly i’m watching you)

thank you for coming to my TEDtalk

[caffeinegrem]

feeling very maternal over season 1 dennis whitaker, however season 2 dennis can get it bc bro grew a mullet and remembered it was big

[caffeinegrem]

also impatiently waiting for re9 to release so I can play it

w husband for gifting the preorder for me on steam

photo evidence of me going stir crazy until it releases:

[caffeinegrem]

rare konami w for announcing a new silent hill game for the third year in a row (please konami get back together with kojima i NEED silent hill pt)

[cathrrrine]

makin’ a livin’ | daryl dixon x reader

ao3

you worry what the group would think of you if they knew you made a living as a broke actress. and as the closest thing to what daryl dixon would consider a ‘best friend’, you couldn’t help but fear he’d assume you were an uppity douchebag hipster. [since the start of the show is set in 2010, pre-apocalypse pop culture revolves as such. and post 2010 stuff do not exist obvi :3]

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

You never revealed who you were before The Turn to your group. When asked, you’d only reply vaguely.

It wasn’t the same for the others. Some were outright truths told by the person themselves; like Rick and Glenn. Some were easy guesses, based on the description of their old lives.

You weren’t ashamed of your career, but you just didn’t see the point in explaining or volunteering information from your past life. You weren’t really an open person, preferring to keep to yourself most of the time. You were friendly, sure, but you loved your privacy more.

In addition to all of that, you didn’t want to tell them in fear of them assuming you were weak or useless. You knew some people didn’t really think an acting career was worth it unless you were Britney-Spears-level famous or Pamela Anderson’s doppelgänger. Plus, most people in the group had very valuable jobs — being in the force, the military, educators, lawyers… skill heavy jobs that proved to be useful in the current state of the world — so you had all the reason more to stay quiet.

And what would Daryl think? He was a perfect addition to the group with his outstanding hunting and survival skills. He adapted pretty quickly to the lack of modern technology, which you figured wasn’t that far-fetched for a redneck like him. However, he had a bitingly curt attitude that often made you feel inferior, even when it wasn’t directed at you (it never was, not once). You thought that if he ever found out he was going to throw some very creative insults your way, you could imagine his gruff voice saying them.

What are ya’ gunna do? Recite Shakespeare in front of a walker? Entertain em’ to death?

It was just a tiny, little, harmless secret.

You’d been with your group since the quarry and since then, no one suspected a thing from you, you gave them no reason to either. Although you were a bit suspicious of why the universe suddenly favored your pleas, as not one person had recognized you — not like you expected them to, anyway — but there had been a few instances in the past where people would stop you in the street for a picture or ask with suspiciously narrowed eyes, ‘you look like that girl in that movie’.

However, that was before the world got infested by walking, rotting, man-eating corpses, so you were delighted to know that nobody would even care or bother to bring up the more irrelevant parts of pop culture in conversation.

Daryl for sure wouldn’t.

———

There’d been a couple of teetering moments; like when Glenn asked you about your ability to fight, you didn’t tell him it was because you got a role in an action movie and had to train for weeks to look the part; it was a horribly CGI’d train-wreck of a film that you worked tirelessly and—unfortunately—vainly for. So instead, you told Glenn you took classes it so you could fight giant mutant spiders from Mars, which wasn’t far from the truth, and that confused him enough to wave him off.

You used to regret taking on said role. Your agent had convinced you it was going to be the next big blockbuster and that a ‘big name’ starring in it would pave the way for its success, so you did everything you could to prep—MMA, kickboxing, and changes to your diet—only to be let down when the ‘big name’ pulled out last minute when she got a better offer. After what you endured, you couldn’t watch She’s All That without cursing Rachael Leigh Cook for damning you.

It flipped quickly when you realised she had unintentionally contributed to your survival, so now you mentally sang praises to her name whenever your skills came in handy.

When Daryl thanked you for saving his ass the night the quarry was swarmed, you were orchestrating concerts in your head thanking Rachael for the butterfly effect she caused. He very briefly complimented with a huff that you had a mean front kick and a keen aim. You almost wanted to find that walker you killed and kiss it for what Daryl said to you, until you realised how insane that thought was.

He seemed more friendly after the exchange and it made you braver to approach him more often. This resulted in the two of you forming a bond of alliance; with him always offering you to ride with him on his bike or truck when the group travelled around, or how you always volunteered to keep watch with him at night, staying awake together and sharing a pack of cigarettes. He was always reluctant to leave your side since then, finding himself worrying if you weren’t within his line of vision.

You didn’t notice it and neither did he, but others in the group shared curious glances to how inseparable the two of you had grown to be. ‘Attached at the hip’ as Dale would put it, murmuring something about love-doves when the two of you rode off into the sunset.

———

When Rick’s group arrived at the Greene farm, Beth took one look at you and you instantly caught the hint of recognition shining in the young blonde’s eyes—a look you hadn’t seen a long time. When she raised her eyebrows and innocently asked you if she’d met you before, you noped the hell out of that situation and made up some excuse about having ‘just one of those faces’.

It was around this time when you barely saw Daryl as he had been circling the woods looking for Sophia, which stuck you with the ladies. You didn’t mind at all, finding their company lovely and inviting—except for Andrea—but Beth always seemed to eye you every chance she got, subtlety clearly not being her strong suit. It made you nervous to know that she might know you from some piece of media you were in.

