You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
summary: After the battle at Rook’s Rest all Gwayne wants is you. Hopefully longing just like he is and cherishing his safe return. And yet he is met with an absence that makes his breath hitch and grim remarks he does not appreciate. Despite being a lord and a noble knight he is also nothing but a man, and how long can a man go without the comforting presence of his wife? And especially a wife who is worth worshipping, every battle and every whispered word of blasphemy?
word count: 5.8k+
a/n: or to put it differently gwayne goes ‘where the hell is my mate with whom i can complain about the greens and their overgrown winged lizards’
“Ser Gwayne?”
He didn’t miss the call. It simply felt irrelevant at this moment, too shallow and meaningless to attract his attention.
Backnoise, perhaps even an annoying one that disturbed Gwayne’s thoughts that were turning more anxious with every second. He didn’t react, focused on scanning the courtyard with his gaze. He furrowed his brows, then grimaced to eventually run a hand over his tired face.
It turned from expressing irritation and discomfort of the travel to a look of deep worry. He could feel his breath growing heavy, barely rhythmic when his eyes moved from one person to another.
Even though he knew and memorized every inch of your face he kept replaying it in his head as if it could help him through the search. The search that slowly started to wear signs of desperation. He suspected that it was caused by the turmoil in his mind that howled and roared ever since he witnessed the huge winged beast on the ground, lifeless.
The closeness of the dragons brought up worry in him and it wasn’t something he cared to be ashamed of.
While brushing through his own hair to stick it back and get rid of the disgusting, sweaty feeling, he thought about your eyes which had a spark in them whenever they found him in a crowd. It was something your husband never got used to fully and it always thrilled him. It was so special that it turned to the main thing he could focus on during the travel back to King’s Landing.
It was the first time in your short years of marriage when he had to march to a true battle.
He imagined how you’d smile with your whole face, a shine of relief washing over you. Your lips would curve gently at first, before he’d gather you in his arms and then the soft greet would turn into a heartwarming laugh. Your lips…
Gods, your lips.
And yet you weren’t here.
The second headman of the Hightower army and Gwayne’s right hand cleared his throat again. “My lord?” He asked louder.
“Ah, yes,” he muttered while breaking out of his trance of worry and madness. “You are dismissed, commander. You did well.”
It was said quieter than he used to speak, not hesitating but not very sure either. He found it hard to focus, only managing to nod at his companion before his gaze shifted to the people gathered around again. Gwayne swallowed a bitter taste on his tongue and straightened his back.
He was falling into unnecessary insanity, surely.
“The men did well too, my lord,” the commander remarked with pride.
Gwayne clasped a hand on his shoulder like the good leader he always tried to be.
“Naturally. We brought a slain dragon’s head with us, after all. You deserve to rest, my friend.”
He couldn’t care less right now if he was honest with himself. You often pointed out his arrogance but lucky for him he also lacked the audacity to mention out loud that the dragon, the victory, the king’s suffering… It all meant very little to him right now.
He spotted the queen with ease. Handing his horse to a stableboy he approached her with his hand clasped behind his back.
“Alicent,” he greeted, probably betraying his outraged frame of mind with the annoyed tone.
He bowed his head. It was respectful enough, he hoped. He had no strength for bending his back, his knees, for ostentatious gallantry and for calling his little sister ‘queen’...
“Brother. I’m happy to see you unharmed and–” she spoke after having a good look at him.
Gods, she really resembled their mother when her eyes travelled all over him like that. It made him clench his jaw and look away from her, searching for you again. He was turning pathetic in it, he feared.
“Where is my wife?” He asked, interrupting Alicent’s words. Silence settled between them for a moment. Either she was unused to such savage manners, let alone from Gwayne, or the question troubled her. “Sister?” He called again when he was left unanswered.
The queen shook her head.
“I haven't seen her,” she said simply. “She is… Well, she is a woman hard to find these days.”
She clearly didn’t grieve that you weren’t her. It could be Gwayne’s own sorrow about it that made him so angry at his sister’s calmness. He breathed in deeply before turning to her.
“You dislike my wife.” It was a statement, not a question, and also not an accusation. Just a fact he found disappointing.
“No. I worry, that's all. She is just–” she cut and blinked at her brother’s unfamiliar expression. The corners of her lips fell further down. “She is of a peculiar character that I failed to notice before,” she explained, almost diplomatically which earned a scoff from Gwayne.
“You dislike her,” he repeated sharply.
“Brother,” she said with firmness that could bring an unruly child to peace. “As I said, I worry. She reminds me of Helaena and that is… It isn’t a good sign,” she said with a sorry face as if she was informing him of his wife’s deathly illness.
“You don't speak about your daughter with much fondness either,” Gwayne pointed out, despite noticing what she tried to say. “Makes me wonder how much of what you see I should put faith in…”
He knew the rationality of your mind. Your wit, your skills and intuition. He would never agree to bring you to a castle so full of viciousness as The Red Keep if he thought you were too fragile to bear it.
“Ser Gwayne.” He heard the voice of Criston Cole behind him which made him realize his tone has risen a bit. More than he wanted. The knight wandered next to him, bowing in front of the queen. “Could that be the truth that your marriage is not as cheerful as you described it to be?” He mocked , certainly recalling Gwayne's lectures.
Malicious cunt. In one moment Gwayne regretted ever mentioning his wife in the presence of a man like him.
“Ser Criston–” Alicent almost choked on her breath while trying to scold the knight, but didn’t find the right words. She turned to Gwayne with a look that could be taken for understanding. “Brother, I see that you worry. You are excused and forgiven.”
“Forgiven for–” Gwayne tried to clarify. Clarify, he told that to himself. In truth he sought an opportunity to argue and release some of his anger.
“Take the queen’s mercy and leave, ser,” Cole said firmly.
It would be below his decency to stay.
Gods, even though you left home with him he wished to see Oldtown as soon as possible again… Suddenly he thought that it could be a mistake. Disturbing your peace so much… On the other hand, if he never offered you would force him anyway. Of that he was sure.
Three months on the road. Alicent always thought you’re heedless and daring. Childish even. What woman with common sense would take up a travel this hard by the side of her lord husband? It was beyond her comprehension no matter how much he tried to understand your reasons. She could appreciate your devotion for her brother, though, and because of that she would never refuse her hospitality to you. That didn’t mean deep sympathy, naturally, and the lack of it was mutual, too.
The queen was faced with her own envy as well when she witnessed you offering comfort to her grieving daughter. You visit in the capital settled on unsteady days full of fear and pain. You were glad that Helaena allowed you to wrap your arms around her gently, even if you had to live under the jealousy of her mother’s gaze.
You felt bad for the dowager queen too. She was too hasty, too expressive in her dislike towards her to make you show compassion. You were also far too well-mannered to show pity.
One way or another, you saw the shadows of vultures that circled over the queen. She wasn't the one with true predatory nature toward the weak perhaps, but you were sure she would gather a harvest of corpses around her anyway. Your only hope was that neither you nor your husband will be amongst them…
You were plagued with the future as much as the past. It was an alliance of both that caused the decision of staying away while the army returned. You should be there awaiting your husband, you knew it but there was this vicious whisper inside you…
Gods, you managed to settle your mind on the matter when you knew it was already too late.
Running through the corridors of the Keep you made a few servants turn after you passed but you no longer cared. You brushed your hair out of your face before leaving the cold walls, stepping into the yard and stumbling onto Gwayne almost immediately.
“Husband,” you mumbled out of breath, too stunned to react properly.
You offered your hand to him, going for a handshake that made him freeze for a moment. It must have been a joke, he thought, but you made no effort to change it. To fix it.
He wanted to move closer, cup your face, smell your hair, remind himself of what true home meant, and here you were offering him your hand to shake.
Gods, no. He was a respectful man, always, but he now almost snatched your hand, leaned down and placed a long kiss on the skin of your knuckles. Not a peck, nothing chaste about it.
You didn’t dare to move and couldn’t help but look at the people gathered around. No one seemed to mind, save for the queen and the man beside her. You turned away as fast as you met her eyes.
Your breath hitched when Gwayne straightened his back and looked you in the face. Your love, your husband that you begged the gods to see again. He looked tired, that you expected, but he was also annoyed. Perhaps it was a mistake and your longing for him led you in the dark; you should have been more patient, stay in your rooms…
“Wife,” Gwayne said with a nod of his head. Only then you noticed he still didn’t let go of your hand. “You look even more delightful than I remembered.”
“It’s only been a few days,” you noticed in a hushed voice.
He grimaced as if you painfully belittled his feelings. Misled by your childhood’s grim experience you thought that it was your voice itself that angered him further. That he was just proper as always, greeting you because he had to before he would drown the memory of the fight in something of his own choosing.
Gwayne wasn’t fond of drinking, he certainly didn’t look around for other women nor he gambled, but in that moment you were sure it wasn’t you from whom he wanted comfort.
You could live with it. Despite the pained look on his face he made the effort to not flaunt it, to not humiliate any of you publicly, so you could do the same. Play the restrained, good wife until he could walk away from you freely without attracting any attention.
“Was the march hard, lord husband?” You asked in the tone of a stranger who made simple conversation.
His eyebrows twitched up at the sound of the title. It was almost unfamiliar coming from you. You, who knew how his name felt on your tongue whispered, cried out, moaned and in laughter… ‘Lord husband’ felt like an insult when he knew how sweet his true name sounded.
“The memory of you made it more bearable,” he answered but the smile didn’t really get to his eyes.
“Oh.” How could you not love him? Even in annoyance and when he wanted to be alone he could play the role of an admirer. “Well, I won't bother you with questions about the battle itself. It must have been horrible.”
He nodded and threw the last look around the yard before offering you his arm. He didn’t understand what in the name of the seven hells was going on but he knew he hated it. Perhaps if you stepped away, stayed in the company of each other.
But you didn’t jump into his arms when you both left, as he wanted. You allowed him to hold your hand, but that was it.
“It is behind us now, dear wife,” he explained to your worried voice. At least it was genuine, that he didn’t doubt. “That is what matters.”
“And that you are unharmed.”
It was strange, made his head spin, that you muttered such careful, lovable words while walking so unsure behind his side. He didn’t fail to notice that you weren’t close enough. Whenever you two strolled together you always rested against him, moved more into him than it was necessary and he adored it. It felt right, having you in his arms. He loved calling himself your husband, your lover, but if he was ever stripped from that he would at least want to be named your protector and supported. That’s how he felt when you showed him so much trust with your actions.
And now your bodies barely even brushed.
Dark thoughts settled in his mind. Did he cause you any pain? Have you heard a vicious rumor about him? Did… Did someone hurt you when he was away?
He called your name quietly, but you spoke up before it could truly get to you.
“Do you wish to have the chambers all to yourself?” You asked, turning your head to look at him. “I can't stay in the garden to offer you some space.”
He matched your gaze slowly, as if he was in pain from his shallow injuries, but it was just the shock. The look on your face seemed small to him, like an intimidated dove, afraid not only of her companion but also her own voice.
You never acted like that.
“I wish for no space,” he declared immediately and couldn’t hold back from moving his free hand up to brush your cheek with his fingers. “You offer strange things, dearest. If it's not too much to ask for, I want my wife's presence right next to me. Caring for me, if she feels strong enough today.”
You nodded and leaned more into his touch.
Gods, so the worry truly blinded you. It was still your Gwayne, after all.
“Of course. I meant no offence,” you explained, partially hopeful he wouldn’t question your behaviour any further. Only if you knew how troubled he was by it.
“And you gave none,” he assured.
“Good. I would love to care for all of your injuries. It will surely calm my nerves, knowing you are in good health.”
But would it really?, he asked himself.
In his common sin of arrogance he lied to himself that he wasn’t easily offended. Yet now he had to admit in front of himself. It struck him painfully.
“You don't seem happy that I'm back,” he noticed eventually while walking. It was a difficult thing to say, as hard as seeing it.
You stopped in your tracks.
“How can you say that? Of course I am.”
He hummed, clearly having a thought about it before stepping in front of you. He took both your shaking hands in his and held them, while lowering his head to you. “Speak to me, wife.”
“B–but I do, don’t I?”
Despite the exhaustion, the dark marks under his eyes and how unruly his hair looked, the lenient smile he put on was honest. There was also a visible fair share of worry in him.
“Something's happened, hasn't it?”
You shook your head, struck by the fact that he turned even more pale. “Nothing, husband, no. You know I would never lie to–”
“Then why are you so afraid?” He asked firmly, never stopping to gently brush your hands.
“I just... I missed you greatly.”
“You did?”
The question rang in your ears for a while. Your husband wasn’t sure if you spoke truthfully about your feelings towards him. You didn’t know if falling into laughter or sobbing was more due in this situation.
Your hands moved, not not only laying in his but interlacing your fingers.
“Yes,” you repeated. “I lived in fear and I was surrounded by strangers, Gwayne. Only the idea of seeing you again kept me sane.”
“I missed you too…”
He almost gave in into leaning closer, bumping your nose with his and resting his forehead against your face. Eventually he held back, too disturbed by your behaviour to let it lay unsolved.
“And yet I'm welcomed with distance and restraint,” he said. “Why?”
“Distance? I–”
But he didn’t let you finish. He moved your hands up to his chest. You could feel his warm breath over your skin.
“Why didn’t you kiss your husband when you saw him? Why didn’t you bless him with your touch if you missed him so?”
He saw your conflicted expression and he couldn’t hold back anymore. Freeing his hands from yours, he moved them to your face. You held onto his wrists gently when he cupped your cheeks like that. Just the way you wanted and dreamed about.
The tears went freely, you no longer tried to stop them when his fingers were placed on your warm skin.
“You terrify me, wife,” Gwayne confessed in a whisper, brushing away some of your tears. “Is it because you try to hide something? If you've experienced any wrongdoing... Gods, I promise that whoever hurt you will pay. Even if I have to go through this whole castle.”
“N–No,” you muttered at once, irritated by how weak your voice sounded. “It’s not that.
He’s never seen you like this before.
“Then…”
“It's my father,” you snapped eventually, annoyed yet glad you got it out of your throat. It was choking you, suffocating for the well part of the day and you had enough.
It should have been enough a long time ago.
“Your father, dove? What about him?”
“He hated it when we waited for him after battles. My mother thought it to be proper and I never understood her stubbornness, but–” The words died on your tongue. You felt foolish, a child again. Gwayne didn’t let you turn your head away from him. “He pushed me and my sisters away when we tried to hug him, and only shared a feast with us to not attract whispers. I suppose all he wanted then was to have a cup of wine and a quiet corner for himself. He was embarrassed by the displays of emotions... I thought–”
“You thought I would push you away like he did,” he said slowly and with understanding.
It sounded stupid, you didn’t even realize how much. You sniffed and took a deep breath to calm yourself.
“Well, I knew you wouldn't but... I felt it somewhere deep under my skin,” you explained and dried the tears on your cheeks. “I couldn't. The shame I felt back then. The feeling like I did something wrong... I couldn't fight it.”
Your husband nodded, taking in the sight of you with pride, not at all unpleased by how shaken up you were. He wasn’t easily annoyed by such things, on the contrary to when he couldn’t understand the situation.
“I see,” he said. He was out of words for a moment when you took his hand from your cheek and placed a kiss on it, just like he did to you every day. “I would never do that to you, you have my word.”
“I know. I always knew it, I just…”
“It is alright, dear. Don’t put me through it again, though. I’m not sure I can take it,” he joked, but there was some true seriousness buried within it. “Can you promise me?”
You smiled at him. Oh, how he missed that. “I can.”
“Good.”
His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. There was no rush in Gwayne’s actions. He touched your hair, took his time in playing with it before brushing it behind. His lips found yours when his hand finally settled at the nape of your neck.
He kissed you like a man who was left without air ever since he saw you for the last time, and yet he still had the strength of his mind to not impose. To not appear desperate, starved, even if all he wanted was to devour every moment of your love that he was given. The thought of pulling back didn’t even cross your mind.
His lips weren’t as soft as usual. Drier from the harsh wind and sun as well as marked by a bruise and poorly cleaned dry blood. He lingered just over your mouth when he was forced to take a breath.
Gwayne pushed his forehead to yours, resting with his eyes closed as his hand still played with your skin and hair. It made you raise your hand as well, gently touching his face, tracing shallow wrinkles and searching for the familiar feeling of warmth caused by an injury.
“We shouldn’t stand here,” you whispered.
“Why, will you complain about the way I smell, or–”
“That’s not what I said,” you cut in and boldly draped your arm around his neck. Gwayne almost purred when you pressed your body against his. “I would never complain about my own husband’s smell, you know that.”
“Gods, you are right,” his voice broke a bit but there was no shame in him. Not in front of you. “You are right, we shouldn’t be standing here. I want you all for myself.”
“And that you shall have,” you promised with a bashful smile. “Just later. Allow me to have a proper look first.”
He hummed in displease when you stepped back to look at him. Only now he realized you were shying away from that before, silly girl…
“Don’t worry,” he spoke when he noticed how your eyes changed when you set them on a bloodied spot on his doublet, uncovered by the plate armor, “Alicent offered to send her maesters.”
It didn’t soothe your nerves and he was a fool if he imagined it would. You only grimaced and nodded in acknowledgment.
“What is it?” He asked, spotting the shift immediately.
“Her servants are…” You clasped your hands together in front of you and sent him an apologetic smile. “Well, the queen is very kind but I would prefer to tend to you myself, if that's not of much difference to you.”
But Gwayne shook his head with a small grin and showed you to keep strolling to your chambers.
“It is a crucial difference,” he said firmly. “I would prefer no other touch than my wife's. The wounds you dress yourself… they always seem to heal better.”
“Do they?” You asked, taking his hand in your again. “Then I suppose true care can do miracles. Thank the gods those are not necessary today. Well, at least not in flesh….”
“Strange times we live in,” he agreed, seeing that you were speaking of the realm’s position.
The realm’s and yours, as those who sat the closest amongst the family of the ruler, either it was Aegon or Aemond now – you weren’t sure.
“You and my sister,” Gwayne spoke up, “ didn’t find much common ground, I see.”
“We don’t hold love for each other, if that is what you ask about,” you admitted, making your husband chuckle.
“For that I had no hope. Still, I thought you might have some comfort in the presence of another… I believe I was very wrong.”
You tightened the grip on his hand.
“I don’t wish to offend you by speaking ill of your sister. She is the queen, after all and–”
“Wife,” he interrupted with fondness, as if to make you realize who’s side he was on. “When I first saw your sorrow today I feared it was her who had done something horrific to you. Now tell me all.”
So you did, even if there were no tragic tales or shaking plots to mention. Gwayne could be a great listener when he wanted and to you he was always.
He opened the door to your shared chamber when you reached it and let you pass. He could already feel his insides aching from how hard you made him laugh.
“So she goes, still not looking at me, now listen–” you cut to clear your throat.
Resting one arm on a nearby desk you clutched the other to the neck of your gown, the way the queen often did, and lowered your voice to match hers.
“I hear you are fond of politics, my lady… I said that local politics, yes, but not the capital one. That is... that is certainly too overwhelming for a woman like me.”
“Mm.” Gwayne sat on the bed without moving his eyes from you.
“And then: Well, I’m sure you are very grateful to my brother then, she says, for allowing you to be involved in it. Politics, she meant, even the local one.”
“Allowing?” Your husband questioned, still trying to fight the smile brought up by your little act.
“Yes! Her words exactly,” you squealed in emotion. “So I replied that if she knows you well, which I don’t doubt she does, then she knows you aren’t fond of all your duties. My husband, I went, is gravely bored by the matter of grains and wheat, let’s say, so to be a good wife I free him of this subject and tend to it myself. And then she gives me a look so dirty as if I just confessed I want to slay Ormund Hightower and take the title of lord paramount myself. Or murder one of her sons, whoever is king now, since I lost count in that…”
Gwayne thought for a while, then waved his hand. “I’m not sure, now that Aegon is… Well, the way he is.”
You quickly moved to his side and occupied the spot nearby. You lowered your voice almost to a sound of conspiracy. “He is not dead, though, is he? People whisper different things…”
“Not dead yet, at least,” he admitted indifferently. “That I can say.”
You frowned for a moment then shrugged.
“You see my point, anyway,” you continued.
“I do. And I know my sister well, I can imagine her killing you with her gaze.”
You nodded like he described it perfectly. “Even your father is less demanding and, gods, backward, than her.”
“He is. Yes, Alicent is…” he sighed while looking for a good word, then smiled and turned to face you. “She’s just Alicent.”
“She is.” It made you giggle. “Now let me prepare some water and clean cloths…”
He was rather properly cleaned up already but you wanted to have a look yourself and make sure he was unharmed. One of his squires came to help you take off his armor, then bowed to you and left.
“You’re staring, Gwayne…” you noticed while struggling with the laces of his green overshirt.
“I am.”
He really had no shame when it came to the things he felt for his wife.
You were already bent forward to see the strips and belts better, almost resting your head on Gwayne’s shoulder. He barely had to move to cup your lips with his and still he made sure to tug you closer, earning a half-swallowed whine from you. You would have fallen, your body collapsing into his, but he gracefully directed you to his lap, making you laugh at how cheeky he could be sometimes.
You didn’t break the kiss nonetheless, and moved against him with matching eagerness. He let out a deep, content sigh and it was the most beautiful sound you have heard in days.
Draping your arms around his neck and shoulders you allowed him to tug you even closer, his own arms caging you, wrapped around your middle. You picked at his lower lip earning a hoarse, pleased groan from your husband. It wasn’t hard and still you could feel the iron taste of blood on your tongue.
“Forgive me,” you said in worry, pulling away and spotting that the bruising opened again. “I’ve forgotten myself–”
But he didn’t care. He tugged you in for another kiss and only calmed down when you rested your chest and head against him. This is where he wished to be ever since they left the camp at Rook’s Rest. Here with your body in his arms.
“You know I found it harder to pray to the gods with every moment I spend away from you,” he confessed. You felt him shiver at the sensation of your breath over his neck. “I could only think about you.”
He moved one hand from your back to pick at his necklace and raised it to his lip. Where his sister wore a sign of religious devotion, Gwayne wore his reminder of loyalty to you. It was poetic in a way, much more romantic than you would ever imagine him to be. Before Gwayne you thought nothing of gestures like that, thinking you would never find happiness with a man like that.
“Stop, husband,” you hushed, brushing the side of his face. Eventually he allowed you to take a wet cloth and slowly run it over his skin. “It is blasphemy.”
“It's you,” he argued. “You are worth every blasphemy.”
What could you possibly say to that? What could you do instead of placing a kiss on his face and making your touch even more gentle? It was bliss, even despite the blood that ran with water and stained your fingers. For a while you could forget about wars, kings and battles that were to come.
The worry laid deeply, though, and the everlasting grim of the Red Keep never made it better. Your husband always noticed it on your face.
“What is it that scares you, dearest? I can see it.”
A sigh left you. “The walls. They have ears and eyes around here. It makes me go mad, husband.”
Some more blood dripped from his lip when he smiled.
“Then I promise to make sure to get you out of here before you start collecting bugs like my niece,” he said jokingly.
“You mock me,” you pointed out sharply and tapped his chest with your finger. “And my worry. too, when it is very adequate.”
“No, love, not at all. I don’t mock you.”
He coughed into his sleeve and made an innocent face. At least he was in a good mood.
“I am only being rational, even if you view it as paranoia. Oh, and trust me, Helaena’s company sometimes feels like she is one of very few sane people around here.”
Gwayne chuckled. “It must be bad if you say it.”
“It is bad. That’s why I pray for the war to be finished. So you can take off your armor for good and we can go home.”
“Not so many innocent lives could be spared?” He suggested.
Frolics.
“That too, of course. And honestly, I never want to see a dragon again. Not close, not far, not at all,” you said with a grimace.
Gwayne sat more comfortably with you in his lap, resting his back on the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment like he was dreaming, and yet it was nothing pleasant.
“The dragons, love,” he mumbled. When he opened his eyes there was nothing but worry in them, like he could recall the fire and death in its every detail even now. “They… Gods, they are nightmares.”
You watched your husband with carefulness, and dried his skin. “Do you wish to speak of it? The battle?”
You saw the hesitation on his face. The way he was questioning if he should bother you or not. Like he was picking between being a husband or a friend and trustee. Choice you never wished him to make.
“Do not offend me,” you said softly, “with the idea that I have not enough courage to bear those things you were forced to face.”
He nodded, yet no word of the battle itself left him at once. He needed time, you knew. Whenever something happened you tended to spend long nights talking about it in bed and you didn’t doubt it would be similar this time.
“We brought the head of the fallen beast…” he said.
“So it's true,” you hummed in awe. “I heard the voices from town. People didn’t like it.”
“No, they didn’t,” he agreed. “Truth be told, I don’t like it either. It stinks.”
“Reeks of a dead dragon? Who would have thought,” you teased ironically, making him stick his fingers more into the flesh on your waist.
“The only advance this place has over Oldtown,” you spoke up again, “is that rumors seem to be more reliable. To those who know how to understand them they are almost always valid. I find that entertaining.”
“Yes? And what did you hear, love?”
“I heard that your cousin is on his way here. And he’s with Daeron, too,” you informed proudly of your discovery. “People already whisper about another dragon.”
But Gwayne’s face fell and he sighed like the weight of the world was just dropped on his shoulders. For a moment you thought that it came from worry about his young nephew, but you finally understood when he spoke up.
“Are we not allowed some time away from him?”
It was sharp, annoyed, and ‘him’ must have been none other than Ormund Hightower.
“You haven’t seen him in months, Gwayne. There are two of us who don’t miss him, but…”
“I see him enough at home,” he remarked then lowered his head to your shoulder. “I’lll have to keep an eye on him when he’s around you,” he muttered.
“What? Do you have no trust in me, husband?”
“Oh, I have all trust in you,” he promised, feeling something bitter even at the thought of his cousin laying his eyes on you. “I just don't want him bothering you.”
You waved it off. “It will be fine. There is no need for you to get angry.”
“Him or his men…” Gwayne kept going.
You rolled your eyes and quickly got off his lap to dry your own hands and pick up the bandages.
“At least we’ll see your nephew again.”
With that he could agree.
“Yes, at least. You're fond of the boy, aren't you?”
“Yes. He’s… “You merely shrugged. “He is different from his siblings, you know? Perhaps Helaena… Well, the future of house Targaryen, I think, lies in Daeron alone. It's good that he's not cruel like his kins…”
Gwayne nodded and moved to stand up, slowly growing restless about the absence of your warmth against him.
“In that you might be just right, my dear. But Ormund… I keep no love for my cousin now that I have you to protect,” he confessed.
“I don't need–”
“I know,” he interrupted quietly and leaned to kiss the uncovered skin on your shoulder. “I know but I would go mad if you didn't allow me to be protective and just a little bit overbearing.”
a/n: you noticed that i made all of those hightowers quite crazy about smells, right? RIGHT? you noticed??
Thinking about Gwayne being the most devoted husband..
He seeks you out everywhere, and in every thing. Knighthood may have taught him to be vigilant and steadfast, always looking over one shoulder to the other, but it doesn’t come close to how quickly he finds you.
His eyes search. Across court, through corridors, from the other side of the courtyard, even mid conversation, his gaze remains on you. Studying, computing, making sure you are alright, for no other reason than because he can.
No matter how many years together, he still treats you as he did when you were his betrothed. But in the sense that his chivalry knows no bounds. Only now, knowing you more. Always walking a step behind you, but with his hand raised to your lower back. Bringing flowers by hand to your solar or chambers when he returns home. Unclasping his cloak from himself to drape it around your shoulders on colder nights. It’s become second nature now.
And he secretly loves when you steal them from him, letting it fall into your hands even when his men eye him from behind. He could care less, so long as you’re the one doing it.
You’re the last person he sees before battles, if the time will allow him. It’s a ritual he has, already in his armour, tucking his helm under his arm before standing in front of you.
“Do you have to go?” You blink up at him, still fussing with the steel placed on his arm.
“You know that I must. I only want to make sure your face is the last I see.” His voice is a delicate rasp, not once tearing his eyes from you as his fingers raise you strike your cheek.
Your hand plants into the metal under your hand, nudging him as he tempts a smile, the action barely knocking him back at all. And then he leans, placing a kiss to your cheek, one longing and lasting, nudging his nose to yours as he breaths. Another one captures your lips, this time more fervent, both palms smoothing to the sides of your face as he draws you near. So that should it be the last, it’s the only thing to remember him by.
Speaking of battle and being taken from you, he brings souvenirs and gifts back with him as often as he can. Pressed flowers in his handkerchief at his breastplate, ones far from what you’re used to, summer flowers, wildflowers, and herbs in vibrant colours. Trinkets and delicate pieces of jewellery that are dainty enough to fit into his pockets. Or simply just the small letters he sends more frequently than he should by Raven.
Always signed with the signature of his name and beneath it:
Forever Yours.
The most protective in the quiet way. Because even if he can’t be beside you, his eye always is. Though jealousy isn’t something strong with him, he is weary of those around him, with full trust and care of you. He had seen how depraved men can be, how ruthless they become with a quick turn. At feasts he pulls out your chair, sliding an arm around you, or settling lowly on your knee, at ceremonies or in large crowds he’s at your side. And when others raise their voice or get too close, he’s slipping impossibly close just to put himself between you and the danger.
Gwayne doesn’t do titles, at least only for the times when duty doesn’t require it, and he introduces you as such. To him you are not just lady.. he speaks your name first, and that alone, before he continues.
“My wife..” A proud smile appearing on his face as he draws you closer to him. Though for whatever reason, he still uses ‘My Lady’ to tease in the softer moments, wrapping his arms behind you as you stand in front of your vanity, lips pursing at your neck. Because the titles and endearments are for you, no one else.
His favourite pastime is just being in the quiet with you, existing together, more so reading. Sometimes he will read with you in his lap, one hand combing gently through your hair as you listen, drifting slowly. Other times he’s the one laid behind you, your back pressed into his chest, his arms curling around you as you hold the book. Those are the rare times he truly feels like he relaxes, eyes closing, breath warm at your neck, listening to the soothing tone of your voice.
He reserves the more lighthearted sides of himself in private. Most people would describe him as plain, a chivalrous, good man, but perhaps in some people’s eyes boring. He doesn’t stand and shout amongst the other men, or become raucous in crowds, but he isn’t without humour. It’s dry, and sarcastic like he is. Like the looks he gives you from the side when a lord drones on too long, or the sly comments he makes behind someone else’s back that make you both laugh when you’re attempting to stay serious. There is more to him than most know, and he’s often mocking them at their own expense, just to see you smile.
When the weight of the realm feels impossibly heavy, he simply rests his forehead against your own, in company or without it. It’s your shared way of grounding one another, and how he vows to you silently, over and over, that he is yours. He’s here to protect, and be by your side more than any other responsibility that befalls him.
“Yours, before all else.”
He says it plainly, a whisper against your lips or into your hair, meant only for you, because by the Seven and his oath, that’s the truest thing he’ll ever believe in.
pairing: bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby(bb)
wc: 18.9k 🚬🚬🚬
contents/warnings: emotional manipulation, emotional neglect in a past relationship, internalised self-blame, discussions of infidelity, grief and loss, emotional dependency, body horror, strong violence, psychological horror, existential/cosmic horror, angstttttt.
notes: This took the pisssssssss. But here it is at long last. So much plot happens in this part it's actually dizzying. Originally wanted to cut it earlier but once you read the ending you'll understand why I pushed to get to it. So enjoy this behemoth and again massive, fat, joosy thank you to everyone for reading, messaging, liking, reblogging and apparently shouting out this series on tiktok??? hello? crazy. you guys are awesome. thank you 💕
📹 better bobby series masterlist.
“That goes on the left.”
“It's on the left.”
“My left. Not your left.”
BB holds the stack of notebooks. Your old ones, filled and dog-eared, the spines cracked from use. He looks at you with an expression of exaggerated patience. Bobby's face doing BB's particular brand of tolerant amusement, the one that says I have existed since before your species discovered fire, and I’m being told where to put stationery.
“Your left and my left are the same left,” he says. “We're facing the same direction.”
“We weren't a second ago,” you argue. “You turned.”
He looks down at his feet, then at the shelf. Then at you. His mouth twitches.
“Fine,” he says, and moves the notebooks to the other side of the shelf with the slow, deliberate care, making a point about how cooperative he's being. “Your left.”
“Thank you.”
“You're a tyrant,” he huffs, even though his eyes crinkle as he says it.
“I'm an organised tyrant.”
The apartment hums around you.
That's the thing you still can't quite get used to. The hum is different here. Not the flat, fluorescent drone of Level 0's hallways, that ambient pressure that sits on your skin like a low-grade headache. This is warmer. Rounder. A sustained note that lives in the walls the way heat lives in a radiator, and it fills the rooms, plural, with doors and corners and a kitchen with a window that faces a corridor that BB has done something to.
Strange and inhuman, so that the light that comes through the glass looks like late afternoon in the Santa Clara Valley, even though there is no afternoon here and no valley and no sun.
BB built this for you.
A hallway that hadn't existed. A doorway where a wall once stood. He carved a sublevel out of Level 0, the way you'd carve a space inside a block of wood, and what emerged was this: an apartment. Your apartment. Not a copy, not the uncanny almost-right, but a reconstruction built from the details he absorbed through the wall over months of listening and your own memories. The layout of the kitchen. The position of the bookshelves. The height of the counter where you used to lean while Bobby stood at the sink.
It's not identical. It can't be. Some details Backrooms can’t render right, some he interpreted rather than reproduced, and there are places where his understanding of home and yours diverge in ways that are quietly alien. The windows don't open. The bathroom has no mirror. The bookshelves are organised by colour, the way you described to him once, and seeing your preference rendered in physical space by something that remembered a passing comment had made your throat tight in a way you couldn't name.
He started building it after the agents.
You don't like thinking about the attack. Your body remembers it better than your mind does.
You remember the impact. The floor. A pressure on your chest that felt unbearable, like the air itself had solidified, and a pain in your shoulder that burned white and erased thought. You remember voices—clipped, tactical, coordinated, the language of people who had trained for this—and then BB's arrival.
You don't remember what happened to the agents. BB recounted what happened later, in clipped sentences, his jaw tight, his eyes carrying a darkness that took hours to fully recede, that there had been six. Human. Armed. Organised in a way that suggested training and resources, and a purpose that went beyond casual exploration. The encounter had been resolved.
He didn't elaborate on resolved. You didn't ask.
After that, BB locked Level 0 down. You felt it happen even as you clung to him after the attack, a shift in the hum, a tightening, like a fist closing around the entire level.
The corridors that used to carry the occasional lost wanderer, the stray explorer who stumbled in from Level 1 and stumbled out again, are now sealed. Thresholds that had been porous became walls. Doors that had been doors became surfaces. BB walked the perimeter for three days straight, and when he came back, his eyes were fully black, and the warmth took a long time to return, and the message was absolute: nothing gets in.
Nothing human, nothing inhuman, nothing with a weapon and a tactical vocabulary and the coordinates to find the corridor where you bled on the floor. Level 0 was his. Level 0 was yours. And the only things moving through it now were the two of you and the hum and whatever BB decided to allow, which was nothing, which was no one, which was the total and permanent closure of a territory around the person inside it.
You healed. Your lip closed over, your bruises receded. BB fussed over you, his face tight with concentration that you gradually recognised as fear. Not fear of the wound. Fear of what the wound meant. That you could be reached. That the corridors he'd taught you to walk and the levels he'd shown you and the notebook full of careful shorthand hadn't been enough to keep a human with a weapon from putting you on the ground in a place he'd told you was safe.
He'd been different since. Not colder, exactly, the warmth was still there, the hand on yours, the chin on your shoulder while you sketched. But warier. His attention, already vast, had developed a new layer, a peripheral vigilance that never fully shut off, a constant low-level scanning that you could feel the way you felt the hum.
He checked the corridors before you entered them now. He checked rooms you'd been in a hundred times. And he'd built this place—the sublevel, the apartment, the nest within the nest—and the message was clear even if he never said it aloud. Deeper. More hidden. Harder to reach. A space carved into the architecture of Level 0 itself, tucked beneath his territory the way a vital organ sits beneath the ribs.
You've been here a while.
Long enough that the first notebook is full and the second is two-thirds gone and the third is waiting on the shelf BB just stacked, its mottled cover still crisp.
Long enough that you've mapped Level 0 in its entirety, or as close to entirety as a place like this gets, and made partial notes on multiple other levels. Some detailed, some no more than a page of warnings and a rough sketch. It’s been long enough that your handwriting has changed. Gotten smaller, tighter, more efficient, conserving space the way you conserve everything here.
And long enough that the thing on the perimeter has become a permanent entry in the notebook. Updated weekly, the symbol you invented for it—a circle with a line bisecting it, unknown entity, behaviour unclassified—appearing on more pages than any other annotation.
It's still circling. Still testing. Running its vast, patient intelligence along the boundary of BB's territory and pulling back before contact. You've taken to calling it Entity X in your notes permanently, a placeholder designation, because giving it a real name would make it more solid, and it's already solid enough.
You can feel it sometimes. Not the way you feel the hum or BB's presence, but as an absence, a hot spot at the edge of perception, like turning your head toward a sound that stopped just before you heard it.
BB doesn't talk about it.
That's how you know it's bad. BB talks about Smilers with contempt and Howlers with mild annoyance, and the locked-down perimeter with the grim satisfaction of a thing that sealed its borders and dares anything to test them. He talks about the agents with a clipped exactness that betrays how much it shook him.
But Entity X gets silence. Gets the jaw-tightening. Gets the moments you've started cataloguing in a private section of the notebook that you don't label. The mornings when he's already awake when you surface, sitting at the edge of the nest with his posture too rigid and his eyes too dark, focused on a distance you can't perceive. The nights he disappears and comes back with the face not quite set, the edges sharp, the wet-paint quality that means he dropped Bobby to deal with whatever he found and hasn't fully climbed back in yet. He smooths over it. Deflects. Does the half-grin and the shrug and the it's handled that you've learned to read as I don't want you to carry this.
You let him think it works. You watch him reassemble his composure over breakfast, and you don't push. You don't pry. You simply add another entry to the private section, which is getting longer. The circle-with-a-line symbol fills the margins like a recurring dream.
Long enough that the thought of leaving has shifted from a wound to a question.
You think about it. Still. Not every day—not the way you did in the beginning, when it was a constant screaming pressure behind your ribs—but in the quiet moments, the ones between mapping and walking and BB's hand on yours. In the pauses. You'll be sketching a corridor junction, and your pen will stop, and you'll look at the lines on the page and think: I could navigate this now.
Not all of it. Not the deep levels, not the places BB won't take you. But the paths between 0 and 1, between 1 and the threshold levels, the routes that thread through the safer territories. You know them. You've walked them, mapped them in your own shorthand and committed the landmarks to memory. You’re no longer the woman who fell through a wall and couldn't find her way back. You could find your way back. Probably. If you wanted to.
If you wanted to.
The if is the problem.
The if sits in your chest like a stone, and you can feel its weight when you breathe, and you don't examine it too closely because examining it means confronting what's underneath. That the woman who fell through the wall wanted to go home with a desperation that burned, and the woman standing in a reconstructed kitchen organising shelves with an ancient entity is not sure she does anymore. Not because home stopped mattering. Because here started mattering too.
You feel loved here.
The admission lives in the back of your skull like a low-grade fever, always present, never quite articulated.
You feel loved. BB needed you before he loved you, or whatever the equivalent is for a being that predates human emotional language. But loved, in the clear, daily, accumulative way that love manifests when it's not grand gestures and declarations but shared laughter and proximity and a hand that finds yours in the dark without being asked. BB loves you pervasively, from every direction at once. And you’ve started to love him back, and the loving feels like betrayal, and the betrayal feels like breathing, and you can't tell anymore which one you're supposed to stop.
It's selfish. You know it's selfish. Somewhere on the other side of the wall there's a world you belonged to, a life with your name on it, and you're standing in a facsimile kitchen letting an inhuman thing shelve your notebooks and you're happy, or close enough to happy that the difference doesn't register, and the selfishness of that—choosing comfort over confrontation, choosing the being who stayed over the man you'd have to face—sits in your stomach like acid.
You don't say any of this. You lean against the kitchen counter, and you watch him arrange the shelf and try not to notice the tension he thinks he's hiding.
It's in his hands. The notebooks are stacked neatly, but his fingers linger on each spine a fraction too long before releasing, and there's a quality to BB’s movements—too measured, too controlled—that you've learned to recognise as the aftermath of a bad patrol.
He'd been out this morning. Before you woke. You'd surfaced to find the nest empty, and you'd lain there tracing the impression of his body in the fabric and counting the minutes until the hallway produced him again. And when it did, his face was smooth, and his smile was easy. He'd said morning, baby with the half-grin. You'd said morning, and neither of you mentioned that his eyes were still a shade too dark, that the blue was slow in rising, that whatever he'd encountered at the perimeter was still sitting behind his expression like sediment that hadn't fully settled.
He's protecting you from it. The way he shields you from the worst of the corridor checks, the way he smooths Entity X into a vague it's fine, it's the same, nothing's changed whenever you ask directly. He carries it alone because carrying it is what he does, because shielding you is coded into whatever he is at a level deeper than the face, and the tenderness of that instinct and the frustration of being managed by it exist in equal measure inside your chest.
You watch his hands on the shelf. You watch the tension he thinks is invisible.
The hum holds you both in its warm, low frequency, and somewhere from the apartment, the music starts.
A crackle of static first, the particular pop and hiss of a record that's been played too many times, and then the melody. Slow. Sweet. Old in a way that feels intentional, like the Backrooms reached into the past and pulled out the exact song designed to make your chest ache.
Vera Lynn. The voice is warm and rounded and impossibly clear for a moment, every note landing clean, and then the Backrooms stutter—a glitch, a skip, the audio hiccupping like a record needle jumping a groove—and the word when stretches, distorts, hangs in the air a fraction too long before the melody catches up to itself and continues.
—but I know we'll meet again some sunny day—
Another glitch. The word sunny fractures, splits into overlapping copies of itself that pile up for half a second (sunny sunny sun-n-ny) and then resolves, the song smoothing back out like water closing over a dropped stone. The crackle persists underneath. A warmth to the distortion, like listening to a broadcast from very far away, like the song is travelling through miles of wall and wire and yellow to reach you.
You go still.
Your hand rests on the counter. The song fills the apartment, and you feel yourself drift. Not physically. Internally. The song pulls at the room in the back of your chest, the one where the Thursday morning lives, the one where Bobby said stay and the sheets were gold, and the phone rang, and he ignored it because his mouth was on yours.
Keep smiling through, just like you always do—
A skip. Always repeats, layers, becomes a brief chorus of itself before the record unsticks and Vera Lynn carries on, serene, unruffled, singing about reunion to a woman standing in a place where reunion might be impossible.
You stare at the window. The fake Santa Clara light falls across your hands on the counter, and it's warm, it's exactly the right warmth, and the song is playing, and you are thinking about the front door of your real apartment, the one with the sticky lock that Bobby always meant to fix. The sound your keys made when you set them on the table by the door. Whether anyone has fixed the lock since you've been gone, or whether it's still sticky, waiting for your hand on the knob, waiting for you to come home and jiggle it the way only you knew how—
“Hey.”
BB's voice. Close. You blink. He's in front of you—when did he move?—and his head is tilted, his eyes searching your face. That total-attention read, line by line. He sees where you went. He always sees it. He can track the exact moment your gaze goes internal, the instant when the woman in front of him leaves the room, and the woman who misses Bobby takes her place.
