girl from an early 2000s sifi no one remembers › if i was a red head id surely be evil › “i've got you on speed dial.” › the glimmering lights blind me › red front door › white tulip › “she wasn't me. how could you not see that?” › you are being observed › do you by chance like mercury?
Doppel-banger: a double of a living person who you wouldn't hesitate to tap
summary: five times you think you stumbled upon jack abbot vs. the one time it's actually him
tags: shawn hatosy universe, brett richards, sammy bryant, andrew "pope" cody, terry mccandless, titus dandforth, jack abbot, terry is lowkey creepy, titus mentions sacrificing somone, brett sammy and pope are all nice, canon pope staring, second hand embarrassment, younger fem!reader but age is not specified
notes: okay, so I had this idea of making a full oneshot about a reader mistaking pope for a concussed jack for an entire day, but the I thought it'd be really funny to make a collection of all the major shawn characters. i haven't seen any of the tv shows, but i read so much fan fiction, I am sorry if some of them are ooc, if you'd like to join my permanent taglist please comment on this post ! enjoy!
word count: 9.6k
By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other.
A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field.
Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye.
You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you.
The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes.
You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders.
No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd.
Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone.
But more importantly, mentioning it to you.
Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire.
A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him.
“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?”
The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach.
“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.”
By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still.
That should have been your first warning.
But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—”
Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.
Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot.
In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance.
But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist.
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?”
Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.”
Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle.
You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.”
“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said.
Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.”
“I’m starting to gather that.”
“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.”
He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.”
You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.”
The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?”
“Only when he does something stupid.”
“I’m starting to think I should meet him.”
You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.”
He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.
Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body.
You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.”
Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.”
You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again.
Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.”
Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?”
“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.”
“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.”
“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.”
“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.”
“Seemed important to you.”
“I’ve been publicly humiliated!”
“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.”
“What?”
“The tone you’re doing right now.”
Brett blinked. “What tone?”
“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sound exactly like him too.”
Now he looked offended. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.”
The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.”
Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?”
“Definitely not yours.”
You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message.
Jack:
Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid.
“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him.
He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.”
You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.”
“Feels like your problem already.”
“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.”
Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!”
You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.”
Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.”
_______________________
The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled.
Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights.
You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly.
Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately.
Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too?
Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights.
You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway.
“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.”
Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face.
“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.”
A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?”
“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly.
You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them.
Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb.
And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired.
You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.”
He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?”
“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself.
“Again?”
You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.”
“Well, that sound concerning.”
“I’m very concerned for my mental status.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it.
You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.”
“Nope.”
“Perfect.”
“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him.
You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.”
“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?”
“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.”
That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.”
You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.”
Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Late shift?”
You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.”
His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?”
“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.”
A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable.
You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night.
Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?”
A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.”
“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.”
He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.”
You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them.
“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed.
“Twelve years.”
“Explains your expression.”
At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?”
“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.”
He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.”
A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.”
Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?”
“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.”
“What does Jack do?”
“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”
Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.”
“You say that like you know him.”
“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.”
For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got.
Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?”
His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago.
Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?”
“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.”
It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.”
“You’re tired,” he said simply.
“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.”
“You’re human.”
You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.”
“Me and Jack?”
“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.”
Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.”
“Maybe I need therapy.”
“That too.”
You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal.
As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs.
Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.”
“That’s still up for debate.”
“But you still like him.”
You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further.
You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.”
“Dangerous trait to have.”
And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.”
“Real terrible guy.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.”
Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser.
“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.”
His eyebrows rose. “Probably.”
“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.”
“Likewise.”
As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell.
“And hey,” he called out after a few steps.
You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow.
“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!”
Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot.
_______________________
By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real.
Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in.
You’d be done in four hours.
That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult.
The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare.
You drank it down anyway.
Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently.
That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows.
Your steps slowed automatically.
Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.
Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack.
But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him.
“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?”
Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again.
Three and oh.
You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet.
In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad.
Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether.
You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.”
The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.”
Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you.
You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.”
He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?”
His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth.
A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.”
Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself).
You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”
He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?”
“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?”
Another pause.
“You can sit.”
You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt.
Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you.
“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently.
His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure.
“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.”
Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?”
He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.”
His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway.
You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”
A small almost-smile curled his lip.
You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.”
His eyes looked down at the cup.
“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him.
He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?”
You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I feel the same way.”
A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings.
Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read.
Lonely, your brain supplied.
You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?”
He pursed his lips. “Andrew.”
No nickname.
Not even a last name.
Just Andrew.
You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.”
“The last two?”
“Long story.”
He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully.
“Do you need to go help people?”
“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.”
“You’re tired.”
“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.”
He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.”
“You sound like Jack.”
Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?”
“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.”
His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband.
“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically.
Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.”
You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have.
You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.”
His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt.
_______________________
By now, you should have known better.
Key words: should have.
Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning.
Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment.
Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in.
All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise.
Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes.
The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car.
You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door.
At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket.
The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore.
Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first.
Et tu, Brute?
“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased.
“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.”
You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started.
“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes.
The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine).
However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.”
A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.”
You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Finding men who all have the same face.”
“That so?”
“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.”
The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms.
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.”
“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.”
You paused. “That was before you spoke.”
His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?”
“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.”
He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”
The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion.
Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.”
He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke.
Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all.
This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?”
You sneered. “That’s none of your business.”
“Mhm.”
“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”
“Only the pretty little ones.”
You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.”
Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?”
“You’re definitely something.”
Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest.
“You got a name?” he asked.
Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest.
“Smart girl,” he murmured.
Your spine stiffened.
The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.”
You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.”
“Before tellin’ me yours?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.”
You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest.
“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.”
You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.”
“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person.
You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.”
He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.”
You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.
_______________________
You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events.
The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities.
The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking.
Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served.
“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief.
Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”
“Well now I’m interested.”
Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly.
At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role.
The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane.
Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice.
But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint.
He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?”
You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”
“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.”
“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.”
Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him.
“Oh, I already like you,” he announced.
You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.”
“I get that a lot.”
You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”
He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?”
“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.”
“Do you seek his face out often?”
“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.”
“Ah. One of those situations.”
Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.”
“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.”
Oh.
Oh no.
For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally.
You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.”
His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.”
“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.”
“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.”
“And that doesn’t concern you?”
“It mostly entertains me.”
You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that.
“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.”
A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?”
He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.”
You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?”
Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.”
A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh.
“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh.
“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.”
Oh, absolutely not.
Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best.
“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.”
“How will you ever recover?”
“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.”
Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?”
“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.”
“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous.
“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.”
The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will.
You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.”
His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?”
“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.”
“Is it a sin to be attentive?”
“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.”
Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.”
Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you.
“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side.
You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight.
Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.”
His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket.
Double oh no.
He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.”
You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot.
“Titus—”
“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.”
“That is way too much money.”
“Probably.”
“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.”
“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.”
You hesitated before slowly taking in.
Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.”
Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.”
You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”
“How did you know that was next on my list?”
“It seemed very on brand.”
Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other.
Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.”
You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.”
_______________________
At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks.
One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well).
You were simply done.
Officially. Completely. Done.
Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance.
The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes.
And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes.
Unbelievable.
You didn’t even break stride this time.
“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.”
The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice.
You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.”
A long silence followed before he said one word.
“What?”
You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.
Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot.
Your Jack.
For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious.
You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?”
Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?”
“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.”
Jack stared at you in complete silence.
“. . . You met a rich version of me?”
“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.”
“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?”
The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that.
Brett had looked entertained.
Sammy had looked understanding.
Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely.
Terry had looked scheming.
Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing.
But Jack?
Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once.
“Oh.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?”
“You’re actually him.”
“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?”
A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting.
Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?”
His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?”
“You happened,” you informed him weakly.
“That really didn’t explain anything.”
“It does in my head.”
“Which is terrifying.”
You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art.
But above all, Jack felt safe.
Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment.
You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty.
“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly.
Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.”
“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.”
He stayed quiet.
“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.”
Jack looked caught off guard.
“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.”
He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.
Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.”
A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.”
Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.”
The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days.
That was another difference too.
None of the others had ever felt like home.
You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.”
Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?”
“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.”
A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.”
You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”
Jack stared down at you for one long second.
“Did any of them kiss you?”
A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?”
“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?”
“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.”
His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady.
When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly.
“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.”
Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?”
You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.”