You got extremely lucky when you strolled into the Greene’s living room one day and caught your eye on a familiar CD case sticking out from one of the TV cabinets, the colour scheme and periodic costumes sticking out to you like a sore thumb. It was out of the question for you to leave it alone, so you made a plan to sneak in that night to grab it and dump it far, far away from anyone’s sights. It was a small victory, one that depended on the Greenes not missing their DVD copy of the cheap production of A Christmas Carol too much. You couldn’t judge their extensive collection of Hallmark Christmas movies, seeing as you were the star in one of them. While you were glad that you caught it before anyone else did, if this was a different time and place (as in, pre-walker world), you’d actually be flattered.

Those were the early days where everything was freshly apocalyptic, but now you had pushed the thought to the furthest corners of your mind, fatigue and trauma taking over the highlights of your anxieties. If you found yourself thinking about it, it dissipated in a second…no one cared to pry anymore.

Boy, were you wrong.

———

Your group stumbled upon an old prison that hadn’t been claimed by any of the living yet. Rick decided that it was perfect to take refuge in, as the farm was long gone by now. After avoiding the herd for so long you were all desperate for a miracle, so no one challenged the Sheriff when he led the way.

As you watched the sun set, you tried to relieve the soreness in your muscles by doing a couple of stretches. Your body still ached from the day’s labor, working together with the rest to clear the prison yard of twice-dead Walkers after going through the hassle of luring them out and taking them out in the first place… to say it was back-breaking was an understatement.

Everyone was comfortably gathered around the fireside. It was the first time they’d felt secure in months; the wired fences, the promise of tomorrow, the small spark of hope in their chests.

You walked over to the overturned bus with a plate of food in your hands. It looked pathetically bare; still, it was better than nothing and you’ve had plenty of ‘nothing’ on the menu for weeks.

“You know, I once heard that you can’t shoot straight on an empty stomach.” You teased lightly, looking up at the archer who stood on top of the bus, body language tense and on guard. You didn’t notice that as soon as you came into his sights, his tense posture dropped slightly, shoulders drooping and eyes softening.

Just slightly. Not enough for anyone to notice it, not even him.

“Psh. No, ya’ didn’t.” Daryl scoffed, his tone equally playful, but gruff. “Ya’ made that up.”

“Yeah, I made it up.” You nodded with a slight laugh, confirming his accusation. Your eyes shone mischievously as the daylight started to fade away. “But it might be true, who knows?”

You stood on your tip-toes and pushed the plate onto the surface of the bus before hoisting yourself up, accepting the hand that Daryl reached out to you so it was easier.

You absolutely did not try to hide the blush that crept onto your face when your fingers grazed his and you absolutely did not let your grasp on his hand stay just a millisecond longer than it had to.

You also absolutely did not move just an inch closer to him when you gained your composure on the side of the big, ugly bus.

It was a friendly gesture. Friends hold hands. Friends help each other climb up buses all the time. Friends get butterflies in their bellies when their shoulders touch.

“Eat, Dixon.” You picked the plate up and shoved it lightly towards him. “I may not know much but it’s common sense that an empty stomach won’t do you any good.”

He hesitated for a moment before huffing incredulously and accepting the plate from you.

“Don’t need ya’ babysittin’ me now, woman.”

“Don’t need you to pass out from hunger now, Dixon.” You teased back. “That would be an embarrassing way to go out, don’t you think?”

He had already stuffed himself with the first thing he could grab out of the platter, mouth too full to respond with a comprehensive sentence. Before he could swallow, you continued.

“Imagine that…in a world full of walking corpses, someone dying because they rejected a plate of cold beans in the name of pride.”

“Ain’t proud.” He rolled his eyes. You only chuckled quietly in response.

“Keep telling yourself that.” You nudged his elbow, making a face at his attempt at fibbing.

Daryl continued to eat what little food he had while you sat in comfortable silence, thoughtlessly looking up at the darkening sky. It wasn’t long until colours of the sunset were replaced by a Van Gogh-esque palette, the dark blues and ivory shades creating a tasteful scene.

The shy man watched you silently as you arched your neck to look up at the sky, your breaths slow and relaxed. The two of you were appreciating nature’s beauty, only the subject he was looking at was different than the one you were enthralled by.

Your relationship with Daryl Dixon was something that no one had expected to grow…and yet it did, like a stubborn little seedling in the winter.

Both of you had grown to become more than just allies, even daring to admit that you were friends, but never saying it out loud. You thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company, even going so far as to shamelessly seek each other out when you were lonely or just plain bored—you more so than Daryl, but he never seemed to mind. He was rough and borderline rude to everyone, but when he was alone with you, it was a whole other version that he never let anyone else see. Daryl appreciated that he could be vulnerable around you.

“I wonder how I’m gonna go.” The thought slipped out of your mind and rolled off your tongue so suddenly that it didn’t occur to you that you said it out loud.

Daryl shifted in his seat. “Y’ain’t.”

“Hmm? Ain’t what?” The cicadas in the distance filled in the gaps of your conversation, the rhythmic chirping unchanged by the circumstances of the world. If you closed your eyes and tried real hard, you could pretend that everything was normal and that a PG18+ Thriller music video wasn’t being directed and produced by the Universe right beyond the fences (minus the King of Pop).

Daryl chewed on his thumb, a bad habit he picked up since he was a kid. “Goin’…dyin’. I ain’t letting ya’. Not on my watch, Y/N.”

He said it so strongly, gazing into your eyes with an odd expression that you couldn’t quite place.

“Death himself would have to go through me to get ya’.”

