SLEEPING IN A BED HALF EMPTY | spencer reid x reader
── .⟢ DIVIDE event masterlist .ᐟ
summary: a poorly-timed work trip opens a few poorly-healed emotional wounds for your boyfriend spencer. he's wishing your airport would crumble, and you're wishing you could convince him that leaving for a week doesn't mean leaving forever.
genre: fluff, hurt/comfort | word count: 1.7k
tags: gn!reader, s3!boyfriend!spencer, insecurity, fear of abandonment, mentions of s2 events: elle, hankel, gideon, spencer gets a well-deserved hug, title from a noah kahan song (duh), not proofread
notes: noah kahan sad girl summer is here. tysm for 1k <3
The apartment is quiet.
That in itself isn’t weird, you suppose; you’re a naturally quiet person, and Spencer’s even quieter most days. To have your apartment enveloped in a stillness isn’t something new, nor is it cause for concern—you wouldn’t have it any other way, really.
But today there’s a weight to it, the quiet. It hangs in the air, thick like smog, sits on your shoulders for hours and leaves you will a full-body ache. It’s an unnatural silence, a forced one, defined by words, thoughts, which are actively being repressed. Pushed down. Bottled up.
Spencer is quiet, and not because he’s busy with his nose in some book or milling through his dozens of academic journals. He’s quiet, and he isn’t doing anything—and that isn’t a combination you thought possible until today.
Spencer Reid is either busy, or he’s talking. Rambling in soft tones about work, or physics, or quite literally anything—you’ve heard him talk at length about centipedes before—because that’s just the type of person he is. So to see him just…sitting there, picking at the skin around his nails, neither speaking nor acting, is uncanny.
Your boyfriend has been replaced with a statue, and it’s been like this all day. You noticed something was off when you first woke, and you were immediately able to identify the problem. You had hoped—evidently in vain—that Spencer might broach the topic himself, exercise his usually excellent communication skills, but no; he stayed quiet, grew quieter. And now it’s 6pm and you’re elbow-deep in the sink washing dishes, and Spencer’s still sitting on the couch, fidgeting in silence.
Or you think he is, until you feel a pair of arms wrap around you from behind. His chest against your back, nose pressed into your hair. You purse your lips, wait a beat, then two, for him to speak before setting the dishes in the sink and reaching for a towel.
“You okay?” you ask, voice light.
“Mhm.”
After drying your hands, you shimmy around until you’re facing him, brows set in a small frown. “Sure?”
Spencer flashes you a small, visibly strained smile. “Yeah, I’m sure. Are you, uh—” he clears his throat. “Are you all packed?”
“Yes sir.”
“And you’re not missing anything?” he asks. “You, um, forgot your toothbrush when we went on that road trip, and—”
“I have my toothbrush,” you say softly.
Spencer nods. He swallows like it’s painful. “Good.”
For a moment, you just watch him, hoping that he might take your look of concern as a sign to speak up but, of course, he doesn’t.
So, with gentle hands you reach up to cup his cheeks. “Spence,” you murmur, “I know something’s up.”
He lets his eyes flutter closed, and he leans into your touch with a soft sigh. But he doesn’t speak.
“You worried about this trip?” you prod.
You feel it under your palm, the way he bites the inside of his cheek before answering, “No. I’m not— well, I…” he sighs. “I don’t know.”
Leaning back against the countertop, you wait with patience. You keep your hands on his face, thumbs brushing tender circles against his skin as you let him organise his thoughts, giving him as much time as he needs.
“It doesn’t make sense, logically,” he eventually mutters. “What I’m feeling, I mean. I-I keep trying to…reason with it, but there’s just this— this voice in the back of my head.” He lowers his voice until he’s speaking in almost a whisper. “I just can’t help but worry you’re not gonna come back.”
His words catch you off guard. Your brows twitch, and he immediately begins to backtrack.
“And I know it’s stupid, and— and I know that, obviously, you won’t—"
“Spencer.” You cut him off carefully, hands moving from his face to his neck.
He falls silent, lowers his head. Shame seems to taint his entire being, weighing him down.
You wait a beat, trying to gauge where he’s at, what he’s thinking, before asking, “Is this about Gideon?”
All he does in response is smile. Self-conscious. Sardonic.
And it breaks your heart.
You know he’s been sensitive, more so than usual, since Gideon left—since Elle left, even. Since the awful incident with Tobias Hankel, the weight he carried—still carries—in the wake of it all. You can’t imagine how he must feel, and it’s rare that you see it at all because he handles it all so silently. Like he’s afraid of being too much. Too human.