He doesn't ask. He doesn't say are you thinking about him or do you want to talk about it or are you okay. He does something else instead.
He holds out his hand.
Palm up. Fingers open. The same gesture he made at the old nest, except the context has shifted, the weight of it is different now, heavier, more layered.
His eyes are warm, and his mouth is soft. Vera Lynn sings through the walls and glitching on the word again (a-a-again), and BB stands in a kitchen he built for you with his hand extended, and the look on his face says come here, come back, I know where you just went, and you don't have to stay there.
You seize his hand in yours.
He pulls you in. Gently. Your chest against his. His hand settles at the small of your back. Low, warm, the heel of his palm resting against the base of your spine, and his other hand keeps yours, lifting it, positioning your joined hands at shoulder height, the way you showed him.
You've been teaching BB to dance.
It started as a joke, a throwaway comment about how Bobby had two left feet and you'd tried to teach him once. He'd stepped on your toes, called dancing vertical suffering, and refused to try again.
BB had tilted his head. Asked questions. And the next evening, he'd stood in the middle of the living room with his arms stiff and his weight wrong and said show me, and you'd laughed but taken his hands and spent an hour teaching him a basic box step while he moved with the mechanical precision of something that had studied human motion extensively and participated in it never.
He's better now. Not fluid, not quite natural, still carrying that faint quality in his movements, the angles a half-degree too clean, but better. He can hold the frame. He can follow the tempo. Can move you through the small kitchen space without stepping on your feet.
'Til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away —
The song glitches. Dark clouds becomes d-dark cl-clouds, a stutter that sounds like the record is caught in a groove, cycling, and then it releases, and the melody continues, and BB turns you slowly in the kitchen light.
You look up at him.
He's looking down at you. Bobby's face, close, the chain at his throat catching the warm not-sunlight, the earring a small bright point at the edge of your vision. His expression is—
You've run out of words for BB's expressions. The early ones had names: Bobby's grin, Bobby's smirk, Bobby's mock-wounded outrage. But BB has been building his own vocabulary of expressions on top of Bobby's, small deviations from the blueprint, micro-adjustments that belong to him and only him, and the one on his face right now is entirely his.
He smiles at you.
Small. Crooked. Genuine.
Bobby's grin was a performance, a weapon, a thing deployed with intent. This is quieter. Lopsided. One corner of his mouth lifting slightly higher than the other, the asymmetry creating warmth. It's the smile of a thing that learned to smile by watching a man smile and then, slowly, over months, forgot to copy and started to mean it.
You gaze at each other.
BB's hand is warm at your back, and your hand is in his, and you're standing close enough that you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, dark against the blue, and the small scar on his jaw, and the way the not-sunlight catches the fine grain of his skin. Which is perfect. Which is too perfect, and has no imperfections except the ones he chose to replicate, and even those are too intentional, the blemishes of a face that was designed rather than grown.
You should look away. The tension is building in the space between your bodies the way static builds before a storm, and you should look away because looking at BB like this, in this light, with this song, is a door you're not sure you can close once you walk through it.
You don't look away.
BB's gaze drops.
To your mouth.
It's not subtle because BB doesn't do subtle. His eyes fix on your lips and stay there, and you can feel the weight of it, the physical pressure of being looked at that intently by something that ancient. Like a beam of light concentrated through a lens until it burns.
His breathing changes.
He doesn't need to breathe. You know this. You've known it for a while. The breathing is performance, a courtesy, a piece of the human costume he maintains because the alternative would unsettle you. But right now, in the kitchen, with his eyes on your mouth and the song glitching softly around you (we'll meet a-a-again), his chest expands and contracts, the air leaving him in a slow, uneven exhale, pushed out rather than released. Like whatever is happening inside him right now is too large for the shape to hold without venting pressure.
“Can I—” he starts.
Stops.
BB’s jaw twitches, that muscle at the hinge. His eyes are still on your mouth, and his hand tightens at your back. A fraction, barely perceptible, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and his throat moves. A swallow. Another borrowed gesture, another piece of human machinery he doesn't need, except right now it looks involuntary. It looks real.
“Can I,” he rasps again, even quieter.
His voice has dropped into that low register, the one that carries the hum's harmonic underneath it. Not the ancient-thing voice. Or the vast, reverberating frequency he uses when something threatens his territory. This is… smaller. Almost shy. A resonance that sounds like it's coming from a place BB didn't know he had.
He trails off.
The kitchen is quiet. Vera Lynn has gone silent. The song caught in a glitch, a held note, the record spinning in a groove that won't release. Only sounds are the hum, BB's unnecessary breathing, and your own heartbeat, too loud in your ears.
"What do you want?" you ask, barely above a whisper.
You can feel the tension in him through your palm on his shoulder. Not the coiled readiness he carries in dangerous corridors. A different kind. A vibration, running through the muscle and bone of a body that is not muscle and bone. That is something else entirely, wearing the shape of a man who is shaking because he wants something and doesn't know how to take it without being taught.
BB makes a sound.
Low. At the back of his throat. A sound that lives in the space between a groan and a hum, that carries a wanting so raw it barely fits through his vocal cords. Throaty. Needy. And underneath it—beneath the borrowed voice, beneath Bobby's timbre and the human costume—a vibration that is entirely and unmistakably other. Primal.
His hand lifts from between your bodies. Unsure. His fingers drift upward, and his thumb finds your mouth. Presses against the swell of your bottom lip. Gentle. Barely there. The pad of his thumb traces the curve of it the way he traces the edge of a doorway when he's reading a room, with that same focused attention, that same reverent precision.
“A kiss,” he whispers.
His eyes lift from your mouth to your eyes. His thumb stays on your lip. The wanting on his face is so naked, so unperformed, so completely stripped of Bobby's armour and BB's composure that it makes your breath catch.
“You taught me to dance,” he goes on, the words coming out unevenly. Hushed. His thumb moves against your lip, the faintest drag, back and forth, and his eyes are dark and wide. The ancient thing behind them is nowhere to be seen. What's looking at you is just BB, just the being you named in a meadow, wanting something human with a desperation that borders on heartbreaking. “Teach me this. Teach me how to—” His breath shudders. Not a performance, a malfunction. A system overwhelmed. “How to do it right. I want to do it right. For you.”
Your breath hitches.
The conflict is a living thing in your chest, a creature with teeth and a heartbeat, pulling in two directions at once.
Bobby's mouth on yours on a sunny morning. BB's thumb on your lip in a kitchen that shouldn't exist. The man who kissed you like he invented it, and the being who is asking permission to learn how to. The love you carried through the wall and the love that grew on this side of it, stubborn and impossible and real, and the guilt, the guilt, the guilt that says this is betrayal and the counter-voice that hisses betrayal of what? Of a man who grunted at your goodbye? Of a love that was already starving when you left?
You want this.
The wanting is its own answer. It sits in your stomach, hot and undeniable, and it doesn't care about the guilt, and it doesn't care about the conflict. It doesn't care that the mouth hovering near yours belongs to a thing that heard you through concrete and chose to wear the face of the man who broke your heart.
You want this. You want him. BB. Not the face, or the copy, not the better version of someone else, but the thing underneath. The one who learned your name, kept your promise, built you a kitchen, and is standing in it now with his thumb on your lip, his body shaking, the word please forming on his tongue.
“Please,” he breathes, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip one more time. Feather-light. And his face is so soft, so open, so wrecked with the rawness of wanting something he's never had that the word comes out like a prayer. "Please."
You don't stop him when he leans in.
His lips brush yours.
The lightest possible contact. The surface tension of a kiss, the moment before it becomes one, and the touch is tentative. So fragile, and so different from every kiss you've ever experienced that your body doesn't know how to categorise it.
Bobby kissed like he was claiming, savouring. BB kisses like he's asking, begging. His mouth hovers against yours, barely touching, a question held in the millimetre of space between his skin and yours, and you can feel the tremor in his lips. He's shaking. Fine, continuous, a vibration that you feel more than see, and his breath—the breath he doesn't need—washes over your mouth in a warm, unsteady exhale.
Then the contact lands. Full. His lips press to yours, and the sensation is—
Heat.
Beyond warmth, beyond the gentle building of a slow kiss. A current that slams through your entire system, starting at the point of contact and radiating outward through your jaw, your throat, your chest, and the base of your spine. It's not natural, it can't be natural, because the body against yours is not a body and the mouth on yours is not a mouth, not really. It's the surface expression of something vast and old and powerful, and that power is in the kiss, threaded through it like voltage through copper, and your nervous system lights up like a circuit completing.
BB is worse.
You feel it happen. His skin, always cool, always that slightly-below-human temperature that you've gotten used to, goes hot. A flush of warmth that starts at his mouth and spreads, radiant, through his jaw and his neck and the hands on your body. His cool skin warms beneath your lips like metal left in the sun. Like the contact between your mouth and his is generating a heat that his body was never designed to process.
He makes a sound against your mouth. Soft. Greedy. A small, desperate noise that vibrates between your lips, and he can't stop it. You can tell. Because you can feel the way his jaw tightens and his breath catches. Like he's trying to contain it and failing, the sound escaping anyway, involuntary, the noise of someone encountering sensation for the first time and being unmade by it.
You tilt your head. Change the angle. Show him.
He follows. Quick, eager, that same devouring attentiveness he brings to every lesson. Your angle becomes his angle, your pressure becomes his pressure, and the speed at which BB adapts is inhuman. Seconds instead of minutes, the learning curve of a thing that absorbs information through contact.
Your lips part, just barely, and his mirrors the movement, and the kiss deepens, and BB's hand slides up your back and grips, bunching the fabric of your shirt between his fingers. The sound he makes this time is louder. A sigh that cracks open midway through and becomes a groan, low and shaking, shot through with that sub-harmonic frequency that you feel in your teeth.
His other hand finds the side of your face, cups your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone, and his mouth moves against yours. He's learning. You can feel him learning, cataloguing each shift in pressure, each tilt, each breath, mapping this the way you mapped his corridors, with hunger and the desperate focus.
You run your fingers through his hair. BB shudders. A full-body tremor, head to feet, and the sound he makes is a wrecked, bitten-off thing that lives somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and his forehead drops against yours, and his mouth chases yours, his fingers tightening in your shirt.
When you finally part, his mouth follows yours. An inch. Reluctant. Not wanting the distance.
His forehead rests against yours. His breathing is ragged. Unnecessary, performative, and completely out of his control, great shuddering exhales that fog the negligible space between your faces. His eyes are closed. The lashes dark against his flushed skin, which is still warm, still radiating that unnatural heat, and his lips are parted, and his expression is—
Ruined. That's the word. He looks ruined. Taken apart at the joints and not yet reassembled. Every layer of composure stripped away. Bobby's armour, BB's own careful vaneer, the ancient thing's vast indifference. All of it gone, peeled back, and what's underneath is just this: a being, shaking, in a kitchen, with the taste of you on a mouth he built to say your name.
“Am I doing it right?” he whispers shakily, slightly dazed. “Was that good?”
His eyes open. Find yours. And the expression in them is so earnest. So genuinely concerned that the answer might be no, that he might have gotten it wrong. That the thing he wants more than anything he's ever wanted might be the thing he's worst at, that your chest cracks along an old fault line, warmth flooding in.
You smile. Your nose bumps his.
“You're a very eager student,” you murmur, your voice thick. Roughened.
The heat still sits in your veins, humming through the places where his mouth was, and the words come out low and warm but certain.
BB's face transforms.
The worry dissolves. What replaces it is satisfaction. Feline. Deep. The slow, spreading pleasure of a thing that’s been told it succeeded at the one task it cared about. And the expression settles onto Bobby's features in a way that is entirely BB's. Not the cocky grin, but quieter, more private, enormously pleased, a contentment so total it rearranges his face into a shape Bobby never wore.
He leans in. Presses his lips to your forehead.
Gentle. Unhurried, lingering. His mouth is warm against your skin, and you feel the hum transfer through the contact. That low, steady vibration, his frequency, the sound that lives in his chest and translates through his mouth into a pulse that settles behind your sternum like a second heartbeat.
He holds the kiss there. Two seconds. Three. His hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers in your hair, and the gesture is so tender and so completely his that the breath leaves your body in a long, slow exhale.
You close your eyes. Lean into it.
Bobby never used to kiss your forehead.
Bobby kissed your mouth, your neck, the spot below your ear that made you gasp. Bobby kissed with intent, heat, and skill. Bobby kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and wanted you to know he knew.
But the forehead—that quiet, unhurried, undemanding press of lips to the place above your eyes—that was never in Bobby's vocabulary.
It was too tender. Too unperformative. Too much like a devotion and not enough like a statement. Bobby declared. And the soft devotional gesture of forehead to forehead, mouth to brow, the kiss that says I cherish you instead of I want you—that was always one of the doors Bobby bricked up, one of the tender things he couldn't do because doing it would've meant admitting the size of what he felt, and Bobby's whole life was an exercise in pretending the feeling was smaller than the room.
Vera Lynn unsticks from her glitch, and the last notes of the song drift through the apartment like smoke (some sunny d-day), and you are here. In a kitchen that was built for you by something that heard you cry through a wall.
You lean into lips gentle against your skin and close your eyes.
BB pauses at the threshold of the apartment.
He does this now, the pause, the backward glance, the half-second where his body is already oriented toward the corridor but his attention is still tethered to you.
It started after the first kiss. A new subroutine in him, a step added to the departure sequence that wasn't there before, and you've watched it develop over the past few days.
“Perimeter check,” he calls out casually. The half-grin flashes. “Back soon.”
You cross the kitchen, pressing your lips to his cheek. A quick, light contact, the kind of kiss that says be safe without saying it.
BB's hand catches your chin.
His fingers close around it,, his thumb and forefinger framing your jaw the way he'd frame a shot if he were Bobby, if he had a camera, if the instinct that lives in those borrowed hands were pointed at a lens instead of at your face. He tilts your head. Tips it up. Holds you exactly where he wants you.
And he kisses you.
Full, wet, unhurried, his lips parting against yours with a confidence he didn't have two days ago in the kitchen. He's been learning, replaying, refining, the way he refines everything, and the kiss he gives you now is deeper than the first, more certain, carrying the heat that slammed through both of you the first time and has been simmering since, banked but not extinguished. His tongue brushes your lower lip. His fingers tighten on your chin.
He makes that sound again. The low, needy one, the one that lives at the back of his throat with the purr, and he tries to swallow it, almost, but not quite.
BB pulls back. A centimetre, his mouth hovering.
“Was that okay?” he breathes out, his breath on your lips. His eyes search yours with that earnest, slightly worried focus. Still checking, treating every escalation like a threshold he needs your permission to cross.
You nod. You don't trust your voice. You stay close, your forehead almost touching his, breathing the same air, and the hum in the walls dips low and warm around you.
BB presses his lips to your forehead. Holds them there.
"Stay," he murmurs against your skin.
Then he's gone. The hum adjusts, tightens, and you're alone in the apartment with the ghost of his mouth on your brow and the taste of him on your lips.
You decide to sort the nest to kill time.
It doesn't need sorting, really.
BB arranges it with a precision that borders on pedantic, the blankets layered in an exact order, the pillows positioned at angles he's adjusted over weeks of watching how you sleep. But your hands need occupation, and your brain needs distraction, because the kiss is still on your mouth, the taste is still there, and the wanting is a warm, heavy thing in the pit of your stomach.
And if you don't move, don't work, don't put your hands on fabric and fold, you're going to lie down on this bed and think about his fingers on your chin and his tongue on your lip and the sound he made, and you can't afford to be that soft right now. Not while he's out there. Not while Entity X is out there.
You refold the top blanket. Smooth the creases. Adjust the pillow on the left side—your side, the one that holds the impression of your head—and reach for the second pillow, the one on BB's side that he doesn't need but uses because you told him beds have two pillows and he'd looked at you with that tilted curiosity and said why? and you'd said because that's how it works and he'd said that's not a reason and you'd said because it means someone else sleeps here too and he'd gone quiet for a long time and the next morning there were two pillows.
You're smoothing the second pillowcase when you hear it.
Your hand stills.
“—not about that, can you just—”
Your voice. Your own voice, coming from somewhere beyond the apartment walls, floating through the hum the way Vera Lynn had floated. Sourceless, directionless. Except this isn't music. This is you. A version of you from before, the you that existed on the other side of the wall, and the sound of your own voice reaching you from the yellow makes your blood slow in your veins.
“—I'm just asking if we're okay, Bobby, that's all I'm asking—”
And then his. Bobby's. The real Bobby, the original, the voice you haven't heard in—
You don't know how long. Months. Maybe onger. And the sound of it hits you in the sternum like a fist because it's exactly the same, the same timbre and cadence, the same tired dismissive flatness that used to make the back of your throat burn.
“We're fine.”
Two words. Tossed over his shoulder. The verbal equivalent of a shrug, of a turned back, of a man already looking at the television while his girlfriend stands in the kitchen with her hands gripping the counter and her chest full of words she's running out of courage to say.
“You keep saying that, but you don't—Bobby, can you look at me? Can you just—”
“I am looking at you.”
“You're not. You're looking at the screen. I'm asking you to turn around and actually—”
“What do you want me to say?" And there it is—the edge. The blade that lives under the casual, the sharp thing that comes out when he feels cornered, when the conversation is moving toward a territory he doesn't want to enter. Not anger. Worse than anger. Impatience. A man who’s decided this conversation is unnecessary before it started. “We're fine, babe. I'm here. What else do you want?”
“I want you to talk to me—”
“I'm talking to you right now. Stop trying to turn this into a fight.”
“That's not—Bobby, that's not what I mean, and you know it.”
Silence of a man who’s already disengaged follows, who’s pulled the drawbridge up mid-conversation and is now sitting behind his own walls waiting for you to exhaust yourself against them. You know that silence. You lived inside that silence for months. You drowned in it.
You set the pillow down. Your hands are trembling.
You know you shouldn't. Your instincts are screaming loudly. The animal brain hisses warnings. The brain that’s spent months learning the rules of this place and the first rule, the foundational rule, the one BB drilled into you before he taught you anything else, is stay in the nest. Stay in the apartment. Stay inside the protection he carved for you out of Level 0's guts.
But your voice is out there. Bobby's voice is out there. And the sound of that exact conversation—that devastating, ordinary conversation, the kind you had a hundred times, the kind that ended with you staring at the ceiling at two AM—is pulling at you the way gravity pulls.
Not curiosity. Recognition. The lure of an old wound being reopened.
You step out of the apartment.
The corridor beyond the front door is yellow. Long. The sublevel hallway that connects the apartment to the main body of Level 0, the passage BB carved like a throat between his territory and yours.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead in that flat shadowless drone, and the hum is steady, even, unchanged. Nothing looks wrong. Nothing feels wrong, except that your voice is coming from the far end of the corridor, from beyond the doorway where the sublevel opens into Level 0 proper, and the conversation is continuing, rolling forward, playing itself out like a recording that doesn't know it's being listened to.
“—I feel like you don't even notice if I'm here or not. Bobby, do you notice? Do you notice when I'm standing right in front of you?”
Your eyes burn. The lump in your throat is solid, immovable, sharp-edged. You walk toward the sound. One hand trails the wall, and your bare feet are silent on the carpet, and the conversation beyond pulls you forward step by step.
“You're being dramatic.”
The words hit you like a slap. Not because they're new. Because they're not.
Bobby said that. Bobby said those exact words, in that same exact tone, with that exact tired, dismissive, I-don't-have-the-energy-for-this tone, and the accuracy of the reproduction makes your skin prickle because the Backrooms shouldn't have this.
The Backrooms shouldn't have the argument you had on a random Tuesday in October in a kitchen in Santa Clara. The Backrooms shouldn't know what Bobby sounded like when he was making you feel invisible.
“I'm not being dramatic, I'm being honest, I'm trying to tell you that I'm hurting and you won't even—”
“Hurting from what? Babe, I don’t want to fight. Stop turning everything into an argument.” Bobby's voice, louder now. The edge hardens into a wall. “You want me to sit here and—what? Have a feelings conversation? I'm tired. I worked all day. Can we just—can we not?”
You stop at the doorway.
The sublevel opens into the corridor beyond. Level 0 proper, BB's territory, the locked-down hallways that nothing enters and nothing leaves. The lights stretch into the yellow distance. The carpet extends, flat and damp, into the dark.
The conversation is louder here, bouncing off the walls, your voice and Bobby's voice layered on top of each other in a terrible intimacy, and your eyes are full, and the anger is back. The buried anger, the one BB identified months ago, the one you folded into self-doubt and swallowed. It's risen now, pulled to the surface by the sound of Bobby refusing, again, to try. To talk. To turn around and listen.
To look at you, see you standing there with your heart in your hands, asking for the bare minimum, and be told you're being dramatic.
The doorway is empty.
Your voices continue, playing in the walls. But there's nothing there, just the corridor. More of the yellow, and the dark at the far end, where the lights don't reach. Where the fluorescents give way to a blackness that is too thick, too solid to be ordinary shadow.
You stare at the dark.
The dark stares back.
Your sweat goes cold. A full-body temperature drop, your skin prickling from scalp to ankles, every hair on your arms standing in unison, and the moisture on your palms turns to ice water, and your heartbeat detonates. Slams against the cage of your ribs so hard you feel it in your teeth. Once. Twice. A third time that shakes your vision.
The conversation stops.
Your voice. Bobby's voice. Gone. Cut off mid-sentence like a throat being closed, and the silence that replaces it is not Level 0's silence, not the hum-filled quiet of a place holding itself still. This is the absence of sound. The void where sound should be. A silence so complete it has its own pressure, pushing against your eardrums, filling your skull with a static that isn't static but attention.
Vast, focused, oriented entirely on you.
The dark moves.
A motion that starts at the far end of the corridor and travels toward you with unhurried, deliberate patience, like whatever it is has all the time in the world and knows it. The fluorescent lights flicker (one, two, three in sequence), and when they reignite, they’re not yellow anymore.
They’re red.
A deep, arterial crimson that transforms the corridor into a visceral maw that looks less like a hallway and more like standing in the inside of a throat. The carpet darkens. The walls darken. Familiar geometry of Level 0 warps under the red light into a place you don't recognise, a version of BB's territory that has been flooded with something foreign, something that changes the colour of the air itself.
The lights flicker again. Red, black, red, black. A strobe, pulsing, each flash revealing the dark a little closer, a little more solid, a shape forming inside it the way a body forms inside smoke, and in the stuttering crimson you see it.
Your head tips up.
And up.
And up.
It comes into the red light the way a whale breaches water. Slowly, the sheer scale of it requiring a recalibration of your visual field that your brain refuses to perform.
Your legs won't move. Your body has locked up, every muscle seized in the ancient, primate, pre-verbal grip of a fear so total it bypasses the nervous system and goes straight to the marrow.
This isn’t the Smiler or the Howler. This isn’t six agents with weapons and tactical vocabulary. This is the thing in the notebook. The symbol you drew on page after page, updating weekly, tracking its movements at the perimeter with clinical detachment because clinical detachment was the only way to hold it at arm's length.
It's not at the perimeter anymore.
It's tall. Obscenely, horrifically tall. Its body fills the corridor from floor to ceiling, which suddenly seems too low, its shape pressing against the walls as if the hallway were built around it, or as if it had grown to fill the hallway.
It's shaped wrong, proportioned wrong, only vaguely humanoid silhouette stretched to the breaking point and then stretched further, limbs too long, muscular, joints articulating at angles that make your eyes slide off them like water off glass.
Its skin is more like a hide. Leathery. Matte. A deep, dark red that absorbs the crimson light instead of reflecting it, like something that was red once and has since become a surface that eats light and gives nothing back. No texture. No sheen. The flat, dead finish of something organic that has forgotten how to be alive.
And it has no face.
The surface where a face should be is smooth. Featureless. A blank expanse of that matte leathery skin, curved slightly, like the inside of a mask, and the blankness is worse than any feature could be because your brain keeps trying to find the face, keeps scanning the surface for eyes, mouth, nose, any anchor of recognition, any sign that what you're looking at is a being and not a wall of skin that has learned to walk.
Then the eyes appear.
They don't open, they emerge.
Bulging outward from the surface of the face, pressing through the skin like something hatching, the leathery hide stretching and thinning and splitting apart in wet, peeling seams, and what emerges is yellow. Burning, furnace-bright yellow, the colour of the fluorescent lights distilled and concentrated and superheated until it became something that hurts to look at. Two points of searing amber in the featureless red, and they fix on you.
They fix on you, and they don't move.
Tears spill down your cheeks.
The animal body's response to being seen by something that should not be able to see. A reflex, a pressure release, your system venting whatever it can in a desperate attempt to process the input flooding through it.
Your heart hammers inside your chest, your mouth bone dry. Your hands are numb at your sides, the fingers bloodless and tingling, and you can feel your pulse in your throat and your temples.
Entity X.
It's bigger than you thought. Bigger than BB's clipped descriptions and careful evasions.
It fills the corridor the way a flood would. Totally, leaving no space unoccupied. And those eyes, those burning yellow eyes, are locked on you with a focus that’s not predatory. Not hungry. Patient.
It’s been waiting for this, you realise with a lurch. To lure you out with the sound of your own voice and Bobby's voice and the argument calibrated to the exact frequency of your buried fury, and now that you're here, now that you're standing in the doorway with your tears on your face and your anger in your throat, it’s in no rush.
It has what it wanted. Your attention. Your recognition.
It reaches for you.
The arm extends. Long, impossibly long, the limb unfolding like a telescope, the joints articulating in that wrong way, and the hand comes through the doorway. Into the sublevel. Into BB's territory, into the space he carved and sealed and locked down, the space where nothing enters—
The hand comes apart.
Ribbons. The skin peels away from the fingers in long, wet strips, the flesh beneath splitting and curling back, and the arm disintegrates from fingertip to wrist to forearm in a cascade of shredding tissue that falls to the carpet in dark. Heavy coils dissolve on contact, eaten by the floor, absorbed into BB's territory like an immune response rejecting foreign matter.
The barrier—invisible, structural, woven into the very air at a level you can't perceive—is doing what BB built it to do. Unmaking anything that tries to cross inside and harm you.
You scramble backwards.
Your heel catches the carpet. You stumble, catch yourself on the wall, push off, and your body is finally moving, finally responding. The paralysis encasing you cracks, and the survival brain kicks online with a screaming urgency.
You back away from the doorway, and Entity X is standing in the corridor beyond it, and you watch in mute terror as its arm begins to regrow. The ribbons reverse, the skin re-knitting, the flesh sealing back over the bones with a wet, thick sound like clay being pressed into shape.
It tracks your retreat with those yellow eyes, and it’s not even slightly bothered.
It’s not bothered at all.
It reaches again. The same arm, healed, whole, the matte red skin glistening faintly with the residue of its own reconstruction. It pushes through the barrier, and the skin starts to peel again. It pushes harder, the arm advancing centimetre by centimetre through the invisible wall, and the peeling is slower this time.
The barrier is straining. You can feel it in the hum. A high, tight frequency that sounds like metal under stress, and Entity X is shredding its own flesh to reach you, and it doesn't flinch. Doesn't falter, those burning eyes fixed on you with an intensity that is not rage, not hunger, is something far worse than either.
It's insistence.
You turn and run.
The corridor stretches. Or you're running slower than you think, or the sublevel is responding to the breach by elongating, by putting distance between you and the doorway, and you sprint for the apartment at full speed. Your bare feet slap against the carpet, your breath coming in ragged, tearing gasps, and behind you, you can hear it.
Not footsteps. A sound like tearing fabric, like the barrier giving way fibre by fibre, like something enormous and patient methodically peeling through a protection that was supposed to be absolute.
You slam through the apartment doors, gasping for breath.
You scramble for the lock. It’s decorative, you know that, it's a human gesture in a human-shaped apartment, and it will stop nothing that just shredded itself through BB's barrier, but you still try, grabbing the bookshelf next. The one BB just arranged. Your notebooks cascade to the floor as you drag it across the carpet and shove it against the door. The wood scrapes, the weight of it pathetic against what's coming.
You grab the kitchen table. A chair. The standing lamp from the corner. Anything. Everything. Piling it against the door in a barricade of furniture that looks exactly like what it is: a pathetic attempt to buy time.
“BB!”
Your voice breaks on his name. Cracks open, raw, a scream that comes from the bottom of your lungs and fills the apartment and bounces off the walls he built for you.
“BB, COME BACK! BB!”
The door splinters.
Not from the hinges. From the surface. The wood bulges inward, warping, then splits along a line running from top to bottom, and through the crack, you see it. The red. The matte, light-eating red. And then an arm.
It comes through the gap the way the first one came through the barrier, fingers curling around the edge of the broken door, and the wood peels away from the frame in long strips. The apartment dismantles itself around the intrusion, BB's careful construction coming apart under the weight of something that will not stop.
The clawed hand reaches into the room.
You grab the lamp. The standing lamp, with a heavy brass base, the most solid thing within reach, and you swing it. It connects with the arm, bounces off the matte skin, and the impact travels up your wrists and into your shoulders, but the thing doesn't react. The arm keeps coming. You throw the lamp. Throw books. Throw a kitchen chair that shatters against the forearm and falls into pieces.
“Stay away from me!" You're screaming, your voice stripped raw, your body backing toward the far wall with nothing left to throw. “Get away—”
Entity X's eyes find you through the wreckage of the door.
Yellow. Burning. Fixed. It hasn't blinked. Through the barrier, through the peeling, the furniture and the lamp and the screaming. Those eyes locked onto you in the corridor, and they have not left you.
They’ll not leave you, and the constancy of the gaze is the most terrifying thing you've ever experienced because it means you. You’re the target. You’ve always been the target. Whatever this thing is, whatever it wants, whatever fuel it runs on—it wants you, specifically, personally, with a focus that transcends predation and enters the territory of purpose.
The arm reaches for you. Healed. Whole. The stripped flesh re-formed, the fingers extended, and it's close enough now that you can see the texture of the skin. Up close, it's not smooth; it's covered in fine, hairline fractures. Like dried earth, something that cracked and sealed and cracked again, a surface that has been broken and rebuilt so many times, the damage has become a pattern.
The arm detaches.
Ripped, torn from the shoulder socket with a violence so total the sound it makes isn't a tear but a detonation. A concussive, wet blast that shakes the walls and sends a spray of dark viscera across the ceiling and the wrecked furniture and your face, warm and thick, smelling of copper and something older, something mineral.
Entity X's arm hits the floor. The fingers are still curling. Still reaching. Oriented toward you, even severed from the body.
The thing that threw it is standing in the doorway.
It’s not BB and not Bobby.
Not anything that has ever worn a human face, and you understand this immediately, viscerally, in the part of your brain that predates language and operates on pure animal recognition: the shape in the doorway is wrong.
It's Bobby's height, but the proportions have shifted. The shoulders sit too wide, the stance too low, the geometry of the body rearranged into something optimised for destruction rather than disguise. The face is Bobby's face, but it's barely holding, the features sliding, the jaw too sharp, the eyes fully black. Two pits of absolute dark in a face that is coming apart at the seams.
The skin is cracking. Not like Entity X's fractures—like porcelain, like a mask that's been struck, fissures radiating from the jaw and the cheekbones, and through the cracks you can see—not flesh, not bone, but nothing. An absence. A dark so total it makes Entity X's darkness look like shadow.
He's covered in black. Head to chest, arms to elbows, the viscous substance coating his skin and matting his hair to his forehead, dripping from his hands in long, slow ropes. Whatever distraction Entity X deployed to pull him from the perimeter, BB didn't just fight through it.
He annihilated it. And he didn't stop to put the face back on before he came for you.
The hum collapses.
The ambient frequency of Level 0—the constant, ever-present vibration that’s been the background radiation of your existence since you fell through the wall—drops to a subsonic register that you don't hear so much as feel.
A pressure wave that presses against your eardrums, your chest, and settles at the backs of your eyes. The red lights in the corridor blow out. Every single one. The apartment goes dark except for Entity X's burning yellow eyes and the fissures in BB's cracking face, which glow. Faintly, coldly, with a light that has no colour name.
BB opens his mouth, and the sound that comes out is not a voice.
It’s the hum.
The hum itself, weaponised, concentrated, forced through a throat that has stopped pretending to be human. The sound fills the apartment, the corridor, the sublevel, more vibration than language, dragged through the collapsing shape of Bobby's vocal cords with a fury so enormous it makes the floor ripple:
“Clever distraction.”
Entity X turns.
The motion is glacial. Unhurried. The massive red body rotating in the wrecked doorway of the apartment to face the thing that just removed its arm, and even now—even turning to face BB, even orienting its body toward the threat—its eyes stay on you.
Its eyes stay on you.
The head doesn't move with the body. The neck articulates. Wrong, all wrong. Rotating independently of the torso at a degree that no anatomy should permit. The burning yellow gaze remains fixed on your position against the far wall while the body faces BB, the removed arm regrowing in wet, rapid pulses at the severed shoulder, rising to meet what's coming.
The fight starts.
You can't follow it. Not really. Not the way you'd follow a human fight, with fists and momentum and the readable physics of two bodies colliding.
This is different. These are two beings that don't obey the laws of physics, tearing at each other in a space that's coming apart around them.
BB moves the way he moved against the agents. Too fast, fluid, the human shape abandoned for something more efficient, more angular, more suited to what he actually is, and Entity X absorbs. Takes. Endures.
BB tears through its torso, and the flesh re-knits immediately. BB shatters its jaw with a crack, the featureless face splintering like ceramic, the yellow eyes bulging through the fissures, and the jaw reforms. BB puts his fist through its chest, and the chest closes around his arm, and for a terrible second, they're locked, joined. BB rips free with a sound like tearing metal, and Entity X is already whole again, already standing, already watching you through the chaos with those eyes that have never left, never wavered, never once looked at anything else.
You're behind BB. Pressed against the wall, moving when he moves, keeping his body between you and the thing, and you're trying to be small, trying to be invisible, but Entity X doesn't need to see you to know where you are. It knows. The way it knew your voice. The way it knew Bobby's voice. The way it knew the exact argument to play through the walls to bring you to the threshold.
BB is winning. At first. His speed is devastating, his fury enormous, and Entity X staggers under the assault, the massive body driven backwards through the wrecked apartment and into the corridor, and for a few brutal seconds you think he's got this, he's got it, he's going to unmake it the way he unmade the Smiler—
Entity X catches his arm.
The movement is casual. Almost lazy. One massive red hand closing around BB's forearm mid-strike, and the force of the stop shudders through the corridor, through the floor under your feet. BB wrenches. Twists. The hand doesn't open. Entity X holds him there—one-armed, the other still regrowing—and for the first time in the fight, it isn't retreating.
It's pushing forward.
The shift is tectonic.
Entity X drives BB backwards, and the corridor shakes around you. BB's feet leave the ground for a fraction of a second, and when he lands, his posture has changed. Less offensive, more braced, the shape of someone absorbing impact instead of delivering it. Entity X hits him. Open-handed, a strike that catches BB across the chest and sends him into the wall hard enough to crater the surface, and the sound BB makes is not a snarl. It's a gasp. A short, involuntary, winded exhalation, the noise of a body—even a body that isn't a body—taking damage it didn't expect.
And through it all. Through the fighting and the shattering and the black blood and the reknitting flesh.
Entity X's eyes never leave you.
The gaze stays locked on you with the serene, unwavering patience that knows this fight is temporary. That knows BB is between it and you, and that BB is the obstacle, but you’re the objective and obstacles, eventually, move.
BB goes down.
A blow you don't see—too fast, too angled, connecting with something vital in BB's body—and he hits the floor and doesn't get up immediately.
He gets to his hands and knees. The black blood drips from his mouth now, from his nose, from a gash across his chest that isn't closing the way Entity X's wounds close. His arms are shaking. The human face is flickering. BB, then the thing beneath, then BB again, the mask destabilising under the damage, slipping.
“BB!”
You're moving before you think. Scrambling across the wreckage, over the broken furniture and the shattered doorframe, toward him, toward the crumpled shape of him on the floor, and your hands reach for his shoulders—
“Stop.”
His voice. A snarled command, delivered with every frequency he has. Human, inhuman, the hum itself weaponised into a single syllable that hits you in the chest like a physical force and roots your feet to the floor.
He lifts his head. His eyes are black, and his mouth is black with blood. The expression on his face is wild, furious, terrified. An emotion he’s never shown you before, an emotion you didn't know he was capable of, and the terror is not for himself.
“Level 974.” He spits blood. Black. Thick. “Mr Kitty. You know the route. Go, now.”
“I'm not leaving you—”
“You’re a target.” Each word costs him. You can see it. The effort of speech, of maintaining the face, of holding the human shape together while the damage tries to unmake it. “As long as you’re here, it will not stop. It doesn't want me. It wants you. And I can't—” His jaw clenches, a tremor running through his arms. “I can't fight it and protect you. I need you gone. I need you out of range.”
Entity X rises behind him. The massive body straightening. The burning eyes on you. Always on you.
“BB—”
“I am older than this place.” Low. Fierce. Black blood on his teeth, and his eyes fully dark, the ancient thing speaking through the ruined face with a conviction that shakes the walls. “I’m older than the walls and the hum and the doors and it. I have survived every horror this place has made. But I cannot do it while I'm holding back.”
Holding back.
You understand, then. Instantly and fully.
He's been fighting at half capacity. Less. Fighting with one hand while the other shields you, positioning his body between you and the thing, dividing his attention between destruction and protection and losing ground on both. But it's more than that.
You look at his face—the cracking face, the flickering face, Bobby's features sliding and reforming and sliding again—and you understand the other constraint.
The one he'd never say. The Bobby suit. The face, the body, the human shape he's maintained for you since the day you came through the wall. It takes power to hold it. Focus. Resources currently being spent on keeping twenty-two-year-old Bobby Franklin's jaw attached to his skull, instead of being channelled into whatever he actually is underneath.
He's not just protecting you with his body. He's protecting you with his form. Keeping the familiar shape, the face you trust, the lips you kissed, but keeping all of it intact costs him, bleeds him, divides the vast and ancient thing into a fraction of its true capacity.
As long as you're here, he will keep wearing Bobby. As long as he's wearing Bobby, Entity X will keep gaining ground.
You’re not his weakness. You’re his ceiling. And as long as you're in this corridor, he will keep hitting that ceiling, and Entity X will keep pushing through it, and the math only ends one way.
“Trust me,” BB says, blood in his mouth, the face slipping. The thing underneath looks at you with an intensity that has nothing to do with age or power but with promise he made you, his hand on your cheek. “Run.”
You grab the notebook.
It's on the floor, knocked from the shelf in the barricade, pages bent, the cover dented.
You snatch it up. Press it to your chest. The routes are in there. Level 0 to Level 1, Level 1 to the stairwell threshold, the stairwell to the passage threading through Level 2 and opening into the long, dark corridor descending to Level 974. You mapped it. You walked it with BB at your side and his hand at your back, and you marked every turn, every landmark, every shift in the hum that signals a boundary.
You look at BB one more time. On the floor. Bleeding black. The face barely holding. Entity X rising behind him, vast and red and patient, those yellow eyes burning through the dark as it turns to follow you.
BB snarls, and Entity X’s legs crack beneath it.
You run.
Through the wrecked sublevel. Into the corridor, into Level 0, your notebook against your chest and your bare feet on the carpet and the sound of the fight erupting behind you. Massive, structural, the sound of two ancient things finally meeting without a ceiling, and you run toward the route you mapped, the path you memorised, and you don't look back.
You run until you can't hear it anymore.
The fight stopped being audible three corridors back; the sounds of two entities tearing each other apart swallowed by the hum.
What you're running from now is the silence. Weighted silence of a level that’s been breached, holding itself still the way an animal holds still when the predator is too close to outrun. The red light hasn't faded. It pulses occasionally, as if Level 0 itself is wounded and you're running through it.
Your bare feet slap on the carpet, the notebook clutched to your chest. The cover bent, the pages pressed against your sternum.
You're navigating from memory now, the left fork at the junction where the carpet gets warmer, the right turn at the corridor where the hum drops a semitone, the long stretch past the section with the water-stained ceiling tiles that marks the boundary of BB's inner territory.
You know this route, walked it with BB multiple times. Traced it in the notebook with blue ink and annotated the landmarks and tested yourself on it in the nest while BB watched with that quiet pride, and the memory of his face—the last time you saw it, cracking, bleeding black, the ancient thing surfacing through the fissures—makes your vision blur and you blink hard and keep running.
The corridor opens up.
You skid to a stop. The junction ahead is the one that leads to the stairwell threshold, the one that drops you into the transitional space between Level 0 and Level 1.
But that’s not why you stop. You stop because the corridor is full of furniture.
And you know this furniture. The recognition is immediate, physical. The flat-packed shelving units with the Scandinavian labels. The plastic-wrapped headboards stacked against the wall. A dining table, oak veneer, the floor model with the scratch on the left leg where Bobby kicked it once, carrying inventory, and the scratch is there, exactly where it should be. The recognition hits you like a blow because this is Clark's.
Clark's inventory: the same flatpacks and display pieces you organised on night shifts, labelled in your handwriting, and sorted by vendor into bins.
The Backrooms do this. You know they do. They absorb, they replicate, they pull pieces of the real world through the membrane and deposit them in corridors like driftwood. BB explained it once: the levels aren't separate from reality, they're underneath it, and sometimes the underneath leaks up and the above leaks down and things end up where they don't belong.
But knowing the mechanics doesn't prepare you for the lurch of seeing Clark's dining table in a yellow corridor, and you press your hand to the wall and breathe. The wall is warm under your palm, and you think of BB, and the thought is a blade, so you keep moving—
Voices.
Entity X's lure would be sourceless, directionless. These voices have a direction. They're coming from ahead and to the left, from the section of the corridor that bends around the stacked flatpacks, and they're real. Human. Layered on top of each other with the particular rhythm of people talking in a confined space, voices bouncing off hard surfaces, and you can hear—
“—I don't care, I'm going down there, let go of—”
“Bobby, stop, you can't just—we don't know what's down there, we don't know if—”
“—came through here, right? Through this wall, through this—whatever the hell this is. If she came through here, maybe she's lost, maybe she's—”
“Bobby. Baby. Listen to me—”
Your feet stop. Your lungs cease functioning.
Bobby.
Bobby's voice. Real, live, present. Happening right now on the other side of a bend in a corridor that shouldn't exist.
You'd know Entity X's trick by now, the sourceless quality, the way it comes from everywhere and nowhere. This has a direction. This has Bobby's actual vocal cords behind it. And it sounds different. The tired, dismissive Bobby who said you're being dramatic is gone. This voice is raw. Stripped. A man speaking through gravel, through grief so thorough it's changed the texture of his vocal cords. Desperate in a way Bobby never used to sound because Bobby never used to let himself sound like anything except perfectly at ease.
And the other voice. The woman. Calling him baby.
You step past the wall.
The corridor opens into a wider space. One of the junction rooms, the kind where several hallways converge, and the ceiling is higher, the fluorescents brighter, and the hum is louder because more of Level 0 is accessible from a single point. The flatpack furniture from Clark's store is stacked along the walls. A rope trails across the carpet from the far wall, where the concrete appears to dip into a dark space below.
Clark stands near the rope. Older than you remember. Heavier in the face, the circles under his eyes darker, his work shirt untucked and stained, his hands clenched. He looks terrified and dazed in equal measure.
And a woman. Young. Dark hair, cut short, slip flops. She's got one hand on Bobby's arm and the other pressed to her own chest, and her face is tight with a fear that hasn't fully landed yet, still hovering in the space between this can't be real and this is real, and I might die.