The cicadas paid no mind to the explosions going off in your heart and in your head, continuing their ad-free, non-copyright background music as the two of you stared into each other’s eyes. If you could just…lean in closer…you’d be able to feel his lips…on yours…

You cleared your throat, desperate to find a distraction.

“We should go back to the group.” You turned around to climb down the bus, pushing off and grunting softly as you landed with a soft thud. “Come on Dixon, fire looks warm enough.”

“Go on. I’m standing guard here, don’t worry bout me.”

You beamed at him, bidding him a sweet goodbye before making your way to the bright source of man-made light, hugging yourself in an attempt to comfort the nerves that had risen up to your throat.

As you reached the circle your group had formed around the fire, you heard the tail-end of their conversation. It was instantaneous, the way the acute sense of regret and dread began to form at the bottom of your stomach when you realised what you got yourself into. Especially when Beth turned to you and started directing her question to you.

“What was your line of work, Y/N?”

Nice. Throwing yourself to the wolves. Amazing.

“Me?” You pointed to yourself, anxious at the sudden and unexpected question — one that was inevitable and way long overdue. You couldn’t avoid it after all.

But you’d have to try, damn it.

“Yeah. We were just talking about our lives before all this.” Beth explained shyly in her southern belle drawl, her eyes barely meeting yours. “What job we had, where we lived…stuff like that.”

(“And things.” Rick chimed in from the back.)

You realised you’d been quiet for a beat too long and now everyone was staring at you intently, waiting for an answer.

You instantly put all those years of acting classes into full throttle, gears clicking back into place as your brain tapped into a decade’s worth of experience. If there was a time to put on an act, it was now.

You shrugged cooly—subconsciously copying what you’ve seen Daryl do with his shoulders—feigning nonchalance. “I did a few jobs, here and there. You could say I was a freelancer of sorts.”

“In what?” Carl chirped, curious.

“Huh?”

“A freelancer in what?”

“Ah, random jobs, really. From running a hot dog stand to killing giant monsters from outer space.” Both true. “Or, you know what, actually there was that time I almost became Spiderman’s girlfriend. Shame I didn’t though.”

Carl scoffed, a lopsided grin stretching across his face. Everyone seemed to be amused at what they thought was your light-hearted joking, which it was, but you weren’t exactly making things up; you didhave a cameo as a hot dog stand owner and the ‘giant monsters’ was a reference to the movie with the mutant spiders, and the ‘joke’ about Spiderman? You auditioned for the role of Mary Jane and actually got far in the running for it, so much that they asked you to do a screen test with Tobey Maguire. Ultimately the role went to Kirsten Dunst, but the experience was enough for you.

“I didn’t know you were a Marvel fan.” Glenn’s face lit up at the mention of the comic superhero.

“I wasn’t until that moment, to be honest.”

“Did you see the movie? Man, that was awesome. It wasn’t that comic-accurate but seeing it in theatres changed my life.”

You laughed half-heartedly, “Yeah, same.”

“That’s a lot of odd jobs.” Lori chuckled, running her hands over her pregnant belly. “But I am curious, and so is the little one by the way they’re kicking, oomph…what did you really do for a living? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You could have just said it then and there, but you didn’t. The initial reasoning behind it shouldn’t actually matter now if logic played into your decision; you trusted these people now after what you’ve been through together, plus, telling them you were an actress wasn’t going to change the way you proved yourself useful on multiple occasions. But you held on to this secret for so long that it was starting to superglue itself onto you, unwilling to be set free. There was also the small but very much real fear of sounding conceited or narcissistic.

“Well, I was a freelancer…for a company…that managed some small and sometimes big projects. Nothing interesting, really.”

Lori seemed satisfied with your response, as did the others, moving on to bothering T-Dog who was sitting next to you.

——

The group made a sanctuary out of the prison, which everyone now considered as home. There were people other than just your little group, survivors that were also on the hunt for refuge gratefully accepting community and shelter in exchange for civil behaviour and contributions on their part.

You were out on a supply run with a few people to scavenge an old superstore that didn’t seem like it had been fully raided by the living yet, from the looks of the exterior. It was going well so far.

“...a mechanic?” The conversation came within earshot before you could even avoid it. Daryl scoffed at Zach, shaking his head and his shoulders in a full-bodied shrug that you had become all too familiar with.

“My side’s cleared out.” You interrupted, happily gesturing to the packs filled with canned food and other supplies that you managed to find. The two men jumped slightly when your voice cut them off, “What? You boys hiding something from me?”

“Nope,” Zach turned to look at you, an amused smile evident on his face. “Just trying to guess what Daryl was before.”

“You two still playing that game?” You chuckled, leaning on the wall next to the archer. “He got any right yet, D?”

“Nah.”

“Oh, come on! Not even close?” Zach huffed, bewildered. “I thought I got it, man. I mean I’ve seen you work on cars, and your bike.”

You fought to keep a smile back, “Sounds like a tough game. Let me know when you pass, Zach. Sounds like a win worth celebrating.”

Daryl eyed you from where he sat, an unreadable expression settling across his features. He watched as you threw a playful wink Zach’s way, ignoring the flips in his stomach when you turned to him and gave him the look he loved so much.

“What about you, Y/N?” Zach quipped.

“What about me?”

“What did you work as before all this?”

Freezing for second, you wondered if you should just get it over with and tell the truth or keep it to yourself for just a little longer.

The latter felt more safe.

You gave him what you gave everyone as an answer, “I freelanced.”

“For what?”

“Big company, random projects…eh, nothing much. Boring stuff.”