“Spence,” you murmur his name again so he meets your gaze, “of course I’m gonna come back.”
“I know.” He shakes his head, takes a deep breath like he’s trying to will himself into being okay, and then he deflates once more. He leans forward and touches his forehead to yours like you’re the only thing keeping him upright, and he closes his eyes. “I just can’t stop…thinking.”
“About what?”
“Sleeping in an empty bed for a week,” he mutters.
“And?”
He sighs. “The hypothetical—very hypothetical—scenario where you…enjoy being there, away from me, more than you enjoy being here.”
“Oh, honey…” your hands slip down further, fingers curling into the neckline of his sweater. “Spence—”
“I know it’s unfounded,” he says. His hands find your wrists, and he holds onto you like you may disappear if he lets go. “I know I’m being…clingy. Ridiculous.”
“You’re not being ridiculous.” You release his sweater, opting instead to entwine your fingers with his, holding his hands. “You’re allowed to worry.”
“I keep—” A laugh cuts through his words. Soft, light, but still laced with that slight self-consciousness that just makes you want to hug him and never let him go. “I keep hoping that Reagan will end up…falling down, or something. That way you won’t have to go.”
“Hopefully not while I’m there?”
“Oh, no— of course not!” His voice cracks as he pulls away, wide-eyed. “God, I’d never wish for—”
“I know, I know.” You squeeze his hands with a quiet chuckle, one that, thankfully, he mirrors.
You pull him back in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek as his lips curl into a small smile. When you lean back, you find that smile to be tainted, still, with a subdued sadness—less than there had been previously, but still more than what you want to see.
“Hey,” you murmur.
“Hey,” he echoes.
“I’m gonna come back, and— Spencer, look at me.” You cup his cheek as he tries to turn his face away, gently guiding him back to you. “And I’m gonna call you, okay? Every day, I promise.”
A frown crosses his face at your words, and he shakes his head. “You don’t need to…placate me,” he says. “I’m being childish—”
“I want to call you,” you interrupt, voice firm. “I wanna hear your voice. I’m gonna miss you, too, you know.”
His gaze drops to his feet, but even as the silence starts to sting you take care not to rush him. It takes him a few moments but, eventually, he meets your gaze once more, holds it like a lifeline. “You’ll call me?”
“Every day,” you repeat.
He nods. Slowly, like his head weighs twice what it should—but it’s still a nod. You pull him closer, press a kiss to the tip of his nose, before releasing his face.
“Here.” You fumble with the clasp of your necklace, removing it so you can press it into his palm. “Hang onto this for me, okay?”
A stretch of silence. Spencer stares blankly at the necklace, like he doesn’t know what to do with it, before shaking his head. “I can’t,” he says. “This— this is your favourite. You never take it off—"
“Then it gives me all the more reason to come back, right?” you ask, smiling.
Of course, Spencer himself is reason enough to come back. You could tell him that a thousand times, but there’d still be a part of him that doesn’t—can’t, for whatever reason—believe it.
It’s your favourite necklace, sure, you wear it every day, and going without it will undoubtedly feel weird, but you’d happily leave it behind for Spencer. You’d leave every piece of jewellery—no, everything, period, for him. You just wish there were a way to make him understand that.
So you settle for putting the necklace on him, not because it “gives you a reason to come back”, but because it gives him part of you to keep with him. Something that he can hold onto; a physical reminder of how much you love him.
You pull him into a hug, squeezing him tight like it may somehow convey, wordlessly, all the things you wish he’d believe. Like, if you hold him tight enough, you might infect him with just a fraction of what you feel for him.
His arms wrap around your waist once more, and you feel the tension that’s been wracking him all day begin to ease. He presses his face to your neck, mumbles “I’m gonna miss you” into your skin like a prayer, and you murmur back “I know, I’m gonna miss you, too.”
Time seems to stop existing entirely, and you have no idea how much of it passes during your embrace (a minute? Five? Maybe more?), but when you pull yourself away Spencer seems as though he’s had new life breathed into him. He smiles, kisses your lips, holds your waist not like you’re going to vanish into thin air, but like you’re something precious. And you think for a moment that maybe your hug did work, even if it’s only for a short time.
“So.” You run your fingers up and down his arms, tracing the creases in his sweater. “Are you gonna drive me to the airport tomorrow, or am I gonna have to call a cab?”
“Why would you call a cab?” he asks, frowning. “I’m not at work.”
“I dunno, in case you feel like driving us off of a bridge, so I miss my flight.”