And Bobby.
Your Bobby.
He's standing in the middle of the junction room with the rope half-tied from his belt and a camera in his hand—of course, even here, even in the impossible, Bobby brought the camera—and he's thinner.
The crop top hangs differently on him now, looser, the chain at his throat sitting lower against collarbones that are more prominent than they used to be. His face is harder. The softness that used to live at the edges, the boyish quality, the roundness that you used to trace with your fingers in the morning light, is gone. Carved away. What's left is angular, drawn, the face of a man who hasn't been sleeping right for a long time. Who hasn't been eating right, either.
He’s been doing something to himself, or having something done to him, that has stripped the youth from his bones and left behind this sharpened, hollowed version of the person you loved.
You don't know how long it's been. You don't know what happened to him after you fell through the wall. You just know that the Bobby standing in front of you is not the Bobby you left, and the distance between those two versions is written in the new, foreign angles of his still handsome face.
The woman spots you first.
Her gasp is sharp, bitten off, the sound of a person encountering something that doesn't fit the parameters of what she was prepared for. Her hand tightens on Bobby's arm. Her eyes go wide, and her body shifts. Backwards, behind him, an instinct that tells you everything about their dynamic in a single gesture.
Bobby turns.
For a moment, there's only shocked silence. Bobby stares at you. You stare at Bobby.
The light buzzes, and the rope trails across the carpet. The woman's hand is on his arm, and Clark's flashlight beam trembles on the floor, and you’re standing ten feet apart in an impossible place, looking at each other for the first time since the doorway, the grunt, and the don't wait up and neither of you breathes.
Bobby's mouth moves. No sound, a rasp of breath. Then, cracking at the edges:
"Baby?"
His voice splinters on the second syllable. Splits open. The word comes out ragged, disbelieving, torn from somewhere deep, and the information—you, standing in a yellow corridor, alive, alive—is too big for his face, and the room.
You don't respond. You can't. Your throat has closed around a sound that won't form.
You're looking at him. Bobby. Real Bobby. The original. The man whose face you've been kissing on another body for who knows how long, whose voice you've been hearing through borrowed vocal cords, whose edges and angles and scars you've memorised on a copy so perfect you'd almost forgotten there was an original.
And here he is. Diminished and sharpened, desperate and real, standing in front of you in a crop top and a chain with a camera in his shaking hand, and the distance between you is ten feet, and however long it's been and all the things neither of you said.
Bobby drops the camera.
It hits the carpet with a muted thud.
Bobby, who’s never let go of a camera voluntarily in his life, who held onto the viewfinder the way other men hold onto control, lets it fall from his fingers like it weighs nothing. Like it was never important, like every hour of footage he ever shot was just a rehearsal for the moment he'd need his hands free to reach for you.
He yanks at the rope around his waist. His fingers are clumsy, frantic, tearing at the knot rather than untying it, his jaw clenched and his breathing coming in short, hard bursts through his nose. The woman takes a step toward him.
“Bobby, wait, you don't know if—”
He doesn't hear her. The rope falls. He steps out of it like stepping out of a skin he doesn't need anymore, and he starts walking toward you. Fast, accelerating, his stride lengthening with each step, his breathing growing more laboured, and the expression on his face is furious.
At the ten feet of carpet between his body and yours, at whatever he's been through since you vanished, at whatever it cost him, and he’s crossing it with the barely-contained ferocity.
He stops. Three feet from you. Two.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his eyes glassy, red-rimmed. His lashes are wet. Bobby, who doesn't cry in front of people, who presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and grinds the tears back, who’s never once let you see him break, is standing in front of you with tears in his eyes and making no effort to hide them.
“Fuck,” he says again, softer, cracking, his whole face contorting around the word like it's the only syllable left in his vocabulary.
He's looking at your face. Scanning every feature the way he used to scan you through the viewfinder, except there's no viewfinder now, no glass, nothing between his eyes and your face, and you can see the exact moment his brain confirms what his body already knows.
It's you. It's really you.
His hand lifts. Shaking. Visibly, violently shaking, the tremor running from his shoulder through his elbow through his wrist through his fingers, and his hand reaches across the two feet of air between you and lands on your shoulder.
You flinch.
Bobby makes a sound. A wrecked, gutted thing. Less than a gasp, more than a breath. His fingers tighten on your shoulder, involuntary, desperate, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip. His other hand comes up and grabs your other shoulder, and he's holding you at arm's length with both hands, his face falling apart, the composure crumbling, and his voice when it comes out is barely there:
“You're real. God, please, tell me you're real, baby. Tell me this isn't—tell me I'm not—”
You're both breathing hard. Standing in a yellow corridor, his hand on your shoulder. Your body is rigid, his eyes wet as they drink you in, and the woman behind him is watching you both. Clark mumbles his disbelief faintly, and the world reduces to the two feet of air between your body and Bobby’s and all the wreckage on either side.
Bobby whispers your name.
Not baby. Your name. The real one, the full one, spoken so quietly you almost don't hear it, spoken the way you'd speak a word you're afraid will break if you say it too loud. Your name in Bobby's real mouth, the one that kissed you on a Thursday morning and said stay and meant it, and the sound of it cracks you open.
He throws his arms around you.
Without gentleness, without hesitation. Bobby grabs you with both arms and pulls you into his chest so hard you stumble, your bare feet sliding on the carpet. His arms lock around your back, and his face buries in your neck. He's holding you desperately, with the full-body grip, a man who’s just recovered the thing he was drowning without.
He's warm.
The realisation hits you with a horrible, dizzying vertigo. He's warm. His hands on your shoulders were hot. Searingly, really, shockingly hot after months of BB's cool skin, BB's below-human temperature, the constant slight chill of a body that generates heat only when kissed into producing it.
Now his whole body is pressed against yours, and he’s a furnace. Metabolic, organic, almost unbearable. The heat of blood moving through capillaries, of a heart pumping in a chest that rises and falls because it has to, because it will stop if it doesn't. He smells like soap. Faintly. Under that, sweat. Actual sweat, the salt-and-skin smell of a human body under stress.
And underneath that, barely there, weed. Like he smoked before coming down here. Like Bobby needed his hands to stop shaking long enough to hold the camera, and the specificity of it, the humanness of it, the biochemical reality of a man who self-medicates his anxiety with marijuana and has done it since he was nineteen, is so overwhelmingly, violently real that your knees buckle.
You cling to him.
Your arms come up—late, delayed, your body catching up to the fact that this is happening—and your fingers grab fistfuls of his shirt, and you hold on. He holds on too, and you're both shaking. Both gasping, making sounds that aren't words at the sheer impossibility of it all.
Just grief and relief and terror and love, suddenly all the same thing.
Bobby's hand is on the back of your head, pressing your face into his neck, and his chest is heaving, his pulse hammering against your cheek, and he's alive, he's alive, he came for you, he found the wall, and he came through, and he's here and—
“Bobby?”
The woman's voice. Small. Wary. She's standing behind Bobby with her arms wrapped around herself and her face pinched with confusion, frightened, and underneath both of those, a hurt she's trying very hard not to let surface. She's staring at you. At your head, pressed into Bobby's neck. At Bobby's arms around you, locked, total.
The way he's holding you like the building could come down, and he wouldn't let go.
Bobby pulls back. Only his head, only enough to see your face. His hands come up and cup your jaw, framing your face the way he used to frame shots, and his thumbs trace your cheekbones and his eyes drag over your features with the starving hunger.
“You're alive,” Bobby says hoarsely, his thumbs on your cheekbones and his eyes bright. “You're alive. I thought—the tapes, they went blank, they all went—I thought you were—fuck, you're alive. I missed so fucking much—"
The lights go red.
A sudden, total shift. Every fluorescent in the junction room snaps from yellow to deep crimson in the space of a single heartbeat, and the hum screams. A high, keening frequency that's less sound and more pressure, a vibration that pushes against your eardrums again and fills your skull. An alarm. Organic, not mechanical.
The level itself shrieks, Level 0 responding to a breach so severe that its entire frequency is destabilising.
You know this sound, know what it means. Your body knows before your brain catches up. The red means Entity X. The alarm means the fight has moved, or ended, or escalated beyond what the level can contain. The walls are wrong, and the carpet under your feet is vibrating with a frequency you've never felt before, and every nerve in your body is firing the same message: move.
You grab Bobby's hand. Hard. Your fingers lacing through his.
“Come with me. Right now.”
“What—what is that, what's happen—”
“Right now, Bobby.”
The woman closes the distance. She's been standing behind him, arms wrapped around herself, but the alarm has shaken her forward, adrenaline overriding the hurt on her face, and she grabs Bobby's other arm with both hands.
“Bobby is not going anywhere," she insists, her voice steady. Tighter than her face. “We came here together, and we're leaving together—back through the wall, not deeper into—”
You look at her. Really look at her for the first time. Dark hair. Round jaw. Pretty in a girl-next-door way. You focus on the way she holds Bobby’s arm, the way she positions herself behind him, and remember the baby she called earlier. You see it, and something cold slides between your ribs and sits there.
“Who are you?” you ask flatly.
Bobby's hand tightens in yours. “She's—this is Kat, she works at—”
A scream splits the corridor.
Not human. Long, oscillating, rising in pitch until it hits a frequency that makes the flatpack shelving units rattle against the walls. Howler. Close. Moving fast, drawn by the alarm the way predators are drawn by distress signals, and the sound of it snaps through the junction room like a whip.
“If you want to live,” you begin, your voice dropping into a register you didn't know you owned, calm, flat, cold, the voice of a woman who’s mapped multiple levels and catalogued fifty-three entity types and survived— “you'll follow me. Now.”
You pull Bobby. Bobby grabs Kat, and you move.
You lead them the only way you know how. By the notebook, by the months of repetition and documentation.
You check each junction against the layout in your head, cross-referencing the hum's pitch and the angle of the corridor walls. Left at the warm patch. Right at the stain. Down the corridor, where the ceiling drops by three inches and the air smells damp. Through the threshold that shifts from carpet to tile and tile to the stairwell that descends between levels.
Bobby is behind you. His hand in yours. He won't let go. His grip is crushing, his callused fingers locked around your palm with a force that will leave bruises, and every few steps, his thumb moves against your wrist. Some involuntary check, a pulse-read, confirming you're still there, still solid, still real.
“How long have you been here?” he asks. Moving fast, breathing hard, his voice pitched low. The camera is gone. Left on the carpet in the junction room, the first time Bobby has abandoned a camera since he was a boy. “How did you—are you hurt? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine, you're barefoot in a—what is this place? Where are we?”
You work your jaw, scanning ahead to escape the storm of warring emotions in your chest. “Keep moving.”
“Baby—”
“Don't call me that.”
The words leave your mouth before you can catch them. Sharp. Reflexive. A flinch turned verbal.
Bobby's hand tightens on yours, and you feel the impact of the words travel through his grip like a current. A brief, rigid shock, a stiffening of the fingers.
You keep walking. The stairwell descends. Kat is behind Bobby, her hand on the back of his shirt, her breathing ragged, her head on a swivel. She's terrified. You can hear it in the quality of her breath. Short, high, the particular arrhythmia of a nervous system running on pure cortisol. But she's moving. She's keeping up. She hasn't frozen up.
Some distant, clinical part of you notes this with grudging respect.
Through Level 2. The dripping pipes and the dark. Bobby pulls Kat closer as the dripping grows louder and the shadows lengthen. Something in the walls makes a sound like breathing, and you watch him do it from the corner of your eye—watch his hand find her shoulder, watch his body angle between her and the dark—and the cold thing between your ribs turns over.
Through the transitional corridor. Down. The air changes again. Warmer, sweeter, carrying the faint smell of grass and dust, the signature of the levels that sit closer to the organic stratum. You check the notebook. Page thirty-seven. The route to 974.
Bobby is watching you. You can feel his eyes on the back of your head, on your bare feet, on the notebook clutched in your hand. On the way you navigate this impossible place with confidence. You feel him putting pieces together. That you’ve been here long enough to stop being lost. Long enough to have a system. To have bare feet, which means long enough to have stopped expecting to leave.
“You know this place,” he says. Not a question. His voice is careful, testing, wariness of someone who’s assembling a picture he doesn't want to see. “You've been—you've been here this whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Eighteen months?”
You pause. “Is that how long it's been?”
The silence behind you is devastating. Bobby's thumb stops its circuit on your wrist. Kat makes a small, wounded sound of realisation. If she wasn’t sure who you were before, she is now.
“You didn't know,” Bobby says quietly. “You didn't know how long.”
You keep walking. The corridor opens up, the air changing again. A final threshold, a shift in the hum, and the space ahead brightens. Not with fluorescent light but something softer, golden.
Scent of freshly cut grass, old wood and sugar fills your nose, followed by the particular mustiness of a house that’s been lived in by a being both patient and old for a very long time.
Level 974.
Mr Kitty appears at once.
One moment, the entrance to 974 is empty. The amber light, the corridor opening onto a landscape of gently rolling hills and scattered structures, some of them painted in colours too cheerful for the Backrooms, pinks and pastels that shouldn't survive down here.
The next moment, he's there. Tall. Black. A humanoid shape standing in the centre of the path, its skin the deep, light-absorbing matte of a body that exists as a silhouette even in full illumination. It has no face. The surface where features should be is smooth, blank, and featureless, but the blankness differs from that of Entity X.
Where Entity X's facelessness was a threat, a void, a surface that peeled open to reveal burning eyes, Mr Kitty's is gentle. Calm. The blankness of a thing that doesn't need a face because its presence communicates everything a face would. It stands with its long arms at its sides, and its smooth head tilted toward your group, its posture radiating patience the way the hum radiates sound.
Kat screams.
A sharp, bitten-off shriek at the wrongness of it, the too-tall body, the faceless head, the quality of ancient, unhurried presence that radiates from it. The scream bounces off the corridor behind you and fades into the amber light.
Bobby jerks to action. Reflex, instinct, the hardwired response to protect the person behind him. He steps in front of Kat, his arm sweeping back to push her behind his body, his jaw set and his eyes wide. His other hand still grips yours so tightly the bones grind together.
His body is a wall between her and the threat, and the positioning is automatic, total, the posture of a man who does this without thinking.
Your stomach hollows out.
A different emptiness than fear. A cavity that opens beneath your ribs and fills with something cold and acidic. You watch Bobby shield Kat with his body the way he should have shielded you, the way you wished he would have shielded you, the way you spent months standing in doorways wishing he'd turn around and step toward you and put himself between you and anything at all.
And he's doing it now. For her. The reflexive, unthinking protectiveness he could never perform for you when it was you who needed it. The muscle he let atrophy while you were his has somehow been rebuilt for someone else.
“It's okay,” you say, and your voice comes out even. Controlled. The cold thing behind your ribs makes your words clear. “He won't hurt you. He's safe.”
“He?” Bobby stares at the figure. The figure's blank face turns toward him. Bobby's hand tightens on yours.
“Mr Kitty.” You step forward. The tall, dark shape inclines its head toward you. A brief, acknowledging tilt, the gesture of a being that knows you and has been expecting you. “I need your help. Entity X breached the sublevel. BB is fighting it. I need—”
I'm aware.
The voice arrives inside your skull. A warm, dense pressure that fills the space behind your eyes and settles into your thoughts like sediment into still water. Mr Kitty's blank face is angled toward yours. The stillness radiating from him is calm. Steady.
The disturbance registered across many levels. The barrier on Level 0 has been partially compromised. Your boy is still engaged.
Your stomach knots. “Is he winning?”
That depends on your definition.
“Is he alive?”
A pause. Mr Kitty's blank head inclines slightly, a gesture you've come to read as contemplation. He does not die the way you understand dying. But he is diminished. The sustained engagement is costly. The red one first used other entities to weaken him.
“Can we use your house? I need to get them somewhere safe.” Your voice catches. “Please. Just…”
Follow the path, little one. You’ll see it in the distance. I need to check the perimeter first. It’s chaos out there. Something else might slip through.
You nod, gratitude plain on your face. Bobby and Kat are staring at you with matching expressions of blank, dissociated horror when you turn to them.
“You were talking to it,” Bobby blurts out, flat with disbelief when Mr Kitty flickers out of sight. "You were having a conversation with a faceless thing. What the fuck.”
“It's complicated,” you mutter. “Follow me. Quickly.”
You lead them up the path. The amber light is steady here, warm and sourceless, and the hills roll gently toward a cluster of structures.
Houses, loosely, buildings with doors and windows and roofs that approximate the concept of dwelling in the way the Backrooms approximate everything. Close enough to function but underlaid with a wrongness that only registers if you look too long. The second structure on the right is small. Wooden. A porch with a rocking chair.
The door opens when you touch it, and the inside smells like dust and old paper and tea and the particular warmth of a house that is, impossibly, safe.
Mr Kitty is already inside. Standing in the corner of the kitchen, his dark shape nearly touching the ceiling, his long arms folded in front of him with a stillness that radiates patience. The plate of scones sits on the counter beside him.
You usher Bobby and Kat inside. Kat's hands are shaking. Bobby's jaw is tight, and his eyes are moving—scanning the room, the windows, Mr Kitty's dark shape in the corner, you—with the frantic, comprehensive attention of a man who is trying very hard to apply logic to a situation that has left logic behind long ago.
“Sit,” you say. “Eat. Don't touch anything you don't recognise, especially the toys.”
You look behind them. The doorway is empty. The amber path stretches back toward the corridor, quiet.
“Where's Clark?”
Bobby's jaw tightens. He doesn't look at the door. “We got separated. The dark section, with the pipes. Something moved in the walls, and he panicked and ran the wrong direction and I—” He stops. Swallows. The guilt on his face is immediate, reflexive. “I couldn't go after him. I had to keep—I had to keep moving forward."
Kat puts her hand on his arm. “He had the rope. He can follow it back.”
“The rope was tied to me.”
The silence fills the room. You look at the door. Clark is somewhere in the Backrooms, alone, without a map, without a guide, without the months of hard-won knowledge sitting in the notebook pressed to your chest. Clark is somewhere in the dark, and he’s still a man who hired you, who complimented your attention to detail, told you once in an offhand way that seemed to surprise even him that you would’ve made a fine architect, like him.
“Mr Kitty,” you say, turning toward the entity. “Clark. He's on Level 2. Can you—”
I'm aware. I'll send guidance. The older male is frightened but unharmed. For now.
You cross to the window. The amber light outside is steady. The green hills are quiet. No red in sight. You press your palm flat against the glass and close your eyes, reaching the way BB taught you. Not with your hands but with the part of you that connects to the hum, the part that learned to feel Level 0's frequency like a second heartbeat—
Nothing.
“BB,” you call out. Into the glass and beyond it. “BB, please, answer me. BB?”
Nothing. The window is cold under your hand. He always answers you. Always. From any level, from any distance.
“Who's BB?”
Bobby. Behind you. Standing by the kitchen table, a scone untouched in his hand, watching you with an expression that has shifted from shock to something more complicated. Suspicious, calculating.
You turn back to face the window. “Not now.”
“You just called someone's name into a window. In a house inside a nightmare. I think now is pretty much exactly when.”
“Bobby—”
“Is it a person? Another… another one of those things, like the tall one? Are you with someone down here?” He sets the scone on the table. His frown deepens when you don’t correct him. “What—is he your new boyfriend or something? Does he have a face, at least?”
The laugh that comes out of you is ugly. Short, throaty, carrying a bitterness you didn't know you had room for on top of everything else. You turn from the window, glaring, ignoring the pang of relief, love, and warmth you feel at the sight of him despite it all.
“You don't get to ask me that.”
“I don't get to—I just found you. I've been looking for you for eighteen months. I sat in a basement and talked to a goddamn wall for seven months because I thought—because I hoped— nd you're down here with a name for someone and—”
“And what, Bobby? What were you doing while you were sitting in that basement? Because it looks like you were doing pretty well.” Your eyes cut to Kat, who’s standing by the counter with a scone in her hand and her face pinched still. “Looks like you bounced back just fine.”
The room goes quiet.
Bobby stares at you. The hurt on his face is immediate, unguarded, a direct hit. The flinch he didn't have time to armour against, the naked impact of being told by the woman he's been grieving that his grief wasn't enough. His jaw tightens, eyes hardening.
“You think I bounced back?” Low. Dangerous. Bobby's edge, the blade under the casual, the sharp thing that used to make you go quiet, except right now it's not going to make you go quiet because you’ve spent months in the impossible learning how to not go quiet. “You think—do you have any idea what it was like? You disappeared. You just vanished. No note, no call, no body, nothing. The cops thought I killed you. They hauled me in, sat me down and looked at me like I was something he scraped off his shoe. I sat there, and I took it because what was I gonna say? She up and vanished? The neighbours heard us fighting. Terrence would barely talk to me unless it's about searching for you. People won’t look at me around town. My own mother—”
“Bobby, maybe this isn't the—” Kat starts.
“And the tapes.” Bobby's voice cracks, just slightly. A tiny fracture in the anger and grief. “The tapes went blank. All of them. Every single one. Years of footage and it just—you just—disappeared. From the tapes, from people's memories, from everything. Terrence couldn't remember what you looked like. My mom called you 'Bobby's friend.' Nobody remembered you. Nobody, except me. And I thought I was losing my fucking mind because I could remember and no one else could, and the tapes were blank and you were gone and I had nothing, nothing—”
“I'm sure your new girlfriend was very comforting,” you cut in coolly. “In your grief.”
The words come out serrated. Cruel. You hear them leave your mouth, and you can feel the wrongness of them, the unfairness. This woman is standing three feet away, and you don't know her. You’re aiming your pain at her like a weapon because she's standing next to Bobby and keeping his name in her mouth, and the alternative is aiming the anger at yourself.
Kat's face goes white. Then red. Her hand tightens around the scone, and she sets it down on the counter, carefully, the controlled gesture of a woman who’s choosing her next words carefully.
“I kept him alive,” Kat says. Quiet. Level. A statement of fact delivered with a steady gaze. “When everyone else gave up or thought he was a killer, I was there. Every night. I didn't leave.”
Your mouth compresses into a bloodless line. “How noble.”
“You left.”
“I didn't leave, I—”
“I know, I’m sorry that came out wrong.” Kat's voice doesn't rise. It drops, gets quieter. Gets closer to the bone. “I know something happened to you. Clearly. Since you’re here. I know you didn't choose this. But he didn't know that. He sat in a basement for seven months talking to an empty wall, and then Clark kicked him out, and he sat in a parking lot, screaming at me because he couldn't scream at you, and I stayed. I stayed when everyone else left. So don't stand there and act like I stole something from you. I picked up what you couldn't carry anymore because you weren’t there."
The room vibrates. Not with sound. With the tension of three people, holding pain that doesn't fit. Pain that belongs to eighteen months of separation and misunderstanding and choices made in the dark by people who were all, in their own ways, trying to survive.
Bobby is looking at you. His eyes are red, jaw set, his hands fisted at his sides.
“It took months,” he chokes out. “It took months after Clark kicked me out. Months before—before anything. I was a wreck, and she was kind to me. I pushed her away, and I pushed her away, and I pushed her away, and eventually I—” He swallows thickly. “I had nothing. You were gone. The tapes were gone. And I had to—I had to keep living, baby. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I kept living.”
“I'm sure it was very hard," you bite out coldly. “Having to move on after seven whole months.”
“Seven months of sitting on a concrete floor talking to you.” Bobby takes a step toward you. His voice rising now, the anger competing with the grief, both of them pushing through the cracks in his face. “Seven months of bringing you coffee, your order, every night, and pouring it down the drain at two in the morning because you weren't there to drink it. Seven months of sleeping on your side of the bed because it still smelled like you for the first three weeks, and then it didn't, and that was worse. Seven months of saying I love you to a wall, night after night after night, and the wall never answered. So yeah. Yeah, it was hard. Sorry, it wasn't long enough for you.”
“Then maybe you should have told me you loved me before I disappeared.”
The words come out cold. A scalpel drawn across the exact right vein, delivered with a fury so controlled it's almost calm, practically a snarl. Your jaw sits tight, and your eyes burn, voice carrying the compressed weight of every night you lay three feet from Bobby in the dark and wondered if you were still visible.
“Maybe if you'd said it once—” Your voice cracks. Splits. Your anger rises like bile, flooding your throat, and you can feel it. The rage, the one BB heard through the wall, the one you buried under self-doubt and swallowed until it poisoned you. It's here. Right here. Pressing against your teeth, trying to get out. “Maybe if you'd just—maybe—”
You stop.
Your jaw clamps shut, your hands fisted at your sides. You can feel the anger writhing in your chest, trying to claw its way up your throat, and you swallow it. Again. The way you've always swallowed it. Push it down. Fold it in. Turn it inward because the alternative is letting it out, and if you let it out, you don't know what might happen, you don't know what it might burn down, you don't know—
In the corner of the room, Mr Kitty tips his head.
A slow, measured tilt. His blank face angling toward you with a quality of attention that's different from his usual patient stillness. Then the moment passes, and Mr Kitty's head straightens again.
Bobby is staring at you. The anger on his face has fractured. What's underneath it is worse. Hurt, raw and exposed. Kat stands at the counter behind him with her arms crossed and her face closed. The hurt she's refusing to show bleeds through anyway, visible in the set of her mouth and the brightness of her dark eyes.
You're about to speak. The words are loaded, chambered, aimed—the doorway, the grunt, the don't wait up, the months of feeling like furniture in your shared apartment and now learning it took him seven whole months of dramatic wall-performances before he found a fucking replacement—
And then you hear what he said.
You hear it. Underneath the anger, underneath the accusations. The specific, factual content buried in the grief.
Seven months of sitting on a concrete floor talking to you.
The basement. Clark's basement. The storage level, the concrete floor, and the wall that breathes.
Bobby sat in the basement and talked to the wall you fell through. For seven months. Talked to you, through the wall, the same wall that separates the real world from the Backrooms, the same wall that BB sat on the other side of and listened through. BB heard you through the wall. That's what he told you himself. I heard you. From the other side.
If BB heard you through the wall, then BB heard Bobby, too. Bobby's voice, Bobby's grief, Bobby's confessions and apologies poured into concrete for seven months. BB heard a man sitting on the other side of the wall begging you to come back, searching for you, refusing to give up.
BB heard all of it.
BB knew Bobby was looking for you. Knew Bobby loved you. Bobby was sitting three inches of concrete away from the woman BB was holding in the dark, and BB said nothing. BB held you while you cried about Bobby's indifference, and he said it was never you, it was his malfunction, and he knew (he knew) that Bobby was on the other side of that wall.
He chose, deliberately, consciously, with the full weight of whatever passes for his moral compass, to keep that from you.
BB let you believe Bobby didn't care.
BB let you grieve a living man.
And the worst part—the part that makes your vision narrow and your hands shake and something hot and corrosive flood the back of your throat—is that it worked. It worked.
You grieved Bobby. You swallowed the anger, folded the hurt inward, and accepted BB's version of the story. He got scared and retreated; that's his malfunction, not yours.
You let it hollow you out, let it carve the space that BB then filled, and the filling felt like love. The forehead kisses. The promise. The apartment he built for you, the bookshelves by colour, the way he learned to dance and to kiss and to hold you through nightmares. All of it—every tenderness, every moment you thought this is what it feels like to be seen, to be loved—was planted in soil he'd poisoned.
He didn't just withhold information. He cultivated your grief. He let the hurt grow until it choked out everything else, until Bobby was a wound instead of a person, until you stopped hoping for the door back because what was the point of a door that opened onto a man who didn't love you?
Except Bobby loved you. Bobby loved you the whole time. He loved you so much he sat on a concrete floor for seven months saying it to a wall that wouldn't answer and BB was on the other side of that wall listening and he heard every word and he held your face and said how odd and kissed your forehead and never once, not once, said he's looking for you, he's right there, he hasn't stopped.
The realisation doesn't land like a blow. It lands like a floor giving way. Every tender moment. Every I heard you and nobody else did. Every forehead kiss, every promise, every night in the nest with his cool hand on your back and his hum in your bones.
All of it built on an omission so vast it restructures everything it touches.
You want to scream. Want to put your fist through the window of this safe house and scream BB's name into the amber light and demand—demand—that he explain himself, that he look at you with those borrowed eyes and tell you why.
Why did he let you believe you were forgotten? Why did he let you ache for a man who was aching back, three inches of concrete and a universe apart, both of you reaching for each other in the dark while the thing between you held you close and said I've got you, baby, nothing touches you.
Nothing touches you. Because BB made sure nothing reached you. Not even the truth.
Part of you—small, stubborn, lodged behind your ribs like a splinter—whispers that he did it because he loves you.
That the omission wasn't deliberate cruelty but desperation. That BB heard Bobby through the wall and understood, with the clarity of a thing that’s never been loved or chosen, that the truth would take you away from him. That the choice was between honesty and losing the only person who ever said his name kindly. And the whisper sounds like BB’s voice, and it sounds like the hum. It makes your eyes burn because you understand desperation and loneliness, you understand choosing wrong because the right choice is unbearable—isn't that exactly what Bobby did? What you did by choosing to stay?
Isn't that the whole stupid, devastating circle? Bobby loved you and showed it by looking away. BB loved you and showed it by keeping you blind.
The whisper doesn't survive the inferno in your chest.
He knew. He knew. And he kept you anyway.
Your mouth opens. The questions forming on your tongue, taking shape, gaining mass—
A crack splits the room. Structural, not sonic. The walls of the house shudder. The windows fracture, the glass spiderwebbing from the centre to the frame in a pattern that resembles stress lines. Kat screams, a sharp, yelping sound. Mr Kitty straightens to his full height, his dark shape pressing against the ceiling, his blank face oriented toward the source of the disturbance with a sudden, absolute alertness.
Bobby is wrenched forward.
One second, he's standing by the kitchen table. The next he's airborne, yanked off his feet by a force that crosses the room faster than sight, faster than the sound that follows it. A percussive boom that blows the scones off the counter and knocks Kat sideways.
Bobby slams into the far wall, and the wall cracks behind him. He's pinned there, three feet off the ground, his feet dangling, his hands clawing at the thing around his throat.
BB's hand.
BB is in the room. Not entered, arrived, the air displacing around his sudden presence with a pressure change you feel in your sinuses.
He's holding Bobby against the wall by the throat, one-handed, arm extended, and the face he's wearing is Bobby's face, but it's not—it's wrong, more animal than human, the features sharpened past recognition, the jaw too wide, the teeth visible behind lips that have pulled back in a snarl that doesn't belong on any human mouth. His eyes are black. Fully black. The fissures from the fight are still visible, tiny cracks radiating from his jaw and cheekbones, leaking that colourless light, the mask of Bobby held together by fury and will and nothing else.
One arm hangs at an angle that isn't right. Dark, viscous blood streaks his chest, his neck, his hair. The crop top is torn. The chain is broken, hanging from one side of his throat. He looks like he walked through a war to get here, and the war isn't over; it's just been put on pause long enough for him to cross the Backrooms and find the one thing in his territory that doesn't belong.
Bobby chokes. His feet kick. His hands grab BB's wrist, but BB doesn't move, doesn't register the resistance, a marble statue with a throat in its hand.
BB leans in. Close. His face inches from Bobby's, the original and the copy, face to face at last, the man and the thing that chose his face. Bobby's eyes are wide, bulging, filled with a terror that’s different from any terror he’s ever felt because he’s looking into his own features and finding nothing human behind them.
BB bares his bloodied teeth, snarling low in his chest.
synopsis you and Jack have always been two pees in a pod, working the ER together, on the field together, no wonder you started to search for those dark eyes and damning smirk. and you thought for a second, just for a second, he might be searching for you too, until you hear the man you're crushing on airing out everything he hates about you
warningstypical medical drama stuff, in-accurate medical terms. miscommunication. angst. insecure reader. language, jack says things he doesn't mean about reader. angry love confession in the rain. this is not proof-read
authornotei really really really loved this idea and tried so hard to do it justice, I hope you like anon. I tried to stay close to the SWAT idea but I'll be honest I know nothing about American army stuff (i'm british) so I sort of set it as much in the Pitt as I could. I also couldn't find ANYTHING for Jack's military background so I made up some SWAT guys
pitt masterlist. another Jack fic!
Just when you thought the rest of your day was going to be boring, Jack Abbot and his crew of SWAT pushed through the ambulance bay doors, yelling off stats, applying pressure where needed and clearing the way around them.
Which was a welcome change from trying to sell Robby your hypothetical first born child in exchange for a lunch break.
“Intubated neck wound, stats are going down. Got a room?” said Jack.
You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”
“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”
“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”
Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.
You were what could be called, a floater.
By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.
“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”
You helped lift him over to the bed.
“Did you intubate him?” you asked,
“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.
You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”
“Shot at.”
“You need to be looked at?”
“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.
“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.
There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.
Jack had.
Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.
“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”
Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.
“You should get that looked at,” you told him.
“I'm fine.”
“No, you're not.”
There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.
“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”
You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.
So, he wasn't in the joking mood.
“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”
You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.
“Demanding,” said Robby.
“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.
Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.
You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”
The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.
“Geez- woah!”
“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.
The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.
“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”
“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”
“I know that but-”
“- this is a transected trachea now-”
There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.
There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.
You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.
It was one of the reasons he always called you in.
“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.
Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”
Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”
“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.
You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.
But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.
Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.
He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.
Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.
“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.
“Don't want the paperwork?”
“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.
“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.
There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.
You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.
And, why.
Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.
He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.
Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.
And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.
Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.
“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.
Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”
She hummed. “Funny.”
“Thank you.”
He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.
They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.
He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.
Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.
“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.
Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”
“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.
Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”
Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.
“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”
“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”
Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.
Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.
“Are you avoiding her, now?”
Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”
“Did she do something?”
“No.”
“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.
Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”
Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”
Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.
“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.
“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.
Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”
“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”
“Jack, c’mon-”
Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.
“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.
Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.
Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.
Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”
Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.
“She’s not it, Robby.”
“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.
“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”
He pressed down against the metal band branding him.
“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.
Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”
Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”
“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.
“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.
But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”
“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”
“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.
Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.
“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”
“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.
In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.
Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.
Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.
You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.
That’s why you felt it plummet.
She’s not it for me.
There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.
But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.
She's brutal.
It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.
You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.
You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.
She's not it for me.
“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”
“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.
Robby gave a nod and left you to it.
Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?
Besides from not being his wife.
The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.
It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.
You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.
You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.
Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.
The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.
You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.
A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.
“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.
When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.
“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)
Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.
And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.
But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.
You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.
“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”
You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”
Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”
“Well, no-”
“Then get your ass over here.”
“Robby-”
“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”
Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.
Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.
You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.
“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.
At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.
“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”
“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.
“Room in trauma one!”
Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.
“You're here,” was all he said.
You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.
Jack didn't like that person.
“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.
“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”
“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.
“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”
“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.
You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.
“What have you got?” he asked.
It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.
“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.
You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”
“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”
“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.
“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.
You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”
“Okay, start an-”
“- start an internal massage-”
You and Jack said at the same time.
Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.
“Pulse?”
“Barely.”
Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”
“I need suction!”
“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.
“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.
Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”
“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.
Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”
Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.
“Clamped,” said Princess.
“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.
There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.
“He's going into V-fib!”
You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”
They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.
“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.
“Charge to thirty! Clear!”
Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.
“There! He's stable!” said Princess.
“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.
“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.
You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.
Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.
When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.
The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.
You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.
“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.
“Thank you.”
He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”
“Yeah.”
“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”
You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”
“What, from the guys?”
You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.
“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”
Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?
“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.
“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”
She's brutal, you know.
You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.
“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.
Heading back in seemed the safer option.
Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”
“- I've been busy-”
“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”
“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”
“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”
“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.
Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”
You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.
“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.
You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.
“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.
“Nothing, nothing.”
Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”
He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?
Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”
“Huh?”
You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”
For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.
But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.
Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”
“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”
He gulped. “I didn't mean-”
“-what, for me to hear it?”
“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.
“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.
“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”
You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”
“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”
You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”
“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.
“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.
Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”
“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”
“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.
You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”
“- I know, I know you do-”
“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.
“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”
“You know what the worst part is?”
Jack shook his head, waiting.
“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”
Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.
It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.
Jack had fucked up.
There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.
He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.
He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.
He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.
“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”
“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”
They'd refused, with good reason.
He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.
It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.
Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.
“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.
He said he was looking for you.
“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”
“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.
Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.
There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.
“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.
Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”
Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.
You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.
“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”
“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.
“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”
You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”
Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”
You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.
He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.
“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.
Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.
“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”
“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.
Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.
“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.
What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.
He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.
“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.
“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.
“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”
There was a glimpse of a smile.
Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”
An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.
“Sorry,” he uttered.
You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.
It was enough for now.
Your name was called down the corridor.
“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.
“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”
Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.
Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.
“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.
Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”
“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”
Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”
“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”
“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.
Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”
“-Robby-”
“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”
Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.
Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”
A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.
“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.
Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.
Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.
Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.
They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.
They told you not to change.
It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.
Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.
You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.
Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.
“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”
Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.
Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.
It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.
“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.
“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.
The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”
You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”
You put in the orders for stitches.
“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.
“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”
The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.
You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.
Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.
You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”
You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.
“Here, I can-”
His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.
Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.
The tin fell into your hand.
Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”
“Thanks.”
It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.
It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.
“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”
Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”
“It's in the garage.”
“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.
The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.
“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”
“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”
You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.
“You don't have to, Jack.”
“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”
Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.
Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.
“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.
“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.
“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.
Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”
The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.
“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”
The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.
“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”
“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”
“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”
“-so why try?”
“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”
“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”
“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”
To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.
He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.
“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”
“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.
“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”
“Excuse me?”
Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”
You chuckled.
“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”
You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”
He waited, catching his breath, for more.
You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”
Jack nodded, looking down.
The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.
“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”
His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.
“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And looking to settle down.”
Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”
“Therapy is good,” you said.
Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”
As sorry's went... as love confessions went.
“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.
“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”
You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”
He smirked a little. “No.”
Your heart dropped.
Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”
His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.
You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.
You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.
Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.
You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.
“Will you let me?” you asked.
“Always,” he promised.
thank you to anon for requesting, and thank you to @oldbaddies and @mafercita101 who wanted to be tagged :)
summary — your sister is betrothed to a prince you are hopelessly in love with. you are being forced to marry the worst targaryen of the lot. choice is no longer a simple pleasure, but a stolen freedom. (11.2k)
featured — prince baelor "breakspear" targaryen / fem!stark!reader
content — no spoilers for akotsk, this is the second part of a series linked below, kate sharma/anthony bridgerton dynamic but your sister is evil, reader is a stark bastard called "lady snow", implied age gap, aerion is still an ass, technically infidelity?, smut MDNI (18+), baelor is a consent king, implied virgin!reader, p in v, in a semi-public place, fingering, big dick break my back baelor, 2k words just of smut what have i become
a/n — only 10 years in the making, but it's finally here (: thank you all for your patience, i hope you enjoy <3
(cross-posted on ao3) (part one)
The deep grain of the wood table feels cold to the touch. The candles flicker and dance across your vision, playing in the stale air that does nothing but steal the very breath from out your lungs. A rack of braised lamb sits on a gold platter in front of you, honeyed glaze dripping off the red meat, tempting you to try a bite, but your stomach is so tightly twisted in knots you do not think you can.
You keep your eyes planted on the twisted wood beneath your hands. It grounds you in a way that nothing else is capable of doing at the moment. You trace the swirling texture as it moves forward in a straight line, then as it suddenly takes the plunge and falls and disappears beneath the velvet tablecloth stretched across the table.
You suddenly hear a chorus of laughter that draws your eyes up from the deep maroon to where your sister has her seat at the end of the table. Her entire face is filled with glee, mouth stretched wide and her eyes shaped into little squints. Any other observer would not catch the tremble in her hands, nor the way that her grin does not meet her eyes, nor the way her gaze never goes past where Aerion sits beside you in a stubborn attempt at forgetting your existence altogether.
You bring your hands away from the table and begin to thread and twist your fingers together in the hope that some kind of movement might distract your frenzied mind.
Across from you, your father picks at the lamb in front of him. His mouth is set in a hard line. You are not sure what bothers him, but you imagine it is probably in some way related to you.
Your eyes drift away from him and back to your sister. She lifts her hand and puts it on her betrothed’s shoulder. You cannot bring yourself to sneak a glance at Baelor’s reaction to the show of affection for you fear that you might see something there you could not shake.
Lyanna has not said a word to you. It has been two days since she saw you kiss her betrothed. Every instance you have tried to corner her in the hall or approach her in her chambers or seek her out after meals, she has always evaded you with curt words and carefully controlled mannerisms. She does not show her anger to you, nor does she allow herself to feel any other emotion she has so clearly hidden from you. She cannot even bring herself to look at you.
It hurts more than you could care to admit. Despite the fact Lyanna has never been or ever will be your full sister, she has always been there. In this tumultuous life, she has always been your one and only constant. The one person who did not look at you with outright scorn. Now, you find yourself wishing that she could at least look at you. You would bear her anger easily if it meant ridding yourself of this cold indifference.
You cannot blame her. You cannot fully say that if you were in her position, you would not have immediately gone to father and had her removed from the castle. You tell yourself that perhaps Lyanna did harbor some kind of fondness toward you, but another part of you thinks that she is just biding her time to ruin you the way only a sister could. Irrevocably.
The fear prickles at the back of your neck and keeps your body from completely relaxing. You feel like a hare in the midst of a den of dragons, each person out for the kill. You shift in your seat uncomfortably and notice in your peripheral your nervy behavior has brought unwelcome attention.
“If I did not know better,” Aerion’s voice is hardly more than a mumble as he speaks this to you from where he sits at your side, “I would think you were not happy about our betrothal dinner.”
You turn your head in his direction ever so slightly, if only just to keep your eyes planted on him at all times. Your throat bobs dryly as you force yourself to swallow. It feels like sandpaper. You twist your lips into a smile to hide your unease.
“You are very astute,” you say to him. “Though, it is less the dinner I’m worried about as it is the betrothal itself.” Screw it, if Aerion wanted you dead, he’d just have to get in line at this point.
He lets out a dry chuckle. He stabs a piece of near-raw lamb with his knife and you watch as red liquid comes pouring out of the meat’s pores, falling onto the gold plate in maroon rivulets. His jaw flexes beneath his skin.
He does not look at you. His mouth barely moves as he speaks again. “If we are to be wed,” he mumbles, “I think there are some things we should make clear.”
You pinch the fabric of your dress together between your nails, willing yourself to rid them of their incessant shake.
“You are to be my wife,” Aerion bites out, “and therefore you will not show me anything but respect. You will lay down and take me in every sense of the word like the good half-breed whore you are.”
The words do not shake you. You had expected it, or at least some version of it. Your eyes go back to your sister. She’s smiling at Baelor like she really means it. It is not fake compassion, it is genuine affection. Even if she does not care for him romantically, she can at least tolerate him. She will not have to “lay down and take” Baelor. Not in the way you will Aerion, at least.
Your eyes slide back to your betrothed. He’s taking a long drink from his goblet, his eyes shut in bliss at the liberation the liquid affords him. You watch as one droplet of the ruby libation slips from his mouth and down his neck and as it clashes against his pale skin and wonder what it would be like to see his entire neck covered in the same color.
Your eyes widen and you force them away from him the moment the treacherous thoughts enter your consciousness.
The sound of a knife clattering against a goblet sends the table into a hushed silence at the same time. Your eyes get drawn to the middle of the table wherein Prince Maekar stands from his seat with a flourish.
You notice King Daeron’s eyes go from his son to across the faces gathered before they land on you. Something flickers in his expression. The taut wrinkles around his periwinkles eyes soften before they flit to the next person.
You swallow thickly.