“Oh, you’re just as bad as he is, Y/N! What is with you guys and suspense?” Zach laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Come on, the rest should be done by now.” Daryl remarked, pushing himself off the small ledge he was sitting on. Zach moved forward, slinging his gun off his back and holding it at the ready. He walked over to you, gently grabbing a bag from your hands to carry it himself.

“Oh, I’m fine.” You tried to object, but to no avail, the loveable culprit already moving ahead of you.

“Got stronger arms than you, woman.” He flexed his bicep in front of you jokingly. “I ain’t forget the time you hurt your shoulder because of a damn pack Rick made ya’ carry.”

Thank God he was staring directly ahead because the involuntary lip-bite would have been hard to play off.

“Fine, let me drive, then.” You retorted.

“You can’t drive stick for shit.”

“Maybe because a certain someone won’t teach me even after I’ve asked him a billion times!”

“Hey,” he drawled. “Rick’s the one you should be askin’ to give you drivin’ lessons. Not me. I’m not built for being a teacher.”

“That’s because you can’t drive a manual either.”

“One time… I stall the damn truck one time!”

You laughed, finally picking up the pace and matching your strides with his so the two of you could walk side-by-side. You entered the building, ready to meet at the rendezvous point you all had agreed to.

Daryl was muttering something about gutting squirrels when you were stopped by Glenn holding up a poster, mouth agape in disbelief.

“That’s you isn’t it!?”

Your heart dropped into your stomach and then into your ass.

“Well,” Daryl blinked. “That does look an awful lot like you.”

“That IS HER!!!” Glenn freaked, poking the top part of the poster to prove his point. “That’s her NAME!”

You were absolutely frozen in spot, equally as freaked as the discovery. James McAvoy’s eyes seemed to meet yours through the paper, mocking you for the stupid look you had on your face. Well, your face-face, not the printed version of your face.

“Wanted…relentless in-your-face action,” Daryl had moved closer to study the poster’s texts, less surprised than you thought he’d be. “Ya’ look good.”

“How are you not freaking out?!” Glenn shook the paper and held it up higher. “Y/N why didn’t you tell us you were a freaking movie star?

“I’m not.” You managed to cough out.

“Dude, you’re in an action movie with Morgan Freeman and you’re on a poster looking like a superhero, you’re telling me you’re not movie star???”

“I got lucky with landing that part!” You defended, “Half of my other ones were shit!”

The film, Wanted, came out in 2008, a few years before the world ended. You were proud of it, having prepped for it in a similar way you did for the aforementioned failed alien spider movie. It actually could have been your big break if it wasn’t for the zompocalypse; if you remember correctly, you were up for another action-based role alongside your former co-star James. There was no way to know if you could have actually made it big, society collapsing before your success could even sprout.

“Look what I found,” Zach half-jogged over to you, Glenn and Daryl. “More of you, Y/N!”

In his hands were three CD cases of varying sizes, each one of them with different versions of your face on it. One of them was a small production that had you as the lead, and the other two you had only minor roles in but major enough to get you on the poster you supposed.

“You were on Pirates of the Caribbean?!“

“What?” Confused, you did a double-take, snatching away the CD from Zach’s hands. “Gimme that.”

“Oh,” you recalled, shock replaced by your need to feed your own curiosity. “Yeah, I remember now. I did Las Vegas the same year so maybe that’s why it slipped my mind.”

“You were in Las Vegas?”

“No, I did a show called Las-“ you cut off when you realised you were talking. “Where the hell did you guys even find this? And why?”

“We were walking pass the candy aisle when we saw your poster on the ground.” Zach mentioned. “Freelancer? Really?”

“I mean-“

“You told us you ran a hot-dog stand!”

“Technically, I did-“

“Wait…were you actually Spiderman’s girlfriend?!?!”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. Seems like the universe finally ended your secrecy contract to fuck with you now.

“Come on, we should get goin’ ‘fore sundown.” Daryl grunted, moving past the three of you to lead your group out.

He didn’t seem surprised at all, which in turn surprised you. Your mind was reeling; Daryl wasn’t the type to show emotion outright, was he upset that you lied? Maybe he had a thing against theatre kids?

You wanted to jog up to him and blurt out all of the things you were saying in your head, anything to prove to yourself he wasn’t hurt by what you hid, or worse, disgusted. But between Glenn and Zach, the two had you surrounded, bombarding you with a million questions you could barely even make out.

One sharp whistle from the archer reminded your group to haul ass but they did so without leaving your side, Glenn still holding up the poster like it was a holy relic, excitedly chattering your ear away with variations of ‘Why didn’t you say you were famous?’, ‘Who else have you worked with?’ and so and so.

It was a long ride back to the prison, you frozen in the passenger seat with Daryl driving the pickup truck, Glenn and Zach deciding to tag along to continue their impromptu interview session. You had went into auto-pilot, murmuring vague replies and cringing at yourself for being so awkward about the whole thing.

Once you arrived at the prison , the two curious interviewers were ushered off to carry supplies to their respective stations and Daryl put the truck in park. You braced yourself for impact, secretly hoping the world would swallow you up whole right then and there so you wouldn’t have to face the rest of your found family. You stayed put, not even glancing at Daryl when he got out of the car.

The open window failed to serve as a barrier between you and the outside world, but you wanted to savour the last few moments of your dignity while you still could.

The sound of soft knocking against metal broke you out of your trance, only to see the man whose opinion you worried about most standing beside you.