He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss.
i tried to go to ur c.ai acc and for some reason it says it doesn’t exist??? dk if it’s a me problem but like did u delete ur acc or got banned orrr??? cuz i love ur bots sm its a pity to see ur acc like this 😭😭😭
hey so i’m only going to address this here and i’m not going to do so again. read if you want to, or don’t. ⬇️
TLDR: i deleted my account— just like i said i would. it’s gone, and it’s not coming back. using generative AI is not worth the overconsumption of our drinking water and the deterioration of the environment, not to mention the psychological impact it is having on people.
this is a jar of drinking water found near a meta data center site being built in morgan county, georgia. DRINKING WATER. residents there have not had access to clean water since construction on the center began; they are experiencing reduced water pressure, they rely on bottled water to drink/cook/clean/etc., and their water bills are expected to raise about 33%. there are many more cities that are experiencing similar issues with their water along with increased electricity bills, noise pollution, etc.
AI systems were also estimated to have consumed around 765 billion liters of water last year, which is greater than the total global consumption of bottled water in that same year. that is water we no longer have all because of AI systems. allegedly, asking chatgpt 10-50 questions uses about the same amount of water as a 16 oz water bottle— but that’s not even verified because these companies are not transparent with the EPA or anyone else about how their products are impacting the environment.
all these companies are forcing AI down our throats so they can profit off of the labor and jobs they no longer want to pay for. google search now relies solely on AI to bring up search results— and not all of it is particularly accurate nor relevant. not to mention, c.ai and other sites want personal data to verify ages because CHILDREN are being harmed by using them and they don’t want to be liable for that. they do not need your ID. do not give them your ID.
nothing is worth you chatting with a bot or generating a 90s version of you made up of stolen art or having it write an three-sentence email because you can’t be bothered to respond to someone through your own words.
i’m not trying to be rude or mean here, but there’s genuinely no reason to be supporting these kinds of things with the information we have now and continue to receive each week. we have an obligation not only to ourselves, but also the environment to protect one another and our natural resources before they are gone for good. if you want a future for yourself and for those who come after us, we all have to do our part.
Tags/Warnings: angst, Divorced!Hotch, BAU!Reader, SITUATIONSHIP TRIGGER WARNING BRO, mentions of depression/mental health, mentions of cheating, Hotch and reader are in a pre-established “relationship”, so, so much smut: PinV, unprotected sex, quickie, oral sex (M receiving), rough sex, hate sex, secret sex, fingering, hair-pulling, biting. I wrote this with my pussy I’m sorry, second person narrative, no use of Y/N
Summary: Whilst Haley and Aaron have been separated, your relationship with Aaron has become complicated, sitting somewhere between friends with benefits and two people who need one another. When the divorce is finalised, the tension comes to a head, and your relationship with your closest friend- and the man you’ve fallen in love with- is threatened.
W.C: 8.3k
Author’s Note: Situationship Aaron Hotchner I love you so much. I think about Aaron’s vulnerability a lot when rewatching the season where he and Haley split, and having my own vulnerabilities surrounding relationships created… this. I am very sorry in advance. There are some points where the reader is quite a bit unlikeable, but I think those parts are my favourite and were the most fun to write.
Beta-read by my beloved @blit2tdw <3
Heavily inspired by Using You by Mars Argo.
Happy reading! Likes and reblogs are always appreciated <3
What were you expecting?
Haley was his high school sweetheart. The mother of his child. His wife. Ex-wife. You held no animosity towards her: she’d welcomed you into her home many times for drinks and games, always made a point of saying hello to you when she popped into the office to see Aaron. How did you repay her? Falling in love with her husband. Ex-husband.
Playing with your nails, slowly chipping the red nail polish from them, you sat on the sofa in Aaron’s office. He was in his chair, head in his hands. You’d been silent for a long time. A conversation you needed to have was hanging in the air like a bad smell, the pair of you too scared to begin it. Was scared the right word? Apprehensive. You knew that even being here with him was adding to the already incomprehensible amount of stress he was carrying on those broad shoulders of his. Aaron shifted slightly in his chair and your head snapped up to look at him. He was already looking at you, shoulders slumped, his hair ruffled from where he’d been resting against his hands.
“Aaron…” you began, but he shook his head and you immediately shut up. This was not a conversation you had the right to begin.
Did it make you a bad person? Aaron had confided in you one late night in the office how rocky his relationship with Haley was becoming. He knew that you’d just come out of another relationship, so you would be the one person who understood. You’d been friends since you first started the BAU, and you also understood more than most people how gruelling the hours were. So many failed relationships on your behalf because of the stupid hours and emergency jet rides across the country. He’d confided in you because you’d also become a family friend. He’d confided in you, and a few weeks later you were in his car with his hands gripping your waist as you rode him.
Aaron sighed. “Whatever we’ve been doing needs to stop for a while.”
They weren’t words you wanted to hear, even if you did expect them coming. You felt slightly sick at the way your stomach flipped in hope: “for a while” doesn’t mean forever, right? It gave you at least some shred of hope that you could cling to until he was ready for you again. That was a stupid, childish feeling.
We’re such a mess together;
you make me lose my temper.
The first time you slept with Aaron Hotchner, the pair of you knew it had been a mistake. A drunken one at that. You’d both fallen on hard times: your partner had cheated on you, and Haley had moved in to her sister’s with Jack. In your heartbroken states, you’d both wandered into one of the city’s smoky bars, drank one too many glasses of whisky, and ended the night with Aaron’s hands in your hair and your lips wrapped around his throbbing cock.
Then it happened again. And again. Until it became a ritual for you to be bent over the desk of his office, stars exploding behind your eyes as you tried to remain on this plane of existence by gripping onto the sides of the desk. Aaron was ruthless during sex. Not that you were complaining- you’d never been fucked like that in your life- but the one time you’d tried to reach up and hold the side of his face he’d swatted your hand away and turned you over onto your stomach. Pulling at you like a ragdoll, he got you up on your knees and pushed your face into your bed.
“Aaron-” you began, but he shushed you as he jerked himself a few times, putting a large hand on the small of your back and re-entering you. A muffled moan ripped from your mouth, your eyes rolling back at the feeling of the sting. It was almost too much; you’d considered asking him to stop. You knew, with full confidence, he would stop the second you said the word, but fucking Aaron Hotchner was addicting.
You’re the only one, who’s making me come-
Holding you down by your spine, he slammed into you, trembling whimpers falling from his mouth. Your eyes squeezed shut and you imagined his face of pleasure, lids heavy, mouth agape. His usually carefully-styled hair falling over his eyes, sweat beads pooling on his upper lip. More than anything you wished you could touch it. Smooth your thumb over the sweat and collect the taste on your tongue. Be completely and utterly overwhelmed with him. Everything about him.
To my simple senses,
I’ll never love,
anyone the same.
“Ah, fuck- I’m gonna cum,” he stuttered, his hips jutting forward in sloppy, desperate movements. Grabbing you by a shoulder, he yanked you towards him. You’d had sex enough with him by that point to know what he wanted. You scrambled to your knees as he jerked himself, his arm over the soft skin of his stomach, hips jerking, eyes closed, head tipped back. A broken groan of your name fell from his mouth as the first spurt of cum landed on your face, making you flinch slightly. This is exactly what you wanted. This is exactly what he wanted. When he opened his eyes, he groaned quietly at the sight of your face painted by his orgasm. Your heart swelled past your shivering lungs when he gripped you by the chin, collecting his cum with a swipe of his thumb. The tip of his thumb pressed against your bottom lip, urging it to open. Of course, you obliged. Aaron’s eyes locked on yours as you sucked his thumb clean, both of your breathing ragged. A soft blush had settled across his face, and even in your darkened bedroom, you could see the fondness glinting tiredly in his eyes. He’d never looked at you like that before. So why had he been so against you holding his face?
This pattern continued. He allowed you in then cast you out. Aaron had always been cagey and deeply private, but you’d rather he gave you absolutely nothing than allow you the smallest of glimpses into himself then close you off again. Upon reflection, you assumed that he just had no idea what he wanted from you. You were a way to blow off steam, to not think about how his marriage was falling apart. You were a step up from his right hand. Don’t get it twisted. You were using him just as much as he was using you. Case gone bad? You could knock on his hotel room door knowing he’d let you in and ruin you. Another failed date? Aaron Hotchner’s flat was nearby the restaurant you were at, and Jack was staying with Haley.