“I just want to say how wonderful it is that we are seeing the joining of the Stark and Targaryen in not one, but two unions,” Maekar says with a grin. It is an uncomfortable expression on his face. You get the impression it is not one he makes often. “I believe that the joining of my brother and Lady Stark, along with the union between my son and Lady Snow to be the start of a very long, fruitful legacy.”
Maekar taps his knife against his goblet once more before he sits down. Your father pats his shoulder in a friendly manner and they begin to speak in hushed, jovial tones.
You cannot imagine what you and Aerion look like compared to the happy couple at the end of the table. Are they just as miserable, down beneath their bright expressions? You cannot control your fleeting will to see your sister’s face in that moment and allow your eyes to dart over there.
What you land on instead makes your breath catch.
One periwinkle, one brown eye stare at you from at the end of the table. His expression is soft, compassionate. His beard moves as his lips twitch upwards incrementally at the edges. You force your eyes away just as you notice Lyanna’s hand falling upon his forearm.
You suddenly feel horribly, violently ill.
It comes over you so quickly that your feet move before you can stop them. Your chair pushes out from behind you with a loud screech that sends eyes from every corner of the room landing on your figure.
“Is something the matter?” your father’s voice holds a warning in it that a part of you would ordinarily heed. In your current mind, however, all you can manage is turning your head away.
“If I could be e-excused, My Grace?” you look to King Daeron as you say this. His light eyes squint at your figure. “I suddenly do not feel so well.”
The lie tumbles from your lips so fluently that you are momentarily surprised by it. Lying to a king, no less. How far you have fallen.
“Of course, dear,” Daeron says, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “Do you require any maesters?”
You shake your head mutely. Your skin feels flushed from the holes that your father’s gaze burns into it.
You go to leave, stretching your slick palms across your gown as you spin away from the table. You try to escape without incident, but you do not move quite fast enough.
“Perhaps Lady Snow may require an escort to her chambers?”
You turn your head to the side only for them to fall on Prince Maekar. He’s turned away from you, looking pointedly to his second eldest son, who’s currently slouched in his chair pretending he’s anywhere but here, you’re sure.
You move to reply before Aerion can get the chance to. “It really is not necessary. I would hate to disturb the dinner for some stomachache.”
“Nonsense,” Maekar replies with a grin. His son still isn’t looking at him, instead stirring the maroon liquid in his goblet idly. His lips pull slightly down at the corners, his eyes narrowing with thinly veiled annoyance.
“Aerion?” he finally beckons. His second son finally looks at his father, then he looks at you.
He rolls his eyes away, and apparently emboldened by the maroon liquid in his goblet he says, “she can escort herself just fine. She’s got two legs and a sound mind, does she not?”
At the response, Prince Maekar looks like he is just one moment away from launching across the table and throttling his son.
You burn with mortification. Tears bead at your waterline and you force your gaze away from the shocked spectators. You duck your head and take a few steps away.
You are stopped again by yet another voice’s interference. Of the Gods Old and New, could you not be put out of your misery?
“—Brother,” you hear someone all-too familiar say from across the table. You shiver at the gentle lilt that rounds off his words, at the softened edges of kindness and wisdom that accent his word. It is the first thing he’s said in your presence since it happened. You do not turn your head. “I would be happy to escort Lady Snow.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to mentally will Prince Baelor from saying anything more. It will only make this worse, you think in vain. Can he truly not see that he will be killing any chance of a relationship with Lyanna by doing this?
Maekar barely raises his eyes away from where he watches Aerion. His eyes reflect confusion muddled by annoyance. He looks over at you and you try your best to convey to him the fact that this is the absolute last thing he should allow. But the words get lost in translation. Maekar shrugs and you hear the screech of Baelor’s chair pushing away from the table shortly thereafter.
You do not look at him as he joins your side, but you can feel the heat emanating off of him like the fireplace in your quarters. You keep your distance from him as you take the initiative to go to the doors of the dining hall.
There is a quiet space between the two of you as you walk side by side through the halls of the Red Keep. Everything feels wrong. The fabric of your dress rubs gratingly against your skin. Your mouth is still coated in the plain wine from the dinner. A cold drip of sweat goes down your neck.
Nothing is said immediately. Nothing has to be. The silence does enough. You think that you can breathe easily knowing you will not have to breach it.
Then, comes his voice.
“I suppose I should apologise,” Baelor murmurs. He keeps his eyes stubbornly in front of him as he walks, avoiding your probing gaze. “It was… unbecoming of me to do what I did that day. I recognize that I have caused irreparable harm to your relationship with Lady Lyanna, and for that I am distraught. I never wished to cause you harm… you or Lyanna.”
You feel something inside you break. Saltwater pushes against your waterline, searching for the least bit of resistance to escape and fall across your cheeks. You do not allow it, clenching your jaw stubbornly. That would be saved for the comfort of your quarters.
“It is just fine.” Your voice sounds meek, not at all carrying the strength you had hoped. “We both made mistakes.”
You feel his eyes on the side of your face before you see them in your periphery. He freezes in his stride, and you pause, eyebrows furrowed.
“I…” he starts, his throat bobbing, “I do not wish to give you the impression what we did… I did not think of it as a mistake.”
You do not reply immediately. Your heart stutters painfully, fighting against the confines of your restrictive bodice. Everything within you aches. It is the very last thing you had wanted him to say. The scorn, you could handle. The fear, the anger, the disgust, the regret, that you could handle. The way he stood before you now, his heart in his hands, reaching out for you to take it within yours, scared the shit out of you.
He backtracks when you do not reply. He clears his throat. “And of course, I understand that this is not something that can continue. You are at much greater risk than I. I also do not want to be presumptuous…”
“Baelor,” you interrupt, taking a few steps forward. He stops. His eyes soften and a hand comes to cup your cheek. You clasp it within your own two palms, preventing him from making contact. You hold his palm between yours against his chest. He squeezes your hand.
“I cannot be your mistress,” you say. His mouth opens to combat the notion, but you shake your head and he allows you to continue. “You say it would not be so, but I would be in the eyes of everyone else. I am a bastard. I am not ashamed of that, but the world will never let me forget it.” A tear flees from your eye and you watch his eyes trace it down your cheek. “You helped me realize I am more than just my name. I thank you for that. But you must realize… we cannot… we can never exist together.”
You drop his hand. “Lyanna is a good, virtuous woman. I have no doubts she will make a fine wife and an even better future queen.”
Baelor shudders. His jaw clenches as if holding back every emotion from stealing across his visage. You take a step back before you are dissuaded.
“Good night,” you say softly. “I can make it to my quarters from here. Go back to your betrothed.”
You leave before you can see his face fall.
The thing about sisters is that no matter what happens to cause a rift, one will eventually come crawling on their knees asking for forgiveness. You had tried that. Multiple times, even.
Any attempt to reconcile differences between you and Lyanna had been dashed by impromptu dinner plans, arrangements with septas, and other hurried excuses. She needed space, she told you once. Well, you had spent plenty of time holed up in your room between now and then. She needed time, you had given it freely. She couldn’t ignore you forever… could she?
No. You decide that morning as a young handmaiden helps tie a cerulean dress around your waist. You will not allow your one friendship to wither away because of some inane… horrible… thoughtless mistake. You and Lyanna, you were sisters. Men cannot come between sisters.
Just as you begin to ponder on how and where you will corner her, your handmaiden breaks through your thoughts with a soft, tremulous voice.
“Mi’lady, I heard Princess Daella has sought you and Lady Lyanna’s company this morrow over tea. Would you like an escort there?”
A grin sweeps over your expression before you can school it. The handmaiden looks startled at the sudden change from solemn contemplation to jovial exuberance. You school your features.
“Yes, that sounds lovely,” you say, barely containing your anticipatory grin, “take me right away.”
For the first time in the two days since you destroyed whatever buds of relationship had formed between you and Prince Baelor, a sense of hope and delight lead your strides. The servant girl shows you to a secluded part of the Red Keep, overlooking a small sector of the royal gardens. You slow your pace once you catch a glimpse of the two heads huddled closely together under the protection of a blooming hibiscus.
One has soft, silver hair that is braided in a crown on her head. The other has dark rivulets that shine under the morning sun. Whatever it is they speak of, it fades as they catch your eye. Your heart sinks at the silence. Sinks even further as your sister regards you with cold indifference and as Daella smiles sympathetically.
You take a seat across from the two girls and dismiss your handmaiden with a quick nod. Another servant quickly steps forth to pour a steaming, honey-colored liquid into your teacup.
You cross your hands within your lap nervously, looking between the two girls across from you.
“I appreciate you for thinking of me, princess,” you say once you realize no one else is going to say anything. “It is always a pleasure to be in your presence.”
Princess Daella offers a soft smile, but does not say anything.
“We were just speaking of our favorite childhood stories,” Lyanna says, her pale fingers curling around her cup possessively, as if even that she worried you would steal. “Do you want to hear the one I was about to tell Princess Daella?”
Your first instinct is to frown. Though it feels good to have Lyanna’s attention back on you, something gnaws at you. Her eyes. The expression reminds you of her mother. Her cruel words and her cold visage. You take a small sip of your drink to try to keep fear from twisting your features.
“Okay,” you reply even though the words feel like a hurdle to overcome, “I hope nothing too terrible.”
Lyanna does not reply. Instead, she turns to Daella. “She was always an unruly child. From the moment father brought her home, she was unfettered by social decorum. Father said she cried for three weeks straight, even the nursemaids couldn’t soothe her.”
“I had a cold,” you interject, hurt, though Daella’s lips curl with amusement all the same.
“A dire wolf with a cold,” Lyanna says with a laugh, before it halts in her throat as a devious thought forms. “Though I suppose that can be attributed to the fact you are only half one.”
You feel mortification burn at the fringes of your consciousness. Daella does not laugh at that. Her wide eyes flick between Lyanna and you, biting her bottom lip between perfect teeth.
“She was always outside. She often came home after dark, completely covered in mud, twigs, and leaves. Guards would sometimes not let her in at night because they thought she was some peasant girl.”
You know where this story is leading. You avert your eyes to the sight of a large blue butterfly flitting outside the castle walls.
“One night she was locked out,” Lyanna continues despite your discomfort, her dark eyes gleaming, “we found her in the morning. She was curled in a ball outside. And what did she have in her hand?”
“Please, Lyanna,” you say, something like desperation in your voice.
She ignores it. “She was so hungry, she ate a rat. All that was left of it when we found her, crumpled in her hand? The thin, pink tail.”
The princess’s face falls. A flush covers her cheeks, periwinkle eyes wide. She has never heard such a thing before because she has never experienced desperation. She has never heard of fear, of loneliness, of the kind of ostracization that led a young girl to kill and eat a rat.
You keep your eyes on your lap even as Daella stands.
“I have lessons,” Daella says, though you think it is just an attempt to escape the stifling tension brewing. Or perhaps she was just disgusted by the story, understandable either way.
The young girl ducks her head and shuffles away. Two handmaidens high-tail it after her in a flurried blur.
Silence falls like a blanket of snow. Frigid and impenetrable. You clench your teeth together so hard an ache forms at your temples.
“Did you like that feeling?” Lyanna finally says.
Your eyes dart to meet hers. She does not look like herself. Something has come over her. Some kind of predatory delight. The face only a dire wolf could make–and you, the hare stuck between her paws.
“That feeling of disgust? Of mortification?”
Your eyes slide shut. You feel blood rushing in your ears.
“Good,” she continues. Your eyes snap open again. “Because that is exactly how you made me feel when you kissed my betrothed.”
You hear a gasp from behind you. Your eyes dart to find a handmaiden staring with wide eyes. The kind of eyes one has when watching a man be impaled in a tourney.
“Do not fret.” Lyanna’s lips curl to reveal two sharp, gleaming canines. “They won’t tell. Not if they want to keep their tongues, that is.”
An idle threat, but it serves its purpose. The handmaiden ducks her head, hiding her shaking hands by clutching them to her front.
“You truly are not going to tell anyone?” Your voice sounds soft, so unlike your usual grit. You have been defeated. Who were you to think Lyanna would accept you with open arms? She had never been so forgiving. Not to anyone, not even you. Hardened by the heat of the Red Keep to a figure you no longer recognized.
Lyanna lets out a sharp laugh. “Tell father? And what purpose would that serve me?”
You swallow thickly. “You could have me on the streets in two days. You could have me ruined, gone from your life.”
You freeze as you consider the darkness lingering in her eyes, and realization crawls upon you like ivy tangling around your throat. “But… I’m exactly where you want me.”
“And I thought you were the smart one.” Lyanna takes a long sip of her tea. “Took you long enough to realize that.”
“But why?” you ask, “are you not worried someone will find out?”
Lyanna leans forward on the table. Her arm, ice cold and ironclad, comes upon your hand. You tremble beneath the weight of her stare.
“You will not tell if you know what is good for you,” she tells you. “Because you are smart. You know what your future holds, and honestly? I’m excited to see how it treats you.”
You swallow thickly at the implication. You remember Aerion’s threat. Your mouth fills with copper as you bite your lip.
“Besides,” she says, “I don’t give two shits what you do with my betrothed. Fuck him, kiss him, make him fall in love you with you. I don’t care.”
Your eyes widen and dart to meet hers.
She’s grinning. Her canines catch the light of the morrow, casting a grim shadow across her maw. “Because I’m the one marrying him. I’m the one that’s going to be a queen. You? He’d never have you when he could have me.”
You stare at her grinning face blankly. It feels like something has died within you, some kind of childish naïvety. You had finally done it. Ruined the one person that loved you.
Lyanna realizes this. She is enthralled by your suffering, the micro expressions flitting over your face. She stands once she’s had her fill of your misery. She waves a handmaiden to her side and saunters away.
You stare at the two teacups left across from you in stunned silence. Loneliness is nothing new to you. It is as close to your heart as its own beat, and yet, you feel the hurt all the same. Perhaps you had never known true loneliness before this, only an illusion of it.
You leave once your tea grows cold and you feel that you can properly support yourself upon standing.
The walk back to your quarters is a daze. You stumble behind the door and shut it tightly behind you. You feel the urge to cry, but no tears come. The lack of emotion confuses you.
Lyanna is your sister, she had been raised as such (albeit with clear distinctions made between you two) and yet, you do not feel as though you have lost much. You have lost a friend, certainly. The only one you had. But you were beginning to think, perhaps, you did not really like friends. In theory, they are nice. It is quite fun to have someone to talk to that understands you on an intimate level, that cares for you. But in practice, they are just… messy.
They end up betraying you like you did to Lyanna. Or you just end up kissing them, like Baelor did to you. You muse on this thought as you call a handmaiden to fetch you a bottle of wine. She goes without question. She’d seen the argument, she knew best not to question your motives.
You take a swig of the wine and wipe the back of your mouth with your hand. Perhaps the problem with Lyanna is that she wasn’t a friend. You take another sip. You truly can’t remember the last time you and Lyanna talked about something you wanted. It was all about her, her, her. Another long drink. And what about that condescending look when you tried to fit in with her? She was just as bad as her father. She just didn’t want to admit it. Another drink. She didn’t deserve Baelor. You didn’t either, though.
You are not sure how much time passes with you nursing this bottle of Dornish wine. It feels simultaneously like an hour as it does just a few minutes. You finish the bottle and put it down on the table. Or you think you do, but then it rolls across the floor so it must have not.
You stand and immediately regret it. Your head hurts. Everything is swimming around you. You have never felt this horrible in your life. You clutch your stomach as you hobble to the other side of the room.
You do cry then. It bubbles out of you like a fresh tap. Tears pour out of your eyes, your nose, probably every orifice on your face.
You stand there crying until you think you have released every bit of water in your system onto the hardwood floor. You turn your head and stumble, catching your hand on the dresser beside you to prevent yourself from falling.
Everything is wrong. You thought it was wrong before, but it is worse now. Nothing will be the same again.
You hear something break through your self-wallowing and tilt your head toward the noise. It is so soft you barely hear it. You frown and drunkenly stumble to the left. You cannot pinpoint the noise’s direction.
It stops. Then, you hear it again.
As you focus on the noise cutting through your cotton-filled head, you realize it sounds like voices. You creep toward the source of the sound, and end up at your slightly cracked window. You peer closer out into the gilded garden and a stagnant air licks at your skin. The view you have of the royal gardens is half-way obscured by a large tree that branches and winds toward your window. However your ears are sharp and you can hear the click of boots falling against brick before you see two long shadows darting across the ground.
You sit underneath your window sill and pull your knees to your chest, relying on your ears to tell you who it is.
You cannot see the speaker, but you recognize the voice immediately. Baelor.
“…Nyke ju'thtnos gaomagon daor vēdagon ūja wï’zérys.” (I just do not think it wise).
Your drunken mind scrambles. There are only a few people he could be talking to that understand High Valriyan. Even fewer situations that would require use of it over the common tongue. Whatever it is he spoke of, it must have required secrecy.
“Kepa emagon ael'rheaedyā aep'prróvëdā jentorysor. Daorun kostion sagon tatagon.” The second voice is one you distantly identify as belonging to Prince Maekar. You can only tell because his voice carries a deep grumble. You can see his disapproving frown clearly in your mind’s eye. (Father has already approved the union. Nothing can be done).
You dig your fingers into your sides, trying desperately to make sense of what it was you were hearing. Union? Marriage — it must be. But which…?
They must have begun walking again. Their voices are more distant now.
“Zirȳ issa baz'thárrdza. Gaomagon Aeær’yónnā drēje wa'nthrys kesīr?” Baelor’s voice is soft, diplomatic. But it hesitates on that word… “baz'thárrdza.” Your drunken mind does not have to search for long to find the translation. It was one of the first you learned all those years ago—bastard. (She is a bastard. Does Aerion want this?)
Your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage. You close your eyes and will yourself to stop listening. To spare yourself from hearing Baelor’s true thoughts of you. Thoughts that were not yours to partake in.
“Muña issa rôll'ynngrys rȳ zirȳla grh'aevënos. Th'ínkéā skorī gaomagon ao cha'urreā abó'ûdhnos ón'ë’thva parr'éndhzza?” (Mother is rolling over in her grave. Since when do you care about one’s parentage?)
There is a lapse in conversation. You think for a moment they have gone too far out of your hearing range. Then, Maekar’s voice comes again, louder, and no longer under the Valriyan ruse. You worry your lip hard beneath your teeth.
“Ah, but you do not care, do you?” his voice trails off with a disbelieving laugh. “You just want the girl for yourself.”
Your breathing gets halted in your throat. Your stomach rolls with sickness and anticipatory nerves. You cup a hand around your mouth, willing the nausea to dissipate.
“…It does not matter what I want.” Your vision swims before you. “I just do not wish for a mistake to be made.”
There is another pause. Then:
“I will think on it,” Prince Maekar says, and oxygen is finally permitted to fill your lungs again. “But it may be hard to convince father…”
His voice finally grows quiet and dies away. They have gone too far from your window to be heard.
For a moment you continue to sit there, on the floor and against your window, staring into the darkness of your room. But then your stomach churns again, as tumultuous as the Narrow Sea. You do not possess the mental fortitude to continue thinking on the matter before your body decides it is time to head to the chamber pot.
The conversation you overheard has all but left you by the time King Daeron’s nameday comes a few days later. Preparations for the celebration begin before the sun has risen on the morrow. You have been dressed, have eaten, and have met more faces of nobles than you could possibly keep track of in a dizzying amount of time, until finally you are led to King’s Landing at midday.
The fanfare is signified through the sound of horns and laughter and the clanging of metal against armor. The noise only grows more raucous as you and the rest of the nobility are led to a private box overlooking the tourney stadium.
The red pelt hanging loosely around your neck feels a bit like a noose as you take your seat in-between your sister and Princess Daella. The thick black dress you are wearing does not help with this feeling of entrapment. Sweat accumulates in every fold of your body, some gathering at your temples and dripping down your cheeks.
When you chance a look at your sister, she does not look the least bit affected. The healthy flush to her cheeks could be attributed to the heat of King’s Landing, but it feels like a stretch. A handmaiden gently fans the side of her face, and Lyanna encourages her to move it more vigorously.
You avert your eyes away before she can catch you looking. Your eyes are drawn to the opposite side of the viewing gallery, where King Daeron sits beside his youngest granddaughter. He is laughing at something she’s said, his light eyes crinkled with amusement.
You furrow your brows and look away. In the lapse of action, your mind is able to finally drift to what you witnessed a few nights prior. The insinuation that your betrothal may not last. The fear that filled your chest that bled into hope into sadness.
Lyanna moves in your periphery. She’s leaned forward over the bannister as Prince Aerion charges on his steed toward his opponent.
You clench your jaw and shut your eyes when the other man, a Tyrell, is unseated and sent flying down to the dirt with a sharp yelp of pain. Lyanna lets out a loud cheer that makes your ears throb. Aerion does a victory loop, absorbing the cheers from the crowd. The Tyrell man is helped to his feet, though his left arm lays limp and crooked against his side. You wince.
Across the field, your eyes get caught on the black and reds of the Targaryen flags. Four Targaryens in one tourney. It would make history. King Daeron himself had requested his two surviving sons to participate, and then a son of each of their choosing.
It was his name day, after all. And he was a king.
Your eyes get caught on one Targaryen in particular as he watches Aerion across the way. He is not in his usual finery. It is a welcome change to see him donning the dark armor of his past. He has removed his helmet for the time being, and you can see his face as it catches the sun’s rays.
He furrows his dark brows at his nephew’s strutting. You can see even from here the hard line to his lips, the quickness of his gaze.
“Water, mi’lady?” a voice comes from your side. You turn to see a handmaiden there with a pitcher of water. You nod quickly, caught off-guard by the sudden questioning.
The handmaiden fills your goblet and steps away to ask the next person.
“Your betrothed is a vision on the field.” Hot air cuts across your cheek as Lyanna whispers this to you. “Perhaps he may be persuaded to spend a night with me.”
“Go for it,” you say tersely. “I’ve heard Prince Aerion will take a lay anywhere he can get it. The easier, the better.”
Your sister burns a hole through your cheek through the weight of her glare. “Are you implying—“
You stand with a flourish before she can finish her statement. From behind her, your father shoots you a warning look. You do not heed it.
You are too hot, too uncomfortable, and much too bored. You need air. The next match is called out just as you make it to the bottom of the stairs, clutching your hands around your waist to make yourself look smaller. Unraveling the fox pelt from around your neck, you delicately dab the sweat away from your forehead and cheeks as you stand halfway hidden beneath a tree.
For a moment you stand there and watch as the world goes by without you. Children laugh and chase each other with small wooden swords. Ladies titter and swoon at their favorite contenders, or theorize on who may be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty. From what you overhear, Lyanna is a strong contender.
Just as you will yourself to go back to the stands, your eyes get caught on a figure approaching in your peripheral vision. His dark armor gleams underneath the red sun, his strides long and quick. You do not think he sees you, but then he turns his head and looks you right in the eyes.
He stops midstep. Stares. You feel a heat to your face that does not feel entirely wrought from the sun. The fox pelt settles softly back around your neck as you place it there, trying to will yourself to look somewhat put together and not at all like the wilted flower you feel like.
Baelor does not seem like he is going to approach you. He is too chivalrous to go against your wants again. He does not want to upset you, though you think he might want to talk to you as much as you want to.
You step forth from the shade of the tree and he turns his head, magnetized as your form is bathed in light. A smile curls at the ends of your lips as you raise your hand to give a small wave.
His lips curl to match your expression. Something lurks beneath his gaze, a question in the eyebrow he cocks in your direction. You move your head in a sweeping gesture, an invitation. You take a step back into the shadows of the tree.
Baelor reaches you in two quick steps. His armor rattles as he moves, his long sword clanking against his side. His mismatched eyes search your face as if looking for an answer to some kind of mystery.
“Not enjoying the tourney?” He does not seem the least bit offended by the notion as he asks this, rather, amused.
You look off in the distance in the practice of seeming coy. You do not wish for anyone to get the wrong idea by your conversation. “I suppose I am not one to enjoy public displays of violence.”
Baelor lets out a chuckle. You can’t help but smile a little at the throaty, unabashed sound.
“How about you? Are you looking forward to your match?” You cannot deny that you are a bit curious. As a lady, you were always kept at a distance from the pastimes of men. You did not know much, but were always interested in the rites of masculinity.
He lets out a short laugh. “Mentally? I feel like a young knight again. Physically? I… have been better.” He looks down at his armor with a sarcastic grin. “I think I must appear the same as a fat lord on a hunting expedition compared to all these kingsguard.”
Your lips twitch with the force of smothering your laughter. You do not agree with the last analogy, but there is something to be said about the Lord Hand having to wield a sword again. From what you heard, many Hands of the King retire their swords the second they pick up the badge.
You step forward and lay a friendly hand upon his pauldron. “If it counts for much, I eagerly look forward to your match. Lyanna and I were raised hearing stories of the infamous Hammer and Anvil.”
Baelor lets out a long breath through his mouth. “I really do not feel any younger with that knowledge in hand.”
The unexpectedness of the statement and the realization of what you implied about your age and his, makes you let out a barking laugh. The noise startles him, but it is an expression quickly traded away as then a toothy grin spreads across his face. You eventually quieten your giggles, covering your mouth with your hand.
“My apologies,” you say, though you know not what for.
Baelor watches you in silence. You swallow thickly under his heavy stare and cross your arms over your bodice. He snaps out of it when a voice calls his name from afar. He barely turns his head to face the noise, a veil crossing over his expression.
He turns back to you, his eyes somber. “May I request something of you?”
You startle at the question, your eyes widening at the possible implications. You trust Baelor, though. You nod, frowning at his seriousness.
“Never feel that you have to hide from me,” he tells you softly.
He does not allow you to reply before he turns his back and begins to stride away to where he was called. You watch him as he leaves until he disappears from view. A breath that you didn’t realize you held escapes from your lips. You rub the dewiness from your eyes and head back to the viewing box.
Lyanna barely looks up at you as you return. However, your father leans forward and sets his hands on either side of your chair.
“Where have you been?” His voice is low and vaguely threatening.
You turn your head. “I had to get some air.”
A handmaiden comes by to ask him a question and he releases your chair and flops back into his own with a sigh. You turn back around just as two new competitors enter the jousting arena.
Your sister sees him before you do. “Oh, there’s Baelor.”
You angle your head to the side and you see him on his beautiful stallion—Vaegon, you recall—twirling his stick around idly. His opponent is a Lannister you only vaguely recognize. You had met him, but all details as to his personage have fled you.
The match moves quickly. Baelor unseats the Lannister without much resistance. Seeing the jousting stick put just enough pressure on the man without causing him damage makes you gain a new appreciation for Baelor’s wisdom and self-restraint. Qualities his nephew lacks.
The Lannister man scurries away as Baelor removes his helmet and grins to the cheering crowd. You hear King Daeron clap enthusiastically for his son.
As you watch him trot around the arena, flexing his legs and hips to guide his steed around sharp curves, something warm and fuzzy settles over your body. You shift to hide your unease at the feeling, crossing one knee over the other. Were you truly…? You shake your head and take a long sip of your water to chase away the feeling.
You were just lonely. That’s all it is. Or that is all you tell yourself. And yet as the matches fly by in quick succession, your mind keeps drifting back to that one picturesque moment when he removed his helmet. His face was still drawn tense with exertion, large rivulets of sweat dripping down the side of his temple and deeper into his armor, and his eyes were solely focused on Vaegon as he moved powerfully underneath him. You reminisce on how he bit his lip in contemplation, then raised his head to let the sun beat down on his skin and opened his eyes to his adoring subjects.
Something about the whole farce proves to be incredibly problematic for you. You know what arousal is, just as you know what sex is. It is the admitting part that makes you nervous. Were you truly so attracted to Prince Baelor that seeing him joust was enough to make you hot? It felt near blasphemous, like perhaps what you insinuated of your sister was actually true about you—that you were just easy.
You bite the end of your nail as the day draws to an end. King Daeron stands from his position on the far end of the box, his pale visage drawn ruddy with overwhelming delight. He gives a large speech about his appreciation of the name day celebration, that fades into a discussion on who it was who had impressed him the most.
“My grandsons, how youthful and strong they make an old man like me feel,” King Daeron says with a heavy sigh. He comes closer to the edge of the stage. He brandishes a flower crown braided of daisies, lavender, and calendula, and your sister tenses beside you.
“Prince Aerion, perhaps you may do the honor of choosing this tourney’s Queen of Love and Beauty?”
You shift unsteadily in your seat as your sister deflates. She believes her chances dashed at being selected. Aerion grabs the crown from his grandfather’s hand and leads his horse down the box’s side.
He looks directly at you—stares so long that you think he might actually pick you. Then, something shifts on his expression. A smirk pulls at his lips.
“Perhaps Lady Lyanna may take this laurel?” he offers, arm outstretched toward the silent ravenette beside you.
You do not allow surprise to take hold of your features, especially when you notice your sister turn her head victoriously in your direction. She’s looking for hurt to show through the cracks of your veil. You will not afford any weakness.
She stands with a delighted titter. Delicate white hands come to clutch the ends of her dress as she moves to the rail. She bends the knee and Aerion takes a long, torturous moment to place the crown upon her dark tresses.
You do not watch any longer as eyes and heads swivel in your direction. It is not a good sign for a betrothal to start in a betrayal like this, but it was beginning to seem you and Aerion had been doomed from its very conception.
You make it through the rest of the tourney unscathed. You dodge your father's questioning as well as concerned comments from Princess Daella and crude remarks from Aerion long enough to escape back to your quarters.
You suppress the tears that wish to escape and take a seat on your bed. As you put your weight down, you hear something rustle beneath you. You stand again, confused, and pull back your duvet.
What sits there, on the plush bed, makes your heart skip a beat and your breaths come out in stuttered gulps. Pinkish-orange hibiscus intertwined with vibrant lilies and snapdragon in a braided crown. Your fingers delicately brush the petals, a hand coming to cup your mouth in stunned awe.
As you lift it to rest upon your head, a slip of parchment falls to the floor. You bend to pick it up and read through the tears beading in your eyes.
For the true queen
— Baelor
Sleep does not come easily that night. Your drift between varying levels of consciousness, thoughts of sisters, betrothals, and princes. You wake with a start several times, your heart thudding against your ears.
By the fifth time this happens, you realize sleep will not be coming for you. You stand up from your bed and pull your comforter to hide the spot you once laid. The soft moon’s light streaming across the floor sends a shiver down your spine, worsened by the chill that erupts from the feeling of your feet landing on the cool hardwood. You move quickly to grab your thick wool-lined kirtle and draw it over your figure.
Stepping outside your room, your eyes rapidly adjust to the warm light that flickers from each sconce on the wall, one hand drawing across the cool cobblestone walls. You weave silently through the halls of King’s Landing, hiding behind sandstone columns when kingsguard clank by. You reach the palace library with little delay, and you shut the heavy door behind you.
The room is so silent one could hear a quill drop. Only one candle remains lit, flickering in the middle of one of the tables. You notice a book by that candle, as if sat out in preparation for your arrival. Moving closer, you brush your fingers across the worn leather cover. It has no title, and the pages are rustic and yellowed.
When you begin to read, you realize with great surprise that the entire thing is written in High Valyrian. You contemplate not reading it, for it feels a bit like taking something that does not belong to you. Only nobles are taught High Valyrian in the first place, and to gaze upon an entire book written in the royal tongue feels close to treachery.
What was that saying, again? Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. You cannot prevent yourself from reading.
You are not sure how much time passes as you parse through a few pages of the tome. You get utterly absorbed by the text, so much so that you do not hear the door open and shut behind you.
“Issa ao æn'njôyiñgtor yôûr'shëlfrys?” (Are you enjoying yourself?)
You leap to your feet. You spin around, but see only a figure cloaked in darkness. A very familiar silhouette, however. He steps forward into the amber circle of candlelight, and his features are brought into full focus.
“Baelor.” Your voice comes out with more relief than you had intended. For a moment, you had been scared at the thought of someone less diplomatic stumbling upon you reading this ancient text. You turn your head to the book with an apologetic smile. “Ūja issa ju'thtnos zid'dhíngtor issar. Nyke ch'oúldñ'dva baelagon my’zélfrys.” (It was just sitting there. I couldn’t help myself.)
Baelor steps close until he is but an arm's length from your side. He sets a hand upon the book and turns to the first page. “The words of my grandkepa,” he murmurs in reverence. “I imagine my father or brother were doing some light reading.”
You study the side of his face as his eyes rove over the text. His dark eyelashes flutter and a soft breath huffs from his parted lips. He turns to you and you startle at the intensity in his eyes.
“Why are you here so late?” He is not accusatory as he says this, rather, he seems perplexed by your presence.
You rub your cheek and avert your eyes. “I could not sleep.”
Baelor lets out a huff of a laugh, and the air teases the tendrils of your hair. “That seems to be a common theme with you. Perhaps you should see a maester for some chamomile tea.”
“And what of you?” You grin, reaching forward to poke his arm. “Why is the Hand of the King awake at this hour?”
Something settles upon his face as he regards you. His eyes draw down your face as if painting a mental picture of your image. He turns his head back to the book forcefully, as if only realizing the impropriety of his staring. “I needed to retrieve a book to ease my worries. I find it helps to consult my ancestors on troubling questions.”
You nod at the somberness of his voice. You could not help but agree with the assertion that books made your worries often disappear. To get lost in a book is a treasure, a much-welcome break from reality.
“Did you…” Baelor clears his throat, unable to meet your eyes. “Did you like your gift?”
“Oh, yes, Baelor,” you say giddily, remembering the handwoven crown on your bed. You lay a friendly hand on his where it sits on the table. “It was absolutely wonderful.”
Baelor turns his hand up so that your palms touch. He clutches your hand gently, with enough restraint to allow you to slip away if you wish. You do not. “Aerion should not have done that,” he tells you, “it is a grievous insult to you and your union.”
You gnaw your lip beneath your teeth. “It was embarrassing, of course,” you say, “but… I cannot seem to make myself care beyond that.”
Baelor lifts his head to stare into your eyes. The candle’s warm light flickers across his face, something fond and raw in his expression. You step closer.
“In truth, Baelor, I could not stop thinking of you.”
His throat bobs as he considers the weight of your words and the tantamount confession strewn beneath the phrasing.
When he does not immediately reply, you feel a rush of shame flood your conscience. “I am sorry.” Your heart pounds against your rib cage in fierce denial of his rejection. “I… should not have–”
You cannot finish your statement before his lips fall upon yours and a hand weaves across the side of your neck to cradle your jaw. You are now the one that is stunned. For a moment, your body simply does not respond. Then, life breathes itself back into your muscles and your lips match his pace.
The kiss is not as juvenile and restrained as the one you shared so many days ago in the shadow of an empty corridor. This one is with full intent and determination to make a point. His lips are warm and all-encompassing. He tastes of sweet wine and hibiscus, and you realize that you have never loved the taste of anything more.
Then, the moment is broken. Baelor pulls away slightly, his eyes drawing over the planes of your face as if he might never admire them this close again. A thin string of spit hangs like a lifeline between your two lips, stretched taut by the concern in his expression.
“I do not wish to cause you more difficulty.” His words are soft, devout. You can still taste the sweetness of his breath as he speaks quietly, only for you to hear. His hand gently strokes the part of your neck wherein your pulse thrums the loudest. “I do not wish for this to come between you and your sister, or you and Aerion.”
You let out a sharp laugh without intending to. Baelor’s eyebrows draw together. “Fuck them,” you say. Then, louder: “Fuck. Them.”
You lean forward to rejoin your lips to his, and he returns the initiative gladly. Soon you find yourself on the center of the table, your kirtle rucked up to your thighs, and the book and candle shifted to the corner of the surface. Baelor stands in the middle of your spread legs, one hand guiding your head to meet his lips while the other strokes your bare knee.
The heat returns in full force, a warm bubbling sensation rising from the bottom of your stomach to your chest. You drag a hand to the front of where his broach keeps his doublet together, fumbling blindly for some kind of give.
Baelor breaks the kiss to unbutton his top. You drag your coverup over your skin, hesitating for a moment at your midriff, before releasing it over your head. What remains is your sheer shift and Baelor’s smock-covered-chest.
You avert your eyes to the front of his white linen top, gently stroking his chest from where it peeks at the top. You cannot bear to see his reaction to your exposed skin, so you keep yourself occupied with tracing the defined line of his collarbone. Baelor does not let you continue the path as his large hand swoops to grab yours within his own. He cradles your hand to where his heart thrums underneath the cloth and the skin underneath, and you finally draw your eyes up to meet his.
His eyes are blown dark, so dark that you can no longer remember which is periwinkle and which is brown. A healthy flush covers the tips of his ears and his neck, and his mouth is parted to release short, panting breaths.
“Iksā gevie.” (You are beautiful).
The smile finds itself on your face as if it were always meant to be there, and you reach forward to stroke the fine, coarse tendrils of his beard. “Se ao.” (And you).
You can tell Baelor does not get complimented often for how he steps forward to bury his head into your neck, planting ticklish kisses across your exposed skin. You let out an airy laugh and move to bring your hand underneath his smock. His back is covered in corded muscle and healthy fleshiness, and he shivers as you bring your nails against his spine.
He pulls away to remove his smock. You watch as his stomach and chest are revealed to the silent library. For the first time since beginning the affair, you feel nervous. Baelor has literally and figuratively bared his skin to you, allowing you to be the one to see his battleworn skin, the curled, coarse hair that covers his pectorals and navel, and the slight pudge to his stomach. He has given all to you. Now, it is your turn.
You let your feet hit the floor and begin to lift the top part of your shift over your head. You are barely past your midriff when Baelor stops you with a gentle hand.
“You do not…” he starts, “you do not have to get completely bare if you do not wish it.”
You shift uneasily on your feet, threading the thin linen between your fingers. “I… I want to.”
Baelor strokes the skin of your wrist once more before pulling away. You remove the rest of your clothing without any other delay. You draw your arm to protectively stand beneath your breasts, but do not cover them.
Baelor steps close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of his skin. He touches your upper arm and you shiver.
“You are made of what Old Valyria wrote songs about.”
You turn your head bashfully. “I hope of the love songs, not the ones about war and destruction.”
Baelor lets out a grumbly laugh, his chest moving with the sound. You bring your hand to cup his where it sits upon your arm. You drag it to touch your breast.
“Do not be afraid of what I think,” you tell him softly, “I want all you can give me.”
Baelor’s throat bobs, but he heeds your request. He gently squeezes your breast, then draws his opposite hand to hold your neck as he kisses you. He finds himself in between your legs again as you attempt to squeeze them together. You feel a pool beneath your thighs forming, and you draw your lips from his to settle beside his ear.
“Perhaps you may take your breeches off now.”
He does not reply, instead his hand that was touching your breast draws down your hip and to the crevice between your thighs. The warmth there–the immediacy of the flesh against uncharted territory, makes you flinch. But Baelor does not remove himself.
You instead shift further back on your tailbone to accompany his adventuring fingers. He gently touches the outside of your hole and you shiver. He drags his fingers through your wetness so slowly it’s tortuous.
You shift in place and a small smile curls at his lips. “So impatient,” he tuts.
“It is not my fault,” you whine, “you have been nothing but a tease all day.”
“A tease?” He punctuates this by bringing his middle finger to circle your clit. You arch your back with a sharp gasp at the sudden overwhelming arousal that controls you like a puppet. “How so?”
You can hardly think, much less talk. To make it worse, he’s got a finger in you now, slowly pumping back and forth. It is too slow and too fast all at the same time. You squirm, letting out a soft groan.
“Seeing you all hot”--your words are broken off by a sharp moan as his finger is joined by a second–”and sweaty, riding your horse…”
He lets out a chuckle. “You really have been neglected, haven’t you? Getting all worked up over near-nothing.”
You can feel something delicious building in your loins, and you grab his wrist as he speeds up, not wanting him to slow or speed up, but hold the pace he was at infinitively.
“I suppose no one can blame you,” he says, “I have waited far too long to help you.”
The feeling is close to making you burst. You arch your hips as a third finger joins the fray and suddenly everything goes white. You dig your nails into his wrist as you let the feeling take hold of you. You think this is the reason people do anything for sex; sell it, trade it, commodify it. For this one brief moment of physical enlightenment. Your mind scrambles and then settles, like falling off the edge of a cliff. Your stomach feels like nothing and then everything, and then you hit the bottom and everything is normal again.
Baelor removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth. You watch through hooded eyes as he sucks them dry. You feel a familiar stirring in your mons and energy revitalizes your movements. You stick your fingers in the front of his pants and pull his hips flush against yours. Eagerly, you try to untie his breeches, but he stills you with a gentle hand on your wrist.
“Allow me,” he says. He blissfully does not pull all the way apart from you to drag his fingers into his breeches.
“Damned things,” he mutters as they fight against him. He finally pushes them hard enough to release his waist and they fall away. All that is left is his pulsing cock, staring directly at you.
You swallow thickly. This is what… this is what you are expected to fit inside you? It is so large, so much longer and fleshier than you had been expecting. Your–albeit brief–forays into the steamier literature on the male physique had not prepared you sufficiently for this moment.
“It is…” Baelor pauses, and turns his head bashfully. You notice a red tint to his ears. “It is a touch larger than most men’s, I am told. I… do not want to hurt you.”
Your breathing stutters, but you shake your head immediately. “You will not,” you tell him sternly, “I know you won’t.”
He does not seem entirely confident in the statement. He stares at his cock like it is a disembodied curse, but it does not register his eyes as it stands tall and proud against his stomach.
You move your leg to hook around his back, bringing him flush against you. “I trust you.”
It is all the encouragement he needs as he grabs it and lines himself up with your entrance. He looks at your eyes once more, as if giving you another chance to change your mind, before he enters you with one smooth thrust.
You let out a sharp gasp that has Baelor immediately stalling inside of you. He pushes past his own overwhelming arousal to wipe his eyes down your face. You feel the sharp pain ebb into something primal, more raw and dizzying. You dig your fingers into the wood grain beneath you.
“Gods Old and New,” you say into the still air, “forgive me for my lust.”
Baelor lets out a soft laugh, taking your words as encouragement. He backs out of you then settles into a pace, in and out, in and out, in and out. You moan, grabbing at his back as he brings himself upon you, digging your fingers like blades against his ribs and spine.
Baelor vocalizes just as much, his eyes fluttering shut then bursting open when he hears you moan, as if the very sound awakened something within him. As your high approaches, he begins muttering something under his breath. You can barely hear it through your own fogged mind, but you can catch pieces of it.
“Bisa iksis iā irudy… Gevie… Gevie… Nyke dōrī jaelagon naejot henujagon,” he chants the phrases as if in a spiritual trance but you are his idol and he is but a lowly septa. (This is a gift... Beautiful... Beautiful... I never wish to leave).
You capture his jaw with your hand and bring him down to seal your consummation with a kiss. He returns it in full. It is messy, all tongue and teeth clipping and noses bumping. But it feels so fucking right. Everything does.
You pull away to let out a loud groan as your climax reaches its precipice.
“Baelor,” you call out.
“I know, I know. Let go for me, love.”
You reach your release with a moan. You clutch your legs tightly around his still-thrusting hips, and drag your nails down his back. He follows soon after you, finding his home in your sweat-slick neck, groaning so loudly and guttural, it shakes your pulse. His hips slow as he finishes, before they finally stop altogether.
He pulls himself out of you and you feel liquid follow. You continue to lay there on the table, breathing heavily, for several moments. When you come to, Baelor is next to your head, gently dragging a cloth against your sweaty head. He has his breeches back on and his smock, and his eyes look so gentle and so reverent you feel like you could cry.
“Perhaps you should get dressed,” he murmurs, “I do not wish for anyone to see you now.” He drops the cloth and strokes down your cheek with his fingers instead.
His thumb drops to your lip and you bite it softly. A low noise escapes his lips, but he shakes his head.
“The sun is rising,” he tells you, “I do not think we have the time for a round two.”
“Will that be the jousting round?” you say breathlessly, “are you going to hit me with a big stick? Oh wait, you already did that.”
Baelor barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “You minx.”
You stand on the feet of a fawn. You collect your shift and coverup and dress in silence. When you are finally covered, you turn your head to see Baelor watching you.
Sadness falls over you as you watch his loving gaze, a hollow pit in your stomach where warmth used to reside. You draw your hands protectively around your waist.
“What now?”
Baelor’s eyebrows furrow. He takes a step toward you, arm outstretched. You allow him to touch you, but cannot fully bring your eyes to meet his. You are afraid of the rejection that may come.
“I believe that I have a long conversation with my father in my future,” Baelor says, bringing his hand to cup your cheek. “And I will not be stopping until he gives me what I have claimed.”
You lean your face into his calloused hand. “They will be angry.”
He draws closer still, his nose brushing against yours. “Let them.”
“And if they decide I am not worthy to be a princess?”
“It does not matter,” Baelor’s voice is soft as he says this, as if he had already considered this possibility. “For you will not be a princess. You will be a queen.”
♡ :: BAELOR who is so obsessed with his pregnant lady wife ˎˊ˗
Baelor had always loved you, his wife, deeply, but something primal—due to his dragon blood—awakened in him the moment you announced your pregnancy.
He would spend hours with his head resting against your belly, speaking to the babe in High Valyrian, telling them stories of his ancestors and promising them the world.
The way your body changed fascinated him beyond reason. He found you more beautiful than ever, the swell of your belly, the fullness of your breasts, the glow in your skin. He would trace the new curves of your body with reverent fingers, whispering how exquisite you looked. Praises you every night from head to toe baby.
Courtiers quickly learned never to stand too close to you. Baelor's protective nature came out instantly. He would subtly position himself between you and anyone he deemed a potential threat, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Possessive as we like it!
When you craved something specific, the kitchens would be thrown into chaos until it was produced. Baelor once sent riders to three different cities because you mentioned a particular Dornish cake you remembered from your girlhood.
He became paranoid about poisons and would personally taste everything you ate or drank before allowing you to consume it, much to your amusement and occasional exasperation.
Awareness king, during court sessions, his eyes would constantly drift to where you sat, checking on your comfort, noting if you shifted or seemed tired. He'd cut proceedings short the moment he noticed your fatigue.
Baelor developed a habit of speaking to the babe in the quiet of your chambers, making grand promises: "You will have the finest horse in all the Seven Kingdoms” or "Your mother is the bravest woman I know, you must learn from her."
He would carry you to bed when you fell asleep in a chair, ignoring your protests that you could walk. He simply couldn't bear the thought of you exerting yourself unnecessarily.
He’s so perfect that he even commissioned a special chair for you at court, more cushioned, with armrests positioned perfectly to support your changing body. He had it covered in the softest silks.
He would read to you from Valyrian poetry, sometimes stopping mid-sentence to kiss your belly and murmur something sweet to the babe.
Baelor became openly hostile to anyone who made his wife uncomfortable, even unintentionally. A lord who joked about your pregnancy weight found himself suddenly reassigned to the Wall. “Should’ve cut his tongue off”
When you experienced discomfort or pain, he would become frantic, summoning maesters at all hours, demanding they do something, anything! to ease your suffering. The truth is, he is scared of losing you. So many women die in childbirth…well, not on his watch!
He slept poorly, often waking in the night to check on your breathing, to feel your belly, to assure himself that both you and the babe were safe.
When you finally gave birth, Baelor wept openly, not for the child, but for the ordeal his wife had endured. He held you for hours, murmuring gratitude and love.
He looked at you with the babe in his arms and felt overwhelmed. He had never known such complete, terrifying love.
Hear me out on single mother Reader x obsessed+in love at first sight butcher Simon
You don't know him, you think, not really.
You've seen him a couple times behind the counter - large man in an apron, blond hair buzzed too short to his skull, surgical mask on his face and in the cool air of the butchery, it almost feels like you are the meat on his counter.
Stupid thought, really, probably because you haven't been resting much lately and maybe, because running from your child's father across the country is draining you of energy, money and hours of sleep.
'What can I get you?' He asks, voice vibrating through the space between the two of you invisible strings getting stroked because you have to crane your neck to look up at him, because his eyes don't blink at you as he stares, because you don't know how to ask for what you want and what do you even need-
You shake your head, stepping to the side, pretending you are still looking at the display, letting the impatient man behind you step forward so that the line can finally get moving and butcher's head tilts to the side.
Not even surprised, for some reason.
Your pride and joy sleeps on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your neck - little boy with your eyes and your nose, his hair tickling your nose when you turn your head to breathe him in, trying to calm down.
His gp has already told you that he needs to eat more meat, but apple never falls far away from the tree - a picky eater has another picky eater, because your chid positively despises red meat, refuses any duck or lamb, spits out ground meat, whining about texture and doesn't take to fish kindly either.
And money's tight this month, you chew on your lower lip, fingers wooden with anxiety coarsing through your body like electrical current.
Buzzes in your arms, already aching because your 3-year old is a growing boy, and maybe you aren't getting stronger to hold him up for hours like before when he was an infant and you could pretend you can still carry him under your heart. Keeping him safe.
"What can I get you, luv?" The low voice slithers through your stupor, so you'd look up from the display and see that the large man from before is bracing his arms on the counter, leaning forward. "Been starin' for a while. What's the plan for dinner?" He asks, and you don't know how to push down the animal's urge to back off from him immediately.
The butcher's eyes are dark and round, almost soft when his gazse is anything but.
'Cow's eyes', you think, swallowing a smile because you don't need no trouble and don't want to smile at another man to give him some bloody reason to get closer. 'If cow was a butcher, that is.'
"I'm not...sure." You say quietly, keeping your voice low and he hums, apparently not planning to pull back. "He uh...doesn't like meat much. But I need him to eat a little of it, something...just- just don't know what to try." Your lower lip wobbles and fuck, this is humiliating. But the month have been so rough and so long and you are so so tired.
"Okay." The man nods slowly, tilting his head to the right shoulder, eyes the bottomless well that you cannot get out of, thick stone of it muffling any screams. "Lad eat anythin' from meat or nothin' at all?" He clarifies, keeping his voice quiet and gratitude blooms in your chest for this small consideration.
"Uh, yeah, he..." you nod quickly, wiping tears on your shoulder hastily. "Likes chicken nuggets sometimes. In the shape of dinosaurs." You explain and the man makes a sound only adjacent to chuckle.
"Got decent chicken fillet this mornin'. Fresh." He proposes, nodding at the neatly arranged pale pink of chicken on your left. "Can coat breadcrumbs and bake 'em in the oven till golden. Should taste like nuggets."
It is so simple, so bloody easy but you have no energy to feel embarassed that you did not think of it yourself.
"I'll take two." You swallow the small shudder, because you cannot allow it while your boy's asleep. Can't risk waking him up.
"Four quid." The man nods, starting to move immediately, picking out the meat to wrap up for you and you fumble for your wallet, trying to get it out of the pocket without needing to set your child down.
The butcher huffs out air, but when you glance up at him, he is looking down on the meat he is packing for you. The only give away of his mood - eyes crinkled in the corners.
Is he smiling?
"Here you go, luv." He takes the money from you and passes you the wrapped up meat. "Let me know how it goes with the chicken." The butcher adds, not requesting but telling and you nod automatically, too glad to get it over with.
He is weird, you think. Weird, but he was nice and that's much more than you were getting in the last couple months.
Only back at your apartment when you get dinner ready, you realise something. The butcher didn't pack you two fillets. He packed four.
When you step into his shop few days later, your toddler, holding onto the bag of groceries you have in hand. "Helpin', mum" as he said to you, determined to do just that.
The bell dings above your head and the butcher emerges out of the backroom, his whole massive frame moving too quietly for someone of his size.
When he sees you and your boy, something changes in his eyes, almost eager. Anticipatory of something, when he gives you a short nod and circles the counter, leaning on it again, this time by the register, so he can see you proper.
So there is no glass between you two.
You open your mouth to greet him, only to pause realising that you don't know his name. Bloody hell, you didn't even ask it last time.
"Simon." He chimes in helpfully, eyes crinkling when you quickly nod. He is definitely smiling.
"Thank you for the last time, Simon." You smile, wide and relieved, reaching for your wallet. "But you've given us more accidentally. How much do I owe you for the extra two fillets we got last time?"
He makes a low humming sound, something satisfied passing through his eyes when he turns his head from side to side, slowly shaking it.
"Not accidental. On the house, luv." He says, glancing down at your toddler, tilting his head to the other shoulder when your son just stares up at him back. "Y'like the chicken?" Simon asks, casual and curious, not moving any closer but your baby quickly nods. Stands on his tippy toes to reach for the counter.
Breathes out 'thank u', a little shy in the face of a new person met and when you glance at Simon, his heavy shoulders sag down, dark eyes warm in a way you didn't expect.
"No problem." He says back to your son and glances back at you. "Same today, luv?"
"Uh...yeah, yeah, please." You snap out of your daze quickly and he nods, pushing himself up, suddenly towering over you. "Seems like we hit out jackpot with oven-baked chicken."
Fuck, you did not realise he will be even bigger up close.
"Breast's better today." Simon announces casually, not even looking up at you as he packs it for you just as quickly as the last time. "Same price as last time."
You are pretty sure that it should not be the same, but the big butcher sends you one glance and you promtly shut your jaws closed.
You will still be paying for the meat, so maybe it's okay if he wants to be kind to someone.
"Thank you, Simon." You tilt your head, mirroring his usual gesture without even realising when you take chicken from him. "Love, tell Simon 'bye-bye', we are leaving." You glance down at your child, currently watching Simon with rapt attention, clearly not planning to leave.
Simon huffs out 'g'bye', very obviously amused and says that he will see you later.
You don't question it. Not until you run into him in the grocery store. Then at the bakery.
Simon tilts his big head to the shoulder every time, large and tall, thick thighs wrapped in jeans that should be bursting at the seams by the looks of it.
Simon huffs 'hey, lad' at your son and breathes out 'mornin', love.", purrs 'evenin', luv' and practically savours the surprise on your face when you run into him in your apartment building when he tilts his head at you in the elevator and hold it so you can get in.
Smiles behind his surgical mask when you glance up at him and your throat bobs.
Not good for you and your kid to be all on your own. He could fix it for you, you know.
Simon nods goodbyes to you, says 'see you soon' instead of simple 'bye' and has the pleasure to watch the jump of your pulse at the base of your neck, breathing hitching.
Yeah, perhaps he should. Simon checked, there is no one with you and the laddie you haul on your hip everywhere.
You could use a hand and won't you look at that, Simon had two.
No thoughts just people scoffing when they first see you, an omega, walking around with the all alpha 141.
Shorter than the others, muscle hidden under a healthy layer of fat that some mistake for softness. People whisper amongst themselves about there being no way you're cut-out for the 141.
"Why should I listen to you?" Your fellow sergeants in other groups sneer, their scents sour and too-strong "you aren't really a soldier. How many times have you bent over for your captain? What, you take a knot and they let you dress up like one of us?"
The threat of paperwork and being transferred out is the only thing that keeps you from spilling blood most days. You keep your chin up and ignore it all, they aren't worth your effort.
They don't see what you're capable of, but your teammates do.
You regularly take ghost down on the mats. He may be bigger as a natural-born alpha, but people forget omegas pack on muscle when given the opportunity. The first time it happened, you swear you could feel the happy pheromones in your lungs from how the team rumbled in delight.
You are a brutal, violent, strong omega.
You earned your place in the pack the same as everyone else, and now you complete it.
You aren't above scruffing soap or gaz when needed, or pulling ghost in to scent him when he's getting antsy. Their den finally has a nest to support, one that you swear price practically lives in to avoid people trying to sign him up for meetings.
So no, you don't react to the comments people throw at you. It's nothing you haven't heard before.
...that doesn't stop your packmates from doing something, however. A fact others learned after gaz sen two lieutenants to the hospital....allegedly, of course. Price had the papers handled before the blood had even dried.
how about your boyfriend!bobby getting lost in the backrooms for a while and then coming back looking... different. acting different. you're so sure it's still him. there is no way someone out there can look as similar. his voice is the same. his body is the same. and yet... the color of his hair is not how you remembered. his eyes look almost inhumane. he's looking at you weirdly.
synopsishi again(im gonna be so annoying with this). i had some voices whisper into my ear about a shared tattoo with jack abbott and wife(pediatrics doctor?) reader? reader and jack having two tattoos. one that everyone would see and the other where only the two of them would. and what if, their marriage is like not known to everyone except for Robby and Dana(?hehehe) request!
warningstattoo talk? general hospital stuff, language, making out, smut-ish
authornotein honour of tom holland and zendaya coming back to screen soon i dedicate the tattoo's to them. i had soooo much fun writing this, i can't believe i'm slowly moving into being a jack girlie. ignore the fact that Jack is for some reason in day shift. this one's for @expreissionism
The first time the Pittlings made the connection they thought nothing of it. Some ink swirled around the skin of two doctors wasn't anything, many of them had tattoos themselves.
Doctor McKay had the sort she got in collage and regretted, Robby had one or two that meant something to him, that he'd find himself tracing in times of despair. Doctor Santos had lost count of how many she had and what they all meant.
Javadi herself was pretty terrified at the idea of putting a sharp needle to skin. She was afraid of the permanence of it. The pain.
And her mother finding out.
That was until she spotted yours.
“You have a tattoo,” she noted standing behind you, paying close attention to how you examined the boy in front of you.
You nodded like you weren't trying to listen close down your stethoscope as you asked the boy to breathe in, listening at his back. “I do.”
“That's... really cool,” she said.
You smiled, small. “Thank you.”
Javadi watched your wrist move and arm flex as you put the stethoscope back around your neck, holding onto it either end. She'd called you down for a pedes case but was finding herself distracted by the beauty of the ink on you.
There were hard strokes of black and lighter ones, all drawn around in swirls that came together to make a sun. She thought it looked like the sun from tangled- one of her favourite movies. But you were a grown woman. Maybe you liked the movie as much as she did.
Javadi shook off the idea as you stood, telling the parents what you found. A small crackle in his breathing but as he'd been down with a flu and fever it might not mean anything terrible. Kept for observation and some blood work was ordered before the two of you were slipping away.
“What does it mean?” asked Victoria, hot on your heels as you walked to the nurses station. “The-the sun, I mean? Not crackles in the chest, I-I know that.”
You chuckled, tapping in to chart. Although you worked floors above on the pedes ward, your vintage disney top under the lab coat representing that, you were down enough on emergency and trauma cases to be a familiar and welcome face.
“Oh, you know,” you said, balancing your elbow on the table and checking on the ink. Your lips quirked at looking at it. “Just a little sun, for brightness and stuff.”
Javadi thought it was fitting. You were a sunshine person, hopeful and kind, like a ray of light in the depths of hell she called the ED. She supposed it came with the job, having to be the hope for the sick children.
Everyone down the Pitt could afford to be miserable, with a good enough excuse in working in the emergency department. You were with kids, helping them and their parents through anything minor to the worst days of their lives.
“Kinda, look to the light, kinda thing?” Victoria asked.
You slowly glanced up at her, finding a new perspective. “Yeah. I like that take.”
“Well, well, well,” said a hoarse voice coming closer to the two of you.
Beyond Javadi you looked past her.
Jack Abbot casually strolled over, hands behind his back, arms pulled in tight muscles and freckles in his dark scrubs. “You know, you're down here so often anyone would think you're after a Pedes attending job.”
You rose a brow, challenging him. “Are you offering?”
“Oh yeah, anything to keep sunshine down here.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, leaving Javadi to look between the two of you. She hadn’t realised the two of you knew each other so well.
Sure, you were the first everyone went to for a pedes case but how often was that?
“Sunshine! That’s funny,” said Javadi, standing between the two of you
Jack rose a brow. “It is?”
“Yeah- yeah,” she said with a clear of her throat. “Cause’- she has a sunshine tattoo.”
Jacks lips quirked up to a smirk. “Really?”
You leaned over the counter, chin resting in the palm of your hand. “Yeah. Got it some time ago.”
“Is it somewhere PG-13?” He asked.
“Well to know that you’d have to buy me a drink first.”
“I plan to.”
The two of you shared a smirk.
Suddenly, Victoria thought she was stuck in the middle of something.
It was Whitaker who discovered it next.
He was working with Abbot and Shen on a patient in trauma one, still waiting for the feeling in his feet to return to him after a twelve hour shift. But he wanted to see this patient through first, even if he could have left now the night crawlers had swept in.
He was shooting an x-ray for the guy in a car crash, checking his ribs after being found pressed up against his steering wheel.
Somewhere else you were stitching up his young daughter.
“The car came from nowhere,” fretted the patient, wincing with every breath. “I swear- I swear!”
“Don’t you worry, sir, we’re gonna get you sorted,” assured Jack, peeling off his jacket and replacing it with a vest.
“Is my- is my daughter okay?”
“She just needed a couple stitches,” said Denis.
Jack stretched up, moving the x-ray machine over the patient. “Don’t worry, your daughter is in the best hands. They lumped you with the second best, I’m afraid.”
The patient gave a huff of a laugh that evidently hurt more than anything.
“Okay… shooting!”
Everyone without a vest backed away.
It was at that moment as Jack hovered shooting the x-ray that Whitaker got his first glance at some ink peeking out from his wrist. His watch hid most of what Denis could make out as a tattoo but he thought it strange that Robby should have his own tattoo also typically hidden behind his watch.
Robby and Jack always called themselves brothers, from their years of friendship and shared experiences in the Pitt.
He just hadn’t realised they were that close.
The x ray was quickly done and the machine pushed away as everyone focused on stabilising the man.
A couple broken ribs, a severely bruised chest.
An OR was free to check on any internal bleeding, get the chest sorted.
The doors pushed open and you walked in, a maybe eight years old propped on your hip, little arms hugging around your neck.
Jack’s lips tilted up at once. “Second visit in one day, upstairs must be boring.”
“Well we do like to call this place the circus,” you teased. “This is Mr Peters daughter, she wanted to check in on her daddy.”
Jack tugged off his gloves and Whitaker watched as he approached you and the little girl. “Your daddy is doing fine, he’s strong. I reckon just as strong as you. He’s gonna go upstairs for a closer look but you can go with him, if you like?”
The girl hid her head closer into your shoulder, mumbling something that Whitaker could just about make out.
“Will you come up with me?” She’d asked you.
You bounced her gently. “Course. Upstairs is where all the fun is anyway.”
Jack hummed. “Hm. She has the best candy too.”
Whitaker watched the young girls eyes light up.
As a team from surgery came to drag the father away you followed behind with the daughter in arms, Abbot and Whitaker following out and taking a moment to watch the crowd dissapear.
“Did good in there, Whitaker,” said Abbot, the both of them tearing off their gowns and gloves.
“Thanks,” he said. The both of them went separate ways. Oddly enough, Jack was following in the steps of the team that took up the man and his daughter.
Doctor Robby wondered over, sliding into his seat. If even one of his day shift was left, so was he. It was his own morale code to not go till everyone on day had, Denis was learning.
“Hey,” greeted Denis. “You know I had no idea you and Abbot had matching tattoos.”
“Huh, yeah...” said Robby of absent-mind as he watched the computer. It took him a second to register what he was saying and look up. “Wait, what did you say?”
Suddenly Whitaker felt like he'd said the wrong thing, seeing his attending look over his glasses at him. Maybe nobody was supposed to know? Maybe it was super personal? Or it was a stupid drunk choice they were both trying to forget and he'd just brought it up.
“Oh god, I didn't, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-”
Robby scratched at his beard. “Jack and I do not have matching tattoos.”
“Oh.”
“What made you think that?” he asked. “Did someone... say something?” there was something akin to mischief in his eyes, alight.
“No! No! I just- I saw something that looked like a tattoo under where he keeps his watch, and I know you have one there too. Or- well- don't know but I've- I've seen-”
“Yeah, yeah I've got one there,” said Robby, looking back to the computer bored. “So does Jack. His is a moon. Mine's something to do with my grandmother.”
“A moon? Oh.”
Somewhere beyond Whitaker, past his shoulders, Victoria passed by, catching the conversation.
A moon on one. A sun on another. Interesting.
Samira was only looking for her patient when she found a shirtless Jack Abbot hiding behind the curtain with you standing behind him.
Both your heads shot up when the whirl of the curtain pulled back.
“Oh. I'm sorry,” said Samira. She was only momentarily shocked at Jack shirtless, SWAT gear discarded in the corner and the typical pedes case worker standing behind him, working on a bad obviously over eighteen.
Jack tried to shrug his shoulders but came away wincing. “S'alright.”
“Have you guys seen my patient?” she asked, going on to describe him.
“No, sorry. This room was empty,” you said, rolling a q-tip along Jack's shoulder blade. “Anything you need help with?”
Samira deflated, taking a seat on the chair in the corner of the room. She was feeling sorry for the patient she couldn't get to in time she didn't realise the look you and Jack shared, one of mutual agreement of apprehension.
“What happened to you?” Samira asked.
“He got shot,” you said.
“You were shot?”
Jack made a 'pfft' noise at the two of you. “Shot at. It was nothing. Hardly a graze.”
You scoffed, reaching over for some bandage and applying it to the wound. “I'll be the judge of that.”
“You my doctor now?” asked Jack.
You bit back a smirk. “Someone has to be.”
Samira had worked with Abbot a handful of times, you maybe more on cases with children that required delicate matters. She never realised the two of you were close enough to tease. Close enough that you would be the first person he runs to for help.
Curious, Samira walked around Jack, standing on the other side of his bed as you showed her the wound.
“Oh. Ouch.”
“See?” you said with a raise of your brows.
Jack's freckled arms crossed over his chest in protest.
“You have a chart?” asked Mohan.
“No,” you said. “We're keeping this off the chart.”
Samira nodded, lips quirking. We?
“Don't need the paperwork from the hospital,” said Jack. “Got big plans tonight, can't have paperwork getting in the way.”
“Big plans?” asked Mohan.
Jack hummed in affirmation.
With your careful bandages around his shoulder he stood and reached for his shirt on the side.
It wasn't just a quick glimpse Samira got of where another tattoo lied. It was a long look as Jack made work at pulling over his navy shirt overhead. At the ache in his shoulder you helped pull it over him and he didn't object, he let you help him like it was natural.
But just under his armpit, on the side of his chest there was a clear stroke of black ink in the curves and strikes of a letter. Just one simple there, no bigger than a finger nail next to his heart.
“All good to go solider,” you said, rubbing his un-injured shoulder.
“Thank you, Doc.”
You smirked. “Don't go straining yourself this evening.”
Jack chuckled, low in his throat. “I make no promises.”
It was only when watching the two of you leave that the hole in her heart for her own devoid love life sung with something other that sorrow. With hope and joy. It was only when she noticed Jack's hand linger on the small of your back as he leaned into say something to you that she realised the slope of the letter at his chest matched the very first letter of your name.
A week later and slowly Samira was forgetting the whole thing. Not forgetting the patient that had ran out on her but forgetting the state she found Jack in, forgetting how you helped him and the letter etched into his skin.
She hadn't told anyone either, because what business of others was it.
It wasn't even hers.
Maybe Jack knew someone in the army had the same initial as you. Maybe it was his mothers name. It didn't have to be yours. It was only seeing him shirtless, seeing you with him that had her thinking of you, she was sure.
But a week later she was brought back to that room.
“Woah- what happened to you?” Robby chuckled as you walked through the ED, a mixture of bodily fluids over your scrubs.
“Emergency c-section, twins,” you said. “I had no time for a gown.”
Robby's smile creased as you squelched closer. Your blue scrubs, typically a baby blue, was dyed darker due to blood, amniotic fluids and what he guessed might have been urine. “They didn't call OB?”
“OB was busy, apparently.”
“Apparently?” he asked, tablet in hand as he followed next to you as you walked to the scrub bin. You walked, arms slightly raised to not let them drop. Robby walked close but not close enough to touch the mess of you.
“Someone in OB has it out me.”
“Evil ex?”
“Yeah, one of yours,” you teased.
“Ouch.”
“I'm cranky.”
“I can tell.”
Santos and Samira were on a case together but stopped when they got a look at you. “Woah, what happened? A pile up?”
“Don't ask,” you grumbled.
From behind you Robby mouthed 'twins' and both knew not to say anymore.
“You know we have gowns for such messy procedures,” said Trinity.
You flashed her a grimace. “You're funny, Santos, must get it from this guy,” you said, slapping Robby in the chest as you stood in front of the scrub bins. However, as an official upstairs pedes resident you didn't have authority for more scrubs. “Is Jack around?”
“No,” said Robby, tapping his own ID cared on the pad and getting you an order of scrubs.
“Thanks.”
Samira wondered, briefly why you asked for Jack when it was probably easier to find some woman for your size. Like herself, for instance.
But in seconds you were pulling off your scrub top, leaving you only in a bra. Your scrub pants were next but you had a thin pair of leggings underneath. No one batted an eyes, except maybe Robby who cleared his throat and turned away, hypothetically hiding you behind his back.
“Thanks again, Robby,” you said, gaining his new scrubs.
“No problem,” he said, leaning over to you. “But you can bring this up to Jack,” he added in a mummer that Mohan just caught.
As you reached up, pulling the scrub top over you Samira caught it again. It was a smaller trace, a think line but there with no doubt.
A simple J in black ink in almost the exact spot as Jack had one of his own.
“Is that-” Mohan didn't get the words out before your scrub top was pulled over, swallowing you from Robby's scrub.
Robby and you looked to her as you pulled on the pants. “What?”
They were all looking at her, expectantly.
“No, nothing, it was nothing.”
“Okay, then.”
But now there was a knowing in there. That she didn't believe in coincidences, not when they were etched into skin.
“You look lovely.” Jack crept up behind you, his voice falling upon your ears with his head quick over your shoulder. He was like hot breath on a glass, there and gone the next second.
You understood why. Knew it had been easier to keep it quiet when things were fresh, yet, things had moved on from new and simple a long time ago and neither of you made to say it. Did you get a banner? Make a public announcement? You had no idea how to do it.
Keeping it on the low was all you knew how to do.
And anyhow, it made things far more exciting.
“Thank you,” you said, passing him a quick smile.
Jack hummed, crowding next to you at the station, leaning an arm on the counter and looking you up and down. “You'd look even better in scrubs that were mine.”
Your eyes rolled. “They're Robby's-”
“Robby's-” he scoffed, shaking his head.
“I had a messy C-section and it was this or several bodily fluids.”
“I'd have rather bodily fluids,” he said.
You hummed. “You think that but then you see me and you'd think different.”
“Oh, yeah?”
You turned your attention onto him, knowing he wouldn't give it up till he had it all. It was something about Jack and un-divided attention, he thrived on it. Giving it to you, or taking it from you. He needed it like sustenance. “Think wet. Think baby fluids that should be in a body on me. Think blood. And probably puke on there somewhere too- I don't even know how.”
“And I bet you still looked beautiful,” he said.
“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” you chuckled.
“I would.”
His hand crept up to your ribs, holding there. As if he was anaesthetic himself, his touch was soothing.
He held over where your initial of his name was, just as you did with him where yours was. It still felt fresh though the ink was imbedded into skin for almost a year now.
It was the soft knowledge of carrying each other closer than you already did. Working in the same building wasn't enough, falling asleep next to each and waking up next to each other wasn't enough but the soft initial of each others name might just have been.
Even if it weren't romantical (which it certainly was) the two of you had at least always respected each other in the work setting. It was a bond running deeper than blood, than respect, than love.
Something the people hadn't come up with a word for yet.
Robby passed by the two of them. “I thought you two were being discreet.”
“We are,” you said, you and Jack turning to face Robby as he took his space behind the nurses desk.
“He's all but holding your breast,” said Robby.
“Physical exam,” Jack shrugged. “And I thought I told you to stop making moves on my woman.”
Robby held up his hands in surrender. “I don't want any funny business in my scrubs,” he warned, s sharp look past his glasses at the two of you.
Jack quirked his lips, pretending his innocence. “We'll change into mine.”
You smacked his shoulder.
“Hey,” said Robby, leaning on the counter next to you as if you were all gossiping nurses and not different attendings in your own rights. “You know, Whitaker thinks we have matching tattoos,” he said, nodding to Jack.
You laughed, tilting your head down.
“Oh yeah, I have an R over my heart,” he teased.
Robby scoffed. “Yeah and I got a J on my-”
You looked pointed at them both. “Don't you have jobs to get to?”
Robby surrendered and headed off, making himself busy.
Upstairs would need you soon enough too, there was only so much time you could leave your pedes ward alone. Your hands were gentle on Jacks, squeezing lightly.
Meaning to let go, Jack squeezed and pulled you back.
“Jack? Woah- what- where are we going?”
His thumb worked up and down the back of your hand as he dragged you off. He found an empty room, checking the room before closing the door and pulling the curtains around.
“Jack!”
His hands found their ways up Robby's shirt on your body, pulling at the skin of your waist and drawing you in till he was kissing you, open-mouthed. It was as if he hadn't kissed you that morning, hadn't stole a make out in the car before heading in, hadn't text you in his spare five minutes that he wasn't thinking about you.
He grinned into the kiss, licking into your mouth.
As bad as it was, stealing a kiss in an empty exam room, your hands wound up to his hair, tugging at the strands. Your body curled into his as his hands moved from under your shirt to over, pulling at it.
“Take this off.”
Biting back a smirk you pulled it off you as Jack leant down to kiss at your neck. He bit and sucked, dedicating time to one mark that would be a tattoo on your neck.
Jack was obsessed with marking you, considering you tried you best to be secret.
This wasn't very secret.
“Jack,” you moaned, own hands clawing at his shirt.
He pulled back long enough to toss his off. “When we're done here... when I've made you come on my fingers,” he uttered next to your ear, breath hot. “You're gonna put my scrub top on, you understand?”
Your lips pursed and nodded.
Jack pulled back enough, lips ghosting yours. “Yeah, baby?”
“Yeah,” you whined.
“Yeah.”
His lips crashed into yours again with fire like need. Hie entire body moved over yours, hands steady on your hips to bring you in. You were stumbling around the room, trying to find a wall or bed.
“God,” Jack whined at your lips. “I could eat you.”
He kissed down your neck, over your chest and leant to press a kiss over his initial. He'd been there when you'd gotten it done, as you had when he got his. The two letters in each others hand writing.
Jack came back up and kissed you again before the door sprung open.
“Room three's open why's nobody-”
Jack jumped in front of you like jumping in front of a bullet for you, his arms fell on either side of you, caging you in behind him.
A woman was sat on a gurney, eyes wide at the two of you.
Dana was leading the charge, Mohan, Whitaker and Santos following and eyes falling wide, jaws agape at the sight of you.
Robby walked past, shaking his head and- taking one look at Jack- decided it wasn't a HR nightmare he could deal with.
“We were just...” said Jack, hesitating. “Doing a physical.”
Dana smirked. “I'll say.”
“Sorry, we'll just-” you apologised.
The two of you fumbled with scrub tops but Jack still found enough time in the mess to pass you his own scrub top and take Robby's himself. In sheepish moves the two of you moved by the group, catching only a couple words.
“Did you see those tattoo's?” said Samira.
“Each others inititals, right?”
“How longs this been going on for?”
Jack threw his arm over your shoulder, bringing you in close and peppering a kiss to your forehead. “Guess we told them, huh?”
pairing: camboy!bobby franklin x f!reader
summary: you're two months behind on rent and terrence knows a guy. the said guy is annoyingly pretty and cocky. it's only downhill from there.
contents/warnings: 18+, explicit smut, discussions of sex work/adult film industry, financial desperation, power dynamics, oral sex (f receiving), breast sucking <3, spitting, vaginal sex, dirty talk/praise, hair pulling, filming during sex, bobby franklin's mouth (this is its own warning lol).
notes: Inspired by this ask, and the 20+ of you who flooded my inbox asking for more. Can be read as a standalone but could also be read as alt universe to my better bobby series.
✶ better bobby series.
"So Terrence told you what I do."
It's not a question.
Bobby Franklin sits across from you in a vinyl booth at Moreno's, which is the kind of diner that serves coffee the colour of motor oil and bacon that's either raw or carbonised and nothing in between. It's 9 AM on a Thursday. You're eating eggs because eggs are cheap and the rent was due six days ago.
He'd walked in with a swagger that bordered on offensive. Bobby Franklin doesn't strut. Because that would require effort and effort would compromise the relaxed swagger.
He moves through space like it's already made room for him. Like rooms rearrange themselves slightly when he enters. Leather jacket despite the California heat, sunglasses pushed up into sandy hair that's a mess in a way that probably took zero minutes to achieve, a thin chain necklace catching the light at the hollow of his throat, and—you'd spotted this immediately, against your will—a small silver hoop in his left ear. He'd slid into the booth across from you with the ease of someone who's never once wondered whether he belongs somewhere.
You'd been here for twelve minutes already. Sitting. Sweating. Running through a mental list of reasons this was a terrible idea and arriving at the same conclusion every time: the rent. the rent. the rent.
"He mentioned it." You push the eggs around the plate. They're overcooked. Everything at Moreno's is overcooked. "He said you were—that you make films."
Bobby's mouth twitches. "Films." He takes a mouthful of the motor-oil coffee. Doesn't flinch. "Yeah. I make films."
He's watching you. You can't help but notice that Bobby doesn't stare the way other men stare, heavy and obvious.
He watches. There's a difference. Staring is passive. Watching is a skill.
You can see it in the way his eyes move: cataloguing, framing, composing. Those eyes. Pale blue, sharp, amused in a way that suggests he's always in on a joke nobody else has heard yet. They land on your face and stay there with an intensity that makes you want to look away and also makes you want to never look away and you're not going to think about that right now. Even in a shitty diner booth with fluorescent lighting and a crack running through the formica, Bobby Franklin is looking at you like he's already thinking about angles.
"And you're—Terrence said you do everything yourself? Shoot, edit, all of it?" you croak out, forcing yourself to swallow a mouthful of coffee.
"I don't trust anyone else with the camera." He says it the way other people say they don't trust anyone else with their car keys. Flat. Non-negotiable. His fingers are wrapped around the coffee mug and you notice—you're noticing too much, you need to stop noticing—the veins on the back of his hands, the way the leather jacket sits on his shoulders like it grew there, the silver hoop catches light every time he tilts his head. "It's a one-man operation. Well." The twitch again. Almost a smile. "Usually two-man. One behind the lens, one in front."
You nod. Push the eggs. Your fork makes a sound against the plate that's louder than it should be because neither of you is talking and the diner is mostly empty. The jukebox in the corner is broken and has been broken since Reagan. Your knee is bouncing under the table. You press your palm flat on your thigh to stop it. It only partially works.
"How behind are you?" Bobby drawls.
Your head snaps up. "What?"
"On rent," he clarifies patiently. "Terrence said you were in trouble. How behind?"
He leans forward when he asks it and the chain shifts against his collarbone and you catch a breath of him leather and something underneath, warm, clean, just skin—and your stomach coils.
You're nervous. You're nervous and attracted and the two are braiding together into something that makes it hard to hold your fork steady.
This would be easier if he were sleazy. If he looked like what you'd imagined when Terrence first explained the arrangement. Some greasy guy with a moustache and a waterbed. Instead he looks like this. Sharp jaw and piercing, amused eyes and an earring, a chain and a full mouth that does that little twitch and you're in so much trouble.
You put the fork down. Two months. You're two months behind because the temp agency dried up and the waitressing gig fell through and you've been living on ramen and the leftovers your neighbour leaves outside her door in tupperware containers that you're pretty sure are meant for the stray cats but you're not proud enough to care anymore.
"Two months," you admit, staring down at the eggs. Not looking at him. Looking at him is becoming a problem.
Bobby whistles. Low. Through his teeth. "Well shit. Landlord breathing down your neck?"
You scoff, swallowing down the bitterness. "He's past breathing. He's at written notices."
Bobby leans back in the booth. The vinyl creaks beneath him. He's got one arm stretched along the back of the seat and the other hand wrapped around the coffee mug and the morning light from the window is hitting the side of his face and you think, abstractly, the way you'd think about a painting in a museum: he's beautiful. Sharp angles. Pale eyes. Cali tan and an ease in how he slouches in his seat.
"The money's good," he says suddenly, tongue poking his cheek as he drags his attention back towards you. "That's the first thing. I'm not gonna bullshit you. It's not Hollywood money, obviously, but for Santa Clara? For a couple hours of work?" He tilts his head. "It'd cover your rent. Easy. One shoot."
You stare, unblinking. Sceptical. "One shoot."
"One shoot."
You pick up the fork again. Put it down again. Your fingers won't stop moving.
"Look—" Bobby leans forward. Elbows on the table. The leather jacket he's wearing creaks with the movement, and he's closer now and the watching has intensified into something that feels less like a camera and more like a hand on your skin. "I'm not trying to pressure you into shit. Terrence vouched for you because I asked him if he knew anyone and he said he knew a girl who was real smart and broke and—"
He stops. Mid-sentence. The watching goes still. There's a shift in his expression. A loosening, a slip, the mask of professional detachment developing a crack.
"Shit," he says softly. Almost to himself. "You're pretty. Real pretty."
You bristle. The flinch is automatic. A full-body tightening that starts in your shoulders and works down, because you know this game, you've played this game, the compliment that's actually a crowbar, the flattery designed to pry you open. Men in diners don't tell you you're pretty because they mean it. They tell you you're pretty because they want something and that something is usually between your legs.
"Don't do that," you say sharply. Your voice is harder than you intended.
Bobby blinks. The crack in his expression widens and what's behind it isn't a game. It's surprise. Genuine, unperformative surprise, the kind that creases the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than however old he is.
"Do what?"
"The—flattery thing. The buttering up. I don't need you to tell me I'm pretty to get me to agree, I already—" Your throat tightens, and you knot your fingers in your lap, setting your jaw. "I'm already here. I'm already desperate enough to be sitting in this diner talking about—so you don't need to—"
"Hey." His hand comes up. Not touching. Just a gesture. A pause button. "I wasn't buttering you up. I was just—" He runs a hand through his hair, clipping his sunglasses. He looks, for a half-second, almost flustered. "I was looking at you and it came out. That's it. That's the whole thing. You're pretty and my mouth moved before my brain did and I'm—" He picks up the coffee. Takes a long sip. Sets it down. "Sorry. Professional hazard. I notice faces."
You stare at each other in silence.
He wasn't mocking you.
The realisation lands with a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads to places you weren't expecting.
He wasn't mocking you. He was sitting across from you in a vinyl booth and the light caught your face and he thought you were pretty and he said so because his mouth was faster than his filter. And now he's drinking burnt coffee to cover the fact that he's embarrassed about it.
"Okay," you say quietly.
He pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. "Okay?"
"Okay, tell me the terms."
Bobby sets the coffee down. The professionalism clicks back into place but the tips of his ears are still pink and you file that away somewhere warm and private.
"I shoot everything at my place. My equipment, my setup. VHS. I've got two cameras, one static, one handheld. The handheld's the one that matters. That's the one I operate." He taps the table with his index finger. Rhythmic. A habit. "I edit everything myself. I distribute through a guy I know in the valley who handles the duplication and the mailing list. You never have to talk to him. You never have to talk to anyone. Your face, your name, none of it goes on the packaging unless you want it to."
"What name do you use?" you ask, curious despite yourself.
"For me? Bobby." He shrugs. "I'm not creative about it."
"And for—"
"Whatever you want. Pick something. Pick nothing. Some girls just go by a first name. Some make something up. One girl I worked with went by the name of her landlord's dog. Said it felt like revenge." The almost-smile again. "Point is: it's yours. The whole thing is yours. You say stop, I stop. You say no to something, it's no. I don't push. I don't coerce. I don't do anything you haven't agreed to beforehand and if you change your mind halfway through, the camera goes off and we're done. No questions. No attitude."
He says all of this in the same tone he'd use to explain how a camera works. Methodical. Clear. Like he's said it before and means it every time.
"How much?" you ask.
He tells you.
You put your fork down carefully because the number he just said would cover two months of rent and groceries and the electricity bill that's been sitting on your kitchen counter turning into a small paper monument to your failure.
"One shoot," you say again, making sure.
"One shoot," he echoes with a nod. "Couple hours. You walk out with cash."
Hope and desperation surge up your spine, working your tongue. "Cash?"
"I don't do checks. Checks leave paper trails and paper trails make people nervous." He drains the last of the coffee. Grimaces. Apparently even Bobby Franklin has limits and Moreno's coffee has found them. "You don't have to decide now. Think about it. Call me."
He pulls a napkin from the dispenser and writes a number on it in handwriting that's surprisingly neat for someone who looks like he's never filled out a form in his life. Slides it across the table.
You look at the napkin. Look at him. then back at the napkin.
You pick it up, folding it neatly.
"Tomorrow," you say. "I can come tomorrow."
Bobby's eyebrows rise. Just slightly. Then he nods slowly. "Tomorrow works."
He pays for your eggs. You don't argue. You should argue but the rent was due six days ago and the eggs were $2.15 and the pride you'd normally spend on "I can pay for my own breakfast" has been liquidated to cover more pressing debts.
At the door of the diner he holds it open for you. Not performatively. Just does it. And when you pass him your shoulder brushes his chest and he smells like that warm thing again, the underneath thing, and his pale eyes track your face one more time and he says "See you tomorrow" in a voice that's dropped half a register and the warmth in your chest migrates south and you walk to your car thinking fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I doing?
You're covering rent. That's what you're doing.
That's all you're doing.
His apartment is above a furniture store.
You stand on the sidewalk for four minutes before you go up. The building is nondescript. Beige stucco, iron railings, a set of stairs on the outside that lead to a door that needs painting. There's a cat on the landing that looks at you with the serene judgment of a creature that has never once had to worry about rent.
You envy the cat greatly.
You're wearing a sundress because you didn't know what to wear and the sundress felt like a compromise between "trying too hard" and "not trying enough." You changed three times.
The first outfit was too casual. The second was too much. The sundress is yellow and you hate that you care what colour it is.
You knock.
Bobby opens the door and the first thing you register is that he's not wearing the leather jacket.
T-shirt. White, thin, cropped in a way that shows the shape of him underneath and is making it difficult to maintain eye contact. Jeans slung low on his hips. Bare feet on the hardwood. His hair is damp from the shower and pushed back off his face and without the sunglasses holding it up you can see the full architecture of him.
The jaw, sharper in natural light than in the diner's dimness. The earring. The chain, sitting in the hollow of his throat, rising and falling with his breathing.
He looks good in his own apartment. Relaxed in a way he wasn't at Moreno's, the professional edge softened into something more lived-in.
He leans against the doorframe and says, "Hey. Come in" and the drawl is thicker in the morning.
You're going to be professional about this. You're not going to think about his forearms, which are now visible because the t-shirt sleeves are short and his arms are lean and tanned and there's a vein running from his wrist to his elbow that you're staring at. Stop staring at it.
The apartment is small and clean and full of light. Not the fluorescent light of the diner but real light, California morning light, pouring through windows that face east.
There are photographs on the walls, black and white, and you realise after a second that he took them. They're good. They're better than good. A bridge in fog. A woman's hands. A street at night, wet, reflecting. He has an eye. You knew that from the diner, from the way he watched, but seeing it on the walls makes it real.
Bobby Franklin has an eye and he uses it for this and also for what you're about to do and the cognitive dissonance of "artist" and "adult filmmaker" is something you're going to have to sit with.
"Coffee?" he asks, padding toward the kitchen. Bare feet on linoleum.
The t-shirt rides up slightly when he reaches for a mug on the top shelf and there's a strip of skin above his waistband and the muscle that cuts along his hip and you look away so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
"Please."
He pours you a cup. You stand in his kitchen and drink it and it's good. Your hands are shaking and the cup rattles against the saucer and you set it down before he notices except he's already noticed.
"Hey," he calls out, leaning against the counter. Arms crossed. The t-shirt pulling across his chest. His stare is piercing, amused, reading you the way they read you at the diner except now there's nowhere to hide behind a menu and a plate of eggs. "We don't have to do anything today. We can just talk. Get you comfortable. No pressure."
"I'm fine," you force out.
He gives you a sceptical once over. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine and I'm shaking. Both can be true."
His mouth the twitches, the almost-smile that you're beginning to understand is Bobby's version of a laugh. A contained one. Controlled. Like even his amusement is something he runs through a filter before letting it out. But his eyes crinkle at the corners and the amusement reaches them and it's warm, genuinely warm, and some of the tightness in your chest loosens.
You talk.
He asks you questions. Mercifully not invasive ones, not the peeling-back kind. Surface questions. Where you grew up. How you know Terrence. What music you like. And you find yourself answering, not because he's charming (he is) but because he's easy. Bobby Franklin is easy to talk to in a way that contradicts everything about his sharp jaw and pale stare and the fact that there are two video cameras set up in his bedroom that you can see through the half-open door.
He listens the way he watches: completely, with his whole attention, like whatever you're saying is the only thing happening in the world. And he's funny. Dry, quick, a deadpan that sneaks up on you.
You laugh at something he says about Terrence and his face creases in a way you haven't seen before. Surprise. Pleasure. Like your laugh was an unexpected pleasure.
He tucks it away fast, smooths the expression back to amused neutrality, but you saw it. You saw it and it made your stomach warm.
An hour passes. Your hands stop shaking. You've stopped noticing the cameras through the doorway. You've started noticing other things.
The way he gestures when he talks about photography, loose and animated, the only time his cool composure fully drops. The way he licks his bottom lip when he's thinking. The way the chain shifts against his throat when he laughs. The pale eyes that keep finding your face and staying there a beat longer than conversation requires.
You're attracted to him. This is no longer a thing you can file under "irrelevant." This is a thing that is happening in your body, in the kitchen, in the warm light, and it's making the prospect of what comes next feel less like a transaction and more like something you might actually want and that's more frightening than the cameras.
He shows you the bedroom eventually.
It's not what you expected. No red lighting, no satin sheets, no sleazy backdrop. Just a bed—queen, white sheets, a quilt that looks like it came from someone's grandmother—and two cameras. One on a tripod in the corner, aimed at the bed. The other on the dresser, smaller, a different angle. Both VHS. Both off.
"The one in the corner is the wide shot," Bobby explains, standing in the doorway behind you. Professional. Tour guide. "It runs the whole time. Catches everything. The one on the dresser is for close-ups. I adjust it as we go. The handheld—" He nods toward a third camera sitting on the nightstand. "That's the one I use. That's the one that makes the money."
You nod, staring at the bed. The white sheets. The grandmother's quilt. The two dark eyes of the cameras. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.
"I'm sorry," you blurt out, not looking at him, still staring at the bed. "I'm being weird about this. I've obviously never—I haven't done anything like this before and I don't know how to—"
He kisses you.
His hand is on your jaw first, angling your face toward him. Gentle but sure, the confidence of someone who knows the effect he has and is choosing to use it kindly. And then his other hand comes up. Both hands cupping your face now, his palms warm against your cheeks, his thumbs resting along the line of your cheekbones, and his mouth finds yours.
The first press is soft. Almost chaste. Just the warmth of his lips settling against yours, testing, asking. You inhale sharply through your nose, and he catches it. Absorbs it. Tilts your face up with those hands and kisses you deeper.
Bobby's mouth opens yours. Coaxing, slow.
His bottom lip drags against yours, the faintest graze of teeth, and then his tongue follows. Warm, unhurried, curling against yours in a way that makes your knees actually weaken.
You've kissed people before. This is not that. This is Bobby Franklin kissing you with both hands cradling your face like you're worth holding and his tongue moving against yours with a patience that suggests he could do this for hours. Just this. Just the wet slide of his mouth on yours and the taste of good coffee and the way your breath mingles when he tilts his head and changes the angle and finds something deeper.
His thumb strokes your cheekbone. Back and forth. This light, rhythmic brush while his tongue curls against yours, while his bottom lip catches between your teeth and he makes a sound—small, low, a vibration you feel more than hear—and your hands are on his chest. When did your hands get on his chest?
You can feel his heartbeat through the white t-shirt, fast, faster than his relaxed composure suggests, and the knowledge that Bobby Franklin's heart is hammering while he kisses you makes you dizzy.
He tilts his head the other way. Your noses brush. The tip of his against the side of yours, a small warm nudge, almost playful.
He kisses the corner of your mouth. Your bottom lip. Takes it between his and sucks, gently, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt and pull and the sound you make is swallowed by the warmth of him.
He pulls back.
Not far. An inch. Maybe two. His hands still on your face. His thumbs still on your cheekbones. His forehead nearly touching yours and you can feel his breath on your lips and his eyes are right there. Those pale, watchful, bright eyes, scanning your face. Reading you. Making sure.
Your lips are tingling. Your whole body is tingling. You're standing in a stranger's bedroom being held by the face and kissed like you've never been kissed before.
"Was—" Your voice is thin. Wrecked. He kissed your voice right out of you. "Was the camera rolling?"
Bobby smirks.
Up close, from two inches away, with his hands still warm on your face. One corner of his mouth lifting in that lazy, crooked, insufferable way. His eyes half-lidded. And it goes trough you like wildfire, flooding your nervous system with liquid heat.
"No," he answers huskily, his thumb tracing your cheekbone one more time. "Just felt like doing that."
He holds your gaze. One beat. Two. Three. Letting the smirk settle. Letting you feel the weight of it—the fact that he kissed you off-camera, off-clock, for no professional reason.
The fact that his heart is still hammering under your fists and his pupils are blown wide and he kissed you because he wanted to. Because you were standing in his bedroom apologising for being nervous and he looked at you and his mouth moved before his brain did. Again.
"Still okay?" he asks, softer now. The smirk gentling into something warmer.
"Yeah." Breathier than you want it to be. Your hands still in his t-shirt. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Good." His hand drops from your jaw. Trails down your arm. Fingertips only, light enough to raise goosebumps, tracing the inside of your wrist where the pulse jumps. "I'm going to undress you now. Slow. Before the cameras go on. Just us. That alright?"
You nod.
He starts with the straps of the sundress. Easing them off your shoulders one at a time. Not pulling, guiding. His knuckles graze your collarbone and you shiver, his eyes tracking the shiver down your body with an attention that makes you feel like the only light source in the room.
"You wore yellow," he notes conversationally. Like he's remarking on the weather while his fingertips trace the neckline of your dress. "Looks good on you. Warm. Shows off your skin."
The dress pools at your feet. You're standing in his bedroom in your underwear and the morning light is on you and Bobby is looking at you the way he looked at you in the diner when his mouth got ahead of his brain.
"Pretty," he murmurs. Like he can't help it. Like the word just falls out of him when he sees you. His thumb traces your hip bone above the elastic of your underwear. "Real pretty."
This time you don't bristle.
He reaches past you. Flicks on the tripod camera. A tiny red light. Then the dresser camera. Another red light. Two eyes, open, watching.
"Don't think about them," Bobby says, his mouth near your ear. His hands settle on your waist, warm palms on bare skin. "Don't think about the cameras. Don't perform. Just feel me. Can you do that?"
You jerk your head. "I can try."
"That's all I'm asking." His lips brush your ear. Down. Along your jaw. The corner of your mouth. His hands slide up your ribcage and his thumbs trace the underwire of your bra and you exhale, shaky, and he catches it. "There you go. Just like that. Stay with me, yeah? I got you."
He unclasps your bra with one hand. Practiced, efficient, but the way he peels it away is anything but. Reverent, almost, easing the fabric off like he's unwrapping something valuable. The air hits your skin and your nipples tighten. Bobby's gaze drops and his jaw flexes and for a moment, just a moment, the professionalism wavers. His throat moves on a thick swallow.
"Lie down," he instructs, a little rougher than before. "On the bed. On your back."
You lie down. The sheets are cool beneath you, the quilt soft. on your skin
The light from the window falls across the bed in a warm band and you're naked except for your underwear and Bobby is standing over you still fully dressed and the power imbalance should feel wrong but it doesn't because his eyes are eating you alive and his hands are clenched at his sides and you realise, with a jolt that goes straight through you: he's holding himself back.
This is Bobby exercising control. This is what it looks like when he wants to touch something badly and is making himself wait.
He picks up the handheld camera. Lifts it to his eye. And something shifts in him. Visibly. The control locks in, the professional takes over, and he's Bobby-behind-the-lens. Steady. Composed. Seeing everything.
"Touch yourself," he says. Director voice. "Just your skin. Nothing heavy. Just run your hands over yourself. Get comfortable."
You do. Your own hands on your own body, palms skating over your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breasts, and it feels strange and exhibitionistic but then Bobby says "gorgeous, just like that, you're doing so good" and the praise lands in the pit of your stomach like a lit match. Your back arches. Barely. Just enough.
"Yeah," Bobby breathes from behind the camera. "That's it. That's perfect. Look at you."
He films you touching yourself for what feels like hours and is probably three minutes. Then he sets the handheld down on the nightstand. Red light still blinking, and he crawls onto the bed.
Not between your legs. Beside you. Lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his face level with yours. Close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his irises and the faint scar on his chin and the way his throat moves when he swallows. Still dressed. T-shirt. Jeans. Bare feet.
"Keep going," he murmurs, watching your hands on your own body. "Don't stop on my account."
Your hands move. Over your stomach. Up. And Bobby's hand joins them. One warm palm laid flat against your sternum, between your breasts. Not groping.... just resting. Feeling your heartbeat through your ribs.
"Fast," he notes. His thumb strokes the valley between your breasts and you shiver. "Slow down. You're rushing."
You do as he asked, your hands sliding over your skin with less urgency and more intention. Bobby's hand follows, learning new terrain, the dip of your waist and the flare of your hip and the soft give of your stomach where you've always been self-conscious and he presses his palm there like he's making a point.
Like that spot, specifically, is worth his hand.
Then his mouth replaces his palm.
He starts at your throat. A kiss. Open-mouthed, warm, the press of his lips and the faintest edge of teeth. Then your collarbone. The notch at the base of your throat where your pulse is hammering. Down. The flat of his tongue dragging along your sternum, tasting the thin sheen of sweat that the California morning and your own nerves have produced.
His mouth is unhurried. Exploratory. He's not kissing you so much as he's mapping you with his lips, charting the terrain the way he'd scout a location before a shoot. Finding the light, finding the angles, finding what works on you.
His mouth finds your breast. Kisses the swell of it. The underside, where the skin is softest. And then his lips close around your nipple and he sucks—not hard, not gentle, somewhere in between, a warm wet pressure that sends a bolt of sensation from your breast directly to your cunt and your back arches off the mattress.
"Oh."
Bobby hums against you. A sound of satisfaction. His tongue circles your nipple, flattens, flicks.
His free hand slides up your ribs and cups your other breast, thumb rolling across the peak, and the dual sensation—mouth and hand, wet and dry—makes you reach for him. Your fingers find his hair. Sandy strands, still slightly damp from the shower, thick between your fingers. You grip. Pull.
Just... needing something to hold onto while his mouth does this to you.
The pull makes Bobby groan. The sound vibrates through your nipple and into your chest and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily, pressing into nothing.
He feels it and his mouth tightens. Pulls harder. His teeth graze the sensitive peak and your fingers clench in his hair and you tug, genuinely tug, trying to pull him up, pull him to your mouth, because you need to kiss him, you need—
He doesn't let go.
His mouth stays locked on your nipple, sucking with a focused intensity that borders on stubborn, and you're pulling his hair and he's groaning and he will not come up, will not release, and the wet heat of his mouth is making you clench around nothing.
Your thighs press together, your hips rocking against air, seeking fullness, friction, anything, and Bobby—Bobby, who is supposed to be a professional, who is supposedly in control of this situation—reaches down with his free hand and cups you between the legs.
Just cups you. His whole palm, warm, pressed against the soaked cotton of your underwear. Just holding the heat of you in his hand while his mouth works your nipple and your fingers twist in his hair and the sound that comes out of you is breathy and too high.
"Bobby—please, I need—"
He releases your nipple with a wet pop that you feel in your spine. Glances up at you, his lips swollen. His eyes heavy-lidded and dark and his hand still cupping you, pressing against the damp fabric, feeling the heat seep through.
"Need what, baby?" Low. Rough. His fingers flex against you, palm grinding just slightly against your pulsing core, one small movement of pressure through the cotton. "Tell me."
"Touch me," you plead, trying to press closer. "Actually touch me."
His fingers slide under the elastic. Find you bare. Find you soaked. And the sound he makes—a sharp exhale through his nose, almost a hiss—is the sound of a man who knew what he was going to find but is still wrecked by the reality of it.
"Jesus." Barely a whisper. His fingers parting your folds. Not penetrating yet, just circling your clit. Just petting. Long, feather-light strokes through the slick of you, up and down, spreading the wetness with an aching patience that makes your hips chase his hand. "So wet, baby. This all from—was this from my mouth? From me sucking on you?"
You nod. You can't speak. His fingers are petting you like he's got all the time in the world and no intention of giving you what you need. Long strokes. Root to tip. Parting you with two fingers and letting the middle one drag between, barely touching your clit, just enough to make your thighs shake.
"Pretty little pussy," he murmurs, and the words shouldn't work.
They're filthy and crude and you've heard variations in the tapes you've watched that made you cringe, but Bobby says them the way he said "you're pretty" in the diner. Like a fact. Something he can't help observing. Like your body laid out in morning light is a view he needs to narrate. His fingers keep petting. Lazy. Wet with you, making you drip onto his grandmother's quilt.
Then his mouth starts traveling south.
He kisses down your stomach. Your hip bone. The crease of your thigh. Hooks his fingers into your underwear, drags them down, tosses them off the bed without looking. Parts your thighs with both hands, spreading you open, and the sound he makes—not a groan this time, something lower, something guttural, a sound that vibrates in his chest—is not for the camera.
You know this because the camera is on the nightstand and he hasn't touched it and he's not angling for a shot. He's just peering down at you. Spread open in the morning light. And that sound is coming out of him because he can't stop it.
"Fuck," he whispers, his thumbs pressing into the crease of your thighs. "Okay. Okay."
He lowers his mouth to you.
Bobby eats you out the way he kissed you earlier. Unhurried, thorough. Long strokes of his tongue that start at your entrance and drag upward, tasting the length of you, and you feel his groan against your cunt when the flavour hits and your whole body shudders.
He circles your clit with a pressure that's devastating in its patience. He's not trying to make you come fast. He's tasting. Exploring. Learning what makes your hips jerk and what makes you gasp and what makes your fingers find his hair again.
You fist both hands in those sandy strands and pull and the sound he makes—rough, grateful, hungry—vibrates against your clit. Your hips buck and his hands tighten on your thighs. Holding them apart, his thumbs stroking the soft skin in counterpoint to the filthy things his tongue is doing.
He's found a rhythm now. Flat, wide strokes punctuated by the pointed tip of his tongue flicking your clit in a pattern that your hips start chasing, lifting off the bed, grinding against his mouth, and he lets you. Lets you ride his face with his hands gripping your thighs and his eyes closed and his entire world narrowed to the taste and the sound and the wet.
"Bobby—oh my god—"
"Mm." Against you. His mouth full of you. His tongue pressing flat, licking you open in a broad swipe that makes your vision swim. "Taste incredible. Could stay here all fuckin' day."
He could. You believe him. He looks like he means it. Settled between your thighs like he's found the only place in the world he wants to be.
You tug his hair again and his moan is muffled against your cunt and you feel it everywhere, the vibration traveling through your pelvis and up your spine, and you pull harder and his tongue presses harder and the feedback loop is building. Your hands in his hair and his mouth on you and the wet sounds and the moans and you're close, you're getting close—
He pulls back with a wet, slick sound.
You whimper. The loss of his mouth leaving you throbbing, aching, empty.
"Not yet." His chin is wet, his lips swollen. Bobby's eyes are glazed and dark, the professional gone, replaced by something feral that's been living underneath the cool-boy surface and is now looking at you like it's deciding whether to devour you. "Not yet, baby. Want to be inside you when you come. Wanna feel you, yeah?"
You moan in response, dizzy. And your moans are real. That's the thing that's changing the temperature of the room.
You're not playing them up, not pitching them for any microphone, not performing the breathy exaggerated sounds you've heard in the tapes you've watched out of curiosity and mild horror. You're just reacting. And it's affecting him. His breathing has changed. His hips are pressing into the mattress in a grind he can't seem to control and you realise he's hard.
He's been hard for a while. He's been eating you out with his cock straining against his jeans and he hasn't touched himself once.
Bobby sits back on his heels. Pulls the t-shirt over his head in one motion. His chest is flushed. Lean, not bulky, the body of someone who lifts camera equipment for a living and forgets to eat regularly. The belt buckle. The zipper. The happy trail of hair dipping dangerously beneath the belt buckle. He pushes the jeans down and kicks them off and he's—
your mouth goes dry.
Bobby Franklin naked is a problem. Bobby Franklin hard is a crisis.
He sees you looking. The smirk returns. That lazy, insufferable lift of one corner of his mouth. "See something you like?"
"Shut up."
You sit up. Grab his hips. Pull him toward you and the surprise on his face—genuine, unperformed, the mask cracking again—is worth everything.
He stumbles forward on the mattress, knees sinking into the sheets, and your hands are on his stomach, his ribs, dragging your nails lightly down his sides and he hisses. His cock twitches and you feel powerful in a way that has nothing to do with cameras or money.
"How do you want me to fuck you?" His voice is gravel. Wrecked. He's peering down at you with his hands cupping your face, thumbs on your cheekbones, and the professionalism is a memory. "Tell me."
"From behind." No hesitation. The words tumbling out before your brain can edit them. "I want—on my stomach, I want you behind me, I want—"
Bobby's eyes go wide. His whole face flushes harder. Cheeks, ears, the V of his throat. He drops his head against your shoulder and laughs. A real laugh. Rough and bitten-off and disbelieving.
"Shit, baby." Muffled against your skin. "Can't say stuff like that to me. Can't just—" He lifts his head. The flush is gorgeous on him, spreading down his neck. "Yeah. Fuck yeah. Turn over."
He flips you. Firm and purposeful. His hands on your hips guiding you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until your ass is raised and your face is in the pillow and you feel exposed in a way that's terrifying and thrilling.
"Look at you." His hands on your hips, sliding up. Over the curve of your ass. Both palms cupping you, squeezing, spreading, his thumbs tracing the cleft while he breathes hard through his nose. "Every angle. Every fuckin' angle. 'S not fair."
His hand draws back. Comes down on your ass. Not a slap, not quite, a firm pat that's more proprietary than punishing and the sound it makes in the quiet bedroom is obscene. Your hips jolt. He does it again. Lighter. Smoothing his palm over the spot after, kneading with a hum.
"Could cover you like this," he mutters, stroking the curve of your ass with both hands, spreading you again, looking at you from behind with an expression you can feel even though you can't see it. "Just—stay right here. Just like this. Prettiest goddamn thing I've ever shot and I haven't even started the camera yet."
He reaches for the handheld. Turns it on. Red light. Frames the shot—you on your stomach, your hips raised, the curve of your spine. His hand still on your ass. Claiming. Warm.
He sets the camera on the mattress, angled up. Reaches for himself. You hear it. The wet sound of him spitting into his palm, the slick stroke of his fist over his cock, and then he's behind you. The hot thick length of him pressed against you, nestled between your folds, and he groans and you groan, and he doesn't push in.
He rolls against you.
Long, grinding strokes, his cock sliding through the slick mess of you, dragging across your clit with every thrust. The head catching at your entrance and pulling away. Over and over. Using the length of himself to stroke you, to tease you, to coat himself in you until the sound of skin on wet skin fills the room and your fingers are clawing at the sheets.
"Feel that?" His chest pressed against your back. His mouth against your ear. "Feel how hard you got me? Been like this since the diner. Since you sat down in that booth and looked at me with those fuckin' eyes. Thought about this. Thought about what you'd feel like."
His hips roll. The head of his cock catches your entrance again, presses, almost, almost—
"Bobby, please—"
His cock throbs against your core. "Tell me."
"Fuck me. Please." You suck in a shaky breath. "I need you to—"
He spits again. You feel it, warm, landing where his cock meets your cunt. His hand stroking himself once, twice, spreading the slick. And then he notches himself at your entrance and pushes in.
One long stroke. All the way. Your body opening around him and his groan matching yours. Colliding, two raw sounds meeting in the air and becoming something bigger than either. He bottoms out and holds you in place, and you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the heat, the fullness, his forehead dropping against the nape of your neck and he breathes "oh fuck" against your hair and his whole body shakes.
"God—you feel—" He can't finish. His hips twitch, involuntary, the tiniest thrust that pulls a gasp from both of you. "Baby. Baby, you feel—"
He starts moving. And the control lasts about thirty seconds.
Thirty seconds of measured strokes. Finding the angle. Professional. Thinking about the shot, the camera on the mattress, the red light.
And then you push back against him with a greedy sound, meet his thrust with your hips, grinding onto him, taking him deeper, and you moan. Really moan, the sound that's been building since he put his mouth on your nipple and refused to let go, and something in Bobby snaps.
His hand grabs your hip. His other hand braces on the mattress beside your head. And he fucks you.
Not the controlled version. The real version. The Bobby Franklin that exists underneath the smirk and the camera and the professional detachment. Hips driving into you with a force that shoves you into the mattress, that punches the air from your lungs, that turns your vision white around the edges. Sweat beading on his chest and dripping onto your spine. His breathing ragged, broken, gasping against the back of your neck in hot bursts.
And you're both gasping, coiling, pushing into each other blindly. Your hand reaches back, finds his hip, his thigh, pulling him deeper, harder, your fingers digging into the muscle and he groans like you've wounded him.
His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together beside your head, pressing your joined hands into the sheets, and the intimacy of it cracks something deep in both of you.
"So good," he's babbling against your spine. His mouth open, dragging wet kisses between your shoulder blades. "So fuckin' good, squeezing me so tight—can you hear that? Hear how wet you are? Hear what you're doin' to me?"
You can hear it. The obscene wet sound of his cock driving into you, the slap of his hips against your ass, the creak of the bed frame that he's going to have to explain to the furniture store below.
"Bobby—" Your voice is gone. Shattered, croaking. "Bobby, I'm gonna—I can't—"
"Yeah you can." Growled against your ear. His teeth grazing your earlobe. Biting down. "Cum for me. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock so tight I can't fuckin' think—"
He lets go of your hand. His fingers fist in your hair. Gathering the hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers. And he lifts your head from the pillow, arching your neck back, turning your face toward the camera on the mattress that's still rolling, red light blinking, catching everything.
"Show them," he murmurs against the shell of your ear. "Let 'em see how pretty you look when you cum for me."
You fall apart.
The orgasm rips through you. An earthquake, seismic and structural that starts where he's buried inside you and radiates outward.
Your mouth opens on a moan that you don't recognise as your own voice, wanton, cracked, genuine. There's no performance, no production, it's pulled from somewhere primal and raw inside you. And Bobby feels it. Feels the clench and the shake and the sound and his rhythm breaks, shatters, his hips slamming into you without finesse, chasing his own end through the aftershocks of yours.
He comes with a loud, greedy moan, a gruff sound of laughter caught in his throat. This breathless, incredulous sound, muffled against the back of your damp neck, like he can't believe what just happened to him. His hips jerk again, pressed flush against your ass. His hand loosens in your hair, fingertips grazing your scalp.
His body shudders against yours in waves that slow and gentle and eventually still.
His lips find the shell of your ear. Warm. Spent. Still inside you.
"With a moan like that," he rasps, kissing the curve of your ear, "and a pussy that grips me that tight?" He laughs against your skin. Loose. Golden. The real laugh, the unfiltered one. "Shit, baby, you're gonna be famous."
You laugh too. Into the pillow. The sound surprising you. The lightness of it, the ease. The fact that you can laugh, right now, naked and sweating and thoroughly ruined in a stranger's bed with two cameras rolling.
You're laughing because he's funny and because the sex was extraordinary and because you came to this apartment expecting something transactional and clinical.
Instead you got Bobby Franklin's mouth telling you you're pretty like he couldn't help it and Bobby Franklin's hands holding yours while he fucked you and Bobby Franklin laughing against your neck like making you come was the best thing that happened to him all week.
He pulls out, slowly, carefully, making you shiver at the loss, and collapses next to you. Reaches over and clicks off the handheld. The red light dies. The static camera in the corner is still running and neither of you moves to turn it off.
Bobby lies on his back, chest rising and falling. Staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man whose professional boundaries have just been comprehensively violated by his own want.
"So," he says to the ceiling. "Same time next week?"
You turn your head on the pillow. He turns his. Pale eyes. Flushed face. Hair wrecked. That almost-smile.
"Same time next week," you agree, still breathless.
The static camera runs for another four minutes before Bobby remembers to turn it off.
In the footage—which he will watch later, alone, ostensibly for editing purposes—you can see two people lying side by side on white sheets, not touching, not talking, just breathing, and at the 2:47 mark the girl in the yellow sundress starts laughing again and the boy with the camera reaches over and takes her hand and doesn't let go until the tape runs out.
i have no words.. i’ve been waiting on this and oh my you DELIVERED (as always but that’s besides the point) this was so romantic and sexy in every way..
and so sweet at the same time because what do you mean we were going there for something merely transactional and for need and yet we got bobby?? who looks at us and treats us like that? sign me tf up.💗
pairings: ex!michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x reader, jack abbot x talent agent!reader
summary: you’ve made a name for yourself as an agent for a big actress. when she gets into an accident, you’re forced to face your ex boyfriend and his flirtatious best friend.
word count: 3.6k
warning: heavyyy making out, dry humping 😝, praise kink, jealous!toxic!robby, medical inaccuracies, flirting, use of ‘little girl’ once, random oc i created for plot purposes, reader is very . euphoria s3 maddy perez coded .
note: eeek i love writing jealous fics HEHE i had sooooo much fun writing this ! honestly id be very open to writing a pt 2 but let me know what you guys think ! i’m like one fic away from just writing smut atp …………
a young woman’s scream echos the PTMC,
“Somebody call my agent!” she cries in pain as she enters through the ambulance bay,
“Rochelle King, 24 years old, vehicle hit her going 30 miles. Sounds like she was launched about nine feet. BP is one forty over ninety, heart rate one ten” the paramedics say as Doctor McKay and Doctor Robby approach the gurney,
“Hi Rochelle, we’re gonna get you some pain meds as soon as we can. Can you tell me if you’re experiencing any dizziness or nausea?” McKay starts as they enter trauma two. from a distance Victoria and Joy watch in disbelief,
“Is that Rochelle King?” Victoria says walking over to trauma two to get a quick peek. Joy follows quickly behind,
“Whoever it is, they’re a patient. One of you find out who her agent is or whatever she needs,” Dana calls out to the two med students. Joy walks to the desk begrudgingly. “Who the hell even is she?” Dana asks Joy as she takes her phone out to find the correct phone number,
“Seriously? She just won an Oscar for that Audrey Hepburn biopic? She’s in Pittsburgh filming for the new X-Files reboot,” Joy looks at her unimpressed as Dana blinks, still confused. Joy passes her phone over and Dana’s eyes widen in surprise as she stares at the headshot of you. she hasn’t seen you in years and you were almost unrecognizable. there’s a new look in your eyes, a less naïve and more ambitious look that only those who knew you previously would notice. Dana hands the phone back to Joy,
“Call her, let her know we have her actress here.” Dana leaves and sees Robby leaving trauma two. She speeds over to him, just as he’s taking his plastic gloves off,
“How’s our Hollywood star?” Dana starts.
“Her?” Robby turns around looking back at Rochelle as they pull her gurney out.
“What, you didn’t see that movie she was in? She won an Oscar for it.”
“Nope, I’m too busy saving lives here to watch anything.” Robby looks up at the patient board to see who’s next,
“Yeah, well the agent she was screaming about? Her agent is your ex-girlfriend,” Robby looks at Dana with panic before shaking his head, concealing his initial fright with a straight face. “You’ve got about four hours left, Robinavitch, I’m sure you can handle her until Abbot is in.”
Robby’s palms run up his face in agitation. of course, right as his shift was on its last few hours, he’s forced to face you. it felt like an impending doom that the universe sent him for all his mistakes he made while with you.
“I refuse to sit here any fucking longer and wait for you! I can’t believe I gave up my life for this… I be should in school, making a name for myself but instead I’m in fucking Pittsburgh playing housewife to you!” you yell with hot tears rushing down your face, voice cracking as you struggle to finish your sentence. Robby stands in the middle of your shared living room, hands on his hips, quietly taking all of it. he looks as if he’s disassociated from the conversation, waiting for it to be over so he can move on with his night,
“You done?” Robby says with a mildly condescending tone.
“Yeah, actually, I’m fucking done.” you walk to your shared bedroom, throwing clothes into a bag, rushing to get out. Robby doesn’t put up a fight, he simply sits on the couch, throwing his legs up on the coffee table. he’s been through this before with you. he doesn’t think you’ll get far and thinks it’s only a matter of time before you come running back. you needed him to survive, or so he thought. you took everything you could and bought a plane ticket heading west, never looking back. since then, you’ve been untraceable (though it’s not like he went looking for you anyways).
the sound of heels clicking against the linoleum floors snaps him out of the memory. you enter the ER dressed in a clean, well tailored designer outfit, carrying a matching bag with all sorts of papers poking out. your heavy eye makeup matches your blown out hair and minimalistic jewellery. you had your phone to your ear, quickly shutting it off as you approach the workstations,
“Dana!” you say with your arms open, embracing her. Dana squeezes you tightly in response. you look wildly different from the last time Robby saw you. if you passed him in the street, he wouldn’t be able to recognize you but there was something about your new look though that Robby wasn’t entirely buying. he felt as if he could see right through your alleged act, how could you mature so quickly from being someone who used to be so dependant on him?
“Hey kid!” Dana says as she pulls away, her hands still gripping your forearms. “Look at you! All grown up!” you smile big at her, relishing in her kindness,
“Thank you! Listen, I’m here for my client, Rochelle King?” in the corner of your eye, Robby approaches,
“She’s resting.”
“Robby, long time no see,” you say, adjusting your posture so you’re standing a bit taller now. Dana slowly backs away as she watches you try to keep your composure. Victoria and Joy’s heads poke up in interest, observing from not too far away. “You know, I asked them to take her to Westbridge, but apparently PTMC was much closer.” you say, trying to take the opportunity to get a quick jab at him,
“We put her on some pain medication and are waiting on her CT results back in case she has any symptoms of a brain bleed. She’s got a concussion, an ankle fracture and some pretty bad road rash, but she’s lucky to be alive.” you nod at his diagnosis,
“So where is she?” Robby stretches his arm out, guiding you down the ER,
“Robby’s ex is Rochelle King's agent?” Victoria asks Dana,
“And if she is, he fumbled. Hard.” Joy continues.
“Don’t you two have patients to check on? Chop chop, let’s go!” Dana claps her hands, breaking up the scene.
the curtains inside the ER room are closed and security stands in front of the room. before Robby opens the door he turns to you,
“Did I get a chance to say that you look amazing?” Robby says quietly, making sure only you could hear.
“Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming?” your eyes squinting slightly in suspicion.
“But between us, I’m not buying it,” you scoff at his caveat.
“You can convince Dana and the rest of this ER that you’re a big Hollywood agent, but deep down you’re still a little girl, scared to live without someone taking care of her twenty-four seven.”
“Unbelievable. You’re still so self-centered as always, Robinavitch. You really can’t believe that I actually made a life for myself after you.” you shake your head in shock and disappointment before entering the room. Robby follows close behind.
“Hi!” you say softly to Rochelle, something about the tone of your voice makes Robby’s heart ache, it’s reminiscent of the way you used to speak to him when he’d come home from a rough shift,
“Miss King, we’d like to keep you overnight for observation while you wait on your results back. We don’t suspect any brain bleeding at this time but we’d like to just monitor you in case anything comes up.” your client stays quiet, nodding at the new information,
“That’s all, thank you Doctor Robby.” you dismiss him, keeping your eyes on Rochelle. you give her a soft smile as you grab her hand. you don’t care to look at him, or give him any attention besides what’s necessary. you’re technically still working, and you weren’t going to let your ex get in the way of that. Robby watches as you pull out papers from your bag before exiting the room.
maybe Robby will be okay with you here. an hour has passed since he dropped you off in the ER room and there’s three more to go before he can clock out and hopefully never see you again. through the ambulance bay, Jack arrives early than usual, camo backpack slung over his shoulder,
“What’re you doing here? You don’t come in till six usually.” Robby says as he double checks his watch for the time,
“Yeah, I’ve got a SWAT friend coming in for a wound check up, figured I might as well just come in and do it myself.”
as if the universe's timing couldn’t be worse, you come out of your clients room and walk over to Dana,
“Hey Dana, are there any issues with ordering food to the hospital? My client refuses to eat anything right now unless it’s a protein smoothie.” from a distance, Jack sees you chatting with Dana,
“Is that who I think it is?” Jack chuckles in amusement, “Didn’t think this place couldn’t get worse for you, brother.” Robby sighs as Jack gives him a sympathetic pat on the back.
“She’s an agent for some big actress who got into an accident today. I’ll give you the rundown in a bit.” Jack stares, scanning you from head to toe. with your clothes fitting in all the right places, accentuating your waistline and hips, he can’t help but stare.
“She looks good.” Jack says, testing the waters.
“Yeah? She’s all yours if you can handle that.” Robby jokes. it’s the first genuine laugh Robby has had all day but Jack keeps a straight face, taking his statement seriously. you feel the burning gaze of the two men as Dana passes you a sticky note with the hospital's info. your eyes meet Jack’s first, cracking a big smile on your face. he looks a bit older than the last time you saw him, and damn has time done him well. his salt and pepper hair, deep wrinkles around his eyes, if you were put in a room with him, you aren’t sure how you’d act.
“Hi Jack!” you say throwing your arms around his shoulders, pressing your body against his. Jack wraps his arms around your waist, leaving his hands there as you pull back.
“Hi sweetheart, long time no see. You look beautiful.” sweetheart? beautiful? Robby thinks.
“It’s what happens when you leave Pittsburgh, what can I say?” you say using your fingers to flaunt your face, letting out a giggle.
“Heard you’re here with some big actress? You live in Hollywood now?” Robby’s head tilts as he looks at Jack in confusion.
“Yeah actually, it’s been great. I’m a talent agent to a few actors and I’m in town for a bit while we film a reboot for a series.” you beam, proud of how you’ve established yourself.
“Yeah? Well you gotta tell me about it over drinks sometime while you’re here.” Robby couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. did Jack not remember all the times Robby had complained to him about another fight you two had? or that time Robby had to sleep on Jack’s couch?
“If you’ll excuse us, we have jobs to do.” Robby says as he interrupts the moment. Dana raises her eyebrows from a distance, catching Robby’s attention. you finally look at Robby,
“Good, so do I.” you say quickly looking back at Jack, giving him a wink. Jack shakes his head as he watches you walk away. he knows you’re trouble, and he’s willing to bet everything on you. as Jack heads to his locker, Dana quickly pulls Robby aside,
“What the hell was that? That poor girl has already been through enough of your bullshit.” Robby puts on an innocent face as Dana interrogates him,
“This is an ER, not a speed dating event and we have work to do,”
“Real professional of you, Robby. I almost believe you.” Robby walks away as Dana finishes her sentence. three more hours, just three more he repeats to himself.
𝜗ৎ
the room is quiet in comparison to the ongoing chaos outside in the ER. you type away at new emails before a soft knock at the door that awakens your client,
“Come in.” she mumbles, shuffling around in the bed. Jack and Robby enter the room together as you push your laptop aside.
“How’re you doing Miss King?” Robby starts as he examines her vitals. his eyes quickly glancing at you before bringing his full attention back to the patient. she groans in response, “Hurts.” she mumbles. while Robby slowly begins unraveling her bandages, Jack puts his hand on your shoulder softly,
“You doin’ okay?” you nod in response. the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Robby or Rochelle,
“Wounds look like they’re healing okay, no signs of infection so far. Your CT scans came back good as well so no risk of internal bleeding,” Robby turns to Jack who is standing beside you, “Let’s up her pain meds and keep an eye on the wound tonight. Should be okay to discharge by the morning.” as Robby makes his way out of the room, Jack quickly turns back to you again,
“You let me know if you need anything, got it?” you nod in silence again as he follows the other attending. as the door shuts, your client turns to you,
“What was that?” she says, eyebrows raised and with a smirk similar to a cheshire cat,
“It’s nothing, he’s a friend– an acquaintance even. I’ve known him for a long time,” you say as you pull your laptop back out. she doesn’t break her disbelieving stare, waiting for you to confess, “You’re high on pain meds, go back to sleep.”
“I might be high, but I know when a guy is really into you like that,” you shake your head as she turns over, “Plus he’s hot! My god, should I go for older guys? Honestly, and I mean it respectfully, if you don’t jump on him, I will!” you laugh at her drug induced ramble, trying your best to keep things professional.
just as you’re about to respond to another email, your phone begins buzzing. you’re quick to step out of the room and rush towards the ambulance bay exit. like a puppy, Jack’s eyes trail after you as you dash out answering the call,
“You know I was kinda joking when I said she was all yours?” Robby says sliding beside him,
“Were you? What happened to never wanting to see her again?” Jack challenges,
“All I’m saying is that I don’t believe she’s changed and I don’t think you should either.” Robby says with his hands up in surrender,
“Well I’m willing to be the one to find out.”
Robby shouldn’t feel threatened by Jack’s determination. he deemed that he was over you long before your relationship ended and yet he hated every time Jack made a pass at you (and even more that you were eating it up).
outside, the red light of the ‘Emergency’ sign above illuminates you,
“I promise you, if you don’t change that stunt team and you don’t do another pass at cast and crew safety, you’ll need to find another actress and we both know you’re in too deep to do that at this stage,” Jack walks outside to see you pacing back and forth. the click of your heels fill the silence while you listen to whoever you have on the phone, “Great, I’ll have that contract sent to you shortly, thank you.” you shut your phone off letting out a deep breath. Jack waits until you’ve had a second to decompress before approaching,
“Everything okay? Saw you running out the ER, just thought I’d check on you.” you spin around to see Jack with his hands behind his back slowly walking towards you. he stops at a safe distance standing beside, looking out at the nearby road with you.
“Yeah, producers just wanna know when they can start filming her scenes again, it’s nothing really.” your tense shoulders drop as it becomes quiet again, cars passing by filling the silent void,
“Y’know, I missed seeing you around.”
“Really? I thought I was a mess back then. I feel like my terrible decisions showed that.”
“Like being with Robby?” you huff in amusement as Jack’s question.
“Yeah, kinda. But it led me to meeting you…” there’s a brief pause, “And Dana,” you add. seeing Jack after years of being away has made you feel something you haven’t felt in a long time. when you left for LA, you refused to wear your heart on your sleeve again and being around him has brought something out in you.
the way he’s checked on specifically you multiple times since arriving, the interest he has in the life and career you’ve built, and let’s not forget how much more handsome he’s become. you don’t feel like he’s making you smaller being around him, he embraces your change. he treats you like an adult and like someone who is capable,
“The last time I was in Pittsburgh, I didn’t really know what I wanted. I just blindly followed a man who was essentially leading me nowhere.” you turn to face Jack. he mirrors your movement standing closer to you now,
“Have you figured out what you want now?”
“Yeah, I have.”
𝜗ৎ
thirty minutes left, Robby kept repeating to himself. thirty more minutes and he could finally go home, escape the sight of you, escape Jack’s attempts at flirting and repress any resurfacing feelings or memories he had of your time together.
though, he couldn’t help but remember the way you used to laugh when you rode on the back on his Bonneville, or the little scream you let out when he would pick you up and spin you around after coming home. he tries to keep busy to avoid any old feelings resurfacing but he can’t help it when the last four hours have been spent watching you openly flirt with his best friend,
“Princess, have you seen Jack?” Robby asks,
“You could try triage? I think he mentioned something about a wound check for a friend?” Robby flashes a thankful smile and heads over. he just needs to brief Jack on one more patient then he’s out of there.
in the nearby supply closet, Jack pushes you against the wall kissing you desperately as if he’s waited years for this exact moment. you moan as Jack takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth. his knee pushes your legs apart and settles in between, allowing you to gently grind yourself against him. he slowly begins kissing down your neck,
“Fuck.” you moan lowly as he marks the sweet spot on your neck. Jack quietly shushes you and puts his hand on your mouth,
“You’ll be my good girl and stay quiet, right?” you nod vigorously, his hand staying on your mouth, following your nodding movements. “Yeah, you’re my good girl.” he kissed and marked your neck, desperately wanting to show everyone he’s yours.
Robby’s head pops in triage, doing a quick pass and even going towards the lobby to see if Jack is around. still nowhere to be found, Robby runs up the stairs towards the rooftop next.
Jack slowly undoes the buttons of your top as he kisses up your neck again, making his way back to your lips. he hovers over them for a second whispering,
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, wanted you.” he kisses you again, struggling with the buttons of your top. your fingers run through his grey curls, stopping at the roots to gently pull and tilt his head away from yours. A quiet groan slips from him at the loss of contact with your lips,
“Tell me how long,” you whisper with a seductive smile. Jack smiles back as he looks down at you, hands still in his hair,
“Since the second I met you, I didn’t care that you were Robby’s, I always knew you’d end up here with me,” he confesses. “And I’m not letting you go, I’m not making the same fucking mistake.” you pull him back in again for an even deeper kiss than before.
“Robby!” Doctor McKay calls out from a room. Robby dreadfully turns around. fifteen minutes he reminds himself as he walks over,
“I can’t find Abbot and I need an attending’s opinion on this.” as Cassie goes to unravel a bandaged wound, Robby turns to grab some disposable gloves before seeing the box is empty,
“Hold that thought, let me grab a new box of gloves.” Robby says turning around to head towards the supply closet. Robby turns his head left and right, looking around as he heads towards the closet, still unable to find the night shift attending. he couldn’t have gone far, not when he should be doing his usual nightcrawler huddle with the night shift now.
the supply closet door swings open. forcing Jack to stumble away from you. your eyes meet first with Robby’s whose eyes quickly dart to Jack’s. his lips are sticky with your lip gloss, and his short grey hair is somehow sticking in every direction possible. something about the thrill of being caught by Robby makes you lick your lips and beam a vicious smile at him. he looks back at you mortified, unable to determine if he should start yelling in anger or just close the door and pretend nothing happened. maybe this is your cue to leave and check back up on your emails and missed calls and texts. Jack and Robby turn to watch you pull a small rectangular paper out of your pocket, pressing it to Jack’s chest,
“I’ll be in town for a little longer.” you say, walking out of the closet back to the assigned room of your client. Princess watches you from a distance as you smooth your hair out and redo the buttons on your shirt. she quickly turns to Perlah to relay what she just witnessed.
Robby stands in the closet doorway still, hands on his hips as Jack looks at the small business card. one side is simply your first and last name on a sleek blank background. on the other side is your phone number and a small description at bottom:
synopsisyou and Robby have always had an un-spoken understanding, that if you were two different people you'd fall in love. but he was a mess and refused to bring you down. so instead, fate threatens to take you away forever
warningsANGST. so much angst. stabbing. blood. near death. operations. typical hospital stuff but a happy ending
authornotethis is just completely ripped from that episode of ER when John Carter gets stabbed, like the medical talk is all from that. I also feel like this may be slight ooc robby cause I have struggle with how this man would be affectionate. i had a hell of a lot of fun writing this, angst is by far my favourite, i hope you like too
Pitt masterlist. Other Robby fic!
You weren't sure if it was the thumping in your head or the drum in your heart but you watched Robby closely. It could have been the injury to your head or the closeness of him that had your heart reacting in such a way.
You blamed it on the injury.
“Give it to me straight, Doc,” you joked. One of his gloved hands cupped your chin, nudging your gaze up. The other dabbed gently at the cut to your forehead. “Am I gonna make it?”
There was a line of displeasure in his lips. “Not funny,” he mumbled.
“Sure it is.”
“No, it's not.”
You rolled your eyes before going back to focusing on him.
It was rare you got to watch him in his concentration. Usually you were in the middle of a trauma when he pulled out the serious face and things were moving too fast for you to even catch a glimpse. Now- his focus was all on you. You could study the creases at his brows and the flecks of grey in his beard.
“You ever notice you have these deep lines between your eyebrows when you're concentrating?”
“It's called age,” he said but there was the smallest hint of a smile there.
“Aren't you twenty-seven?”
This time he couldn't stop the smirk of amusement and finally you won.
Robby dabbed away the blood at your cut, changing the gauze. “Don't think you're distracting me.”
You hummed as he tilted your head into the light. “Distracting you from what?”
“Reporting him.”
You grew silent and looked away.
It was Robby's turn to stare at you, eyes without warmth, stern in ways he was with patients that didn't want to listen to good advice. You may be sitting on a bed in exam room four and you may have a chart written up but you were not a patient. “He was scared and confused-”
“ - he pushed you.”
“And I was the one that tripped and bashed my head.”
“He threw you down!”
You winced at his snap and then winced at the pain your wincing brought you.
Robby sighed with some sort of regret. His fingertips brushed your skin as he finished cleaning the cut and you couldn't help but think it was a deliberate move. He'd been so careful not to touch or apply pressure but suddenly the callous of his fingers were there.. “If we don't take care of ourselves nobody else will do it.”
It was the same thing Dana had said to you when she saw the patient push you down and run out the room in distress, hospital gown slipping on his shoulders. She'd taken you under her arm, stirred you to a chair. She was firm in both checking you were okay and that you were going to report him for hurting you.
You look past Robby, trying to see through the glass door. The Pitt carried on it's usual bustle but Dana kept a close eye out on you in the room. “Where is he now?”
“None of your concern,” he said. “The cut's clean, looks like you won't need stitches.”
“You've restrained him haven't you?”
Robby frowned. His head shook slightly in disbelief- like he couldn't believe you. “He hurt you. Jesus- you think I was gonna just tuck him back in bed- you think Dana was!”
You were used to the rise in Robby's voice, as attending it was his job to command everyone. You just didn't like to hear it risen at you. “He woke up, confused and startled.”
The patient was brought in un-conscious at the side of the road, a gash in his arm. Nobody knew his name but you'd admitted him and ran some tests while he was semi-conscious. He'd woken up as you were checking his IV and the next thing you knew hard hands were pushing you away. You'd taken the tray down with you and smacked your head in the process. Then he'd ran and then Robby had you in his arms, willing to pick you up and carry you off if it weren't for your insistence to walk to an exam room.
Robby's body heaved in a sigh as he put his hands on his thighs. “He hurt you,” he repeated, looking up at you through his eyelashes.
You slowly met his gaze as he got closer on the stall in front of you. “I've had worse.”
It wasn't supposed to be a dig but as his eyes met yours in a haze of dark anxiety you figured it came off that way.
Really what happened between you and Robby was ancient history. A whole six months since you'd stopped seeing each other; if that's what it could be called. It was really only one stupid kiss and several flirts that created the thick tension between you two. Nothing had ever been done to encourage it further, yet nothing had also been done to squash it.
Whilst his gaze remained on you, Robby got out his penlight and checked your pupil reaction.
“Any pain?”
“Well, the light's a bit bright.”
He put it down and with his gloved hands he slowly pressed around the small cut on your forehead, hands cupping your face tenderly. “Any pain?”
“No, you've done all this twice now.”
“It's procedure for any patient.”
“It's special treatment,” you grumbled.
Robby grabbed a bandage from the tray. “You're a special patient.”
The heat crept up your cheeks before you stared at the bandage.
“Robby-”
In one hand he held a bandage, in the other a small spider-man plaster that he so obviously got from pedes.
You stared at him. “Really?”
His cheeks tilted in a small teasing grin. “All we have, I'm afraid.”
You seriously doubted it but tapped the spider-man plaster nonetheless. “I'm sure I could have done this myself, you know,” you said as he peeled away the plaster. “Or at least got one of the nurses to do it. I'm sure you're needed somewhere more important.”
He frowned again. “More important?”
“There's a guy that came in with a GSW to the chest ten minutes ago and you're saying you don't need to be there?”
Robby's hands fell to either side of your face, gently taking your cheeks. His thumb brushed the curve of your cheek bone. He could feign he was checking your pupils but you both knew better. “There's nowhere else I need to be.”
Six months ago you'd kissed in a bar ten minutes away from the Pitt. Every day since- you'd been fighting the urge to kiss him again.
At that moment, with his gentle touch and soft gaze, you wondered if he'd been fighting to.
“Look up,” Robby said with a clear of his throat.
You weren't sure what he was trying to check for anymore. Maybe he was just looking for an easy way out.
“I still want you to get a CT scan.”
“Now that's dramatic, I didn't expect that from you.”
“Any nasuea?”
You shook your head as Robby steadied you, sliding the plaster in place.
“Have you been drinking enough today?”
“Two cups of coffee count?”
Robby gave you a plain look as he yanked off the latex gloves, throwing them into a corner of the room. “Ten minutes rest, I'll bring you some food and water.”
You sighed dramatically. “Robby!”
He pushed himself up from his stool. “As you're attending I'm not asking, I'm-”
“Telling?” you guessed.
Robby hovered as you pushed yourself up back on the bed. You wouldn't say it but your head was hurting from the fall. Nothing more than a headache that some painkillers couldn't stop. If you told Robby that yes, you were in pain, you were sure he'd pull the curtain, change you into a gown and play doctor all day.
You lied back on the pillow as Robby plumped it and smoothed out the sheets under you. He was lingering and for a moment you thought of asking him to stay.
Your mouth had opened to ask when the door was nudged open.
“Robby, we got a car crash coming in five,” said Dana. She looked at you then, eyes crinkled in worry. “How you feeling, hun?”
“I'm fine, thanks Dana.”
She nodded once, offering you a small smile before leaving.
You looked up at Robby as his body lingered over yours, one arm stretched high above your head, the other lower. Your gaze flickered up and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan over you. “Ten minutes?” you asked.
“On the clock.”
“Then I'm free to go?”
His head tilted, a sly smirk playing around his thin beard. “I'm not keeping you a prisoner.”
You folded your arms over your chest, glancing away. “Feels like it.”
He chuckled lightly. For a moment his breath lingered over your forehead, closer than before.
When you glanced up he froze, hands clenched on the bed, his jaw taunt. It was as if you'd caught him in the act.
Suddenly you wished you hadn't looked up. You wished you'd let him do whatever he was going to do. Because once he'd been caught he straightened up and threw you an awkward thumbs up. “Ten minutes.”
You trace your finger over the plaster as you slowly left your room, creeping out like you were a teenager sneaking out of your parents to meet a guy. Except you were trying to avoid the guy.
“That was eight minutes!”
You looked up and found Robby at the nurses station, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Were you timing me?”
Robby held up his phone, showing you the timer he had counting down as next to him, Dana snorted. “Have you had something to drink? Or eat?” he asked as you leant over the counter. He was still watching you eagerly, waiting for any sign you were in more pain then you let on so he could send you back to bed.
“Thought you were getting me a drink?”
He rolled his eyes before obliging, sliding away to get you a drink. He turned back only once. “Don't go near him!” he called, the both of you knowing who the he was.
You saluted him, watching him go before turning to Dana. “How is he?”
She peered at you over her glasses. “Terrible. He's been worried sick, was practically watching you through those windows. Didn't blink for a minute!”
“Not Robby, my patient. The John Doe.”
“Well that ain't your concern anymore," she said.
“I want to treat him.”
“He's awake now, we've restrained him in twelve but Robby wants you nowhere near him.”
“Robby is over-reacting,” you sighed.
Dana lifted her shoulders. “Of course he is, it's you. You think he's gonna react rationally?”
Nobody was supposed to know about you and Robby and the thing that lingered in the middle. But somehow, Dana always ended up knowing everything.
You backed away from the counter, assuring Robby was nowhere to be seen. “Twelve, you said right?”
Dana huffed but lucky for you there were a dozen more things she needed to do. “Fine! Go! But take security with you!”
You saluted and headed that way. Outside the door, Ahmed was already there.
“Hey, doc,” he greeted. “He's been asking about you, said he wants to apologise.”
You weren't scared like you thought you'd be, stepping into the room while Ahmed promised to stay outside, just a shout away of you needed him. Your heart wasn't pounding as you slowly moved the curtain, finding the patient lying on the bed, restraints around his wrists and tied down. He wasn't thrashing about. He was calm, clocking you as you walked in.
“You're the nurse?” he said.
“Doctor, actually,” you said, introducing yourself.
He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes or add colour to his face. There was nothing in his eyes anyhow. He was pale and the thin bandaging that had been done for his arm while he struggled was bleeding through. “I-I pushed you, I am so sorry.”
You were about to say it was fine, but it wasn't you shouldn't tell him it was. You could accept the apology but still acknowledge that whatever state he was in, you shouldn't have been hurt. “Do you know where you are?”
“The hospital?”
“That's right, PTMC. Can you tell me your name?”
He nodded, gulping. There was a thin layer of sweat over his skin. “David Brown.”
“And do you know what month it is?”
“M-March.”
“Okay, good,” you said, making a quick note of his name in his chart. You sat down on the stool, shuffling to the side of his bed. “Mr Brown-”
“David,” he corrected you.
“David,” you said. “You were brought in just under an hour ago with a pretty bad laceration to your lower right arm. You were found un-conscious. Do you remember anything?”
You watched the sweat bead at his forehead, his eyes scrunched as he tried to think. His breathing grew heavier, face morphed into pain as he tried to think. “It's okay if you don't.”
“I-I don't,” a stray tear fell down his cheek.
“That's okay,” you assured him. “I'm gonna order you a CT and a toxic screening just to rule out any drugs or alcohol in your system. Is that okay?”
David's head jerked in something like a nod before you door swung open, clattering on the other side of the wall.
Robby stood at the end of the bed, face red, hands at his hips. “What are you doing in here?” he snapped.
“Doctor Robby-”
He gave you no time to explain, jutting his head back. “Step outside please, doctor.”
You stood, slowly and walked out slower.
David called out after you. “I really am sorry!”
Robby looked back like he didn't believe him.
The two of you stepped out and you spoke before he could, beating him by a second. “I'm ordering him a CT and toxicity test. That gash on his arms needs to be cleaned and stitched up, it's bleeding out.”
Robby didn't care to hear it. He pulled the curtains over and closed the door as he followed you out. “What did you think you were doing in there?”
“Tending to my patient.”
“I told you to leave him.”
“He wanted to say sorry. Ahmed, didn't he want to apologise?” you said, looking to security for some help.
Ahmed held up his hands. “Oh- I want nothing in this!”
“If he wanted to apologise he could've wrote a letter. Told me to apologise to you,” he said, still holding onto his anger. “I told you to leave it, the guy attacked you!”
“Lightly shoved me from shock!”
“Have you seen what he did to your head?”
“Yeah, a small cut, doesn't even need stitches- that's what you said!”
“It's a wound! There was blood!” he yelled. “You are not to go anywhere near him from now on, do you understand?”
There was a new anger in Robby then, something you saw rarely in him. Dana had said he was worried about you but you saw none of that concern in him now, only anger. Anger because you hadn't listened to him not because of well fair.
“I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to be helping people,” you defended, your own anger not rising to his.
His hands balled into fists. “Help someone who's asking for it. I see you in with that guy again and you're on triage for a week, you understand?”
Where was that softness in his eyes? Where was that care he tended to you in the room all alone?
“You understand?” he snapped again when you didn't answer.
You knew if you turned there'd be several pairs of eyes on the pair of you. Watching, assessing, see how you reacted. Nobody had ever heard Robby speak to you like that because he'd never shouted at you before. “I understand, Doctor Robinavitch.”
“So you yelled at her.”
Robby thought he'd find solace on the roof, that with only him and the night sky he stood a chance at thinking things through logically, for once on the right side of the rail.
Then Jack's voice sounded behind him and the peace he was searching for fell further out of reach.
“Who told you?” he asked, head falling.
“Oh, you know,” he mumbled, shoes shuffling over the roof as he got closer to him. “Just everybody that was in attendance to your little show.”
Jack leant next to him on the rail, staring at him.
Robby could feel his eyes but looked out on the skyline that was more favourable to him. Jacks eyes felt like everybody else that watched him yell at you. He could call it worry- it didn't change the way your face dropped the louder his voice rose.
“You wanna talk about it?” asked Jack.
“No.”
“I heard she got attacked.”
“Or lightly pushed as she'd put it.”
“She's a soldier.”
Robby shook his head. “No, she's a doctor. Today she could have been neither if that man-” the words chocked in his throat. What if he had hurt you even more? Punched you? Strangled you? He'd seen it all in the ER and yes, you'd been hurt before but that didn't mean he needed to have you hurt again.
“I saw her when I was coming up, she seemed fine,” said Jack. “About to clock off, you sure you want to end the day on such a bad note.”
“She doesn't want to talk to me.”
“Come on, she always wants to talk to you,” said Jack. “And I only know that cause you always want to talk to her.”
Robby wished he could say that telling Jack about the kiss so many months ago was a mistake but he couldn't because that would mean kissing you was a mistake. The only mistake made with that kiss is that he hadn't pulled you back in, kissed you every day since. But he'd told Jack on one of those lonely nights when they'd each had one too many beers how much he missed you even if he saw you every day.
“I was so fucking scared, brother,” he admitted with a long exhale of breath. Robby slumped over the rail, catching himself. “Code hula-hoop was called and her name and I- I didn't know...”
Jack's hand was firm on his back. “I know.”
Robby nodded, head tucked down. He wouldn't cry, he wasn't sure how these days but he sure as hell felt like it. It had been a hell of day, worse when he couldn't join your side without you walking off.
“You were worried, you don't know what to do with that,” said Jack.
He could admit that much.
“You go home now, she goes home, you're carrying this weight to the next day and it'll continue,” he said, therapizing him. “You were scared you might have lost her?”
Robby glanced Jack's way. There was never any judgment, only a keen understanding he sometimes didn't like.
“You might lose her if you don't do something about it.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Jack shrugged. “Apologise.”
Robby hesitated, the words 'I'm sorry' foreign on his tongue.
Jack chuckled low in his throat. “Is that really so hard for you?”
He nodded and Jack carried on laughing. By the end, even Robby was chuckling through watery eyes.
“Okay, okay, let's try,” said Jack, straightening up, encouraging him to do the same. “Repeat after me, I'm sorry.”
“Jesus-”
“Jesus, you can't even say it-listen we'll go slow, I'm-”
Robby's phone rung in his pocket, thankfully saving him from the embarrassment. “Dana-” he answered as he spotted Jack's phone going too.
“Get down here, now!”
“What's going on?” he asked, though his feet were already moving.
He didn't see the way Jack looked at him, he hardly heard how Dana said your name because when she did Robby dropped his phone and ran.
“Robby!” Jack called but he was off the roof and furiously pressing the elevator button. He managed to slide past the doors before they closed on him. “What did Dana say?”
But Robby couldn't speak. He heard Dana's voice re-play in his head again and again. That you had been attacked, that they needed him. He couldn't think beyond that. Beyond you and attacked there was nothing.
Jack was watching him closely. “Okay-” he must've known it was bad too. “Okay, Robby, we don't know what's going on down there but you gotta stay cool, okay? You gotta stay cool or leave us to it.”
He should've kept a closer eye on you, should've sent you home.
“Robby if you get in our way I'm taking you out of there, understand?”
The doors slid open and Robby ran out, Jack quick on his heels.
“Where?” he barked out. There were no faces around him he could figure out, no Dana, no Langdon- so everyone must have been in with you-
“Trauma one!”
Robby burst through the doors.
The chaos was everywhere and he paused. There were more bodies in the trauma room then he'd ever seen. In between them all a body that he could vaguely re-call as yours. Your trainers- usually white- were seeping in blood.
“Can you open your eyes?”
“No respond to command!”
“Two stab wounds to the left flank! First one L-two, second L-five.”
“Is it the spinal chord?” asked Whitaker.
“Can't tell it depends on the angle!” said Langdon. “Jesus- there's too much blood, I can't see a thing!”
You lied on the bed, blood splattered around your clothes, un-responsive to everyone around you. You were letting them prod, push and pull when you'd hardly let him asses your cut just hours ago.
Hours when you were teasing him and he was thinking about kissing you again.
What had happened.
If it was a papercut you'd be feigning death.
This was the closest you'd ever looked to dying and Robby couldn't feel his legs.
"Doctor Robby?" someone called in the room but it wasn't you. You weren't responding to anyone. “Doctor Robby!”
Jack moved past him, body knocking his. “I'm here!”
“BP seventy over fifty, pulse one-twenty.”
Jack moved around you, pressing the chest piece of the stethoscope to your chest. “Push in two litres of O-neg. Good breath sounds bilaterally.”
Robby's ears were ringing but he could feel himself shake his head. “She's not-she's not O-neg, she's B-positive,” he heard himself mumble.
There was a sharp beeping through the room and Robby thought it was a strange sound for his heart breaking.
“Pulse ox ninety-three!”
“Do we intubate?” asked Mohan.
Your body jerked and as if you were the puppet master tugging on his strings, Robby found his feet and moved to your side.
He moved around until he was the closest to you, replacing anyone else at your side. Others watched, un-sure if they should've told him to wait outside like he was family.
Jack gave them the nod and the room moved again.
“Give me ten by mask, no intubation. Send a trauma panel!” ordered Robby.
“We need X-ray for a chest!” yelled Jack.
“X-ray can come to us! I am not moving her!” he shouted. “Help me roll, let me see!”
The blood on the front of your scrubs was splashed but as they turned you, leaning you on your side Robby's body slumped, something like a chocked sob wracking through his body.
He couldn't see the puncture wounds through the blood that soaked you. Just as Langdon had said it was a mess. “Jesus chr- oh god.”
“Pressure's up to ninety palp!”
“Who did this?” he yelled out as they gently set you back.
“The guy who came in un-conscious earlier!”
Jack looked over at Robby.
Robby felt the muscles in his jaws work and he grunted. “I'll kill him,” he grumbled.
“Robby!” lectured Jack.
But he wasn't going to take back his words. “He's fucking dead.”
“He fled the hospital,” Langdon told him. “Left his knife in the room though, they'll find him.”
It couldn't have been a scalpel, it couldn't have been scissors. The guy came in, found a knife- or brought one from home- to harm you. If Robby ever saw him again he'd kill the guy and deal with the consequences that came.
“Toes are down going, no spinal injury,” said someone else in the room but he was losing all focus that wasn't you.
Garcia walked through the doors, joining the crowd of people around you.
“Tell me you've got an OR booked!” said Jack.
“With her name on it! How we doing in here?”
Santos pushed her way ahead, a small and un-characteristic tremble to her hands. There was another unit of blood pushed into your bloodstream and Robby was seconds away from hooking himself up and giving you his very blood. “Pressure's up!” she reported, lingering over you with a light. “Right pupil five millimetres and reactive -”
Suddenly your body jerked at the light. Your head thrashed side to side as you slowly returned to consciousness.
“Huh... I-wha-”
“Hey! Hey!” Robby pushed his way to you, looming over you and catching your eyes.
They were wild, looking around before settling on him.
“Robby?” you uttered, lips dry, dried blood at your neck. Your eyes were looking around like you couldn't quite see.
“Yeah- yeah it's me.” His hand flew to your hair, brushing it back as your eyes were going from him to around you, panic rising in your eyes. “Look at me, focus on me.”
“What-what?”
“You were stabbed,” he uttered.
Your eyes widened and he brushed back your hair again, doctors moving around the two of you. They could've been right on his back or a thousand miles away. All he focused on was you. Your hands waved around, getting in the way of tubes and the doctors.
Robby grabbed your hand, squeezing.
You focused on him and he tried to smile, tried to make himself convinced everything would be alright. He knew it was a grimace.
He'd never hated his medical training more. Because he knew this amount of blood loss was bad, he knew stabbing so close to the spinal chords was dangerous. He knew you were strong and hated staying still for too long and now you'd be forced to recover.
“My pressure?”
“It's up.” He watched as your eyes teared up, looking away from him again. “Good, that's good.”
Your hair sprawled out as you shook your head. “Am I gonna.... will I walk again?”
Robby hesitated. “Yeah- yeah we think it missed your spinal chord.”
Robby knew that but he couldn't help the tears that fell, couldn't help the small sob that ripped through his throat. You'd been calm at the cut with your head, damn right comedic. Now- you were quiet, whimpering and crying in pain and there wasn't anything he could do.
He was a doctor, he could help and check vitals and squeeze the bag of blood slow.
But he couldn't move from your side.
You nod before your back arched in pain and you yelled out.
“BP eighty palp!”
Robby got up, ignoring the ache in his knees as he loomed over you, trying to calm the pain. “Do something!”
“Robby!”
He looked.
You'd drained the blood dry.
“What?” you uttered, voice trembled in terror.
“Okay she needs to go up, now!” Jack called out.
“Let's get her moving!” yelled Garcia.
You groaned in pain. “What's going on?”
Robby didn't know what to do. It wasn't a conversation of telling a patient what was going on or what wasn't. It was telling you. He stuttered lamely, lost as another tear slid down his cheek. You hadn't even cried yet and he was close to blubbering.
His head bowed to you. He was mumbling, he thinks he was praying.
“Robby-” your hand waved out in front of him and he grabbed it, squeezing. “It hurts.”
“Okay, okay, we're gonna-” what was he gonna do? He pressed your hand to his lips, holding it there.
“Hey, honey,” Jack appeared at your other side and your eyes moved to see him but Robby didn't let go. “Hell of a way to get into the night shift.”
“Jack-” you winced.
Jack looked from you to Robby, the same way he looked at the family of unfortunate patients. “We're taking her up to the OR now.”
Your fingers wiggled in Robby's grasp and he looked back to you. “It's bad huh?”
“No, no,” said Robby smoothing back your hair again.
“Your losing a lot of blood, and your foley output is bright red,” said Jack. “But we're gonna sort it and you'll be fine. You trust me?”
Your breathing was shallow, hard breaths hardly coming out. Still, you tried to smile. “Do I- do I have a choice?” your voice came out through seethes of breath.
Robby closed his eyes tight, as if he could feel the own stabbing in his heart.
“Robb-Robby?”
He glanced at you, your eyes fluttering shut. The little hold you had on his hand weakening. He fumbled up, hands holding your cheeks. “Woah-woah- open your eyes! Look at me- look at me!”
You mumbled, head lulling.
“Going up!”
“Look at me, open your eyes!” he all but shouted at you as your eyes were still rolling to the back of his head, wavering between waking and whatever else was on the other side.
“Robby!”
Robby held onto the side of your bed as the team around you wheeled you away and through. There was a stutter of shock waving through the crowd, fear chocking them, shock eating at them. There was police around, all trying to get a look.
“Talk to her, Robinavitch!” said Garcia.
He didn't talk to patients, he evaluated them, stitched them up when he could.
Robby looked up at Jack, hoping for help. He looked grave, watching Robby un-sure but people came back from worse. You'd come back. “Hey, hey look at me,” he uttered and squeezed your hand. When that didn't work he pulled at your eyelids and finally you responded with a grumble.
The elevator doors slid open and you were hauled in, Robby squeezed in too.
“Wh-what?”
He got a flash of your eyes before they closed again.
Your lips were dry and chapped but Robby kissed you anyway, pressing his lips to yours soft, not pushing afraid he'd hurt you but he wanted you to know he was there.
He smiled. He'd never seen you first thing in the morning, he imagined this is what it was. Groggy eyes, words hardly there but with less pain and blood. Robby pulled back and ignored the blood drying in splatters on your neck. “Are you with me, honey?”
You blinked and groaned in pain. “I don't-I don't know.”
“You're with me, yeah you are, you're with me,” Robby mumbled. “You look very pretty, even covered in blood, you know that?” he mumbled, trying to say it so only you could hear.
There was a huff of a smile followed by pain.
“You can't flirt with me while I'm dying, Robinavitch.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Robby grabbed your face, smooching your cheek maybe a bit too harsh. “You're not going anywhere.”
“You've pushed four bags,” you whispered. “You're gonna push a five.”
There was a huff of laugh from Jack.
Robby sniffed. You were too good at your job sometimes, ignoring the ache in his back as he leant over you. “You shouldn't be counting.”
“What can I say I'm over-qualified,” your eyes shut again but your lips moved in mumbles.
“What is it? What are you saying?” he asked, a crack in his voice. “What? Tell me.... tell me.”
But you weren't really there anymore. You were incoherent, eyes not really there. None of you was really there. “Robby.... Rob.... please, Robby.”
“What? I'm here, I'm right here, okay? Okay, honey?” Robby felt his chest cave in. “What's taking this elevator so long?” he snapped.
“It's bad, I know,” you said, fingers drifting soft over his arm before it dropped. “I can't- I can't-”
The doors slid open, a team waited on the other side.
Garcia pushed you ahead into the team, spouting who she wanted to scrub in, telling them all who she wanted out front watching. Your condition was a perfect teaching sort.
You weren't for teaching. You were for saving!
Robby wanted to tell as much as the team wheeled you away and Jack's arm came out to stop him.
“You can't go in there man,” he said.
“Like hell I can't!”
“No, you can't!” said Jack.
Any other time Robby would have argued more but he had nothing to say. He needed to be there, he wanted to be there but as soon as they cut you open he'd break. As soon as he saw inside your body he'd tie himself to you.
He'd seen over a hundred bodies cut open in his time but yours might break him.
Robby nodded, hands going to the back of his head.
Someone in the room cried and it took him a moment to realise it was him.
“Hey-hey-” Jack embraced him and Robby couldn't reach to hug him back but he could let himself down. “I will go in, I will be there, you know I will do everything to save her. We will save her.”
To save your life, Robby let him go and stood alone. He looked down at his hand as if he could feel the ghost hold of you still there. When he looked down, all he saw was the hair on the back and the tremble of his fingers.
Robby- for the first time since he was a boy- learnt how to cry.
He tried- boy did he try- to get back into the swing of things. Robby walked into the Pitt with red, blotchy eyes and a waver in his voice. He looked at the board, picked up a sixty year old patient with migraines.
“Hello I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby. What seems to be the problem today?”
That was as far as he got before Dana walked in.
“No, no, no, no!” she said, putting the chart down and dragging him out. “I am so sorry Mrs Klepton, we'll get Doctor Shen with you in just a moment. Come with me.”
He was dragged out like a scolded child and shoved into the lounge.
“What do you think you're doing?” she'd snapped.
Robby had put himself in the corner, crowding himself in, arms over his head. What was he doing? Trying to be useful. You'd be up in the OR lord knew how long. If he sat and waited he'd go mad.
Dana leant on the counter. “What'd you think you're doing here, Robinavitch? Get outta here, go home! Better yet go wait for her.”
“I-I can't.”
“Robby.”
He could feel the tears start again. Didn't the human run out of tears eventually? They didn't teach that in med school. “I- I can't. I'm useful in-in here, I'm not- I'm not-”
“Right now there's only one person you can be useful to, so go to her.”
That's how he ended up in the OR waiting room, alone, not flicking through the magazines provided, not even watching the fish in the tank. He was just sitting.
Waiting.
At some point he'd taken the clock down to not watch the hands turn but eventually the sun rose and he was terrified like no other day.
It was going on 05:00 am when the door slowly pushed open. It wasn't with a rattle of relief or with a cheer, it was a slow push.
Robby thought his heart was broken before.
He was hunched over himself, elbows balanced on his knees as he hid his face in his hands and slowly rocked himself. “No... no... no...”
“Robby,” Jack said quietly. His steps were slow but he felt his hand on his back.
Robby flinched, shrinking into himself.
Where was the knife so he could stab himself?
“Robby- she's okay.”
There was a crack in his neck from how quick he looked up. It wasn't enough to convince him, his clinical trained mind wondering all the what would comes? Had it got into your spine? How much blood had you lost.
But Jack listed it off like he knew what Robby needed to hear first. It hadn't hit an aorta, it got an artery hence the bleeding but they'd stabilised it with more blood than they would have liked. But you were alive, though sleeping and they had no worries for you at the moment.
Robby nodded when Jack finished. He must have come right from the OR to tell him because he was still in scrubs and covered in blood. Your blood. “Can I see her?”
You didn't look peaceful. Robby had never thought how uncomfortable the hospital gowns must have been until he saw you lying in one. There was oxygen tube in your nose and an IV in your hand. There was some bruising he hadn't noticed before on your arms from the fall you took.
“What do I do now?” Robby mumbled. He was good at the saving lives part, he just wasn't sure what to do when they hung in limbo.
Jack patted his back, leading the way in the room. “For a doctor you're pretty clueless. You sit with her.”
Robby followed in, un-sure what to do with himself so he held onto either end of his stethoscope.
There was a chair already pulled up to your side as Jack busied himself on the other, checking your IV and BP- all looked good.
Robby had caught you napping at your desk once, fallen asleep while charting. He'd admired you for a moment before slowly waking you with a pen poked in your head. You'd looked so peaceful then- nothing like it now.
“Is she cold?”
“No- I don't think so.”
Robby slowly sank down in the chair and picked up your hand again. It stopped the trembling in his at once.
“I gotta get off, I'll cover the day, do something about the nights. Stay with her, call me if there's any changes,” said Jack.
“Thank you, brother,” said Robby.
There was a dull drumming in your head. Your back was aching and even moving your eyes hurt. Beyond all of that there was something else, something heavier.
Your eyes opened slowly and you found the lights ahead. They burned brighter than the sun, like every morning when you walked into PCMT. You tried to hide, to shield yourself with your hand but you couldn't move it.
Panic coursed through you. Why couldn't you move it? Why could you hardly feel your hand? Dear god-
“Hey,” a gentle voice greeted and you searched for them.
Jack stood over you, leaning at you bed.
Your mouth was parched as you tried to speak.
“You're okay,” said Jack in a whisper. “You remember what happened?”
Step by step you thought back. You were leaving, only checking on David once more before sharp pain hit you in the back and you were shoved. When you came too again faces blurred together and pain blinded you to them all.
There was Robby. Somewhere in all of that.
“I was... stabbed?”
Jack nodded, a small trembled in his chin. “Yeah you were. But you're gonna be okay, there was no injury to your spine.”
“I'll walk?”
“Twelve hours time we'll get you up.”
When you focused you could feel the ache in your arm as if someone was pulling it. There was something heavy at the end like someone was holding it, tight.
Robby was at your other side, lying on your arm and holding you down. His body was curved over, head turned away as his back moved in soft breaths.
“Thought I'd let him sleep. He's been up watching you since you came out the OR,” said Jack.
Robby. He'd stayed.
Had you asked him to? You'd wanted him to. Maybe he understood that.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Jack shook his head. There was no need to thank him, you knew that, but you were thanking him for the life you'd put in his hands and that he'd let Robby be at your side. “You want some time?”
You nodded stiff, feeling the ache in your back more and more. You knew you had months ahead of you of pain but you didn't want to dull it with drugs just yet.
Jack petted down your hair once before taking his hoodie off the back of the chair and leaving, closing the door gently.
In the silence you watched Robby a moment longer, matching your new breaths with his. The weight of him on your hand made you tingle as you slowly worked your fingertips back to life.
You tried to move your hand out from his weight but he stirred.
Groggily he turned and looked around the room, waking up more confused then you were.
“Robby?”
His eyes widened.
Robby moved up at once, looming over your bed as you tried to push yourself up. “Hey, hey, take it easy,” he fretted, eyes raking over your body like he was checking all of you were there. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”
“Robby-” you tried to protest.
“BP is hundred over eighty.”
You tried to entertain him, just as you had with the cut on your head. If you let him go through the motions just might just end up holding his hand again. So you let him try your nerves, let him ask if you were in pain. You let him ask you to wiggle your fingers and toes. You let him lift one leg and the other as high as he could before you winced in pain.
“Can you stop being my doctor for a second and sit back down?”
Robby seemed startled but hid it quickly. He realised Jack was out the room. “He should've woke me, checked you over.”
“You were resting, he said you'd stayed.”
He looked at you, astonished you'd think he'd go anywhere else.
You watched him sink into his chair, clasping his hands together and wedging them between his knees. Your fingers ached to hold him but your body was weak even talking. “You look tired.”
He chuckled low and smiled. His face was pale, eyes red, hair a mess. His entire body was slumped. “I look tired?”
“A nice tired, a handsome tired.”
You focused on your hand, lifting it enough. You watched as Robby looked down and took it without hesitation, he held it tight, grasping it between his big hands and bringing it to his lips.
You felt him kiss your palm.
“I was stabbed?”
Robby nodded, slowly. “Two puncture wounds, missed the spinal chords, nicked an aorta, bled out. That was our biggest worry but-”
“But I'm okay now?”
Slowly, he nodded.
You groaned, shifting your head aside. You'd have rolled over to show your protest but you had a feeling you'd be putting as little pressure on your back for a while. “Is Mr Brown?”
“The police are looking for him,” said Robby, without letting you even work out just what it is you were trying to ask about.
You nodded slowly, looking down to where your hand disappeared in his. “I'll report him this time, I promise.”
Robby stared at you, eyes wide with something you couldn't name. “I just want you to focus on getting better. On coming back... coming back to me.”
You didn't think, even coming out of an op and the haze of pain, that you could ever be where he wasn't. You think, no matter how terrible it seemed, that it was meant to happen this way. The stabbing and scarring that would no doubt end up on your back might have been the best thing to ever happen to you.
“Robby,” you whispered.
He must have heard something in your voice as he slowly stood and hunched over you, a hand lying on the top of your head.
His eyes were watering with tears.
You could remember faint images of this happening before, as you were slowly lulled to sleep by drugs. His hand combing back your hair felt like it had always been doing it. Like you'd always woken to him.
“Did you kiss me?” You didn't know where the memory came from, or even if it was a memory. It could've been a dream.
To his credit Robby didn't startle or flinch. He slowly nodded, leaving room for objection. He leaned over close to you, another hand cradling your cheek. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Robby inhaled sharply. “I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you months before I did. I wanted to kiss you last week and two minutes ago when you woke. I wanted to kiss you covered in blood and... I want to kiss you now.”
You smiled and it brought you no pain. “If my back wasn't in pain I'd be kissing you right now,” you chuckled and then the pain came.
Robby leant down to you, his eyes searching yours. Close enough you could see what was in his eyes, what he'd been hiding. Warmth. Admiration.
His large nose brushed yours as he kissed you slow with no rush of need. His hand was soft as he angled you so he could explore every line and curve if your lip.
Your own hand slowly wound up, around his head, stroking the back of his hair and resting there. He didn't mind the oxygen tube or that she couldn't reach up to meet him. In fact he kissed her like he'd planned it like this a hundred times.
When there was an alarming beep from the machines Robby pulled away quick, studdying them.
“It's just my heartrate,” you said. “Might have been beating a little faster there.”
He agreed but seemed solemn to do so.
You watched the crease between his brows appear again. “You know, if I knew I just needed to be stabbed to have you kiss me again I'd have-”
“Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”
For the sake of his nerves, you didn't.
“You know if I'd have known that it was just gonna take me getting stabbed for you to sell that motorbike, I'd have got stabbed a lot sooner,” you said teasingly as Robby pulled into his new designated parking space outside the ED.
It had been a month since the incident but you were still reaping the small benefits that came with it. Like Robby insisting you stay with him to get the best care, like him getting rid of his motorbike to get a better car that was more comfortable on your back.
Like having so much time with him.
Mornings where he dedicated time in messaging the sore spots of your back and spreading an oil that was going to help the scaring. Like the dinner times when you read him a recipe that he never followed to the t. Like the kisses you stole in the night when he'd watch you and kiss you without straining to go forward.
Robby parked the car and turned off the engine. “If I had a dollar every time you said that,” he grumbled, picking up his bag and exiting.
You were still moving slower, still kept a crutch with you to keep weight off your back. You were coming back to work with a much lighter work load and you were sure Robby would be glued to your side all day like he practically had the month you'd took to recover.
Even before you could open the door Robby was there doing it for you, your own bag in his hand.
“You think anyone's gonna want to see the cool scars I've got, they kind of look like stars,” you said as Robby stayed close by your side, walking in with you.
“You sent them all pictures,” he said, mildly irritated. You and everyone around you seemed to try to crack jokes about the thing. He felt sometimes he was the only one who saw the near death wound for what it was.
“Excuse me- most of them asked for pictures.”
“Completely inappropriate.”
A few ambulance workers saw you, greeting you with smiles you returned while Robby waited next to you, holding up a polite hand in greeting.
It dropped, grazed yours and picked it up, holding on as the two of you walked in.
Usually Robby liked to walk in through triage, get a feel of what was happening but he wasn't risking that many foreign bodies next to you even though they caught David Brown and he was being charged.
Robby had something to live for, had something to protect. Nothing was happening to it. To you.
“It's good to have you back,” said Lupe as the two of you passed her at the door.
“Do you think that was a pun?” you uttered to him, rewarded with the smallest tint of his lips as he pushed open the door.
Loud clapping greeted you with some cheap, paper, party poppers when you walked in. Thee was cheering to and a large banner was hooked up, saying 'welcome home!'.
A place that could have held such terrible memories was brightened up as you jumped from one smiling face, to another.
Next to you, Robby stepped back, blending into the admiring crowd and started to clap too with something more than fondness in his smile. Love. A word that had woven its way into your vocab since moving in with him to get help for your wounds.
A word that summed up so much of what you had.
“You did this for me?” you asked.
“It was all Robby's idea,” said Jack, leading the cheering.
You didn't have to even move. Like he knew what you wanted Robby stepped over to you and kissed you. He always kept his lips irritatingly light, encouraging you to stretch out muscles in your back to join meet him.
You grinned against his lips. “I should be stabbed more often.”
Summary: How you wished you took your instructor’s warnings seriously when it came to wearing your stethoscope around your neck.
Wc: 4.6k
Warnings/content: strangulation, swearing/abusive language, no use of “y/n”, established relationship, “sweetheart” as a petname, happy ending, F!reader but can be easily read as gn,
a/n: this was NOT supposed to be this long lol. But thank you everyone for the love on my previous posts! Also apologies for once again getting way too specific heh nevertheless i hope you guys like this one!
You’d like to think that it was common knowledge that being a nurse was difficult.
From the moment you got into nursing school you were expected to hit the ground running, instructors and professors had no time to look out for those that were at risk for falling between the cracks. From then on you’re only expected to go faster and keep up until you burn out.
Double checking orders, arguing with doctors, advocating for your patients, passing meds, doing the correct order of tubes for blood draws. You could go on and on about the endless amount of responsibility placed upon your shoulders.
Keeping yourself safe was just another factor to think about every time you walked into a room. Something that admittedly was easy to forget when you had so many other priorities clouding your judgment.
Almost every nurse in The Pitt had their stories, mean patients, over protective families, glass ampoules shattering. An ever growing list of injuries that shouldn’t happen but do. Something Gloria tries to ignore or avoid whenever it’s brought up, much to the chagrin of pretty much every person working in the ED.
And just like every other time something is added to the list, you don’t expect it to happen to you until it does.
The day started off relatively normal, the night nurses giving you tired and exasperated looks as they do handover and then you got straight to work as a trauma wheeled in.
You wouldn’t say that your day was going particularly well. It was hard to have a good day at work when you didn’t have a good night of sleep the night before. You spent the night restless, tossing and turning for no reason at all.
“Someone’s tired,” Robby teases, approaching where you stood at a WOW, looking over patient notes after the trauma had resolved. He holds an energy drink out towards you in offering before you can say anything.
Your eyes narrow at him, your hand slowly grabbing the can, “Normally I would tell you off for saying such a thing to me first thing in the morning,” you look down at the can, not missing how it’s your favourite flavour, “but I'll let it slide just this once. Michael.”
Robby chuckles, “You using my first name at work has me thinking that’s not entirely true.”
“We’ll see.”
Whatever this thing between you and Robby was still relatively new, you two didn’t exactly have a label for it, but it was exclusive and exciting. A welcome break from the horrors that came with working in The Pitt. Still, you both were completely professional at work, still worked together well, didn’t tell anyone but Dana and Jack (it was not a matter of if, but when they would find out), but there would be times like this where the lines would blur ever so slightly when one or the other needed it.
You crack open the can and take a sip, not caring if it was barely 8am, humming happily at the artificial sweetness, “thank you for this.”
He shakes his head, “don’t mention it, you doing okay though?”
“Yeah, just a bit tired after this stretch of shifts,” you reply with a shrug, “This week was busy, I’m excited to be off tomorrow and just sleep. Maybe go grocery shopping if I’m feeling particularly adventurous.”
You don’t get the chuckle you were expecting for your half-assed joke, instead Robby tucks his hands in his hoodie pockets and he exhales through his mouth as he averts his gaze, “or if you’re up for it… You could come over tomorrow? I’m also off.”
You raise an eyebrow and give him a look, “Like for dinner?”
“You could,” he says slowly, rocking on his heels, “Or you could come earlier and we spend the day together,” He rubs the back of his neck, barely able to maintain eye contact with you,
Seeing movement in your peripheral vision, your eyes trail behind him and an sly smile graces your face, “tempting. Very tempting, but we’ll have to talk about it later. You should get back to work, Doctor. I already see one of your ducklings coming this way.” you hum, squeezing his arm gently before walking towards the nurses station. Not noticing the soft smile he gives your retreating figure.
Your day continues on and very quickly you learn that it’s just going to be one of those shifts where you’re endlessly busy. Jumping from patient to patient, trauma to trauma. Barely given any time to sip the drink Robby gave you or even sit down and chart.
Then you were assigned to him.
It seemed like a simple case. A man in his 40s, found wandering the streets of downtown drunk in broad daylight. Took a fall and bumped his head before paramedics got to him. He was quiet upon initial assessment. mumbling one worded answers to the doctors as he was wheeled in, he wasn’t rude or yelling, he could even be considered pleasant for a drunk patient, but there was a look in his eyes that felt off.
Maybe you were just tired.
“Hey, our guy in central 11’s CT came back normal.” Robby says as he approaches where you sat at the nurses station, finally getting a chance to chart after a chaotic couple of hours, “I’d tell him myself but I really have to speak with the family in south 15. I know you’re busy but do you mind if I delegate you with the task?”
You shake your head, already tapping out of the computer, “no not at all, anything else?”
“His labs and assessment suggest he’s pretty dehydrated, I’d like to get an IV in him before we do another set of vitals. if you would please, also gives him a bit of time to sober up before we kick him out.”
You laugh dryly, "I thought we needed the beds,”
“We do,” he says with a nod, “but I have a sneaking suspicion that if we let him go now he’s gonna end up back here in a couple hours worse, and for longer than it takes to get a litre of saline in him.”
You push back in your chair and stand with a stretch, “well if you insist,” you groan playfully. Still, despite your seemingly calm demeanour, Robby notices the way you hesitate, and almost look reluctant to do as he asked.
“Everything okay?”
“Yup,” you say instinctively, but when Robby raises an eyebrow in doubt you swallow and take a moment to think.
Maybe the increase in your pulse wasn’t from unease at the thought of being with that patient, but instead the energy drink you had. You were just busy, you had a lot to balance right now, you think to yourself. Attempting to rationalize away your feelings of apprehension.
“Yeah,” you say again, more confident. You’d been in this career for long enough, you could handle yourself, “I’ve just been busy today, haven’t had the chance to give my mind a break yet.”
Robby looks at you with a raised eyebrow, and you can already tell that he doesn’t think you’re telling him everything, you can practically see him shifting his priorities around in his mind as he looks around the bustling floor.
Still, trusting your judgement he finally nods, “I'll pop in when I have a moment if you’re still there,” he says, a compromise.
You nod with a smile, knowing he wouldn’t let you brush this off, “sure, thanks.”
You both walk in separate directions to fulfil your different tasks. Reaching the room of your patient you sanitize your hands before knocking gently on the door. You wait a beat before opening the door and stepping in.
“It’s me again Mr. Wallace,” you say as you step in, reintroducing yourself as you shut the door behind you.
“What do you want?” he snaps at you. You pause, already he seemed more tense than when he was first wheeled in, but no matter. You were used to patients like this. You just needed to get this over with.
“I came in here to tell you that your CT result came back and everything was normal. So-”
“Why are you telling me?” he interrupts, “I need a doctor. Heard of them sweetheart? You run their errands? I thought nurses weren’t supposed to tell me results of tests,”
Okay, definitely more agitated than before. Maybe going into withdrawal? You make a mental note to report to Robby after.
“Dr. Robby himself delegated the task to me, it's a very common thing down here after the doctor has reviewed the results and they come back normal. I’m just the messenger in this case. He also asked me to give you some IV fluids because you’re a bit dehydrated.”
“A bit? how much is a bit?”
You purse your lips. This really wasn’t something you wanted to deal with right now. You take another breath before moving to the supply cart in the room. Grabbing what you needed to start an IV.
“You’re dehydrated enough that Dr. Robby is concerned. Luckily it won’t take too long, I just need to start an IV and then-”
The patient sits up straighter, almost looking ready to stand up, “no no no I don’t need a dumb nurse poking me, I’ll end up with an infection, or bleeding out on the floor. I’ll ask for you when I need my ass wiped. Get me a doctor.”
Your jaw clenches, hating the way he used the word "nurse" as an insult. The IV supplies you now hold feeling heavier in your hands as you turn to face him, “unfortunately the ER is very busy today and our doctors are currently busy at the moment with other patients, but I can assure you that I am perfectly qualified to do this. The doctors actually prefer that we nurses start IVs as they have less practice with it.”
You don’t know why you continued to try and reason with a person who refused to meet you in the middle. You should have waited, left the room and grabbed some help. Or had security wait outside. You were just focused on the task at hand, not exactly looking out for signs of danger.
Even so you should’ve seen the signs, too tunnel visioned to think of anything else.
He was mumbling something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, his shoulders grew tenser with each attempt you made to get through to him. His hands clasped and unclasped at his sides, clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. His eyes staring right through you. It was all there for you to notice. If only you had just taken the time to take your mind off of completing a task so you could move on to the other.
But hindsight is a bitch.
“Sir I understand you’re upset but-“ you don’t have time to react before his legs swing over the edge of the bed and he’s up, only needing to take one step to reach you. Before you can blink the material of your stethoscope is wrapped around your throat. The ear pieces gripped in one hand and the bell in the other. Being pulled in opposite directions and growing tighter and tighter with each passing second.
“Nursing is a dangerous career. Be careful about keeping your stethoscope around your neck. Some patients will see it as an opportunity for harm. Your pockets are more than big enough to hold them. It's less convenient but your safety takes priority over quickness, always.”
Words from one of your clinical instructors from nursing school rings in your head as you feel the pressure grow. Something that you hadn’t put much thought into, thinking it was just a scare tactic of some sort. You remember you and your peers giving each other bemused looks. The warning brushed aside because when would that really happen? Who would really think of a stethoscope as the perfect instrument for strangulation?
Oh how you wished you remembered what they said earlier, you think as your eyes start to water, your lungs scream for air, and dark spots litter your vision.
You want to scream for help but nothing but a breathless croak comes out as you are forced to look at the cold eyes of your patient, the same that caused the alarm bells in your head to ring that you stupidly ignored. How many times were you proven over and over again to trust your gut?
You weakly claw at his hands and you feel the back of your head slam against the cold glass wall of the room and your vision swims.
Next you hear yelling, lots of yelling, from your patient and whoever ran into the room. Hands are grabbing at the patient, someone is barking what you’re sure is orders and finally the stethoscope around your neck loosens.
Immediately you're taking in large gasps of air as your knees give out from beneath you. Followed by harsh coughs that make your throat ache. Multiple sets of arms catch you before you can fully collapse and they gently set you down flat on the ground.
“Look at me hey, look at me,” Robby’s stern voice rings through your mind, and you force yourself to sluggishly open your eyes. Immediately a light is being shone in your eyes and you feel different sets of hands assessing you.
“No stridor,” a voice rings.
“Lungs clear, no crackles or wheezing,” another says.
“Sats 95 on room air”
“Eyes aren’t looking so good,”
“Let's get a gurney in here!”
Multiple voices are sounding around you making your head spin, and you think you feel a collar being placed around your neck, and for a moment you’re weightless as you're lifted onto a bed.
“I'm okay,” you croak out softly after a bit, you couldn’t even tell how much time had passed. It felt embarrassing really, having all your coworkers fuss over you like this. It was busy today, you should let them all get back to work.
“No you’re not” Robby says sternly, amongst all the voices in the room, his is the clearest, you would never forget it, “you dizzy?”
“Not anymore,”
“Headache?”
“A little.”
Robby continues his assessment, the look of sheer professionalism on his face making making you painfully aware of the extra eyes that were on you. Along with those dealing with the patient who likely got sedated if the lack of yelling was anything to go by.
“We're gonna get you up to CT,” he finally says once he’s finished.
“What? Robby-“
“You hit your head and you know we always send to CT for strangulations to rule out any cervical structure damage. Doesn’t matter how the patient feels.” Robby says, his voice softening as he brushes a strand of hair from your face, “not the time to be tough right now.”
His words hit, and it’s only then that you realize that yes, you were just strangled by your own stethoscope. Your patient had stood up and reached for the easiest thing to hurt you with.
“...Okay,” you rasp reluctantly. Knowing he wouldn’t drop it, none of your coworkers would.
Robby nods and looks back up, barking a couple more orders. Before you know it you’re being wheeled away. The ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights of the ED blurring together. You already know that everyone on the floor is staring at you.
You don’t know how long it takes for you to get to imaging. All you know is that the CT is a blur, more voices, and more questions. You try your best not to feel overwhelmed.
Eventually, you’re finally given a moment of quiet as you’re wheeled back towards the elevator. It's then that you realize that Dana had accompanied you, “asshole was sedated and put in behavioural health. Ahmad called the cops,” she says quietly as you wait for the elevator.
You hum softly, “that’s good… I’m sorry for making everyone worry.”
Dana shakes her head, “nurses, always thinking about others and never themselves,” she scoffs, getting a smile out of you.
The elevator dings and the doors open. You’re wheeled in before Dana speaks again.
“There’s a room free for you downstairs. Don’t worry, not the same one.”
“Don’t,” you say with a slight shake of your head, “we need the room,”
“Do you really think that Robby will let any of us live to see another day if we don’t put you in a room?”
Your silence is enough of an answer.
She sighs quietly, reaching to gently caress your shoulder, “you’ve been your feet all day kid, close your eyes, get some rest. God knows we all need it. I’ll live vicariously through you.”
The elevator doors open again and you’re wheeled back into the Pitt. You decide then to close your eyes. Although you can already feel it, you don’t want to see the stares of horror and pity that your colleagues and patients were probably giving you right now. You also had no doubt that you looked absolutely awful right now.
“Sleep. I won’t let anyone bother you until you’re ready.” Is the last thing you hear Dana say before your exhaustion finally catches up with you.
When you wake up, the stabilizing collar is off and you’re in a private room. The lights are dimmed and there’s a blanket over your lap, the normal ambience of the pitt muffled past the door.
You hear a shift of clothing beside you and you slowly turn your head. It's then that you're met with the sight of Robby sitting at your bedside. Eyebrows furrowed in worry and eyes looking impossibly sadder.
“Hey,” he says once he notices that you’re awake. His voice hoarse with emotion.
“Hi,” you reply, internally wincing at how hoarse you sounded, “how long have I been asleep?”
“Not long, around 30 minutes.”
You nod, your eyes studying his face. His eyes are focused on your neck and you can practically hear his mind spiraling.
“Give it to me Doc,” you rasp, “how bad is it?” you turn away briefly to cough into your elbow, grimacing slightly at the pain in your neck.
Robby exhales sharply through his nose, turning in his seat to grab a cup of water off the bedside table. He holds the straw for you as you drink, only speaking when you pull away.
“It could be worse,” he starts, sounding as if he was trying to comfort himself more than you, “no damage to your neck, no concussion.”
He swallows, willing himself to continue, “just… Just bruised.”
“Don’t forget that I sound like I smoke a pack a day,” you rasp
He doesn’t even humour you with an amused look at that. Instead he continues to look at you with that sad look in his eyes that you knew all too well.
The vulnerability you saw however, was new. Robby was an expert at avoiding his feelings, and keeping up a wall that very few people could see through. Even then it was almost impossible to break down those walls.
But it seemed like in this very moment even he couldn’t hide the worry he was feeling for you. His walls no where to be seen.
A gentle knock mercifully breaks the silent tension that had been growing in the room, as you both look up Donnie pokes his head in with a sympathetic smile, “hey buddy,” he says lightly, nodding to Robby as he walks further into the room.
“How you doing?”
You smile at the careful tone he uses, so different from the playful sarcasm you often used on one another.
“About as well as a person in my position can be I guess.”
Donnie scoffs, “calling yourself lucky?”
“Eh, maybe a little.”
He shakes his head with a smile, “Dana thought you might want this back, don’t worry, I sanitized it.”
He places your stethoscope on the bed before leaving the room with a nod as you thank him, closing the door behind him with a soft click. If he noticed anything between you and Robby, he didn’t make it obvious. Though you were sure that the moment you were feeling better he would bombard you with questions.
You stare at it wordlessly for a moment before picking it up.
“At least I know Littman’s are expensive for a reason. Still perfectly functional.” you murmur as you look over the device that was wrapped around your throat. It shockingly didn’t look damaged in any way at all, though you suppose you couldn’t be all that surprised considering how rough you were with it on a day to day basis working in an emergency room. You put the ear pieces in, tapping the bell lightly just to make sure it works. Trying not to react to Robby’s stare that was currently burning holes into your skull.
“So…” you start hesitantly, after you set the stethoscope aside, “I’m clear right? I can get back to work?”
You immediately realize that was the wrong thing to say, guilt floods your system as his face hardens, a large hand is placed on your shoulders to prevent you from sitting up.
“Clear as in you haven’t sustained any serious injuries but there's no way in hell that I'm letting you go back out there, you’re going home.”
“Robby-”
“Don’t even fucking start with me,” he snaps.
You falter, your head resting back against your pillow. As tense and blunt he could be sometimes you had luckily never been on the receiving end of his ire. Even though this was quite tame compared to the times you’ve seen him yell, his deep and intense voice was still intimidating.
Robby sighs at the sight of your face falling, his shoulders dropping. Any anger he had in him immediately dissipated.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, gentle this time. “You came in already tired, a patient just strangled you with your own stethoscope and I'm sorry you’ll have to forgive me but I don't think patients are gonna want to see their nurse with conjunctival petechiae and some gnarly bruising around the neck.”
You knew he was right. You didn’t even know why you suggested going back to work at all. Your mind was still in work mode, anxious to get back to the chaos outside. You manage a small smile, “I knew it, I look awful. Maybe you’re right. I’d ruin patient satisfaction scores for sure”
“Maybe a little,” he says, finally humoring you just a tad.
A small chuckle leaves you and you reach for his hand which he readily offers.
it’s quiet for a beat and maybe the adrenaline has finally worn off, or maybe the feeling of his warm and strong hand reminds you that you're safe here with him. Because you feel the familiar sting of tears forming in your eyes, “…that was really scary,” you whisper, your voice starting to tremble.
Robby's expression falls, “oh sweetheart,” he says sympathetically, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and carefully pull you into his arms. “I know I know. You're okay,” he murmurs gently, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “We got you.”
“I should’ve paid attention,” you sob, “he was so obviously aggravated. God I’m so stupid.”
“No you aren’t. You were doing your best.”
You shake your head, ‘I’m sorry,”
Robby’s eyebrows furrow and he pulls back to brush some tears from your cheeks, “what for?”
“I’m taking a bed that we need, I made a lot of you worry over something stupid I did. If I had just noticed the signs of danger and put my stethoscope in my pocket this would have never happened.”
Robby lets out a slow breath, “hey, look at me. Look at me sweetheart." The words nearly identical to the ones he spoke earlier when he was assessing you, but this time softer, with much more emotion.
"None of that you hear me? You were doing what I asked you to do, and I know you were already doing your best to help that patient even if he didn't deserve your kindness because you’re a damn good nurse. You couldn’t have known that was going to happen to you when you walked in this morning.”
One of his hands runs up and down your back comfortingly, “don’t apologize for making us worry, it just means we care. I know for a fact that if it were anyone else, you would be the first in the room to help, and you would also insist that they take a bed.”
You sniffle and nod. Yet again he was right, ever the logical one, who knew you maybe a bit too well.
Robby pulls your head back against his chest, “god I should be the one apologizing. I should have just gone in there myself.”
“You couldn’t have known,” you murmur, repeating his words.
He swallows, “no, I guess I couldn’t have,” he chokes out.
You two sit there in a comfortable silence. Neither of you acknowledging the desperate way you clung to each other. As if reminding yourselves that everything was okay now.
However, just as you’re about to ask Robby if the team was going to need him any time soon, an incoming trauma is paged overhead. Robby sighs loudly and rubs a hand down his face.
“Go,” you whisper, pulling away, “I’ll be fine.”
He nods, reluctantly pulling away from the warm embrace you two shared. As he stands he rolls his shoulders and runs his hands through his hair, as if mentally pulling himself back into the role of chief attending.
“Look, the police are here,” he starts, his voice already back to the usual firmness you were more familiar with. “You’re going to give them a statement, fill in an incident report, we’ll get one last set of vitals on you and then we’ll send you home. Do you have anyone to pick you up?”
You swallow nervously, noticing how his words left no room for any argument from you. “No not really,” you reply
Robby purses his lips nods slowly, “alright, I’ll drop you off then if you’re fine with waiting, there's only a couple hours left in the shift anyways”
You smile softly and nod, “yeah that would be nice.”
He nods, leaning down to press another kiss to your forehead, “I should go, but you let me or Dana know if you need anything alright?”
“You got it captain,” you reply with a salute.
That finally gets a short chuckle out of him and you watch as he turns to leave the room. What you don’t expect is for him to hesitate as he reaches the door, before turning to look at you once more.
“Do you wanna come over to my place instead?” He asks hesitantly, "we can grab some stuff at yours first to bring if you’d prefer that.”
You blink in shock, if it were any other day you’d tease him about being desperate to have you over, this now being the second time he asked you to come over today. He could be surprisingly clingy sometimes, often begging you not to leave when it got late at night. However you realize right now, that you’d want nothing more than to lay with him in bed.
“I’d really like that.” you say softly
With your words, you’re rewarded with a relieved, almost giddy smile.
“Great. Do you mind if I tell the cops that they can come in now? Dana's been holding them back.”
You shake your head and smile, “go ahead.”
With a gentle nod he finally leaves and you can’t help but smile fondly as one of the residents immediately pulls him aside. You couldn’t say that you were surprised.
Today was awful. There was no sugarcoating it, you’ve only added to the ever growing list of work related injuries in the ED, but you were comforted at least by the fact that in a couple hours you could fall into the safety of Robby’s strong arms. Where you both could leave your worries at the door.
tipping point — michael robinavitch x reader | part 1
You were brought onboard six months ago as senior resident, filling in the gap that Frank Langdon’s absence left. You think your attending, Dr Robby, doesn’t like you because of it.
Robby reaches a tipping point.
You get hurt while treating a patient.
Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader
Word count: 5k+
Tags: Stalking; Workplace Violence; Jealousy; POV Changes; Reader is a Senior Resident; Implied Self-Harm (a patient); Implied Suicidal Ideation (a patient); Jealous Robby.
Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou.
Notes: if i had a nickle for every time my fics included the reader lowkey being stalked by someone, i would have two nickles. ehich isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice.
Cross posted to AO3.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Series tag. [COMPLETED]
As soon as you had woken up, you knew today wasn’t going to be a great day.
Despite the zero empirical evidence to suggest otherwise, it felt ingrained into you. Going through the motions, you end up outside the doors to the PTMC. You’re delaying going inside, having arrived at least 25 minutes earlier than your shift start.
Jesse sidles up next to you against the railing, both of you silent.
You send off a quick text to Garcia.
“You know you’re still considered new, right?” Jesse asks.
You look up from your phone, face twisting. It seems like you’re still considered an outsider. “Sure,” you hedge.
“So you know you need to be early?”
You check the time on your phone. “We’ve got 22 minutes.”
“Good impressions. Especially when you’re Langdon’s replacement.”
Langdon, again. You’ve never met the guy, but you decide you hate him. Giant shoes that no one will let you fill, regardless of how much you try. Especially when it comes to your attending. “I’ve been here for six months already. We’re way past good impressions,” you sigh.
“Can’t be caught slacking.” Jesse elbows you when he notices Dr Robby roar past on his motorbike, sans helmet. Probably finding parking.
“Where the fuck’s his helmet?” Jesse mutters.
You snort. He’s got a death wish, you think. You’re not one to encourage such behaviour, but it looks good on him.
Despite the six months that you’ve been part of the condescendingly dubbed Pitt, you can’t seem to crack the tough exterior from your attending. He carries himself like he’s a rope on the verge of fraying, inviting confrontation for an excuse to snap. Rather than be on the receiving end of that, you want to avoid it—him, altogether.
That’s not to say you’ve never tried. Of course you tried. Good impressions count, especially with your attending. But. More often than not, you’re unable to meet his eyes. You try and make yourself scarce when he’s around. It’s not that you’re scared of him. He has a presence that carries something that intimidates and calms you. It’s conflicting.
Most days, you can barely look at him, but you also can’t keep your eyes off of him. Some gravitational pull and push.
“Doctor,” Jesse greets, nodding towards Robby.
Robby takes his sunglasses off to frown at you. “You heading in?”
“Ah—yes, sir,” you stutter out, your face warm. Your gaze falls away from his brown ones. “After you.”
Silently and subtly chastised by your attending at least 20 minutes before your official clock-in time? Another tally in your predetermined ‘not a good day’ column.
You follow Robby into the PTMC, walking through the growing throng of people in the waiting area. You get buzzed in by reception. More than 15 minutes left for the night shift, seeing as they’re still milling around the hospital.
Robby and Dr Abbot are already discussing their handoffs.
You walk towards the central desk, exchanging peace signs with Dr Shen, who looks up from the computer, fingers returning to fly across the keyboard.
“Working hard or hardly working?” You cross your arms on the desk, grinning as Shen rolls his eyes.
“You’re so funny,” he says, drily, groaning as he stretches his neck. He raises his mostly melted, practically empty cup of iced coffee towards you.
You lean forward to take a sip. You make a face. “Ew. That—that’s just water.” It’s definitely more melted ice than whatever concoction that passes for whatever coffee that Shen likes.
“It’s all I have,” Shen sniffles. Oh, woe is him.
You slide your bag from your shoulder. You dig in, taking out the matcha milk tea with pearls. A plastic wrapped straw taped to the side. You hand it over.
Shen looks at the drink with stars in his eyes. “If this is you proposing, I’m saying yes.”
You snort.
“If you’re done distracting my staff.” Dr Abbot’s voice as he slides into the space next to you. A pointed look—a disapproving groove between his brows.
You can’t help the way your attention drifts over Abbot’s shoulder, onto Robby. Robby’s gaze is already affixed onto you. He looks pissed off. Probably because you haven’t clocked-in.
“Sorry, sir.” You scamper away, hearing Shen call out a ‘Thank you!’ after you. In the break room, you dump your tupperware containers of lunch, dinner, and snacks in the fridge.
The door to the break room opens. Dr Ellis enters, yawning. She beelines to the coffee. “So, Shen gets milk tea and I get nothing?” There’s no doubt that Shen had immediately bragged as soon as he saw Ellis.
You grin, wordlessly poking into your tote bag for an insulated food jar to hand over to her.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Open it.”
She does, steam hitting her face. She sniffs. “Oh my God, you made me fried rice?”
“You said you liked the smell of it last week.”
“Holy shit. You’re my favourite person.” Ellis screws the lid back on, pulling you into a hug. “You’re literally the best.”
You snort. “You said that to Santos on Friday.”
“You weren’t even here.”
“I talk to her.” The students and residents were quick to warm up to you. Within the emergency department’s staff, it seemed like Santos and Whitaker were the only ones that seemed to vehemently dislike Langdon enough to showcase they were glad you were his replacement.
Everyone else is amicable, but prepared to sing Langdon’s praises when it comes to differences in yours and his practices. Hence why you’re not above bribing a few people with food and drinks to become more liked.
Ellis tuts, poking your nose. “Stop that. Quit fraternising with the enemy.”
“Santos and I are day shifts. You’re the enemy, here, night shifter.”
With seven minutes left until your shift starts, you head towards the lockers. Bag away, stethoscope looped around your neck, jacket shoved into your locker. Then out to central where the other day shifters have congregated around Robby.
And thus, the shift starts. Shen squeezes your shoulder as he passes by. Ellis shouts a general ‘bye’ to everyone.
Maybe the day won’t be so bad.
The thing was, Robby never meant to make your life in the Pitt difficult. Except, he couldn’t seem to help it.
You were brought onboard six months ago after Frank was put on leave and went to rehab. He would have loved to chalk it up to distrust of you as a new senior resident. Administration didn’t investigate why you had to transfer from your previous hospital to the PTMC, even though you were partway through your residency. They were glad to fill in that hole that Langdon’s absence left behind. Robby could have easily written it off as suspicion against you. Except.
It wasn’t that.
Everyone else loved you. You were deemed the Pitt’s sweetheart. It barely took you the first month to warm up to everyone—nurses, residents, other seniors, the interns, and students. Hell, even the other departments liked you when you had the chance to interact with them.
You were exceptionally nice to everyone except the attendings. Which would have been fine for Robby. Except. After your initial few weeks, the professional work colleague facade melted away, and you and Shen got along like a house on fire. And maybe Shen’s buffer is that he’s younger than Robby. Shen’s—chill. Relaxed. Calm, collected, no matter the situation, even as his status as an attending.
But he’s on night shift, barely sees you compared to Robby, and somehow, you and Shen are closer.
He’s not jealous, he affirms.
“You’re jealous, brother,” Jack had said, three months after you’ve started in the Pitt. He’s had a chance to meet you a few times. He doesn’t see you as much as Robby does, but he knows enough.
Robby scowled.
“It’s probably because we’ve got seniority on everyone. Lotta years,” Jack had said, one time. “Mohan says it makes us intimidating.”
“You’re right,” Robby agreed, even though he doesn’t believe it. He knows you get along with Dana and Jesse. Age isn’t the barrier. Attending status isn’t one either.
Robby—tried. Kind of. Every time he said anything to you, you responded with a quick “Sorry, sir” and made the fastest possible escape. You barely look him in the eye when you speak to him. And he gets it—Mel hardly maintains eye contact when she speaks to others. Sometimes, Robby struggles too.
Except.
It doesn’t happen to anyone else.
Robby watches you drink from Shen’s iced coffee. The same one that he assumes that Shen has been nursing throughout the night shift.
Then, you get some green drink for him from your bag. What the Hell?
Jack sighs, knowing exactly what is distracting the other attending. He strides over, dismissing you. Turns to Shen, who yells out his thanks to you. “C’mon, brother.”
Shen cackles, pointing the straw of his newly obtained boba towards Robby. “You better make your move before you lose it, old man.”
“Don’t start,” Jack groans. Despite his knowledge that Shen is joking, it’s not a fact that seems to translate for Robby. Hell, the whole emergency department can tell that there’s something there. Some kind of tension that almost everyone will say comes in the wake of Frank, but isn’t.
Hell, despite everything that happened between Robby and Heather, Robby’s fine with her sticking around. He’s less awkward around her, less tense—less likely to get into her business.
Robby’s jaw clenches.
It’s fine. He can work through this—has been, for the past six months since you’ve started.
Sure, he’s perpetually aware of your whereabouts and how close you are to him when you work together. Hell, he’s even hyper-aware of when you’re not near him, and when you’re brushing up against his fucking colleagues. Or even when patients are a little too eager when you have to enter their space to work on them. It’s whatever.
He’s supposed to bite his tongue and work through it.
Except he can’t, apparently.
It’s a stupid thing that Robby snaps at you for. A question—a case that requires consultation. It’s his job as an attending. But.
“Jesus!” Robby barks, fingers raking through his hair. You’re standing close—too close, because all he can think about is getting his hands on you; arms, thighs, back, chest. Wherever. “You can’t figure it out yourself? You need me to fucking feed you too?”
The ED’s quiet, sans the monitors and machinery.
“Sorry, sir,” you utter out. Your face feels like its on fire. Your gaze is already trained somewhere at his right shoulder instead of his face.
You dip your head and essentially flee the central desks where you had cornered the attending.
“What the Hell was that?” Dana demands.
Robby sighs. “I don’t know—”
“Don’t give me that. You chewed out Frank for berating Santos. I’m going to give you shit for this.” If she notices that Robby tenses at Frank’s name, she doesn’t grant him any leniency. “This is a teaching hospital, remember?”
“Fuck,” he huffs out. In his avoidance of Dana’s disapproval, Robby’s wandering eyes find Heather. Her lips are pursed, frowning—disappointed. Yeah, he thinks, welcome to the club. He watches Heather follow you. He belated remembers that you still needed that consultation.
“I’ll—I’ll apologise.”
“Give it a few. I’m sure you both need space from each other right now.”
“I doubt the Pitt’s sweetheart can be mad at anyone.” It’s a jab at you, he knows. A weak one. He doesn’t get to experience that side of you. Only observe it as you work with everyone else, while he gets some timid, uncomfortable shell.
“Robby.” Dana still sounds displeased.
“Alright.” He doesn’t know why today is the end of his tether; the end of the short rope that he has when dealing with you. Maybe it’s because the first thing he saw this morning was you and Jesse chilling at the front of the hospital. Something ugly had reared its head at that. Or whatever the fuck that was with Shen at central desk and the boba.
Fuck. Maybe he is jealous.
You and Javadi are assigned to the case in Central 9. That itself isn’t a problem. Javadi is more than capable of handling it, and you’ve decided to let her take over.
The patient is one Matthew Williams, a white male, mid to late 30s, a vertical laceration to the inside of his forearm. Healed over scars line his arm—he’s never been to the PTMC before, but you’re certain this isn’t the first time he’s walked into a hospital with a cut like this.
Differentials include an actively self-harming patient, or someone that’s incredibly accident prone.
You have psych and Kiara on standby.
Matthew laughs at something Javadi says, eyes darting between you and the student. It settles on you, a smile on his face. He’s charismatic, engaging in conversation. Nothing about him seems nervous, or ashamed. He’s an anomaly, but you don’t let your guard down.
“How did this happen?” Javadi asks.
“Kitchen accident,” he says, dismissive. “Let me tell you—definitely going to be the last time I’m helping out in the kitchen.”
“You making food for someone at home?” you ask.
“No. Was just helping my sister. I’m staying with her and her partner. I’m visiting at the moment.”
“Where are you from?” Javadi asks. She settles on the stool, pulling over the tray of tools.
“LA. But I’ve been travelling. Went to Austin, St. Louis, Chicago, New York. Now I’m here.”
“Yeah? Doing a big trip or something?” you ask.
His gaze is steady on yours. “Or something.”
It makes something churn in your stomach. It feels more than worry about a patient. Sure, a big trip could mean he’s finalising travel plans before ending his own life, but there’s something about him that makes you falter in maintaining eye contact. Too intense.
You think about getting additional opinions on Matthew, but remember Robby snarling at you when you wanted to consult with him for a previous case. Yes, you don’t go out of your way to be friendly to Robby, but you didn’t think that he hated you. It stings, a little. You… admire the Hell out of Robby. Respect him, even.
You swallow down the weird feeling. You’ve been told to trust your instincts. It’s the only reason why you don’t want to leave Javadi alone as she stitches him up, despite everything telling you to leave the room.
You pick up the clipboard, reviewing his profile. Matthew Williams. Something about the name niggles in your brain. Something about his face, maybe.
“Are you guys new here?” the man asks.
“I’ve been here almost seven months, now,” Javadi says. “I’m a third year student.”
“You’re in great hands. She’s one of the best,” you assure. You know some patients don’t like students.
He smiles, attention not once wavering from yours. “And you? You’re from LA, right?”
He said it so casually, so factually, that it takes you a second to realise. You swallow. Your ears feel hollowed out. “I never said that.”
Javadi stills.
“What?” Matthew chuckles.
“I never said I was from LA.”
“No? You must have mentioned it before when we were talking.”
“I never mentioned LA.”
“No, I said I was from LA, and then—”
“I didn’t—”
Javadi pushes away from the patient, leaving her stitches incomplete. She knows you’re right—you hadn’t mentioned anything about LA in this conversation. You moving here is a fact she knows about you, but it’s not information that he should know.
“Don’t do that,” Matthew scowls, his attention finally on the student. “You haven’t finished my arm.”
“We’ll get someone else to finish up here—” Javadi reassures, standing from the stool.
“No!”
“Sir—” you say, stepping in when Javadi shrinks at his raised tone.
“I want you to do it,” he says firmly, gaze returning to yours. Fierce. Trapping.
Your eyes flickers to Javadi, then to the door behind her. Central 9 is part of the five central rooms that have two doors. One towards central, one towards north. She can get help while you keep his attention on you. It should be easy.
“I’ve been looking for you since you left LA General. I’ve been doing this to myself, trying to find you in every fucking hospital I can get to,” he says, voice clipped. Tone harsh. “I want you to finish up my arm.”
You left LA six months ago after receiving weird notes and texts during and after your shifts. You transferred because admin couldn’t figure out who was behind it, and obviously, the police weren’t going to do anything about it. You changed your number. Moved states away, hoping to leave it behind. You thought you had.
“Security!” Javadi yells past the opened door.
Matthew swears. “Dammit—”
“We need help in here—!”
He lunges for the trolley that Javadi had set up.
It happens fast, all within seconds.
You try to intercept him, the trolley crashing onto the ground. Tools scatter.
You don’t notice the scalpel clasped between his fingers.
He charges at you.
It’s not some world-shattering revelation.
Robby’s jealous. Jealous because he likes you, somehow. Jack must be laughing at him about how long it takes for him to figure it out.
He’s in the middle of walking Whitaker through a procedure when he hears Javadi yell for security.
His initial reaction makes him look up, meeting Whitaker’s concerned eyes. The ED’s used to alerts for help. It’s another thing when it’s for security.
There’s a scream.
High. Shrill. Panicked.
“Robby!” Dana’s voice, this time. Urgent.
“Go!” Whitaker assures.
“Central 9!” Perlah directs.
Robby rushes into the room.
It takes him some time to realise what he’s seeing.
Javadi and Dana at varying stages of kneeling on the ground.
Ahmad and Donnie are hauling out a patient, blood leaking from the patient’s unfinished stitches. He’s yelling something. It’s incoherent—Robby’s not paying attention.
He gets further into the room.
And there you are.
Sprawled on the floor.
Javadi is trying to press gauze against the side of your neck.
Your hands are against the wound, applying pressure.
“Move your hands, sweetie,” Dana says to you. “C’mon, move your hands. We’ve got you.”
You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. Panicked, unseeing.
Blood seeps between your fingers, warm. Flowing.
Neck wounds are known to bleed. This is something you know. You also know the chances of surviving them are low.
Your breath hitches. You gurgle.
Robby feels his heart thudding, fast and painful in his chest.
He grabs a stray gurney from the hallway. “On the gurney! Jesse, Collins—with me!”
Between him, Jesse, Collins, Dana, and Javadi, they get you onto the gurney.
“I’m trying—” Javadi starts. Her voice is trembling. She’s never had to work on someone she’s known before.
Robby thumbs your cheek until your unfocused eyes land on him.
Somehow, it registers in your mind—Robby’s reliable. He may be waspish, but he’s a steady presence in the ED. He can fix this, you think.
“Look at me,” he says. “Hey, look at me. Move your hands.”
A minuscule nod. Your hands move away and Javadi packs in the gauze, applying pressure.
“Get Garcia!” Robby yells. Whether she’s upstairs, or working on someone else, he’s determined that you’re the priority, here.
“Trauma 2’s opened!” Dana yells, stepping away from the gurney.
Your hand reaches; closing over the back of Robby’s hand that rests on the railing of the gurney. A burbling of noise and blood from your lips.
He looks down at you, face creased. “Don’t talk. We’re going to fix you up.”
You want to agree, want to tell him that you trust him. But your hand relaxes from where it was holding onto his, dropping onto the gurney. Your eyes roll back.
Collins performs a sternum rub, yelling your name, but you remain unresponsive.
Javadi sobs. Your blood, warm and red keeps pooling into the gauze. It’s not stopping, no matter how much gauze she packs on. No matter how much pressure she applies, it’s not stopping.
“Mateo! Get Javadi out of here!” Robby orders.
Mateo’s hands land on Javadi’s shoulders. “C’mon, let me take over.”
“No! I need to—”
“I got it. Victoria.” He waits until she looks at him; her eyes are wide—frantic. “I got it,” he promises. Infuses as much certainty as he can into his words.
Javadi’s face scrunches up, then she nods.
Mateo’s hands replaces hers and the gurney is pushed into Trauma 2.
Garcia enters in scrubs. “What do we—” She startles at the sight of you— “have?”
“Deep laceration to the anterior neck. At least three inches in width. Possible damage to the carotid artery. Unresponsive for two minutes,” Robby relays, as impersonal as possible. He has to divorce the idea of you as the patient so his voice doesn’t shake. Compartmentalisation. Disassociation. Whatever he needs to remain functional.
“We need more blood in here!” Collins yells.
20 minutes.
It passes in what feels like seconds and hours. It’s not an easy process. Your carotid was nicked. You bled like a stuck pig. They lost you once, due to the blood loss. And for those heart-rending three minutes and 17 seconds, Robby was the one doing chest compressions.
No one tried to tap in.
But they’re done. You’re stable enough for transport. Garcia takes you up to the OR.
“Robby.” Dana’s hand grasps his shoulder.
Robby hadn’t noticed when she came back in, but he shrugs her away. “Fuck,” he huffs out. He scans the glass panes that make up the trauma room, looking out into the ED.
“Good job in here, everyone,” Dana says, when it comes obvious that Robby isn’t going to lead the debrief. “I know it’s hard when it’s one of our own. If you need to talk to anyone about today—”
He storms out.
“Robby!”
“Where is he?” Robby barks out. “Ahmad! Where’s—?”
“Robby!” Princess trying to intercept.
“What are you going to do?” Dana chases after him. She and Princess block his path. “What’s your plan? Punch him? Slash his throat? C’mon, Robby.”
His nose flares, but he knows that there’s not much he can do. Restless energy, adrenaline. Residuals of fear in the back of his mouth. “Where’s the patient?” he grits out.
Dana and Princess share a look. Dana nods.
“Behavioural 2,” Princess says. “He’s in restraints. We’ve already called the cops.”
“Fuck,” Robby swears again.
“Take a breather,” Dana says, a firm hand on his chest. Though her voice is soft, her suggestion isn’t any less of a command.
Robby nods—once, sharp. He heads to the elevator. Digits linger above the button for the 12th floor; he could ride the elevator to the top most floor, then he can take the staircase to the roof. His usual sanctuary for solace.
But he presses the button for the fourth floor—the surgical centre.
Shen and Abbot get in at the same time.
“What the Hell happened?” Abbot demands, breezing past the double doors. Shen matches his pace.
“How did you—?” Dana starts.
“Police scanner. Who got hurt?” His eyes roam the emergency department’s floor. Face drawn, eyes steel. Then, as if preparing himself for bad news, “Where’s Robby?”
“It’s not him,” Dana reassures. She looks between Shen and Abbot, and tells them that it’s you. Throat slashed, touch and go for a little bit, but you’re in surgery now.
“Fuck,” Abbot says.
“I told Robby to take a break.”
“He took lead?” Shen asks.
“Wouldn’t have let anyone else take over.” Dana’s eyes slide over to Abbot. Except for Jack, goes unsaid.
Abbot shakes his head. “C’mon. We know Robby’s not going to be useful right now.”
Dana relents, sighing. “Alright.”
“Where do you need me?” Shen asks.
“Down here. We need you to play senior resident with Heather. We tried Parker but we couldn’t get through to her.”
“Probably sleeping,” Abbot murmurs.
“Great. Now I’m Langdon’s replacement. Got it.” Shen goes to move, but is stopped by Abbot grabbing his arm.
“Let me find Robby, first. You can be senior attending until I come back.”
Shen nods. “Alright. Bring that sad boy back.”
Dana lets out a tired snort.
Abbot takes the elevator to the roof. When he doesn’t find Robby up there, he doesn’t want to admit the first thing he does is peer down the railing, surveying the perimeter of the building. But no. No splattered bodies on the concrete below.
He huffs a sigh and takes himself down to the fourth floor. Wordlessly, he inserts himself next to Robby when he enters the OR’s observation room.
“What are you doing here?” Robby asks. His voice is hoarse; tired.
“Covering for you.”
“I don’t need a cover.”
“You’re not attending the ED from up here, brother.”
“Neither are you.”
“Shen’s down there right now. Covering for…” Abbot swallows, nodding towards the window where the surgical team bustle around you. A seamless, choreographed dance.
They’re silent again, watching.
“You alright?” Abbot asks.
“I’m fine. I’m not to the one that—died on the fucking table.”
“You did everything right, man. Surgery’s going well.”
Robby doesn’t respond. He removes his hands from his jacket pockets, noticing the dried smear of your blood on the back of his right one. You were holding onto his hand. He saw it in your eyes that you had been scared. But you were aware enough to trust him, to want to hold his hand.
“Go home, Robby.”
“No—”
“Go home, clean up, then come back as a visitor. You’re not helping anyone like this.”
Robby sighs. “Fine,” he relents. He’s already done more than half of the shift.
“Yeah?” Abbot starts towards the door. “Let us know when we can visit, alright?”
“Yeah. ’Course.”
A hand on Robby’s shoulder, squeezing.
You were completely right about today being a shit day.
Regaining consciousness feels like waking up dehydrated and exhausted, regardless of how many hours of sleep you’ve gotten.
You notice movement to the side before you fully register it. Shadows and dark fabric—you flinch.
“Whoa, it’s okay, it’s just me. It’s okay.” Robby.
You swallow thickly, blinking.
“Do you remember what happened?”
You nod, slow. “Patient. Matthew.” Your voice comes out hoarse.
Robby holds out a little paper cup, angling the straw to you.
You take sips from it.
“You know him?” Robby asks.
“He said… he followed me. From LA.”
“Shit. Did you recognise him?”
You shake your head. You see so many people everyday, as part of the hospital. When you save someone’s life, they’re more likely to remember you, than you do them. Especially when they’re lucky enough to walk out of the hospital.
“Javadi,” you whisper. “Is she—?”
“Yeah, she’s okay. She didn’t get hurt.”
You nod. It’s a stupid thing, but you feel tears spring into your eyes. Relief. Adrenaline. Fear. “I’m sorry,” you warble, leaning into the pillows behind you.
“Hey.” Robby draws closer. His hand hovers awkwardly, like he wants to touch, but doesn’t. Unsure if it’s welcomed or not. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But he…” Came into the hospital. Made a mess. There’s probably a shit ton of paperwork that you and Robby have to fill out following this incident of workplace violence.
“That’s not on you.”
“He was hurting himself.”
“That’s still not your fault. He chose to do that.”
You sniffle, adjusting on the bed. “What time is it?”
“After 8. Shift’s over.”
“You didn’t go home?”
Robby shakes his head. “Would’ve ended up back here, anyway.”
“Why?”
A wry smile on his face. “I’m worried about you.”
Oh. “Sorry.” You weren’t aware that he cared, but it makes sense—he’s an attending. Workplace violence; the well-being of a resident. Some kind of righteous anger that he can use to fuel the next talk with Gloria about security in the hospital.
“What are you sorry for?”
You lick your lips. Whisper out, “I don’t know. For… bothering you, I guess.”
Robby’s gaze falters, shamefaced. “That’s not—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you for needing the consult. That’s part of my job as your attending. Belittling someone isn’t an effective teaching method.”
When he’s not looking at you, it’s easier to look at him. Your eyes studying his face. Taking in heavy guilt and weighted lines.
His hand rests on the railing of the bed again. He shifts, like he’s moving to stand.
You reach out, cold fingers enclosing over his hand. It’s warm.
Robby’s gaze lurches towards you. For the first time since the brief introduction on your first day, you don’t look away.
“Thank you,” you say. “For—helping. I was… scared.” You don’t remember everything that happened after Matthew came at you, but you remember Robby’s presence. A gravitas that you trusted enough to move your hands away from your neck.
Robby’s mouth feels dry. “Of course,” he barely manages to utter out. It’s his job—you both know it, but it feels so inconsequential to admit that. He would have jumped in, regardless. He didn’t resuscitate you out of obligation. No, that was born of something selfish that thrummed inside him.
“You up for visitors?” he asks, shifting the tone. “You’ve got a few people that’ll want to see you.”
You nod, taking the olive branch. “Yeah.”
He stares at your joined hands, thumb brushing across your knuckles before he heads for the door. When he opens it, Javadi rushes in.
“You’re awake!” she squeaks. Her eyes are rimmed with red. She crashes into you, arms tight around your middle. “I was so worried.”
You rub her back. “I’m okay,” you say. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” Reassurances for both of you, you think. You watch Robby give you a soft smile before he sneaks out, the other day shifters filing in.
“Holy shit, dude—”
“That was insane—”
“I’m so glad you’re alive—”
You’re going to be okay.
Part 2 | Part 3.
𝑹𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝑱𝒖𝒏𝒆 @cannibalisticpuppy - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