“You gon’ get out of there or what?” He leaned against the side of the car, his eyes crinkling with… amusement?

“I don’t know. Part of me wants to stay here forever, and another part of me wants to take the keys from your pocket, drive out of here and disappear.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He huffed. “Disappear? Why?”

You looked at him, bewildered. “I… did you not… huh?”

He shrugged, giving you a sideways smile. Then he pressed something rolled up into your hand. The feel of glossy paper was hard to miss, and one glance at yours and McAvoy’s warped faces proved your suspicions.

“I made them hand it over to me. Don’t worry, Glenn’s smart enough to know he should keep his mouth shut.”

You stared at him, unblinking, still in a daze. “You…?”

He opened the car door, fully smirking as he leaned closer to your side. “So, tell me… Were you really Spiderman’s girl or was that just a ruse to get them off your back?”

At this point, you were completely and utterly speechless. Daryl chuckled at your uncharacteristic response, “I think that’s the longest I’ve seen you silent.”

“Why aren’t you…?” What could you even say? Why aren’t you surprised? Cringing? Hurt because I lied? Weirded out because I’m not who you thought I was?

He shut your brain up with one sentence.

“You know, if you’re gonna steal someone’s DVD and toss it out, I recommend you either bury or burn it, Miss Christmas Carol.”

“No way.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t Glenn who found it. Trashcan, Y/N, really? Not even chucking it out in the woods?”

“I panicked, okay?! And I was still stuck with pre-apocalypse world morales. I didn’t think littering would do the environment any favours.”

“So that stray walkers wouldn’t stumble upon it and… watch it?”

“Dixon!” You shoved him playfully, finally stepping out of the car as you pushed past him. You heard his laughter even as you tried to put distance between you, not wanting him to see your flushed face.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be embarrassed about.”

“I thought you’d hate me.”

“For what? Being on movie posters? Makin’ a livin’? Hell, woman, I’ve seen worse things.”

“I didn’t want you or anyone having any premature judgments about me. People back then always thought I was either a pretentious brat or, god forbid, a pornstar.”

“You’re not either of those, so why bother?”

“You really don’t care?”

He moved closer to you, looking at you through the pieces of loose hair framing his face. “I’ll be real honest with you—I recognised you the first time we met.”

You gasped, “Oh my god. Daryl fucking Dixon. I did not take you for a movie guy.”

He put his hands up in mock-surrender, “Blame Merle. That Las Vegas show was one of the few things our TV played. He’d be passed out drunk on the couch with your show playing in the background.”

You couldn’t help but snort, “Figures. Shitty cable.”

“Nah, it wasn’t that bad. I thought you looked good on TV… look even better in real life, that’s what I thought when I saw you.” He gestured aimlessly, “You should be grateful you never met Merle, though. Dumb as my brother was, he would’a put ya’ on blast the second he saw you.”

“Why didn’t you?” The simple question escaped your lips before you had a chance to mull it over. It almost sounded accusatory, but Daryl Dixon knew you too well.

“Because I didn’t think it was worth mentioning when you never brought it up. B‘sides… we all have our pasts. I don’t think I’m the same man I was before, thought it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. He shied away from your gaze but you couldn’t help but admire the man before you. It was true, he came a long way from the man he was back when you met him in the quarry. The Daryl before you now was a Daryl who was kinder, less arrogant and—what you appreciated the most—sweeter to you. You chastised yourself for thinking your Daryl would react so harshly; he was nothing like his exterior. The tough, macho, redneck could have fooled anyone, but not you. You knew how emotionally intelligent the man was.

You smiled up at him, leaning a little bit closer to his chest as you did so. Suddenly you felt braver, as if the secret you kept had been weighing you down all along.

“The answer is no.”

“What?”

“No, I wasn’t Spiderman’s girlfriend. I fucked that audition up.”

He snorted. “You know what? I’m kinda glad you did.”

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

gif not mine

Daryl: C’mere.

Y/N, sniffling: You don’t like hugs.

Daryl, holding up one arm: Ain’t never said that.

Y/N, snuggling up against him: …

Y/N: That’s it. I live here now.

Daryl, blushing and scowling: Don’t like hugs.

Y/N: Too late. I’ve signed the lease.

[caffeinesart]

got a new brush set so obviously i had to draw my fav dilf 😌

[ssa-dado]

YES, MA’AM.

Aaron Hotchner x (acting!!!) section chief reader Genre: Angsty (eventually a happy ending, just not the one you’re expecting) featuring one profoundly ill-advised solo performance Summary: The epilogue to Hotch’s first meeting with the Acting Section Chief might best be summarized as Katy Perry’s Firework (2010), regrettably reinterpreted and staged entirely within the confines of a federal bathroom stall Warnings: MDNI!!! Power imbalance, authority kink, masturbation in the workplace (’Cause baby, you’re a firework / Come on, show ’em what you’re worth / Make ’em go, “Oh, oh, oh” / As you shoot across the sky) Word Count: 3.2k (be proud of me) Dado's Corner: Went back and forth til the very last sec on whether to make this a single long os packed with different scenarios, but I ended up loving their dynamic way too much (shocker). So... we are doing multiple installments!! :D Let me know what you think!! And ofc, I owe at least 3 tiramisù (20×30 cm pans) to @sweetheartsocks & @hotchology <33

masterlist

Rumor has it the new Acting Section Chief has just started their six-month stint - or longer, depending on when Mateo Cruz returns from yet another task force.