Spencer’s jaw drops. “I would never—”
“I know.” You chuckle, poking his shoulder as a playful grin creeps up your face. “I’m kidding.”
He rolls his eyes, very obviously suppressing a smile of his own, and kisses your forehead. “I’ll drive,” he murmurs, “don’t worry.”
my favourite song of the album first. Well ok its very hard to pick a favourite but one of my faves. OHHH BOBBY JUST ADMIT YOURE IN LOVE WITH ME BECAUSE I SURE AM IN LOVE WITH YOU. fawwkwkkkkwk
s3 spencer is literally my angel. my darling boy. my sweetheart who i must tuck into bed every night. I love this. its adorable and beautiful and so soft and comforting and and and
— when jack first visited the philippines after he got married to a filipino nurse, he was very concerned about the sheer number of people calling him an "afam." he asks you if he should worry. you say no. it doesn't help. your niece calls him lolo.
— jack abbot is an adobo warrior, to the disappointment of his partner who prefers sinigang.
— he asks you to translate whatever princess and perlah are saying about him, but you refuse. "ang sungit naman ng asawa mong yan!" and it doesn't sound like a compliment.
— ever since you started living together, he takes off his shoes before entering the house and you help him with his prosthetic.
— your german shepherd rescue is named brownie.
— he has a lunch box all the other staff are jealous of, but rarely enough time to eat it. you have to shoo him to go eat his rice meal and a small bag of flat tops or werther's caramels.
— karaoke dates are great. he's not a great singer himself, but he likes hearing you sing the classics—alanis morissette, celine dion, theme songs from old shows you got him to watch on his days off.
— he adopts the little habit of calling you "boss" because you did it to him in the early days of your relationship.
— his favorite teleserye is please be careful with my heart.
— you put a little bottle of white flower in his backpack for when his head or muscles hurt during the day.
— he tried calling you "mahal" at some point but couldn't pronounce it the way you taught him, so you just laughed and said it was okay to just call you sweetheart.
— when jack first visited the philippines after he got married to a filipino nurse, he was very concerned about the sheer number of people calling him an "afam." he asks you if he should worry. you say no. it doesn't help. your niece calls him lolo.
— jack abbot is an adobo warrior, to the disappointment of his partner who prefers sinigang.
— he asks you to translate whatever princess and perlah are saying about him, but you refuse. "ang sungit naman ng asawa mong yan!" and it doesn't sound like a compliment.
— ever since you started living together, he takes off his shoes before entering the house and you help him with his prosthetic.
— your german shepherd rescue is named brownie.
— he has a lunch box all the other staff are jealous of, but rarely enough time to eat it. you have to shoo him to go eat his rice meal and a small bag of flat tops or werther's caramels.
— karaoke dates are great. he's not a great singer himself, but he likes hearing you sing the classics—alanis morissette, celine dion, theme songs from old shows you got him to watch on his days off.
— he adopts the little habit of calling you "boss" because you did it to him in the early days of your relationship.
— his favorite teleserye is please be careful with my heart.
— you put a little bottle of white flower in his backpack for when his head or muscles hurt during the day.
— he tried calling you "mahal" at some point but couldn't pronounce it the way you taught him, so you just laughed and said it was okay to just call you sweetheart.
spencer reid can't help but hold your hand while he eats you out
spencer reid has never felt a touch quite as sanctifying as yours. his hands on you, yours on him, it set his core ablaze and sent his mind spiraling into the clouds.
he'd never been this close with anyone, this raw—intimate in a way that felt as though he allowed the sparks of your finger tips to slip behind his supple flesh and eviscerate his soul.
spencer was touch starved, so to speak, prior to you. he was foolish, harbouring a paralyzing aversion to something he was now ravenous for. if past him only knew that touch was something far, far more than a transfer of pathogens, simply transactional.
touch had become something that could never truly fill him, something that made his stomach swarm in a gluttonous guilt, something that he would always crawl back to.
he'd lay behind you tracing lazy shapes onto the fabric of your sweater, letting his hungry digits snag on the warmth of the texture, the warmth of you below it.
he'd slide his hands under the cloth, not to tease, just to feel. your breath inhaling and exhaling in his palm, examining the rise of your ribs with the percision of a physician, not allowing a single expansion to slip past his inspection.
spencer would absorb you through your flesh, as if your light reset him in some way, rejuvenating his spirit via skin to skin contact—mending him in that curative way only you were capable of.
and now here he lay, beneath you, where he knew he should be—your soft thighs caging his cheeks in a comforting pressure only you could create. his heaven on earth.
he watched as you writhed against pale sheets, the sheen of your skin illuminating in the natural light, an ethereal glow that starkly contrasted the dull air surronding you, a permanent halo.
he analyzed every twitch of your torso, his ears perked at every groan that bellowed in the pit of your core, he smelt the primal heat of your essence before him. how easy it was for spencer to lose himself in you.
he gripped onto the fat of your flesh, as if you were a dream that would vanish the second he dared to think of letting go. his touch burned so perfectly, boring deep into your skin in practiced familiarity, you would revert back to this moment each time you saw the evidence, spencer's signature branded to his muse.
you threw your head back, hips rolling to an uneven rhythm, as spencer felt the irregular beat of your heart on his tongue, the slick of your adoration nourishing him in a way nothing else could. it was too much, overwhelming in a way that threw your soul out of orbit, spencer saw stars in your eyes.
it struck you then, his palm raised, flat against yours, slotting perfectly where it belonged. warmth radiated up your spine, grounding you on the cusp of your high, pulling your mind back into your body so you could feel, really feel, every slip of a figure eight spencer curated, poetry receited on your most sensitive cluster of nerves.
"i love you" spoken wordlessly with his eyes as he watched your dazed expression return back to earth. you, his very own angel blessing him with your presence. the greatest honour bestowed upon him was to hold your hand in his.
written in the app so plz ignore any like formatting or grammatical errors its 1:35am and im sleepy turned on (dangerous combo) anyway spencer’s love is 150% this disgustingly devout. im so stupidly horny and in love with him i need to order 14 more of these right now. help! my pussy is sobbing!!!!
also i saw this exact like concept in a porn clip like a year ago and was foolish enough to LOSE IT? i genuinely have not been the same since that day. if someone can find a link i will genuinely kiss you on the mouth please do not be afraid to send me any similar video links im so deadass i need this. i think about it all the time. its all i want. please. thank you love you bye !!
spencer reid can't help but hold your hand while he eats you out
spencer reid has never felt a touch quite as sanctifying as yours. his hands on you, yours on him, it set his core ablaze and sent his mind spiraling into the clouds.
he'd never been this close with anyone, this raw—intimate in a way that felt as though he allowed the sparks of your finger tips to slip behind his supple flesh and eviscerate his soul.
spencer was touch starved, so to speak, prior to you. he was foolish, harbouring a paralyzing aversion to something he was now ravenous for. if past him only knew that touch was something far, far more than a transfer of pathogens, simply transactional.
touch had become something that could never truly fill him, something that made his stomach swarm in a gluttonous guilt, something that he would always crawl back to.
he'd lay behind you tracing lazy shapes onto the fabric of your sweater, letting his hungry digits snag on the warmth of the texture, the warmth of you below it.
he'd slide his hands under the cloth, not to tease, just to feel. your breath inhaling and exhaling in his palm, examining the rise of your ribs with the percision of a physician, not allowing a single expansion to slip past his inspection.
spencer would absorb you through your flesh, as if your light reset him in some way, rejuvenating his spirit via skin to skin contact—mending him in that curative way only you were capable of.
and now here he lay, beneath you, where he knew he should be—your soft thighs caging his cheeks in a comforting pressure only you could create. his heaven on earth.
he watched as you writhed against pale sheets, the sheen of your skin illuminating in the natural light, an ethereal glow that starkly contrasted the dull air surronding you, a permanent halo.
he analyzed every twitch of your torso, his ears perked at every groan that bellowed in the pit of your core, he smelt the primal heat of your essence before him. how easy it was for spencer to lose himself in you.
he gripped onto the fat of your flesh, as if you were a dream that would vanish the second he dared to think of letting go. his touch burned so perfectly, boring deep into your skin in practiced familiarity, you would revert back to this moment each time you saw the evidence, spencer's signature branded to his muse.
you threw your head back, hips rolling to an uneven rhythm, as spencer felt the irregular beat of your heart on his tongue, the slick of your adoration nourishing him in a way nothing else could. it was too much, overwhelming in a way that threw your soul out of orbit, spencer saw stars in your eyes.
it struck you then, his palm raised, flat against yours, slotting perfectly where it belonged. warmth radiated up your spine, grounding you on the cusp of your high, pulling your mind back into your body so you could feel, really feel, every slip of a figure eight spencer curated, poetry receited on your most sensitive cluster of nerves.
"i love you" spoken wordlessly with his eyes as he watched your dazed expression return back to earth. you, his very own angel blessing him with your presence. the greatest honour bestowed upon him was to hold your hand in his.
written in the app so plz ignore any like formatting or grammatical errors its 1:35am and im sleepy turned on (dangerous combo) anyway spencer’s love is 150% this disgustingly devout. im so stupidly horny and in love with him i need to order 14 more of these right now. help! my pussy is sobbing!!!!
also i saw this exact like concept in a porn clip like a year ago and was foolish enough to LOSE IT? i genuinely have not been the same since that day. if someone can find a link i will genuinely kiss you on the mouth please do not be afraid to send me any similar video links im so deadass i need this. i think about it all the time. its all i want. please. thank you love you bye !!
Period soon so I’m all sad with consciously no reason thinking about dadbf Spencer 😔 I just need a hug fr
dadbf!spencer on your period... ough I bet he'd always have everything ready a whole week early. the exact menstrual products you prefer—pads, tampons, whatever brand, size, he's got it memorised. tub of ice cream, warm tea, heating pad, and of course, his lap to lay on when the cramps get worse and you feel like you're gonna throw up and everything aches. but it's alright because he's there, running his fingers through your hair, adjusting the heating pad on your tummy, comforting you when the tears spill. "shh, i know, kiddo. it'll get better soon, i promise."
notes: harvey is oh so special to me; he has been for the longest time. i'm a girldad!harvey truther and i will die on this hill !!
˖ ۫ ♱ dad!harvey who can never really say ‘no’ to his kids. he tries so hard to stand firm, but one pout and suddenly he’s buying ice cream at nine o’clock on a school night like it was his idea all along.
˖ ۫ ♱ dad!harvey who wears the little beaded bracelets his daughters make him straight into court without caring who notices. there’s something oddly terrifying about harvey specter destroying someone in litigation while wearing neon beads spelling “#1 dad.”
˖ ۫ ♱ dad!harvey who is always the loudest parent at his son’s sports games. suit jacket abandoned somewhere on the bleachers, yelling encouragement like his kid just made the winning shot in the NBA finals.
˖ ۫ ♱ dad!harvey who lingers in the kids’ bedrooms far too long after bedtime because he hates missing parts of their day. every night turns into “five more minutes,” until you have to practically drag him back downstairs.
˖ ۫ ♱ dad!harvey who secretly learned how to braid hair after his daughter complained he only knew ponytails. he acted casual about it afterwards, but looked unbearably smug the first time she asked him to do it again.
˖ ۫ ♱ dad!harvey who keeps every crayon drawing his kids ever made tucked into his office desk. clients expecting intimidating corporate lawyer harvey instead find poorly drawn stick figures labelled “my daddy.”
˖ ۫ ♱ dad!harvey who swears he hates animated movies, yet somehow gets more emotionally invested than the kids do. absolutely denies tearing up every single time.
˖ ۫ ♱ dad!harvey who gets ridiculously proud whenever his kids copy his habits. the first time one of them points dramatically during an argument, he has to hide his grin behind his coffee cup.
samira mohan (the pitt) x pope cody (animal kingdom)
ch. 1
wc: 2.9k
a/n: i lowk hate this and it’s super slow but trust the process… thank you to everyone who showed love and gave me ideas on chapter 1! i hope to have motivation to keep writing this
Samira stared at the bloodstains on her gloves.
Some kids at the skate park a few blocks from her clinic had gotten into a fistfight over pot, and it had become her problem, like usual. One of them had the interesting idea of bringing both parties into her small clinic, and she’d treated both of them while they stared daggers at each other through her neck as though she didn’t exist.
She slipped the gloves off and balled them up, one in the other. She dropped them unceremoniously in her bin and pondered heightening her toxin disposal measures.
The sun shone above the clinic, its rays angry and unforgiving in the hot California summer. She’d given up on wearing undershirts under her scrubs a long time ago. This wasn’t the ER. The AC hummed its vague little tune up above her desk, doing its best to ease the dry heat. As Samira washed her hands at the sink, the door chime tinkled again. She looked up, letting out a huff. It hadn’t even been ten minutes since the skater kids had left the clinic.
“Dr. Samira?”
She recognized that voice. The small girl who came in here two weeks ago with her stuffed bunny and guard dog of an uncle. Lena.
Samira dried her hands on a paper towel, turning toward the waiting area. Moisture still clung to her hands, unmanicured and rough from her constant washes. Lena stood near the entrance, clutching the same stuffed rabbit from last week, its big patchwork ears bent unevenly like she accidentally lay on the bunny in her sleep. And sure enough, behind her was the same man from last week. Pope, who looked like the exact opposite of someone who should be in a community clinic on a warm Tuesday afternoon.
“Hi, Lena,” she greeted warmly, sitting down to her level. The girl’s hair was tied in a messy ponytail, some strands plastered to her forehead.
She looked up at Pope. The same sun-bleached auburn hair, tired eyes hidden between the shadow of a gray baseball cap. His lip wasn’t quite twisted in worry like the last time they’d dropped by the place. Simply a little downturned, the thin line of his mouth tense.
“What brings you here?” Samira brought her gaze back to the kid, assessing her for any injuries. The wound by her head had healed nicely, now with a small scab over it—not picked. Perhaps her parents had told her to take care of it.
“Mr. Bunny is hurt.”
Samira held back a smile, her face straining to remain very serious. She exhales softly as she looks up at Pope, one curious eyebrow raised.
“She has a fever,” he said bluntly, hazel eyes honing in on her.
“Oh.”
She murmured, looking at the girl again. Lena wasn’t pale at all, and her wound healing looked to be normal. Samira’s hand, tanned from a few too many mornings at the beach, pressed gently against the girl’s forehead. Warm, but not in the way she used to encounter in the ER. Her skin felt sun-kissed and soft, not uncomfortably taut the way a feverish kid’s did.
“Okay, hop on up there for me.”
She’d gotten the stepping stool for the rare occasion a child came in for a checkup. But before Samira could nudge it to help Lena get up on her examination bench, Pope swooped in and carried her, little shoe-clad feet grazing against the cabinet beneath the seat. Her eyes went involuntarily to the man’s arms—they drew attention even if she was sure he didn’t want them to. Thick, tan from the sun. Freckled. A thought entered her mind. He’d be nice to draw blood from.
Samira blinked and looked away, retrieving her flower-patterned pouch from her desk. She slung her stethoscope over her shoulders, walking back to check on Lena. She’d sat Mr. Bunny beside her, his small stitched mouth set in a polite smile. Samira smiled, bringing her stethoscope to the girl’s chest.
For her usual clients, she could get away with just this for an examination. She’d listen to the patient’s heart, check for wounds, and end up with a few bills in her pocket. The clinic had somehow attracted a crowd of shady older people who went to her for routine checkups and medicine prescriptions. She didn’t know what they used her medical advice for, and rather wouldn’t know.
But for Lena and her hovering uncle, she took it slower, like she wanted to.
“How long?” she asked, looking up at Pope.
“Started this morning.” His low voice carried that same clipped quality she remembered. He crossed his arms over his dark brown shirt, weight shifting onto one hip. “She said her stomach hurt too.”
Lena shifted beside her uncle, bunny tucked tighter beneath her arm now. “Doesn’t hurt now.”
Samira hummed softly under her breath. “Throw up at all?”
A small shake of Lena’s head.
She nodded to herself, bringing out her thermometer. Why she put in so much effort for this little girl, she didn’t know. It wasn’t about the money Pope had handed her two weeks ago. It wasn’t even about her quiet, endearing stare and her stuffed bunny. Samira dropped some isopropyl alcohol onto a cotton ball, wiping the metal tip of the thermometer.
“Okay, I’m gonna put this under your arm, and it’ll tell me if you have a fever.”
“Will it hurt?”
Samira looked up at Pope. He rapidly averted his eyes from hers, like he’d been staring at her neck the entire time. She chose to ignore the small twinge deep in her ribcage. “She’s never gotten her temperature taken?”
“Never needed it,” he mumbled, large fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. A few deep wrinkles were scattered across the hemline, folded by his hands. When her eyes darted down to the sight, he let go of the fabric. His voice almost sounded defensive.
She let out a sound of assent, returning her attention to Lena. “No, it won’t hurt. It might be a little cold, though.”
Lena nodded solemnly, one small hand tightening around Mr. Bunny while Samira slipped the thermometer beneath the girl’s arm. Her shoulders lifted instinctively at the cool metal.
“Cold,” Lena informed her gravely.
“I warned you.”
Samira smiled faintly to herself, glancing toward the small timer on the acrylic screen of the thermometer. The room settled into that peculiar kind of quiet it always seemed to carry. Cars swept by outside, their engines rumbling angrily as if announcing their drivers had someplace else to be. Wood clicked under Lena’s heels as she kicked gently against the cabinet.
Pope stood a few feet away, unwilling to let his niece out of his vicinity even for a minute. He didn’t pace, feet planted firmly on the tiled ground. His gaze was pointed at something on the ground. When she followed his line of sight, it landed on the loose tile she’d half-heartedly kicked down into place after she tripped on it.
After a few unfortunate encounters at PTMC, Samira knew when a parent lied. She memorized the way voices would rise when questioned, the exact cadence of we’d never do that! Our kid would never do that! And whatever attachment Pope had with his niece wasn’t that. He was quiet. Calm, even. More focused on what was in the doctor’s clinic than what the doctor would say. His stormy demeanor reflected in Lena’s—the inevitable way a loved one picked up on someone’s mannerisms.
“You take care of her often?” Samira probed, tilting her head slightly.
“Sometimes.”
Silence hung in the sterile clinic air, Lena looking up at the two adults like their quiet would be the answer to all her big questions.
“...Her mom works,” Pope added after a second.
“Ah.”
Before he could ponder whether to respond, the thermometer beeped shrilly under Lena’s arm. Samira gently took it, turning the screened face up. 100F. Warm, but just below a fever. She looked up at Pope at the same time Lena did. He shrugged, broad shoulders hunching ever-so-slightly.
“Not a fever,” Samira said, wiping the tip of the thermometer with cotton again. “A little warm, though.”
Lena looked oddly disappointed. Maybe she was imagining it, but Samira smiled and patted her shoulder with a gentle hand. She set the thermometer aside and leaned down slightly, resting one hand against the edge of the examination bench. Pope crossed his arms back over his chest, glancing up at the AC.
“This isn’t related to your head, so we’re in the clear. Where did your tummy hurt?”
“In the middle,” Lena said. She patted her abdomen with a small hand. “But it was gone very fast.”
“What did she eat for breakfast?”
“Cereal,” Pope answered, voice gruff. “...I couldn’t cook, had somewhere to be.”
“It’s okay. Cereal is the breakfast of champions.”
Lena cracked a smile, her warm brown eyes lighting up in a rare happy expression. Nothing, Samira thought, could pull at her heartstrings like making a kid like this smile. Her attendings had always told her she was good with the elderly. Somewhere slow, gentle, where treatments were routine, and she could sit down to listen to long stories about apple pies and grandchildren.
She was in California now and saw everyone. Including these kids in need of her help.
“I had nice cold milk too,” Lena added helpfully.
“Okay. It might just be a bug you picked up from school.”
“But we’re on vacation…”
“Germs don’t take vacations, sweetie.”
Lena looked up at Pope. The man nodded, his hard-set expression loosening in something Samira chose to interpret as satisfaction. His eyes then returned to the floor, and the cursed yellowing tile she felt self-conscious about now. The clinic wasn’t exactly the nicest place, but it was what she could afford after moving her entire life across the country. Yellowing around the edges from years of wear and probably nicotine use. The landlord kept promising she’d let Samira refurbish, but never followed through when she asked about it.
“I keep meaning to get that repaired,” Samira said.
“Hm?” Pope looked up.
“The tile.” She pointed downward. “One day I’m gonna trip over it hard enough to…” She makes a little gesture with her hand, tapping the side of her head with the heel of her palm. Lena laughed, seemingly all better just from the sight of the doctor.
“You should fix it,” Pope said plainly.
“I should fix a lot of things.”
The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them from tumbling out on their own accord. Bad habit. She’d vowed to stop talking so much to patients and their companions since the day she’d run her stupid mouth about her father. Pope stayed quiet, the silence solemn rather than uncomfortable, as it had been when that had happened.
Samira cleared her throat lightly, returning her attention to Lena. “Anyway, you’re not sick, Lena. Maybe it’s just hot, and you drank cold milk on an empty stomach. But I’ll give your uncle some medicine that can make you better if you feel worse.”
The girl nodded, trying to step down from the bench. Again, before Samira could kick the little stepping stool to catch her feet, Pope carried her back down, setting her gently on the floor.
“Are you sure?” Pope asked, his face hardening back into the mask he always seemed to wear.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have a bathroom, Doctor?” Lena’s little voice said tentatively, setting Mr. Bunny on the blue plastic chair closest to her uncle. Pope’s fingers twitched slightly, pinky lifting as if he were in half a mind to touch the worn toy.
“Mhm. Over there,” Samira pointed at a wooden door in the corner of the clinic, robin’s egg blue paint chipping off slightly. Lena trodded to the bathroom, leaving the adults to linger in each other’s silences again.
Something about Pope made Samira want to talk too much. Words rose up in her throat, questions tightening against it while she turned around. Where are her parents? Where are you from? What do you do for work? She swallowed them all, keeping them locked in her chest where they could fester safely. The girl was a kid, probably doing okay in whatever elementary school she went to. But Pope? He could be dangerous, for all she knew. A dealer. A thief. A criminal. Someone who could lie through his teeth and make it seem like breathing. And yet she opened her mouth anyway.
“Lena’s with you a lot?”
Pope nodded, his head tilting slightly. His hand went to pat down the side of his curls, the faintest hint of gray peeking at his temples. The crisp sound of scissors cutting into the material broke the quiet, Lena’s medicine dropping neatly on her desk. When Samira busies herself with scrawling Lena’s information in her logbook, Pope clears his throat.
“I can help fix your…” He left the sentence unfinished, like he thought she’d know what he meant.
“My what?”
“Whatever,” Pope mumbled, looking down at something. Oh. The tile.
“My floor?”
“Your office.”
“You’re a handyman?” Samira asked, finally turning to look at him. She folded her arms over her navy scrubs, trying to reconcile this awkward version of him to the one who walked through her door two weeks ago.
“Sort of.”
Samira clicked her pen shut, tucking it into her hair. She thought she saw Pope’s eyes linger on the motion, but when she blinked, he was observing the blue-and-white striped curtains that fluttered against the clinic’s window frames. She walked toward him, pressing the blister pack of acetaminophen against his loosely closed fist.
“If she does develop a fever, take one of those. One in the morning and at night. And they’re chewable.”
Pope nodded blankly, closing his hand around the medicine and tucking it into the pocket of his worn denim jeans. He shifted on his heels, a quiet breath escaping him. A slow swallow went down his throat, seemingly lingering before he could get himself to talk.
“Do you… treat injuries?"
“That’s actually what this clinic’s mostly for. I get a lot of injuries. All the skaters, surfers, that crowd.”
He nodded again, rubbing his hand over his mouth. Before he could say anything else, Lena emerged from the bathroom and plucked a paper towel from Samira’s box.
“See, Uncle Pope? I wash my hands.”
“Great job, munchkin.”
Samira’s lips curved up into a smile.
As Lena picked up Mr. Bunny from the plastic chair, Pope pulled out his wallet again. Brown leather, unassuming, tattered at the edges. He thumbed nimbly through the sparse bills inside, keeping an eye on his niece. Samira held up a hand. She couldn’t accept these payouts from what seemed to be a normal family. Sure, she’d gotten hundreds from men who asked her not to blab to authorities, but Lena was just a kid.
Pope met her gaze, thumb pausing at the edges of his cash. He pulls out a crisp fifty and a slightly wrinkled twenty, folding them into threes before handing them to her.
“I… less is okay.”
“No, take it.”
“I—” The look he gave her shut her up quickly. “Thank you?”
He nodded, hand enveloping Lena’s small one. The girl swung her arm forward and back, but his barely moved. His hand stayed still and steady at his side, heavy but curling around hers. Samira caught a glimpse of a large burn mark on his broad palm, healed and scarred over as if it didn’t exist in the first place.
“If you need it, here's the clinic phone.”
Samira scrawls the landline down on a small piece of green memo pad, handing it to him. “For Lena, or if you need anything else.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Pope answered, still unmoving despite Lena’s attempts to tug him toward the door. He folded the memo and put it in the same pocket he’d tucked the blister pack into.
“Can we get ice cream?”
“We need to get you lunch first. You have medicine for if you get bad again.”
Lena looked up at Samira after she pondered Pope's statement. “My Uncle Pope is always sad and won’t let me get ice cream.”
He let out a noncommittal huff, finally moving from his spot in the center of the clinic. He shook his head, protesting Lena’s passionate declaration.
“Your Uncle Pope is smart, and you should listen to him,” Samira said. “He’ll get you ice cream after lunch.”
The girl nodded, holding Mr. Bunny loosely in her little hand. Samira smiled quietly to herself, sliding Lena’s file back into the drawer beside her desk. The metal tracks stuck slightly before giving way with a disapproving creak. Another thing she should fix. Maybe she’d take him up on his offer and see if he did a decent job with metal.
“Bye, Doctor,” Lena said, pausing at the doorframe.
“Bye, Lena. Stay healthy out there.”
“Thanks, Dr. Mohan,” Pope said gruffly.
“Please, call me Samira.”
He nodded, bringing his cap down to shield his eyes. When the door shut, the silence fell upon the clinic again and the two had disappeared into the hot Oceanside summer. Everything settled around her, back to what they should be. Cars passing by, surfers yelling in the far distance, the AC humming as it strained to cool her little office. The loose tile sitting crooked like it had since the day she moved her things in.
Samira stared at it for a long moment.
Then quietly, for reasons she couldn’t entirely explain, she nudged it back into place with the toe of her shoe.
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