It had quickly become more than that. At first you thought it was just you, that you’d deeped the sex a little too much, but then Hotch began pairing himself with you on cases. He’d seek you out first before anybody else. Sometimes he’d call you to his apartment and you’d just sit and talk. About anything. The sex would dwindle, then he’d argue with Haley or a case would be particularly nasty and it would pick up again. Hot, cold, hot, cold. Constantly. It felt like it would never end. Until now, apparently.
I’ll never feel ashamed for using you for pleasure.
Aaron clapped his knees and stood. There was a darkened look on his face, mostly unreadable, but he looked defeated. You knew him well enough to read the smallest of hints on his face that let you into what he was thinking. He wouldn’t even look at you as you mirrored him, standing from the sofa shakily. His hands were balled into fists as he turned his shoulders towards the door of his office, silently signalling you out. Was that… it? That is how he was going to terminate this… thing you had going on? You whispered his name, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.
“Don’t. Please, don’t,” he said quietly, his voice even. “It’s not appropriate. This was a mistake.”
He wasn’t wrong. You knew that, of course you knew that. The moment he entered you for the first time you knew it was a mistake, that it would go too far. But it still hurt to hear it, especially after you’d stupidly gotten your hopes up. Swallowing, all you could do was nod. It was no use arguing with him, especially about this. Some space and time is all he needed, then you could talk to him properly. What you needed was some wine and Penelope Garcia. Aaron opened the door for you and stood at the doorway like a guard, his head bowed. Wordlessly, wanting nothing more for him to call after you, you flounced past him, through the bullpen and into the corridors towards Penelope’s office.
“You did what?”
You were sitting inside Penelope’s apartment, your face buried in your hands. Two glasses of red sat half-drank on the coffee table, one of them stained with Penelope’s lipstick. It’s not that you were ashamed of your actions, it was more… Okay, you were pretty ashamed. It wasn’t a great look, pouncing on a married man the minute he’d split with his wife. They weren’t even officially divorced… until now.
You brought your knees up to your chest and peeked at Penelope through your fingers. She was gawking at you, jaw practically touching the floor. One of her hands grasped her necklace, fiddling with the pendant anxiously. You felt awful burdening her with the mess of your life.
“Pen, neither of us meant for it to happen,” you tried to explain, and Penelope snorted.
“You don’t say?” Your friend adjusted herself on the sofa and brought your hands down gently, taking them into her lap. You eyed her warily. “Sugar muffin, you’re smarter than this. Why are you letting him use you like that? You know yourself there’s a massive power imbalance there. Big bad SSA Aaron Hotchner, your boss, and then little old you.”
Shifting uncomfortably, not knowing which side you wanted your weight to rest on, you gazed at the floor in thought.
“I was using him back. When I found out Warren was cheating on me, I just… Needed something. Someone. He’s like the ultimate rebound.”
Taking one of your hands from Penelope’s grasp, you leant over and grabbed your glass of wine. You took a deep swig, letting your eyes flutter shut. It was warm and comforting on the way down, numbing down your feelings of guilt just a little more. Sighing, Penelope copied your actions. The two of you sat sipping in a comfortable silence, mulling over the brevity of what you’d just revealed. Because it changed a lot of things. It changed dynamics, shifted trust. Both of you could be in serious trouble for inter-Bureau fraternisation. You’d misused his office many, many times. There were probably little splatters of you all across that poor room. It was Penelope that broke your silence.
“Find another rebound.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Find another rebound. Someone a bit less risky than Hotch. Bleugh. He’s like my Dad- I can’t imagine ever having sex with him.” She shivered and stuck her tongue out, as if trying to get rid of a bad taste. You couldn’t help but burst into slightly drunken giggles, clutching your stomach as you nudged your bespeckled friend with your foot.
“Oh, Penny, you have no idea what you’re missing out on.”
So… you did. You found another rebound.
It wasn’t hard. You weren’t exactly unattractive, and the city was full of single men. Penelope had helped you set up a dating profile on your phone that night, which you regretted instantly in the morning when you saw what photos the pair of you had drunkenly chosen. After a little editing and deleting all of the drunken typos from the ‘About’ section, you were happy with it.
No more Aaron. No more dangerous rebounds and rough sex with your boss when you were both emotionally drained. As you sank back on your couch, some trash on the TV and a steaming mug of coffee in hand, you ran your hand over one of the throw pillows. He’d had you, right there. A sharp exhale left your nose at the thought. That was the night you knew you’d gone too far with him.
It had been raining non stop. More than Seattle ever could, it seemed. You were exhausted, barely able to keep your eyes open as you rustled around in the wardrobe for something to wear to bed. The case you’d just come home from was awful. Hotch had a giant stick up his ass the entire time and it was making the rest of the team miserable. You’d knocked on his hotel room door to check on him and ended up completely ignored. It was just a mess of a case that you were lucky to have actually solved, and the entire jet home you all sat glaring out of the windows in complete silence.
The knock on your front door startled you near out of your senses. Who could possibly be banging on your door that late at night? Stupid question. You knew exactly who it was, and he was coming to let off steam. Throwing on a robe, you padded bare-footed to the front door and cracked it open. A soaking wet Aaron Hotchner stood on the precipice of your home, dark eyes glinting down at you. Both of you stood staring at one another for a moment, as if you were nervous.
“It’s raining,” he said simply, his voice soft. Fuck’s sake. When he used that voice, your knees weakened. All animosity and annoyance you had for him managed to disappear.
“You’re quite the profiler,” you replied quietly, making him grin. You could see his teeth glinting in the light of your hallway. It pleased you that he remained getting rained on. He deserved it, treating you all like shit and then expecting to come over for sex. I mean, he’s going to get it, you thought to yourself, but I might as well play this game.
Hotch cocked an eyebrow. “Can I come in?”
“Maybe.” Your response was too quick, too breathless. He knew you needed this as much as he did. Ten minutes later, he was on your couch, head lolled back, eyes squeezed shut, your mouth moving slowly down the column of his cock, cheeks hollowed. One of his hands shot up to grab you by the hair, pacing you just to his liking. Soft pants fell from his lips as you swirled your tongue around his leaking tip, groaning around his length. When your eyes flicked up to look at him, he was looking down at you, face flushed. His eyebrows were knitted in concentration, dark eyes fixed on yours. You groaned around his cock, the sight of him almost too much. His mouth fell open in a silent cry as you took him to the very back of your throat, eyes watering, breath coming out in short hisses from your nose. His other hand slammed itself down on your head and, with a rough, gargled groan of your name, Aaron Hotchner finished down your throat. You gagged at the sudden feeling, pulling your head away and falling back on your haunches, holding a hand under your chin so as not to spill anything on your brand new rug. Panting, Aaron watched as you swallowed his load, something like a whimper escaping him as he watched you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said breathlessly. You laughed, a short, harsh bark.
“I don’t have to do a lot of things,” you replied. A flicker of annoyance crossed his sweaty face. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you sat back on your heels and watched him tuck himself back into his pants and begin to stand.
“I’ll go make you some tea,” he grunted, shaking his legs off and buckling his belt. This was another recurring thing with Aaron that made it harder and harder for you to stay away: his aftercare was great. You collapsed back onto your rug, staring at the ceiling, arms splayed out either side of you as he pottered about in the kitchen, helping himself to your mugs and tea-making supplies. What am I doing? You scolded yourself, sighing deeply as you listened to him move about. If you closed your eyes and imagined hard enough, this could be something normal. Your boyfriend moving about the kitchen, making you tea to soothe your used throat. But it wasn’t. It was your situationship, your boss, making you tea after he’d just come in your mouth.
There were a lot of decisions you could have made at that moment. You could have just stayed there, happily waiting for him to return with a cup of herbal tea just how you like it. You could have kicked him out the kitchen, told him you could make the tea yourself. You could have even kicked him out of your apartment, telling him to never come back and that this messy, messy situation you’d gotten yourself into had to stop. You could have done any of those things, and they would have been ten times better than the decision you actually made. Wordlessly, you hauled yourself up and off the floor and went into the kitchen. He stood at the stove, one arm bracing the counter, the other on his hip as he watched the pot boil. He glanced over when he heard you enter, his eyes flickering up and down your body, drinking you in. You stood at the doorway for a moment, allowing him to look at you. It was a bit like a stand off, both of you staring at one another, nothing but the breakfast bar between you.
“Your tea is almost done,” he said quietly. Aaron was good at breaking the ice, always knowing what to say. It was the lawyer in him. His response to confrontation, however, was when Aaron Hotchner, the FBI agent, shone through. You could practically hear his cogs turning as he studied your face carefully. He did this thing where his dark eyes would scan, side to side, never stopping but never seeming erratic. Always level. Looking for a flicker of a frown, a bead of sweat. Always trying to guess your next move, your next words. To anyone outside of the BAU, this would be… unsettling, at best. But you knew that he knew that you knew what he was doing. Knew. Knew. I know you, Aaron Hotchner. I see you.
“I think about you all the time,” you began, slowly. His nostrils flared when he gritted out your name. A warning shot. It didn’t deter you. “I think about you inside me. I think about how stupid you make me. I think about how you fuck me over your desk and have to turn around the photos of your wife because your moral compass lasts for a little while, up until you see my underwear.”
“Stop,” Aaron breathed. You moved around the breakfast bar as the kettle began to whistle. A quiet bubbling undercut the whistling, but it grew louder and louder as you stared at one another, chests rising and falling sequentially, breath in, breath out. Rhythmic, but not in sync.
“I think about falling in love with you. How, maybe, I’m already half way there.”
It felt like you’d been winded. Your heart was hammering on the inside of your ribcage, threatening to shatter the bone and splinter your chest. Aaron was completely unmoving. On the stove, the kettle screamed.
“I follow you around like a stupid, loyal dog. I come away from cases at my desk so we can have sex. I limp home after you’ve had a bad day and think the heat in between my legs is a blessing. I curl myself into a ball when you don’t want me and wait, like a stupid, loyal dog until you do again.”
We’re such a mess together. You make me lose my temper.
Aaron cursed. The kettle had bubbled up and over, sizzling violently on the stove, plumes of white steam curling up towards the ceiling. You took a step back as he grabbed a tea towel and dragged the kettle off of the stove and into the sink, a flurry of curses falling from his usually mild-mannered mouth. As he growled at the sink, you darted in to turn the stove off and flick the extractor fan on, the steam beginning to choke the kitchen a little too much. A little bit of teamwork. You could feel his eyes on you as you wiped the stove down, but it was too hard to look at him. It had been easier to blame this all on him, even when it was both of you that had gotten into this mess.
Aaron went to say your name.
“I think you should go.”
Penny:
Guuuuuuuud luck on your DATE tonight!!! Send a pic of your outfit before you leave! Kisses! <3
You:
[You sent a photo]
Is this too slutty..?
You:
I have this irrational fear that there’ll be a mass shooting or something and I have to wear this dress and a bulletproof fbi veat
You:
*vest
Penny:
OHHH YOU SEXY THANG!!!!!!!!!!
Penny:
Derek has JUST sworn to me he will stop anything murdery from happening across the entire state tonight, tonight is YOUR night miss agent lady!
Penny:
Oh, btw, it is SO slutty. Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Rolling your eyes, a grin plastered across your red lips, you tossed your phone onto your bed and looked into the mirror for the millionth time that night. The dating app profile you and Penelope had set up had been a great success, and you were just about to leave for a date with Ryan, a high school teacher. He had floppy hair, a stupid smile, and had a job so far out of the realm of your own that you were excited to talk about some stupid highschoolers with him rather than Unsubs.
It had been a couple of days since Haley and Aaron had finalized their divorce. Ever since your discussion in his office, Aaron had avoided you like the plague. That suited you just fine. Distance would be what healed your relationship with him, and you could slip back into being a boss and his subordinate. Just like how it had been before. You smoothed a hand down your stomach, over the fabric of your dress, and thought of Penelope. The pure, visceral fear you had felt when you heard she’d been shot. The darkened look in Aaron’s eyes as he sped over to her apartment. The way his knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. Your hand grasping his thigh as he drove because you felt like you were going to throw up. It was always going to be personal. Your team were more than work colleagues; they were your family. Aaron had been such an integral part of your life for years at that point, and imagining a life where he was just your boss was… well, it was impossible.
A shuddering breath left your painted lips. Behind you, your phone buzzed.
Ryan (Tinder):
Hi just checking in! I’m about to drive over to the restaurant. I know you said you don’t need picking up but im still happy to swing by along the way! Super super excited to meet you! 😀
You smiled at your phone. He was like a Golden Retriever. Your nails tapped gently against the screen as you wrote a reply.
You:
No need! Driving myself stops me from buying a bottle of wine lol
You:
See you soon!
Ryan (Tinder):
Smart thinking! See you soon! 👍
The restaurant you had both chosen was slightly fancy, but you still felt slightly overdressed as you clacked towards the entrance, stuffing your car keys into your handbag. One of your hands ghosted at your dress, pulling it down even when it was fully stretched. You hadn’t done this for a long time. Your ex had been your friend, and Aaron had been your boss, so a first date with a stranger wasn’t something you’d ever encountered before. Well. You’d encountered murdered women that had been on a first date, but other than that. On the corner just before the restaurant you stopped and softly clicked open your handbag. Beside your purse and perfume, your gun winked up at you, reminding you of its almost overbearing presence. Better safe than sorry, right?
I mean, he knows I’m an FBI agent, you thought to yourself. Surely he expects me to have a gun.
Aaron would have laughed at that. You clicked your handbag shut and forced yourself forward.
Ryan was waiting for you outside of the restaurant, smoking the last of a cigarette. You couldn’t help but grin at the sheepish look he shot you when he caught your eye, tossing the butt to the floor and quickly stepping on it with his shoe.
“Not a good first impression,” he laughed, greeting you with a side hug. He smelt like cigarettes and a slightly musky aftershave. It was not an unpleasant combination. “You didn’t even give me a chance to slip myself some gum.”
You giggled, shaking your head. “Don’t be silly. You work with high schoolers. I’d smoke too.”
“You work with murderers,” he quipped, and you burst into laughter.
“Touché.”
You took Ryan’s arm happily and he led you inside, giving his name to the hostess. You looked around instinctively as you waited for a waiter to be assigned to you. There were two exits you could see: one to the restaurant area, and a second to the adjoining bar. You assumed there were multiple more in the kitchen areas, and they’d be the fire exits. The restaurant was busy, the sound of cutlery clinking and soft conversations cushioning the silence you’d found yourself in whilst you were taking inventory of your surroundings.
“Do you do that everywhere you go?” Ryan asked quietly, in your ear. Your head snapped around to face him, an apology already forming on your lips, but the man was just grinning softly at you. It made your heart feel funny, like you were a schoolgirl with a crush again. He must be a very hot topic amongst his students.
“It’s an instinct,” you explained as a waiter led you to your table. It was one of the outer ones, closest to the bar. The bar was much sparser than the restaurant; the food there clearly outshone the cocktails. “Exits and windows are your most important things to initially look at. Then any potential blind spots.”
You cringed slightly. Talking like that made you sound like Morgan. You really didn’t want Ryan to think you were some sort of macho, self-important GI Joe. He gazed at you with these sparkling, dark blue eyes that made your breath hitch. It was like every one of your words were worth listening to, worth making an effort for. It made you giddy with glee. When you apologised under your breath sheepishly, Ryan held his hands in the air, laughing.
“Don’t apologise! What you do is super cool, dude,” he said, pushing his hair back and letting it flop differently. “Sorry. Shouldn’t call you dude.”
He grinned when you laughed loudly.
Once you’d both ordered your meals and the first drinks came, the conversation slipped into hobbies and interests. Ryan was fantastic at commanding a conversation, whilst also giving you more than enough space to answer his questions and choose your own topics. Your stomach was beginning to ache, you were laughing so much, and the lop-sided smile Ryan wore hadn’t left his face the entire night. You couldn’t believe your luck. Penelope Garcia I am going to kiss you on the mouth when I see you at work tomorrow. Your eyes worked over Ryan’s body, raking left to right, inhaling him ocularly. Profiling him. You couldn’t turn it off. His outfit was probably one that he wore for work, maybe for a parent-teacher conference. It was something akin to what Reid would wear: a brown jacket that he’d taken off and carefully put over the back of his chair, a button-up cream shirt that had the first top two buttons undone. Brown slacks and black dress shoes. It was all ridiculously charming. The shirt was slightly crumpled and every now and then, he’d pat the pocket of his trousers to make sure his packet of cigarettes were still in there safely. He wasn’t used to styling his hair in the way he’d done it that night, and every time he raked a hand through his hair, he’d rub his fingers together, the feeling of the product he’d used foreign to him.
“How long have you been single?” you asked, forking at your salad. Why the hell did I order this? It’s literally just leaves and a ring of dressing. Ryan’s eyes flicked from your plate to you, darting behind you then back. Was he… was he also trying to survey the area? Cute. A sheepish look graced his face. It was so boyishly charming that you found yourself smiling.
“My whole life?” he answered, shyly unsure of himself. “I was such a nerd in high school and college. I was head of the debate team and took it way, way too seriously. I also played in the chess regionals. So, no time for girls, really. Sorry- women, I mean. No time for women.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of your throat. This was exactly what you needed. It felt cruel calling Ryan a rebound at that point. He was such a separate breed of human being to your ex and to Aaron. It was like filling your lungs with fresh air. You took a sip of your wine before replying.
“Chess? I have a friend that would love you,” you replied, putting your glass down and tentatively forking some salad into your mouth.
“We’re already at the ‘introductions to friends’ stage? I must have made a great impression already,” Ryan joked, his tongue darting out and licking across his bottom lip as he grinned at you. Something warm dripped into your stomach and you returned his grin.
“Down, boy,” you teased, your voice low. “Don’t get too excited.”
Ryan quickly looked away as a quiet whimper fell from his mouth. Pride filled your chest; you’d never had this kind of advantage over a man before. Of course, you’d keep it respectful, but the thought of eliciting more of those noises from him made you shift in your seat slightly to relieve the pressure building between your legs. Ryan’s eyes rose again, moving from your face to just behind you again. You frowned at him. That hadn’t been the first time that evening he’d checked out the bar behind you. His eyes never lingered long, always seemed to fix on the same place and not take in the rest of the bar. You glanced behind you, trying to follow his eye. The bar had filled up a little bit more at that point, but it only seemed to be regulars, sitting away from one another. Two people in a corner, nursing two half-consumed beers. A woman, presumably the barmaid, wiping a booth down. Somebody in a peacoat pushed open the door to the bar, making the bell hanging above twinkle quietly. One man in a suit sat at the bar, cradling a whiskey.
One man in a suit sat at the bar, cradling a whiskey.
The man looked over his shoulder again, chin pressed against his arm. Aaron Hotchner’s dark eyes met yours before looking away and taking a sip of his whiskey.
Ryan was saying something. By the intonation, he was trying to probe an answer from you about something. You didn’t hear. Perhaps you couldn’t hear: it felt like you’d been submerged underwater. The waiter reappeared, pointing at your plate, probably asking you something too. God, why is everyone talking to me?
“Excuse me,” you managed, taking the thick napkin you’d laid across your lap and pressing it to your mouth before standing, far too quickly, and rushing off towards the bathroom. Behind you, you could have sworn you heard a barstool scraping against wooden flooring.
Why was he here? Why today? Why were you reacting like this? Pushing open the door to the women’s washroom with your shoulder, you tripped over to the sink and stared at yourself in the large mirror. Today was meant to be about me. Not him. Why is he fucking everywhere? Shaking hands fiddled with the clasp of your handbag and you shoved your cell and gun aside to find your lipstick. Taking slow, shuddering breaths, you tried to calm yourself down as you popped the cap off and wound the red lipstick up slowly. The ritualistic application of the makeup was enough to calm you down. He’d go soon. If you didn’t pay him any attention, he would go, and you could finish your lovely date with lovely Ryan. Because he really was lovely. You were already slightly giddy thinking about going on another date with him, in a much comfier outfit than the dress you were wearing. The shock of seeing Aaron was beginning to subside. With much steadier hands, you returned your lipstick to your handbag and fixed your hair in the mirror, smiling at your reflection. Pouting at your reflection. Winking at your reflection. There we go. Joy restored. You’re going to go back out there and blame the wine and awful salad dressing and-
The door to the washroom began to creak open and you cursed, ready to apologise to the woman trying to get in that you hadn’t locked the door and it was still occupied. A large hand curled around the door, followed by a shoulder, followed by the rest of SSA Aaron Hotchner. Eyes wide, you stared up at him as he slipped inside and locked the door shut behind him, his eyes never once leaving you.
“Who is that?” he asked, his voice quiet. Anger rippled through you like an electric shock. It was red and hot, and your nostrils flared in annoyance.
“You have some cheek,” you hissed, walking over to jab him in the chest. He winced slightly in pain, and you enjoyed it. You jabbed him again and he grabbed you by the wrist when you pulled your hand back to jab it a third time. “Get your damned hands off of me, Hotchner.”
“Who is that?” he repeated, slower this time, each word enunciated as if he had created them. The grip on your wrist tightened and you felt your stomach churn in some sick sort of excitement. Breath huffing from your nose, you glared up at him.
“My date,” you replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. Because it was. Aaron’s grip twisted, bringing your hand higher up as he began to back you against the wall. One of your feet slipped beneath you, not enough traction between heel and tiled floor, too much pushing from above. Aaron just jerked you upwards, your next step landing, your body not struggling enough for your liking. “What are you-”
“You move on quickly,” he observed as your back hit the cold wall of the bathroom. It pulled a gasp from you, soft, shocked. Your back arched from the wall on instinct, too cold on the bare skin the dress exposed. Aaron closed in, nudging your legs apart with his knee, pressing it upwards into your crotch. The gasp melted into a shocked moan, mouth agape, your senses full of him. His mouth lowered to your neck, one of his hands sliding down your waist and hip, his fingers brushing along the hem of your dress. You couldn’t help yourself; your head rolled back, eyes flickering into the back of your skull as his hot breath rolled down your neck and back, the tips of his fingers just teasing themselves underneath your skirt.
It was hard to find words. Your hands scrabbled at his blazer, finding purchase and yanking him in closer.
“I’m trying to get over you,” you spat, biting down hard on your lip when his fingers began to bend round to your inner thigh. Your next words were muffled by your lip. “You were the one who ended things.”
“I don’t see you pushing me away.” His reply was quick. Aaron’s dark eyes were locked on yours as his fingertips finally, finally reached your underwear. The pad of his finger swept along your clothed slit, his other hand gripping your waist tightly. You sucked in a shaky breath. No, you weren’t pushing him away. Instead, when he growled about how wet you already were in your ear, your hips ground down automatically. The thickness of his calloused fingers rubbed perfectly against your swollen clit, and your hips didn’t stop. Aaron’s teeth found your neck and sunk into the supple flesh, a broken cry leaving your mouth as they did, your hips bucking again and again, pathetically, against his unmoving hand.
His mouth moved down, slowly, to your collarbone, leaving a line of bites that alternated between soft and so hard you hissed out in pain. Your hips didn’t stop moving, and when he moved his hand, dipping his fingers under your lacy underwear and into your warm wetness, your eyes widened and your hips became a crazed, desperate frenzy. His fingers made small circles around your clit, and each drag along it made stars explode behind your eyes.
“Look at yourself.” Your head had fallen onto his shoulder, his mouth back at your ear. “Fucking yourself on my hand. I’m not even doing anything.”
“I’m thinking about him,” you managed out, whimpering when he drew his hand away completely.
Aaron took a step back, a disgusted look on his face.
“No you’re not,” he said, dangerously quiet. You were still panting, face warm, your entire body vibrating with arousal.
“Yes I am. I’m thinking about how I’m going to take him home tonight and scream his name into the same pillow I did when you-”
You didn’t have time to finish that sentence. Aaron gripped you by the hips, twirled you around, bent you over the sink, your hands barely having time to brace yourself on the curved porcelain before he was yanking your dress up and kneading the soft muscle of your ass. You couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror; the thought of Ryan waiting for you at the table as Aaron was taking his cock out of his slacks and pushing your underwear to the side with a thumb made you feel sick.
“Tell me you want this,” he ordered, stroking his leaking cock with one hand, the other holding you still by your waist, locking eyes with you in the mirror. The groan that came from you didn’t sound human. It was a noise of pure, disgusting want. It was a noise from a woman that had been reduced to nothing. It wasn’t you.
“Please, Aaron,” you gritted out.
Aaron wasn’t a man that second-guessed things. You had barely finished the word please before he was entering you. That sting. How intoxicating that sting was. How much you’d missed it. It had barely been a month since you last slept with him. Your bodies still knew one another so well. Once fully sheathed, Aaron did not give you a chance to breathe. His free hand moved up, wrapping your hair tightly around his fist and yanking, forcing you to look at yourself. His thrusts were brutal; his hips snapped against yours, forceful, meaningful, almost arrogant. He groaned, deep in his chest, his head tipping back, eyelids drooping as he watched your face twist in pleasure in the mirror.
Aaron’s pace didn’t stop. With the hand that was on your waist, he pulled you back onto his cock over and over as you made every attempt to try and stay upright.
“Are you still thinking about him?” he asked, and you hated yourself for how quickly you shook your head.
“No, no no no no.” Your voice was high, whiny, desperate. “Only you. It’s only ever been you.”
Aaron was shocked you could even string a sentence together. He tugged on your hair and you groaned loudly, forgetting where you were, forgetting your proximity to the man you were on a date with. It’s okay. Aaron thought for you. You were completely at his behest, bending to his every whim and desire. He let go of your hair and shoved his fingers in your mouth, groaning quietly at the sight of you drooling around his thick digits.
Your knees began to shake as you neared your orgasm. The sight of Aaron staring at you in the mirror was too much. Every now and then your eyes would glance down to yourself, Aaron’s fingers in your mouth, the drool running down your chest and his wrist, pooling at his expensive watch. It was all too much.
“Go’a cu’,” you attempted, not able to speak like that. Your eyes widened in shock when his hand came down on your ass, hard, his thrusts keeping pace. In the mirror, you could see his eyes were locked on the sight of your pussy accommodating him, his eyebrows drawn in, mouth agape. He was close. You’d slept with him enough to know that. The coil in your stomach tightened, your eyes slamming shut as you clamped your teeth down, hard, on his fingers. Your whole body seized as your orgasm claimed you, biting down on Aaron’s fingers as he tried to wrestle them away. You hoped it hurt.
“God- Fuck!”
Aaron managed to pull his fingers away just before he reached his own orgasm. He hissed your name as both of his hands gripped your waist, jerking his hips forward as he emptied himself inside of you. Tears streamed down your face as you collapsed, exhausted, onto the sink. Both of you stood there silently, the only noise filling the restaurant’s bathroom being your ragged breathing.
Ryan (Tinder)
Hey! Thank you so much for such a good date last night.
Sorry you got sick half way through, I did think that salad looked suspicious
Ryan (Tinder)
Let me know if you want to meet up again. I really liked spending time with you 🙂
Nausea swirled in your stomach when you glanced down at your cell. You were sitting at your desk, chewing your nails to shreds. Your computer glared at you with an email you really didn’t want to reply to, and now your phone was baring its teeth at you too. After a moment of contemplation, you picked up your phone and typed a reply.
You
Yeah I had so much fun! I’d love to see you again.
You turned your phone onto Do Not Disturb and chucked it behind you. It hit something before clattering to the floor. Swallowing down the guilt that had been occupying your stomach since last night, you turned your attention to your computer. Your fingers worked slowly across the keyboard, acting as if you’d never been presented with such technology before.
To: erin.strauss @ fbi . gov
Subject: Transferral
Dear Strauss,
Thank you for your email and quick correspondence.
I’d like this email to stand as my official request to resign from the BAU with immediate notice. I have had interest from Counterterrorism and Organized Crimes.
I realise that this means I will have to be transferred from Quantico to another branch, and I appreciate your concerns, but this will be beneficial to me. I believe that I am not finding the BAU beneficial to me anymore, and it is time to move on.
I am free for a meeting tomorrow, yes. I look forward to it.
You pressed send and turned your computer off. It was easy to start crying when you crawled into bed, the silence of your apartment pressing in on you, the memory of Aaron Hotchner in every crevice. You needed to leave. Run away and not look back. When you turned your face into your pillow to scream, you swore you could smell his aftershave.
Penelope’s nails dug into your arm as she dragged you along the corridor towards her office. She refused to look at you. In the brief moment she had looked at you, there were tears in her eyes. Every time you tried to say something, she just shook her head, blonde ponytail bobbing. You both reached her office and she rushed you inside, slamming the door shut. Keeping one hand on the door, she finally turned to look at you. Tears had dripped down her painted cheeks and your chest tightened.
“Explain.”
You did. You explained everything to her, because there was no use lying to her. You told her about Ryan, and seeing Aaron in the bar. How you had sex with him in the bathroom, and then lied to Ryan about throwing up and cut the date short. Penelope watched you talk the entire time with a horrified look on her face.
“...and now you’re looking at me like that,” you ended your story with, and Penelope’s face melted into a glare.
“Of course I am!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. “You do a couple bad things and run away from them? Who even are you?”
She was right. You were taking the coward’s way out. Everything working with the FBI had taught you- resilience, strength, trusting your team- you’d completely ignored. Sought escape rather than holding your own and fighting for yourself.
Penelope blinked at you. You frowned at her, chewing the inside of your cheek.
“Pen, I feel like I’m drowning in him,” you began, softly. The glare left Penelope’s face. “Everything is him. Work is him. I go on a date with a really great guy and he’s there. I lose myself when I’m around him. I become stupid, make idiotic decisions, let myself be completely part of him. He changes, too. We’re terrible for one another, and we’ll continue to be terrible for one another until one of us leaves. And my life is much easier to uproot than his is.”
All Penelope could do was say your name, softly, and bring you in for a hug. You hugged her tight to your chest, smelling her soft vanilla perfume, feeling her chunky necklaces press against your chest. You hated that you were losing this. You hated that you were losing your job at the BAU, and your life in Virginia. All for someone who was meant to solve things. All for someone that was so good. Too good. You had to pick him out of your teeth before they began to rot.
It wasn’t that Aaron was a bad guy - he was anything but. You knew that he was good. But he was not good for you. You turned one another into animals, clawing, biting, possessive. Cannibalised one another, emphasising distraction rather than facing the actual problems in your lives. As you sat across from him later that day, Strauss next to you, he stared at you and he knew. He always knows. Perhaps he’ll know more than anyone else you’ll ever meet in your life.
You and Strauss stood up to leave. He shook Strauss’ hand and she nodded at you both, turning and leaving. You lingered behind, glancing over at him. Sighing, he nodded, and you closed the door behind her, leaving just you two behind.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. There was so much tender sincerity in his dark eyes that you felt sick. “I’m sorry for what happened in the restaurant. I…”
Aaron looked away from you, frowning, deep in thought. Aaron Hotchner never second guessed himself. Until right now.
“It’s not just that, Aaron. I’m dangerously infatuated with you. It’s not good for me, and I don’t like who I become around you,” you replied, your voice equally as quiet as his. His eyes slid to yours, and you shrugged. What else were you to do?
“I just don’t know what I want.” Your heart seemed to stop in your chest. You stared at him as he looked at the floor, trying to gather his thoughts. Trying to stay stoic and certain, trying to stay himself. It was useless. You both melted in front of one another, unable to stick with this narrative of a person you try to be to everyone else. “I have so many things happening to me, and you weren’t ever meant to solve them, but I started using you to distract me, and that turned into my expecting you to solve all my problems. You can’t do that - Christ, I can’t do that.”
We’re such a mess together.
You make me lose my temper.
“Then I do have to do this,” you said, simply. Aaron frowned at you. He wasn’t happy with that answer. But you wouldn’t be happy if you stayed. It was, ultimately, a choiceless choice. Choose between unhappiness or unfamiliarity. You stepped towards him and reached a hand up, cradling his cheek in your palm. He needed to shave. His stubble bristled against your skin, sharp, wary. One of his thumbs wiped away a tear that you didn’t realise was rolling down your cheek.
“It couldn’t have been anyone else,” he whispered.
jack and robby's ex!reader [nicknamed doc] are fucking; bold indicates smut/mdni
PRE-DIVORCE ⋆｡°✩
৻ꪆ breaking (one): jack is one of the first to see you breaking.
৻ꪆ stop talking: robby doesn't like to talk... even on the bad days.
THE WEDDING ⋆｡°✩
coming soon! x
POST DIVORCE ⋆｡°✩
৻ꪆ introduction
৻ꪆ crumbs: your ex-husband swears his best friend wouldn't do that... not jack.
৻ꪆ like he wouldn't believe: jack can't help but glow upon his return to work after a long week of taking advantage of your and his arrangement.
৻ꪆ first time: jack has this trick that can make you temporarily forget that robby ever existed.
৻ꪆ waffles: your ex might collapse at the sight of you as anything but as miserable as him.
৻ꪆ denial: for you, it's supposed to be "just sex." jack's making that a little hard, though.
৻ꪆ semantic satiation: your ex-husband makes a dreadful mistake–mistake? what mistake.
৻ꪆ bolognese: you should warn this poor nurse.
What do you mean “chat” is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?
When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.
warnings : fem!reader x baran . hurt comfort . pregnancy . contractions / preterm labor scare . anxiety . brief distress . protective / worried baran . established relationship (married) .
wc : 1.8k
find the request here
you pull up to the ER slower than you should, one hand white-knuckling the steering wheel while the other presses hard against the bottom of your belly like that might keep everything inside where it belongs. the contractions keep rolling through, not clockwork but enough to make your breath catch every few minutes.
the baby’s been too quiet and that silence scares you more than the pain. you didn’t call baran. sure, she would come pick you up immediately. but you didn’t want to yank her away from whatever she’s probably neck-deep in right now. so you drove. stupid maybe, but it felt like the fastest way to get answers instead of sitting at home waiting for an ambulance that might take forever.
your shoes hit the pavement and the world tilts a little. the automatic doors slide open with a familiar whoosh to the waiting room, the noise crashes over you. monitors beeping, wheels squeaking on the floor, people shouting. your legs feel like jelly after the drive and you grab onto a chair, trying to look less like you’re about to drop.
dana spots you right away. her eyes sharpen then go soft because she recognizes you. she’s by your side fast, one strong arm sliding around your back, guiding you inside the ED.
“easy there, hon. what’s going on?” her voice cuts through the chaos steady and warm. “you’re al-hashimi’s wife, right? come on, let’s get you off your feet.”
“contractions,” you manage between clenched teeth. “not sure how far apart but they’re not stopping. baby’s been quiet. drove myself because… i don’t know, it seemed faster.”
dana doesn’t lecture. she just nods and gets you into a room, pulling the curtain closed with a sharp snap. the lights buzz overhead as she helps you onto the bed, already grabbing the fetal monitor straps. “breathe through it, that’s it. we’re gonna hook you up and see what this little one’s doing. baran know you’re here?”
you shake your head, wincing as another wave hits. dana’s mouth presses into a thin line but she keeps working, efficient and calm. the gel is cold against your skin, the bands snug around your belly. the monitor kicks on with a steady whoosh-whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat and you let out a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding.
that’s when the curtain yanks open.
baran stands there, and her face is a perfect composed mask for half a second before it cracks clean down the middle. eyes wide, color draining just a touch. she freezes in the doorway, one hand still gripping the curtain edge.
“what-“ she breathes. then she’s moving, crossing the small space in two strides. her hand finds yours immediately, fingers lacing tight, the other hovering over your belly like she’s scared to press too hard. “what happened? dana paged me and said-“
“i’m okay,” you cut in quick, but your voice wobbles. “started this morning. got worse so i came in. didn’t want to bother you if it was nothing.”
her jaw clenches. she glances at the monitor, at the printout spitting out, then back to you. her steady doctor calm is fighting hard but you can see the panic flickering underneath. “you drove yourself. across town. while having contractions.” her thumb rubs over your knuckles almost absentmindedly, like she needs the contact to stay grounded. “that’s not your call to make alone. not when it comes to this.”
dana clears her throat softly from the other side, adjusting the monitor leads. “heartbeat looks strong so far. she’s stable. but we’re running the full workup. i’ll give you two a minute but holler if anything changes.” she squeezes your shoulder on the way out. “you’re in good hands, honey. you and the baby.”
the curtain slides shut again and the room feels smaller. baran sinks onto the stool beside the bed, elbows on her knees, leaning in close. her free hand finally settles on your belly, gentle but firm, like she’s trying to feel for any sign herself. “talk to me. when did they start exactly? any bleeding? how’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?”
you tell her everything, voice low between the waves. the cramping that wouldn’t quit after breakfast, the way the baby went still, how you waited an hour telling yourself it was probably braxton hicks before grabbing the keys. she listens without interrupting much, nodding, asking short follow-ups, but her eyes keep darting to the monitor like it might betray her any second. her composure is hanging on by threads. you’ve heard stories about her handling gunshot victims and family meltdowns without flinching, but this is cracking her wide open.
“i should’ve called,” you admit when another contraction builds. you squeeze her hand hard and she squeezes back, leaning closer to you.
“yeah, you should have.” her voice is rough, quieter than usual. “i’m your wife. this is our baby. you don’t get to white-knuckle it alone and drive through the city like it’s a grocery run.” she exhales shakily, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “you scared me… when dana said it was you. thought… i don’t know what i thought. something bad.” you could tell she was scared to jinx anything.
the waiting feels like forever. nurses and doctors come and go, drawing blood, checking your pressure, asking the same questions in different ways. baran stays when she can, stepping out only for the most urgent pages but always circling back fast. each time she returns her eyes find the monitor first, scanning the strips like she can will them into better news. the anxiety sits heavy in the room. you catch her fidgeting with her hair when she thinks you’re not looking, the stubborn line between her brows deepening.
at one point the contractions pick up again and you groan, curling toward her. baran’s there instantly, one arm around your shoulders, murmuring low. “breathe with me, baby. in slow, out slow. you’re doing so good. just keep doing that.” her hand never leaves your belly, rubbing slow circles like she can soothe both of you at once. “c’mon little one, give us something here.”
dana pops back in with fresh ice chips and a warm blanket. “how we holding up?” she asks, trading out the empty cup. she eyes baran with a knowing look. “you need to sit down too, doc. you’re no good to anyone if you wear yourself out.”
baran gives a tired half-smile but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “i’m fine, dana. i’m just waiting.”
“we all are,” dana says gently. she adjusts your pillow and brushes some hair off your forehead. “this one’s a fighter already. takes after both of you stubborn types. try to rest between them, okay? i’ll be right outside.”
you wait another thirty minutes. machines hum, footsteps hurry past the curtain, muffled voices calling out orders. you drift in and out, baran’s hand in yours the whole time. she talks sometimes, quiet updates about her shift earlier, little things to keep your mind off the fear. how a patient earlier reminded her of an old couple you saw at the park from last month, how she’s been thinking about repainting the nursery wall because the current color looks washed out in the morning light. but underneath it you feel her tension, the way her grip tightens every time the monitor beeps differently.
“what if something’s wrong?” you whisper during a quieter moment, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
baran’s head snaps up. she shifts closer, cupping your cheek with her free hand. her thumb brushes your skin, steady despite everything. “hey. no. we’re getting answers. her heartbeat’s still strong. you’re here, we’re monitoring everything. i’m not letting anything happen to either of you.” her voice cracks just slightly on the end and she swallows hard. “but you gotta stop scaring me like this. please.”
you nod, turning to press your face into her palm. you catch the faint smell of lotion on her, mixed with the sterile room smell. it’s grounding in its own way.
more tests come back. bloodwork, another ultrasound tech wheeling in the portable machine. baran watches every scan like her life depends on it, asking technical questions in her analytical tone but you hear the undercurrent of worry. the tech leaves and it’s quiet again. you’re both exhausted, she took her jacket off not long ago, her scrubs are rumpled now, your own clothes twisted from all the moving around.
finally, after what feels like hours, samira comes in with the results. contractions slowing. no preterm labor signs. baby’s fine, just a big false alarm that rattled everyone. baran listens, shoulders dropping inch by inch as the words sink in. she doesn’t cheer or anything, just nods tightly and thanks mohan, but you feel the relief roll off her in waves once she's gone.
“false alarm,” she repeats softly, almost to herself. then she leans down, burying her face in the crook of your neck for a long moment. “god. i thought… never mind. you’re both okay.”
dana swings by one last time with discharge papers and a knowing smile. “told you this kid was dramatic already. go home, rest, and listen to your wife next time something feels off.” she winks at you. “and you, dr. al-hashimi, take a breath. you’re going home.”
baran helps you change back into your clothes, hands careful on every zipper and button. she bundles you up in the extra blanket and walks you out slow, one arm firm around your waist like she’s afraid you’ll disappear. the parking lot air hits cool and fresh after the stuffy room. she buckles you into the passenger seat of her car, then climbs in the driver’s side.
the drive home is quieter. she keeps glancing over, checking on you, one hand drifting to rest on your thigh when traffic allows. “you shouldn’t have drove yourself,” she says eventually, half amused, half still annoyed. “in rush hour too. with contractions. that’s your dumbest idea yet.”
“figured you’d yell less if i just showed up instead of waiting it out,” you tease weakly.
she huffs a laugh but shakes her head. “wrong. i’m yelling internally right now.” her fingers squeeze your leg gently. “but mostly i’m just glad you’re both here. next time though… call. even if it turns out to be nothing. i need to know.”
you cover her hand with yours. “i promise.”
she smiles, small and tired but real, one that reaches her eyes and softens all the sharp edges she carries at work.
like the dog he is, he was sent to the dog house tonight—the guest bedroom. it's only been an hour since he hit the hay and his bones are already aching and screaming for reliet.
but he ignores the soreness in his limbs, his brain ruminating over a single moment that occured earlier in the day, the whole reason why he's in the guest bedroom and realizing that every single piece of furniture in this room is clearly just for decoration rather than comfort.
his stomach falls—you're mad at him.
you're not annoyed from him pinching the fat on your tummy or for taking an obnoxious bite of your sandwich, no, you're mad at him.
you rarely get mad at simon. sure, you bark at him here and there but the two of you have always been able to shrug it off and cuddle under the bedsheets at the end of the day but tonight you're so mad at him that you don't even want to sleep next to him, breaking the three year streak the two of you built together. the thought of that alone makes simon clutch at his pillow with a sadness that scratches at his throat.
his eyes open to darkness. only the bedside clock being the single source of light. it reads 2:02 AM. simon blinks, he's been thinking for longer than he thought.
initally he went to bed with a huff and pride in his chest, believing you were the one being immature and stubborn but now he feels a cold chill spread throughout his body as he begins to internally panic and regret his actions. suddenly the cold room feels hot and he jumps up and throws the blanket off him but finds no relief still.
his brain replays the dinner he had with you. simon had a long day—training thick skulled recruits, a disgruntled captain price, a nearing deadline that has come too close for comfort.
all of that was a heavy weight on his shoulders that he believed he could manage; he just needed a nice dinner with his lady and a good sleep. but you had a small complaint, "simon, you didn't kiss me goodbye this morning." you were genuinely sad. pouting and pointing your fork at him. normally, simon would shrug it off, say a quick apology and swear he would never do it again, but in the moment it was the cherry on top of his shitty banana sundae and he snapped at you.
"dammit woman, can't we have a bloody peaceful dinner for once?" he spat, fists curled tightly and teeth clenched.
immediate silence.
simon's face, tight with frustration and momentary anger, immediately fell once the words left his mouth. he never yelled at you before like that, as he swore to god he'd never intend to make his lover feel scared of him, but he could see in the shake of your hand that was holding the fork and the tremble in your lower lip that you were frightened by his sudden outburst. who wouldn't be?
a bark is a warning.
and simon loves you for the same reason he is sleeping alone tonight, for you immediately snapped back, "a simple kiss is not too much to ask for-who made you this meal? who made you your lunch? you wanna fuck me whenever but a goodbye kiss in the morning is too much to ask for?"
you shook your head at him. simon began to cower, eyebrows furrowed as he watched your eyes begin to turn glossy with tears. without another word you stood up from the table and left to the master bedroom, closing the door.
simon sat at the dinner table for a good while, clenching and unclenching his fists before laying them flat and looking closely at the calluses and scars on his palms. he lost all appetite, eyes flickering guilty from were you were sitting opposite from him to the door of the master bedroom. he knew immediately he fucked up.
and he still believes so now, as the clock reads 2:07 AM and he still doesn't feel an ounce of sleep within him. he breathes shallowly, running a hand through his short blonde hair in an effort to calm himself down, but nothing calms him down better than the feel of your touch. but you're mad at him, rightfully so.
he feels mentally stuck. simon has always believed in listening to the brain; he thinks that if he lets you have space and sleep this off you'll maybe be better in the morning, as he'd like that if the situation was switched around. but his heart stutters painfully at the image of you on the brink of tears at the table—you're just a room over after months of being thousands of miles apart and wishing upon lucky stars to be with each other, and now you're still both so alone.
alone and sad, under his watch, by his doing. simon in the past has given you a million reasons for you to be mad at him, hardly sending texts throughout the day or abandoned dates due to his hectic schedule, but you've maintained patience and kindness to him throughout it all. and he knows how much you do struggle with it, even though you try not to show it. this is ridiculous, simon thinks. you just wanted a fucking kiss for christ sake.
his back pops from how fast he gets up from the bed but he takes the pinch of pain that accompanies it as punishment for his deeds and practically throws open the door to the guest bedroom and rushes his way to the master bedroom. when he's face to face with the door he freezes in place, staring down the knob like it's his longtime enemy.
a thousand thoughts run through his mind. what if you're not even awake? what if you really don't want to talk to him? should he just wait until he blushes, frowning nervously. but he reaches out for the door knob anyways, turning it slowly.
the door opens with a low creak.
he opens it a few more inches, his eyes meeting partial darkness and the soft light of the tv running through roku city. illuminated is the bed and a few lumps under the blankets. simon's heart flutters at the mere sight of you curled up alone, you're laying on his side of the bed, clutching the pillow he uses the most which just weighs down his shoulders even more.
he softly patters towards the bed, climbing on with the lightest of movements like a scared stray dog who knows nothing better.
"y/n," he murmurs, reaching out a light hand to tap at your hip. he murmurs, reaching out a light hand to tap at your hip. he's not surprised when you flinch easily, he knew you wouldn't sleep either, not when you feel so deeply about everything. back in the beginning when he was just beginning to know you it used to annoy him so much but now he almost admires you, that you find beauty and care in even the smallest of things.
he shuffles closer to you, his hands planted on your shoulder and hip as you slowly sit up. you struggle to meet his eye, but his breath hitches when you finally do, seeing your face puffy and swollen from crying for god knows how long. he struggles to form the right words, panicking at the sight of you in distress from his actions but with a sharp exhale he scrambles onto the first words that come to him.
"i'm sorry, i—i didn't mean it," he rambles. he harshly swallows before continuing, "i was just already so mad, i shouldn't have.. yelled at you," he breathes hastily, his hands clinging onto you. you only blink hazily at him, surprised by this rare moment of emotional vulnerability from him.
"i'm sorry," he mumbles out once more, dread overtaking his body at the sight of you not engaging with him. he doesn't expect forgiveness outright, but damn does he wish you'd at least just say something—let him know you still feel something for him, that you don't hate him. hate. that word hate makes him shiver violently and scan your expression desperately for any sign of emotion.
you only sigh, looking at the nightstand's clock defeatedly. it's 2:13. you can't find the burn that builds up at your waterline again, your lips already beginning to quiver. "i just wanted a kiss."
simon huffs, swallowing again once more. "i know, ill do better, i promise," he swears, nodding up and down. you can't help but stare at him with wide eyes, he rarely ever promises anything. and with the few promises he has with you, he has yet to let you down.
you break eye contact with him, wiping the tears that fall down your cheeks. simon perks up when you begin nodding your head, "o-okay," you mumble. instantly relief washes over him, his heart pumping excitedly.
"okay," he breathes out, blinking slowly as he calms down. he watches as you look around sleepily before you begin climbing back under the blankets, still on his side but simon cares less and doesn't waste a second to get under the blankets with you. he's quick to wrap his arms around you, his body buzzing at the feel of your warmth on his skin.
there's a ease that washes over your body as well, sighing contentedly when he presses his entire body against yours, his chest to your back.
but just as you close your eyes, do you feel simon press a gentle kiss on the back of your shoulder. and then another. and another. and another.
"simon.. you don't have to," you say weakly, but simon only shakes his head no and continues to lay soft kisses along the bare expanses of your skin that is revealed to him. "i wanna," is all he says.
you don't fight it, you fall asleep back in his warm embrace with him peppering sweet kisses to the back of your neck. you won't forgive him yet, but you'll let him begin to earn your forgiveness.