It isn’t office humor so much as a calendar entry: 15:25, already sitting on Hotch’s schedule, already unwelcome. The sort of appointment he’s been bracing for since the moment he stepped into the bullpen that very morning.

He frankly could not care less about making the acquaintance of this allegedly brilliant ASAC from the New York Field Office, temporarily installed by some higher-up.

Experience has taught him that such appointments rarely justify the investment. If the appointee isn’t staying long enough to exercise real authority, then they certainly aren’t staying long enough to merit the expenditure of time, deference, and strategic boot-licking that Bureau politics so enthusiastically demand.

It is, quite simply, an inefficient allocation of resources. Resources Hotch would much rather reserve for matters of greater urgency.

Namely, the actual work.

Which is why, when 15:25 becomes 15:30, Hotch is still at his desk.

He finishes the paragraph he’s on. Reviews it. Signs it. Only then does he close the folder and stand, straightening his jacket unhurriedly.

He checks the reflection of his hair in the darkened screen of his laptop - not because this meeting has suddenly become a priority, but because the Acting Section Chief is, technically, his superior, and appearances remain a functional currency.

It would still be unwise to begin on the wrong footing.

He reaches for the small pot of orchids he nearly forgot to buy that morning. An administrative courtesy, nothing more - meant to inaugurate the office rather than commemorate the tenure, though even that is likely to outlast the mandate it is meant to mark.

He allows himself a faint smirk at the thought.

Your name is already affixed to the door, pristine, without a trace of wear.

He reads it once. Then again, committing it to memory for the necessarily ephemeral duration of the meeting. If it fails to stick, there will be a matching placard on your desk. Redundancy is reassuring.

He knocks at last.

He has never been late to anything - at least not where his job is concerned. Even now, he takes comfort in the fact that five (more accurately… seven) minutes late is not late enough to warrant remark.

The door opens.

“Agent Hotchner.”

He does not expect you to open the door yourself.

“Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He hopes it will be. Statistically, it rarely is.

You are smiling the same way he is. Polite. Economical. A smile that costs nothing and promises less.

He assumes you will accept the orchids, place them somewhere visible out of courtesy, refrain from asking how often they need watering so as not to appear unprepared, exchange a few lines of administrative small talk, and release him back into the building within minutes.

Efficient. Harmless. No need to sit down-

“Please, sit down.”

You gesture to the chair opposite your desk as you move around it.

…Never mind.

“You know,” you continue, almost conversationally, “no one could stop talking about you and your unit once word got out that I’d been assigned here in Quantico.”

You open a file.

His file. His career. His work. His evaluations. The BAU. His BAU. Familiar enough - except the folder is thicker than he remembers it being the last time someone employed this particular tactic. He briefly considers whether some of it is padding.

Blank pages are an old trick.

“Everyone I spoke to speaks very highly of you,” you add, glancing up. Still smiling.

Hotch cannot immediately determine whether it’s genuine.

He feels, faintly, at a disadvantage. There is nothing in the office to read - no personal effects, no decorative tells, nothing that might suggest how he should calibrate himself to be agreeable, as people so often expect him to do.

The absence of decoration might be deliberate, or it might simply mean you haven’t been here long enough to accumulate them. Either way, it gives him nothing.

“I’m glad to hear the BAU’s reputation preceded us, though I’ve found praise is often situational. We focus on results.”

You raise a brow at that. Disagreement. Not a good sign. “The end justifies the means-”

“Machiavelli.”

You tut. “Not quite. It’s a phrase often attributed to him verbatim, but it’s really a shorthand for a broader idea… that positive outcomes can render morally questionable actions acceptable. Particularly in the exercise of power.”

You glance back down at the file, turning a page.

“Your work appears to adhere to that philosophy far more than it does to the regulations issued by the Bureau, Agent Hotchner. I’ve never seen, in my entire career, a unit with so many… incidents - scandals, if you’ll allow the term. And yet, what everyone insists on discussing are your achievements.”

You’re young… younger. Yes, younger. And yet admirably calm about something that clearly irritates you. You haven’t raised your voice. You haven’t postured. You haven’t tried to loom, the way so many colleagues do when they mistake volume for authority.

Hotch clears his throat.

“The offenders my team and I work with occasionally require… unconventional handling, ma’am,” he says carefully. “And with all due respect, much of what you’ve read are either unsubstantiated reports or matters that have already been resolved.”

You chuckle. “Did you attend the Academy, Agent Hotchner?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what makes me an agent.”

You study him in silence, eyes narrowing just a fraction as you tilt your head. He knows what you are doing. He swallows anyway.

“And they didn’t think to teach you not to waste your superior’s time?”

Ah. So that’s what this is about. Five (seven) minutes… really?!

“I sincerely apologize, ma’am. I had a prior commitment and an urgent report I was required to review-”

“So,” you cut in smoothly, “from what I’m hearing, you’re not only unable to manage your unit, but also incapable of managing your own time.”

“That is not what I-”

“I don’t know what Cruz told you, or what any of my predecessors may have implied,” you continue, entirely unbothered by his polite - definitely polite - attempt to interject. “I don’t know whether strings were pulled on your behalf, or whether years of praise have encouraged the belief that your unit merits special consideration because your criminals are louder, bloodier, or more theatrical. Or whether you’re simply a jackass.”

You lean forward, closing the distance just enough to make it unmistakably intentional. His breath catches before he can stop it.

“But let me be very clear.” You smile. “You are not special, Agent Hotchner.”

He feels tight. His face feels tight. His spine feels tight. His clothes feel tight. But most inconveniently, unhelpfully, it’s his-

“I expect excellence from you because I expect it from everyone I oversee. No more. No less.” You let the words settle before continuing. He feels struck by lightning. “And given that you’re already starting on the wrong footing, it’s more generosity than you’ve earned that I’m even suggesting you correct it now. I am not lenient. Don’t fuck it up.”

Your smile doesn’t fade. He remains seated, and against every instinct that has ever kept him disciplined, he finds himself wishing you might be the one to soothe the very fire you so effortlessly set alight inside him.

(That is quite disgusting, Hotchner.)

“I appreciate your candor, ma’am,” he says, still burning. “If there is any aspect of my conduct, or my unit’s, that you find lacking, I would welcome the opportunity to correct it. Immediately.”

Your gaze drops, at last, to the orchids still in his hands.

“This is more of a piece of advice,” you say, exhaling softly. “Next time you feel compelled to bring a gift to a female superior, I would refrain from flowers. They can come across as… frivolous.”

You look back up at him, not unkindly, thank God… but not indulgently either.

“I’m sure that wasn’t your intent, Agent Hotchner,” you add. “But it’s something to keep in mind.”

He inclines his head at once. “Understood, ma’am. They were intended as a courtesy to the office. Not a personal gesture.”

“See that it stays that way,” you gesture toward the corner of the desk. “You can leave them there, by the way. No need to keep clutching the pot anymore, Agent. Your life is spared… I’m not killing you. For now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Despite himself, he glances down and lets out a genuine chuckle - nervous, if he were forced to categorize it - immediately followed by the belated realization that you are his superior and that any further internal commentary is already drifting into HR territory.

He sets the pot down with care, aligning it with the rest of your desk just enough to look intentional without appearing obsessive, then straightens.

“Good,” you say, rising. “I would have enthusiastically discussed your unit’s budget, but unfortunately - or rather, due to your… flexible interpretation of time - I still have to meet SSA Wright from ViCAP.”

You meet his eyes again. He feels the need to smile at you.

“So I suspect we’ll be speaking again, Agent Hotchner. Preferably on time.”

“Of course.”

He reaches for your hand - not the wisest choice, given the very real risk of betraying himself. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, ma’am.”

Your hand is warm - unexpectedly soft - despite the firm, unmistakably professional grip. You hold his gaze without wavering. Confident. Grounded. Entirely at ease in your authority. He feels smaller by comparison.

Well. Smaller in the ways that matter. And, inconveniently, not at all in others - depending, of course, on one’s point of view.

“I’m afraid my judgment is still pending, Agent Hotchner,” you say, smiling. “But I do appreciate the flowers.”

Even five (seven) minutes (seconds) later, he manages to flawlessly exit your office without further embarrassment. And yet his mind refuses to disengage, looping back to your gaze, to the way you so efficiently - so composedly - reminded him who was in charge without ever needing to pull rank. It feels… electric.

The recollection alone triggers, regrettably, a series of very pressing matters, all arriving at once and demanding immediate attention.

He offers a polite nod to SSA Wright from ViCAP in the middle of the crowded corridor, already aware he’s about to see you again, just as you said he would. With those eyes. That tone.

Yes - by all means, it necessitates an urgent reassessment of priorities. A workflow problem.

He tells himself it’s nothing more concerning than residual adrenaline. A temporary backlog - or perhaps just a log, if you will - that needs to be managed promptly, discreetly, and, ideally, behind a closed door before some decorated agent notices an… excess of enthusiasm, or a camera records his… stiffness of... purpose.

Then he can return to work. Coherently. As usual.

The restroom is mercifully empty. He makes sure of it.

He slips into a stall, locks it - once, twice, a third time, unnecessarily - and exhales. Guilt and self-reproach fail to dull his awareness of the sounds that follow as he loosens his belt, fumbles with the top button of his trousers, and lowers the zipper, the noise echoing with indecorous clarity in the desolated space.

As if he needed the reminder. As if the matter below his navel required any further emphasis.

Hotch offers a fleeting, grateful thought to whatever executive function governs his prefrontal cortex for guiding him toward black slacks instead of gray that morning.

Because now he has no choice but to register the indisputable dampness blooming beneath his zipper - the leak of precum already soaked through his tight white briefs, rendering the fabric diaphanous, outlining the flushed pink crown of his dick straining beneath.

Had his trousers been lighter, the… evidence would have traveled farther than discretion allows, advertising itself to anyone inclined to look.

The thought freezes him in place. Fuck. 

He stares fixedly at the door. Never - not in more than ten hard, long (inches…) years (years, although he wishes those were inches too) of service, commemorated by a brass plaque on the far-left central shelf of his office bookcase -  has he found himself required to manage an internal situation like this inside a federal building, during working hours. 

The precedent alone should be enough to dissuade him. 

And yet.

He closes his eyes, steadies his breathing. His hand closes over the thick outline and he hisses at once, biting the sound back just in time. A bathroom stall, he reminds himself, is not synonymous with privacy.

Certain activities are… acoustically indiscreet. Enthusiasm has consequences, and consequences have a way of giving the game away to anyone unlucky enough to walk in at precisely the wrong moment.

The only mercy, he realizes dimly, is that he’s already close - that this debacle could be over in less than a minute (a fact that is, in its own way, profoundly humbling). 

He shamefully hooks his fingers into his waistband, pulls his cock free of his briefs, and drags the pad of his thumb over the bead of precum gathering at the head, smearing it across the flushed skin, slicking it with his own pearly arousal.

For a second, he lets himself linger on it - indulges in the simple fact of himself in his grip, the weight, the heat, the flicker of something like… pride.

Then context slams back into place.

The Bureau. He - he - is a senior agent of the Bureau. The badge. The oath. The inescapable truth that even here, even now, he represents it. 

He despises himself.

Disgust sharpens his movements. He rushes, spits hastily into his palm, wraps his hand around the thick base with no patience left for reverence. Still, despite himself, his cock twitches at the contact alone, a breathless moan locking in his throat as his hand begins to glide up and down his shaft. 

Slower than he intended, deliberate strokes from his girthy base to the head and back again.

He leans his head back, eyes closing, mouth falling unconsciously open as he gluttonously picks up the pace, just a fraction.

His thoughts drift, unbidden, to the disappointment seething across your face beneath that brittle composure, to the words you threw at him.

The image makes everything go hazy. 

His grip tightens, his pace turns sloppy at the sheer ecstasy of thinking of you - his superior - right now. His fist quickens at the image of you finding out about this breach of protocol, of rules, of decorum. Of you ending his career without hesitation, without even the mercy of a federal pension.

Just the sound of your heels approaching his office - a sound he would recognize instantly - and the instinctive act of opening the door because you are his superior, and that is what one does. Only to be met with those fiery eyes. 

He isn’t certain whether you are skilled enough to conceal the anger simmering beneath your composure, even now. Or whether you would choose not to bother, because you don’t have to. Because you hold all the authority in the room, and he holds none.

A bead of precum lazily works its way down the underside of his cock. He pinches the head between thumb and forefinger. He’s close now. His dick tightens further around his grip; he can see the thick veins along his shaft pulse as the pressure builds.

A strangled sound escapes him at the exact moment the bathroom door swings open.

Footsteps approach the sink area just outside.

His heart stops.

A couple of stalls down, someone is using the restroom exactly as intended. No urgency. No guilt. No shame. Certainly no federal employment implications. The universe, it seems, remains committed to reminding him of proper use cases.

He looks down at the hardness in his hand. His forefinger keeps moving, absentmindedly, circling the head like he hasn’t quite told it to stop.

He bites his lip and pictures you in his office - backing him toward his chair, forcing him down into it, waiting until the last second to let the mask slip. 

He isn’t a man in that fantasy. He’s a piece. Something you move at will. 

He imagines your hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him as you settle onto his lap. Your skirt rides up. You lean in close and whisper in the shell of his ear that he’s not allowed to touch you until you say so. That you’ll use him until you’re satisfied, and discard him when you’re done.

You don’t bother undressing him. You simply take his dick out, already hard, squirming with anticipation. 

He can only infer your wetness from how easily you grind against him, the needy drag of your folds over his aching head. You move slowly on purpose. Taunting. Always composed. 

It’s only when he feels your puffy clit slide against him that you finally falter too. Your mouth parts. Your back arches towards him. He aches to touch you now, just as you look like this. For a moment, you seem unreal - perhaps because you are. A goddess, lowering herself onto him at last-

His teeth sink into his lip as the first spurt tears free. Water starts running at the sink ahead, loud enough - he hopes - to cover the sound that escapes him as his cock pulses again, and again, leaving him completely wrecked.

He both admires and despises the mess you’ve made of him (and, inevitably, of a federal gentleman’s bathroom stall.)

He’s still half-hard as he staggers to the sink, obsessively scrubbing his hands, soap worked into every crease and cuticle. Some part of him is irrationally convinced that penitence might work like this, too.

He braces himself against the porcelain and stares at his reflection. 

A stranger looks back at him. 

The wear etched into his face does nothing to account for the color still burning high on his cheeks, nor the unyielding pressure lodged squarely in his chest. Even the effort to reassert the familiar order of cause and effect fails him. 

So, with no one left to convince but himself, he finally flees the scene of the crime - already resolving to work at least two hours longer than planned, clinging to the vague hope that exhaustion might coax his conscience into forgiving something he still cannot quite believe he allowed himself to do.

“Jesus, there you are.” Dave peels himself off the wall just outside the bathroom. “I was starting to think the Section Chief had you in a chokehold.”

Never, in his half-century on this earth, has Aaron Hotchner given such serious consideration to the immediate risk of apoplexy.

“I saw you head in there,” Dave adds, nodding toward the bathroom. “Figured I’d wait. How’d the meeting go?”

“She might be onto us already. I - I’ll brief you on the key points back in the office,” Hotch manages.

A pat on his shoulder. “You all right, Aaron? You look a little… off.”

Hotch takes a beat to consider his epitaph. It seems prudent to have one ready.

Aaron Hotchner, 49. Beloved father. Occasionally a husband. Decade-long servant of the FBI. Prosecutor of justice. Philosopher of logic.

Too frenetic. Too indulgent. Far too long for a modest headstone - which is, admittedly, his preference.

Aaron Hotchner, 49. Beloved father. Devoted public servant. Prosecutor of justice. Casualty of poor impulse control.

Perhaps a touch too accurate.

He settles instead for a brittle chuckle - the kind he knows Rossi will read as nervous even if he has the good manners to pretend otherwise. “Oh, Dave,” he says. “I really need to start incorporating more fiber.”

Dave hums. “Join the club, Aaron. Fifty’s a cruel mistress.”

Wise words, Dave.

taglist: @aria-chikage ; @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @crying-ang3l ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @thiswildandpreciouslife ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep