Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.
Or: the fertility clinic au
Part 2
masterlist
You walk around town like it’s written on your forehead that you’re about to let some strange man get you pregnant.
It might as well be a scarlet letter pinned to your breast. A sign taped to the back of your shirt. Kick me. I’m letting some guy knock me up. Or better yet, I’m with stupid, with the arrow pointed up at you.
Obviously that’s not true. You’ve done a good job at keeping this under wraps for the most part, not even your closest friends hearing about the man that propositioned you in the fertility clinic waiting room. You might've had half a mind to call one of them about it on the drive home, but by then you’d already filed it away as future gossip material, imagining bringing it up at drinks to the shock and delight of your friends.
Then night falls, and you grow weak.
You wake up with post-text message clarity the next morning, but there’s little you can do to backtrack now. You gave the man your name and number. You spoke to him on the phone about it, albeit briefly. Sure you could call John again and tell him that you thought it over a little more and decided against it, but then—
“It’s gonna cost four thousand dollars.”
Your coworker lets out a hissed breath, wincing. “That’s not cheap.”
It’s a pea-soupy summer morning, all hot and humid with the sky tinted a yellowish colour from forest fires up in the country, the hazy light seeping in through the windows in the office kitchen. Not a cloud in sight. You wouldn't call it a particularly pleasant morning, with the weather as overcast as your mood, but it could always be worse.
She’s the first person outside of a few close friends that you’ve told about going to the clinic at all, but she reacts exactly as you thought she would. It’s both affirming and annoying; it’s not so bad hearing from someone else that four thousand dollars is a bit pricey for a single person, but part of you wishes she’d try to convince you to go through with it. You need someone to push you in a direction—in any direction.
You nod, mouth screwed into a grimace. “And that’s only for a single try. I think she said it would be closer to, like, twelve thousand dollars altogether.”
“So are you gonna do it? Or are you gonna keep looking around?”
“I have another appointment next week,” you half-answer, getting cagey all of a sudden.
The truth is, that appointment isn’t the only thing you’ve got on the books. There’s another dot in your calendar for a few days before, one that seems to glow ominously when you stare at the date as it slowly approaches, lumbering forward one ground-shaking step at a time.
You wonder how long you can go without telling anyone. Theoretically, you could keep up this ruse for the rest of your life, pretend you always went through with the treatment. Lie through your teeth when your friends ask you if you know anything about the donor. No, they didn’t tell me anything, I just picked a profile with a good medical record and family history.
Don’t think about how you live in the same city. Don’t think about the likelihood of running into him around town with the baby in tow.
You shake your head. Those are concerns that you can foist off onto a future version of you. All the current you needs to worry about is making this all a reality.
You don’t know what to wear out to dinner with him. It’s both a date and not, more of a prelude to the later events of the night. Part of you wonders if you should just text him your address and tell him to skip the preamble and come on over.
The only reason you don’t is because a little voice at the back of your mind insists that you at least do your due diligence and screen him a little more over dinner. You can always back out at the last minute if a few too many red flags pop up.
(You tell yourself that as if a strange man offering to knock you up within five minutes of meeting weren’t a big enough red flag on its own.)
John meets you at the restaurant looking every bit as handsome as the day you met him, once again nearly taking your breath away. A little more buttoned up this time though, actually quite dashing in a proper dress shirt and suit jacket, even his shoes polished.
You have a second to think about calling it off. A second to consider turning tail and getting as far away as possible. Maybe, with enough time, you could scrape together the money for IUI. You could wait a year, or take out a loan with your bank, or pray for a decent enough raise to manage it on your own.
But then, as the time before, he turns his head and locks eyes with you.
It would probably be a good idea to take a picture of him, maybe even a picture of his ID, and send it over to one or two of your friends, on the off chance that he turns out to be a dangerous man, but you don’t need to be inundated by a barrage of text messages and phone calls from your friends trying to talk you out of it. You’ve made up your mind.
Walnut and burgundy furnishings decorate the large room, and the amber glow of candlelight and antique wall sconces saturates the restaurant in a dark, sensual bloom. A server guides John and you to a table right in the middle of the room, a better table than you might’ve hoped to get on your own. You eye him sideways when he pulls your chair out for you.
His demeanour is so relaxed that if you didn’t already know the purpose of this dinner, you could be forgiven for assuming that you were out on a real date. John certainly acts the part.
“You know, we didn’t have to do this,” you start awkwardly, eyes gliding over the room to look at all the other well-dressed patrons, some presumably out on actual dates.
“Call me old-fashioned, but I was taught that dinner comes before the rest of the evening.”
“I just mean you didn’t have to. I would’ve been fine just…” getting right down to business, you leave unsaid, hoping that he doesn’t make you spell it out.
“We’re two civilized adults. I thought we might get to know each other first.”
“Well, what do you want to know about me?”
“This is as much for me as it is for you—don’t you want to know anything about the father of your children?”
You wish he’d keep his voice down. He isn’t wrong though; it would be a good idea for you to take his candidature more seriously, actually ask him questions about himself and his parentage. He already emailed you a recent STI panel and bloodwork results, both done through the fertility clinic back when he was still keen on donating, but it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little more about him.
“Alright. How old are you?”
“Forty-six.”
You nod, pleased with yourself for guessing it right. “What do you do for work?”
“Just some work for the government,” he says, brushing the question off. “What else?”
That piques your interest though. “Oh, come on. What are you, M16 or something?”
“No, nothing like that,” John laughs, genuinely amused enough for you to believe him.
You roll your eyes when he doesn’t elaborate any further though. “Fine, leave me in the dark. Anything else you want to know about me?”
“Where are you in your cycle?” he asks, blunt as a hammer.
A classic spit take moment. It’s a good thing you haven’t ordered a drink yet.
“I think it’s, uh…it’s coming soon actually. Um. Next week or so.”
He chews on that for a second, mulling over the timing. “That’s fine. We should still be able to make it work.”
There he goes again, making comments that leave you fish-mouthed and stunned, jaw slack with disbelief. Never able to conjure up a good enough retort.
When the server comes by to take your drink orders, both of you still deliberating over your food, John orders a beer for himself and a mocktail for you, not even bothering to consult you about it.
“No alcohol,” he reminds you before you have a chance to ask.
To be fair, the spicy blackberry-basil concoction that the server comes back with a few minutes later is a refreshing burst of fruit and fresh herbs, but that doesn’t excuse the overstep. You ignore it only because you know there’s no use getting worked up when you’ve already made your mind up. It’s a peccadillo in the grand scheme of things considering what he’s doing for you.
Conversation flows surprisingly well over dinner, but at the back of your mind, you can’t stop thinking about how at the end of the night, he’s going to take you home and fuck you. It creeps back in whenever you let your guard down for a split second.
So, do you have any hobbies? (In three hours, this man is going to strip you naked and have sex with you)
Do you have any siblings? Any twins running in the family? (In two hours, this man is going to climb on top of you and fuck you until he puts a baby in you)
It’s a lot to keep in your head at the same time.
“How long have you been thinking about doing this?” John asks apropos of nothing, the earlier thread of your conversation evaporating on the spot.
“I mean, I’ve wanted to have kids for a long time, but actually planning to have them…maybe a couple months?”
“Why now? Why not wait a little longer? Wait for someone to start a family with?”
You’re not sure why he’d ask you that, why it would matter. It’s none of his business, quite frankly. You almost want to tell him that, let yourself get righteous, get angry, but you find you can’t fully commit to the anger. It wouldn’t change anything. You aren’t being forced to answer him.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m not much of a family man myself. ‘Least not when I was younger, when it counted. Never had the time nor the inclination. Work took me all over—it just wouldn’t have been fair if I had a wife or kids waiting around for me. But since it didn’t seem like having a family was in the cards for me, I thought it would be a waste of good genetics.”
“Oh.” It’s arrogant, but it’s as good an answer as any.
He waits a beat then lifts an eyebrow when you don’t reciprocate. “So? Why didn’t you wait?”
“I did try, but there wasn’t much out there, and I wanted a baby more than I wanted to be with someone, so…”
Leave him to fill in the blanks. He met you at the culmination of that longing after all, even changed the course of it, disrupted your plans to place himself at the centre of them.
At the centre for a time, you remind yourself. Not forever.
After that, he keeps the conversation light, only delving into superficial topics to help pass the time. You excuse yourself after finishing your meal to go to the bathroom, and come back to two coffees laid out on the table with sugar and cream in pretty porcelain cups laid out between them. John must have ordered for you again in your absence. Good thing you like coffee.
The bill is also there, discretely tucked under John’s napkin, and that makes your stomach flip, realizing that only a coffee now sits between you and the end of this night.
Then, at a certain point, when all that’s left in your cup is the dregs, sugar spoon bone dry on your plate, John gives you a look from across the table that says it’s time for you both to go.
Well, here we go, you think a little hysterically as you push back your chair to stand, nearly jumping out of your skin when his hand comes down on your back.
At your car, you sway back and forth on your heels. “You can, uh…follow behind me, if that works.”
“Why don’t you give me your address and I’ll meet you there?”
You bite your lip, pretending to deliberate, then acquiesce.
Let him think he’s pulling one on you. You’re bringing him home instead of the other way around because you don’t want to have any memory of a man’s bed when you think about your pregnancy journey. If it’s going to be you alone, then it should be about you alone. Your decision to go out and pick a man to father your baby.
His participation will be a short blip in your life. A minor footnote. You’ll remember it in bursts throughout the rest of your life: staring at a carton of cream in the dairy aisle of the local grocery store; garden spade buried hilt-deep in a plot of soil, blue bigleaf hydrangea in a pot beside you, sweat dripping down the bow of your lips; your baby’s face, for the rest of your natural life.
In your foyer, his hands glide around your hips, pulling you into his chest, and you realize abruptly that ‘short’ might not have been the most accurate interpretation of what’s about to happen.
(Honey, you’ve got a storm coming)
“This off first,” John rasps, pulling the bottom of your shirt up and over your head, blinding you for a split second before he yanks it over your arms.
“Getting right to it, huh?” you joke nervously.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, staring down at you assessingly, as if staring into your soul. That cuts the humour from the moment. Vacuums it from the room, leaving behind only the crackling, blistering heat of his gaze and his intentions.
“Yes,” you whisper. Neither of you mention the tremble in your voice and how unsure you sound.
It doesn’t stop him from undressing you though. Bra pulled down under your breasts, pushing your tits up into his face like an invitation, one he accepts without question, pulling your nipples into his mouth one by one, hands on your hips to hold you in place when you try to squirm away. Not that it’s bad—it’s amazingly good after all, toe-curlingly good to have a man run his tongue over your areolas and suck each sensitive nipple to a stiff peak, until you’re on the verge of coming—but it’s a lot, a lot that you have to wrap your head around, your bra pinched off shortly after that and underwear next.
Your touch is hesitant at first, fingers barely gliding down his arms and fisting in the fabric of his shirt to jerk it up, but he makes it easy for you to get lost in it, your nerves fizzling out in the heat and fervor.
You don’t even notice that John has walked you backwards into the bedroom until he pushes you down onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under you. “One second, love—need to get all of this off myself.”
You watch transfixed as the suit jacket comes off first, shrugged off and discarded. He undoes only a few buttons before wrenching it over his head, eyes on you the whole time, his stare never breaking. Scalding hot.
That’s how you know that despite all his lofty words, this isn’t some favour he’s doing you. He wants this just as badly—wants it with a vigour that you don’t even know if you’ll be able to handle, aware that you are just flesh and blood. There’s a prickle at the back of your mind, a whisper reminding you that nobody knows that he’s here, that he’s a hot-blooded man about to slake his lust with your body.
Then he slides the elastic waistband of his boxers down his thighs and your mind goes blank when you see the flushed, heavy shaft droop between his legs.
The two of you work together to shove a pillow under your hips, John fetching it from the top of the bed and you lifting your hips to give him easier access. You don’t have to ask why.
Nestled between your thighs, John looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes and says, “Let’s get you all softened up to start, alright, love?”
The first touch of his lips to your sex sends a lightning bolt up your spine, and then it’s practically an open mouth kiss. Tongue running up the seam of your lips, pushing into the clenched hole at the centre, the bristles of his beard scraping up the insides of your thighs and the thin skin of your labia.
It’s good, but it’s taking too long and your heart is a rabbiting mess and you can barely think or see straight, so you tangle your fingers in his hair and try to push his head away. “That’s okay, John, I just wanna—oh fuck, can you please just put it in?”
“No, baby, it’s good if you come first,” he murmurs. “Helps it take.”
That floods your system with a frenetic, crazed exhilaration. Baby fever bubbling and boiling, frothing spilling over the top like a pot left on the stovetop for too long.
You gasp when he tucks a couple fingers into your hole to stretch you out, a perfunctory, almost clinical motion. Just enough to loosen you up for him, unmindful of the way you squirm and whine, rolling your hips to get him to go faster. He does not.
It doesn’t take much effort on his part after that to get you to come, too worked up and wound up, core squeezing his fingers like a vice until he gives your clit a suck and you squeal, oh, too much, breath ripping through your chest.
They’re wet when he pulls them out, and he dries them off by rubbing them on your belly.
The shadow of his body draws over yours as he climbs on top of you. It’s as physical as it is visual though, John’s hands always on some part of your body, dragging up your legs and over your arms, fingers spreading over your belly before he runs a hand up between your breasts and over your throat, lingering there just long enough to close around your throat and hold for a second, then skating up to cup your jaw.
And then he’s all big body on top of you, coaxing your legs around his hips, one hand squishing your cheeks when he bends down to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips, the tongue pushing into your mouth musky with the flavour of your cum. You’d protest if you could, but you can’t, his mouth slanted over yours and demanding.
“C’mere,” he mumbles against your lips when he draws you in for another kiss, sawing his cock up and down between your folds, coating his length with your juices, until it’s there suddenly, breaching you.
You have to grab him, loop your arms around his shoulders and squeeze to ground yourself. It’s a lot to take in. He’s a lot to take in.
“I know, love, I know,” John murmurs soothingly. “Deep breaths, okay?”
You listen to him, letting a shaky breath out. It helps you relax. Barely, but enough to ease the strain a bit.
He nuzzles his nose into your temple, his breath fanning out against your ear. “A little more, love, alright? You gonna be brave for me?”
“Oh—just get on with it,” you gasp when he eases in another inch, and John laughs in your ear.
It feels genuinely romantic like this. Your arms wrapped around his neck and his hips slowly rocking into you, whispering sweet nothings like, there we go, you’ve got it, that feel good, love? When he fits his hand around the back of your neck and lifts your head up for a kiss, you swear you see stars.
The kiss is too much. Too intimate. You wish you would’ve set that boundary ahead of time. It feels pointless now, trapped under the heavy weight of his body and impaled on his member, sucked into it, lips slotting and melting over each other, his tongue running over yours. He’s a good kisser at least, practiced from a lifetime of it. No awkward schoolboy tonguing.
Too good. You wonder distantly how many other women he’s slept with (probably more than you have any business knowing). If he’s ever gotten anyone else pregnant. Your nails dig into his back instinctively at the thought and he gasps a wet and guttural sound, hips bucking harder.
He gets rough enough to loosen a bolt of fear in your chest. All of a sudden, it becomes bright and clear in your mind. There’s a grunting, sweating man over you, all two hundred plus pounds of him laid out on top of you, with no protection between you. Raw cock plunging into your pussy. You can barely get a full breath in.
“Fuck, I’m close,” John grunts, and your eyes flick down instinctively, trying to see past the dense mass of hair on his chest towards the length of his cock sliding into you. He’s pressed too close though. When he catches you looking away from him, he clamps his hand around your face again, forcing your gaze back up. “No, none of that. Eyes on me.”
You think you must gasp. Some horrified sound must escape you because you can feel the aftereffect of it, the big hollow where it used to be.
His other arm wedges under your back to pull you closer to him, thighs spreading to brace his weight against the mattress before driving into you harder, deeper, the big, concentrated energy of him inescapable.
You can sense it the second before he’s about to come, his eyebrows digging in and his jaw going tight, the vein in his forehead prominent.
“Christ, you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?” he snarls. “All this fucking cum.”
On the next stroke in, you dig an ankle into the muscle of his ass and squeeze your inner muscles around his length, grinning hazily to yourself when that makes him shout.
And then, oh, he surges in and you feel it, hear it, sense it all around you, his fingers from the hand wedged under your back digging hard into the side of your breast. Hips forcefully pumping into you and pushing his cum in deep, your own orgasm lost somewhere in there, a small, forgettable part of it all.
Eventually, he stops moving over you, letting his cock slip out of you on the next stroke out. You hiss when he does, clenching up involuntarily. With nothing plugging it inside though, his cum leaks out, dripping down the crack of your ass and onto the pillow under your hips.
John’s hot breath fans over your face as he pants, slowly winding down as well, the red flush in his cheeks still stark, though gradually fading. It’s only in the cooldown that you realize how claustrophobic it is being trapped under him, the sheer weight and heat of his body flush with yours becoming more and more uncomfortable, almost unbearably so.
When he slumps off to one side, you can finally breathe again, the air rushing into your lungs. There’s sweat in your skin and tears in the corners of your eyes, everything tacky and humid, the frantic beat of your heart only beginning to slow down. The stiffness in your shoulders only dawns on you after a few minutes like that, and you push yourself up onto your elbows just to try to work some of it out.
“No, don’t get up, love. We’re just gonna lie here for a bit,” he instructs, pushing your shoulder back down. “Better chance of my boys getting the job done if we keep it all in you.”
Of course he just wants to make sure that it takes. That way, you don’t have to do this again. “Oh yeah. I, uh, I didn’t think about that.”
He doesn’t just mean lie there, of course, though your body would like nothing more than to sink into the plush embrace of sleep. Instead he means keeping your hips propped up on the pillow now saturated with cum, and curling you into his side, separating your thighs again to palm your cunt, sliding his fingers through the wet.
It’s a goopy, sticky mess that John plunges his fingers into, pushing it back up inside of you and shushing you when you whimper, a little gaped from his cock but sore to the touch.
For much longer than you anticipated, he lies there on his side beside you and keeps two fingers pushed up inside you, blocking any cum from leaking out.
“How long do we have to do this for?” you ask, voice all high and tight in your throat.
John hums, unconcerned. “Ten, fifteen minutes.”
True to his word, he keeps you there for the full fifteen minutes. Only the sound of your breathing fills the room, quiet otherwise aside from the enormously large weight of his presence, too familiar now with the private corners of your world.
He doesn’t warn you before idly circling your clit with thumb. You jerk, nearly biting through your lip. “John!”
“Relax, honey, I’m just making you come again.”
“I know that, John—ah, ah, ah—”
A leg hooks over yours, his thigh heavy enough to keep you pinned without even much strength behind it. His fingers don’t so much as twitch inside of you, buried to the fattest knuckle while his thumb circles the tight bud of your clit over and over again until you—
You haven’t finished the thought by the time he draws his fingers out, pearlescent strings of cum webbed between them. He hums approvingly when he sees that, pulling your thighs further apart to admire his work. “Gorgeous. That ought to do it for now.”
Your heart skips a beat and you stare up at him, exhausted, the sweat on the back of your neck now cold.
TW: yandere, hurt/no comfort, abduction, noncon, drugging, abuse of power, medical malpractice, restraints, gags, prison cell, vomit, hostage/extortion
You might have felt more distress, were you more sober. You didn't like the smell of… wherever you were. It smelled like disinfectant, and damp stone. The sheet pressed against your face smelled clean, at least. The rubbery bar between your teeth tasted clean, too. You felt light, as if your head had been stuffed with cotton. Through the haze, you knew you ought to be panicking. You simply couldn't will yourself to do so.
You couldn't find the strength to even roll over, though your arms were aching underneath you. All you could do was shift in the strange garment that was definitely not your pajamas.
It had been an arduous two months: two months of good behavior, participating in group therapy, and swallowing whatever the nurses handed him. If the doctor hadn't lied, it would be well worth it.
Harvey was admittedly nervous, when the guard turned him towards the solitary confinement block. Maybe it was all a ruse. Maybe they finally concluded he was a wild, incurable animal, that must never be let from its cage. He'd kill them. But not yet.
He waited for the guard to open the cell door. It was a small, sparse, but thankfully clean room. In the center, lay his payment. At least he thought it was. He couldn't be too sure, as this was their first time seeing you from this particular angle. Whoever had placed you here, had dumped you face-down on an air mattress, leaving your bare rear facing the door. After all the passing jokes about his upcoming "conjugal visit", that felt purposeful, and particularly crass. Though, it was hardly an unwelcome sight.
He entered the cell, barely hearing the door lock behind him. You were breathing, thank Christ, but you didn't stir. He knelt down, peering down at the exposed side of your face. It was you, alright, and you were out of it. You could only manage a confused hum at the callused fingers stroking your jaw. The bit gag you were drooling around muffled the sound.
"Couldn't even get a real mattress, huh?" He chuckled humorlessly. "Suppose that's all good behavior can afford."
It could afford one of Arkham's state-of-the-art straight jackets, though. He was half-disgusted that you had been bound up like a lunatic. The other half was thrilled at the implication he might have long enough with you for the drugs to wear off.
He ran a hand down your canvas-clad back in soothing motions. A pit was forming in his stomach. He hadn't been delusional enough to think you'd come willingly, but this wasn't what he pictured for you. Stripped down, bound and sedated, dumped in a dark cell to wait for a monster…
What else had they done to you?
"I'll just have a look. If any of them touched you, I'll twist off their hands."
Your eyes slowly opened, failed to focus, and fell shut again.
He needed to be careful with you. Keeping you on your side would be best. You could breathe easy, and he didn't want to put any pressure on your neck. Slowly, reverently, he shifted you to one side, lifting your thigh towards the ceiling.
It was beautiful.
Before him was the prettiest pussy he'd ever seen. Pretty enough to eat, though that would have to wait a moment. You looked clean, and uninjured. Curious, he ran an index along your folds. They were so soft. He was going to have you soaked, by the end of this.
Harvey leaned down to give your thigh a chaste kiss. The muscle quivered under his lips, but you didn't stir otherwise. Taking it for your blessing, he leaned in closer. He could smell it now, and it had him salivating. Neck craned to the side, Harvey gave a long, gentle lick to your folds. Heaven. He gave you another. Your clit started to peek from its hood, practically reaching for him. He pressed his face in deeper, wrapping it in the softer side of his lips. He could feel your heartbeat there, and he could almost believe it quickened from excitement. As he began to suck, weak, warbly little whimpers spilled past your gag. You began to move, still unaware, but responsive.
He was lost in you. All the cold, and the questions, and the screaming, and the nightmares, and the side affects… all of it melted away into you. You were here. You were here, in the worst place on Earth, but you were here with him. You were a pair that never should have been separated, but now that he had you, now that he was holding you…
Everything would be alright.
He couldn't be sure when he noticed it, but there was a change. Your sleepy little whines became more insistent, distressed. The thighs that had been lazily twitching around him suddenly tensed, and began to shake.
Reluctantly, Harvey pulled himself away from your warm, and looked up at you.
You were looking back at him — at him — with big, teary eyes. You were still in a haze, he could tell. You probably didn't know where you were, but you could see the monster, and what he was doing to you. Once he met your gaze, you gave out some pleading, unintelligible mumble. He pulled back, wiping your wetness on his sleeve. With a hand on your hip, Harvey tipped you onto your back. The air mattress crinkled as he crawled over you, blocking out the the dim cell light. You must be getting a good look at him, now that he was so close. Your tears had finally spilled past your lash line.
He wanted to take the gag off, to kiss you without it. But, he didn't want to hear what you were trying to say. He couldn't listen to you beg him to stop. Your voice was starting to pick up, and the edge of fear was undeniable.
"No, none of that," he whispered. "I'm not gonna hurt 'cha. Gonna make you purr."
His hand found its way back between your legs. Your thighs shakily closed around his wrist, but you couldn't hold any meaningful force. You were fully crying, when he began working at you again. You must not have realized how you were pulling at his heartstrings. How could you, when all you understood was his unrelenting violation? When he could no longer bear your terrified face, Harvey slid an arm underneath you and pulled you to his chest. He could hear your muffled sobs more clearly now. He felt you shake your head against his shoulder. He wanted to tell you it was all going to be okay; that you were safer than you'd ever been.
You wouldn't have to go all the way. This wasn't the right time, the right place. He could wait for you. He would wait until he had you somewhere warm, in a proper bed, where you only knew the touch of silk and loving caresses. You'd be able to forget about the dark cell, the cruel restraints, and the men that brought you there. They'd never touch you again. He'd endure whatever he had to, to make sure of it.
He slipped two fingers into you. A choked sob escaped him at the ease of it. You were letting him in. He hadn't realized he'd started crying, himself. Shame needled through his chest at this display, but it couldn't slow him.
Harvey could feel your walls squeezing his fingers, trying to pull them in deeper. He found a spot that made you rock your hips into his hand. You were getting there. The squelching sound was becoming audible over your muffled sobs. He brought his thumb up to your clit, drawing a shaky moan from deep in your chest. Sweet thing. You were close.
The door abruptly screamed open, and guards and orderlies flooded the room. You were shouting: had that started before, or after the guards burst in? Innumerable hands ripped him off you. He thrashed out of reflex, until he felt a familiar prick in his neck.
"Fun's over, Dent."
"Stop," his speech was starting to slur. "What're you doing?"
A pair of orderlies entered and hauled you to your feet. You were unsteady, legs clamping together rather than supporting you. As you were raised, he slumped down to his knees. He watched helplessly as you vomited through the gag, yellow bile staining the white canvas of your restraints. The men shared disgusted looks, as they sat you in a waiting wheelchair. You sobbed even harder in your filth.
"She'll be fine. They're just going to get her cleaned up. You'll have to talk to the doctor about future visiting privileges."
His next appointment wasn't for thirteen hours, he thought, as your hysteric wails faded down the hall.
you mentioned that between yan superbat, bruce is the type to collect information/intel stuff from the reader unlike clark who collects personal item/panties. for bruce, is he like collecting private photos he would only get from hacking her phone/city cameras etc? putting secrets camera around her home. what else would he collect for his personal pleasure?
i think bruce is very very interested in studying you like a creature…he needs to understand what makes you tick, he wants details that seem inconsequential to others but mean everything to him. he wants to dissect your personality and learn what in your life conditioned you behave the way that you do now. what do you do when you think no ones watching? what makes you feel safe? what doesnt make you feel safe? whats your favorite meal? do you always stick to a strict routine or do you have room for spontaneity? do you fight, flight, freeze, fawn? whats your favorite color? why did you end your first relationship? has anything traumatic ever happened to you? do you prefer the subway to driving in gotham? how can he take care of you better than anyone else? how can he anticipate your needs before you even know what you want? he seeks to understand you better than you understand yourself. he think if he can understand you down to a microscopic level, he can understand just about you vexes him so much. and what bruce thinks he understands is what he also thinks he can control and his desire for you makes him feel very very out of control.
He likes to "groom" you, but is so nasty and slobbery about it, especially after "the accident". You end up needing a shower after, which thankfully, he's usually lucid enough to understand.
Sometimes, during your heat, he likes to hold off knotting you, just to see how desperate you can get. Harvey is pretty easily bought; with a simple, "Please, daddy, I need you," you can get about anything. Harv' on the other hand, is going to make you negotiate. And he'll hold you to your promises, even if you don't remember them.
He has to knot you twice. He knows you're tired, sweetie. Just lie down and let Harv have his turn.
He wants two bites, for the same reason. You're getting two, and he's expecting two in return.
He is chronically disrespectful of the nest. Harvey's going to barge in there, no invitation, to either join you or drag you out of it. He also takes things. Most of the time, it's something he can fit in his pocket, to calm him during his work day. It's worth paying attention, should he take bigger things. They're going to his den, and they won't be able to placate him for long.
Any sign of independence sets him on edge. On particularly bad days, you shouldn't presume to pick your own clothes, or move to another room without his say-so. It makes him paranoid, like you're testing the waters to run off on him. If you can't read the room, you'll find yourself locked inside it, and fucked out for good measure.
You're a hot topic among some staff at Arkham. He's a cocktail of issues, but the bizarre relationship he has with you seems so out of left field. They all know not to question it, though. He broke an orderly's arms when he jokingly asked if he should put you down as a family or conjugal visit. Regardless, you're useful, in the right doses. Pictures and scented items can prevent unnecessary bouts of agitation. And the promise of visits with you motivate him to cooperate in treatment. There are inevitable outbursts whenever he thinks you're due for your heat. How accurate that is depends on the meds he's on, and whether Dr. Adams allows him access to a calendar. He gets very upset at the thought of you alone, but violent at the notion you might not be. An intern came up with the idea of setting up a daily video call. They're still working out the kinks (pun intended), as it would require someone lucid enough to set up a camera, and you haven't been too receptive to their requests in the past. You should reconsider. There's growing support for the alternative option, and Dr. Cavendish has a stack of signed Temporary Detention Orders on his desk for difficult cases like yourself.
More Gilded Age au! I swear I am working on my WIP's. This just possessed me and I needed to hash it out.
Dick strikes me as the type to fall for one of the house servants. He can woo society folk with his hands tied, (and if we're being honest, that'd only make him more enticing) but he struggles to really connect with his upper-crust peers. While he's not contending with the boundaries of blood that rule the European nobility, there's the inescapable fact that all these people come from some money. Don't get him wrong; he's proud of where he came from. To him, there's no house nobler than Haly's Circus. There's no parentage more deserving of pride than his. It just gets lonely, at those fancy dinners, those galas, those gentleman's clubs. He's surrounded by people who couldn't launder their own shirts if they had to.
You feel so much more grounded, more familiar, in that way. It's funny, seeing as you're quite new in the household. After the havoc last winter wrought on his joints, Alfred finally conceded to getting some extra help. You came at the high recommendation from the housekeeper at the Elliot estate. You lived up to it. You kept the house in good order, and with a refreshingly light spirit. Your transition from new hire to beloved fixture in the home was quick and seamless. Even Bruce took a shine to you, given the weight you took off dear Alfred's shoulders.
It's only natural you wormed your way into Dick's heart as well. While you were familiar with rich patrons and their idiosyncrasies, mister Grayson shocked you with his habits. On your first day, Alfred had been giving you a tour when the young man came downstairs to greet you. He made a point to shake your hand as he welcomed you. The meeting was blessedly short, as the butler quickly shooed him away.
His fondness was quite apparent. You found yourself frequently called upon by him to bring coffee, or revive a dying fire, or organize papers, or remedy some other small issue he'd normally pride himself on taking care of. He liked to make conversation with you while you worked, even following you from room to room when he was able. He spoke more plainly than your previous employers. You had first assumed he was talking down to you, but not so. A couple weeks into your new posting, you'd been called from your bed to fetch some ice. Dick had returned home, sporting some vibrant bruises along the side of his face. Alfred didn't bat an eye at it, simply instructing you to hold a compress while he prepared some medicine. Once properly dosed, the man began to sink into the couch, exhausted. You made to leave, but he caught your hand.
"Stay."
It was a childish request, but you weren't going to say that to your employer's ward. You sat on the stool beside him. He tried to strike up conversation, as if it was normal. He asked for a story from your home. You told a short one. You never asked about where he was from, but that night, he regaled you anyway. He told you about the circus, growing up on the road, and the tragedy that brought him to the manor.
"I guess I missed getting my hands dirty," he chuckled, and your eyes instinctively fell to his bloodied knuckles. There was a rather broad line between campfire cooking and brawling, you thought. You held your tongue, though.
You had had expected, well, hoped, that he would wake up the next morning, mortified, and never mention your conversation. As if you would be so lucky.
He'd gotten much worse. Mistaking your polite deference for interest, Dick threw all remaining propriety to the wind. He regularly interrupted your work now, pulling you away from your tasks to drag you into a conversation or gathering you had no business being in. The family more-or-less encouraged it, happily bringing you into the fold, as if you were a beloved guest rather than staff. He'd gotten more physical, too. Small elements on your person now fascinated him: a stray lock of hair, the shiny buttons on your uniform. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out to touch them. He guided you around the house — a house you knew quite well by now — with an arm slung around your person. And there was the most egregious incident.
Master Wayne was hosting a rather large dinner. It was a hot summer night, and you were made hotter with exertion. You had been ferrying chilled bottles of Muscadet to the dining room when he caught you. He pulled you into a broom closet. It was stuffy and dark, and you could feel the heat seeping through his suit. He pulled you flush with him, speaking into your face rather than at it.
"Don't go. Don't leave me all alone in there."
"I'm needed in the kitchen," was all you could manage, before tearing out of the hellish embracee.
You knew your days on the Wayne estate were numbered. Dick's clear affection could only amount in a scandal. You'd never find work again, if you let it go that far. You had a good friend who knew the Stagg's cook quite well. She put in a good word for you, and assured you that they were most understanding of your situation. Young masters were hardly a new issue for house staff and their reputations.
You gave proper notice to Alfred. It felt terrible, letting him down. His hoarse gentlemanly question, "And you're certain there's nothing I can do to change your mind?" made it all the worse. You tried to assure him that it wasn't anything he'd done. But the unspoken question of why was left hanging in the air. You couldn't explain; not without badmouthing a member of the family that, for the next two weeks, you were still serving.
"I hope you understand, I'll have to inform master Bruce." The childish moniker gave you no amusement in that moment. You simply nodded, and got back to work, trying not to dread the inevitable spread of the news.
dr robby x f!charge nurse!reader | read on ao3 | part one
wc: 33.2k (both parts)
content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, implied age gap, robby is a manwhore and a dick lol, enemies(?)rivals to lovers, angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, parent with lewy body dementia, caretaker of parent, caretaker burnout, death of a parent, alcohol, scene where reader is nearly taken advantage of but there is no actual SA, reader is briefly arrested for disorderly conduct (acab), dysfunctional father/daughter dynamic, panic attack, mental health issues, suicidal ideation
synopsis: after what you thought was a one night stand while on vacation, you're forced to now work in your hook up's emergency room. with your life in shambles, you've sworn off men, but robby is an inescapable force that you are not ready to reckon with.
a/n: hello! first thing’s first, pleaseee read the tags! unfortunately tumblr is lame and wouldn't let me post all in one go, so part one is linked above if you missed it or it is posted in one piece on ao3. i incorporated this blurb into the beginning of the fic, if you haven’t read it you’re not missing anything it’s all here. if you have read it, i made some slight tweaks and reordered some things. i know absolutely nothing about being a charge nurse so. lmao sorry if it’s trash!!! anyway i hope you like it <3 -syd
Robby was half asleep when his phone started ringing on his nightstand. He had spent the night alone in front of the TV, feeling sorry for himself and trying desperately not to think about how your date was going. But no matter how lonely he was, he promised himself no more other women. Even if you never trusted him, never took him up on his offer to come home with him, he knew you were right. That he had used and discarded women, even unintentionally. He didn't want to do that anymore, hurt people in his own loneliness.
So when his phone rang, he fully expected it to be Noelle and fully anticipated silencing the call and going back to bed. But as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, a number he didn't recognize was displayed across his screen. Frowning, he answered and brought the phone to his ear.
"This is Dr. Robinavitch."
"Robby?"
That was you on the other end he knew instantly, your voice small and tinny and sounding like you'd been crying.
Still, though, he was incredibly confused and your name tumbled from his lips in a rush, "Where're you calling me from?"
"The police station."
"Wh—? What happened? Are you okay?"
He heard your shaky breath, static in his ears like sand, "I'd rather not talk about it right now if you don't mind." Your voice sounded watery, like you were trying to swallow tears, but also slow and nearly slurred, "I hate to ask you for anything, but do you think you could come pick me up? They won't let me leave until I'm either sober or someone comes to get me."
Well, that explained the slurred speech, "You're drunk?"
There was a pause on the other end before you answered, "Very."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, holding his phone between his shoulder and ear as he searched for a pair of pants to pull on, "Yeah, I'm on my way."
You sighed in what he thought sounded like relief, "Thank you."
He had a million questions like why the fuck were you in a police station and where was Brian? Why was it him you'd called? Surely there had to be someone else, anyone else you'd call in a crisis? He wasn't upset about it, in fact, a small part of him was pleased that you were turning to him when you needed help. But after your last conversation, he just didn't understand why.
He drummed his fingers against his steering wheel anxiously as he pulled into the police station, hurrying into a near jog as he went inside.
When he told the officer at the desk he was there to pick you up, the man sighed and said he'd be back. He returned soon after with a bag of your things and Robby frowned.
"What did you take her in for?"
"Disorderly conduct," He said and then handed Robby a clipboard to sign.
Robby skimmed it quickly and signed at the bottom, "You took her things away and locked her up because she was publicly intoxicated? I work in an ER you usually just drop them to us if they're that drunk."
"She threw a glass bottle at a guy."
He frowned. Brian? Granted you were drunk, but what could he have done to piss you off so bad in one night that you'd throw a bottle at him?
A moment later, you were brought out, roughly tugging your arm away from the officer who led you out. Your eyes were swollen and puffy and you swiped your things from the counter on your way outside, never looking at Robby.
He followed you outside hesitantly, watching as you dug through your bag: first for your phone and then for a cigarette.
He leaned against his car next to you, hands shoved in his pockets, "Are you alright?" He asked as gently as he could manage.
You took a couple of drags of your cigarette before your face crumpled. Before he could move to comfort you, you doubled over and heaved the contents of your stomach onto the pavement.
"Ah, shit—" He muttered and then bent to your level, taking the still lit cigarette from your hands and rubbing your back.
And he realized pretty quickly that you weren't just vomiting, you were sobbing. You shrugged off the hand he'd put on your back in an attempt to comfort, still crying and now that the vomiting had passed, it looked like hyperventilating.
Reaching into his car he grabbed some napkins and bottled water. Opening the bottle, he poured some out on a napkin and held it in front of you, "To wipe your mouth."
After a moment you took the napkin from him, wiping down your face and then taking the opened bottle of water, beginning to chug it.
"Hey—hey—" He reached for the bottle and gently tugged it away from you, "Small sips or you're just gonna throw it up again."
After the two of you stood side by side for a while, you slowly sipping on the water, Robby broke the silence again, "Do you wanna talk about whatever happened?"
"The date was bad and I drank too much," You said, voice hoarse from the bile that had burned it just minutes ago, "I wanted to leave, but I was drunk and couldn't break from him and he took me behind the restaurant and tried to…" You trailed off and when he looked over at you, your chin was wobbling and your eyes bloodshot. It broke his heart, but he waited.
"I kneed him in the groin and he left me alone, but I think—I don't remember exactly, but I think he called me a cunt and spit at me—And so I threw the bottle at him." You breathed in slowly, "And then it turned out the police had been parked there the whole time."
Robby tried to swallow down the wave of protectiveness he felt. He didn't think that was what you wanted or needed right now, "So Brian's in there too?" He asked, nodding towards the station.
You laughed, "No. Apparently only my behavior was considered a threat to the public. He left of his own free will."
He slowly turned his head towards you, "Are you fucking kidding me?"
You shook your head, "Nope."
Robby scoffed and then pushed himself up off the car, feeling levels of righteous anger he hadn't felt in a long time, "Why don't you get in the car, I'm just going to have a quick talk with the officers inside—"
"Don't bother, Robby," You said, your voice sounding weary and exhausted, "It doesn't—It won't make a difference—I just wanna go, please."
He looked stubbornly from you to the police station. You did look exhausted and more sad than he'd ever seen you. He was used to seeing you angry and defensive, but right now you looked defeated. Vulnerable.
"Okay," He said, nodding, "Where do you want me to bring you?"
You opened and closed your mouth a few times, frowning and seemingly growing frustrated the more you thought about it.
"You still don't trust me with your home address?"
You shook your head, "No, no I just…" Your chin wobbled again and you looked up towards the moon, "I can't go home. Like this. I'll have to ex—I don't wanna go home."
There was something you weren't telling him there, but that wasn't exactly new so he just nodded, "Okay. I can… bring you to my house. I'll sleep on the couch."
This seemed to frustrate you as well until finally you sighed, "Okay. Fine."
When you got to Robby's place, he watched as you wrapped your arms around yourself, eyes wandering around his place, cataloguing.
"Do you want something to eat?" He asked.
As if waking from a trance, you slowly turned your attention back to him and shook your head, "No."
He nodded, and then gestured for you to follow him down the hall to his bedroom. He went into the ensuite bathroom, laid out an extra toothbrush for you and clean towels, then came back out to search his drawers for a clean t-shirt and pair of boxers.
But you were staring at his bed, eyes distant.
"I've changed the sheets," He said slowly, "Since Noelle was here. If that's what you were wondering."
You nodded, but remained quiet, avoiding eye contact with him. It scared him, how quiet you were. He'd never, ever seen you like this, bereft and despondent.
"You can take a shower if you want, you're welcome to anything in the bathroom," He placed a pair of boxers, sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a hoodie on his bed in front of you, "Here are some clean clothes. I'm gonna grab you some Liquid IV, water, and ibuprofen. Do you want anything else?"
You blinked quickly and shook your head. He wished there was more he could do, that you would allow him to do more. But right now he wasn't sure what you were thinking at all. And so he quietly began to back out of the room—
"Robby?"
He looked up and you were looking at him with watery eyes, your arms still hugging yourself, "Thank you." You said softly.
He nodded, "Anytime."
***
You thought you wanted to be alone. You showered with soap that smelt like Robby and brushed your teeth with his spare toothbrush and got dressed in his clothes that also smelt of him. And when you came out to his bedroom, all of the things he promised you were sitting on his nightstand, bedroom door closed again.
You climbed onto his bed and crawled across it to reach the ibuprofen, knocking back some water and then reaching for the Liquid IV. You crawled into his sheets, turned off the bedside lamp, sat in darkness enveloped by his things and his smell and were surprised when you found it all comforting. That his presence all around you made you feel safe.
Maybe if you were feeling more yourself, you would have been more apt to interrogate the feeling. Maybe you would've been strong enough to resist it. But spending the night with someone who didn't understand you, to almost being assaulted, to being thrown in jail, all while trying to fight off an alcohol induced panic attack, you just wanted to give in.
You were tired of fighting it. Of fighting him. So after about forty five minutes of staring at the ceiling, you climbed out of the bed and padded out to the living room. You heard the familiar sounds of a Jeopardy! rerun as you rounded the corner and saw Robby sitting on the couch, glasses on his nose as he read something on his phone.
A floorboard creaked as you approached and he looked up immediately, "Hey," he said softly, placing his phone down next to him, "Do you need something?"
Wordlessly, you walked over to him and straddled his lap, burying your face in his neck and wrapping yourself around his body. He stiffened for only a moment before wrapping his arms around you in turn, leaning back into the couch as he held you to him. His warmth and the feeling of his chest expanding against yours immediately soothed you. After just a couple of minutes in silence, him holding you tightly against him, you could feel that sleep was going to overtake you soon.
"Will you come to bed?" You asked quietly, "I don't wanna sleep by myself."
"Sure," he said, his voice rumbling through your chest as he spoke, "Whatever you want."
You pulled back slightly, pressing your forehead against his, "But do you want to?"
His eyes roamed over your face and then his hands reached up to cradle your cheeks, thumbs running gently over your cheekbones, "Yes," he said eventually, "very much."
You got up out of his lap and held his hand as you led him back down the hall to his room. When he climbed in bed next to you, you scooted as close as possible, pressing your nose to his.
"Can I ask you something?" He asked after a few minutes, his thumb resting on your hip and rubbing lazy circles into the soft flesh there.
"Hm?"
"Why was it me you called tonight? After the way we left things earlier I thought I'd be the last person you'd call."
You almost laughed, "Truthfully, I had no other choice. They took my phone and told me I wasn't allowed to call anyone unless I knew their number by heart. But I found your business card you gave me when we were in Jamaica in my pocket with your cell number on it."
"Ah," he said sounding disappointed, "Okay, that makes more sense."
"But I'm glad I called you," you said quickly, "I'm glad I'm here."
"This wasn't how I wanted you to finally take me up on my offer to stay the night."
"No," you nudged you nose into the crook of his neck, "me neither."
He stroked absently at the back of your head for a few moments, "I'm sorry the date with Brian went badly."
You chuckled, "You don't feel vindicated?"
"No, I—No. I know we argue, but you looked absolutely devastated when I picked you up. I know not just because of Brian, but I—" He sighed, "What I'm trying to say is that even though we butt heads and I know I can be a dick, I… care about you. I don't like seeing you upset. I've never seen you like that and I— to be honest with you, it scared the shit out of me."
His admission struck a chord in you and you pulled back again to see his face in the dark.
He cared about you. Your fingers ran aimlessly over his cheeks and beard. It was funny to hear him say it. He didn't even know you, not really. He only knew the select pieces of you you'd decided to give.
He didn't care about you, he cared about the version of you you'd created specifically for his consumption.
But still, you'd let yourself pretend, if only for tonight.
"Thank you," you whispered and pressed your mouth to his, "I'm not always very kind to you, either."
He kissed you back for a moment or two before pushing your face gently to the side so he could kiss your cheek instead, "I like when you're mean," he pressed an additional kiss to your temple, "Go to sleep, now."
In his arms, sleep came quickly and held you in its grip the whole night through.
***
Your alarm was trilling, shattering the morning tranquility. At some point in the night, you'd turned onto your side and Robby's arm snaked around your waist like a vice. As you blinked the sleep out of your eyes, you felt his deep breaths lightly fan your neck.
You hummed softly as you woke, wiggling your hips in an attempt to free yourself of his grip.
"Turn it off." Robby mumbled into your neck,
"Gladly, if you'd free me from the cage that is your arms."
Robby's laugh rumbled behind you, "Can't you turn it off without abandoning me?"
You felt heat spread up your neck and to your cheeks, "So dramatic." You scoffed and pulled lightly at his arms again, which he removed from your waist, though he whined the entire time.
With your phone in your hand, you turned off the alarm and Robby immediately tugged you back to him, eliciting a quiet oof.
When you saw the time, 9AM, you quietly cursed. Neither of you were working today, but you needed to get home so Cecelia could leave. You'd promised her you'd be home by 8AM the latest if you stayed out, but in the chaos you'd forgotten to adjust your alarm the night before.
"What's wrong?" Robby mumbled, and then when you threw the covers off yourself and started to climb out, he groaned an indignant, "Hey!"
"Sorry, I really have to go." There were several unread texts and missed calls from Cecelia on your phone and you were trying not to overreact, mostly because you didn't want to betray anything in front of Robby. Anymore than you had the previous night when you were drunk. Sober, now, you were already beginning to regret calling him. You should have toughed it out in jail.
"Okay," He stretched in bed, arms reaching towards the headboard and his t-shirt rode up slightly as he did. With effort, you tore your eyes away, "Let me drive you."
Scrolling through Cecelia's texts quickly, there was nothing about your dad in them. She just wanted to know where you were. Quickly, you texted her back apologizing and let her know you were on your way home.
"That's okay, I'll just call an Uber."
He scoffed, "We're back to this, now?"
You sighed as you walked around the room, gathering your things, "Thank you for picking me up last night and letting me stay here, but I shouldn't've—I think the boundaries we have are good. I don't want to ruin anything—"
"You stayed here last night and the world didn't end. I don't understand what the problem is."
At this, you laughed, "Yes, I think you've made it abundantly clear you don't understand and haven't from the second I walked into PTMC."
"Maybe I'd be more understanding if you ever actually explained anything to me."
You ran your hands over your face in frustration, "We keep going around in circles, Robby, aren't you exhausted?"
"No," He shook his head and sat up, watching as you walked around the room, "I could keep going all day."
When you turned back to him, he had a closed lip smile. He was enjoying this. Asshole.
His hair was mussed and the sleep still hung heavy around his eyes, making him look soft, younger. If you were honest, you wanted to crawl back in his arms and make out with him, slow and messy. You wanted his hands under your shirt, playing with your nipples until you whined and ground down onto him. You wanted him to crawl between your legs, licking you slowly and tenderly, an arm firmly bracketing your hips to keep you from squirming, his warm brown eyes looking up at you drenched in desire—
Clearing your throat, you looked away. Frankly, you thought you'd be bored of him by now. But every time you saw him, it reignited the embers in your chest, fire spreading through your veins. It was becoming evident that this was more than just sex, now.
"Thank you again for coming to get me and letting me stay, I really mean that. It was—Well, it was very nice of you."
You heard him laugh behind you, "You say it like you're shocked I could be nice to you."
"I'm not shocked," You lied, slinging your bag over your shoulder, "Men that are regularly sleeping with me are typically nice to me. I'm a great lay."
You tried to instill your words with as much false confidence as possible, but as his eyes scanned your face, a hand scratching lightly at his beard, you got the sense that he knew you were a fraud.
He nodded and finally broke your gaze, "Just let me drive you home, alright? I won't show up unannounced, ever, I promise."
You really couldn't afford the Uber right now. You bit your lip before groaning, "Fine. But we have to go now."
When Robby pulled outside your house, he leaned over the center console first to examine it. It was a mid century, two story home built of brick and slanted roofs. The yard was in need of being mowed and the rest of the landscaping wild and unkempt.
"You live here?" He asked, a note of confusion in his voice. You figured his confusion likely came from the price range of this neighborhood. You assumed he knew Pittsburgh well and this neighborhood was known for upper middle class families settling down in the eighties. It wasn't somewhere a single woman in her thirties lived by herself on a nurse's salary.
"Yes," You said, and looked towards the house. As you did, Cecelia opened the door, the two dogs running past her and into the yard, barking at Robby's parked car.
"Whose that? Those dogs yours, too?"
"I'm done answering your questions," You said, turning back to him, grinning. You pressed a chaste kiss to his mouth, felt him continue to lean in even as you pulled away, "Thank you again. I'll wash your clothes and bring them back—"
"Don't bother," he said, voice husky as he gripped your chin between his fingers, "I like the way they look on you."
You hated the way your stomach fluttered at the sound of his voice. You pressed your lips together and narrowed your eyes at him, "Okay. I'll see you at work."
"Not sooner?" He asked, his tone light and teasing. You both were off the next couple of days, but you'd be back a day sooner than he would.
You hummed, "Goodbye, Robinavitch."
As you jumped out of the car, the dogs ran up to you, pouncing up and down around you as their tails wagged.
"Hello boys," you cooed, running your hands over each of their heads in turn as you walked towards Cecelia, "Mr. President," You said, mocking formality, "and Mr. Vice President. Did you miss me?"
They trotted up after you onto the stoop until you stood in front of Cecelia, "I'm sorry," you said immediately, "It was… Not the night I anticipated, I should've texted or called."
But Cecelia was frowning, looking from the oversized clothes on your frame to the car still parked out front, "Whose clothes are these?" She pulled at your sleeve, "You said the EMT was a young guy, but that looks like an old man from here."
You clicked your tongue as you walked past her into the house, the dogs running quickly along your legs back in, "Cecelia, I didn't know you were such a neb-nose."
She pointed her finger accusatorily, "You take that back, I am not nebby. I just worry about you since your last relationship, I just think someone your own age would be better for you."
You sighed, "Yes, well, I tried. Date sucked."
She shook her head, "And you ended up in someone else's bed?"
"You know I love you," You said quietly, "But I really don't want to discuss my love life with you."
You felt her stare, both judgmental and motherly, as you pretended not to notice, "Fine. I'll stay out of it." She said, throwing her hands up emphatically. She wouldn't stay out of it, you knew, but you appreciated the well meaning lie.
"How has he been?"
"He's good," She said sincerely, smiling, "He's playing chess with Tim."
Tim was Cecelia's husband. You smiled, "Really? He hasn't played in months."
She nodded and gestured for you to follow her. Down the hall, the low voices of two men floated down the hallway.
You were delighted to find your father and Tim sat at the table by the big window in the piano room, sun warming their faces. And your father was smiling and laughing, even as his hand shook while he moved a board piece.
"Oh, look, the girls have joined us," Tim said jovially. He grew up in Wisconsin and had this dynamic, magnetic personality. The first time you met him you knew immediately why Cecelia loved him. He balanced her.
It was a good day for your father, it seemed, because when he looked at you you could tell he recognized you. He fumbled for your name, but got it eventually, and while he told you about his day, said he was happy you stopped by to visit, you found yourself getting misty eyed. Again, this was the kindest you could recall him being with you since you were very small.
What was it about fathers who lost interest in their daughters once they reached adolescence? The overnight change to full blown femininity too detestable to look past.
You had full journals probably still tucked beneath these floor boards lamenting reasons why he would not, or could not love you the way you needed. And now, when you had well and truly given up on childhood fantasies of unconditional parental love, the plaques in his brain had progressed in such a way that he couldn't quite remember you fully, but he still knew he loved you.
All this time and underneath it all the only thing left was love, the one thing you had wanted more than anything, but he had withheld.
You had thought you wouldn't feel anything when your father died, resigned to indifference many years ago, but the revelation that he likely had always loved you and had just been too stubborn to show it had grief clawing up your throat.
"Did you talk to his neurologist yesterday?" Cecelia asked, "His tremors are getting worse, his meds will need to be adjusted."
"Fuck," you swore softly, "No, sorry, I forgot. I'll call her today."
You felt Cecelia's imploring gaze on you in your peripheral, but tried to ignore it.
"Dana mentioned she passed along some memory care facility brochures to you."
You sighed, "Of course she did."
"I want to be clear that I'll support you no matter what, but I really think you should at least tour those facilities. If you're going to move him somewhere, it'll be easier on him to do it now while he still has some understanding."
You swallowed thickly, "I know that."
"His Medicare will probably fund most of it, more than they would for care at home."
You nodded silently, all things you knew, but had been putting off thinking about. Because in the back of your head was the conversation you'd had with him when he was first diagnosed. His very matter of fact tone as he told you he was making you his health care proxy and also that he would never forgive you of you used those powers to put him in a nursing home.
You didn't blame him for it. You'd worked in a nursing home for a few years as a CNA while you were in school and even in best case scenarios they seemed miserable to you. The memory care facilities weren't quite the same as a nursing home, but you figured the sentiment remained. You supposed that was a conversation you should have had with him at the time, but you had been desperately trying to avoid any hard conversations then. In fact you had resented him for getting diagnosed right when you'd got engaged. It was horrible to even think it, you knew, but it felt like he was trying to steal your happiness.
"You ready to hit the road, Cece?" Tim had stood and joined his wife, stretching an arm comfortably around her shoulders.
You walked them out, thanked them profusely for staying and then closed the door behind them. As Franklin whined with concern at your legs, another sound had you resting your forehead against the wood of the door.
You had few pure—untouched by anger or hurt—memories from childhood. One that stuck, sweet like candy in your teeth, was your father singing Here Comes the Sun to you while he pushed you on the rickety swing set in the backyard.
Now you could hear him in the other room, humming the melody softly, like a hymn.
***
Brian was back in the ER and your head was throbbing. You were doing your best to avoid talking to him, but you had noticed the subtle whispers and fist bumps to his fellow EMT when he walked by you.
When he had passed the hub, you bent over the counter, closing your eyes for just a moment or two. You had gotten very good at removing yourself from the ER even if only for a moment.
"Hey," That was Cassie's voice behind you and you straightened again, forcing a smile, "Isn't that the EMT you went on a date with last week?"
You hummed, "The very same."
"How did it go? Did you get laid? Tell me you got laid, I need to live vicariously through you."
You gave a short laugh, "No, I did not get laid."
She frowned, "Well, why not? I assumed that was why you didn't show for dancing."
"Yeah, I'm really sorry about that Cassie, I wanted to come, I just—Something came up. The date was horrible, though, if it's any consolation."
There must've been something in your voice that gave you away because she looked you over, not in judgment, but it was instead sympathy you found in her eyes as she tilted her head, "Are you alright?"
"McKay?" It was Javadi's voice that cut through the din of the ED before you could answer, "I need to present 13 to someone, are you free?"
"Sure," McKay said and draped her stethoscope back over her neck before turning back to you, "We'll talk later?"
You weren't planning on that, but you nodded anyway. Took a slow steadying breath and blew it out slowly as you looked down at your iPad—
"Good morning—"
"Jesus, fuck." You swore and rounded on Robby who had somehow managed to sneak up on you. At your shouting, the pain in your head intensified for a brief moment and you winced, "Could you announce yourself before doing that next time?"
He frowned and leaned his hip against the counter, scooting back enough so he could see your face, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," You said through incredulous laughter, "Why does everyone keep fucking asking me that?"
"You winced," He said, ignoring your question, "Something hurt?""
You sighed, "I just have a headache, I'm fine." At that moment, you looked up and accidentally locked eyes with Brian, who smiled at you. Smiled. Not sneered. As if nothing was wrong.
Robby tracked your gaze and you noticed the way he stiffened, "Is he bothering you?"
"No," You said quickly, "We haven't spoken."
"Well why the fuck is he looking at you like that then?"
You heard the undercurrent of danger in his voice and frowned, finally looking at him. He was watching Brian with an almost predatory gaze, his forearms braced against the counter, "I don't know," you said quietly, "Because he's deranged? Maybe you should stop staring after him with those fuckin' wolf eyes."
He turned back to you, "Wolf eyes?"
You rolled your eyes, "You're looking at him like a jealous boyfriend," You lowered your voice, "If you don't cut it out people are going to start talking. Everyone knows I went out with him."
He shook his head marginally, "Sorry, I forgot how puritanical you are over the idea of people knowing who you're sleeping with."
You blinked slowly at him in shock, and then laughed, loudly, until eyes were on both you and Robby. The sound was off key and grating and you took a small delight when Robby grimaced.
It was ridiculous, really, that you were dealing with this. And you had no one to blame but yourself. Calling him in a weak moment, letting him take you home, letting him convince you he cared about you. It was naive and stupid and you knew better.
"Wait—" He said immediately, "Hold on, that came out wrong—"
"Over and over, Robby, you continually prove my point of exactly why we should not be involved in any way."
"Oh, that's—" He scoffed, "Come on, that's an overreaction, the other night we—"
"Here you go," McKay sidled between you and Robby and set some ibuprofen in front of you.
"I—" You frowned, "What's this?"
"It's ibuprofen." She said, smiling.
"Well, yes, I can see that. Um, why?"
"Oh, it was obvious that you have a headache, that's why you're acting all snippy. You were like this a couple of weeks ago, same deal," She turned back to Robby and looked between the two of you, "Sorry, did I interrupt something?"
Robby started, "Yes, actually—"
"No," You said quickly instead, "Robby was actually just headed to… Central 11 so Dr. Santos can present." You raised your voice slightly since you knew Trinity was behind you, trying to chart, "Isn't that right Dr. Santos?"
She sighed heavily, but you heard her push back from her workstation, "Sure, no time like the present."
"Fantastic," You looked back at Robby in front of you, a smile pasted to your face, "Off you go, Dr. Robinavitch."
He watched you, temper evident in his gaze as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. But in the end, he simply pushed himself off the counter and walked off with Santos.
McKay slowly shifted her gaze from Robby to you, "What the hell was that?"
"What was what?" You took two ibuprofen capsules in your palm and tossed them back with a sip of Diet Coke.
She lowered her voice slightly, "Am I crazy or are you sleeping with Robby?"
At her words, you gasped, but there was still soda in your mouth and so you accidentally inhaled it, burning down your lungs and up your nose.
"Oh, shit, sorry—" She said, but there was laughter in her voice as she thumped you over the back, "Are you okay?"
You waved her off and grabbed your water bottle to clear the irritation. Once you'd caught your breath you turned back to her, "What the fuck would make you think that?"
Over her shoulder, you saw Princess trying to fight a smile behind her, Perlah not far off. And you knew they all meant well, really. These were probably the three people in the ED least likely to judge you. Princess and Perlah you had been unsure of in the beginning, but they really did keep their gossip to themselves and they never treated you differently once they knew. McKay was probably the one other person here you would trust with sensitive personal information.
But it didn't make it feel any better. With everything you had going on at home, when you came here all you wanted was to do the work. The work that had always given you purpose, that you'd been good at, your near pathological desire for organization and control put to good use. Now though, all because of some stupid lapse in judgment when you were on vacation, you were becoming the topic of all the wrong conversations.
McKay opened her mouth slowly, "Well… There just seemed to be a lot of weird tension when I walked up here."
"Yeah, well, we were having a disagreement. About work."
"Right, but there was also the fact that he was glaring at Brian as if he'd committed some sort of personal crime against him."
You felt your frustration flare, "What, like they were fighting over the last piece of chicken?"
McKay frowned, "Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you—"
"You didn't," you said sharply, "I have to go do a room check."
You walked away before she could get another word in, but you heard the whispers behind you from her and Princess and likely Perlah too.
What did it matter, you thought. Likely you were only a temporary replacement for Dana anyway. She'd be back before you knew it and maybe you'd pick up a shift here and there but that would be it. They'd replace you in a second. What did it matter if they talked? What did it matter if Robby planned to toss you aside when he got bored?
What did any of it fucking matter? You had no fiancé, no real friends, your dad was about to die and he never liked you much anyway, pretty soon you'd have no job as well. Thirty plus years and nothing to show for it. The throbbing in your head increased as you walked around the ED.
"I need to talk to you," You said when you found Robby.
"About what?" He said shortly.
"Privately." You said, and grasped his forearm before tugging him out of the emergency room and up the stairs.
"Where are you—? Now? You're taking me here now—?"
You were leading him up to the abandoned floor where the two of you had met up many times after shift for sex. But it had always been after shift. Never during. The two of you would never leave the ED unattended like that. But you were feeling reckless.
He continued to follow you even though you failed to answer his question and you took this as consent.
When you pulled him inside and empty room and closed the door behind you, immediately and without preamble, you were on him. Lips locked with his and hands braced against his chest, you kissed him both hungrily and viciously, teeth nipping roughly at lips.
He made a sound of surprise at the back of his throat, but he kissed you back, hands lifted to cradle your neck.
It was only when your hands slid down to unbutton his cargo pants that he pulled away. Grunting, he slid his hands down to brace your wrists and pulled you off and away from him, "Wait—Hold on—What're you doing?"
You scoffed, "What does it look like I'm doing?" You said quickly, and relatched your mouth to his, desperate for distraction, desperate to stop the self loathing thoughts that pounded like nails against your skull.
"Hey—" He pushed you away again, "C'mon, kid, knock it off."
This time, when he pushed you away, you groaned in frustration, the sound growing into an almost scream, "What is your problem?"
He tilted his head as he looked at you and when he spoke his voice was full to the brim with agitation, "What's my problem? Just ten minutes ago you were telling me emphatically how we shouldn't be involved anymore and now you're trying to jump my bones. You don't see how I might be experiencing fuckin' whiplash?"
Your eyes burned and you blinked rapidly in an attempt to dissolve them. The last thing you wanted was to break down in front of him again. You tried desperately to hold onto your rage, though with each passing moment you felt your grip slipping.
"Sweetheart," He tried again, his voice tender and warm, "What's going on?"
You shook your head and tried to laugh it off, looking up at the ceiling, "I don't know. I don't fucking know. I feel like I'm losing my mind." You sniffled before you continued, though you still couldn't look at him. Couldn't look him in the eye while you spoke. "Everything—Everything's wrong and I feel like—Every day I wake up and I realize that my life is already over."
Your thoughts were jumbled and you couldn't properly communicate what you were feeling. Never mind that you didn't want to really tell him anything, you just wanted to fuck. Why couldn't he just shut up and fuck you?
After a few moments of silence passed between you, you heard him chuckle softly. Frowning, you finally looked at him and he was shaking his head, a hand running over the back of his head.
"You're a child," he said, deathly quiet.
You stood, frozen for a moment, certain you'd misheard him. But he didn't say anything else.
"What?" You asked, hated how small your voice sounded.
"You're so young," He said, and he sounded exhausted, "You don't know anything about the world yet, you're just a baby."
His voice was so gentle when he said it, as he closed the distance between you again, you weren't sure he meant to be condescending, to be cruel, as you thought he had been at first.
No, he had been incredulous, in wonder. And sure enough, when he was standing just centimeters from you again, his took your face gently in his hands, thumbed at the wetness beneath your eyes, the sensation of the calloused pads of his thumbs against the soft skin of your cheek had your eyelids fluttering closed.
He was calling you a baby, that was fine, you wanted to be babied. You wanted desperately for someone to baby you, just for once for the burden to be taken off your shoulders. Please, you begged him with your eyes, please take care of me.
"Your life's just starting," He said quietly, "It's only just begun."
And because you couldn't stand the sincerity in his voice, you couldn't bear not to needle him, "Oh, such a big man," You said teasingly, "why don't you show me then?"
He almost looked like he wanted to sigh, like he couldn't understand why you were defaulting back to cynicism, to sarcasm, when he was trying to be earnest for once. But the moment passed and then he was kissing you, soft and slow.
"I don't—Think we have time for this—" You said, impatiently tugging at his pants again.
But he took your wrists in his hands, pinned them to the wall above your head with just one of his hands, "Be quiet," he said roughly against your mouth, his beard rubbing your chin raw, "For once just be quiet and take what I give you."
Before you could think about protesting, he pushed his free hand between your legs, slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of your pants. You sighed, eyes rolling back and squirming against his hold on your arms uselessly when his fingers stroked your folds. He sucked at your neck, occasionally dragging his teeth along the skin of your neck and then running his tongue along the goosebumps that rose in his wake.
He knew your body well by this point which meant his fingers knew exactly where to go, the rhythm at which to stroke, exactly how much pressure to apply to your clit with his thumb until you were whining after an embarrassingly short amount of time. But you were unable to feel shame about it just then, that would come later. Your muscles clenching, your mind having gone blissfully blank the second he'd touched you.
"There she is, sweet girl, so quiet when I touch you, hm? Should I let you come? You think you've earned it?"
You sighed, "Please?"
"Whatever you want," he said softly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he sped up the rhythm of his fingers and you fell apart around him, his hand dropping your wrists to hold you through it as you shuddered and broke, "Shhhh," he hushed your moans with kisses to your mouth, "You're okay, sweetheart."
For a few moments, you believed him.
But only for a few.
When you were back at the hub, Robby nowhere to be seen, missed calls on your phone from your father's neurologist and the memory care facilities you'd promised to tour, McKay asking if everything was okay, you taking every last bit of strength trying and failing not snap at anyone else. The weight was staggering again without Robby's hands to share the burden.
***
Robby watched you closely the rest of the shift, recognized the signs that you were sinking beneath the waves, allowing the current to pull you out to sea. Your clipped insistence that everything was fine, your snapping at staff, your aversion to any real discussion quickly disguised with sarcasm and wit. It was like staring in a fun house mirror, something like his worst nightmare.
What really alarmed him was when you'd pulled Whitaker aside after you'd found out he had repeatedly informed an Alzheimer's patient that her husband had passed. He hadn't heard all of it, but had walked past in time to hear you lay into him.
"But—" Whitaker was saying, "She should know he's gone, I was just—"
"You were just what?" You snapped, "Putting your feelings in front of the patient's? Alzheimer's was in her chart it's not a fucking mystery she's not going to remember what you tell her. You tell her once. It doesn't stick? Well then you start telling her he's at work or he's in the other room, but you don't retraumatize her again and again. How do you think you would like to relive the moment you found out you were a widow again and again and again?"
"Everything okay in here?" Robby announced himself and you had immediately blown past him.
"Fine," you said, "But maybe you need to give your residents sensitivity training so they stop fucking torturing patients."
You were gone before he could say anything else.
He remembered what Dana had said to him not too long ago: Do not pull her down into the pit with you.
He hadn't meant to, but wasn't that always the case with him? He never meant to hurt, but he always ended up maiming anyway. Especially the ones he cared about the most.
After shift, he sat outside by his motorcycle and waited for you. You always seemed to stay until whoever was there to relieve you kicked you out. Something else he was familiar with: The ED was a curse, but it was also the only thing that kept him above water.
"Hey," He said when he saw you walk through the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, "Can I talk to you for a sec?"
You walked over to him, but your eyes roved over his bike, a slow smirk on your face, "What d'you have, a death wish?"
He smirked halfheartedly and avoided your gaze, "I wanted to talk about what you said earlier."
"Unfortunately I talk quite a lot, so I'm gonna need you to be more specific."
"About us not being involved anymore. I think you were right, I think we should stop seeing each other."
He was met with uncomfortable silence. It stretched and frayed until it snapped.
"Well, isn't that incredibly responsible of you." Your tone was impressively sardonic, the venom in your voice palpable, but he had expected this. Had become accustomed to your constant push and pull from the moment he met you. You would be unhappy no matter what he decided. You didn't know what you wanted, you were in no state to figure it out. If he was right about you, the internal war you waged took up most of your strength day in and day out.
"It doesn't mean we can't be friends or that I don't care about you—"
"You know what, you don't have to do all this. I'm going home. Goodnight."
"I mean it," He said, quickly reaching out to grab you to stop you from walking away, "Look, I can see you're struggling and I wanna help—"
You wrenched yourself from his grasp, fury in your eyes, but he saw the way they grew wet as you backed away from him, "Please just leave me alone." You said softly, voice ragged.
He watched helplessly as you walked off, unsure of what to do next. Briefly, he considered following you home, but he'd promised he wouldn't ever show up unannounced.
He thought about the woman who'd stood on the stoop waiting for you and calmed significantly. You had someone, he assumed maybe your mother, waiting for you at home.
Living with your parents would explain a lot about your secrecy. Maybe you were even embarrassed about it. But he didn't think there was any shame in that, considering you had recently left a serious relationship and then moved across the country.
It was good that you weren't alone. You'd be fine. You didn't need him. He ignored the ache in his chest at the thought and got on his bike.
***
You hadn't spoken to Robby in weeks. There had been times before and after shift where he'd tried to pull you aside and you'd mumble some excuse about not having time, about another nurse needing you, whatever you needed to say to get away from him. And while before, you thought he would've invited this as a game, and likely part of you would mean it to be interpreted that way, you no longer wanted to play. You knew he could sense it, had seen you pack up the playing cards, no longer caring if he saw your hand. And so eventually he left you alone.
It surprised you the way you missed him at night, when your only company was the shadows on the walls and the Jeopardy! contestants in the TV. When you couldn't sleep, you'd try and remember the night you'd slept in his sheets with his arms wrapped tightly around you. On the worst nights, you'd put on his hoodie he'd given you. But it had long since lost his scent.
"Honey, is there something else going on at work that's bothering you?" Cecelia had asked as you walked around the grounds of one of the memory care facilities you'd agreed to tour, the name of which escaped you now, "I know the last few weeks with your dad have been hard, but I get the sense there's something else going on."
The last few weeks with your dad had been more than hard, they'd been so challenging at times you had begun fantasizing about disappearing or walking out in front of an ambulance as it pulled into the bay. The fantasies grew more detailed, your coworkers noting the organ donor heart on your license and having to keep you on a ventilator until it was time to harvest your organs. You felt you'd have more purpose as an organ donor than a living, breathing person. You had seen enough caretaker burnout over the course of your career to understand what was happening, but you weren't sure exactly what you were meant to do about it. Your support network began and ended with Cecelia and you had already asked more of her than you were comfortable with.
The issue of Robby paled in comparison, but it still added to your depression. Yearning for a man you were never meant to have, that you knew from the beginning was temporary, who discarded you just like you always knew he would. The first time you had opened up to him and he'd fucking stabbed you straight through the heart. It hurt, yes, but it was also humiliating. It had been the exact thing you had been trying to avoid. You felt stupid and you felt like a child for missing him. Missing something that never quite existed, you reminded yourself.
"I'm fine," You'd told Cecelia, forcing a smile and then turning your attention elsewhere, "It says they have someone come play the piano for the residents twice a week, I think he'd like that."
You had been late coming in this morning, Dana once again covering for you, because your father had a cold and the low grade fever was causing his hallucinations to become more severe. You'd worried about leaving him with Cecelia, but she swore she could handle it. She was always insisting on getting you out of the house lately. Had asked more than once just this week if you needed her to stay overnight.
Of course, you did not, on account of being a huge bitch to all your friends at work and now not speaking to Robby.
"Hey, everything alright?"
You looked up from your iPad to see McKay standing next to you. You gave a small smile, still feeling remorseful for snapping at her weeks ago though you had since apologized.
"Yeah, why?"
"Oh, I just worry whenever Dana covers for you," She shrugged, "You don't have to tell me what you have going on at home, but I'm here, you know. If you ever want."
For a moment, you considered it. She was looking at you so earnestly you were almost overwhelmed with the urge to unburden yourself—
But then there was a commotion in the ambulance bay.
The doors slid open, a stretcher came into view. It took a few seconds for your brain to process, but you recognized your father on that stretcher, Cecelia behind and talking to the paramedics.
Robby had rushed up to the stretcher, calling out for McKay as he did, and you stared at them, dumbstruck until Robby called out your name, "What's open?"
You blinked and looked down at your iPad quickly and directed them to trauma one.
Then, in something of a daze, you followed after them. Listened as Cecelia debriefed them and stood quietly in the doorway.
"…Fever's spiked to 101, his heart rate's tachy—"
Your father was thrashing, calling out for your mother and you felt absolutely paralyzed—
"Alright, let's get him some risperidone—"
"No, no risperidone," You interjected, "He's already on quetiapine, you can up his dose if you want."
Robby looked up at you, frowning, "Do you know our patient?"
You swallowed and inhaled slowly, "Yes. He's my father and I'm his healthcare proxy."
The room went very still. And as the moments passed, Robby's eyes widened marginally and the familiar signs of pity began to flood his expression. Intense revulsion flooded you and it was a feat to continue holding his gaze.
"Evie—" Your father said weakly, his hand reaching for you. You swallowed down any emotion and went to him, taking his hand.
"Who's Evie?" Robby asked quietly.
You blinked rapidly as you smiled at your father and then looked up at Robby, "My mother."
***
That morning when Robby had walked in and saw Dana at the desk instead of you, his anxiety had spiked.
"Where is she?" He asked as calmly as he could manage.
"Good morning to you too."
"Dana—"
"She's fine, she'll be here later."
You were fine. Fine, he told himself. But his wild heartbeat wouldn't hear it. He pulled out his phone instinctively. He wanted to hear your voice, wanted you to tell him yourself you were alright. He unlocked his phone, opened his messages and scrolled to your message thread. Stared at your last exchange of messages from weeks ago. Him asking you to meet him upstairs after shift, you giving the message a thumbs up.
He hated the way things were between you now. He worried about you constantly and now he couldn't even get you alone to get a read on you. But each time he saw you you seemed more and more withdrawn, your usual irritation and wit replaced with mostly indifference.
"I'm worried about her," He said slowly to Dana, "I know you won't tell me what's going on in her personal life, but since you know and I don't, are you absolutely positive she's fine? Because she really doesn't seem fine to me."
She looked up slowly, "What has you so concerned, Cap?"
He sighed, "She's combative with staff and patients, she's making mistakes, she's withdrawn—She—She told me a few weeks ago she felt like her life was over."
Something shifted just slightly in Dana's face before she masked it, "Are you still sleeping with her?" She asked, lowering her voice.
Robby ran a hand over his face, annoyed with having to diclose this information to Dana, "No."
Dana interrogated him with her eyes before lowering them back to her iPad, "I'll talk to her."
"Thank you."
When you came in, he'd watched carefully as you spoke with Dana. He noticed when the smallest hint of irritation traveled across your face and tried as subtly as possible to eavesdrop.
"—went to the tours?" Dana was saying.
"Yes, I have to follow up with a couple of them."
"You're running out of time, kiddo."
He didn't get to hear what exactly you were running out of time for because Samira whisked him away to get his opinion on a patient. But always, you were in the back of his mind.
And then, when there were just a couple of hours left of the shift, the stretcher rolled in with the dementia patient. He noted for a second the way your face fell when you saw it and filed away the oddity, calling out to you to give a room number.
When he saw you just a few moments later, hovering in the doorway, he didn't think much of it. But then his eyes went to the woman who was reporting the patient's current condition. His first thought was that the way she was speaking so clinically made him think she must be a home health nurse. His second thought was that she looked a lot like the woman he remembered seeing on your stoop when he dropped you off a few weeks ago.
Before he could fully process all that, you had interjected about the antipsychotics he had been about to order.
And suddenly the pieces of the puzzle seemed to slot into place.
The dosage of quetiapine seemed to calm your father down and once they got a handle on his fever enough to begin ordering tests and a chest x-ray, you slipped from the room.
"You're the man who gave her a ride home a few weeks ago?" The nurse—Cecelia, he learned—said to him as he was putting in orders at the computer.
"Yes," He said and gave her a smile, "You can call me Robby."
"Robby," She said, seemingly turning the name over in her head, "Dana mentioned you."
He raised his eyebrows, "You know Dana?"
Cecelia nodded, "We went to nursing school together, sorority sisters. I was the ER charge nurse at Presby for a long time, retired during Covid. But I trained your new charge nurse over there, recommended her to Dana when she mentioned she might want to step down."
Robby hummed, yet another puzzle piece to slot in, "Well I'm sure you've heard horrible things, then."
Cecelia laughed, "No, no. She's always said you were a good man." He watched as she peaked through the door at you, "You were seeing each other, but now you're not?"
Robby felt a flush climbing up his neck, "Something like that," He sighed and then added quickly, "Is she—Is she the primary caregiver? Is her mother around? Siblings?"
Cecelia shook her head, "It's just her. I help out while she's working."
He ran his hand over the back of his head, "So she leaves here and then is his around the clock care?"
"She hasn't talked to you about any of this?"
He sighed, "No, no she hasn't. But this explains a lot about… Well, things are starting to make a lot more sense to me."
"Dana and I have been trying to convince her to move him into a memory care facility for months now, but she's very stubborn."
He chuckled, "Tell me about it."
"Maybe she'll listen to you."
His mouth fell open as he looked at her, slowly shaking his head, "I don't think… We're not on the best of terms right now."
"Please," She said earnestly, "She can't keep going like this. If she hears enough people who care about her telling her that maybe it'll get through that thick head of hers."
Robby wanted to tell her that he wasn't sure you even believed that he cared about you, but he himself had noticed what was now obvious to him as caretaker burnout. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he didn't try.
"I'm gonna call our night shift charge to see if she can come in early to relieve her."
Cecelia nodded, "Thank you."
When Lena came in more than an hour early, you looked mildly annoyed, but in the end thanked her and headed for your dad's room. Once the shift was officially over and he'd handed off everything to Shen, he went to see you.
He stood in the doorframe for a few moments. Your father seemed to be sleeping and you were in a chair by his bed, leaning over your knees, face in your hands. He knocked as gently as he could manage, but you still jumped. Upon seeing him, you deflated a bit and looked back at your hands, elbows still braced on your thighs.
Since you didn't demand he leave, he took that as invitation to come in and so he took the stool and dragged it next to you before lowering himself to sitting.
"How's he doing?" he asked quietly after sitting in silence with you for a few minutes.
"Better. Fever's stable. I'm glad he's sleeping, he hasn't slept in days. Waiting for his X-Ray to come back, but it's likely pneumonia." You rubbed harshly at your face, "I listened to his lungs last night and I didn't hear anything."
He didn't bother trying to tell you not to blame yourself. He knew it would fall on deaf ears.
"When was the last time you slept?" He asked softly.
You stared ahead and didn't answer him.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
You're quiet for so long he thinks you'll ignore him again, but then you start talking and your voice wavers like a branch in the wind, but you don't falter.
"Whenever a woman gets rolled in here, seriously injured, dying, crashing, everyone's first thought is who she is in relation to other people. Whose wife, whose daughter, whose sister, whose mother. It's so sad she's dead because she has kids, or she's married. It's always bothered me. I never felt like when a man rolled in here anyone felt the need to tally up all the ways they were important to other people in order to matter. But a woman—well—it's time to do some arithmetic to see what her life is worth to us.
"And day in and day out, I've done the same math for myself for years. What would my life be worth to my staff if I needed help one day? And year after year it's the same number," You paused and cleared your throat, "I've never liked my father and he's never liked me. My mother left us when I was still a baby and I know he's resented me for that my whole life. I did everything I could to get out of here as quickly as possible and just when I thought I'd done it, I moved away, I was engaged—"
You paused and looked down at your hands, "He got diagnosed and then… I don't know. It all went to shit. I told you when we met that my fiancé cheated on me, but that wasn't true. I told him, the man who was planning to love me for better or for worse, that I needed to come back to Pittsburgh to care for my father and he essentially said 'no thanks, I'm good,' as if I'd asked him if he wanted to come run errands with me. And so when I moved back here by myself, having lost everything, I already resented my father and it was beginning to make sense why he's hated me all this time. I took everything from him and now he's taking everything from me."
Robby couldn't help his sharp inhale, the hopelessness in your voice as you spoke staggering and terrifying. There was truth to what you were saying. As much as he'd like to deny it, now that you'd said it like that, he knew what you meant about the "math" that was done when a woman was in the ER.
Even still, he didn't like the direction you were going with this. It didn't mean it was right. It certainly didn't mean your life was worth less than anybody else's. He thought, surely, deep down you must have known that. He reminded himself that you hadn't slept likely in days. You weren't yourself.
"Sweetheart—"
You held your hand up to quiet him, "I knew people would look at this—you would look at this, me being a caregiver, and think I'm being noble. I'm not. I'm doing it because I have to. I don't want anyone pitying me or making me into some fucking superhero. The math hasn't changed."
Part of him wanted to take you by the shoulders and shake you, to make sure you understood that he didn't agree with this assessment at all. It didn't matter how you viewed yourself if the glass you were viewing yourself through was distorted. But he also knew that wouldn't be received well right now. He'd been there himself, was still there as of this moment.
"Fine," Robby sighed after a few moments had passed, "Then I think you're a selfish asshole. Is that what you want to hear?"
Still bent over your legs, your shoulders shook just slightly and when you turned to look at him, eyes glassy, he realized you were laughing. You nodded, "Thank you."
After you'd sat in comfortable silence for another few moments, you cleared your throat, "Shouldn't you be getting out of here?"
He shook his head and reached out for your hand, clasping it between both of his, he brought it to his mouth where he pressed a kiss to it, "No, I'm right where I need to be."
It took a while, but he eventually convinced you to let him take you home. Only because you started grumbling about having to take care of the dogs. You insisted that you wanted to come right back afterwards and he let you think he agreed with that plan, but he was gonna try everything he could to make sure you got some sleep before he took you back. You were both back on shift at 7 the next morning and if you didn't get any sleep he was gonna call in Dana. If you did sleep, he'd let you work as he knew you'd likely prefer that. By then, hopefully your father would be moved up to ICU.
At your house, he watched you with the dogs. They mostly ignored him and pranced around you playfully. Your face lit up as they did and he stood with you on the deck out back as you watched them run around the yard.
"You don't have to stay, you know," You said quietly, "I… appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm fine."
"I want to be here."
You huffed a laugh through your nose, "That's strange, because I recall you saying you didn't want to see me anymore just a few weeks ago."
He rocked back and forth between his feet, "I didn't know what you needed then. I don't think you knew what you needed either and I thought I was making you worse. I was wrong, I'm sorry."
Slowly, you turned to look at him and when he met your eyes, they glinted wet in the moonlight, bloodshot from what he assumed was lack of sleep along with the cacophony of emotions you had to be experiencing.
"Well, what do you want?" You asked, tears in your throat, "What do you need?"
This was something he had asked himself over and over since he met you. Why did he, over and over, keep coming back to you? Months had passed and it was still you he longed for when he was alone at night. Your voice he wanted to hear, your laugh, the sounds you made, your constant needling, the taste of you, all of it. In his quiet moments and in the moments when his thoughts raced, still, he returned to you.
At first he'd denied it to himself. You'd made it clear whatever was between you didn't exist outside of hospital walls. But then there was the night you'd called him from jail. The night you'd slept in his bed, sought him out for comfort. You could be so gentle, so vulnerable when you wanted to be. Delicate, like the first blooms of spring, petals easy to crush in his hands if he wasn't careful. And he'd felt so proud that you'd showed him that side of yourself after everything.
He found he wanted to be worthy of it, your softness, your vulnerability. And he realized what that meant, the truth of it. But it scared the hell out of him. Not because of you, but because of him. He knew he couldn't afford to mess this up, knew it because despite everything, despite how hard he knew you'd tried to stay away from him for fear of him breaking you, you'd succumbed to him anyway.
You understood him in ways he didn't think anyone else ever had. You identified all the worst parts of him immediately and even if you'd wanted it to, they hadn't deterred you. He could do the same for you. He would.
But not yet. He didn't want to make declarations or promises when you were clearly on the brink.
Gently, he took your face in his hands, gently ran the pads of his thumbs across your cheeks, "Right now, I want you to get some sleep. And I wanna be with you while you do, if you'd let me."
You looked up at him, chin wobbling slightly, but you nodded.
You allowed him to lead you by the hand back into the house, the dogs following closely behind. When he asked where your bedroom was and you simply shook your head and led him to the TV room instead, he didn't push.
The couch was large with one corner extending into a chaise lounge. He sat there, sighing at the aches and groans of his joints as he did. He coaxed you to him and you rested your head in his lap, legs stretched out and away from him so your bodies created something of a right angle. One of the dogs, the one he thought was called Franklin, hopped on the sofa and wiggled his way into your arms pulling a smile from you that had his stomach flipping.
He rested his hand against your face, running it soothingly from the crown of your head down the column of your throat. He was pleased when you fell asleep within minutes, both you and the dog eliciting soft snores in unison. Sleep came for him soon after.
***
You woke up long before your alarm, neck stiff and the imprint of Robby's cargo pants on your cheek. He was still asleep, snoring loudly enough that it made you want to laugh. Carefully, you detached yourself from him and got up.
The dogs trotted after you and pushing the sliding door open, they ran outside and you followed, a pack of cigarettes and lighter in your hand.
There was a thick fog that settled beneath the horizon and covered the yard. The dogs broke the quiet of the morning as they played and chased after one another.
You had nearly finished smoking your cigarette when the sliding door opened behind you and you felt Robby at your back.
The two of you stood in silence for a few moments, watching the dogs play. You allowed yourself to lean back into him just slightly, his broad chest warm on your back.
"I can call Dana if you don't wanna work today. Yesterday must've been a lot for you." He said quietly.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, "The alternative is sitting in his hospital room all day. No thanks, I'll work."
You felt his hands work their way around your waist to your front, holding you to him. For once, you allowed yourself to sink into him.
"Your relationship with him is really not good then?"
"It's fine now, I guess," You said, "Now that his memory's going. It's hard to be angry with someone who can't remember what they did."
He bent his head and pressed soft kisses to the skin of your neck. His beard tickled and you instinctively shrugged your shoulders up.
"Why do you do it?" He asked quietly, "Cecelia mentioned you'd toured a memory care facility. If you don't even have a relationship why won't you sign the admission papers?"
Your body went cold and you disentangled yourself from him, "That's why you're really here, huh? Cecelia's agenda?"
"I—No, it's because I couldn't tell the last time you slept and I thought you might hurt yourself—"
"Me?" You scoffed, "Mr. Donorcycle is worried that I might hurt myself?"
He ran a hand over the back of his head, "We're not talking about me right now, we're talking about you."
"And when have we ever talked about you?" You were nearly shouting now, "You think my behavior's erratic? You should look in a fucking mirror."
He shook his head, "Listen to yourself. I only asked a question and you're deflecting so hard I think you might pull a muscle."
"Because you're a fucking hypocrite! If I wanna kill myself by working myself into the ground and taking care of my father 24/7 that's my business! Just like you riding around Pittsburgh without a helmet on practically begging for a car to hit you is yours. But at least I'm honest about it!"
He scoffed, "That's not—" He sighed, "It's not the same thing."
You smirked and took a step closer to him, "No?" You lowered your voice until it was almost like a caress, "So when you're riding that bike and you see a car coming from the opposite direction with just a yellow line separating you, you've never thought about just… leaning a little to the left? And when you thought about it and felt relief instead of fear, where did you put that feeling?"
Your faces were close together, close enough that when you met his eyes you almost faltered, the depth of the sadness you found almost too much.
After a moment, you swallowed and took a step backwards, "You and I aren't that different, Robby."
Putting your fingers in your mouth, you wolf whistled and the dogs came running as you slid the porch door open for them to run through, "I'll see you at work." You said and followed the dogs inside.
***
Robby felt a bit nauseous for most of the day, thinking over what you'd said to him. He knew you were right, but what he had wanted to say was that after meeting you he felt himself changing. The impulses lessened when you were around.
It wasn't just sex to him anymore. At some point things had changed without him quite realizing it. Until you brought up to his face what he'd been avoiding for quite some time, that he didn't see a reason to keep going. But now the truth of it was, he found himself looking forward to things. Looking forward to seeing you, to talking to you.
It didn't fix him the fact that you made him want to live, he knew this. For one, there was no guarantee that you felt the same. That it was anything other than just sex to you. But it had gotten him thinking about the fact that maybe there was more he'd be missing if one day he drifted over that yellow line.
You avoided him most of the shift, only giving him updates when he asked. If you had a question specifically for him you'd taken to sending one of the nurses or residents to ask him for you and report back. It felt ridiculous.
When he could, he snuck away to see your father who was still in the ER having been diagnosed with pneumonia. He knew from what he'd been able to overhear when he got close enough to you that you had been calling the ICU charge nurse every hour, begging for a room. Your father didn't like the noise or the lights. You'd closed his door and turned his lights off, pulling the curtains.
The fact that he was still down here meant he was still Robby's patient. So under the guise of just being a doctor, he went to sit with your father. Most of the time, he slept. Sometimes, when he was awake, if he wasn't dreadfully confused he would ask for you. Not for your mother, for you.
"She's working," Robby would say, "She's the charge nurse. A lot of responsibility. This place falls apart without her."
Once, only once when he seemed in a very cheerful mood after Robby had brought him a turkey sandwich, he'd smiled, "Charge nurse, eh? Just like her mama."
Robby's stomach sank, "Does she know that her mother used to be a charge nurse?"
"Oh, yeah," Your father folded his hands over his stomach and stared at the ceiling pensively, "That was how we met. I was a pharmacist at the hospital she worked at."
Following in the footsteps of the mother you never knew. Were you trying to prove to yourself that you could do what she couldn't? It should be her here taking care of her husband, but instead it was you caring for him on top of working in the ER. Your mother who hadn't been able to withstand the pressure of a baby and a husband and a career. Did you think less of her for it? Was it starting to scare you that maybe you could understand why she had run away from it all?
"Young man," Your father said, interrupting his thoughts, "Could you please help me to the bathroom?"
Robby nodded, "Of course."
***
You hated Robby and you were also obsessed with him. This is what you were thinking all throughout shift when you weren't too busy to think or you weren't thinking about your father. You were both enamored and repulsed by his closeness. You wanted him to touch you, but the sound of his voice had you running in the opposite direction. It was maddening.
Miraculously, you were not thinking about him at all when you heard the sound of crashing equipment coming from your father's room. Your head whipped towards the sound and before you'd even really registered it your feet were moving.
When you ran into the room, you were startled to find both your father and Robby sprawled on the floor, his IV having been knocked down in the fall.
"Jesus—What the fuck?"
Robby groaned, eyes shut tight, then immediately, "I'm fine, I'm fine, your father—"
But your father seemed largely unharmed, though a bit in shock, "Dad… Dad are you okay?"
He frowned, "Fell on my ass."
Your lips twitched, "Does anything hurt?"
"No…No…" Then his eyes traveled to your face and lit up, "Hey, pumpkin. What're you doing here?"
The ache in your chest returned, as it usually did when he called you "pumpkin." But you forced a smile, "Just checking on you. We gotta get you up though—"
Robby sat up, hissing in pain as he did and pressing a hand to his back, "You have to get another nurse—Can't lift him yourself—"
You laughed and then sighed as you got a good grip on his transport belt, "What do you think I do when I'm at home, huh?" You turned your attention to your father, "You ready, dad?" He nodded, "Okay, on three. One, two, three—" Lifting with your knees, you got him to standing and then back in his bed.
Sighing, you lowered yourself back to the floor where Robby was, still wincing in pain, "You hurt yourself, old man?" You teased.
He looked up at you with disdain and as he did, you saw he had a small cut on his forehead, "You hit your head?" You asked frowning, reaching out to get a better look.
He allowed it, closing his eyes at your touch. Your heart fluttered a bit, seeing the effect your touch had on him, "Might've hit the IV stand on the way down."
"Can you stand?"
He rolled his eyes, "Can I stand—Of course I can—" As he pushed himself up he interrupted himself with a groan, "Fuck."
"Ooo—" You said sympathetically, "Okay, let's—The bed next door is empty, let's go over there—sit down."
Once he was sat down, you took his face in your hands again, moving his head gently so you could look at his cut better.
"How's it look, doc?" A familiar joke that had the tension rushing out of you. As an NP you could diagnose some illnesses and order medications on your own which led to you having to constantly remind patients that you weren't a doctor. You had done a brief stint in Family Medicine years ago that had had you murmuring "not a doctor" in your sleep. This was one of the few things about yourself that you had willingly divulged to Robby.
Despite yourself, you smirked, "I think you'll live. Why were you moving him anyway?"
"He had to use the bathroom."
You frowned, "Okay… That's a nurse's job. You should've come and grabbed me."
You had begun to clean up his cut and he closed his eyes again at the contact, "I know this'll piss you off, but you shouldn't be treating him while he's here and I know if I told you to reassign him to a different nurse that would also piss you off, so. I was trying to ease some of the burden off you."
There he went again, being thoughtful when you were trying to be angry with him, "Doctors suck at transport." You said softly.
He chuckled, "Yeah, noted."
"Did you pull something in your back?"
He shook his head and winced as he gingerly stretched his back, "I'm okay, just need to sit for a couple more minutes. You gonna tell everyone about this?"
"Oh, of course." You said and were pleased when he smiled.
"I called Hemsley House this morning just… out of curiosity. They think they'd have a room for him by the time he's discharged if you're interested."
You tried to stifle the annoyance and looked down at your hands, "Robby—"
"I'm just asking you to think about it. You don't have to do anything. Baby, look at me."
The pet name caught you off guard and your eyes shot up. He was looking at you with such care and affection, his big brown eyes impossible not to drown in.
"You have cared for him as well as you can from home, but you're running on fumes. If you don't hurt yourself, you'll hurt him. Is that what you want?"
You swallowed, "He made me promise I wouldn't send him to one. A long-term care facility. Said he'd rather be dead. But I can't afford around the clock care and Medicare won't pay for it either."
After a moment, Robby sighed, "I don't mean to be unempathetic, but I'm just not sure in this situation that that's an option. I would argue keeping him at home with you is unethical, even."
You scrubbed your hands over your face, "There's a condition in his will, when he dies. That if I put him somewhere else, I get nothing. And I don't… I wouldn't care so much if it wasn't for the fact that I spent most of my savings moving back here and the cost for all his medical care has eaten up almost everything else and I don't even know how I'm gonna pay for his burial—"
"Okay, hold on, slow down." He looked over your shoulder, as if he could see your father from here, "He really did that? With the will? That seems fuckin' cruel."
You nodded, "He was a mean bastard. He still can be, sometimes. Not like he was, though."
Robby ran a hand over his head and sighed, "Alright… Well let me think it over…"
You scoffed, "What is there to think about?"
"I'm gonna find some way to help you."
"Robby," you sighed, "you really don't have to, it's fine—"
"It's not fine!" He said sharply, "If anyone else came in the ER in the shape you're in and told us they were taking care of their very sick parent all on their own while working full time, we'd have social services down here in a second."
You ground your jaw and looked away from him, "I told you already," you said softly, "that if I wanna put myself in the ground with him, that's my business."
"I don't accept that," he said, shaking his head, "I need you."
You rolled your eyes, "You do not. Dana will be back before you know it, and the hospital won't pay for us both—"
"No," he interrupted, "No, I didn't mean like that." He took your hands in his, squeezed them gently until you were looking at him again, "I need you."
His face was so earnest as he said it and your heart was hammering in your chest. But he couldn't—You were already shaking your head, "No, no that's not true either. I'm just the flavor of the week. You'll replace me with whatever pretty young thing walks through the doors next—"
"No, this is different." He said firmly, "I'm not going anywhere this time, I want you."
You were still standing and he slid his hands around to the backs of your thighs, tugged you gently forward. You didn't want to trust him. Not after the way your last relationship had ended and whatever this was with Robby had been so tumultuous. But the thought of having someone else around, of not being so alone was unfairly enticing. So when he gripped your chin and pulled you down until your mouths met, you didn't stop him.
Sighing into his mouth, your hands found purchase at the base of his neck. He pulled you impossibly closer until you were nearly straddling his lap. He kissed slowly today, luxuriously even, his tongue sliding against yours to savor instead of to claim.
"Dr. Robby—" The door opened, bringing the din of the emergency room with it and you startled, jumping backwards and turned to see McKay in the doorway. She looked shocked, but also—pleased, "I'm so sorry," She said, looking down at the floor as she tried to stifle a smirk, "We need you in trauma two, Robby."
He ran a hand over his beard and nodded, seeming horribly unbothered by the whole thing, "I'll be there in a minute."
McKay left, letting the door shut behind her and Robby turned to you immediately, "Don't freak out, okay? McKay already knew."
You closed your eyes, biting down on your lip in an attempt to steady yourself. Every moment that passed you felt as though things were spinning more and more wildly out of control—
"Hey," Robby's voice again, closer this time. When you opened your eyes he was stood in front of you, he brought up his hand to cup your cheek and despite yourself, you leaned into his touch, "We're gonna figure this out, together. Okay?"
You weren't sure that you quite believed that, but you blinked and then nodded. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and then he was gone.
Later, at the hub, McKay approached you slowly like a hawk circling its prey.
"I'm not gonna talk about it so don't even bother," You said without looking up from your iPad.
She snickered, "Fine, fine, I was just gonna congratulate you is all."
"For what?"
"Uh, well—I've seen Robby take many women to bed in this hospital—"
"—God, Cassie—"
"—But I don't think I've ever seen him in love before. It's nice."
You paused and then looked up, frowning, "You're insane."
McKay shook her head, "I'm not. That man is deeply obsessed with you."
You had to stifle a smirk as you rolled your eyes, but as you looked up, your eyes found Robby's across the room and watched as he instantly softened, the corners of his mouth turning slightly upward.
You looked away quickly, alarmed at the feeling that was now stirring in your chest. One that you thought had been laid to rest many moons ago: Hope.
***
Robby didn't bring up Hemsley House again, for which you were grateful. Instead, when your father got discharged, he came home with you and helped you take care of him and made sure you were taken care of as well.
He hadn't complained about sleeping on the couch, but on one of his days off had set up a new bed in one of the empty spare rooms. Once before, he had asked why you didn't sleep in your childhood bedroom, but you couldn't give him a clean answer, only that you hated being in that room. It reminded you too much of when, as a teenager, you'd felt like a prisoner in your own life.
As the weeks passed, you were growing accustomed to having Robby around, but you knew the care taking was also beginning to take a toll on him as well. He got along well with your father. In fact, your father had begun to prefer his company. Asking him to play chess when he was in a good mood. When he needed to go to the bathroom, he preferred Robby to take him no matter how you tried to insist. It compounded you with guilt, watching Robby day in and day out help without complaint. You felt like it was only a matter of time before he got tired of it all and left. And while you felt like you'd prepared yourself for that possibility, there was a large part of you that realized the heartbreak would be inevitable.
It was a Friday and Cecelia had offered to stay the night with her husband so that you and Robby could have a night to yourselves and Robby was acting almost giddy about it. He had both your overnight bags in his hand as he unlocked the door to his house.
"What d'you think?" He asked as the two of you walked into the entryway, "Should we go out? Or we could stay in, make dinner, rent a movie…"
You shrugged, but the idea of doing anything other than loafing around exhausted you, "Whatever you want," You said, smiling.
Immediately it seemed, Robby noted your lack of enthusiasm. That was something else you'd been having a hard time getting used to: his inhuman ability to see right through you. Or maybe you had always been easy to read, but no one else had cared to open the book.
"Or…" He said slowly, "We could just order take out and have really loud sex."
You laughed at that. It was true that most of the time you had had sex, it was like a secret was being kept. Either at the hospital or at your house with your father sleeping just down the hall. It required discretion, often leading to hands pressed over mouths the stifle the sounds of an orgasm. But not at Robby's house. At Robby's house, you could be as loud as you wanted.
"Yeah, I think that sounds good."
He smirked and took a few steps closer to you, dropping your bags, "Yeah?"
You nodded, "Please." You hated begging, but had found over the course of the last few weeks that Robby really liked it when you told him what you wanted, better when you begged as you panted beneath him. Sometimes begging him to come led to him being turned on so much, he'd grind himself into the sheets as his tongue swirled around your clit. You also enjoyed it when he begged, so you couldn't exactly blame him.
Sure enough, with just that one word you watched Robby's entire demeanor shift.
"You need the stress fucked out of you, baby?"
A familiar chill ran down your spine at the shift in his tone, the easy dominance and soothing cadence. He was not what you expected from a dom in bed, and you thought in fact he could be better described as a switch, much like you. He could tell you what to do, call you his best girl, spank you and spit in your mouth, but all while worshiping you. All while praising you, telling you how good you were doing, how good you felt. No one else could make him feel so good. It always had you melting beneath him. But there were times when he also wanted to be taken care of, yearned for you to boss him around a little bit. And you were happy to oblige.
But you thought tonight, you'd really prefer it for him to take the reins.
"Yes," You said, already breathless in anticipation.
He led you to his bedroom and gently pushed you to sit on the edge of the bed, crawling over you as he kissed you and lightly tugged at your clothes. Quickly, you were naked beneath him, him still fully dressed. You liked that, the slight power imbalance of you being bare before him. He kissed slowly down your neck until he reached your breasts, slowly licking and sucking on each nipple until they hardened against his lips.
Already, you were worked up, your hand attempting to slip between your legs— But Robby quickly circled your wrist in his hand, pinning it back up over your head.
"I know, I know sweetheart," He cooed when you began to whine, "I'm gonna take such good care of you, I promise, just need you to be patient, yeah? You need me to make you come? Think it'll make you feel better?"
You nodded quickly, "Please, really need it."
"I know, baby," He said softly and began sucking harshly down your belly, working his way down to where you craved him the most, "You're being so good for me. You already wet for me?" He reached two fingers between your legs, collected your slickness on his fingers as you sighed at the contact, "That all for me?"
You nodded, "Only for you."
He smiled up at you and kissed the inside of your thigh, "Hm, let's see if you taste as sweet as you sound when you beg for me."
The first swipe of his tongue had your back arching up and off the mattress. From the very first time you slept with him, it had been obvious your sexual compatibility had been off the charts. You had never told him this, but he was easily the best sex you'd ever had. It alarmed you how quickly he learned your body and how fast he could pull you to the edge when he wanted to.
Today he was torturously slow, but he also knew that despite your begging, you liked being teased. That you never came harder than you did after he'd repeatedly nearly brought you to the edge, only to pull you back at the last second.
After a while of this, you with tears streaming down your cheeks, he slipped a finger inside of you, pumping slowly, matching the pace of his tongue against your clit.
"Robby— Robby, please, please, let me come."
He hummed against you, but did not remove his mouth from you. The ocean receded from the shore, building steadily in the background, the impending crash growing larger and larger by the second. He sped his movements incrementally until you were grinding against his mouth, chasing your high—And then the wave broke and you were crying out, Robby's name hanging from your tongue as he worked you through it.
Your limbs felt loose and useless at your sides, thighs shaking as Robby finally let up and crawled back up to you. You pulled him down by the neck to kiss him, your juices smearing from his beard to your chin, the taste of you evident on his tongue.
Moments later, you began pulling at his clothes, helping him get undressed. Immediately, when his cock sprung from his boxers, you had a hand wrapped around it, stroking him eagerly as he sucked on your tongue.
When he finally pushed himself inside you, your mind went quiet as it usually did when he fucked you. It reminded you of when you were young and had fallen asleep to the television on, only to wake up to the monotone frequency and rainbow pattern across the screen.
"Feel so good, sweetheart," He had you folded nearly in half, still fucking you at a slow and gentle pace. You stared up at him, admiring the view. Beyond how good he felt inside you, especially when you were extra sensitive after an orgasm, when he was in control you thought he was exceptionally beautiful with a fucked out expression on his face. He was flushed red from the exertion and sweat dripped down his back when you dragged your fingernails across his skin, "Jesus Christ, think your pussy was made to take my cock like this, wasn't it?"
You hummed in response, pulling him down closer to you so you could suck and bite along his neck and shoulders. You felt his cock twitch inside you and gasped, your walls tightening in response and Robby swore.
The fatigue from your orgasm was beginning to wear off and you started bucking your hips up to meet his with every thrust, needing him deeper and harder, "There you go, angel," he cooed, "Such a good girl, aren't you?"
As you nodded, he pressed his thumb against your chin, prompting you to open your mouth. He slipped two fingers inside, stroking them against your tongue until you closed your mouth around them, humming and bobbing your head around them as if they were his cock.
You watched Robby's eyes, the way they so subtly changed at the sight of you sucking on his fingers. It undid him, with your walls fluttering around his cock and your pretty mouth taking his fingers, taking everything he gave you, "Ah, fuck." He swore and then rutted his hips into you faster and harder, his fingers slipping out of your mouth.
The sensation of him thrusting into you over and over had you seeing stars. You never felt so loose, so free as you did with him inside you like this. Nothing else existed outside of where your bodies connected and held one another. Maybe it was this utterly uninhibited feeling that had you gasping as you looked up at him, "I love you."
His eyes widened slightly as he processed what you had said—and then he was coming, the sounds he made as he did sending pleasant tingles down your spine.
He collapsed against you after finishing, his cock still inside you and softening. Turning your head towards him, you claimed his mouth. Despite the fact that it was over, you still felt needy for him, for this closeness, the intimacy of it. It also helped that you didn't wish for him to speak yet. Didn't wish to hear him let you down easy after you'd so recklessly declared your affection. He kissed you back after grunting a bit in surprise and then a moment later he pulled away, a gentle hand still at your throat.
"Hold on, I, before anything else, I just—"
"It's fine," You said quickly, "We can pretend I didn't say anything, I didn't—I got caught up in the moment."
He opened and closed his mouth for a moment, eyes narrowing, "Well, did you mean it?"
You pressed your lips together in a thin line, eyes searching his for what the correct answer was. You had meant it. Had felt it for a while, had thought it to yourself more times than you could count, almost every time you looked at him these days. If you were honest, you loved him so much, you threatened to burst at the seams with it.
"If it helps," He said finally, sensing your hesitancy, "I love you too," He said, his voice impossibly tender and hopeful, "I love you so much I sometimes ache with it."
Your breath stuttered and a hesitant smile began to stretch across your face, "You do?"
He nodded, fingers gently caressing your cheek as he pressed his nose into yours.
"I love you," You said again, a little breathless, "I meant it."
He grinned and kissed you and when you opened your eyes again, his were looking into yours, shining impossibly bright with what you hoped were happy tears.
Later, after you'd eaten way too much Chinese takeout in your underwear on the couch, Robby paused the TV show you'd been watching.
"Hey—" You said, pushing yourself up from where you'd been comfortably resting against his chest, "Why'd you do that?"
He sighed and pulled you both up to sitting, much to your chagrin, "I wanted to talk to you. About your father."
You stiffened slightly. Here it was, the impossible ultimatum he was bound to give you. He couldn't help with your father anymore and so it was your father or Robby. You could not continue to have both.
"I've been doing some research," he started, "And I talked to Noelle about it—"
"You were talking to your ex about my father?"
He winced, "Just, let me finish?"
You huffed and crossed your arms in front of your chest, "Fine."
"Noelle told me that you could combine your father's Medicare as well as your own benefits, have you heard of the Hospital at Home program?"
You frowned and shook your head stubbornly, "No."
"One of our benefits to working at the hospital includes extremely discounted part time home health care, for either ourselves or family."
You opened and closed your mouth, "Oh."
He nodded, "Yeah, so what I was thinking is that combining those two would likely get you at least to cover the day time hours… And um, I looked into overnight care—"
"I can already tell you I can't afford that."
"I know," he said, placing a hand on your ankle, "I know, which is why I wanted to offer to pay for it."
You stared at him for a long time, and then blinked, "Robby, that's—that's too much—"
"It's not," he said shaking his head, "Really, I promise it's not. I'm pretty frugal with my money, I haven't had anyone to spend it on in a really, really long time. I can't think of a better use for it. Let me close the gap for you. Please."
You felt a burning in your eyes and looked down at your hands, not wanting him to see you cry. The immediate relief at just the prospect of not having to be your father's around the clock care was overwhelming. It felt like a dam was splintering and cracking behind your eyes.
"You're sure?" You said finally, hearing the tears in your own voice.
He squeezed your ankle lightly, "Yeah, positive. We can start interviewing nurses next week."
You nodded, your vision blurring from the tears, "Thank you." You said and as the dam fully broke, he pulled you into his lap.
"I've got you, baby."
***
EPILOGUE— TWO YEARS LATER
Your father dying was something you had thought about for quite some time, but the reality of it had been quite different than you'd imagined.
You'd expected to feel almost nothing by the time he died. After all, he'd become a shell of the man you knew. He hadn't been himself for quite a long time. And by the time he passed, he remembered Robby's name better than yours.
But when he had died, for some reason you laid in bed beside him for a long time, wailing like a child. You couldn't understand it and that made you cry more.
Robby had held you for a while that night, had wondered aloud if maybe you were mourning that you had never been able to fix your relationship with him. If maybe deep down you had wished to fully understand the way he treated you, if you had been hoping for an apology.
Your father had been the only person to ever know what you were like as a rambunctious kid, skinned knees and digging in the dirt for worms. The girl who begged to take a bird inside with a broken wing to try and nurse it back to health, only to have it die in the night. You had been inconsolable for days afterwards no matter how he tried to bribe you with sweets and toys. Only your father knew the girl who watched the Wizard of Oz on repeat for an entire summer, walking around the house in braids, a blue gingham dress, and ruby red slippers every single day.
He was the only person alive who knew you when you were still soft and curious and unconditionally hopeful. And sure, he had crushed the spirit out of her pretty quickly, but you always knew he remembered her the way you did. But now he was dead and he'd taken most of her with him.
The burial had been a short affair. Your father had cut most ties he had with anyone once he retired twenty years ago and so most of the people who showed up were his home health nurses, Robby, Cecelia, Dana, and other coworkers from the Pitt. Your father's dogs—now your dogs—Franklin and Garner had laid at his headstone and whined softly throughout.
And then, when it was all said and done, you'd let yourself rot on the couch with the dogs for what felt like months. The house was quiet now. If you thought it'd been filled with ghosts before, it practically overflowed with them now.
Finally, Robby came home one day, took one look at you and the dogs laying pathetically on the couch, remote hanging from your hand and said, "That's it. We're leaving. Pack up your shit."
"Where are we going?" You asked, sounding bored.
"My cabin in the mountains."
And so Robby had packed you and the dogs into his car and drove you out of the city. You spent a few days there and he finally got you to admit that you felt like he'd been the last person alive to really know what you were like before he beat the whimsy out of you.
But Robby had shaken his head, "That's not true, I know her too." When you frowned he went on, "I see her whenever you roll in the grass with the dogs, when you sing a silly song to the kids in the ER to distract them from an IV or a blood draw, when we go out dancing with McKay and I have to physically remove you from the dance floor." He placed a finger against your chest, "She's still in there. She's not dead until you are."
It had moved you so thoroughly that after a few moments you blurted out, "Will you marry me?"
He had grinned so wide his crow's feet nearly swallowed his eyes whole and you'd made love until the sun came up.
As the months and years passed and Robby stayed firmly by your side, you learned to love with abandon and so did he. You never again woke up in the morning wondering if he still loved you or if he planned to leave, because the second he opened his eyes and saw you, there was always a smile on his face. And in turn, you stopped looking for an escape hatch.
Love could not heal on its own, that much you knew to be true. But it was also true that love had held your hand and led you to the door for healing, had stood there with you until you felt ready to walk through it. Love didn't make you worthy, but it had insisted stubbornly day in and day out that you were worthy if you would just open your eyes and see it for yourself.
Love hadn't made you want to live again, but it had held you, patient and steadfast when you didn't and reminded you that the feeling would pass.
Robby hadn't saved you, just as you hadn't saved Robby. But what he had done, and you for him, was stay by your side until you realized that you could and you would save yourself again and again. And for the rest of your life he'd be there, shovel in his outstretched hand, to help you dig yourself out of whatever hole you fell into next.
when he’s so so big over you and inside you trying to coax you into relaxing for him; saying ‘it’s ok, sweetheart, you’re doing so well for me, you can take it’ and he kisses you as he slides himself all the way home inside you(swearing you’re so tight around him he can feel your heartbeat) so that your little hiccup is swallowed by his mouth and then he pulls back to admire the sight of you stretched around him to coo; ‘see? there’s my pretty angel. look how good you look full of me.’
content: 18+ mdni, widow!jack abbot, fake dating, sexually explicit content, age gap, discussions of miscarriage, discussions of surgical miscarriage, discussions of infidelity, dysfunctional family, discussions of divorce, wedding, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, mild violence, some named family members and ex significant other
words: 26.7k
synopsis: when the wedding invitation arrives for your ex husband's marriage to your little sister, you're tempted to set fire to your entire life. your attending, jack abbot, has other ideas.
a/n: i had a blast writing this all the drama all the love all the hurt all the pining!! it's been a while since i wrote something for jack and i'm really happy to be putting this out just in time for dr abbot to be back on our tv screens!! title is based on the song me before you by bleachers. i hope you love it <3 syd (also i know i did not edit this well so i apologize in advance for the typos)
The night had already started off badly enough before you checked the mail. You'd slept through three alarms, stubbed your toe on the dresser in your rush to get dressed, and burnt your coffee all before leaving your apartment. In hindsight, you should have left the overflowing mailbox alone on your way out. You wished you could have foreseen how yanking all the pieces of mail out of the small black box that hung by the door would ruin your whole shift. Would ruin your whole week, really.
Getting into your car, you had tossed the mail into the passenger seat. It wasn't until you were stopped at a light about five minutes away from the hospital that you caught sight of the envelope. Pastel pink bows and your name etched in cursive.
Your heart dropped, eyes glued to the envelope, the rest of your body locking up, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
A horn split the air from behind you and you jerked your head back to the front and saw the green light, "Fuck—Alright, alright!"
Your knee shook the entire rest of the way to the hospital and once you were parked, your hands were so shaky as you tried to open the envelope you immediately received a paper cut. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony that you felt ripple through your chest as your eyes traveled over the invitation, gold and pink glitter floating around the car onto your scrubs.
After staring at the piece of cardstock in your hand for too long, you felt your phone vibrate. Blinking rapidly you pulled it out to see a text from Jack Abbot: You good?
Your eyes traveled to the time at the top of your screen to see you were nearly five minutes late to the start of shift. Normally you walked through those doors at least fifteen minutes early. He was clearly showing heroic levels of restraint by waiting until you were several minutes late to contact you.
Sorry, running late. Be there in 5. You texted back hurriedly and were rewarded five seconds later with a thumbs up reaction.
Taking in a shaky breath, you closed out of your messages app to dial your mom.
She picked up after the second ring, "Hey, honey, everything okay? Thought you worked tonight."
"Has Maya lost her fucking mind?"
Your mom was quiet for a few moments, "…So you got the wedding invitation then?"
"I'm not going," You said, angry tears already burning the backs of your eyes, "and to top it all off, she's getting married at the exact fucking venue I wanted to get married at but David and I couldn't afford it at the time. She knew that, she fucking knew it was my dream wedding—"
"I know, baby," your mom said sympathetically, "I don't expect you to come."
"Why would she do this?" You asked, and finally, the anger evaporated from your voice, replaced with the pure devastation, "I mean, she already fucking won, what else does she want? Having my husband and my dream wedding isn't enough for her? She needs to humiliate me in front of everyone we know as well?"
"I don't think she's doing it to hurt you," your mom said quietly, "believe it or not, I think she just wants her big sister at her wedding. She misses you."
You laughed humorlessly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to rid your body of the despair that now saturated it, "She should have thought about that before she fucked my husband."
Your mother sighed on the other line, "I told her that you'd react like this, but she wouldn't listen to me."
"You think I'm being unreasonable?" You snapped.
"Of course I don't," She said firmly, "and you know that. You know exactly how I feel about this whole thing and so does she. It's a goddamn shame. And if she ever wants to fix things with you she'll probably have to wait until she's divorced or that son of a bitch is dead."
You snorted at that and your mother, normally a perfectly poised saint, rushed in to damage control, "Sorry, I didn't mean that, I actually think his mother's a sweet lady."
You swiped at a tear and sniffled, "Yeah, she is. Thank you for listening to me scream and cry again, but I have to go to work now, I'm late."
"Anytime, kiddo. I love you."
As you hung up, you saw another text from Abbot come in: Come find me when you get here.
You sighed, "shit."
As senior resident, you had a pretty close relationship with your attending. Professionally, anyway. But you being late was out of character for you and Jack Abbot was perceptive. He'd want to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong and no matter how you tried to deflect, you knew he'd persist.
But that wouldn't stop you from trying.
"Hey hun," Lena peered at you over the rim of her glasses as you approached the hub, "you alright?"
"Yeah, just overslept." You forced a smile, "You know where I can find Abbot?"
She directed you over towards the beds in north where you found Abbot discussing a treatment plan with Ellis outside a patient's room. When he saw you, he gestured for you wait a second while he finished up with Ellis. Once she walked off, he gestured for you to follow him.
You fell into step beside him as you walked around the ER, "Everything okay with you?" he asked.
"Yes."
You'd arrived back at the hub and Jack turned fully to you, hazel eyes laser focused on you. You hated this about him, how he demanded your eyes on his at all times so he could properly assess you, as if you were a patient in need of fixing.
"That's it?"
You shrugged, "Yes."
He tilted his head slightly, "In the entire time you've been on my shift, you've never been late. Not even once."
"Yeah," You said, annoyance coating your tone, "which is why you should cut me some slack."
"You're not in trouble," he said mildly, "I'm just checking in. You sure everything's fine?"
You sighed, "Yes."
He stared at you a moment longer before taking an iPad from the docking station, "Okay, fine. Grab a med student and handle chairs."
"Chairs?" Your eyebrows shot up your forehead, "You are pissed at me."
"No," Abbot said shaking his head, eyebrows raised as he looked up from his iPad into your face, "You were late and I need someone to triage and who better than my senior resident?"
You scoffed, and pivoted on your foot, "Unbelievable."
"Call me if you need me," he shouted after you.
"I won't," you called back.
Jack watched you go, wrangling a student by the arm as you went, and then turned back to Lena, "She tell you what her problem is?"
Lena shook her head, "No, she even fake smiled at me when she got here."
He shook his head, "There's definitely a problem though, right? I'm not imagining things?"
"She's been off for weeks now," Lena looked over her glasses at him conspiratorially, "I know you hate the rumor mill, but there is one going around that she got divorced recently. And it wasn't mutual."
He looked up at Lena, incredulous look on his face, "That's ridiculous. She would've told me."
Lena shrugged, "Look, I'm just telling you what I've heard."
Jack turned towards the door to chairs where you had disappeared and frowned. You would have told him, right? The two of you had always been professional, but he did consider you something like a friend after you had been here for nearly four years. When there were social events after work or on days off, you had always gravitated towards him and Robby. A bit older than most of the other residents and students, it was easier to find common ground with them. Things had never gotten overtly personal, but there had always been some level of sharing about personal lives. And he really thought the two of you were close enough that you would have told him. Especially if you were struggling.
"When did that start swirling around?" He asked, turning back to Lena.
"Few months ago, I think," she said, "Jesse said he overheard her take a call with a divorce attorney when he was heading out one day."
Jack ran a hand through his curls and sighed. Jesse wasn't the gossiping type and if he did, that usually meant it was true.
"Okay," he said finally, "you'll come find me if things go to shit?"
"You got it."
***
You could feel yourself slipping as the shift went on, beginning to snap at patients and beginning to snap at the med student you'd pulled, Whitaker, who wasn't even really supposed to be here. He was usually on the day shift, but the usual single med student allotted to the night shift was out on bereavement and Whitaker had volunteered to fill the gap. You liked him, honestly, even if he was a bit spacey at times, he was earnest and never made the same mistake twice.
Except today, when he got you the wrong antibiotics, not once, but twice.
"Whitaker," You said slowly, "am I not speaking clearly?"
"Wha—? I—No—I mean, yes. You are."
"Then why are these still the wrong meds?"
Whitaker was starting to get flustered and you were getting more and more annoyed— "Because I changed the order."
It was Abbot's voice that came behind you and you turned to see him standing there, arms crossed with that disappointed look on his face you had had the displeasure of encountering just one other time while working on his shift. When you had tried handling an aggressive patient on your own without calling him or security and ended up with a black eye.
"Whitaker, you can finish up here?" Abbot asked, eyes never leaving yours. When Whitaker agreed, Abbot steered you out of the waiting room by your arm back into central.
You wrenched your arm away from him, "You don't need to drag me, I can walk."
"What is going on with you?"
"Nothing," You threw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm irritated that I'm out in triage—"
"You're too good for triage?"
"I know you're doing it to punish me—"
"When have you ever known me to punish anyone?"
"You changed my order, why? You don't even trust me to prescribe simple antibiotics?"
He sighed, "We didn't have the dosage you were looking for up here, it would've taken longer to call the pharmacy and Whitaker was too scared to come back to you empty handed, so I told him to get something else. It had nothing to do with your decision making, though the way you've been treating Whitaker all shift is absolutely unacceptable for a senior resident and you know that."
You never cried at work. It was your one rule. Even crying in the parking lot felt like sacrilege. No matter how fucked up things got, and they'd gotten well and truly fucked, you tucked it away until you got home.
But with Abbot looking at you like this, his judgment heavy as stone, on top of the invitation… It was too much. PTMC had always been your one safe haven from everything, but you had managed to ruin that, too.
Abbot looked at you with alarm when he saw your eyes water and your chin wobble, "Hey, what the hell?" he said softly and then quickly ushered you out to the ambulance bay, shielding you from anyone else's prying eyes.
"I'm sorry," you blubbered after you'd gone through the double doors, "I have to apologize to Whitaker."
"Not now, later."
You leaned against the wall of the hospital and scrubbed your hands over your face, "I was so mean to him all shift."
"I know, he told me," At the look you gave him through your hands Abbot shook his head, "Not to get you in trouble, he was worried about you. Said you weren't acting like yourself. And I have to agree, you're normally a very kind and patient teacher."
His praise—which you felt was undeserved—made you want to cry all over again, but you managed to swallow past the lump in your throat. Abbot leaned up against the wall next to you and pushed his hands into his pants pockets, "So, I'll ask you again: What is going on with you?"
You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, fought the urge to self soothe by wrapping your arms entirely around yourself, "You won't let it go unless I tell you, right?"
"Damn straight," He said immediately, "We can keep it between us, but it's starting to effect your work now, so I'd like to know what's going on. And maybe I can help."
You scoffed and looked down at your feet, "No one knows besides my family and that's only because I had no choice," You swallowed, "It's humiliating. You might look at me differently."
He narrowed his eyes at you, "If you really don't want to tell me I won't force you. But I promise there's very little you could say that would make me think less of you."
You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall. You weren't sure why it even mattered to you what your attending thought of your personal life. Despite your borderline friendly relationship with Abbot, there had still always been the irrepressible urge to impress him, to make sure he both liked and respected you. Probably had something to do with your absent father, but that was something to unpack in therapy.
"I got my baby sister's wedding invitation in the mail today," You said slowly, could already feel the heat bubbling beneath your skin, "And the man she's marrying is my… ex husband."
You felt the double take that came from his direction, but you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his eyes.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat, "I—I didn't know you got divorced."
You nodded, "Finding out they were having a year long affair was a hell of a motivator to get it done quickly and quietly."
"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, "When did all this happen?"
You chewed the inside of your cheek, "They started sleeping together while I was recovering from the miscarriage."
You thought you heard his sharp intake of breath at that, but you still couldn't look over at him. The miscarriage had happened almost two years ago now and marked the beginning of your life turning upside down.
You had lost a pregnancy you didn't even know had been in your womb. Fighting with David as he drove you home in stony silence while you cried about how you couldn't understand why he was acting this way, you'd always said you didn't want kids.
How when the bleeding didn't stop, didn't slow the way it was supposed to, and you told David you needed to go back to the hospital he—the lawyer—somehow convinced you—the doctor—that you weren't bleeding that much. You thought about this moment almost daily, now. You felt so stupid for letting him debate his way out of taking you to PTMC. It had taken you hours to finally text Abbot, feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, if he thought you should come in.
He had left the hospital to come get you and you remembered his quiet anger as he condescended to David while carrying you to his truck.
In the end, surgical intervention had been required to stop the bleeding and when you woke up to David beside himself with remorse beside you, you'd forgiven him.
And yet, you'd find out much later that while you recovered from surgery, he began sleeping with Maya.
"Well," Abbot said after a few moments of shocked silence, "Knowing that you've been holding all that in for… months now, I'd say you've actually shown remarkable restraint."
You huffed a laugh through your nose, "You think so?"
"Yeah, I do. If I were you they'd probably both be six feet under by now."
You hummed, "I considered it when I opened the invitation today."
"Why don't you go home?" He said quietly and you finally turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight, "We can handle the rest of the shift without you."
You shook your head, "I feel worse when I'm not working. I'm still not used to going home to an empty apartment."
At that moment Lena poked her head out into the ambulance bay, charge phone pressed to her ear, "Incoming MVA, five minutes out."
You both pushed yourselves off the wall to head back inside, "Hey," he said, fingertips ghosting over your wrist as you walked ahead of him, "if you won't go home, will you get breakfast with me after shift?"
You bit your lip as you looked back at him, "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to babysit me."
He shook his head, "No, I'm asking for me. You wouldn't make an old man eat by himself, would you?"
He had that easy smirk on his face as he followed you inside, helped tie your trauma gown at the base of your neck. Your stomach flipped the way it sometimes did when he showed you too much attention. You had always dismissed it as a silly crush, the cliche daddy issues you couldn't quite shake even in adulthood.
"Okay," you said finally, turning back to face him as sirens called in the distance, "fine, I'll get breakfast with you."
His grin widened, "Atta girl."
And then he was darting back outside to meet the ambulance, oblivious to the way your cheeks heated and your heart fluttered in response.
***
The only thought in your head as you sat across the diner table from Jack Abbot and the waitress poured you a cup of coffee was that your lips were chapped and you'd been picking at them all shift.
After the waitress took your order and walked off, Jack's eyes traced your face and watched as you chewed on your lower lip, "Stop that," he said softly, "You've been tearing your lips up all day."
Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together and clasped your hands in your lap, "Sorry."
He frowned, "What was that?"
"What?"
"Did you just apologize to me?"
The corner of your mouth tugged up just slightly, "Don't act like you've never heard an apology before."
"I have," he smirked, "just not from you. Now I've heard you say it twice in one day."
You rolled your eyes, "Oh, that is not true."
The waitress returned with your food and after thanking her, Jack speared a homefry into his mouth before turning his attention back to you, "So," he said, "What're you gonna do?"
You frowned, swallowing the eggs you'd spooned into your mouth, "About what?"
"Your sister's wedding."
You shrugged, "Nothing. She knows how I feel, it was fucked up of her to even invite me. I'm not even gonna RSVP."
His eyebrows knitted together, "What d'you mean? You're not gonna go?"
You snorted, "A weekend full of watching my baby sister and ex husband celebrate their love and solidify their union in the place I dreamed and gushed about getting married at myself to my sister for years?" You shook your head, "No thank you. I'm not a masochist. I'll probably spend the weekend with several bottles of wine on my couch watching Vanderpump Rules."
Jack balked, his head pulling back in that way it did sometimes when he was passing judgment on someone. You'd seen him direct it at patients, other students, occasionally Robby, but never you.
"If you don't go, they win."
You sighed, "Oh, come on, Abbot. They already won."
He shook his head, "No. They're shackling themselves in a relationship built on lies and betrayal. They've lost. And seeing you happier than ever at their wedding would be great revenge."
"Yeah, well there's only one problem with that," You stole a homefry from his plate and stuffed it in your mouth, "I'm miserable."
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes assessing you, "Do you have a plus one on your invitation?"
You blinked, "Why are you asking me that?"
He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward you conspiratorially, "I just think that even if you don't feel it, think about how much it would bother them to see you show up with someone else. Happy."
Was he delusional? You narrowed your eyes at him, and in turn leaned forward towards him, "My dating life is abysmal right now. So, pray tell, who is this imaginary knight in shining armor who's going to accompany me?"
Still smirking, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "I'd do it."
You nearly choked on your coffee. Once you'd caught your breath, you felt your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, "What, pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend? Make them think we're in love? Why would you agree to that?"
He shrugged, "You're my best resident and I'm tired of seeing you off your game. And I already told you, I want to help."
You hummed, "By forcing me into my worst nightmare?" You nodded, "Yeah, solid plan. What could possibly go wrong?"
He sighed, "Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you should consider that this might… Give you closure. And it won't hurt to get in a few shots yourself by bringing me along."
You narrowed your eyes at him for a few moments before laughing quietly, "This is insane."
"Well just…Just think about it before you say no, okay?"
You raised your eyebrows at him skeptically, but he was still smirking, "Okay. But don't hold your breath."
After you'd both finished your food, Jack paid despite your insistent attempts to slip your card to the waitress and drove you home.
"I left my car at the hospital."
He shrugged, "I can give you a ride in tonight."
As he pulled up to your house and put his car in park, he leaned over and squeezed your knee lightly, prompting you to look at him, "You'll get some sleep, right?"
Doubtful, you thought, but you nodded, "Yeah, of course."
His eyes narrowed and he held out a clenched hand, pinky outstretched towards you, "Promise?"
You snorted, "Seriously?"
He raised his eyebrows, pinky still held out insistently. So, sighing, you wrapped your pinky around his, "Promise."
Jack smiled and released your finger, "Get out of here then. I'll be back here at 6:30."
"Yes sir," You mocked, and jumped out of the car before he could give a snarky reply.
You wouldn't tell him, but spending time with him had done wonders for your mood. You were even considering taking him up on his offer to come with you to the wedding.
But surely, that was a disaster waiting to happen.
"I think that's a great idea!" Your mom said enthusiastically over the phone an hour later.
Your black out curtains were pulled down tight over the windows, shuttering your bedroom in darkness. You likely wouldn't sleep much, but you would still try. The only light a dim glow from your phone.
You scoffed, "You think it's a great idea to pretend to be in love with my boss at my ex's wedding?"
"I've been saying for months that you let them off too easy. And David's always asking me if you're seeing anyone. Possessive little fuck."
"Mom—"
"—Sorry, sorry. He really gets under my skin. I met Dr. Abbot, didn't I?"
"Yeah," You said, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "When I miscarried."
"He seemed nice. Handsome."
You sighed, "He's just being nice. And also, I've apparently been doing a really shitty job at work and he thinks this'll help."
Your mom hummed, "Sure, sweetie."
Already once before at your bedside after your miscarriage, your mom had implied that she believed Dr. Abbot looked at you as more than just a resident, "I'm not saying it's romantic," She had said at the time, when you had still been married to David, "I just think… He sees you as a person outside of all this." She had gestured around the emergency room.
Now, it seemed, she had changed her tune.
You looked at the watch on your wrist, illuminated in the dark to see that it was nearly noon. If you had any hope of sleep, you'd have to try soon. You said your goodbyes to your mom, and to your surprise, sleep came easy… along with dreams of freckled arms and a face with gray stubble, smirking at you slow and sweet like molasses.
***
You climbed into Jack's truck that evening, immediately engulfed by the hum of his heater, the warmth cocooning you away from the harsh winter air. You let him drive in silence, his radio quietly playing, tuned to the classic rock station.
When you pulled up to the hospital, the two of you walking side by side inside and then by the lockers, "Steak, chicken, or fish?"
You felt it when his head slowly turned towards you, eyes assessing as he draped his stethoscope over his neck, "Steak," he said finally and you could hear the smile in his voice.
You chewed the inside of your cheek as you closed the locker and turned to face him, "You understand that this is a whole weekend affair, right? It's in upstate New York. If you come you have to stick it out the whole weekend. We'll have to share a room—maybe even a bed—"
"You think I didn't already think of all this?"
He was so…unbothered. It didn't make any sense to you. That he would do all of this for you.
You ignored his question—Of course you knew he had, you knew how over prepared Abbot was for every scenario no matter how unlikely—But you thought at the very least you'd detect some discomfort, some acknowledgement that it might not be so easy. "What about the fact that I'm your resident? You're not worried about how this could effect our professional relationship?"
He shrugged, "You only have a few months left and it's not like we've ever had a normal working relationship."
You were reminded of your miscarriage. You couldn't remember everything, the blood loss had muddled some things, but you did recall the way his voice rose when speaking to David, insisting he wouldn't leave until he saw you. The way he'd so easily slipped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then last year when you had noticed Abbot limping around the ED and trying to hide grimaces a bit too much, you were the only one he'd admit to that he was in pain. The only one he'd listen to when you demanded to take a look at his prothestic. You didn't scold him when you saw the blood and pressure sores. Just gently cleaned and bandaged them, asked him if he'd been fitted for a new socket yet since this one was obviously causing problems. It was you who gently followed up with him day after day until it healed. You were the only one he allowed that close.
He was your teacher, your boss, but the two of you had always had something a bit deeper, a bit more intimate, that you each always tried to brush off. But now, here Jack was, declaring it openly.
You swallowed and broke eye contact, "You should know that after I found out he was having an affair and with who… He tried to deflect. He brought you up, accused me of sleeping with you—"
"That's ridiculous," Jack said, sounding irritated.
"I know," You said quickly, "I'm just telling you because… If you show up to this wedding as my date, if we're pretending that we're in love, he'll probably see it as vindication that he was right. He'll probably act like it absolves him of any wrong doing."
He nodded, "Will that be a problem for you?"
You raised your eyebrows, "For me? No. Personally, I hope it eats him alive thinking I cheated on him." You shook your head, "No, I just want you to understand what it is you're signing up for. It might… put a target on your back."
The two of you were at the hub now and Jack chuckled as he picked up an iPad, "I'm not afraid of David. He's a fucking coward and he's always punched down," He raised his eyes to you and added quickly, "no offense."
You dismissed him with a shake of your head, "None taken. So it's settled then. We're going."
He nodded, a smile on his face, and reached out his pinky towards you again, "It's a date."
You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped and your heart rate likely doubled when you wrapped your pinky around his, hazel eyes soft and gentle on yours. The moment passed quickly and then he released you, off to find Robby to start hand offs.
***
As the weeks passed and the snow thawed you were beginning to wonder what you had gotten yourself into. Your sister had texted you when you RSVP'd as if everything was fine now, saying she was so excited to see you and who were you bringing she wanted to see pics was he hot how long had you been seeing each other? She wanted to gossip with you as if nothing had transpired since the last time you talked to her, probably a year ago now. As if the last time you saw her you hadn't told her that she was no longer your sister as far as you were concerned.
You had ignored each text, telling your mom everytime you spoke to her to ask Maya to stop texting you. That just because you were coming to the wedding didn't mean all was forgiven.
"It doesn't matter what I say to her baby, she has her heart set on the fact that you coming means you're ready to be her big sister again. She won't stop talking about it."
It made you both angry and incredibly sad that Maya was naive enough to believe that you could just forgive and forget like that. You had meant what you said about her no longer being your sister. Truthfully, you still felt like you never wanted to speak to her ever again.
"And what does your husband think?" You asked as carefully as you could. It was something you had wanted to ask for a long while, what your stepfather thought of the whole thing. He had been the only father you'd ever really known after your biological father cheated on your mother and skipped town. He was Maya's biological father, but he had always treated you as his own—granted, you knew your mother wouldn't have accepted anything else. But when all this happened, you had assumed you'd lose him. After all, Maya was his real daughter.
"He understands why you need your distance, even though he hates seeing you girls fight. I've caught him more than once digging up old home videos of the two of you playing dress up or putting on plays. He misses you."
Your eyes had watered and you made a mental note to text him after, "I wish it didn't have to be like this." You'd said softly, and meant it.
But you didn't know how to be in the same room with Maya and David and not have a world ending meltdown. And you were realizing as the wedding drew closer and closer that maybe you were making a colossal mistake.
Which was how you ended up paralyzed staring at your half packed suitcase the day you were set to leave while Abbot repeatedly beeped from his truck outside.
You had left the door unlocked, so eventually after you ignored phone call after phone call and didn't come to the door, he made his way inside, calling your name.
When he walked in your bedroom and saw you, he breathed a sigh of relief, "Christ, I thought I was gonna walk in here to see you fuckin' passed out or something. What's going on?"
You chewed on your thumbnail and then shook your head frantically, "I—I can't do this. I'm not going."
"Yes you can and yes you are."
"Abbot—"
"I think it's time you start calling me Jack if you want to convince people we're dating."
You sighed and looked up at him, panic fluttering around in your chest like a trapped bird, "This is a bad idea," You whispered.
He shook his head, "If nothing else you and I are gonna have a really fun weekend away from the ER, alright? When was the last time you skipped town?"
You rolled your eyes, "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation."
He feigned offense with a hand to his chest, "You're not excited to spend a whole weekend with me upstate?"
Despite the impending panic attack you felt brewing, you tried to banter back, "Bringing you to my ex husband's wedding wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first date, no."
You were pleased to see his grin widen, "So you've been dreaming about our first date, then?"
You rolled your eyes again and started throwing more clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Ignoring how easy it was to play with him, how quickly it soothed you. With his voice in your ear, you thought maybe it'd be almost tolerable getting through this weekend. Almost.
"Shut up and help me close my suitcase."
***
As Jack pulled away from your apartment, you turned around to look in the back seat. It was filled nearly to the brim with duffel bags, first aid kits, bandages, emergency food kits, warming blankets—
"Do you know something about this weekend that I don't?" You asked as you took in all the supplies.
He shrugged, "It's always good to be prepared. Besides, do you know how many weddings I've been to where at least one drunk idiot injured themselves or someone else and needed a doctor?"
You would not admit to him how endearing—or sexy—you found it that he had overprepared like this. You turned back towards the front, "Fair enough."
After a few minutes of riding in silence, he cleared his throat, "So, what should I know? About fake dating you?"
You fought a smirk, "I don't think there's much to know. You know me already. Besides, I doubt we'll be spending much time with anyone who'd be able to spot it since I'll be avoiding Maya and David like the plague."
He frowned, "What about your parents?"
"Oh, my mom and step dad know we're not actually dating."
His head turned towards you, "So they know this is actually just a revenge tour?"
You nodded, "Yep."
"And they're… Fine with that?"
You chewed the inside of your cheek, "I think secretly they're hoping being in the same room with Maya will… help repair our relationship. Or something."
Jack scoffed, "They don't honestly expect you to forgive her, do they?"
"I don't think my mom does, no. My father cheated on her when I was really little and left us. So she… Knows how I'm feeling."
He paused, "I'm sorry, that must've been really hard on you as a kid."
You stared out the window, chewed on your thumbnail as trees blurred past your window, "I used to think, when I was a kid, that I'd never be like my mom. I saw how… hurt she was and I promised myself I'd never pick a man like my father. And David wasn't anything like my father. He was ambitious, kind, funny, romantic…" Your eyes watered, "He took care of me until he didn't. So maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I was just doomed to repeat generational patterns by virtue of being my mother's daughter."
After a moment, Jack gave what sounded like an almost pained groan, "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Let him off the hook like that and put the blame back on yourself. He fucked up. Not you."
You knew there was no sense in arguing with him, convincing him that you must've done something to cause him to stray. To look to someone who was so much like you, but younger and less damaged. He could've picked anyone to cheat with, but he fell in love with your baby sister. The same sister you had cared for so vigilantly to make sure she avoided the missteps you took. So that she wouldn't have twin scars to match yours. Practically made in your image, except she was less damaged. How could you get Jack to understand what that felt like? How could you not blame yourself?
So you didn't say anything. You let the silence fall instead and tried your best to keep your sniffling to a minimum. After a few minutes Jack reached across the cabin and gently took your hand in his own.
***
A few hours and many gas station stops later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the hotel you were staying at. You hopped out of the car first and he watched you from the rearview mirror for a few minutes before following suit.
You were so sad and quiet on the ride up he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, convincing you to come here. But he couldn't stand the thought of you moping at home, building this wedding up in your head to be more than it was. Obviously, you had every right to be upset. Frankly, if you came to him and said you wanted to burn the whole place to the ground, he'd start googling where he could find kerosene nearby.
What he didn't want was you deciding that this wedding marked the end of your life when really, he thought it was probably liberating you. He wished he had known when you were getting divorced because he would've thrown you a party. He would never suggest that you were lucky for the way things had played out, but he was relieved on your behalf that it had all happened so early in your marriage, in your life. You had so much left of it. He wanted you to see that, that it was possible to be happy again even after your whole world had imploded as violently as it did.
He hated that you had so much shame wrapped up in the dissolution of your marriage when that fucker was the one the blame. It was horrible enough he had chosen your little sister, but the timing of it, right after your miscarriage, made his fucking blood boil. When you needed him the most he was busy warming your sister's bed. It made him sick with rage. And then to hear you blame yourself on top of it all? It was too much. Jack thought it would be a miracle if he made it through this weekend without punching the coward's lights out.
And then, to top it all off, he wondered if he had an ulterior motive for all this. That maybe he was so eager to play the part of your boyfriend because he really did want to be your boyfriend. It wasn't a novel thought, he had wondered to himself many times before if the reason he allowed you to get so close when he had historically pushed everyone else away, especially after his wife, was because he was harboring feelings for you. He had never been able to answer the question. Or maybe he was just too afraid to be honest with himself about it. For a while he had told himself it didn't matter how he felt about it because you were married. But now…Well, things had changed.
He settled his hands on your hips when he came up behind you as you were beginning to unpack the bags from the back seat, "We should probably set some ground rules before this goes any further."
You spun around, his hands still on your hips. You didn't seem bothered by his closeness, "What d'you mean?"
"Well," Jack started, feeling the heat begin to crawl up his neck at having this conversation while standing this close to you. His leg was beginning to ache from driving with the prosthetic all day and he leaned into the pain in an attempt to ground himself, "I'm a very physically affectionate man when I'm in a relationship. So, if you're uncomfortable with that, we should talk about it."
He watched the bob of your throat as you swallowed, "That's fine."
Jack hummed and looped his fingers through the belt loops of your jeans and gently pulled until your hips were pushed up against his, "Maybe we should have a safe word."
"A safe word?" Was it his imagination that you sounded a bit breathless? You had only been here a few minutes and he was already in danger of crossing the line.
He nodded and bit his lip, "Yeah, so I know if I need to back off."
"That sounds… Like a good idea. Very mature."
"You pick, what's our safe word?" While walking around to you at the side of the truck, he had noticed what looked like a couple standing by the entrance of the hotel, watching. It could have been Maya and David, it could have been anyone. But on the off chance it was someone you knew, he wanted to make sure he was playing his part well. At least, that's what he told himself he was doing when he nudged his nose gently against yours.
He thought he felt you gasp against his mouth and it was taking almost everything he had not to kiss you.
"Troponin." You said, and he blinked. Confusion clouding his features.
"Troponin?" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together. He wondered if he had heard you correctly. He was this close to you, close enough to devour you, and you were thinking about a STEMI?
"Our safe word," You said and licked your lips. His eyes trailed the path of your tongue hungrily.
"You want our safe word to be troponin?" When you nodded he smiled, "Okay, troponin it is," he pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose and then backed away slightly, "In the spirit of total transparency, I do think we have an audience."
He almost wished he hadn't told you. You had relaxed so much under his touch and he watched the tension return to your shoulders as you peered around, trying to locate the possible enemy.
But then when you saw them, beginning to walk towards you, your shoulders drooped, "It's just my mom and stepdad."
Jack watched a few steps away as your mother pulled you into a tight hug, your step dad watching with a bemused smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You looked so much like your mother. He remembered thinking it the first time he'd met her after your miscarriage and it still held true. She talked like you too, or rather, you talked like her. The same mannerisms and same lilt to your voices, the same warm laugh. If he closed his eyes, he might have a hard time telling you apart.
"Mom, you remember Jack."
He shook your mother's hand in both of his, murmured that it was good to see her again.
"And you, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for looking out for her, even outside of the emergency room."
"My pleasure, but call me Jack, please."
You introduced him to your step dad who seemed to be a reserved man of few words, but friendly enough.
"Well the two of you must've had a long drive so I'll let you get settled, but—" Your mom turned to look at you pointedly, "—We knew you were here because Maya knew you were here so I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up at your hotel room unannounced."
You frowned, "How did she know I was here?"
"Well," Your mom sighed, "It would seem that you never stopped sharing your location with her on your phone."
You groaned and clawed your phone from your pocket, "Oh, Jesus fuck—"
Your stepdad winced, "Language, please."
"I don't want to see her." You said, hands shaking as you unlocked your phone, undoubtedly trying to quickly stop sharing your location, "Can you please tell her I don't want to see her right now? I'm not—" Your voice sounded close to breaking, "Please, I'm not ready to see her."
Jack's hands itched to reach for you, but he clasped them behind his back instead. As far as your parents were concerned the two of you were not really dating, he was just here as a friend. He didn't want to make anything more complicated for you. But still, he felt like you were still in the ED, and thus his responsibility. He wanted to fix it.
"We'll tell her," your stepdad said softly, "But it's her wedding, you'll have to talk to her eventually—"
"I know that," you snapped, then immediately softened, "Sorry, I—It's been a long day. I'll talk to her, I promise. Just not today."
The three of them began hushed conversations that were becoming more and more strained. You had downplayed to him what your stepdad was hoping for, he thought now. You had been here only a few minutes and he was already laying into you about how "that's your sister" and "you're her big sister you should be the bigger person" and "you can't ignore her forever."
You absolutely could, if that was what you wanted. And Jack understood the man's stake in it. It had to hurt watching the girls you raised become estranged. But had he sat his other daughter down and explained to her the consequences of breaking your trust like that? Of betraying you like that? It sounded like the two of you had been close, best friends. Not only did she sleep with your husband, but her actions had resulted in you losing your best friend. You had a traumatic surgery and you ended up cheated on and divorced within a year and you hadn't been able to talk to your best friend about it. It was cruel to now ask you to be the bigger person.
Jack began walking back towards the back of the truck so he could continue unloading your baggage, heavily favoring his right leg. He was in a decent amount of pain, but he may have been playing it up so—
"Jack, is your leg bothering you?"
You were by his side in a moment, taking bags he had unloaded and carrying them on your shoulder.
"I'm fine," he said, "Just a little sore from driving all day." You started rummaging through his back seat, "What're you looking for?"
"Your cane or crutches or something—"
He scoffed and gently pulled you from the car, "They're in my duffel, I don't need them right now."
"But—"
"Sweetheart—" Your mother interrupted, "Your dad and I are gonna go, we'll see you at breakfast?"
You nodded and quickly hugged them goodbye and Jack felt immediate relief at their absence. They were nice enough people, especially your mother who he could tell was more on your side about the whole thing, but they were still being too hard on you in his opinion.
Once inside the room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic with a soft groan. He didn't look up, but he felt you watching him, knew you were trying to think of some way to help.
"Can I get you anything?" You asked finally.
He shook his head, massaging his limb gently, "No, I'll be fine after a hot shower and working some lotion into my leg."
"Oh, that reminds me—" You walked off towards the bathroom and then returned a few seconds later, "—Good, they remembered. I called a few days ago to ask them to put a shower chair in here. Just wanted to check so I could call down if they forgot."
Jack blinked, "Well, that was… Very thoughtful of you, thank you."
"Least I can do," You sighed, "After the ledges you're sure to talk me down from this weekend."
Digging into your pocket, you pulled out an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter.
"What the fuck?" Jack laughed, "You don't smoke."
"I know, I thought it was a great weekend to start—Hey!"
Jack had snatched them from you before you had the chance to unwrap them, "Do you know how fuckin' hard it is to kick a nicotine addiction? Do you?"
You sighed, "You're really gonna lecture me about this?"
"Yeah, I absolutely am. I'm not gonna watch you be self destructive all weekend. That's not why we're here. It's so you can see how better off you are."
You pushed your lower lip out into a pout, "You don't think I deserve a cigarette in this situation?"
Fuck, why'd you have to go and do that? It was unfair. Now all he could think about was your lower lip between his teeth— He could not let you know how easily you could wrap him around your finger. Clearing his throat, he pushed the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, "You take the shower first, you'll feel better after. I'm going to hide these while you're in the bathroom."
You looked for a moment like you might argue, but then your eye caught on what looked like a welcome basket on the dresser, filled with snacks and—wine, "Fine. Have the cigarettes. But I will be opening the wine after I get out of the shower."
Jack fought a smirk, "Only if you let me order us some room service. You've eaten nothing but jerky and Red Bull all day."
You glared at him from where you stood, arms crossed over your chest before turning on your heel towards the bathroom, "Fine, fine. Whatever. But only because I'm starving, not because I think you're right."
He watched as you sauntered into the bathroom, holding your bag of toiletries and a change of clothes. Then, with a sigh, he laid down flat on the bed.
"Abbot, you are so fucked," he murmured to himself. Then he propped himself up and reached for the phone on the nightstand.
***
Troponin. Troponin. It was so stupid, that that had been the only word you could think of.
A safe word. The very implication meaning that there could be a scenario where Jack Abbot could touch you and you wouldn't like it. Absolutely absurd.
No, the only real, looming danger of this weekend was that Jack Abbot would touch you and you would like it too much. You didn't think he knew it yet, but Jack had the power to break your heart even more than it already had been. You were afraid of him, but not for reasons he'd understand.
Jack was sound asleep next to you, snoring softly. The moonlight that spilled through the balcony doors lit up his watch enough that you could see it was a bit past 3:20 AM.
There hadn't been much back and forth about sharing the bed. Jack had said when you got out of the shower that he didn't mind calling and asking for a cot, but you had waved him off. Besides which, if you were going to be convincing that you were actually a couple, on the chance that your sister stopped by unnanounced you didn't want her seeing you were sleeping separately.
So you had each climbed into opposite sides of the bed, bid each other goodnight, and that was that.
Between being a night owl by default and the number of Red Bulls you'd had that day, sleep wasn't an option for you. You would've been surprised that Jack was able to sleep at all, both of you accustomed to working through the night, if you didn't also know he had a prescription for his insomnia.
So it was just you wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about troponin. A protein used to detect heart damage. Faced with the impossibility of the weekend, seeing both your ex and your little sister for the first time since you found out about their affair, all with your attending by your side, pretending to be in love with you, you thought it likely you might end this weekend with an abnormal troponin reading.
That's ridiculous, he had said when you told him David had accused you of sleeping with him. And while it may have seemed ridiculous to him, you understood why David had thought it. The hero worship was likely blatant in your voice and on your face whenever you talked about him.
You turned your head to the side and looked at Jack's sleeping face. Peaceful, wrinkles smoothed out. His silver stubble glinted in the moonlight. You liked when he grew it out like this, just a little bit.
You would never admit you were in love with him, but weren't you, just a little bit?
You blew out a long breath and turned your face back towards the ceiling. It was going to be a long weekend.
***
"I feel like I'm gonna be sick."
Jack turned to look at you as you said it. You were walking to the welcome breakfast, which was being held at the venue. It was a winery draped in greenery and curtained by trees. The couple would be married in the garden that overlooked the pond outside.
"Do you need to sit down?"
You shook your head and stopped walking, "I feel like there's a boulder on my chest," your breathing quickened and you brought your fist to your sternum, rubbing clockwise, as if it would free the pressure.
Jack stepped in fromt of you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, left hand sliding below your jaw to your neck so he could feel your carotid. Your pulse jackhammered against his fingers and sweat glistened on your forehead and upper lip.
"Panic attack?" He asked softly and you nodded, "We don't have to go in right away, we can be late. Take a lap around the pond."
You shook your head, "No, no Maya's in the door she's watching us. I don't want—Ah, fuck David's there too."
"Hey, look at me," Your eyes darted to his and he shook his head, "Don't look at him. What d'you wanna do?"
"Well I want to go home, but that's not happening."
Jack smiled, "Okay, let me rephrase that, what do you need to get yourself in there?"
Your chin was wobbling as you looked at him and you shook your head slightly, "I don't know, I don't—" Your eyes trailed over his shoulder.
Jack angled himself in order to block your view, "Hey—" Your eyes met his again, wet and frantic, "It's just you and me right now. They're not as scary as you think they are. You've built them up to be these scary monsters in your head and what they did to you was monstrous, but they're still just people. They should be afraid of you. Do you want to piss them off?"
Finally, your lip curled up the tiniest bit, "Yeah."
"Great. What should we do then? What would piss them off?"
You bit down on your lip gently and tilted your head. You seemed a bit shy, a feeling he wasn't used to seeing on you.
"Could you kiss me, you think?"
Immediately, Jack felt heat spread through his chest. He smirked, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt, "Are they watching still?"
Your eyes darted over his shoulder and then you nodded.
Hands still on your cheeks, he moved one hand to cup the back of your neck and gently pull you to him. His heart raced as he tasted you, slowly explored your mouth, relished in the way it felt for your lips to move against his.
It took enormous effort for him to pull away from you, but he managed it. Your pupils were blown out and you seemed a bit breathless, but he wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. You had only asked him to kiss you to make your ex jealous, he reminded himself.
"What do you think? Did it work?"
You peered over Jack's shoulder and nodded, "David stormed off. Maya's still there."
Jack hummed, running his fingers over your cheeks one last time before dropping them, "She probably wants to talk to you. Are you ready?"
You inhaled, slow and deep, "Will you hold my hand?"
Jack felt himself melt. He thought there was little he wouldn't do for you, "Of course," he slipped his hand into yours, ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand, "Remember, you've done nothing wrong. They should be afraid of you."
You kept pace with him, the venue looming ever closer in front of you, "Right."
Jack squeezed your hand reassuringly as you approached your sister, and shit, did your mother have strong genes. Even only being half sisters, the two of you were nearly identical, though there were obvious differences to Jack. Your sister was perfectly manicured, nails done, lips glossed. She obviously had some sort of workout regimen if her toned arms and legs were any indication. Likely pilates, he thought.
Obviously, Jack found you gorgeous. He knew your bitten down nails and often chapped lips were a symptom of the job—Long, manicured nails often led to broken gloves and who had time to constantly reapply chapstick in the ER?—But there was something to the two sisters standing side by side. He could see the stress and heartbreak of the last year on you whereas your sister looked nonplussed. Whether that was just an image she wished to project on her wedding weekend or if she really felt no remorse, he wasn't sure.
But he wasn't in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. He disliked her instantly on principal.
Her throat bobbed as you approached. You came to a stop, a roughly three foot buffer between you. The two of you seemed unsure what to do next, staring at each other, both of you glassy eyed.
And then, without warning, Maya threw her arms around your neck. For a moment, you froze, and then you released Jack's hand, slowly easing your arms around her. He watched your face crumple just slightly, half hidden by Maya's shoulder.
"I'm so happy you came," Maya said, and Jack had to strain to hear it, her voice muffled by your shoulder, "I couldn't imagine getting married without you here."
You didn't say anything at all, but you kept holding her, that bereft look in your eyes.
Maya pulled away, a smile on her face, though tears began to cascade over her lash line. Then she turned to Jack, "And Dr. Abbot, I'm glad you're here too. You know, I always said there was something more between the two of you, the way she always talked about you."
You were despondent, eyes aimless as you stared at nothing. Jack turned his attention to Maya and he didn't smile, "It wasn't like that."
Her mouth fell open, maybe realizing her mistake, the implication, "Oh—Oh n—no, of course not—"
"Jack," you said softly, "save me a seat inside?"
He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.
But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.
It was barely 10 AM and Jack strode over to the bar.
***
"I really am so happy you're here. Mom said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would— And this place! Isn't it gorgeous?"
Maya babbled on and on while you felt… Empty. She was discussing wedding planning with you as if nothing had changed. You remembered sitting with her on your living room floor after you'd gotten engaged, scrap booking your dream wedding.
You wished you could dig up that scrap book now because while you had had to settle and compromise on most things, it seemed that she had gotten everything.
The venue, the welcome breakfast in the tearoom, the open bar— You bet from the floral centerpieces on each table that she'd even gotten the same florist.
You had ended up getting married in a courthouse with a small dinner party afterwards. It was all you'd been able to afford between law school and med school.
Still, it had been the happiest day of your life because you loved him. You would have done anything for him.
And now you saw that same pure giddiness on your sister's face.
"Look, Maya, I don't—The last time we talked, I'm sorry I was so harsh, but I meant what I said. I'm not here to make amends."
She stared at you, almost disbelieving as the happiness began the melt off her face. You almost felt guilty, "Then why are you here?" She asked, bitterness slipping into her voice.
"I don't know. To get closure." You shook your head, "Maybe there's also a small part of me that thinks I can convince you not to go through with it."
Without hesitation, Maya stepped away from you, "I've had this conversation with mom already several times. Just because he wasn't good for you doesn't mean he's not good for me."
You tilted your head slightly and felt the tears burn the backs of your eyes, "You think you're the exception to how he treated me? Did you know you weren't the first woman he stepped out on me with? You were just the final straw."
She was shaking her head rapidly, "No, no, that's not true. He left you. He said—He said you wanted to make things work after… After you found out, but he wanted to be with me."
Your breath shook, "Well he lied to you. I told him that same day I found out that I was calling an attorney and he got down on hands and knees and begged me to stay—"
"You're lying!"
"—Ask mom! I stayed with her and dad that night, she sat next to me when I called the lawyer."
Maya shook her head, "Mom has not been subtle about how she feels about everything. She's just as bad as you, trying to convince me to leave him—"
"That's because we both know how it feels to love a man like David and we're trying to spare you from that—"
"I'm not a fucking child!" Her voice came out shrill and startled the couple that happened to be walking by at the time. But Maya, always perfect, flashed a perfect smile at them and recomposed herself before turning back to you, "I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."
There was a pit in your stomach, but you knew when a battle was a lost cause. She really and truly believed he was it for her. And maybe he was, maybe she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. But you had a difficult time believing that your sister was capable of reforming a man so quickly. Once a cheater, always a cheater. There was a reason that was the saying.
You swallowed and looked down at your feet, "Did you at least get a good lawyer for the prenup?"
"The… prenup?" The uncertainty in her voice made you look up. Her eyebrows were knitted together and she shook her head, "What're you talking about?"
You blinked for a moment, sure you must've misheard, or maybe she had misheard you, "The prenup. He made us do a prenup before we got married, said it was only practical. It was why the divorce was finalized so quickly."
You watched as her face transformed, defensiveness replaced with something that looked a lot like pity, "We don't have one," she said softly.
Confused and a bit nauseous now, you shook your head, "That… That doesn't make any sense. He was so insistent on it when we—Are you sure?"
She nodded slowly, "I'm sorry. But it really is different between us. I'm sure of it."
The room was spinning and you felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you. You were freefalling.
"That makes sense, actually," you said eventually, beginning to step away from her to go inside, "I've always been the person people use for a trial run. Just didn't realize my husband was rehearsing marriage on me."
Maya called after you, but you had heard enough. You needed to get away from her. To get away from David. You didn't hear Jack when he called after you and you didn't notice him trailing behind you while you looked for somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe to fall apart.
But when you found an empty room, likely the bridal suite that Maya would get ready in tomorrow, you moved to close the door— But found Jack's foot shoved between the door and the frame.
"Hey—what's going on? Can I come in?"
Immediately, you felt yourself soften at his voice. You felt nearly conditioned at this point to feel relief and comfort at his presence. There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.
So after just a moment, you pulled the door back and let him in.
"What happened?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.
You shrugged helplessly and felt the tears begin to fall, an unstoppable wave behind your eyes, "They—they didn't get a prenup."
Jack frowned, "Okay…I don't understand."
You looked up at the ceiling, a halfhearted attempt to stem the flow of tears. All of this had been a terrible, awful idea, only spurned on by your schoolgirl crush on your attending. And now he was seeing you like this, humiliated. It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.
"Before we got married he insisted on a prenup. I didn't really mind it, I thought it was pragmatic at the time. Very modern," You sniffed, "and in the end it made the divorce a lot easier. But he didn't make Maya sign one." You scrunched your mouth to the side in an attempt to stop your lip from wobbling, "I don't know why it hurts so much. Of all the things he's done to me, I don't know why it bothers me so much that he didn't have her sign one—That he must think she's it for him and he didn't think that when he married me.
"And if that wasn't bad enough," You continued after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes, "He lied to her. Told her he was the one who ended it between us because he wanted to be with her." The memories flashed behind your eyes as you spoke, finding them in bed together, David chasing after you when you fled, tears streaming down his face as he got down on his knees and swore it was a mistake, "He begged me to take him back. Not even just that once, but for a while afterwards. He stalled on signing the papers for weeks. But he somehow convinced her that it was him who asked for the divorce so he could be with her."
When you were brave enough to look up at Jack, he was just watching you quietly, arms crossed, "It just feels like…" You said slowly, "It would be so much easier if she was just the other woman, but he did give her the wedding I always wanted and he didn't make her sign the prenup and it feels like maybe he did just upgrade to a newer model—"
"That's not true—"
"—And then I feel awful for not wanting that because that means in a few years he'll probably hurt my sister the way he hurt me. But the alternative is that I just wasn't enough for him, I wasn't a good enough wife and she is. And either way I'm still the one alone and heartbroken and miserable."
The more you spoke, the more frantic and rushed your speech became and you couldn't catch your breath.
"Okay—Can I—? Is it okay if I hold you for a minute?" Jack asked, arms already outstretched.
In the back of your head, you knew it was dangerous to keep seeking out his touch for comfort. But here he was offering and you were at risk of falling apart. So you nodded, let yourself fall into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You allowed yourself to wrap your arms around his waist in turn, further closing any distance between you.
"We knew this was going to be difficult no matter what," He said softly, running a soothing hand from your neck down your back, "But you need to remember that the decisions they made don't reflect back on you."
You scoffed, "Oh, they don't?"
"No!" Keeping his arms around you, he pulled back from you so he could see your face, "Fuck them. I don't care if they're fucking soulmates, it doesn't justify what they did to you."
You rolled your eyes and shook your head and Jack gently grasped your chin, pulling your face just slightly down so your eyes met his. His eyebrows were raised and the way he was looking at you so intently, his face so close to yours had your heart in your throat, "Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I'm gonna do my damnedest to get it through that pretty head of yours this weekend that you deserved better. You deserve the world. Nobody deserves what they did, but especially not you."
His closeness was so soothing to you, you rested your forehead against his, "Why're you so nice to me?"
He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."
Suddenly embarrassed by the way his words made your stomach flip, you buried your face in the crook of his neck instead, "You're one of my favorite people, too."
His arms tightened around you and he kissed your head, "You ready to go get a drink?"
You sighed and pulled away from him, "God knows I need one."
With that smirk on his face that made your knees weak, he led you back out by the hand, turning his head back over his shoulder to give you a quick wink. With him by your side, real date or fake date, you thought maybe people would see you as worthy. If someone like Jack Abbot could love you then maybe you weren't the pathetic mess that they all thought you were.
***
"You doing okay, baby?" Your mom asked immediately as Jack led you over to her table, "I saw you rush by after talking to Maya, you seemed upset."
Jack pulled your chair out for you and as you sat down he gently squeezed your shoulders, "Better now," you said honestly as Jack sat down next to you.
"You wanna talk about it?" Your mom reached to squeeze your hand.
You shook your head, "No, I'm good. I promise."
Jack leaned over to you, lips brushing against your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine, "David just walked back in the room. He can't keep his eyes off you."
You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.
"Well," You reached out and ran your fingers through his silver curls, "We should make sure we give him a show then, yeah?"
A wolfish grin spread across his face and he took your hand, pressing your fingers to his mouth before curling his pinky around yours, "Let's make it one to remember."
For the rest of the breakfast, Jack hand fed you cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, kissed on your shoulders and neck, and kept a firm hand on your thigh, a hand that steadily wandered higher as the morning waned into afternoon.
"I'm gonna go get us another round of drinks," You said quietly in his ear.
"Okay," His eyes trailed down your face until they landed on your mouth. You watched, arousal spreading like fire through your veins as he bit his lower lip, "Gimme a kiss first?"
You were pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough to not feel the fear of your own desire. Things were getting precarious. You wanted him too much. You had had just a taste of him earlier and you were greedy for more.
But you knew, somewhere, David was watching. Maya was watching. You could worry about your feelings for Jack later. When you kissed him this time it felt full to the brim with tension, Jack moving his hand to the back of your neck so you couldn't move. It sent all your neurons firing, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of wine on his breath.
You felt almost dizzy by the time you pulled away from him and headed to the bar.
***
Jack was in his own head as he watched you walk off to the bar. It was a good thing you weren't looking at him because he was sure there were hearts in his eyes right now after getting to kiss you twice this morning. He was aware that he was toeing a line with you, that you were likely only humoring him to make your ex husband jealous.
But he couldn't help it. Especially after you'd been crying to him just a bit before. He wanted to make you feel loved and wanted, it was the least he could do for you this weekend.
"So, when're you gonna tell her?"
Jack turned to look at your mother who was now leaning across your empty seat to talk to him, a knowing smile on her face.
"Sorry?"
"When are you gonna tell her that you're not pretending?"
Well, shit. He thought maybe he was just coming across as a very convincing actor, but your mother had seen right through him already. Jack laughed nervously and shook his head, "I just… I just want her to feel good, that's all. She deserves better."
Your mother hummed, "No, I think you're exactly what she deserves. Handsome, intelligent, and most importantly, you've always looked out for her. I think you'd find she feels the same."
Jack shook his head as his eyes wandered back to you, "She's still in love with David."
"She's in love with the future she almost had with him. But I think a future with you would be even brighter."
He ran a hand along his jaw, "She doesn't need me or anyone else for that, she's created a bright future for herself all on her own."
Your mom's grin widened, "The fact that you know that just reinforces how good for her you'd be."
Jack was smiling, but he sighed. Your mother meant well and he knew the two of you were very close, but nothing was going to happen between you beyond the show you were putting on this weekend.
He was old, sad, widowed, an amputee. He wasn't even close to the man you deserved.
He wouldn't sit and explain all that to your mother. Besides, you were on your way back to the table now. He surprised himself with the force of his own grin when he met your eyes as you walked back over.
You were too good for him, but that wouldn't stop him from savoring every second pretending you were his.
***
After breakfast had morphed into lunch, everyone broke off to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.
Still buzzing, you and Jack stumbled arm and arm back to your hotel room. Immediately, Jack sat at the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic and liner, groaning with relief as he did.
You bit your lip, "Can I help?"
He looked up at you and shook his head, "You don't have to—"
"I want to. Please."
He must have been more innebriated than he thought because eventually, he gave in, watching you intently as you wiped down his leg and then his prosthetic. All he could think as he watched you was that no one had taken care of him like this since his wife.
You warmed lotion in your hands before gently massaging it into his leg and he couldn't hold in the groan that clawed up his throat.
He heard a chuckle from you and finally had the good sense to be embarrassed, "Sorry," he said quickly, "I'm just—I'm not used to anyone else—"
"It's okay, Jack. You don't have to explain." You finished massaging the rest of lotion into his skin and then leaned back on your heels, "Is that better?"
He nodded, "Much."
You sat on the bed next to him and without thinking much about it he slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you back until you were both laying flat against the mattress.
You burrowed closer to him, head on his chest, "Thank you for everything this morning. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without you."
He pressed his cheek into your forehead, "It's me and you this weekend. I'm here for whatever you need."
You propped yourself up to see his face, "I don't know of anyone else in my life who would've volunteered to come do this with me."
"Why not?" He smirked, "It's a pretty good gig. Paid for hotel and food and drink. I get to kiss a girl way out of my league all weekend long."
You tilted your head a bit to the side, a look on your face he usually associated with when you ran a list of differential diagnoses in your head. You were focused, assessing—On him, it seemed.
"I won't forget it," You said finally, "What you've done, what you're trying to do for me."
"Sweetheart, I'd do a hell of a lot more to make you see how wonderful you are. And I mean that."
He watched your eyes grow wet and then you sniffed and looked away from him, "Um, I'm gonna jump in the shower now, if that's alright with you?"
He nodded slowly, "'Course."
As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.
When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.
He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.
***
Your breathing was still erratic as you arrived to the rehearsal dinner, but knowing Jack would be next to you the whole time was a relief.
When your knee began jumping under the table as speeches were beginning to start, a warm hand engulfed your leg and squeezed gently.
"I think maybe I should step out," You whispered when your ex father in law began to stand, headed for the microphone. You felt nauseous. You hadn't prepared for the fact that people who used to be your family and friends, who had made speeches at your wedding would now be making speeches about your sister.
Before you could high tail it out of there, your ex father in law was speaking and though Jack was in your ear asking if you needed some air, you were transfixed. Unable to stop listening. He talked of the last year as if it was a revelation for his son. There was no direct mention of you, but instead a "black spot" in David's life for more than a decade. His father watched him wither under your love like a neglected house plant. It was only when your sister entered his life—conveniently no mention of how they had met—that he began to really flourish. That David grew to be a man his father was proud of.
You were gonna be sick. You were hurt, but mostly angry. You had thought your relationship with David's family had been good. But clearly, they had fallen in love with Maya and become disillusioned with you. Just like David.
In your cloud of rage, you pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the wood floor and stood. You realized heads had turned to you at this point, but you didn't care about that much right now. You needed to get out.
As you spun on your heel to flee, you heard your father in law make a stupid joke to redirect everyone's attention away from you. You thought maybe you heard Jack call after you, but you kept walking, blood pounding in your ears.
The late spring evening air had a chill to it now that the sun had set. You walked some distance away from the building, still shaking, before reaching into the pocket of your dress and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and lighter. Jack hadn't put much effort into hiding them and you'd found them earlier in his nightstand while he was in the shower.
You weren't a smoker, but during med school you had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette while drunk. You thought as you went to take a pull that your lungs might forget the habit, force you to choke the smoke back up, but it went down smooth. Like riding a bike.
"I thought you'd quit those once you started your residency," The sound of David's voice behind you had your shoulders tensing.
"I'm having a mid life crisis," you managed to deadpan and brought the cigarette back to your lips.
"Well," He stepped next to you, but you avoided looking at him. It would be the first time you saw him up close like this in a little more than a year, "Maybe with it you'll finally grow out of making everything about you."
He wanted a fight. You wouldn't rise to the occasion. It was amazing, really, that after everything he had come out here to fight. You wouldn't give it to him.
"You've really upset Maya today. I thought you were here to support your sister, but it seems like you're just hell bent on ruining her day."
"Yeah, well, she ruined my life so the least she can do is give me a day."
He scoffed, "You love to make yourself the victim, but you cheated too. And you had the audacity to fucking bring him here to rub it in my face."
You hummed, "We only started seeing each other six months ago. I never cheated on you," Finally, you turned to look at him and it hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would. It felt like fireworks erupted in your chest. There was the tiny mole on his jaw that you used to kiss every morning. There was the curl on his forehead you used to brush out of his eyes when he went too long without a haircut. "But if I had cheated on you, would it really bother you? Or would it just be a weight off your conscience to think maybe you didn't hurt me as badly as you did?"
He shook his head, "I'm not blind, the way he came in our house that day—That wasn't the way a leader treats their subordinate. Not unless they're fucking."
"He was trying to save my life," You ground out, and with it, your cigarette, "something you should have been just as concerned about, you know, as my husband."
As you turned to leave, you felt his hand circle your wrist and you snapped back towards him like a rubber band. You were briefly shocked at his touch, not afraid necessarily, just surprised that he was trying to prevent you from leaving.
"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."
For a moment, his words took you back two years ago, to texting Jack, alone in your bed. How even to him you tried to sound dismissive. It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off. How much of a burden David had made you feel like, that you felt you should downplay everything to Jack. The pain you were in, both physically and emotionally. How excruciating the loneliness was, how clearly repulsive David had found you.
You thought maybe you would've preferred being stabbed. Maybe it would have come with less complicated emotions. Maybe your husband would have taken your pain seriously. Maybe he would have laid in bed with you and comforted you instead of sexting your sister.
"Hey sweetheart," Jack's voice floats through the air before you can say anything else to David and he drops your wrist, "Everything okay?"
You took a step back from David, into the warmth of Jack's chest, "Fine, I was just taking a smoke break."
That earned you a double take, but he must have decided it wasn't worth scolding you over in front of David because he turned his attention back to the man in front of him, "Your mother's looking for you, why don't you head back inside? I'll be right behind you."
You frowned and turned back to him, but he just winked at you in the moonlight and then nodded his head back towards the building.
***
Jack had been watching you and David from a distance as soon as you'd left. Frankly, he hadn't wanted David to speak to you alone at all, especially after the speech his father had made, but you didn't run away when David approached you. And he knew you could handle yourself, had watched you do it with difficult patients. You would even hold your own around him on the rare occasion the two of you butted heads in the ER.
But there was something about the way your body language shifted when he was around. You tensed and then seemed to curl inward on yourself. Like you were afraid of taking up too much space around him. He'd never seen you like that around anyone. It was what made him stay, watching you both carefully, just in case.
He waited patiently. Until you turned to leave and David stopped you.
You weren't helpless. Jack knew you knew how to get out of a hold like that. You had told him once before you took self defense classes pretty regularly and you tried to convince the nurses to go with you when you could. You could've thrown David on his ass easily.
But you didn't, you just wilted further. It infuriated him, just like it infuriated him when you had the miscarriage. There was something about David that turned you into someone he didn't recognize. He wondered if David knew it, if he realized how vibrant you became when you pushed yourself out from underneath his thumb.
When you let him keep you there, keep you from leaving, Jack couldn't watch it anymore. He knew you didnt need rescuing, but the blood was roaring in his ears and suddenly his legs were moving of their own volition and then— Hey sweetheart.
You seemed relieved by his intervention, and that bothered him even more. Because you could have left at any time, but David made you feel trapped.
He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."
David laughed and ran a hand along his jaw, "Threatening a man on his wedding weekend. Very classy, Dr. Abbot. And bold considering you had an affair with my first wife."
Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."
For the first time, David's projected mask of casual indifference slipped. It bothered him immensely to be accused of anything immoral and it seemed no one in his life, except you, had pointed out to his face that he had. It didn't bother him that he had hurt you, Jack realized, it bothered him that anyone else thought less of his values. Or worse, thought he had none at all.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."
When he found you back inside, you were sitting with your mother, heads huddled together as you drank a dirty martini. He sat in the empty seat next to you and reached for the pack of cigarettes you'd left on the table.
"Hey—" You said indignantly, but Jack pocketed them before you could reach for them.
"You weren't supposed to have those." He said, eyebrows raised.
You pushed your lip out in an exaggerated pout, "But they made me feel so much better."
"Hm," Unable to resist, Jack ran a thumb over your lower lip, "so much better that you forgot your self defense training when he grabbed you?"
He had said it softly enough that only you could have heard, but you still found yourself glancing around, "He wouldn't have hurt me."
"That's not really the point though, is it? Why do you still let him make you feel small?"
Your eyebrows knit together and you shook your head, "I—I don't do that."
He nodded, "Yes, you do. I don't see you behave like this around anyone else—you shrink."
You pulled back in surprise and scoffed, "He was my husband." You said simply. As if it explained everything.
"So you just roll over and submit to him because he was your husband?"
Too far. He had pushed too far. He watched the wall go up behind your eyes, your features turned stony, "I need another drink." You said coldly and jumped up before he could say anything else.
"Fuck," Jack murmured, hesitating for only a second before jumping up to follow after you, "I'm sorry," he said sidling up next to you, "I didn't mean to upset you."
You were eating the olives from your empty martini glass as you waited for another, "Everyone is watching me today and will be watching me tomorrow. Picking apart my every move, foaming at the mouth hoping that I implode."
Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.
"I don't need you picking me apart as well."
He turned back towards you, "I didn't mean it like that. I just… feel very protective of you and I don't like the idea of anyone making you feel less than. Even if they were your husband."
You nodded and then thanked the bartender when he handed you another martini. With your free hand, you held out your pinky to Jack, "It's me and you, right?"
Jack smiled and nodded, wrapping his pinky around yours, "You and me."
There was a vulnerability in your eyes as you looked at him, a fragility you hadn't yet shown him until now. He was just now realizing how much of a show you must be putting on for everyone—for him. He didn't want you to hide from him.
Maybe you initiated it because you were drunk, but Jack didn't stop you when you slowly inched your face close to his. Mouths centimeters apart, he cupped your cheek with his hand, felt it when you leaned into his palm.
"Jack?"
"Hm?"
"I really like kissing you," you said softly, "probably more than I should."
His stomach flipped and he wet his lips with his tongue, "I really like kissing you, too. Definitely more than I should."
He felt it when your breath stuttered against his mouth, "Good."
It felt like a relief, admitting that. He had his suspicions you weren't kissing him back just for show, but to hear you say it outright electrified him. With your mouth on his, warm and tasting of olives and vodka, he didn't notice the likely dozens of eyes that must've been on you.
Jack hadn't dated since he lost his wife. He'd maybe shared a drunken kiss with a couple of women at a bar, but nothing beyond that. He hadn't wanted to. There had never been anyone else that he wanted to get lost in like that.
But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?
Tearing himself from you, he pulled back enough to look into your face, "Do you want to… Go somewhere else? Alone?"
Your fingers raised to your swollen lips, you looked around at all the people who were now acting like they hadn't been watching. Your eyes stopped on David for a moment as he brushed Maya's hair off her shoulder and kissed her bare skin.
You cleared your throat and turned back to Jack, "Yes."
***
Your heart was racing as Jack led you by the hand down the hall until you were in the bridal suite again, Jack pushing you against the door to close it.
His mouth was hot and insistent on yours, low groans deep in his throat stirring the fire in your belly.
It felt euphoric, being able to touch him and taste him like this. Though, every second, was the gnawing thought in the back of your head that this was only situational.
He didn't want you, not really, not fully. He just was caught up in the moment. You knew you weren't a bad kisser and you suspected Jack's private life was fairly nonexistent since his wife passed. He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago. Taking all that into consideration, he was just having some fun.
The problem, of course, being that you wanted more than that. Being newly divorced you guessed you should have wanted something uncomplicated, but you knew if it was Jack who was involved, you'd only want unfettered devotion. You cared for him far too much, there was no world where your heart was capable of being casual about him.
But fuck, you wished you could turn your brain off and just focus on the way it felt to kiss him, the way his hands on your body felt like heaven. He hitched your hip up to meet his, one hand roaming up your dress, your head falling back while he kissed your neck.
When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.
You couldn't help the whine that slipped from you, "Fucking tease." You grumbled.
Jack brought his fingers up to his mouth and you watched, jaw going slack as he sucked two fingers in his mouth.
When he brought them back out, they glistened with saliva and you swallowed, eyes following as they went down—
"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Jack said softly and your eyes snapped back to his, even as you felt his hand beneath your dress. His deft fingers shifted your panties to the side and your eyes stayed locked on his as he gently slipped a finger inside you.
Your eyelids fluttered at the pleasure and Jack's sigh fanned your face, "That feel good, baby?"
You nodded, barely able to keep your head on straight. He was so close to you, you could smell the liquor on his breath, heady and intoxicating. You wanted him so badly, you ached, it wasn't enough with his fingers inside you. You felt greedy, you wanted to feel him wholly.
Your hands twitched, wanting to unbuckle his belt, see how hard you had made him. But along with the desire, panic was brewing. Through your haze as his fingers slowly thrust in and out of you, a thumb lazily circling your clit, you were panicking.
There had only been one serious relationship in your life and it had been David. Before David, you had done the hooking up while in college, the one night stands and friends with benefits. But it had never been enjoyable, you had never been able to come. For a while you thought maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe you just didn't like sex.
But as you began dating David and then sleeping with him, you realized that wasn't it at all. It was just that you needed an emotional connection to get off. You needed to be attracted to someone's heart, you needed to trust them to get there.
And now with Jack's fingers inside you, it fucking terrified you how quickly your peak was approaching.
He was more than likely just trying to get his rocks off and you were falling in love with him, you could feel it. You were in danger of getting broken if you didn't find an escape hatch soon.
"Fuck—" Your walls were beginning to flutter around his fingers—It was becoming hard to breathe—
"There you go, sweetheart, I can feel you, go on—"
Swallowing, you put a hand on his wrist and pushed lightly, "Troponin," you gasped.
Immediately, Jack froze. Embarrassed, you avoided looking at him as he pulled his fingers from you and stepped back. You mourned the loss of his touch immediately.
"Sorry, did I—Did I hurt you?"
"No," you shook your head quickly, "No, you did nothing wrong. I just, um—" You grasped at nothing for the words, for what to say, heat spreading up your neck to your cheeks.
"It's okay, you don't have to explain," He said quickly, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, "I'm gonna step outside so you can straighten yourself out."
He was gone before you could say anything else and you were alone. Straighten myself out, you thought as you pulled at your panties and dress, putting everything back the way it should be. If only it were that simple to straighten out your head, your heart.
This whole thing, coming to the wedding, bringing Jack here, had been stupid. Reckless.
At this point, there was no way you left this wedding better off than when you came. Your eyes burned as you braced yourself to go back out there.
Jack had said you didn't have to explain, but didn't you? Didn't you have to give him some excuse after the confusion you'd certainly just caused?
But when you came back out, he was waiting with a smile. The only way to tell something had changed was just his subtle check in with you to see if he could put a hand on your back or hold your hand.
After another couple of hours of socializing and another drink or two, you were leaning your back against his chest. He kissed the side of your face and then leaned into your ear, "Time to get you to bed?"
When you nodded, he gently led you around to your parents so you could say goodnight before beginning to walk you towards your hotel.
"Jack, I'm really sorry about earlier—" You started when you were outside, the only sound was of the cicadas chirping and the muffled music and talking from the rehearsal dinner behind you.
"You have nothing to apologize for, I moved too quickly. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."
You bit your lip. You wanted to tell him that he hadn't moved too quickly, that actually you wanted him so badly he hadn't moved quickly enough.
"You didn't make me uncomfortable," You said slowly, "What you said earlier, when you said you didn't understand why I let David make me feel small—"
He sighed, "That was out of line—"
You moved in front of him and shook your head, "It wasn't. You were right, that's how our relationship always was. I let him… Tell me what to do, when to do it, I let him talk down to me, I let him do anything. He was the only relationship I ever knew," You blinked, tears blurring your vision, "I thought that was being loved. I still think that, sometimes. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and I know it's fucked up, but I thought to myself 'He still cares. He still loves me.' Sometimes I think maybe I should have forgiven him when he cheated on me. At least then I'd still have just that little bit of love." Your face crumpled, the emotion swelling even as you tried to stop it, "I'm just so fucking lonely. But I don't know how to be with anyone who's not him."
Jack's face softened and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest, "It's okay, baby, I've got you," As you cried into him, he kissed the top of your head, "It's gonna be okay."
When you got back to the hotel room, it was Jack who sat you at the edge of the bed and took a facecloth and your micellar water and gently removed your makeup while you cried, the most tender look on his face. He got your toothbrush for you, a cup to rinse and spit in after. And then with the softest voice, asked you if it was okay if he helped you out of your dress.
He tucked you in, following on his side a few minutes later.
You were still crying silently when you felt him next to you, careful to keep his distance. After the gentleness he'd shown you all night, even after your blatant rejection, your restraint was frayed.
"Jack?" You said after a few minutes.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think…Could you hold me?"
Without hesitation, you already felt him shifting on the bed, "Of course," He slung an arm around your middle and tugged you to his chest.
You closed your eyes and focused on the warmth of his body behind yours. Without meaning to, your hand grabbed ahold of his and you tucked his arm even tighter around you. You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm.
He sighed in what sounded like contentment into your neck and pressed a kiss just below your ear.
When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."
He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.
***
Jack wasn't sure what he should be feeling when he woke up the next morning, still wrapped around you. You were still sleeping when he woke, the sun streaming in from the windows haloing around your head.
As his eyes carved paths down your face, the curve of your neck and shoulders, he felt overwhelmed with adoration. He wanted to stay like this forever, transfixed by the peaceful expression on your face. Unable to resist, he gently stroked a knuckle against your cheek. You didn't wake, but you hummed softly at his touch.
Man, was he in love with you. He knew especially after last night that you'd likely never return those feelings. You were still hung up on David and even if you weren't, you deserved something that was uncomplicated. Not a traumatized, widowed, amputee, vet who was pushing fifty. He was grateful just to be your friend and to have this weekend with you to play pretend. He'd lock the memories carefully away when you returned to Pittsburgh, only to revisit when he was alone and wistful.
You interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh, blinking slowly until you woke fully. You shifted in his arms until you saw him, awake next to you, and smiled.
"Good morning," you murmured, voice raspy from sleep. He wished it didn't, but the sound of your voice the first thing in the morning had him wanting to do unspeakable things with you in this bed.
"Morning," he said softly, smothering his desire as he pulled his arm away from you, "How'd you sleep?"
"Good," You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and then stretching your arms over your head. He pretended not to notice the way your nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of your shirt, "You?"
He nodded, "Good. How're you feeling about today?"
You inhaled and exhaled slowly and then shook your head, "I don't know. I'm not looking forward to it."
He nodded, "Do you wanna go home?"
You frowned, "After all this, you would drive me home right now?"
He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, "I think maybe I was wrong about this whole thing. You've been hurting the entire time."
You shook your head, "Not the entire time," you said softly and squeezed his hand, "Anyway, I spent a fortune on a dress and I look hot as fuck in it so I can't let it go to waste."
Jack smiled slowly, "You're sure?"
You nodded, "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of leaving early."
He nodded, "Alright, let's get ready then."
You weren't kidding about looking hot in the dress. It was black and clung to your every curve, flowing out just below your knees.
"What do you think?" You asked, moving to bend down to put your shoes on.
Jack was faster though, sinking to a knee at your feet with a heel in his hand and gesturing for you to lift your foot into it, "I think," He said, buckling the strap around your ankle, "You look breathtaking."
Having helped you into your shoes, he straightened to standing, letting his fingers trail against your calf as he did. Face to face with you, you reached out to straighten his tie, which he thought was mostly just an excuse to step closer to him. His tie was already straight.
"You look good in a suit, Abbot." You said, smoothing your hands across his shoulders before meeting his eyes.
Pleased, he smiled and ran a hand along his jaw, "I was thinking about shaving—"
"No, don't—" You said quickly, causing him to meet your eyes in question. You bit your lip and looked away, "I just, um, I like the… scruff."
You were a tough puzzle to crack. Clearly, you were into him, physically anyway. Yet you had cut it off when you got too close to the edge. He knew he hadn't imagined your moans and the contracting of your walls around his fingers. You had been close and something about that had spooked you. Your explanation had been David, and he believed that for the most part, but he couldn't stop noticing the way you reached for him when you were scared or uncomfortable. How you had asked him to hold you the previous night. The physical intimacy between the two of you that had grown over the last two days seemed to soothe you.
And maybe that was all there was to it. That you were lonely and you trusted him and his touch made you feel safe. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see when he thought there was a bit more to the way you looked at him.
His mouth twitched, "Alright, no shaving, then."
***
The ceremony was difficult to sit through. You and Jack had done a shot of tequila before walking over, which had been helpful in loosening you up, but still. You looked almost anywhere else the entire time. Tried to ignore the nearby gushing of guests of how beautiful Maya was and how great they looked together and David tearing up when she walked down the aisle.
The vows were the most difficult to sit through and thankfully, you couldn't recall what had been said. The entire time, Jack's hand had been on your knee. But when that hadn't proved to be enough of a distraction, he had taken your hand and started thumb wrestling you. By the end of the ceremony you were having such a difficult time not laughing, people's heads were beginning to turn towards the two of you.
Once you'd made it to the reception, Jack had immediately tugged you to the bar— and was promptly disappointed when the bartender refused to serve you shots.
"Really, man? This is the bride's sister—"
"Jack—"
"I'll tell you what," Jack fished out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, sliding it across the bartop, "Can we have those shots now?"
Your head swiveled as you watched the bartender pocket the hundred to see if anyone else was watching. Jack turned back to you, "What kind of bar doesn't serve shots at a wedding?"
You scoffed, "Have you been to a wedding in the last ten years?"
He turned to you, frowning, "Are you implying that I'm old?"
You smirked, "I didn't say that. Every wedding I've been to in the last decade that had an open bar refused to serve shots."
He narrowed his eyes, "That's insanity."
You shrugged, "As an emergency physician I would think you could understand why that may be the case."
"Eh," he shrugged, "Weddings should be a little messy. What's a wedding if your uncle doesn't get a little too drunk and start a fist fight with your third cousin?"
You laughed as the bartender slid you each a tequila shot, lime wedges on the rims. You took the lime off and turned to Jack, "Cheers," you said, clinking your shot glass against his.
After you both had slammed empty shot glasses back on the bartop, you were wincing as the tequila burned a path down your throat.
Jack winced too and then gestured yuou over with his hands, "C'mere."
You frowned, but stepped to him nonetheless, "What—?"
His hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a bruising kiss. At first, the surprise of it had you tensing, but then you went molten in his arms, his tongue licking languid strokes in your mouth.
As quickly as it started it was over and you felt dizzy as you pulled away, clearing your throat, "What was that for?" You asked, conscious of the heat in your cheeks.
"Needed a stronger chaser," He said and winked at you, "lime wasn't enough."
Smirking, you let him lead you away from the bar and to your table. What the fuck were the two of you doing?
***
You probably should have been more careful about your drinking. Drinking when feeling vulnerable and sad and also wistful had never ended well for you. You were staring at Jack for too long, which for his part, he seemed to find amusing.
"I look that good, huh?" He leaned in and joked, nudging his nose against yours.
You had nodded, biting down on your lip, "You look sinful."
And it was true. As the night progressed, he had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt and you could see some of his chest hair peeking out. You had an idea of what he was working with, broad chest and muscled arms that you had long admired in t-shirts and scrub tops, but tonight you felt like ripping his shirt off entirely. You wanted the buttons to pop and you wanted to ravage him.
You were drunk enough that the fear had seemed to leave you and Jack was a welcome distraction from everything else. But when the home videos started playing after they had cut the cake it was difficult to keep a smile on your face.
"You were adorable," He whispered in your ear, arm resting on the back of your seat. A video was playing of you helping your dad teach Maya how to ride a bike, "And a great big sister," You were about seven years older than Maya and had taken a lot of pride in being a big sister.
You inhaled slowly through your nose and pushed the ice in your glass around with your straw, "Yeah, and look where that got me."
Jack tilted his head, "Come on, don't do that."
You shrugged, "It's the truth." You felt the tears pinpricking the back of your eyes. This was what the alcohol did to you, brought everything you tried to bury to the surface. "I did everything for her and she stabbed me in the back. Sorry," You said immediately shaking your head, "I just need a second."
You pushed away from the table and went to collect yourself outside. Your hands shook and you cursed lowly under your breath. When you heard heels clicking behind you, you expected to see your mother, but when you turned it was your sister following you outside, white dress billowing behind her like an angel.
"Hey, are you okay? I saw you run out—Oh, you're crying."
You knew immediately that Maya had no idea how to comfort you. It was always you comforting Maya. And even after everything had imploded with you and David, you had never cried in front of her.
Awkward and stilted, she tried to wrap her arms around you, but you shrugged her off, "Please don't touch me."
"I'm just trying to help—"
"Don't you think you've done enough?" You snapped.
She scoffed and took a step back, "God, can't you just for one fucking day get over yourself? Today is supposed to be about me."
You laughed and shook your head, "Every day of my fucking life from the day you were born has been about you!"
"Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry for the crime of being born—"
"That's not what this is about and you know it. Even my marriage ended up being about you—"
"I'm sorry he wanted me and not you! But that's not my fucking fault! Get over it!"
You scoffed, "Me? You want me to get over it? You stole my fucking husband—"
"You can't steal someone who doesn't want to be stolen!"
"Oh my fucking God," Your rage felt like a living thing in your chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were and it was just you and Maya. "Are you ever going to take accountability for what you did to me? Don't you think it's time you finally grow the fuck up?!"
"That's enough!" David swept in and placed himself between the two of you, Maya behind you, and lowered his voice to a hiss, "People are fucking staring, could you shut the fuck up?"
It was the alcohol, it had to have been. You never would have been behaving this way if you hadn't been innebriated to the level you were. But the rage you had suppressed for months and months was finally bubbling to the surface and the alcohol was like gasoline on the fire.
"Go fuck yourself," You said to David before you spat on his shoes.
Turning, you intended to leave and go back inside, but then your arm was being grabbed and pulled so aggressively, you thought your shoulder might pop out of your socket.
"Did you just fucking spit on me?" You were face to face with David again, his hand still gripping your arm no matter how you tugged.
"You're hurting me." You said calmly. If you were less drunk you might've been able to use those self defense classes Jack had mentioned last night to get out of his hold. But your brain was muddled and all you could focus on was your anger.
"Dave, let her go." Maya was saying in the background, but David wasn't listening.
"Hey!" That voice, you would recognize anywhere. But you were only used to hearing it that angry in the emergency department. With an unruly patient or fighting with admin. But Jack was pissed now as he stormed outside, laser focused on David and where his hand gripped you tight enough to bruise.
Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"
"Jack—" You said gently in warning, but he was lost to you.
David smirked down at Jack, "You gonna throw fists at my wedding, old man?"
You hadn't ever seen Jack this angry before and you were worried that he would start throwing punches. He fisted the lapels of David's suit in his hands and spun until he slammed David's back into a wall.
"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"
"You are so fucking lucky she's here—" He jerked his head in your direction, "—And I don't wanna embarrass her because I would take such fucking pleasure from ramming my knee into your groin if we were anywhere else. I may be an old man, but all that means is I've won way more bar fights than you have. And you're a fucking coward if your baby soft hands are any indication."
David set his jaw and looked around Jack to you, "Could you get your fucking meathead boyfriend off of me?"
Jack rammed David against the wall one more time for good measure before dropping him. Grabbing your hand, scowl still on his face, he dragged you back inside, "Jack—"
"I know, I'm sorry," He said finally, dropping your hand and running it over his face, "I know you can handle it yourself, but he just makes me wanna fuckin'—"
"Hey, it's fine," You said quickly, ignoring everyone else who was whispering about the scene you'd just made, "It was my fault anyway, I—" You bit your lip and looked down at the floor, embarrassed, "I spit on his shoes."
"I know, I saw," Jack said, sounding amused. And then his finger curled under your chin, pullng your face up gently so you could see the shit eating grin on his face, "It was kinda hot."
You snorted and rolled your eyes, "Shut up."
"No, I'm serious. It was nice to see you stand up for yourself with him for once. And your sister too. Did it feel good?"
Shyly, you nodded, "It feels awful to admit it, but yeah it did feel kinda good."
"'Atta girl," He said softly and your stomach did a somersault. You weren't sure what was going on between the two of you anymore. The line had blurred so much between what was being done for show and what was real that it was impossible to find anymore.
You weren't blind, you knew he wanted you physically and clearly he cared about you, but neither of those things necessarily combined to I'm in love with you.
And even if he were in love with you, that didn't mean he wanted to be with you. Love wasn't always enough, you knew that more than anybody. There was work to be done in a relationship and not everybody was willing to put in the work.
You were drunk enough that you were thinking of articulating all this to Jack, though a small part of you knew that was a mistake, but the second you opened your mouth someone was tapping you on the shoulder.
You turned to see Brandon, David's best man, glaring at you with a beer in hand, "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"
Brandon was known to be an explosive drunk. There were several times when out with a group of friends at the bar that David had had to carefully remove him from situations that would have gotten him arrested for assault. In fact, when David wasn't there, it wasn't unheard of for him to get a call in the middle of the night from Brandon saying that he needed to be bailed out of jail.
You didn't like Brandon, never had, and you certainly did not want to be alone with him when he'd been drinking.
"You can talk to me right here."
Brandon shook his head, then shrugged, "Fine. I think it was disrespectful of you to show up here with him and now you've made your own sister cry, saying her wedding's ruined—"
"Oh, give me a break, no one's gonna remember our little spat by the end of the night," You said rolling your eyes, "And if David and Maya wanted a perfect wedding they probably should have married different people. I'm so sick of everyone acting like what they did to me was fucking normal!"
"Stop acting like the victim when you cheated with him first!"
You blinked, "I never cheated and frankly I'm tired of everyone saying I did. I was recovering from surgery after miscarrying his fucking baby and he was busy sleeping with my sister! It's sociopathic behavior and I'm so tired of all of you making excuses for him!" You were shouting again, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, all the people around you were quiet and staring.
Brandon stepped closer to you and you stepped back—into Jack's broad chest behind you. Immediately comforted, you softened, until Brandon was wagging a finger in your face, "If you had any fuckin' decency you wouldn't have come here."
You rolled your eyes, "Oh, go kick rocks, Brandon. You're a drunk loser who's been riding David's coattails for the last decade. You don't know anything about decency."
You turned on your heel and grabbed Jack's hand as you tried to lead him away from the growing wildfire—When there was a sound like shattering glass and then a scream.
You and Jack both turned towards the commotion on instinct—And found that Brandon had gotten so angry, he'd thrown his beer bottle in your direction, but his piss poor aim meant it had shattered about three feet to your right—Right where Maya was standing with David—And there was blood on the floor.
It wasn't immediately clear where the blood was coming from because of Maya's billowing wedding gown, but judging by her tears it was definitely her who was injured.
Without thinking about it all that much, you and Jack both began walking towards her—
"Both of you, get away from her," David said, "I think you've done enough."
Jack's hands were raised in surrender, "We're probably the only doctors here, I just wanna make sure she doesn't need stitches, that's all." You noted his immediate shift in tone and posture: this was emergency medicine physician Dr. Abbot in front of you. All traces of Jack were gone.
"It's okay, David," Maya said softly, "Let them take a look."
Reulctantly and with his jaw set, David stepped aside. As you both moved to Maya, turned and pressed his car keys into your palm, "Why don't you go grab some supplies from my truck? And a suture kit just in case?"
You frowned, "But I—"
"Don't take this personally, but I think Maya's still upset with you and would be more comfortable with… someone else assessing her injuries."
You looked from Maya, who was carefully avoiding eye contact with you, back to Jack. He really had shifted into supervising attending mode. You were his senior resident again and he had just given you an order. You were annoyed, but shrugged and backed away, "Fine."
***
Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.
When David set Maya down on a chair in the bridal suite, Jack took a step toward Maya, but she stopped him with a raised hand and turned to David, "Davey baby, why don't you go check in with my parents? I'm sure they're wondering what all the commotion was about, they'll be looking for me."
David frowned, "No, I—" He glanced at Jack, "I don't want to leave you alone with him."
Maya gave him a skeptical look, "Whatever beef you guys have, I don't think Dr. Abbot would do anything to hurt me," she turned to look at Jack, "Right?"
Jack shook his head, "I just wanna check on that laceration."
Maya turned back to David as if to say see? And eventually, he folded, sighing, "Fine. I'll be right back."
With David gone, Jack lowered himself to the floor to get a look at Maya's ankle. She had pulled the skirts of her dress up so he could access it more easily. His limb was beginning to ache where it sat in his socket, and the lowering of himself to the ground wasn't helping, but the alcohol was doing a pretty good job at masking the discomfort.
There was one lac, about three inches long on her ankle and it seemed to already be clotting. He turned her ankle this way and that to see if there was anything else, but it seemed to be just the one. He'd have to flush it out with saline to make sure there was no glass in the wound, but she'd just need a bandage. He told her as much and she sighed in relief.
"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"
She looked a lot like you when she cried and it softened Jack to her immediately, "I think that in your rush to be forgiven and not lose her, she feels like you keep trying to dismiss why she feels so hurt."
Maya sniffed and nodded, "Is she really still that devastated? Now that she has you?"
God, she was so young. You and Jack weren't together, but he thought even if you were this would still be a sore spot for you. Did she really not get it? "Two of the people she loved and trusted most in her life lied to her and snuck around behind her back for almost a year. That's not something that heals that easily, and not without a scar."
Maya was silent for a moment and then her voice came out small, almost childish, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"
Jack sighed and shrugged, "I can't answer that, kid. I know she really misses you, but I think she's just as angry."
She nodded, fingers knotted in her lap, "Can you at least promise me," She said, reaching out her pinky to him, "That you'll take care of her? She's always taking care of everyone else and I think she really just… Needs someone else to. At least for a while."
Well, that was easy. He'd never stop looking out for you. "Sure," he said and wrapped his pinky around Maya's, "I promise."
***
You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.
You wished you could say the way you reacted had nothing to do with jealousy or trust issues. That it had nothing to do with how the last person you had been in love with had turned you in for the newer, fitter model in front of you.
It wasn't even the way he was looking at her. You'd worked with Jack for years, you knew he smiled at everyone like that. You knew he was a habitual flirt.
It was the pinky promise that really gutted you, combined with everything else. You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.
And of course, the alcohol in your system just fed on these insecurities, nurtured them until they were all you could see.
So, heart aching in your chest, you walked towards them and set the supplies you'd brought down next to Jack.
For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"
"I need another drink, actually, so do it yourself."
You saw Jack stiffen at your curtness, but you turned and started walking before he could say anything else. He barely got out your name before you had left the room.
It wasn't long, though, before he caught up with you, "Did I do something wrong?" He asked quietly.
"Nope." You tried to feign cool and casual, but the truth was it felt the walls were closing in on you. You had nothing and nobody. You were so goddamn lonely it had started feeling like karmic punishment, for what you didn't know.
"Really," he said, "so there's no reason for the way you spoke to me back there? In front of your sister?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, I need a drink—"
He grabbed your arm, not unkindly, and turned you so that you were facing him, "I think you've had enough to drink today—"
You pulled away from him, stumbling a bit so that he reached out for you, but you regained your balance without his help, "We are not in the ED so you don't get to tell me what to do."
His brows knitted together and he shook his head, "I don't understand, we were just good like five minutes ago, why are you acting like this?"
"What does it matter? You're not my boyfriend, it's not your responsibility to figure it out." You turned and started walking again, "I'm actually just gonna leave, I think, I don't wanna be here anymore."
"Okay," Jack said slowly, "That's fine, let's go then—"
"No," you said, "Not we, me. I'm going. Alone."
Jack threw up his hands, exasperated, "Are we not friends, at least? Can you tell me where you're going? You're drunk, you shouldn't be wandering by yourself—"
"I'm going back to our room, getting my things, and then I'm calling an Uber to take me home."
You started walking again and Jack had to jog to catch up. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his slight limp. He'd been on his feet most of the day.
"You're gonna call an Uber to take you back to Pittsburgh? Right now?"
"Yes."
He sighed heavily, "Sweetheart, please, throw me a rope, anything: Why are you so upset with me?"
You felt childish when your vision swam in front of you, "What did you promise her?"
He frowned and shook his head, "What? Who?"
"My sister," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat, "You pinky promised her something, I thought that was our thing."
His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"
He was holding his pinky out to you and you hated the way you instantly softened at his term of endearment. Anytime he called you baby or sweetheart you melted. But that was how you'd been for David, too, and look how that had turned out. Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.
"I'm going home," You said again and then began walking outside.
Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.
"Please don't get in the car," He said quietly, even as he put your bag in the trunk for you, "Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."
Looking back on it later, you knew you should've stayed. Somewhere deep behind the anxiety and the pain you knew you were being unreasonable. Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.
You were looking for problems to make it easier for you to leave so he couldn't leave you first.
The truth was, in all the time you'd been with David, he had never once chanced after you when you were upset with him. He'd never made the effort to try to understand why you were upset. Not even when things were good between you.
Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.
So you got in the car, stared at your phone instead of Jack's receding form as your driver pulled off the curb.
***
Jack Abbot thought himself a patient man. After you left that night, he'd stared off after the Uber feeling sorry for himself and only sent you a single text: Please just let me know when you get home.
On the way back upstairs to the hotel room, he ran into your mother who he apologized profusely to as he explained you had left.
"It's not your fault," She said quickly, "Honestly, I'm impressed she'd made it this far. I expected her to cuss them out as soon as she set foot on the property."
Jack frowned, "Why'd you encourage her to come then?"
"Oh, well, that was the outcome I wanted," She smiled, "I know it seems crazy, what mother wants their daughters to have it out in front of everyone they love? But I've watched her bury it over the last two years. It was eating away at her. And I know that because I did the same thing."
Jack nodded slowly, "She mentioned. That you'd been in a similar situation with her father. I'm sorry."
She shook her head, "The only thing I regret now was not letting myself get angry." She sighed, "I'm sorry you were in the cross fire though, that I didn't want. I was actually hoping that you being here would remind her that her life wasn't over, but I underestimated how much she likes you."
Jack frowned, "I don't follow."
Your mother looked at him with a sad smile on her face, "She's scared of you. Of how you make her feel. That's why she left."
She had left him with that and he'd mulled it over in his head for a while, but decided he couldn't confront that and what it might imply right then. He was still drunk and now he was sad. He had only shared a bed with you for two nights, but he thought he'd probably sleep like shit without you.
He woke up the next morning in the empty hotel bed and saw you'd texted him just before dawn: home.
He wanted to say more. He wanted to call you, he wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were actually alright. But he didn't do any of that. He packed up his truck and headed out without saying goodbye to anyone and drowned out his thoughts with the radio.
Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.
The second night you called out, he was irritated and finding it difficult to think about anything else. But still, he remained steadfast. He would not push you when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
The third night, he snapped.
"What the fuck?" He hissed to Lena, "She can't keep calling out like this, have you—I mean, have you actually spoken to her?"
"No, just texts," she leaned closer to Jack, "What happened while you guys were upstate?"
Jack scrubbed at his face, "Doesn't matter. Could you please call Shen and see if he'll come in tonight? I need to go check on her."
He tried calling you while he waited for Shen to get there, knowing you wouldn't pick up, but at least you didn't deny his call. You had enough decency to let it ring until it went to voicemail instead.
As he headed to your place, his fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say to you when—if you opened the door. Regardless, he was eager to see you. Even if you just screamed at him to fuck off.
He paced outside your door after ringing the doorbell, fists clenching and unclenching—he felt like a fucking teenager.
When the door cracked open, he stopped and turned, taking you in.
You were barefoot in sweats and a hoodie, eyes swollen and puffy. It was clear to him immediately that you hadn't been sleeping and you hadn't been taking care of yourself.
"Hey," he said softly, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog into his car, "How are you?"
Stupid. Dumb question. Especially when the answer was written all over you.
You crossed your arms, "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"
He raised his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you?"
"I'm sick."
Jack hummed, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I can take a look at you since I'm here."
You sighed and shook your head, "I don't understand why you're here."
He tilted his head, "You don't?"
Your eyes grew wet and you sniffled, "Are you here to fire me? Is that it?"
"No," He said softly, "Of course not. I'm here because I'm worried about you. Why're you calling out? Is it me? You don't wanna see me? Because I can—I can talk to Robby and see if we can move you to his shift, but I don't want you throwing your career away—"
"I don't want to work on Robby's shift, but I—I have a hard time even looking at you right now," You looked up and screwed your mouth to the side, the way you sometimes did when you were trying to stifle an emotion. He waited, though he was hanging on your every word, "I'm… mortified by how I acted when I left. I—I shut down I was too drunk and I got scared—"
"Scared of what, honey?"
Your lip wobbled, "Scared of loving someone again, of giving someone else the chance to hurt me."
Oh. Jack's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Your mother had said something similar to him just a few days ago, but after sobering up and the repeated call outs, he assumed she'd gotten it wrong.
"It's stupid and you probably don't even feel like that about me—"
"I'm gonna stop you right there," He said and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping at the tears just below your eyes, "I am madly in love with you."
You hiccuped, bringing up your hand to rest on Jack's wrist, anchoring him to you, "Really?"
He nodded, "And I—I can't promise you that it'll never hurt, I'm…not the easiest to love. I'm old and sad and stubborn and probably have more PTSD triggers than the number of years you've been alive. But I won't ever treat you the way he treated you," He reached his pinky up between you, "That I can promise."
You wrapped your pinky around his and then used your intertwined hands to pull him closer and rested your forehead against his, "I don't think you're hard to love at all. I think I'd be very lucky to love and be loved by you, Jack Abbot."
He sighed shakily against your mouth before kissing you. You'd kissed before, but this felt transformative. As his mouth moved against yours, warm and soft and pliant, he felt overcome by how much he loved you—Something he didn't think he'd get to feel again after his wife passed. But when he was with you, it felt like he was starting over. Like maybe he could step in the light of the sun again and not get burned.
With a groan, he pulled away from you, breathless and euphoric, "I don't want to be presumptuous, but… may I come inside?"
You smiled and looked away shyly, "I… was not prepared for guests I know how neurotic you are."
He gaped at you, eyebrows raised, "I am not neurotic."
You laughed and stepped aside, allowing him a path inside, "I give you thirty seconds before you hightail it out of here."
Jack barely made it past the entryway. There was clutter everywhere, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, towels and clothes in varying states of clean and dirty littered the floors and hung over the doors.
He could tolerate mess, really, he could. But this level of mess reminded him of living with three other men in college, something he promised himself once he had the money he'd never live with again. He could not fathom wooing you and taking you to bed in this pit of entropy.
"You still love me?" You asked, voice small.
He gave a surprised laugh and ran a hand through his hair, resting at the back of his neck, "Yes, but we're leaving. Pack a bag."
"Where are we going?"
"You're staying with me tonight," He eyed your overflowing trashcan, a takeout container perched precariously on top of it, "Maybe forever," he added softly.
He helped you pack, dismissing every embarrassed apology you threw his way about the state of your apartment. He had been to your place before when you lived with David, once, after your miscarriage when you ended up needing surgery. He remembered the place had been neat and tidy—not sterile, but cozy. The state of your apartment didn't worry him, it was simply a manifestation of your mental health as of late. Something that was fixable. And fix it he would—later.
Once at back at his place, Jack immediately started running you a bath. He had copious amounts of epsom salts to ease his muscles, especially his leg, and he poured these in while the hot water ran. You stood in the threshold of the door alternating between watching him and taking in his house.
"When was the last time you ate anything other than Doordash?" He asked, gently tugging you by the hands fully into the bathroom.
"Um, I don't—" You sighed, "I don't remember."
"I'm gonna make you dinner," he said softly, thumb running over your lower lip, "Do you like bolognese?"
You bit your lip as you looked up into his face, "You don't have to do that."
He shrugged, "I want to. If it makes you feel better I was gonna make it for myself anyway when I got off shift." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, "Do you want a glass of wine while you're in the bath?"
"Sure," You smiled, and when he went to step around you, you squeezed his hand, "Jack?" He turned back to you, question in his eyes, "Could you stay with me while I'm in the bath?"
He smiled softly and walked back over to you, kissing you a bit deeper, worrying your lower lip between his teeth before pulling away, "Of course."
***
It felt a bit surreal, sitting in Jack's bath with a glass of red wine in your hand and the man himself staring at you with adoration as you soaked. This morning when you'd woken up you'd contemplated moving across the country so you'd never have to see him again. Now you were in his home and he'd told you he was in love with you.
You were still afraid, terrified really, of giving him the power to hurt you. It wasn't something that could be turned off so easily—but still, you trusted him. There was a persistent voice at the back of your head that reminded you you had trusted David at one point as well. But with Jack, it felt different. With David, even when you trusted him, there was an anxiety, a resentment, quietly brewing in the background. With Jack you felt only peace.
Your legs were thrown over the lip of the tub and the hungry look in Jack's eyes as he eyed them was not lost on you.
"You can touch, if you want," You said quietly.
His eyes dragged up to yours and then he smirked, "Is that why you asked me to stay?"
You sank lower beneath the water and shrugged, "Maybe."
His fingers tread carefully along your skin, at first kneading gently at your feet. You couldn't help the groan of contentment that escaped you almost immediately at his touch. It had been a long time since someone had touched you so lovingly.
Soon, you felt his lips at your ankle, pressing featherlight kisses along your leg as his hands traveled further up—Until they dipped beneath the water.
Your eyes stayed locked on his as his calloused fingers ran slowly up your thigh, your breaths quickening.
Slowly, he ran his tongue along his lips as his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, "You sure?" He asked, and his voice was rough and husky.
When you nodded, you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and beneath the water his fingers parted your lips. He began slowly, gently circling your clit as you sighed and arched your back. When you began whining beneath his touch, he pushed a finger inside you and you moaned in earnest as he slowly and gently curled it upward, thrusting in and out of you.
His fingers felt so good, warming you up and stretching you out, but you needed more. Your hands wandered up your torso until the cupped your breasts and you began pulling and pinching at your nipples.
"Fuck," Jack cursed and you watched as he palmed the bulge in his pants with his free hand, "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, kid."
Already, with Jack's fingers inside you, you were embarassingly close to the edge. You hadn't slept with David since before the miscarriage, so it had been something like two years since you'd been with someone. Since anyone had touched you with desire.
"You close, sweetheart?" Jack cooed, "You wanna come on my fingers?"
"Mmm," You whined, "Please, Jack."
There would be time for slow, for teasing, for edging later, you thought. Much later. Now you were ravenous for him. Altogether you thought it had only taken him about two minutes to get you to unravel on his fingers, and when you did, crying out, he hummed appreciatively, "You're so gorgeous when you come for me, baby."
As soon as Jack pulled his hand away from you, you were standing up. Jack laughed in surprise, "Where are you going?"
"Need you to fuck me," You said shortly, "Can't do that in here."
"Oh," Jack said, seeming surprised, and you watched as a flush worked its way into his cheeks, "You want to—Now?"
Getting cold now, you lowered yourself back down into the water, "Do you not want to?"
"No—No, of course I do. I'm just, um—" He shook his head quickly, "—It's been a—long time for me."
You nodded, "Me too."
He sighed and hung his head, "No, I mean, I haven't slept with anyone. The last person I slept with was my wife."
Ah. Well, that was quite a bit longer than you. Still, it didn't bother you, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," You said slowly, "I hope that goes without saying. But I'm not going to be judging you on performance, Jack. I just want to be close to you right now."
He looked back up at you, a hesitant smile on his face, "I wanna be close to you, too."
Jack held your hand as you climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around you, kissing you tenderly as he helped you dry off. But his kisses became hungry, sloppy as the two of you maneuvered to the bedroom, his hands wandering to your hips and ass.
"God, you're so sexy," he murmured into your mouth. You licked into his in response, making every kiss impossibly deeper and hungrier, like you wanted to consume him.
When the back of his legs hit the bed, you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with wide eyes as you began unbuckling his belt. From this angle, from any angle, he was gorgeous to you, but he bit his lip now as he watched you free his cock and you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of it.
He hissed when his cock sprung free and you wordlessly tugged him down to sitting on the edge of the bed as you admired him. He was thick and leaking, a patch of graying curls at the base, beautiful. You were practically salivating at the sight of it. Taking him in your hand, you lapped at his tip, taking his precum onto your tongue. Immediately, he was groaning and you watched him fist the sheets.
Looking up at him, you took one of his hands, watched it uncurl from the bed and placed it on the back of your head, "I want to feel how desperate you are for me," You said, looking up at him. He looked a bit helpless, almost stunned, and you nodded at him, eyebrows raised, "Okay?"
Finally, he nodded. This time, when you took him in your mouth, his hand gripped you. As you found a rhythm, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat, you were pleased when his hips began bucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head on and off his cock.
After a couple of minutes of this, Jack groaned and gently pushed you off him, "Come up here," he said softly and watched carefully as you wiped the spit from your mouth with your arm and rose to standing.
He kissed you greedily and began to pull you into his lap, but you pulled away slightly, "Can we take all this off, please?" You tugged lightly at the shirt he was still wearing and his half off pants, "Want to see all of you."
Already nodding, he pulled his t-shirt over his head. You knelt back down to the floor to help him take his prosthetic off so the pants could come off too.
With everything off, Jack pushed himself backwards towards the pillows and you admired him from the foot of the bed for a moment. He was as broad chested as you imagined, covered in freckles you wished to connect like constellations. He was muscled, but soft around the middle, a generous happy trail that you longed to lick in its entirety.
You shook your head, almost at a loss for words, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."
Jack blushed, but rolled his eyes and shook his head immediately, "Stop that, my body's—It's not what it used to be."
You shook your head, "I'm sure you were gorgeous then, too, but you're—" You bit your lip, "I wanna lick every inch of you."
You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, hands wandering eagerly across the planes of his chest while you ground your slick folds over his cock. Jack groaned appreciatively, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, "Fuck, you're so wet," You dragged your folds along the length of him again and he sighed, "That all for me, sweetheart?"
You nodded, eyelids fluttering as you rubbed your clit against him, over and over.
"You wanna come again, baby? Rubbing your clit on my cock like that?" He lightly slapped your ass and you moaned, quickening your pass to chase the friction.
You were close again, could feel your impending orgasm just on the cusp and Jack saw it all over your face, "Go on, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock."
His praise easily pushed you over the edge, Jack continuing to forcefully move your hips along his length as you came down.
With a hand on the back of your neck, Jack pulled you down to kiss him again, "So good," he mumbled, "feel so good."
Gently, he maneuvered you off of him and positioned you so you were on your side, you back to him, as if you were spooning. Flexing his left leg over your hips for purchase, he pushed inside you slowly from behind, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back into your head.
He kissed the back of your neck, "I'm—I'm not gonna last long like this, fuck—"
"That's okay," You ran a hand down his thigh and rocked your hips back into him, "We can go again later."
He chuckled and then started rocking into you fully, cursing occasionally or biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you were sure it would bruise later. Jack was overwhelming every one of your senses as he thrust in and out of you and you were being very vocal about. So loud, in fact, that Jack reached around and stuffed his fingers in your mouth and ordered you to suck on them as if they were his cock. This quieted you, but only just.
As you moaned around his fingers, he began slamming into you with more force, the sound of his hips snapping into yours filling the air until he stuttered and you felt him fill into you, warm and wet.
The two of you were panting as he finished, hips slowing until they stopped completely. After a moment of recovery, Jack tightened his arms around you and kissed up the side of your neck, "Are you alright? Was that okay?"
You almost laughed, "'Okay'? It was incredible. How was it for you?"
"Yeah," He said, kissing your shoulders, "About the same."
For a long while, the two of you laid there in the quiet, just holding one another—Until your stomach rumbled.
Chuckling, Jack ran a hand over your stomach, "Let's go make you dinner, sweetheart."
***
With the dishes cleared and your stomachs full, you had gotten ready for bed in Jack's en suite bathroom. When you walked back into the bedroom, he was under the covers, his face lit up with the blue light from the TV. When you climbed into bed next to him, you looked to see a baseball game on.
"Do you mind this? I can change the channel—"
You yawned and shook your head as you snuggled up next to him, throwing an arm over is chest, "I'm gonna pass out probably in the next five minutes, so, no need."
He hummed and ran a hand over your back, "Well I was planning on working tonight so I might be awake for a while longer."
"That's okay," You burrowed your nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, "As long as you stay here with me."
He kissed the top of your head, "No place else I'd rather be."
As you fell asleep, Jack kept looking back down at you, as if to check if you were still there. Every so often, he'd touch your face or kiss your head and you'd hum in contentment.
With you sleeping in his arms like this, he began to fantasize of another wedding, a couple of years from now. The dream wedding you'd always wanted, but didn't get the first time. He could practically see it, you in a white dress, him watching you walk down the aisle to him.
Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.
Leaning over you, Jack kissed your cheek and then whispered in your ear, "I love you."
Still half asleep, you murmured back, "Love you."
For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot was looking forward to the sun rising and a new day beginning.
He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.
This fic is about to make me get violent and the only saving grace (there’s actually many saving graces because it’s such an interesting, well-written piece with a phenomenal plot line and fantastic banter…but I’m angry lol…) is Jack’s inner thoughts about everything. Because I genuinely feel that if I had a gun, Maya and David would be shot the fuck up LMFAO. The audacity is STAGGERING… and I’m sure I’m gonna get even more pissed off as the story goes on. This is just the beginning of the interactions between them, I’m sure. Literally my reaction out loud when I read that Maya hugged Reader was, “oh helllllll no!!!!!” Like get the fuck off of her, that is not your sister… and it sucks because you did such an amazing job writing this, exploring the very confusing, deep feelings of what it is to be betrayed by family whom you still love in a way. David can go kick rocks with open toed shoes, but it’s much harder when it’s family. Of course, there are things that you genuinely could see as unforgivable and go no-contact with your family for (and I think this would do it for me, personally), but I also know what it feels like to have a vicious fight with my brother and say a lot of nasty shit that he and I could never get away with if we were to speak it to somebody outside the family. And then for the fight to be resolved with not even an apology, just time and choosing to forget because it truly is just different when you know you’re tied to that person forever. And for the most part, you know they don’t mean you malicious harm. This is what’s annoying about it though, because, begrudgingly, I say, I’m sure Maya didn’t mean harm to her sister, but also she’s a fucking idiot for thinking she could do this and still have a sister. Anyway, my point behind bringing up all this nuance is to say this is frustrating to read, but very realistic because it’s not always so easily clean cut (which means fantastic job, Syd). It makes sense that the Reader is hugging Maya back despite me wishing she wouldn’t, it makes sense that she’s teary-eyed and bereft despite me wishing she could know her worth and understand that, just because Maya is her little sister, doesn’t mean she has to continue to be in her life or feel any sort of guilt or responsibility for exiting after such harm being done. All this to say, thank god for abbot and him riding for her and hating them enough for the both of them, enough for the moments when reader misses the past and her sister.
Additional side note: Maya saying she always thought there was something going on between Abbot and the Reader made me want to beat her the fuck up. Reader even warned Abbot that David might absolve himself of his wrongdoings upon seeing them together, but I was blindsided that it was Maya. Like, you dumb fucking bitch…
We’re not pals, we’re not sisters, we’re not about to kiki it up over fated partners and ‘it’s about time’ and ‘I always knew’. Fuck out my face…
But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.
AHHAHAHHA AWWWW GOD BLESS JACK ABBOT, BE THE GUARD DOG YOUR INSTINCTS TELL YOU TO BE!!! FUCK IT, SHE’S YOURS, TAKE HER!!!!
"I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."
Not sick enough apparently, she should keel over and die. Also, this is very much giving Cassie from euphoria looking insane with tears running down her face screaming she’s never been happier…
There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.
God… they genuinely belong together. It’s insane that it could have ever been anyone else. I mean the Reader was with David long before she met Jack, but still, holy frickin soulmates. He’s just what she needs and I can’t wait to watch them blur the lines until they forget they were ever there to begin with. Also, it’s genuinely fiendishly delicious to me that Jack started noticing he felt something for her while she was married. Like I have no way of perfectly conveying just how feral that is making me right now, but there’s a certain depth of yearning that has to be reached to be a good, respectful man and want a married woman, especially one you know, and have known, as married. So fucking yummy of him. And he was completely resigned to just want from afar, he’s not a scumbag like David, he would not try to wreck a home. But boy, I bet he dreamt of it🙂↔️🚬
It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.
Holy shit, I absolutely adore the imagery of this. What a magnificent way to put this
He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."
I’ll take ‘things you say to a prospective partner before it’s socially acceptable to say I love you’ for 500
You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.
EHEHEHEHHE HE LOOOOOOOOVESSSSSS HERRRRRR
As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.
Okay, so I read up to the part where he fantasized about following her into the shower and was already giggling and kicking my feet like a schoolgirl and then, as I was pasting the quote into my notes to type all this, I read the rest of it and my jaw fucking dropped AHAHHAHA FUCKKKKKKKK HES SO HOTTTTTTTTT I NEED THEM TOGETHERRRRR
Also, I’m so glad we’re getting scenes of her taking care of him and his leg or him comfortably and hotly imagining himself sitting in the shower chair with her in his lap. Need more fics of him just being completely normal with his leg, need him to be healed and aware that he is a whole man with or without it😩<3
When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.
He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.
The way I was so hung up on this development of him fantasizing about her in this way that I was reading it in increments and didn’t even get to the next part that nearly made me pass the fuck out😩😩😩😩😮💨😮💨😮💨😮💨holy shittttttttt
Her ex father in laws speech… gimme a fucking gun. Mama needs her gun, NEOW. Old man’s goin dEEOWWNNNNN
"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."
I want him flayed alive and hung upside down and I want his bloodless dead body in my office by Monday. Don’t make me ask again.
It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off.
The way she most likely would have died from blood loss, had she tried to sleep it off. I need Jack to kill this man in a very painful way. And I’m sure he knows just the drug concoction to do it. I want his organs feeling like they’re burning inside him
He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."
THANK YOUUUUUUUUU
Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."
GET HIS ASS!!!!! HIT EM AGAIN FOR ME!!!!
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."
The way… had I heard him say that… I would’ve been BUSTIN that pussy open for him🙂↔️🚬 like anythingggg he wanted, I’d do. But he’s such a gentleman I know he’d just wanna make me feel good after such an ordeal
LOL the cigarettes thing is so funny. He’s so dead serious, “you weren’t supposed to have those.” Ohhhhhh I love this man and his admonishing ass. I can see it in my minds eye. The brows raised, the pointed look… ooooooo I’m in troubleeeeeee🫦
Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.
He hadn’t noticed them before because he was too busy watching her, making sure she was okay🥺
But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?
WAHHHHHHHHH FUCKJKKKJJK SO BEAUTIFULLLLLL
He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago.
Oh that’s fascinatingggggg🤔 from what I gathered, it took a few months for the wedding to actually arrive so I wonder if it was him deciding to go with her to the wedding that was the tipping point for him to take off the ring… god this is so delicious… it’s the little crumbs that leave me fiending for more
When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.
This man is genuinely insane, lock him up. Horny ass… it’s been so long, it’s a wonder he hasn’t lost his charm, but boy, does he know how to woo a lady. He’s like raring to go with no qualms or hang ups—that’s so fucking hot. Just him wanting her so bad, he’s remembering how to be intensely intimate real quick just to be close to her
:0 <— live reaction of me reading how he sucked his fingers then dropped them lower… HE’S A DOG. Jack abbot, you dog… get over here NEOW🫦
After her calling the safe word and him leaving so she can straighten herself out, I’m going to kick my feet, twirl my hair, and mischievously fantasize that he 100% cleaned his fingers by just sucking on them🫦🫦🫦🫦😈😈😈😈😈😈 at least he gets that, and does it in the privacy of the hallway, ashamed of his need🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
WAHHHHH HIM TAKING OFF HER MAKEUP FUCJKKKKKKKKK THATS MY BABYYYY AND HE ASKED TO HELP HER OUT OF HER DRESS SHHXJCJJEJJCJDJDJ NEED THAT KIND OF LOVE
When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."
It is with the heaviest of hearts that we announce that Salome [no last name] was found dead in her bed at approximately 6:16 PM on Sunday, the 21st of June. Cause of death is still being investigated (it’s this fic) at this time. Please give our family space to grieve.
He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.
Only two minutes later, she hath risen, as the prophecies foretold, to say: this bitch mad stupid. It’s me, I’m the bitch. Oh Spain, but the S is silent. That’s like a knife to the fucking gut. The way I was so high and then you brought me so low. Can’t I have one fucking thing in this fic!!!!! GAH DAMN!!! (It’s so good tho, i’ve been looking for a fic with this much pain, but with an equal amount of resolution)
Hooooooo my god… the way David needs to stop laying hands on her… expeditiously… I’m such a bitch who fights. I have a second degree black belt in judo and I know karate and jujitsu as well, no man, no one is everrrrrrrrr gonna touch me like that and get away with it. I was actually just teaching my best friend (soon to be nurse) how to break a wrist hold very easily. I love teaching my girls the wisdom I’ve gained. I started martial arts when I was 8 so this confidence in safety and protection while moving through the world is all I’ve ever really known and I’ll be damned if anyone around me gets treated like reader is.
Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"
Ohhhhhhhh he’s getting it goodddddd tonight… at least if I had any say in it
David over here thinking he’s invincible because it’s his wedding and he’s a narcissist… Motherfucker deserves to be punched on his wedding day. There’s actually no better day in my opinion
"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"
Oh my GODDDDDD🙄 Maya is such a whiny little bitch. She really does need to grow the fuck up. Like why the hell is she getting hysterical? It’s just a little fighttttt, nothin David’s bitch ass didn’t have coming… I bet she’s crying because she knows her husband would lose LMFAOOOOOOO
David calling Jack a meat head… That’s actually immensely attractive to me. Because he’s really not, but he certainly is behaving in that way at this moment and it’s only for her protection. Like that’s HOTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Her telling Jack that she spit on David shoes and him saying that he saw that… It’s giving ‘my wife is crazy and I’m just here to back her up.’ I love it. She deserves to tear all their asses a new one and she’s got her meat head boyfriend to cheer her on and be the muscle🙂↕️
Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.
Two things: 1) god bless jack’s inner thoughts for speaking my exact thoughts. Very validating. And 2) IM GONNA FUCKING END DAVID. IM GONNA PUT HIS ASS DOWN LIKE A LAME HORSE. THIS MOTHERFUCKER IS EVIL!!!!!! HE IS SCUM!!!!! HE IS DICK CHEESE PERSONIFIED!!!!!
"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"
Um… anyway…😒yall hear sum? She deserves the electric chair, I’m not fucking jokin
You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.
I deem every crash out henceforth valid. I was of the opinion that, prior to this moment, she was lacking in crash outs and deserves more. Now, after this scene, my opinion has tripled in strength and I think any of the following actions she commits are completely okay and necessary. Amen. (Lmfao I skimmed ahead because I wanted to see where it was going because I got too excited while trying to savor the fic and I do feel bad for Jack, but I’m not kidding about the fact that I think she’s completely valid in whatever crash out she decides to have because she deserves it. She’s had the worst go of it and sometimes we need to jump to conclusions and feel bad feelings and react accordingly. And be snippy and bitchy to men who are only trying to help us. That is the way. Okay now back to where I was.)
You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.
Horrible horrible horrible, just an atrocious turn of events and her feelings are, say it with me now, validdddd. I’d feel the same, but also just the idea that she could not mean anything to anyone and especially not Jack is like a knife twisting in my heart. I both want her to be consoled and for this to be cleared up and also I want her to have a major crash out and cause him to grovel for something he really didn’t do just because I think she deserves that LOL.
For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"
I have thoughts on this… let’s cover the easy part: obviously Jack is unbothered because he did not see this interaction as anything other than bedside manner. Clean cut, good man. I have two thoughts about Maya’s perspective: on one hand, I’m thinking she’s jumping away because she understands how this looks and she already did it once before. On the other hand, I’m thinking she’s jumping away because she may have enjoyed the handsome doctor helping her just a little too much. Not so much that it’s even worth ruminating on, but I don’t trust her bitch ass to not find her sisters (not) man attractive because that seems to be her favorite pastime
Kicking my feet and giggling at her being brash with him🙂↕️GOOD (he did nothing wrong—although the demon in me still denies it because why are you being decent to that bitch????? PINKY PROMISING HER?????? OUR THING??? TOUCHING THAT WHORE???? Sorry, maya actually just makes me so viscerally angry, especially because she refused to genuinely take accountability for what she’s done)
His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"
BABYYYYYY HE CALLED HER BABYYYYYY!!!!! And that really just slipped out, that’s not pretend🙂↔️🚬
Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.
OOP!!! HAHAHA not Jack reaping the seeds he sowed. Hilarious of her to choose this time to institute this but I support her 100% because as much as he’s been a darling angel this entire time, somebody who isn’t her’s gotta suffer ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I don’t make the rules. She needs a break!!!
Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.
I’m being so dead ass, a pang literally just rippled through my heart OWWWWWW MY POOR BABY!!!!!! 1) fuck off, logic-man, I don’t need you—for the most part, she’s still valid—correctly assuming the anger is misdirected. 2) HIM BEGGING HER TO GET IN BED WITH HIM!!!!! I know it’s just to sleep it off but my brain goes to the fact that I KNOW he just wants to hold her so bad and fix her in place of the words he can’t find. 3) I could just picture his desperation and it’s feeding my dramatics. So yummy nummy. Love a good silent treatment. It always gets the job done (no it doesn’t and it’s very unhelpful for the sustainability of a healthy relationship lol). Also exactly what I would do in the face of him trying to say that her anger is misdirected because, once again, she is 100% valid in having that fear and trauma response to seeing the man she loves seemingly close with her sister. 4) HIM CARRYING HER BAG AND STILL ASKING HER TO STAY WITH HIM WAHHHHHHH!!!!! HES LITERALLY HELPING HER GET AWAY AND STILL BEGGING FOR HER TO STAY!!!!!! SOMEBODY SEDATE MEEEEEE!!!!!!!
"Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."
AWWWWWHANHANHANHANHANNNNNNN BABYYYYYYYY this poor man is fighting for his life. I can sense the urgency to convey that nothing was going on. Kind of love that she’s got him this down bad. They’re not even together and he’s trying so hard to tell her nothing happened, nothing untoward. Love him, sweet baby
Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.
Maybe a little punishment???? As a treat🥺🙏
Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.
Me acting like a yippee little dog barking big barks this entire time and then being immediately shutting up due to this one paragraph… like oop, got my ass good. Yeah, that’s valid. Maybe we should forgive him🧎♂️😔 and I knew this too, like in the back of my mind I understood it was unreasonable, but also I’m just a girl… and it’s not jumping to conclusions that I like, it’s forming them under whatever rules I decide float my boat that day ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I’m not jumping to them, I’m creating them🙂↕️
Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.
AWWWWWHANHANHANHANHANNNNNNN😭😭😭😭BABYYYYYY free my man, he did nothing wrong (and I’ve always said that🙂↕️ LOL) he just loves her so much😭😭he was eager to see her😭😭😭WAHHHH
Jack trying so hard to be patient but growing irritated and eventually snapping because he just needs to check on her and try to mend what’s broken…. This is greatly satisfying, my urge to be chased
Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.
“Get to be” oh I’m gonna lose it MY BABYYYYYYYYY HE’S SO SWEETTTTTTT
Out of a small group, this is definitely one of my favorite Jack fics ever. Like there are no cons to this. It’s all pros (prose ehehe) all the time. It hit in the best way and I savored it. Perfect amount of angst, comfort, fluff, yummy spice… just phenomenal all around🤭
ahhh thank you sm for taking the time to write all this out 😭 really had me giggling and kicking my feet reading it on my commute home 🫶🏻 i really appreciate all your commentary because it feels like you really understood every point i was trying to make!! some people were critical of how “nice” reader was to maya so i’m really grateful that you understood her!!! thank you again <3
best friend or baby daddy, one thing's for sure, you're not getting rid of him!
pairings: bsf!Geto x f!Reader
content: MDNI, smut and fluff and light angst, modern AU, mutual pining, heavy yearning, they want each other BAD, friends-to-lovers-to-parents, unprotected piv sex, mating press, creampie, fingering, oral (m! + f! receiving), lots of teasing and tension, taking pictures during sex, unplanned pregnancy, discussions of pregnancy/marriage, cravings, reader is a lil insecure, Suguru adores her anyway, short Gojo cameo, protective/possessive dilf!Suguru lol, idiots in love
part of this wikihow collab with @neovillains, art by @captainsalsaa divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more !
Step one?
Comfort you after you dumped yet another boyfriend.
Or maybe the first step had been one he never meant to take. Falling in love with the girl who pulled on his ponytail on the playground at age five. And at twenty-five? He fell even harder at the thought of what sort of face you'd make if he pulled your hair now, if you'd throw him a glare or a laugh, maybe pout your pretty lips at him before he bent you over his kitchen counter and -
"Suguru," You giggled, glancing over your shoulder, a playful glint shimmering in your eyes as you nudged his side. "Are you actually drunk?"
On you, maybe.
"No," He murmured, a cold hand finding your hip, an excuse, really, to pull you closer, press your body between his and the marble edge of the countertop as he reached over your head to grab the bowls he started keeping on the top shelf so you'd need his help grabbing them.
He caught the way your breath hitched in your throat, spine going stiff for a second, before relaxing into him like it was second nature by now, your head tilting to twist back against his chest and look up at him.
"You don't seem very heartbroken to me," He dryly commented, to which you just made a noncommittal hm, blinking a few times.
"I'm fine."
"Yeah?" He murmured, a little lost in your proximity, how right it felt for your back to be against his chest. "If he lost you, he must be a fucking idiot."
"Oh?" You giggled. "You know, he actually said we were in love with each other?"
"And? Are you in love with me?" Suguru teased, setting the bowls down to cage you in closer, his hand cutting off your chance at wiggling away when it landed on the counter, the fingers on your hips gripping a little tighter, wrinkling your dress.
Wishful thinking or not, he could almost feel the heat in your cheeks from here, your eyes crinkling when you just shrugged.
"What movie do you wanna watch?" You hummed, eyes flickering from his down to his lips, like you wanted to watch him reply, or maybe, hopefully, something more.
The game of pulling each other in just to push each other away at the last second still in swing after two decades.
"Whatever you want," Suguru shrugged back, the steady pop pop pops! of the kernels on the stove filling the background, the half-empty bottle of wine waiting to be polished off perched between two glasses. Yours was nearly full, but there were only a few drops left in his, despite drinking being your idea.
Showing up at his door on a Saturday night, gift bag in hand with tissue paper sticking out, wearing your favorite little sundress, cardigan hanging off your shoulders when you grinned up at him and asked if you could crash for a couple days.
"Boo," You did pout, and he hoped your proximity to his heart didn't mean you could hear it actually skipping a beat. "What if I want you to pick?"
He wished you only wanted him, period.
You stared sometimes and he could feel it there, simmering underneath your smile and living in the lines on your face. But you were always dating some other dark-haired asshole or he'd find himself in someone else's bed (who always looked a little too much like you, sharing the same shade of hair or the shape of your eyes). Living off of lingering touches and secret jokes and the moments where the boundaries blurred, where you'd be snuggled against his side or a kiss on the cheek would stray closer to the corner of your mouth instead.
Both of you waiting for the day the other one accepted defeat, conceded victory and came clean about the festering feelings you shared.
"Fine," He sighed, moving the pot to a different burner, flicking the heat off before taking off the lid, having to smack your hand away before you could snag a still-hot piece from the top before he could add any popcorn salt. "Just go sit down before you manage to burn yourself, okay?"
You rolled your eyes, poking his side before pouring more wine in his glass, carrying both over to the coffee table, too distracted watching him to pay attention to where you were walking, the corner catching your leg and sending you stumbling.
He would laugh at you later.
But now?
He was dropping the bowl back to the counter, hurrying over to help you up, your dress soaked and stained, clinging to your body, broken shards of glass littering the wooden floor.
"Shit, Sugu, I'm sorry," You frowned, chewing on your bottom lip as you pinched the sticky fabric away from your chest. But he caught the little glint in your eyes, the way one corner of your mouth involuntarily tugged up, like maybe you'd done it on purpose.
"Careful," He sighed, grabbing you by the waist to move you away from the safety hazard just to take your wrist anyway after he set you back down, pulling you down the hall to his room. "I'll throw that in the wash. You can just wear one of my shirts."
Sure, you already had a drawer full of your clothes at his place. But you both knew you'd rather wear something of his anyway.
"You're not mad, are you?" You asked, your face still scrunched up in disappointment when he pushed open the bedroom door.
"When have I ever been mad at you?"
He wanted to be, sometimes. When you introduced him to a new guy who would check out other girls when he should be thanking the fucking stars you even looked at him. When he thought about the time you got a little too wasted on your birthday a few years ago and kissed him in the backseat of a taxi just to forget the next morning. But the hurt could never hold it's shape, the anger could never set in, not when the need for you had engraved itself in his bones, to see you smile and hear your laugh at his jokes. No matter how much it ached to watch you offer yourself to others who didn't even see you.
Suguru went to grab a t-shirt off a hanger, glancing over his shoulder at you to find - fuck.
You already stripped out of your dress, perched pretty on the edge of his bed and staring at him almost innocently, your head tilted to the side as if to ask 'what?'
He shouldn't look, really, he absolutely should not, but his eyes don't know that, drifting down to the pretty swell of your breasts pushed out in a skimpy little lace bra that he was going to be thinking about long after you left, and his throat almost closes then and there.
"Here," He dryly choked out, his jaw clenching as he tossed you the shirt, dragging his attention down to where you discarded your dress.
"Thanks," You caught it, but barely made an effort to cover up your chest, your eyes following him as he bent over to pick it up, something that sounded close to a sigh escaping when he walked towards the door.
Suguru wouldn't crack. His composure couldn't. The only thing worse than you not being his was you not being in his life at all.
He could live with being in love with you. But knowing you didn't feel the same might kill him.
He didn't want a one-time thing, a single night spent in the sheets, but every part of you, every inch of your skin and second of your time. If you fucked him once just to say you couldn't be friends anymore, couldn't be anything, he didn't know what he'd do.
It was hard to know where the line was drawn when both of you had erased it so many times just to hastily scrawl a new one a little further back.
Carefully measuring out the laundry detergent and adjusting the settings on the washing machine before turning it on, the scent of your perfume and the wine clinging to him even after he turned away, glancing back down at the closed bedroom door. You were probably done changing by now, or close, at least.
He still knocked anyway, knuckles tapping against the wood, waiting for your reply.
"Can I come in?" Suguru called out, leaning against the door, trying not to think about what you looked like in his bed, the still image already burned in the back of his brain.
"Uh-huh," You hummed. Twisting the knob, he pushed it open, his stare locking onto you before he could even really process what he was seeing.
You were not done changing.
The hooks of your bra weren't even properly clasped, a tiny little thong hooked over your hips, your back to him while you rummaged through his nightstand. Something was in your hands that he couldn't see.
You glanced over your shoulder, a cute little smirk plastered to your lips that he wanted to kiss off of you, twist into a gasp, a moan of his name. "Hi."
"Hi," He echoed, low and gravelly, one corner of his mouth curling up to match yours.
You knew what you were doing.
And he was so tired of pretending he didn't.
"Say cheese," You giggled, holding up an old camera of his, finger hovering over the shutter while he folded his arms across his chest, his mouth set in a thin line even when you snapped a photo.
"Hand it over," He huffed, his focus straining to stay on your face while you walked over to him, bare feet padding across his floor until you were close enough to push the camera against his chest. The words were on his tongue before he could second guess saying them. "My turn."
The blush coloring your face made him feel warm, the sudden hints of shyness bleeding through when you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, like you just remembered how little you were wearing, how close he was.
"Scared?" Suguru mocked, giving you an out he hoped you wouldn't take.
"N-no," You stammered though, a crease forming between your furrowed brow as you protested.
"Back on the bed then," He murmured, wondering if you'd pose for him, if this would be the only picture you'd let him take of you tonight.
You hesitantly perched yourself back on the end, glancing down at yourself then back up at him, swallowing hard as you tried to collect your confidence again. Scooting back, parting your legs just enough that he caught a glimpse of the small damp patch on your panties, chuckling at the realization you were more worked up than him.
"More," He instructed, watching the way your lips parted and froze, how slowly your limbs started to move.
He sighed, sitting the camera down on the mattress next to you before sliding his hands over your soft thighs, spreading them for you, pretending your little gasp at the contact didn't make his cock practically jump in his boxers.
"Lay down for me, okay, pretty girl?" Suguru requested, softer this time, and you nodded, listening as you laid back, your body stiff as it sank down on his comforter. Only starting to relax once his hands slipped higher, the feeling of your bare skin under his palm only fueling the burning need he'd been suppressing for so long.
Hooking two sturdy fingers under the band of your panties and slowly peeling them down your thighs, taking his time and waiting for some squeak of his name to leave your mouth, but you just watched him back, biting down on the inside of your cheek.
Once your underwear hit the floor, you hesitantly shifted, opening yourself up for him. "Like this?"
Suguru wasn't sure he was going to make it out of here with his sanity in tact.
Step two?
He was going to fuck you until you admitted you'd been waiting for this just as long as him.
"Look at me," He quietly said, picking the camera back up to hide the hunger in his gaze as he peered through the viewfinder at you.
Your unsure stare reflecting his own desperation, lashes fluttering as you tried to decide what face to make.
He could help with that.
Returning one hand to the inside of your thigh, tracing a soft path up to the slick on your skin as placed his hand over your entrance, his thumb dipping just barely in to the knuckle while he watched your face for every tiny flicker in your expression. Entranced by how easily he made you squirm, your pretty pout like you wanted more and knowing he wouldn't give it to you unless you asked.
And click!
Of all the candids he'd taken over the years, the collection of your smiles and scoffs saved in photo albums and in his phone's camera rolls, he knew that this would be his favorite.
"Sugu-" You started, the uneven rise-and-fall of your chest only drawing his attention the strap of your bra slipping down your arm.
"Yeah, sweetheart?" He breathed, stuck staring at the sharp edge of one of your canines was tugging on your lower lip, the glimmer in your eyes at how intimate the nickname suddenly felt despite how many times he called you that before.
"Are you sure?" You slowly enunciated every syllable, straining to speak as his thumb dipped deeper. Trying not to give away how much he was affecting you, like he couldn't feel the muscles pull tighter, see the twitch of your hips as they fought to buck up and force him in more.
"Always have been about you," Suguru simply said, pushing his palm down over your clit, watching you gasp at the sudden pressure, eyes fluttering closed as you harshly sucked in a breath.
"God," You hissed.
"Take your bra off," He instructed, and you listened, struggling to prop yourself up enough to reach around with one hand and fumble to undo the clasp, throwing it off with a clatter to the floor.
Fuck.
The way your breasts bounced as you moved, how the buds of your nipples were already perked up and hard, just begging him to roll his tongue over them, to pinch and grope and hold. Mark your chest and your neck with enough kisses to erase the fact that anyone else had ever touched them before him.
He wanted to be the last man who would.
How could he not when you were looking at him like you needed him?
"You wanna tell me what you want?" He hm-ed, slipping his thumb back out, the slick pad dragging up to trace a ghost of a circle over the swollen bud while you whined at the abrupt absence.
"You, please," You whimpered, and he didn't think he'd ever been this hard before. "S-Sugu, I wan' you."
It took every ounce of control not to pull his cock out and fuck you until you cried that out again and again, until pretty tears were collected in your eyes and all you could do was whimper.
He slowly slotted two fingers inside, the stretch making you shudder, thighs struggle to resist the temptation to close on his hand.
He clicked his tongue, once, twice, three times.
"Keep them open for me, baby," He teased, and you just pushed out your bottom lip, weakly nodding as all your muscles tensed again, muscles straining to stay in place when he crooked his fingers all the way in.
"Fuck, fuck, god, there." Your cute moan made his head spin, how your breath almost stuttered every time you sucked it in just for him to immediately force it back out, skin he used to try so hard to avoid staring at in swim suits now completely bare in his sheets.
Pumping his fingers in-and-out, the filthy fucking sound of how wet you were for him ringing his his ears, how right it felt to have you squeezing desperately around him, to be the one pushing you closer and closer to cumming on his fingers.
"That's it, pretty," He softly said, feeling you throb at his low voice, pausing to test it out again. "Come on, breathe."
You tried, sucking in a small breath and looking at him with glossy eyes, silently begging him to keep going.
"Use your words, sweetheart," Suguru purred, swiping his thumb back over your sensitive clit and you shivered.
"Please let me cum," You begged out loud this time, trembling at his touch.
He chuckled, dark and low, slotting his fingers back inside, already trying to memorize which spots made you whine louder, thrusting in, out, in, out, until-
"Suguru."
His name ripped from your throat right as his fingers found the spongy spot in the back, fingertips pressing against it just enough for you to cry out his name a second time, your legs snapping shut as you grinded up against his hand.
"Go ahead, baby," He murmured, letting you rut against his palm for extra pressure and friction, readjusting so his thumb was massaging circles over the swollen bud. "C'mon, cum."
And fuck, he never thought you'd looked more beautiful than right now - lashes fluttering, pretty lips parted as your back arched off the bed, his fingers buried knuckle-deep in your cunt while you came.
"Look so pretty like this f'me," He promised, his thumb rolling over your clit while you blushed and squirmed, still trying to catch your breath when he didn't immediately pull out.
"S-shut up," Your voice was small as you stammered.
"Can I take another photo?" He teased, slipping his slick fingers out, and popping them in his own mouth, needing to taste you on his tongue.
The image of him cleaning the ring of white off his fingers seemed to make you more flustered, your glossy stare searing through his heart.
"You want to?" You swallowed hard.
He climbed on top of the bed, pulling his fingers out with a pop! and grazing over your lower lip with his thumb, caging you in under his broad frame.
"That a yes?" He hm-ed, and you nodded, letting him tug your mouth open. He pushed the same two fingers that had just been in his mouth into yours, your tongue swirling over his knuckles, sucking softly and peering up at him with those pretty eyes.
"Mhm," Your muffled voice purred back.
He fumbled for the camera, holding it back up and hovering his finger over the button as you met his stare through the viewfinder, your own hand reaching up to hold his and push his fingers in deeper while he snapped the photo.
"My pretty girl."
His his his.
Pulling out his fingers while he leaned over to deposit the camera on the nightstand, your lips still open, waiting for a kiss or about to tease him for a sentiment so silly, but a soft smile curled up.
"Yeah, yours."
Suguru Geto was in love. Something he always knew, but only existed in the loops of his mind, the quiet score of his life, playing in the background of every scene. But this, with you here, it was loud. In every look and touch, in every breath he exhaled, the atoms crackling in the air between your bodies.
"I need to fuck you," He heard himself say, hoarse and thick with something caught between desperation and desire.
"Oh yeah?" Your airy little giggle was abruptly cut off with his mouth colliding against yours, wondering if his tasted like wine or you as he sucked softly on your lower lip.
Your hands were struggling to pull his shirt up, only breaking the kiss to shove it up and over his head, your warm palms skimming over his muscles and tracing over each ridge and curve like you'd thought about touching him half as much as he thought about touching you.
"Sugu," You giggled again, letting him pepper your cheek with kisses, his mouth leaving hungry sucks in a line down your throat, marks you'd probably have to wear a scarf or makeup to cover at work in a few days.
He really couldn't stop touching you. Caressing your face and groping your breast and tracing your collarbone and trying to find an excuse to catalogue what every inch of you felt like under him.
"Mm?" He barely paused, feeling your delicate touch start to tug down the zipper of his jeans, the rustle of you unbuttoning them next. He wrapped his mouth around one of your nipples, groaning softly as he dragged his tongue over it as you managed to slip your fingers underneath his jeans and the band of his boxers to feel how hard he already was. Swiping your fingertips over his leaking tip to collect the pre-cum there and wiggling back out to bring it to your lips for your own taste.
His throat went dry.
More than dry. Actually, it felt like someone stuffed fucking cotton balls down it and his pants suddenly felt two sizes too tight as you dragged your tongue over your fingertips and batted your lashes at him.
"I thought you needed to fuck me," You reminded him with the sort of soft sigh that made him dizzy.
He was pushing off his plush mattress to finish what you started, discarding his jeans and boxers in one go, his composure not just cracked but crumbled into a million little pieces he couldn't clean up, the need turning him into the kind of man who couldn't care less about appearances or control if it mean he could fuck your brains out enough that you'd forget about all of that too.
His cock was practically pink, swollen and hard, swinging up to smack against his dark happy trail and muscles, your eyes getting even wider, glued to the thick length.
"Um, S-Sugu," You stuttered, and it was cute to see you lose your own cool, scooting back higher on the bed and propping yourself up on your elbows.
"Uh-huh?" He wryly cocked his head to the side as he climbed back on top of you, pulling you down by your hips as your head fell back on his pillow. Spreading your legs back open, glistening and gorgeous and all his.
"Kiss me again," You quietly requested, and he was more than happy to oblige.
Returning his lips to your own to press a tender kiss there while his tip nudged against your opening, your body jolting when he pinned you down with his weight. Slipping one hand behind your neck to deepen the kiss, his tongue tracing the ridges of your teeth while his other hand held your waist, your wrists wrapping around his neck while you moaned in his mouth, unable to do anything but grind up where his cock was practically twitching against your clit.
Getting more desperate by the second, your muffled moan turning into a whine, bucking up harder to chase your high from earlier.
"Put it in," Your voice was a strained whisper in-between kisses, rolling your hips up again.
"Say please," Suguru taunted, kissing your frown away before he could even really form.
"Please."
He was letting go of your waist to grab the base of his cock, pushing the first few inches in and watching your body tense and stiffen around him, your thighs trying not to close as he pushed past the first ring of resistance, the gasp you attempted to stifle not going unnoticed.
"You okay, baby?" He paused, your body squeezing him sinfully before he hadn't even quite made it halfway in.
"You're, um, bigger, than I imagined," You choked out, and he wasn't sure if it was his ego or his dick that got fucking bigger hearing you admit you imagined him at all.
"It'll fit," He murmured, barely containing the urge to bottom out already, taking his time stretching you out, molding you to each vein and ridge. "Promise I'll take care of you."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locked them there with your heels digging into his back, and the feeling of your soft thighs against his skin, the squeeze of the muscle had him burying himself in fully before he could stop it.
"Shit, Suguru, o-oh, oh," You mewled at him, nails scratching at his shoulder blades while you buried your face into the crook of his neck, moaning into his skin, teeth nipping at his collarbone.
He kind of hoped you would bite him. Leave little indents of your teeth on his skin so he could run his fingers over it in the morning.
"Fuck," He murmured, stalling for a second just to appreciate how it felt. The warmth of your body trapped under his, the taste of you still on his tongue while his cock was snugly sheathed inside you, raw and-
Shit, he wasn't wearing a condom.
You hadn't asked him to. And to be honest, he didn't even think he had one. It's not like he'd been seeing anyone recently or even considered the possibility he might need one tonight.
It would probably be fine.
He could just pull out or-
"Baby," Your voice, so needy, distracted him.
Suguru's brain shut off.
All higher reasoning had been abandoned, replaced only by the thought of making you cum again (and again).
Sliding out just to shove himself back in, gentle thrusts growing faster, harder with every one of your whines and broken rasps of his name, your hands running over his back and your mouth on his throat. Eventually un-hooking your legs from his hips to pin your thighs to your chest, angling himself to hit that same spongy spot he had before, half-incoherent murmurs whispered into your skin of how beautiful you were, how badly he wanted you, needed you.
And you were nodding back, tears brimming at your lashes and moaning his name, offering quiet little swears that you belonged to him like it was a secret meant for the two of you to keep.
"Oh, t-there, fuck," You whimpered, his cock practically grinding against your cervix as his hips smacked against your skin, planting another open-mouthed kiss on your lips while you both struggled to stave off your climax. Neither of you wanted it to end. "Suguru, m' so close."
"I know, baby, I know," He groaned, barely holding himself together, all the carefully assembled pieces of his life about feeling like they were about to fracture the second his restraint snapped.
There was no going back after this.
No mask he'd be able to wear now that he knew what this felt like. Knew what you looked like pinned under him in the filthiest fucking mating press imaginable, fucked-out and filled-up by his cock slamming again and again while his thumb made messy circles over your clit, rolling and pinching it just to see what sort of noises he could pull out of you next. Especially not after knowing what face you made when you finished, your shattered gasp and your glazed-over eyes focused solely on him and fuck-
Fuck.
He cumming before he could stop himself, your body wrapped up so warm around him, the delicious squeeze like you wanted to draw out every last fucking drop, painting your insides white before he even had enough brain power to start to pull out, but by then, only the last few drops were left to leak onto your thighs. Both dazed, blinking and breathing, his cock still hard in his hand while he stared down at his seed dripping out of you.
You were probably on birth control.
Probably.
Suguru reached over to snag the camera off the nightstand, one hand still pinning your thighs down while the other held the camera back up.
"Say cheese."
Step three?
Show up to your apartment after you'd been avoiding him for what? Two months?
Work stuff, you said, already made plans, you bluffed, feeling sick, you excused.
You hadn't left his place upset - no, you showered and practically stayed in his bed until you had to go to work on Monday. Kissed him on the lips and brushed his bangs out of his face, but when he replayed the 36 hours of heaven, none of the words exchanged had technically been confessions. Or at least, nothing that would put a name to whatever the two of you were now.
It's not like you hadn't gone a couple weeks without seeing each other in person. But this was getting ridiculous - and exactly what he'd been worried about in the first place. He knew you were probably overthinking it, probably just as worried as he was that it'd screw everything up, judging by the still-constant stream of texts you sent him every day.
But he couldn't take it anymore - close enough to just calling it like it was and asking you out officially if it meant you'd stop whatever this was. He'd spent more nights by now fucking in fists to the photos he'd taken of you, painfully-aware of how much better the real thing was.
He could tell by the sound of some shitty reality show playing too-loud through the door that you were definitely home, but you didn't answer the first time he knocked. Or the fourth.
By the tenth, he was flipping through his keys to find the spare one to your place, his text messages to you left unread as he turned it in the lock, calling out your name as he stepped inside. No answer.
Panic had started to prick at his nerves, glancing around to see your stuff scattered around like you usually left it as he crept through your empty kitchen and living room. There weren't any dishes in the sink though, just a few empty packs of crackers, a small trash can by the couch, a blanket thrown over the side and a crushed pillow like you'd just been there. He heard it then - the sound of retching.
Shit. You were sick.
He followed the noise down the hall into the bathroom, the door already cracked open, softly saying your name as he approached so he wouldn't surprise you, but you coughed again, glancing over your shoulder clearly startled anyway.
"What are you-" You weakly rasped, a few stray hairs plastered to your forehead with sweat, tired circles around your eyes before you got sick again. He hurried to hold the rest of your hair back with one hand, the other rubbing little circles on your shoulder blade.
"Hey, it's okay," He murmured, concern replacing everything else he'd been preoccupied with when he showed up. "I was worried about you."
Something that looked like fear flashed across your features when you finished and peeked back over at him.
"Suguru," You slowly said his name, and just speaking sounded like it must hurt.
"Come on, want me to carry you back to the couch? I can go pick up some medicine for you, whatever else you want too," He offered, his thumb rubbing over your your shoulder blade in comforting half-circles. You didn't immediately answer, a small frown still stuck on your face. "You been to the doctor yet?"
"Suguru," You said his name again, more serious this time and he froze.
"Yeah?" He swallowed hard, and you refused to meet his stare.
"I'm pregnant," You murmured, so quietly that was barely audible over the bathroom exhaust fan.
His brain stopped working.
His body too - stuck in place, his thumb still pressing down on the tense muscles of your back.
"You're-" He started, then stopped himself. Each word forming its own separate thought, struggling to piece each of them together when weight of them all combined threatened to crush him. "Is it my baby?"
Fuck, it had to be.
You nodded, just a small bob of your head, and he could barely blink.
Baby. A baby. Yours and his.
"Don't hate me," You whispered sheepishly, shoulders shrinking together. "But I want to keep it."
"I could never hate you," He hoped it sounded reassuring, straining to keep his own happiness in check, struggling to be steady the way you clearly needed him to be. "Whatever you want, I'm here for you. And our baby."
"You mean it?" You turned, just enough that he was able to tug you into his chest and wrapped his arms around you.
"Promise." He pressed a kiss against your hair, cradling you closer.
Your breathing was still shaky, sniffling a few times before your arms wrapped around his waist, face pressed against his shirt.
"Have you been to the doctor yet?" He asked again, although it had an entirely different meaning now, one that still hadn't sunk in all the way yet.
"I called, after, um, I got the positive test," You talked into his chest, voice muffled but you refused to pull away either. "My first appointment isn't for another two weeks."
"I'll go with you," He muttered.
"You don't have-"
"I want to," Suguru chuckled. "Let me take care of you, okay?"
"That's kind of how we ended up here," You reminded him, and he didn't have to see your face to know you were pouting.
He still laughed though, because he'd still do it again.
"Want me to make you something to see if you can keep it down?" He decided to shift the subject, rubbing your back in long, soothing strokes, content to play doctor or nurse (or husband) or whatever role you wanted from him.
Playing chef while he made you something warm, masseuse when he rubbed your back while you curled up next to him in bed, and boyfriend when you finally fell asleep, slipping out of your room to complete the chores that had started to pile up that you'd been too exhausted to do.
It was the least he could do when all your energy was already being devoted to his baby.
By the time he finished and crept back into your bedroom, you were still dreaming, the blankets kicked off of your body. The bed creaked as he climbed back in, settling next to your warm body.
His hand slipped down your side, readjusting so his chest was pressed against your back as his fingers drifted slowly over your stomach, just beneath your belly button, trying to picture it.
Would the baby be a boy? Or a girl?
A little mini-version of you running around, maybe with his eyes or hair?
You were already everything he ever wanted. Anything extra was just icing on top.
Step four?
Convince you to move into his place before the second trimester was over, it was bigger, anyway, had a spare bedroom he'd been using as a home gym he already started converting into a nursery. Spending the weekends building baby furniture and taking you out for dates disguised as shopping, buying little onesies and toys mostly so he could insist on treating you to lunch or dinner afterwards.
It was easier than he expected.
What wasn't?
Convincing you to marry him.
You were already carrying his child. Pretty and pregnant, the cute swell of your stomach you tried to hide under flowy dresses and oversized sweaters making his heart throb in his chest every time he saw it. His mouth would go dry, his eyes stuck staring if he caught you in the middle of changing, even when you shyly tried to turn away. Only having sex in certain positions where you could try to avoid letting him see it, although it usually ended up with him flipping you over on your back or pulling you on top.
"We're going to be late," Suguru sighed, throwing on a sweater from the closet.
"I just need a few more minutes," You pouted, halfway yelling from the bathroom.
He crossed over the bedroom, pushing the bathroom door open with two fingers so he could poke his head through. You were frowning at yourself in the mirror, readjusting your dress, like it'd make it any less obvious you were pregnant. Other clothing items were already discarded across the floor.
"Baby," He softly said, wrapping his arms around your waist, running a hand over your baby bump while the other slipped up to cup your swollen breast starting to spill out of your bra. Despite your insistence otherwise, your discomfort with your changing body, he still tried to offer to take you out to buy stuff for you instead of just the baby. "You look beautiful."
You did.
Everything in him ached to touch you constantly, and maybe it was protective or possessive or whatever you wanted to call it, but he hated that you wanted to hide it, the physical proof that you were his.
He wanted everyone to know it, wanted to slide a ring on your finger and have family photos on the fridge because you were carrying more of him with you now than just his heart.
You scowled at him in the mirror.
"I look pregnant," You muttered, like it was a bad thing.
"Yeah?" He chuckled, tracing the subtle curve of your stomach with his thumb. Twenty weeks. That was halfway there, wasn't it? He'd read more than a few parenting books in his spare time - looked up the latest articles on pregnancy and what to expect. He'd pour over the packets you left from the prenatal appointments with, asked off for each one in advance, absolutely refusing to let you go alone.
"I hate all my clothes," You huffed.
"You hated them before you were pregnant," Suguru sighed, pulling you closer and leaning down to plant a soft kiss against your throat. "You should probably wear something else though. Aren't they doing an ultrasound today?"
He phrased it like a question even though he knew they were.
You frowned again, wiggling away from him to slip out of his grip and walk over to the dresser, yanking out a pair of sweatpants.
"Everything fits weird," You complained, pulling your dress up and over your head, and Suguru stared, feeling the way his own jeans started to fit too tight at the sight of your exposed skin.
"We can go shopping for some new clothes after the appointment," Suguru absentmindedly said, still memorizing the pretty outline of your body.
He could kiss you, offer reassurance after reassurance that he did want you, but you were reluctant to believe him.
Your foot was still anxiously tapping the floor of the waiting room when you arrived, gripping his hand like it was a lifeline, your last tether stopping you from giving into the stress.
"It's gonna be fine," He leaned down to murmur in your ear, barely able to squeeze your hand back with how tightly you were holding it.
"What if it's not?" You were panicking, your other hand protectively placed over your stomach like you were shielding it from the rest of the world.
"Then we'll figure it out together."
His answer didn't seem to calm you much, the little circles he rubbed over your knuckles only making your foot tall a little slower.
"They keep looking at you," You eventually craned your neck up to whisper in his ear, frowning even harder than you had when you first walked in.
"Who?" He leaned down to whisper back.
"The other moms," You pouted, cutting a glare over to a woman who was, in fact, staring. She tried to turn away, but not before you both caught her blush.
"So?" He had to resist the smirk that wanted to creep up, lest he faced your wrath too. Like he could ever want anyone else when you were sitting next to him in the waiting room because his baby was growing inside of you, although this jealousy was something he probably would've killed to see you show over him six months ago.
"I'm probably going to be prying them off of you at the playground in a couple years," You huffed, and he couldn't help but chuckle picturing that.
But before you could focus your frown on him, a nurse called out your full name, his own forming at the reminder he was barely here as a boyfriend, that his baby might not even have his last name either.
He insisted on helping you stand, a hand on the small of your back even when you didn't really need it yet, following you through the hall and listening to you answer the same questions they always asked at every appointment until they led you to the small room that branched off the main hall. The lights were dimmed down already as he helped you lay back onto the table, the paper crinkling while you readjusted. He pulled the chair against the wall closer, slipping his hand back on yours while the nurse left and reassured an ultrasound tech would be there in a few minutes.
"Last guesses," You mumbled, chewing on your lower lip, breathing too fast. "Boy or a girl?"
"Girl," Suguru replied, although he didn't think it mattered much. Not as long as it was yours.
He did like the idea of the baby being a girl - if she had your eyes and your smile.
"I guess I'll go with boy then," You spoke quietly, eyeing the machine next to you. "I hope our baby looks like you either way."
Suguru didn't expect the way your sentiment made him feel - his heart practically stuttering as the words left your lips. Something squeezing tight in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.
But there were two sharp knocks on the door and suddenly it was swinging open, a peppy woman in shrugs stepping in with cheery greetings, waving and taking a seat on the other side of you to get started. Asking questions about names you had in mind and if you wanted to know the gender while she got set up, and it was silly, but it was like he had a crush on you all over again, watching you chat about the baby, how your eyes lit up just to get sheepish and almost embarrassed when you looked back at Suguru to find him staring.
It didn't take long for you to be slowly pulling the band of your sweatpants down, tissues stuck under it to keep the gel from getting on your clothes while you held up your sweatshirt high enough for her to spread the gel over your stomach, pressing down hard with the wand as the image pulled up on the projector. Taking measurements and checking body parts until she paused right as the baby turned.
"You see that?"
Not really.
"Sorta," You squinted, trying to squint and figure out what it is.
"Looks like you're having a girl!"
And all the earlier anxiety had dissolved, melted into the shy smile on your lips when you glanced back at him, your warm palm giving him a quick squeeze and an excited gleam in your eyes.
"We're gonna have a daughter," You talked so quiet, so soft, like you were still holding your breath.
A daughter. You voice, those words played on repeat the drive home, while you traced the outline of your baby's face on the roll of ultrasound photos you got sent home with.
"Suguru, are you even listening?" You snapped him out of his thoughts, the idea of what you'd look like with a little girl swaddled up in your arms, already planning on taking you out shopping again tomorrow for more baby outfits than any kid could actually need.
"Sorry, honey? What?" He apologized, placing a palm on your thigh and rubbing it while you hummed.
"I asked what you thought of the name Kiyoko," You repeated, setting the photos down on your lap to pull out your phone and probably look up lists of baby girl names.
"That's pretty," He hummed, mostly just enjoying hearing your enthused chatter next to him.
"Or Yumi?" He caught a glimpse of you with your eyebrow arched up as you asked, your attempt at a serious expression falling flat from the thrill you couldn't hide.
He never thought he'd be able to love another girl as much as you - but he guessed his daughter was the only exception.
It wasn't until he started to climb into bed next to you that night that he realized you might not know that.
"Um, Suguru?"
There was something off in the sound of your voice, how hesitant you were to roll over and face him.
"Something wrong, sweetheart?" He readjusted, propping himself up on his side as he brushed your hair out of your face.
"Are, um, you," You paused, frowning as you restarted your question. "Do you think you'll-"
He guessed you were giving up on whatever you wanted to ask as you groaned and buried your face into his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist.
"Sorry, just, pretend I didn't say anything," Your voice was muffled, clinging to him, fingers wrinkling his shirt and forcing it to ride up higher until a thin strip of skin was exposed.
"You sure?" He stroked your hair, returning your hug as he pulled you in closer with one strong arm.
"Yeah," You huffed, wiggling free and rolling over till you were between his legs.
He was about to slip his hands under your arms to tug you back up, but then you let one finger skim under his boxers, looking up and batting your eyes at him and he paused, the question he was about to ask dying on his tongue.
Yours seemed to have an idea of it's own.
Fingers ghosting over his dark happy trail while you bit your lip, slowly tugging down his boxers just enough to pull his cock out, already hard from watching you undress and ditch your daytime clothes for a thin slip earlier that hugged your swollen breasts before you'd crawled into bed.
"This for me?" You hummed, running your fingers over the thick vein pulsing along the side while he sucked in a breath, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile on its own.
"Always," He murmured, the lump in his throat bobbing as you dragged your tongue along the length of him, mouth slowly wrapping around the tip.
God, it wasn't fucking fair.
How could he control himself when every part of you felt so good?
Head falling back on the pillow, jaw clenched as you slowly took him in inch-by-inch, swirling our tongue over him and down across the vein, traced the ridges until he was pressed up against the roof of your mouth, bumping into the back of your throat.
His hand grabbing your hair to help guide you, careful not to make you gag or bruise your throat, your fingers wrapped around his base to stroke what you couldn't fit in. Your moan when he pulled your hair harder than he meant to almost made him snap them and there.
Opening his eyes was his mistake.
He wished he could take a photo of this, the bob of your head and the way you peered up at him so pretty, his cock throbbing in your mouth and how eagerly your mouth softly sucked on him.
He barely pulled out before warm spurts of cum shot down your throat, meaning to cum on his own hand, but it didn't quite work. The thick almost translucent white coating your lips and making them glossy, half ending up on your face and the rest coating his hand as he roughly jerked long strokes.
"Fuck, sorry, I-"
You giggled, licking a little off your lips before wiping away at your cheek.
"It's fine, Sugu," You laughed, wiping your face off on his boxers, nose nuzzling through the fabric against his thigh. "Little warning, next time?"
"Yeah," He muttered, still dazed as he studied your face.
It seemed keeping it together wasn't something he could do when it came to you.
"Wanna shower?" You offered, getting off the bed, the bounce of your breasts as you carefully pulled your little nightdress off reminding him how badly he wanted to repay that favor.
"Sure," He shrugged, standing up after you and stepping out his boxers off before tossing them into the laundry basket.
He watched you get the water started, humming to yourself as you grabbed a new bottle of body wash from the cabinet underneath the sink and checked the temperature.
"Hey," He softly said, distracting you before you could step in.
"Yeah?" You paused, glancing over your shoulder at him.
"Wanna get married?"
You didn't react. Or maybe your lack of reaction was one in itself. A blank stare. A blink. Your hands still on the shower curtain.
"What?" You eventually choked out.
Suguru panicked - or came as close to panic as he could. Falling back on logic, all the facts you couldn't argue with.
"I was paying the bill for the last appointment, and you know, your insurance is terrible," He reasoned, keeping his expression serious, stoic, like you'd have to see his side. "I just think it'd make more sense for us to get married, use my insurance and save our money for the other important stuff."
He actually couldn't care less what the appointments cost or how much he spent on the baby - because he would make absolutely fucking sure you were both spoiled but, he wanted you to say yes.
"I can just pay for the appointments if that's the problem," You quietly murmured, a look on his face he'd never seen before he barely caught before you turned back around and stepped in the shower.
Shit.
He didn't have to guess to know that was a no.
Step five?
Try not to maim every guy that ever looked at you.
It had to be something instinctual - how it made his skin crawled whenever someone's shoulder brushed against yours on the street or a stare lingered too long on your face. Fuck, even Gojo sitting too-close to you had started to get to him, the easy way he slung his shoulder over the back of the couch and blabbered to you about his day while you laughed.
Normally, Suguru would not be silently struggling to maintain his polite smile when you offered to let Satoru feel the baby kick, new cracks starting to form in his facade as his best friend eagerly out his hand on your stomach.
"That's freaky," Gojo scrunched up his face, pulling his hand away at the first flutters of the kick.
"Jerk," You huffed, smacking his arm before struggling to readjust the pillows under your back, your own brows knitted together in frustration.
"Need something?" Suguru interrupted.
"I'm fine," You muttered, despite your discomfort.
"So, like," Gojo started, squinting down at your stomach before glance between you and Suguru. "Am I like, the godfather or-"
"Why not?" You shrugged right as Suguru shook his head no.
"Why not?" Gojo repeated in a whine, cutting him a look that only ever worked if you were the one directing it at him.
"I'd prefer my daughter lives off of more than chocolate and candy," Suguru sarcastically dismissed, scooting closer to you in the couch to slip the pillow that had been beside him underneath your back to help support it.
"I can cook," Satoru defensively protested, looking to your for support Suguru hoped he wouldn't received. "Besides, I have a great dentist so even if-"
"Shit, do we have to find her a dentist too?" You were ignoring the rest of his rambling, glancing back at Suguru with a frown at yet another task on the growing list of items to take care of.
"We can worry about that when she's actually here," Suguru shrugged, a hand settling on your shoulder and massaging the tense muscles there. "And has teeth."
"Okay," You sighed, still chewing on your bottom lip. You turned to your other side, your attention focusing again on your guest.
"You guys pick out a doctor yet?" Satoru asked, spreading his legs and leaning over to grab one of the still-warm cookies you baked after dinner. The sun had already set aside, only the glow from the TV and the kitchen light still on.
"Yeah, think so," You hummed, a hand resting on your stomach when you tried to get one too, pouting at your body's refusal to do what it used to until Suguru reached over to get the cookie for you.
"Got your hands pretty full, huh?" Satoru mumbled with his mouth still full, cookie crumbs sticking to his face.
"Suguru says we should just go ahead and get married," You sighed, taking another small bite before talking again. "For insurance stuff, I guess."
It was the first time you mentioned it in the past couple months since he first brought it up.
Satoru threw him a look like he was the biggest idiot on the planet before actually laughing.
"Just for insurance?" He cocked a brow up, an annoying glimmer of amusement flashing in the blue of his eyes while throwing Suguru a look that made him consider strangling his friend on the spot. "You know, my insurance is really-"
"Don't even think about it," Suguru shut him up before he could continue.
But you were glancing between them, a small frown weighing your lips down and a subtle crease between your brow. Were you actually disappointed?
"I'm actually pretty tired, guys, I, uh, think I'm gonna crash for the night," You mumbled, pushing up off the couch and ignoring Suguru's outstretched hand to stand on your own.
He could feel it sinking in his chest before you disappeared down the hall.
Another misstep. Pushing you away when he was trying to pull you closer.
"Insurance? Really?" Satoru snickered once you were out of earshot.
"Shut up," Suguru groaned.
"Just tell her you love her already and put a ring on it," He shrugged, leaning over to flick his arm. "Unless you want your kid to have a stepdad some day?"
Okay, Suguru really wanted to strangle him for suggesting that.
And it was his own fault for offering excuses, he knew that, still he didn't want to tell you he loved you and you think it was just because of the baby, or that was the only reason he was trying to tie you down to him. He wanted you to know he meant it.
To know he'd been waiting for the moment he could claim you his entire life, to call you his in every form, sign the paper and hear the word husband leave your lips.
Just being your boyfriend the past few months when you were having his baby was torture, enduring your unsure glances, the unease he tried and failed to kiss away.
What were you so scared of? And why was it him?
He still hadn't figured out by the time Satoru left, or when he eventually got in bed next to you, careful not to disturb your sleep - even if he suspected you were already awake.
Suguru was pretty sure he'd never been scared in his until he woke up to an empty bed. Cold sheets, no lingering body heat or even the scent of your shampoo clinging to your pillow when he rolled over to the empty space you should be.
Stumbling out of the bed still half-asleep himself, squinting as he rubbed his eyes and pushed open the bathroom door, but no, the lights were off and it was also empty. Calling out your name and crushing the budding anxiety clawing up his throat as he padded through the hall into the living room, the dim light from the kitchen hurting his eyes as they adjusted to the yellow glow.
His ears caught up first.
The faint sound of your sniffling reaching him as he rounded the corner to find you on the floor by the entryway, struggling to slip on your shoes, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants that didn't do much to hide your baby bump as you wiped at your cheeks with one hand. Dressed like you were planning on going somewhere, purse laying on the floor next to you, phone and keys hanging halfway out of it.
"Baby," He yawned, trying to speak softly as he glanced over at the clock. "It's three in the morning. What are you doing?"
"Can't sleep. I want a slushie," You mumbled, blinking a few times, clearly just as exhausted as him. There was a faint shine to your eyes, a few teardrops still clinging to your lashes.
"You should've woken me up," He murmured, gently squeezing your shoulder.
"It's just a stupid craving," You dismissed, rubbing your own eyes as you gave up and threw your shoe back on the ground.
It was the first one you'd told him about. He wasn't even sure you even had any, but maybe you'd just been taking care of them yourself.
"I'll get you one," He stifled another yawn while he talked. "Let me get a coat and my keys."
You grabbed onto the hem of his pajama pants to hold him in place, peeking up at him with a pout.
"You don't have to."
"You think I'm going to let my pregnant girlfriend go out by herself to get one?" Suguru retorted.
Your pout only got deeper at the word girlfriend.
"Forget about it," You murmured, letting go of his pajamas to push off the floor, once again ignoring his outstretched hand to try and stand by yourself. "Let's just go back to bed."
He knew he could ask if you were sure and you'd grumble something sarcastic back before going to sleep upset.
"Hey," He paused, stopping you with a hand on the curve of your waist, pulling you into him, until your baby bump, his daughter, was pressed against the firm muscle of his own stomach. "Let's go together, okay?"
"You really wanna?" You hesitated, clearly wanting to say yes despite the streak of stubbornness that usually won out over your softer side.
Suguru pressed a kiss against your forehead, his hand appreciatively running over your stomach just for the mini-you inside to kick, the flutter under his fingers only reminding him how easily the two of you had him wrapped around your own.
"It's you," He'd remind you however many times you needed. "Course I do."
Step six?
Get you whatever craving or late night treat you wanted - even if he felt like he was sleepwalking.
Still groggy, he threw on his own shoes and grabbed his stuff, helping you over to the couch so he could get down on his knees and help you get your shoes on, tugging one of his sweatshirts over your head, although you didn't drown in it any more, he thought it was cuter now, stretched over your baby bump like this.
Rubbing his eyes with yet another yawn while he insisted on holding open the car door for you and driving you to the nearest gas station/convenience store combo that had a functioning slushie machine, keeping his mouth shut about the terrible food dyes in it while you picked out a cup and pulled the dispenser down on the blue raspberry flavor. It was nice. Your head resting on his shoulder and happily sipping through the straw while he paid the equally tired cashier, your hand in his after he pocketed the receipt while you walked to the car, his thumb rubbing over the bare spot beneath your knuckle where a ring should be.
The one that had been tucked inside a box in his closet, buried under photo albums and souvenirs of a lifetime you'd already spent together. One he'd seen through the window of a jewelry store on the street, the glittering stone and the thin band, the little offset gems, something about it that made him think of what it'd look like on you. He bought it even though Satoru laughed at him the entire drive home.
"You're not even dating her."
Who else would you marry if not him?
He glanced back over at you as he turned the key in the ignition, your sleepy eyes and your pretty smile, the way your other hand was settled over the swell of your stomach.
His girls.
The drive back home was filled with the sort of chatter that used to be casual for you two - your happy giggle ringing in his ears while you talked about some reality show you wanted to watch with him, swearing it was stupid but he'd still like it anyway, your hand drifting over to his leg, pausing on his thigh while you asked what him and Satoru talked about after you went to sleep.
Your slushie was almost empty by the time you made it back, taking the last few sips before tossing it in the trash in the kitchen and giving him a little look like you wanted him to help get your shoes off but didn't want to ask.
He did it for you.
Following behind you to the bedroom, tossing his stuff on the nightstand and flicking the lamp back on to bathe the room in low light.
"Thank you, Sugu," You softly said, yawning as you peeled the sweatshirt off first, shuffling out of your pajama pants until you were just in a thin t-shirt and panties, and all he could fucking think was how could you be thanking him? When you were giving him his dream on the prettiest platter he'd ever seen?
"You're so-" He started, but you weren't finished, shyly avoiding his gaze as your mouth opened again. The mood had shifted again, your face scrunched up like you were sad.
"I just feel bad, you know?" He didn't. "You're just, so, perfect, and so you, and you got stuck with me and a baby you didn't plan on."
"Stuck with you?" He echoed, blinking blankly at you while you kept stumbling over your words.
"I just, uh, I want you to know you don't have to marry me just because you feel obligated to, you know, if, um, you met someone else-" You looked like you were going to be sick just saying it.
Was this what had you so worried?
"There isn't ever going to be anyone else," Suguru bluntly cut you off.
"You don't know that," You argued, struggling to be the better person, not to be greedy when that was exactly what he'd waited years for.
"I'm in love with you."
You froze.
Glossy eyes wide with surprise, your lips parted and stained blue still, shoulders tense.
He turned back to the closet, snagging the box of the shelf and tossing it on the bed, shuffling through loose photos and little gifts you'd given him through the years he couldn't bear to break or lose until he found the velvet box at the bottom.
Getting down on one knee was the second-easiest decision he ever made in his life. The first was choosing you to begin with.
"Sugu," Your voice quivered, breath hitching in your throat.
"I bought this for you three years ago," He admitted, dark eyes piercing through to you, studying the way your face seemed to glow from the light of the lamp. And sure, of all the ways he'd imagined this moment going, he never once pictured it like this. But that didn't matter. Because this was real. Raw. "I love you. I did then, and I do now, and if you ask me again in fifteen years, I'm sure I will then too."
He popped the ring box open, and he didn't think your mouth could drop open any more but it did, your cute little gasp making his pulse thrum louder in his ears while your attention flickered back-and-forth between his sharp stare and the ring he hoped you'd accept.
"Marry me."
It wasn't quite a question, or a plea. An open statement of affection, a quiet promise of a lifetime of it.
You swallowed, barely bobbing your head up and down in a nod at first, a slow smile taking shape on your lips like you still couldn't believe it.
"O-okay," You stammered, an airy laugh slipping out while you tried to blink away the disbelief. "I-"
He grabbed your left hand where it was still hanging by your side, plucking the ring out of the box and slipping it on your finger, swiveling it a little around the knuckle for it to sit snugly at the base.
"You're really serious? No take backs, okay?" You murmured, holding your hand up to admire the way it glittered even in the low light while he laughed. You tugged him up to his feet by his hand, pressing yourself against his chest and glancing up at him, a hint of something unsure still lingering in the lines of your face. "You're mine."
That was supposed to be his line.
Then. Now. Always.
"We can go sign the paperwork Monday if you want, or have a wedding, before or after the baby-"
"I don't care how we do it," You interrupted him this time, reaching up to cup his cheek. The gentle touch, your soft fingertips, the adoration in your eyes when you got up on your tiptoes to plant a small kiss on the corner of his mouth.
"I always kinda wanted to see you in a white dress," He chuckled, grabbing your chin between his fingers to give you a proper kiss back, sucking on your lower lip, the taste of blue raspberry still on your tongue.
"Yeah? Seven months pregnant?" You laughed back when you broke away for a breath.
"You seriously have no idea what you do to me," He breathlessly murmured into your skin.
"You could show me," You tilted your head to the side, but your eyes flickered back to the ring on your finger, the proof of it already there.
"Tease," He muttered as his lips ghosted over your cheek, pulling you back over to the edge of the mattress. He used his free hand to tug the box back down to the floor, nudging it away with his foot.
Half past four in the morning and he was taking his fiancèe to bed instead of his girlfriend.
He made sure you were comfortable first, readjusting you until the pillows were nestled under your head, ignoring your giggles while he moved the blankets aside and climbed up after you, hooking a leg over his shoulder after he peeled your underwear down your thighs.
"I was kidding," You laughed while he licked a long stripe up the inside of your thigh, the sound turning into a pretty gasp when he dipped his tongue inside.
"I wasn't," His voice was muffled into your skin, fingers dipping against the soft flesh on your thigh and hip as he held on tighter, his tongue slipping inside deeper, dragging the muscle along the inside of your walls.
A taste he missed, too long since you last let him try it.
Your fingers tangled into his hair, moaning as he practiced steady patterns, pulling him closer into your heat while he used your hips like handlebars to refuse to let you squirm away from him again.
You still tried, writhing under the weight of his palms, although he knew his clipped nails wouldn't leave a mark.
"Oh," You squeaked, a cute strangled noise escaping when he dragged his tongue out and ran it over your clit, tracing small shapes with the tip of it.
"Better get used to being mine, baby," He hummed, peeking up to watch the way you still shivered at the sound of his voice, how you were finally about to be his in every sense of the word.
"I always was," Your lighthearted laugh cut off by another lewd moan, your hips still trying to arch up.
Planting open-mouthed kisses along your swollen bud while your fingers tugged at his scalp, your gasps of his name cut through the quiet.
Your thigh still up on his shoulder to give him easier access, the muscles pulling tense under his grip and the way your breath had started to stutter let him know you were close before you managed to barely stammer it out.
"Please, please, please."
Your legs were trembling, soft whimpers that were almost incoherent imprinting themselves in his memory while you unraveled underneath him, his tongue cleaning you up like it hadn't caused it. Teasing you before you managed to piece yourself back together, sucking softly on your oversensitive bundle of nerves just for you to let out a whine of his name.
"Tired, baby?" He couldn't help his smirk, leaving a kiss on the inside of your thigh before climbing off the bed to snag you a fresh pair of underwear from the dresser, slipping it up your legs for you so didn't have to do the awkward shuffle of getting it back on.
"Maybe," You admitted, rubbing your eyes as you patted the spot next to you for him to lay. "I am growing your baby."
He smiled.
"We can sleep in, alright?" He could feel his own eyes crinkle, flicking the light off on the lamp, the faint moonlight cutting the dark of the room. He pulled the covers up as he got in his side of the bed, readjusting until your head was resting on his chest.
Suguru usually got up before you, made breakfast and brewed the coffee and started the laundry, but tomorrow (or today, technically)? He would spend the sunrise holding you close and wait for you to wake up to take you out for brunch or lunch or whatever you wanted.
"Hey, Suguru?" You murmured, stifling a yawn as you peeked up at him through heavy lidded eyes.
"Mhm?" He stroked your hair back, admiring his future wife snuggled up in his arms.
"I love you."
want more dilf!Suguru with his post-partum wife? here!
tw: psuedocest, cunnilingus, dick grayson being a freak but what else is new
dick grayson with a big brother kink dick grayson with a big brother kink dick grayson with a big brother kink
it's just... can you blame him? You're so cute and sweet and gentle, always clinging to bruce's side whenever he's around. You took it hard when they first brought you home. Hell, he can't blame you, getting ripped from your old life and thrown into their world with only "it's for your own good" as an explanation couldn't have been easy. He's sure living at the manor hasn't helped with the transition either. He loves bruce, but he knows how he is. Too cold, too intense for someone like you. You need someone gentle, someone who makes you feel safe and comfortable. You need a big brother looking out for you.
Thankfully for you, B has always trusted him with the things that are most important. So on the nights when alfred is busy and bruce is called away on business, he gets to play babysitter.
he's not supposed to, but he likes to take you outside when he has you. bruce sees it as a flight risk, but he sees it as an opportunity to make his baby sister happy and to hold your hand without you crying. he dresses you up in the little black dress that bruce puts you in when he brings you galas, the one that shows off your curves and drives him nuts, and takes you to dinner somewhere nice. he'll be the perfect gentleman the whole time, opening the door for you, pulling out your chair, holding your hand under the table and looking at you all starry-eyed. You don't eat much, it's hard not to feel sick to your stomach when he pushes your hair behind your ear and says "aren't I lucky that my baby sister is the prettiest girl in gotham?"
On your way out, he'll steal a kiss from you when you're caught off guard. The host asks how long you've been together and dick smiles all too wide when he replies, "Oh, she's my sister."
When you get home he'll insist on "helping you get ready for bed." which really just means he wants to undress you. When you whine about how you can undress yourself, he'll just chuckle and tell you to let your big brother take care of you. he unzips your dress gently, then unclips your bra. You can feel his bulge pressing into your ass as he palms your bare tits, mumbling something about how perfect you are. He lets you take off your own panties after you almost start crying, but he pockets them as soon as they're off and doesn't bother giving you any new ones to replace them. He doesn't give you any new clothes, in fact. Instead, he starts taking off his own and dropping them into the pile with your own. When he notices the fear spread across your face all he has to offer you is an easy grin and an affirmation that it's fine to be naked together. You're siblings.
He drags you off to watch a movie, even lets you choose which one you watch. It doesn't matter too much, though, because it's hard to focus on anything when his hard cock is pressing against your leg. About halfway through the movie Dick moves between your legs, shushing you as you cry and squirm. "M' sorry honey, I just can't help myself." he'll groan, stroking himself as he pushes your thighs apart, hypnotized by the way you flutter when he spreads your lips, "Just trust your big brother, yeah? I know whats good for you. Promise I'll make you feel nice."
You lose count of how many times you cum, his tongue flicking and suckling at your clit like he'll die without it. After your second or third orgasm dick looks up at you, flushed and drunk on your juices with the widest smile you've ever seen. "Y'know," he mumbles, in between open mouthed kisses to your clit, "I love my brothers..." he licks a long, languid stripe up your slit, "but i always really wanted a little sister..."
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | one shot/drabble
you have something that belongs to simon. something he wants back.
cw: intoxication, dub-con to non-con, force masc, afab and fem presenting reader, misgendering
It's been three years since Simon watched Johnny's body crumble to the ground—brains scattered on cement, blood soaking into stone, blue eyes rolling behind eyelids he'll never watch flutter again—so he's a bit taken aback when he sees him at the pub.
He's younger. Stubble hardly even noticeable along his jaw and lips, skin softer with less worry lines. That scar that used to bisect his eyebrow is even gone. Smoothed out. Fully covered and wrinkling as he smiles. It's so tangible Simon can almost smell him. Sour gun powder coated in the mint gum he always chewed on deployments. A tick. Not a nervous one. Johnny was always thrumming with life, with the need for movement, a desire to do something with his hands.
Then, you look over your shoulder at him.
You slap your wallet shut, smothering the image of Johnny behind faux patterned leather before shoving it into your pocket. The glare on your face is challenging. A silent spitting at his feet as you look him up and down, drinking in the height and broadness of him like the mere size of him is a challenge. A threat.
"Can I help you?" Short. Cutting. You don't trust him, and he doesn't blame you. A stranger in a pub with his chest nearly up against your back as you try to order a drink after a long week of work.
"Maybe."
Your distaste at his lack of tactfulness screws the features on your face until your fingers are curling. Simon's not sure why, but he wouldn't mind the taste of your knuckles against his cheek, bone pushing flesh into his teeth until the blood floods his mouth to wash down the aftertaste of you.
"How do you know 'im?" Simon questions, chin tilting up as his words die down.
"The fuck are you talking about?" you bite.
"Johnny. MacTavish."
Recognition freezes over your features until your fingers are tracing over the thickness in your pocket where his old teammate (No, something more, someone more. An importance he doesn't know how to utter but something that burns through him all the same) resides like an urn upon a mantle.
"Do you know him?" You answer his question with another one. Simon refuses to speak until you're breaking, eyes falling to the floor, teeth catching between your lips. "He was my donor."
Your response only stirs up more confusion in Simon's mind. "Donor?"
"Yeah, like…" You awkwardly glance around the area before your fingers move up to the collar of your shirt and then gently pull down. You're not showing much that he cares to look at, except the scar. It's long. Vanishing beyond where you refuse to show, it spans the length of your sternum. A straight line, still puffy. Still healing. "My heart donor."
Everything makes sense. Why he's drawn to you. Why you have a picture of Johnny in your wallet. It's so fitting of him to give up the best parts of himself. That man gave you a gilded heart so you could continue to draw breath all while his stopped deep in that tunnel, too far from the Scottish highlands he always spoke so fondly of. Now, his Johnny resides within you—so deep he's not sure he can dig him out.
"Let me buy you a drink," Simon offers, fingers twitching. "I can tell you everythin' you wanna know 'bout 'im."
You fold easy. Tissue paper caught in the rain, dissolving at the mere touch of his fingers against your arm, leading you towards a private booth once you've both got a proper pint in your hands. He tells you everything. The pristine details of it, anyway.
Johnny's a hero. A good man. Died fighting for what he believed in, and apparently continued to save lives even after his death. You got to taste the fruit of his labor. You taste it every day in the blood running through your veins, pooling on your tongue, warm and tangy. Simon wonders, if he shoved his mouth onto yours, would he be able to taste him? The essence of the man he loved to get lost in?
A few more pints later, and you share your side of the story. It was a birth defect that got you like this. Sick your whole childhood, it wasn't caught until it was nearly too late for you. Hospital stays, missed school days, the loss of friendships and events that should have been special but were tainted by medication and needles. Johnny's heart isn't your first. In fact, it's your third. Complication after complication—a body that rejects all the help that's shoved inside of it.
"It's been almost three years since the transplant, and I've never felt better," you admit, speech slurred, eyes shining with the tears you've been fighting back the whole conversation. "I've tried to meet his family, but either he doesn't have any, or they want nothing to do with me. I guess I can't blame them. I get to live because he died. How fucked is that?" You wash a sniffle down with a gulp of beer before you wipe your mouth. "You don't know how nice it is to meet you, Simon. I can't thank you enough for this. For letting me know more about Johnny."
He likes the way you say his name. He likes how it sounds like him saying it. Cotton swirls in Simon's head as heat flushes throughout his body, superheating his loins until his hips are rolling in his seat.
If you note the change in his demeanor, you don't say anything. Your ignorance only makes the space in his pants tighter.
"How 'bout we take this back to my place, yeah?" Simon prompts. He would shove his fingers in your mouth at the way you nod at him—glassy-eyed and slow—if there weren't so many people around. "Good boy."
It's easy getting you on his bed. Your clothes slide off of your body as if the very weaving of the fabric comes undone at the hungry prodding of his fingers. When you're undressed, he can't help but trace the path along your sternum to feel the raised skin that slices through you. An old war wound. A roughness he recognizes like stubble on the inside of his neck. Johnny's heart jumps out at him like he's kissing him. Trying to break free. Trying to return to where he should be.
Simon stares down his nose at you while he unfastens his trousers, pulling himself free, hot and eager. His thighs knock against the edge of the mattress as he beckons you forward with two fingers. "C'mon, you know what you gotta do. 'Nless you want it to tear."
He can see how your head spins in the way your eyes are unable to lock onto one place for longer than half a second, and it only worsens as you crawl towards him. Your mouth is on him quick. Tongue lapping along the underside of his cock as you bob your head and hum at the sourness of his skin.
If he closes his eyes and leans his head back, Simon can almost pretend your mouth is Johnny's. You're a bit softer around the edges than he was, and he wishes you'd use more teeth, but the fantasy alone is enough to get the tension building in his abdomen as his thighs begin to shake. It's been a long time. Too long. He feels the end arriving before he's even had the time to enjoy this.
Rigid fingers curl into the back of your neck as Simon pulls out of your mouth. You cough and spit drips down your chin as you stare up at him, trying to catch your breath. A smile breaks over your lips as his fingers gather the mess before he's digging in the back of your throat. He goes until you choke. Until you gag. He yanks his fingers out with a content chuckle.
"Atta boy."
Your brows draw together. "I'm not a-"
Your protest is silenced with his cock in your mouth again. This time, he doesn't allow you to bob your head, but rather forces himself until he's reaching the back of your throat and then holds himself there as his still wet hand reaches for your rump. You try to squeal as his fingers prod the tight ring of your ass. There's little give to you, but Simon's always been good with breaking things in.
"Not a what now?" Simon asks facetiously as he manages to stretch you out on one, lonely finger. "Not a boy? Got a boy's heart in ya, yeah? My boy's heart. I already know everythin' 'bout ya, handsome."
It's easy to spin you around when you're already intoxicated. Body stumbling, crumpling on your stomach, hands desperately attempting to claw at your mouth as you suck in as much air as your lungs will allow. Simon's weight dips down on either side of you once he's managed to shuck his trousers off. Hairy thighs pressing your own together as he paws at your ass until your hole is exposed enough for him to butt up against. There's no amount of wiggling that you can do that will knock him off course.
"W-Wait, not there, please," you beg. You squeeze so tight around him that it's difficult for Simon to get the head in. He grunts as he pushes through despite your whimpering. "I can't, not there."
"Just shut up 'n let me have this, yeah?" Simon grunts, now halfway in. "I'll give your cock all the attention it wants afterwards."
Your moans are animalistic. Grunting, teeth biting into the bedding, fingers curling until your nails pierce flesh—primal. Just like him. As Simon begins to piston into you, it's all he can imagine. Him. His boy. His Johnny.
"Missed you so fuckin' much," he hisses through his teeth, fingers curling deep enough into your hips to dent the bone. "What'd I always tell ya, huh? Gonna find ya in every life. Not gettin' away from me."
Simon comes without warning. It shudders through your body until he's spilling into you with no care for the weak cries that wet your nose. He can hardly keep himself up, and when you collapse underneath the weight of him, he follows not too far after you. Body curling over yours, head resting between your scapulas as he tries to catch his breath. Dull teeth nip at you in places you can't reach yourself, but you don't say anything as he continues to mutter words you wish you could cut from his vocabulary.
My boy, good boy, did so well. Don't worry, I found ya, here to take care of ya again. Can't do much without me, huh?
The two of you lie there long enough for your cries to die down as you quietly mourn the ache of your body instead. Content with the silence, Simon stays where he is, ear pressed against your body, listening to each heartbeat reverberate through you.
With each lub-dub, lub-dub that hits the side of his face, he can only hear:
Your AK knight Jason has given me the idea of a pirate Jason.
Like I'm imagining him being on some voyage to go against Bruce and finding a siren or mermaid who's naive compared to her sisters, never had to meet the cruelty of mankind and is therefore just utterly fascinated by humans?
And Jason who grows obsessed with the innocence of that creature and can't help but want to keep her all for himself
And you know he has those WE trade routes memorized. This deviated a lot from what you were describing, but I can't resist beastly mermaids.
If given the choice of seducing a man off his boat, or pursuing one already in the water, it's wiser to go for the one whose already lost his footing. Anyhow, he'd be better seasoned by the brine than the other. So it was only natural that you'd stick close to a ship that habitually dumped dead and doomed men into the waters. Your pod doesn't see much wisdom in it. Some call it lazy. Others say it's foolish, to get so close to the large vessels. The sides were too high to climb, and the men were never out alone. Smarter sea maidens than you had been speared for testing their luck. You never pay them much mind.
Jason notices you pretty quickly. You are not subtle, bobbing expectantly in the waves every time you hear clashing blades. Not to mention, you're a very messy eater. His crew has been getting anxious about the chewed up pieces you leave behind. There was talk about trying to shoot you, or ward you off, but Jason shut that down quickly. He knows he shouldn't let a predator like you stay so close. He really shouldn't be throwing the occasional bit of salt pork overboard when the nights have been too peaceful. He can't help it; something in him melts when he catches those big, hungry curious eyes watching from below.
He notices when you start to stray more. It agitates him more than it should. What could you be looking for? It's not like you had any shortage of food here. The thought of you disappearing makes him sick.
Catching you is almost laughably easy. With a bit of chum and a large fisherman's net, he has you hoisted up to the deck by morning's end. You had gotten careless with all those easy kills. You're furious, and ashamed, and terrified as you're pulled further from your water. They all shrink away, out of reach as you thrash in your bindings. All but one.
Like every man before, he is enraptured by you. But he does not come closer. You soften your gaze, hiding your teeth, but he ignores your beckoning. He takes the ends of the net and drags you, shrieking, down into the hull.
You occupy a cell in the brig, with nothing but the dead men fed to you, and the occaisonal bucket of seawater thrown over you for comfort. The man, the brave one, visits every night. He makes his quiet, ugly mouth sounds at you, and brings you strange things. You try to get him within reach, but he never bites. So you remain in that empty, dark, stinking shell, mauling anything that strays too close. The boards beneath you are ever-soaked red from your meals, and the men quietly complain of the blood stench every time they venture below.
Alternatively, we could have Captain Todd rescue a little castaway.
You had bought passage on a merchant ship, hoping to start a new life. You worried about the uptick in attacks on shipping vessels, but the risk isn't optional. You are met on the water not with a bloody naval battle, but a terrible storm. The ship is rent asunder, and you are cast into the dark waters. Jason fishes you out of the flotsam, as his men salvage what they can. You're just as grateful as you are terrified.
He keeps you in his cabin, safely away from his men. In spite of your expectations, he never lays an untoward hand on you. It's strange. You try to be good company, making conversation over meals, and even playing cards when you can persuade him. You got him to laugh, once. He isn't laughing when he tells you they were heading to port. He doesn't share your excitement, but the man rarely smiled anyway. He says nothing as you thank him profusely for bringing you safely to shore. He treats you to a final meal together, even pouring you a small glass of brandy to celebrate. You find it strange he didn't pour one for himself.
The deck is quiet, when you wake the next day. You slept into the afternoon, judging by the high sun shining through the window. The ship's movement is uncharacteristically gentle, and you realize you must be at the docks. You leap from the cot, racing forth so you can finally touch dry land.
The door doesn't open. It's locked. You call for help, but no one comes. You pound on the door. Hours pass, and you keep shouting. There must be some terrible mistake. You hear movement again. The sailors have returned, loading fresh supplies into the cargo. You renew your efforts to catch their attention, shouting, then screaming, then throwing yourself at the door.
The captain doesn't return until nightfall. You are slumped in the corner, bruised, with tears streaked down your face. He doesn't look surprised or angry with you. Making no effort to explain, the man simply scoops you up, and carries you back to the cot.
Ryland Grace/Reader | Teacher!Ryland x Teacher!Reader | Explicit, MDNI | ~16k words
Tags: brat taming, soft dom ryland grace, oblivious ryland grace, slow burn, mutual pining, eight months of sexual tension, teachers au, pre-hail mary, co-workers to lovers, banter, humor, praise kink, dirty talk, edging, oral sex, biting, marking, the wallet condom is the entire fic, brenda was in the front row
Continued from [Part 1] - do read that first.
The weekend is a long time, and you have arrived at Monday with a plan. The plan lasts forty minutes.
[ cross posted on Ao3 ] [ fic masterlist here ]
The weekend is a long time.
The weekend is a thing that has, historically, taken approximately forty-eight hours, and the weekend you have just been through took, conservatively, six weeks. You spent it doing things. You went to the grocery store. You did laundry. You graded a stack of redox quizzes and you made notes for next week's lesson and you did not think about Ryland Grace at all, except for the fourteen hours of Saturday and the eleven hours of Sunday during which you thought about almost nothing else.
You replayed the meeting. You replayed it the way he must have replayed eight months in one night, you suspect, and yours took two days. You replayed the word lazy. You replayed the careful neutral face. You replayed him walking out without looking at you, and the small cold rush of oh, no, and you replayed it from every angle, and at no point did any of the angles get any better.
You have arrived at Monday with a plan.
The plan is: act normal. The plan is: do not give him anything. The plan is: he has made his point, and if you behave for a week he will go back to being the slightly flustered man in a cardigan who you used to be able to ruin with eye contact, and the equilibrium will be restored, and you will have learned a valuable lesson about hubris.
You are very committed to the plan. You believe in the plan. The plan is going to work.
The plan lasts forty minutes.
—
He comes into your classroom at 8:20.
You are at the lab benches, setting up for second period, which is a titration unit and which therefore requires you to be carrying a bottle of sodium hydroxide across the room when he opens the door. You do not drop the bottle. You consider it. You do not.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning."
He is wearing the cardigan. He is wearing, under the cardigan, a t-shirt you cannot fully see, and he has a coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other and he is standing in your doorway like he belongs there, which, technically, he does, because he is a colleague, and colleagues come into colleagues' classrooms, and you have to keep telling yourself this because your body is reacting to him being in here like he has come in to commit a crime.
"You got a second?"
"I'm setting up."
"I can see that. You got a second."
"Grace."
"Two seconds."
You put the sodium hydroxide down. Carefully. With both hands. He waits.
"What."
He holds up the folder. "Curriculum thing. Alvarez wants it by Wednesday. Thought you might have notes."
"You could have emailed."
"I could have."
He has not moved from the doorway. He is still holding the coffee. He is looking at you with the very mild, very patient, very neutral expression of a man delivering an administrative update, except that his eyes have not left your face since he came in, and a man delivering an administrative update would have looked at the folder at least once.
"Was there something else," you say.
"You said my teaching was lazy."
"Grace."
"I just want to make sure I understood what you meant."
"I was making a point."
"In a meeting."
"Yes."
"In front of the department."
"Yes, Grace, that is generally where meetings happen."
"Mm."
He takes a sip of his coffee. He does not look away. You have, in the last forty seconds, lost approximately three layers of skin and you are trying very hard not to show it.
"Do you still think it's lazy."
"I-"
"Because I went home and looked at the unit and I think you might be right."
"What."
"I think you might be right. I'm changing the unit. I'm doing the yeast thing."
"Grace."
"I just wanted to say that. In person. Since you said it in person."
He is, you realise, not letting you off the hook. He has come in here at 8:20 on a Monday morning to agree with you, and he has done it with the polite, neutral, conscientious face of a man closing a loop, and you cannot tell if you are being thanked or being punished or both, and the both is, you suspect, the answer.
"Okay," you say.
"Okay."
"Was there anything else."
"No."
"Okay."
He nods. He does not leave. He takes another sip of his coffee. He looks, very briefly and very deliberately, at the lab bench where you are standing, and then back at your face. He is, you realise, doing a thing. He is doing a thing that is so subtle that if you described it to anyone they would say you were imagining it, and if you described it to him he would say what thing, and you would have nothing to point at, because the thing is not a thing, the thing is a series of very small choices that add up to him standing in your classroom drinking coffee and looking at you and not leaving.
He is doing exactly what you used to do to him.
"You should go to your classroom," you say.
"Probably."
"First period's about to start."
"Mm."
"Stop."
"Stop what."
"Stop saying mm."
"You say mm."
"That's different."
"How."
You don't have an answer to how. You stand there with your mouth slightly open, and he watches you not answer, and the corner of his mouth does the millimetre thing, and he takes another sip of his coffee.
"Have a good first period," he says.
He turns. He goes. He pulls the door closed behind him with the quiet, considerate click of a man who has just left you in a chemistry lab holding nothing and staring at nothing and having to teach sixteen-year-olds about titration in eighteen minutes.
You sit down on the lab stool.
You sit down on the lab stool and you put your face in your hands and you laugh, which is the wrong reaction, which is the reaction of a person whose brain has fully come off the rails, and you laugh for approximately fifteen seconds and then you sit up and you finish setting up the titration and you do not, for the rest of the morning, allow yourself to think his name.
—
You make it until last period.
Last period is your prep. Last period he also has prep on Mondays, which is a piece of information you have, regrettably, retained, and which you are trying very hard to pretend you do not have. You stay in your classroom. You grade. You do not go to the staff room. You do not walk past his classroom. You do excellent, focused work for forty-five minutes and you feel virtuous and you feel mature and you feel like a person who has, finally, gotten a grip.
At 2:40 he knocks on your door.
You look up. He is in the doorway again, except this time he doesn't have a coffee, and he doesn't have a folder, and he doesn't have a reason. He is just there. He is leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets and he is looking at you with the same mild, neutral expression he had this morning, and you realise, with a kind of slow-motion clarity, that you are not going to make it through the rest of this conversation upright.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi."
"Are you busy."
"Yes."
"What are you doing."
"Grading."
"Grading what."
"Grace."
"I'm just asking."
"You're not just asking."
He smiles. Full smile this time. The one that crinkles his eyes.
"I'm just asking," he says again, gentler.
He comes into the room. He closes the door behind him. He walks over to your desk. He does not sit down in the student chair across from you. He sits on the edge of your desk, sideways, with one foot on the floor and one leg bent, and he looks down at you.
The teacher voice is bad. This is worse. This is the teacher voice with proximity.
"So," he says.
"So."
"You've been weird since the meeting."
"I've been weird."
"Mm-hm."
"You've been weird."
"Have I."
"Yes."
"How."
"Grace."
"How."
You stare at him. He waits. He is very, very good at waiting. You suspect, with a flash of belated insight, that he has been good at waiting this entire time and you simply never made him do it.
"You're being mean," you say.
"I'm being attentive."
"It's the same thing."
"It's really not."
He's looking down at you. His glasses are sliding down his nose, the way they always do, and this time he pushes them up himself, with one finger, slowly, and you watch him do it and you understand that he has done it slowly on purpose, and you understand that he has been waiting to do that since Tuesday in the supply closet, and you understand that you are, possibly, going to die in this chair.
He looks at you for a long second. The mild face does not change. His foot, the one on the floor, taps once against the leg of your desk.
"Stand up," he says.
It is a small instruction. It is delivered at low volume. It is delivered in the voice he uses on a student he wants to give a job to, come up to the board, hand out the worksheets, get the door for me, the easy reasonable teacher voice that you have heard him use a thousand times to a thousand sixteen-year-olds and that you have, you realise in real time, never had pointed at you.
You do not stand up.
You sit in your chair and you look up at him from your chair and you feel, very clearly, the moment he registers that you are not standing up, and the moment passes, and he is still looking at you, and he is waiting.
You should stand up.
You should stand up because standing up is the small reasonable thing he has asked for, and because complying with the small reasonable thing is the move that lets you keep your dignity, and because every cell in your body is currently telling you that not complying will be a catastrophe.
You open your mouth. You say it before your brain catches your mouth.
"Make me."
The room goes quiet.
It goes quiet in the way that a room goes quiet when you have just dropped a glass and have not yet heard it hit the floor. There is a one-second window in which you could take it back. You watch the window open and you watch the window close and you do not take it back, because the part of you that said it is the same part of you that said lazy, and that part of you is, evidently, in charge of the steering wheel and committed to driving off the cliff.
He does not move for a beat. He does not move for two.
Then, slowly, he gets off the desk.
He does not come around to your side of the desk. He does not reach for you. He does not touch you. He just stands up, at his full height, two feet from your chair, with his hands at his sides, and he is suddenly much taller than he is when he is sitting on furniture, and the height of him is taking up more of the room than it has any right to.
You stand up.
You stand up without deciding to. Your body has, ahead of your brain, calculated that remaining seated while he is standing over you like that is not a survivable position, and it has corrected for the imbalance, and you are now on your feet and six inches from him and you have to tip your chin up to keep the eye contact.
He has not done anything. He has not made you. You have made yourself. He is watching you have done it, and the corner of his mouth is doing the millimetre thing, and the millimetre thing right now is the worst thing you have ever seen on anyone's face.
"Grace."
"Don't."
"Don't what."
"Don't talk."
"I-"
"You don't get to say make me in this room, do you understand. Not here. Not at school. I cannot do anything about make me in this room, and you said it anyway, and I want you to think about that for a second."
You think about it for a second.
You think about it for several seconds. He is watching you think about it. The patient teacher mask has burned through and what is underneath is the same man, but with a finger of frustration laid quietly along the jawline of it, and the frustration is so much hotter than the patience was that you cannot, immediately, do anything except stand there and absorb it.
"Get your bag," he says.
"Grace, I-"
"Get your bag."
"I-"
"Get your bag."
You get your bag.
You get your bag without saying another word, because there is, you have correctly intuited, no word available to you that will not make this worse. He waits by the door. He does not look at you while you pack up. When you are done he opens the door and he holds it open and you walk through it, and he follows you out, and he pulls the door closed behind him with the same quiet considerate click as this morning, and the considerate click, given what is happening underneath everything, is the most threatening sound you have ever heard.
In the hallway he walks slightly behind you. Not close. Not far. Close enough that you can feel him there. You do not turn around. You do not speak. You walk through the hall and out into the parking lot and the late-afternoon air hits you and you take a breath and you keep walking.
"Did you drive," he says.
"Yes."
"Good. I biked."
"You-"
"Yeah. So you're driving."
You stop walking. You turn to look at him. He has stopped one step behind you and he is, in the late afternoon light, calmly waiting for you to process the logistics of the situation he has just described, which are: you are going to drive him to your apartment, in your car, with him in your passenger seat, for fifteen minutes, in silence, having just said make me to him in your own classroom.
"My bike's locked up at the rack," he says, helpfully. "It'll be fine overnight."
"Overnight?"
"Mm."
"Grace, you biked?"
"I bike every day."
"It's October."
"I have a coat."
You stare at him. He stares back. He is not, you realise, ever going to defend the bike. The bike is a fact of his life, like his glasses or his terrible t-shirts, and he has, in the middle of this, casually mentioned it the way one might mention having brought a packed lunch.
"Get in the car," you say.
"Mm."
"Get in the car, Grace, I swear to-"
"Easy."
He says easy in the same mild teacher voice he said stand up in. You close your mouth. You get in the car. He walks around to the passenger side. He gets in. He puts his bag on the floor between his feet. He buckles his seatbelt. He folds his hands in his lap.
He looks at you.
"You can start driving," he says.
You drive.
You drive out of the lot and you take a left at the light and you do not look at him, because you cannot afford to look at him. You can feel him in your peripheral vision. He is just sitting there. He is sitting in your passenger seat with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes, you can feel, on the side of your face, and he is not saying anything, and the not-saying-anything is filling the car like water.
You make it three minutes before you have to speak.
"You're being weird."
"Mm."
"You're being weird on purpose."
"Mm."
"Grace."
"Eyes on the road."
You snap your eyes back to the road. You did not realise you had taken them off the road. You had, at some point in the last sentence, turned to look at him, and you had not noticed yourself doing it, and he had noticed, and he had, very calmly, redirected you.
The teacher voice is going to kill you in this car.
You make it another four minutes. You make it through two more lights and one merge and a stretch of road where nothing happens. You can hear him breathing. You can hear, you are fairly sure, the seconds of your life ticking away. At one point, at a red light, he reaches over and adjusts the air vent on his side of the dashboard, casually, the way a man might in any car he was riding in, and the casualness of it is the most intimate thing he has ever done.
You make a small sound.
"What," he says.
"Nothing."
"Mm."
"Stop mming."
"No."
The light goes green. You drive. You make it another two minutes. You think, at minute eleven, I could just keep driving. I could keep driving past my apartment and just keep going and we could be in Vermont by midnight.
"You're not going to Vermont," he says, conversationally, like he can hear it.
"What."
"You're doing the face. The face you do when you're considering an exit strategy. You're not going to Vermont."
"How did you-"
"I've been watching your face for eight months, sweetheart, I know what it does."
You almost run a stop sign. You catch yourself. You brake hard. He puts one hand, casually, on the dashboard to steady himself, and does not comment.
"Don't call me that in the car," you say, through your teeth.
"Mm."
"Grace"
"You're going to miss your turn."
You make the turn. You make the turn and you pull into your lot and you park and you sit there for one second with both hands on the wheel and you think, very clearly: I am not going to survive this afternoon.
You get out of the car. He gets out of the car. He walks around to your side and he stands there, calmly, waiting for you, and you lock the car and you walk to your building and he walks one step behind you and you can feel him there and you fumble the key in the lock once, twice, and you get the door open on the third try, and he reaches over your shoulder and pushes it the rest of the way open for you, polite, and the politeness of it, given everything, is what nearly takes you down at the threshold.
You walk in.
He follows you.
He closes the door.
You turn around to face him.
You have, on the drive, prepared a speech. The speech was supposed to land you back on level ground. The speech contained the deli voice and a wry observation about his pacing and a small joke about Vermont, and you had it organised by the time you parked, and you were going to deliver it the moment the door closed, and you were going to win.
You open your mouth.
He kisses you.
He kisses you before you can get the first word out, and the kiss is not a patient, tangential, slow thing. The kiss is a man whose composure has been scratched off by the last forty minutes of you and who is, finally, allowed to use his hands. One hand is in your hair. One hand is at the small of your back. He has pulled you in hard against him and your bag has dropped somewhere and the wall is at your shoulder blades and his mouth is on yours and you understand, in a single small bright pulse of clarity, that you have miscalculated.
You go up on your toes into it because your body has made an executive decision without consulting you.
You get your hands in his hair.
You get your hands in his hair and you pull, because you cannot help yourself, because the bratting is autonomic at this point, because the part of you that has been driving all afternoon does not know how to stop driving even when the road has ended. You pull and he makes a small sound against your mouth, almost amused, and you take the amused noise personally, and you bite his bottom lip.
You bite it on purpose. You bite it harder than you mean to. You feel his lip catch between your teeth and you hear, very distinctly, the sound he makes, and the sound is not amused anymore.
He pulls back.
Not far. Just enough to look at you. His mouth is wet. There is a red mark on his bottom lip where your teeth were. His glasses are crooked. His face is doing something that has nothing to do with patience and nothing to do with mildness and nothing to do with any of the registers he has been using all day, and you stare at him and you understand, with a small descending lurch, that you have snapped him.
He does not move for a second.
Then he says, very quietly: "Okay."
A beat.
"Okay. You want to do it like that."
It is not a question. You do not answer it. You could not answer it. Your mouth has gone dry and your knees are doing something concerning and you are pressed against your hallway wall with a man you have spent eight months teasing and you have just bitten him, and he is looking at you like he is, finally, going to do something about it.
He turns you around.
He turns you around with one hand on your shoulder, not rough, just decisive, and you are now facing the wall and his hand is on the back of your neck, light, not pressing, just there, and his other hand is at your hip, and his mouth is at your ear.
"You are going to listen to me," he says, into your ear. Soft. Almost gentle. "I am going to tell you what is about to happen. And you are going to be quiet and let me tell you. Can you do that."
"I-"
"Words."
"Yes."
"Yes what."
"Yes, I can do that."
"Good."
The good goes all the way down your spine. You make a sound. He hears it. He does not comment on it. The hand at the back of your neck stays where it is.
"I am going to take you to your bedroom," he says, into your ear. "And I am going to take a great deal of time. And every time you try to rush me, I am going to stop. And every time you try to bite me again, I am going to stop. And every time you say something cute, I am going to stop. Three strikes, sweetheart, and I leave you on that bed and I go home. Do you understand me."
"Yes."
"Yes what."
"Yes Grace."
He pauses. The hand at your neck flexes, once, very slightly.
"Try again."
You stare at the wall in front of you. You can feel his breath at the side of your head and his hand at the back of your neck and your face is hot and you are, suddenly, not sure what he is asking for.
He waits.
He waits long enough that you have to think it through, and then you understand, and your stomach does the wrong thing.
"Yes," you say. "Ryland."
"Good girl."
The words do something to you that you will, later, deny. Your knees actually buckle, briefly, and his hand at your hip catches you, and he laughs, very quietly, against the side of your head.
"Down the hall?"
"Yeah."
"Show me."
You show him.
You walk down the hall and he walks behind you with his hand on the small of your back, and the hand is not gripping, it is just present, and the present-ness of it is keeping you upright in a way that is not entirely metaphorical. You get to your bedroom. You stop at the threshold. You do not know what to do.
"Inside," he says, behind you.
You go inside.
He follows you. He closes the door, which is unnecessary because you live alone, and the unnecessariness of the door-closing is a deliberate choice he is making, and you clock it, and your stomach does the wrong thing. He stops in front of you. He looks at you. He pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger, slowly, the way he did at your desk.
"Take your cardigan off," he says.
You take your cardigan off. You drop it on the chair.
"Shoes."
You take your shoes off.
"Good."
You make a sound. You can't help it. He hears it. He does not smile. The not-smiling is somehow worse than the smiling would be. You are standing in front of him in your skirt and your blouse and your bare feet on the cold wood and you are absolutely certain that you have never been looked at like this in your entire life.
"Grace."
"Don't talk."
"I-"
"I said don't talk."
You close your mouth.
He walks around you. Slowly. A full circle. He is looking at you like a thing he is appraising. You stand still because you have been told to stand still and because, frankly, you are not sure your legs could be doing anything else. When he comes back around to your front he stops and he looks at your face and he says, very mildly:
"You bit me."
"I-"
"That was a question."
"It-"
"Was that a question."
"Yes."
"So answer it."
"Yes, I bit you."
"Why."
"I-"
"Yes or no would be easier. Did you bite me because you wanted to, or because you were trying to make me stop being slow."
You stare at him. You understand the trap. The trap is that there is a correct answer and a true answer and they are not the same answer, and he is going to wait until you give him the true one.
"Both," you say.
"Mm."
"Don't mm-"
"I will mm if I want to. Sit on the bed."
You sit on the bed.
He stands in front of you. He is, now, fully out of the patient teacher register and into something else entirely, something where he is paying attention to you with the same focus he uses on a problem he is genuinely interested in, and the focus, which has been pointed everywhere else in his life for forty-eight years, is now pointed at you and you cannot, you find, look away from him.
"Look at me," he says.
You were already looking at him. You keep looking.
"You can be a brat," he says, very calmly. "I figured that out. I figured it out eight months in but I figured it out. You can be a brat with me all you want. You can say make me and you can bite me and you can do whatever you have planned for the next time you want to wind me up, and I am not going to break, sweetheart, I am going to handle it. Do you understand."
"Yes."
"Yes what."
"Yes Ryland."
"Good."
He kneels down in front of you. He is, suddenly, eye level. He puts his hands on your knees. He pushes them apart, slow, and steps in between them, and his hands are on your thighs, sliding up under the skirt, and his mouth is on the inside of your knee, and your hands fly to his hair.
"No," he says, against your knee. "Hands behind you."
You put your hands behind you, on the bed.
"Good."
The good is going to kill you. You are going to die in this bed. Of the goods. You make a small sound and he hears it and he does not comment on it and he moves his mouth higher up your thigh, slowly, and you bite the inside of your own cheek to keep from saying anything.
"You can talk," he says. "I just don't want you to push. Tell me if it's too much. Tell me if you want me to do something else. Just don't tell me to hurry. Got it."
"Got it."
"What was that."
"Got it, Ryland."
He laughs, very softly, against your thigh. He is, you realise, pleased. He is pleased with the Ryland. He is pleased with all of it.
He pushes your skirt up around your hips. His hands hook into your underwear and he pulls it down, slow, and you lift your hips for him without being asked and he says, soft, "good," and you make a sound that is not language. He drops the underwear somewhere on the floor. He puts his hands back on your thighs and he pushes them wider apart and he just looks at you for a second, with his glasses sliding down his nose and his hair already a wreck and the most focused expression you have ever seen on his face.
"Grace."
"Mm."
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what."
"Like you're going to write a paper on it."
He laughs. He laughs against the inside of your thigh and the laugh hits you in three different places and you make a sound and his laugh stops, abruptly, like he has just discovered something.
"Okay," he says, quieter. "Okay. Hold on."
He leans in.
The first thing he does is not what you expect. He does not put his mouth on you. He kisses the inside of your thigh, high up, slow, and then the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and then the other crease, and you are already, embarrassingly, lifting your hips toward his mouth because your body has stopped consulting you on anything, and he places one flat hand on your stomach and presses you back down against the bed.
"Stay."
"Grace-"
"Stay."
You stay.
He puts his mouth on you.
He does it slow, the way he does everything in this bed. The first pass is just his tongue, broad and warm and exploratory, and you make a sound that is not a word and his free hand tightens on your thigh in answer. He does it again. He does it again, slightly different, slightly higher, and you can feel him paying attention, the way he pays attention to a malfunctioning copier, the way he pays attention to a problem he wants to actually solve. He is learning you. He is logging which thing makes you make which sound, and he is going to use it.
"Ryland."
"Mm-hm."
"Ryland, what are you-"
"Shh."
He finds your clit. He finds it and he closes his mouth around it, gently, and he sucks, once, and you make a noise that you would, ordinarily, be deeply embarrassed by, and the noise tells him what he wanted to know, and he does it again.
Your hands fist in the sheets behind you.
He goes slow. He goes unbearably slow. He is not in a hurry. He is, you understand with mounting horror, going to take the entire afternoon to do this if he wants to, and he wants to, and there is nothing you can do about it. He keeps his rhythm steady and patient and exact, and every time your hips try to come up off the bed his hand on your stomach presses you back down, and every time you make a sound he files it, and every time he files a sound he comes back to whatever caused it and does it again.
He slides one hand up the inside of your thigh. He hooks two fingers, gentle, just at your entrance, and pauses there.
"Yes?"
"Yes, Grace, please-"
"Words."
"Yes, you can-"
"Yes what."
"Yes you can, Ryland, please, please-"
"Good."
He pushes the two fingers into you, slow, and your back arches off the bed and his mouth is back on your clit and his fingers are crooked just exactly right inside you, like he has been practicing, like he has been thinking about it, and you are immediately, embarrassingly, very close.
"Ryland, I'm-"
He pulls his mouth off you.
His fingers stay where they are. The fingers stay where they are, slow, lazy, exactly not enough, and his mouth is at your inner thigh again, kissing, like nothing is happening, and you make a sound that is genuinely the most undignified thing your throat has ever produced.
"Grace-"
"Mm-hm."
"What are you doing-"
"Taking my time."
"Ryland, I will-"
"Mm."
He moves his fingers, just a little, just enough to make you make another sound, and then he keeps them still, and your hips try to move and he presses you down with his free hand and you understand, with a kind of furious clarity, that he is going to keep you exactly here, on the edge, for as long as he decides to, and there is nothing you can do.
You drop your head back against the pillow and you make a sound that is half a laugh and half something that is not a laugh.
"You are evil."
"Mm-hm."
"You are literally evil-"
"Ask me for it."
"What?"
"Ask me for it. Properly. Like you mean it."
You lift your head. You look at him. He is between your thighs with his glasses fogged and his fingers inside you and his free hand on your stomach and his mouth wet, and he is waiting, and you understand that he is going to wait as long as it takes, and you understand that you cannot wait as long as it would take, and you give up.
"Please, Ryland."
"Please what."
"Please, your mouth, please will you finish, please-"
"Good."
He puts his mouth back on you.
He does not, this time, go slow. He has gotten his answer, and now he is going to give you what you asked for, and what he gives you is steady and focused and exactly the rhythm he had a minute ago, and his fingers crook inside you on the same beat, and you come apart in under thirty seconds with both hands fisted in the sheets and his name in pieces in your mouth.
You come for what feels like a long time. He works you through it, mouth and fingers, until you are pushing at his shoulder with one hand because you cannot take any more, and only then does he ease off, slow, and rest his forehead against your inner thigh for one second, breathing.
"Ryland."
"Yeah."
"Up."
"Are you asking."
"I am asking, Grace, please, get up here-"
"Mm."
He gets up there.
He pulls his fingers out of you, slow, and you make a small protesting sound that you hate yourself for, and he kisses the inside of your thigh once more, and then he climbs up your body, slow, kissing as he goes. He kisses your hip. He kisses your stomach. He pushes your skirt the rest of the way up and then off you entirely, dropping it over the side of the bed, and he kisses up between your ribs and unbuttons your blouse one button at a time with his teeth around the third button which makes you laugh, and he says "don't make me laugh, I will lose track," and undoes the rest with his hands.
He pushes the blouse open. He looks at you. His face does the thing it does when he is looking at something he genuinely cannot believe is in front of him.
"Hi," he says.
"Ryland, please get off me and take your pants off."
He stops.
He stops kissing your sternum and he lifts his head and he looks at you. The look is not angry. The look is patient and very slightly disappointed, in the way a teacher looks at a student who has just done the exact thing the teacher told them not to do five minutes ago.
He sits up. He sits back on his heels between your knees. He puts his hands on his thighs.
He waits.
"Grace."
"Mm."
"What did I-"
"You're pushing."
"I'm not-"
"Mm."
You stare at him. He stares back. He is, you realise with a kind of dawning horror, not going to do anything else until you correct yourself. He is going to sit there, between your bare knees, with his glasses fogged and his hands on his own thighs, until you ask him properly.
The afterglow of the orgasm he just gave you is still in your bones. Your body is still loose and shaky and grateful, and you have just demanded that he hurry up like none of the last forty minutes happened, and he is now demonstrating, with great patience, that they did.
"Ryland."
"Mm."
"I'm sorry."
"Mm."
"I'm sorry, I-"
"Try again."
"Please. Please, will you take your pants off."
"Better."
He stands up off the bed.
He stands up and he turns away from you, slightly, and he pulls his t-shirt off over his head, slow, and you finally get to see him properly, and what you see is a man who is, by any honest measure, real. Real chest. Real shoulders. Real soft middle where his cardigan has been hiding it. Real chest hair, going grey in places. The most Ryland Grace body you have ever seen, and your mouth goes dry.
"Stop looking," he says, without turning around.
"No."
"That's my line."
"Mm."
He laughs, soft. He unbuckles his belt. He undoes his pants. He pushes them down with his underwear in one movement and steps out of them, and he is, you note with some considerable feeling, very hard, and he turns around and he sees you looking and he does not, for once, tell you to stop.
He leans over and picks his pants up off the floor and fishes in the pocket. He comes back up with his wallet. He opens his wallet. He takes out a condom.
You stare at him.
"You had that in your wallet?"
"Mm-hm."
"Since when."
"Couple weeks."
"Couple weeks?"
"Mm-hm."
"Ryland-"
"You want to keep talking about it, or-"
"Get over here."
He stops.
He stops with the condom in his hand and he looks at you, calmly, and he does not move toward the bed.
"Try again," he says.
"Grace, I-"
"Try again."
"I-"
He waits. He holds the condom. He is standing two feet from your bed, naked, hard, with his glasses sliding down his nose, and he is not coming, and you are spread out on the bed with your blouse hanging open and your underwear gone and your skin still flushed from the orgasm he just gave you, and you have just told a naked man holding a condom to get over here, and you are about to lose your mind.
"Please."
"Please what."
"Please, will you, will you come back to the bed, please, Ryland-"
"Better."
He comes back to the bed.
He rolls the condom on, slow, watching your face the whole time, and you watch his hand on himself and you make a sound and he hears it and the corner of his mouth pulls and then he is kneeling between your thighs again and he leans down and kisses you, slow, and his mouth tastes like you, and you make another sound and you reach for him and he catches both your wrists, gently, and pins them next to your head.
"Hands here," he says, against your mouth.
"Ryland."
"Stay."
You stay.
He braces himself on one forearm next to your head. He reaches down with his other hand and lines himself up, and he pauses there, just at your entrance, and looks down at you.
"Yes?"
"Yes, Grace, I have been saying yes-"
"Just checking."
He pushes in.
He pushes in slow. He pushes in unbearably slow, because of course he does, because he has not stopped being himself for one minute of this afternoon, and you feel every inch of him going in and you make a sound that has no shape, and he is making small sounds back into your neck that are not words, and when he is all the way in he goes still and drops his forehead onto your shoulder and breathes out, ragged, against your skin.
"God."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Ryland."
"Yeah."
"Move."
He moves.
He moves slow at first because he cannot, evidently, help it, because slow is his whole afternoon, but the slow does not last very long this time. The slow lasts maybe thirty seconds. The slow lasts until you wrap one leg around his hip and tilt up into him and make a small please sound against his ear, and then the slow goes out of him in long peeling sheets, and what is underneath it is a man who has been wanting this for eight months and has been holding himself together with both hands, and he is not, now, holding himself together.
He picks up the pace. He picks it up and he does not put it down. He is over you, braced on both forearms now, his hips snapping into yours in a steady deep rhythm, and his face is in your neck and he is talking, of course he is talking, and what he is saying is not the patient teacher voice from the hallway, it is not the careful handler from the desk, it is Ryland Grace talking like he talks, breathless and tangential and chaotic, into your skin.
"God, you are, you are, I have thought about this, I have thought about this so much you have no idea-"
"Ryland"
"You have no idea, I have, eight months, eight whole months of you sitting on my desk and-"
"Ryland, I-"
"Lazy, you called my teaching lazy-"
"Grace."
"In front of everyone, in front of-"
You laugh. You laugh and the laugh shakes you both and he makes a small surprised sound at the way you tighten around him and his hips stutter once before he catches the rhythm again, and you bite his shoulder, the same one as before, harder this time, and he says fuck into your neck which is the first time you have ever heard him swear and the swearing does something to you that you will, later, have to think about carefully.
He pulls his head up out of your neck.
He looks down at you. His mouth is still wet. The red mark from your teeth is still on his bottom lip. His hips have not stopped moving in that deep steady rhythm, and his face, above yours, is focused, and he is looking at you with the calm decisive attention of a man who has just decided to do something about a thing.
He leans down.
He puts his mouth on the place where your neck meets your shoulder. He does it carefully. He does it without hurrying. And then he closes his teeth around the skin there, not hard, just deliberate, and bites you.
You make a sound.
He holds the bite for one beat longer than you expect, and then he releases it, and his tongue passes over the mark he has just left, slow and soothing, and he kisses the spot once, and lifts his head again.
"There," he says, mild. "Closer to even."
You stare up at him. He is still moving. The mark on your neck is throbbing in a way that is travelling through the rest of you, and you make a sound that is not a word, and the corner of his mouth pulls.
You have, in the middle of all of it, one single very clear thought.
The thought arrives without tone. The thought arrives without any particular feeling attached to it, just a flat declarative line in your own voice in the middle of your own head, which is: I am going to murder him and then I am going to marry him.
He laughs, very softly, against the side of your head, like he has somehow heard it.
"Ryland."
"Yeah."
"Harder. Don't ask, just do it."
He stops.
He stops moving. He does not pull out. He stays exactly where he is, all the way inside you, and he goes completely still, and he lifts his head off your neck and looks down at you.
You stare up at him.
"No," you say. "No, no, no, Grace, please, please don't-"
"What did I tell you at the wall."
"Ryland-"
"What did I tell you. About the third strike."
You make a sound. It is not a word. It is the sound of you understanding, in a single small bright pulse, that he has been counting. He has been counting the pulls and he has been waiting to use the threat and the threat is now, and you are full of him and he is not moving and you are going to die.
"Ryland, I'm sorry-"
"What was the rule."
"Don't push, don't push, Ryland please-"
"And what did you just do."
"I-"
"Look at me."
You look at him.
His glasses are fogged. His hair is a wreck. His face, above yours, is focused and patient and unmoving, and his hips are still and his weight is heavy and you can feel him inside you still hard and still right there and he is doing nothing, and you understand, in the same small bright pulse, that he can do this all afternoon, that he is patient enough and frustrated enough and attentive enough to do this all afternoon, and that the only way out is through.
"I pushed."
"Mm-hm."
"I pushed, I'm sorry, Ryland, please-"
"Please what."
"Please, please will you, will you please go harder, please-"
"Mm."
He waits one more beat. He waits long enough to make you sure, for one terrible second, that he is going to say no, and then he leans down and kisses you, gently, on the forehead, and he says, very softly, "okay," and he gives you what you asked for.
It is not gentle this time.
It is not gentle and you cry out at the first hard thrust and his mouth comes down on yours and swallows the sound and then he is fucking you, properly, hard, the way you have been pushing for, and the difference between thirty seconds ago when he was still and right now is so vast that your whole body is shaking with it. His hand has come up to cradle the back of your skull, carefully, like he is making sure you don't hit the headboard, and the carefulness of the hand in contrast to the rest of him is what finally undoes you.
You feel it coming. He feels it coming. He somehow knows, because he is paying attention the way he pays attention to everything, and he reaches down between you with his free hand and his fingers find your clit and he says, into your ear, "come on, sweetheart, come on, I've got you, I've got you, good girl," and you come apart underneath him with his name in your mouth, both of them, Ryland Grace, broken, and you are not, this time, trying to be quiet, and he is saying it again into your ear while you come, good girl, that's it, good girl, over and over, soft and certain, and you understand dimly that he has waited to deploy that one, that he has held it back since the hallway, and the saving of it is the last thing that goes through your mind before everything goes white.
He follows you a few thrusts later with his face buried in your neck and a sound he makes that you will think about for weeks.
He goes still.
He is heavy on top of you. His whole weight. He is breathing hard. His hand is still cradling the back of your skull. His other hand is gripping your hip, hard enough that there will be marks tomorrow, and you do not, you find, mind.
You lie there.
You lie there for a long time. He does not move. You do not push him off. His breath slows. Yours slows. His glasses are pressed sideways against your cheek and are, definitely, bent.
Eventually he kisses the side of your neck, very softly, and lifts his head, and looks at you.
He looks like a man who has just been hit by a small truck.
"Hi," he says.
You laugh. You cannot help it. The laugh shakes you both and he laughs too, and he drops his forehead back onto your shoulder, and you put your arms around him, and he sighs, and the sigh is the most relaxed sound you have ever heard him make.
"Ryland."
"Yeah."
"You had a condom in your wallet for two weeks."
"Yes."
"That's presumptuous."
"Mm-hm."
"You were that sure?"
"I was hopeful."
You laugh again. He laughs into your shoulder. He kisses your collarbone, sleepy now, and after a second he eases out of you, careful, and deals with the condom, and comes back and sprawls half on top of you with his face in your neck.
"Your glasses are bent."
"I know."
"They're really bent."
"I'm aware."
"You should take them off."
"I'm not moving."
"Grace."
"Mm."
You laugh. You laugh and he laughs into your neck and he presses a kiss to your jaw, and you reach up and, gently, take his glasses off his face and put them on the nightstand. He makes a small grateful noise. He closes his eyes.
"Hey," he says, into your neck. Quiet now.
"Yeah."
"You're not actually allowed to call my teaching lazy in front of the whole department."
"Oh my god."
"I'm just saying. As a general policy."
"Grace, I will throw you out of my bed."
"You won't."
"I will."
"You won't."
You won't.
He pulls you closer. He is warm. He is heavy. After a minute, into your hair, he says, very softly:
"I clocked you at the meeting."
"I know."
"I want to be on record. About when I clocked it."
"Grace, I know."
"Just so we're clear."
"We're clear."
"Mm."
A pause.
"You really did call it lazy, though."
"Grace."
He laughs into your neck. You close your eyes. The afternoon light is doing something through the curtains and your apartment is very quiet and his weight is heavy against you and you think, very clearly, oh.
Oh, fine.
Okay.
You go to sleep too.
--
Enjoyed - let me know?
[ cross posted on Ao3 ] [read the sequel: Trust Me ] [ fic masterlist here ]
could you perhaps do a aerion arranged marriage fic where he begins closed off but slowly warms up to reader 👀
♞ TO FORGE A FLAME / AERION TARGARYEN
aerion targaryen x peake!reader
SYNOPSIS: a disgraced lady of house peake is given to prince aerion targaryen as punishment for her family’s treason. forced into dragon colors and courtly captivity, she resists him quietly until cruelty, pride, and dangerous tenderness begin to blur...
WARNING: arranged marriage, power imbalance, aerion targaryen is his own warning...
WORD COUNT: 11k
NOTES: this story is canon divergent. i’m moving the peake rebellion/royal conflict earlier in the timeline so it happens while aerion targaryen is still alive!!!! i wanted to keep the political weight of house peake’s blackfyre history while giving aerion and lady peake their own very messy, dramatic version of events.
House Peake had once possessed three castles.
Starpike, Dunstonbury, and Whitegrove...three proud black towers upon a field of burning orange, three dark teeth set into the golden mouth of the Reach. In old songs, men said those castles had stood like clenched fists against storm and sword. In older tales still, Peake lords had ridden beneath their banner as though the sun itself had been cut into silk for them, bright and brazen and impossible to ignore.
But songs were kinder than history. History remembered treason. It remembered Daemon Blackfyre. It remembered banners raised for a dragon that had not sat the Iron Throne. It remembered the long red harvest of rebellion, the broken men, the pardons given like knives with velvet handles. It remembered how House Peake had lost Dunstonbury and Whitegrove, and how Starpike remained not as a triumph, but as a warning.
One castle left. One daughter left. One price left to pay.
You stood in your father’s solar while rain worried at the narrow windows and the orange banner of your house hung limp upon the wall. Three black castles stared down from the cloth, though two had long since been stripped from your blood. They had remained in the sigil because pride was a stubborn thing. Pride was sometimes all a disgraced house had left.
Your father, Lord Gormon Peake, would not look at you. That was how you knew the worst of it before any word was spoken. He stood with his hands braced on the carved back of his chair, shoulders broad beneath dark wool, his face stern as the stone walls that had raised you. Wax from the royal seal lay broken upon his table. Red wax. Dragon wax. A dead little pool of command.
“They will not burn Starpike,” he said at last.
His voice was quiet.
You should have been relieved. Instead, the room seemed to narrow around you until the air itself had teeth.
“No,” you said.
A single word. Barely breath.
Your father’s jaw moved once. “The crown is merciful.”
You looked at the letter. You did not need to read it again. The accusations had already carved themselves behind your eyes.
Renewed correspondence with Blackfyre loyalists.
Refusal of a royal command.
Quiet mustering of strength.
Treason, treason, treason...the old word dressed in fresh ink.
“The crown is not merciful,” you said, and your voice did not shake. That surprised you. It surprised your father too, for he lifted his eyes then. “The crown is elegant.”
His expression hardened. “You will guard your tongue.”
“Why?” Your hands were folded before you, white knuckled in the sleeves of your gown. “Will they take me twice?”
The silence that followed was so complete that even the rain seemed to hush.
You were beautiful. You had been told so since girlhood, first by nurses with warm hands, then by ladies with calculating eyes, then by men who praised beauty the way merchants praised horses before asking the price. You had the kind of loveliness that made people pause before they remembered themselves. The Reach had shaped you generously...skin like cream warmed by candlelight, a mouth made soft by courtesy and sharpened by restraint, eyes that seemed too watchful for so delicate a face. Your hair, dressed that morning with tiny black pins in honor of your house, gleamed like something poets would have wasted half a page naming.
Beauty had been meant to serve you. Now it had made you suitable for sacrifice.
Lord Gormon looked older than he had the day before.
“You will go to King’s Landing,” he said. “You will be received at court. You will be betrothed to Prince Aerion Targaryen.”
Prince Aerion.
Even in Starpike, his name had reached you before his person had. Names had a way of traveling when attached to cruelty. Aerion Brightflame, some called him, with admiration or fear or both. A prince with silver hair, violet eyes, and the temper of a dragon half starved. A prince who thought himself more fire than flesh. A prince whose laughter was said to come most easily when another man flinched.
“You are giving me to him,” you said.
Your father looked away again. That was answer enough. Not marrying. Not offering. Not arranging. Giving. As one gave coin, grain, land, hostages.
“You will save Starpike,” he said.
And there it was...the softest chain in the world, laid around your throat by a familiar hand.
You thought of the castle beneath your feet. The servants who had carried you as a child. The septa who had taught you your prayers. The kennel boy with the crooked smile. The old cook who still made honeyed oatcakes when grief sat too long at the table. You thought of the smallfolk clustered beneath Peake protection, of children who knew nothing of black dragons or red, nothing of treason written before their birth.
You thought of the banner above you. Orange. Black. Three castles. Soon, you would be dressed in red and black. Not your black. Not your old mourning black, not your proud castle black. Dragon black. Dragon red. Fire and blood laid over you until no one could see what had been there before.
“Did you agree before telling me?” you asked.
Your father said nothing.
You smiled then. It was a small, terrible thing.
“You did.”
“It was the only way.”
“No,” you said softly. “It was the way that cost you least.”
His hand struck the chair so hard the wood groaned. “You think I wanted this?”
“I think you wanted Starpike more than you wanted me.”
His face twisted. For one moment, he looked not like a lord but like a father wounded by his child. You might have pitied him, had pity not been too expensive a thing.
“You are my daughter,” he said.
“Yes,” you answered. “That is why you had something left to trade.”
He turned from you then, and perhaps it was mercy. Perhaps he did not wish you to see his shame. Perhaps he wished not to see yours. But shame was already in the room. It stood beside you like a fourth person. Shame wore your face. Shame wore your colors. Shame had your father’s seal beneath its nails.
You crossed to the banner and lifted the edge of it between your fingers. The orange cloth was old but well kept, bright despite the dimness, proud despite history. Three castles. Three losses. Three lies and one truth. You pressed the silk once to your mouth. Not a kiss. A farewell.
The court had received you as though you were honored.
That was the first cruelty.
King’s Landing rose before you in heat and stink and splendor, crowned by the Red Keep upon Aegon’s High Hill. Its walls were the color of old blood at sunset. Its towers stabbed the sky like spears thrust upward by dead conquerors. Dragons had made this city, and though dragons no longer darkened the heavens, their memory remained in stone, in banners, in the arrogance of every red clad guard who looked upon your escort and saw not guests, but spoils.
You arrived beneath Targaryen eyes.
There were no chains upon your wrists. There did not need to be. Your gown was fine. Your hair was arranged with care. A cloak of deep red had been placed around your shoulders before you crossed into the yard, its lining black as a raven’s wing. The ladies who came to receive you praised the richness of it.
“How splendidly the colors suit you, Lady Peake,” one said.
You lowered your eyes and curtsied.
“His Grace is generous,” you replied.
A lie, polished until it shone.
Whispers followed you through the Red Keep like little knives drawn from little sheaths.
There she is.
The Peake girl.
Starpike’s ransom.
A pretty price.
Does she look frightened?
Wouldn’t you?
Prince Aerion will tame that pride soon enough.
You had thought yourself prepared for fear. You had not prepared for being watched.
Fear in solitude was one thing. Fear beneath a hundred eyes was another. At court, even breathing became performance. You learned before the first evening bell that grief must be graceful to be forgiven. You must walk as though you had come willingly. Sit as though your chair were not a perch above a pit. Smile as though every courtesy did not have a hook beneath it.
You were placed among noblewomen whose hands glittered with rings and whose voices were soft enough to conceal malice. They asked after Starpike. They asked after your father. They asked whether the journey had been pleasant. One wondered aloud whether the Reach seemed smaller after one had been summoned to court.
You answered each question as you had been taught...gently, neatly, with no word loose enough to be used as rope. Inside, something in you paced. Anger, perhaps. Or terror. They felt much the same when caged.
You first saw Prince Aerion in the hall of the Iron Throne.
He did not enter loudly. Men like him did not need noise.
The court seemed to bend before awareness of him. Heads turned. Conversations thinned. A path opened with the obedience of grass before flame.
He was beautiful in the cruel manner of Targaryens, as though some ancient god had shaped him lovingly and forgotten to give him mercy. His hair was pale as moonlight, his eyes were a deep and venomous violet, and his mouth looked made for both poetry and ruin. He wore black chased with red, a dragon wrought in rubies at his throat. He was not broad like a warrior in old tapestries, nor plain like honest men in fields. He was slender, princely, bright as a blade drawn at dawn.
And he smiled when he saw you. Not warmly. Possessively. As if he had been shown a fine hawk, hooded and delivered.
“So,” he said, when you were brought before him. His voice was cultured, light, almost amused. “Starpike has a daughter.”
You curtsied. Low enough for obedience. Not low enough for surrender.
“My prince.”
His gaze moved over you with insulting leisure. Not the clumsy hunger of a drunken knight. Not even desire, precisely. Assessment. Appraisal. He looked at your face, your throat, the red cloak swallowing the last visible traces of your house, and understood at once what had been done. So did you.
To him, you were no bride. You were proof. House Peake made flesh. Treason dressed in silk. A living banner lowered before the dragon.
“How lovely,” Aerion murmured. “They told me you were fair, but men so often grow generous when describing hostages.”
The word landed softly. Hostage. No one gasped. No one corrected him. That was the second cruelty. You felt every eye in the hall turn sharper.
You lifted your chin by the width of a prayer.
“Then I am pleased not to disappoint, my prince.”
His smile deepened. There. Something kindled behind his eyes. Interest. Not affection. Not admiration. Interest, like a boy discovering an ant did not die when pressed beneath his thumb.
“Careful,” he said. “Courtesy becomes a dangerous weapon in the hands of traitors.”
“My hands are empty.”
“For now.”
A few courtiers laughed because he wished them to. You did not.
Aerion stepped closer, close enough that you could see the fine stitching at his collar, red thread biting through black.
“Little traitor,” he said, almost fondly.
The hall heard. It was meant to.
Your face did not change.
“My prince,” you answered again.
And for the first time, his smile flickered. A lesser man might have wanted tears. Aerion, you would learn, wanted the moment before them.
In the days that followed, he taught the court how to look at you.
That was his first art .
He did not rage. He did not shout. He did not drag you by the arm through corridors or break cups against walls. Such things were for coarse men, men ruled by appetite and weather. Aerion’s cruelty wore perfume and jewels. It came gloved. It sat beside you at supper and corrected your posture with a touch light enough to seem tender from afar.
When Lord Caswell asked whether you had found comfort in the Red Keep’s sept, you opened your mouth to answer.
Aerion spoke first.
“My lady-wife-to-be finds comfort wherever she is commanded to find it.”
Laughter, soft and obedient.
You lowered your gaze to your plate.
“His Grace’s sept is very fine,” you said.
Aerion leaned back, smiling. “See? She learns.”
When a lady of the Westerlands praised the embroidery at your sleeve and asked whether the pattern was of the Reach, Aerion lifted your wrist before you could move.
“Not the Reach,” he said. “Dragons. I had her old colors put away. Sentiment is how treason keeps its roots.”
His thumb pressed once against the delicate bones of your wrist.
Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind.
You smiled at the lady, “Prince Aerion has been most attentive.”
His eyes cut to you. You had made the words too sweet. Just enough sugar to curdle.
That night, your maid found you kneeling beside your chest with a strip of orange silk in your lap. Not much. A ribbon torn from the lining of an old gown, small enough to vanish beneath finery.
“My lady,” she whispered, frightened.
“Hush, Betha.”
“If he sees—”
“He sees everything,” you said.
Your fingers did not tremble as you stitched the orange and black beneath the inner seam of your sleeve, where it would rest against your skin and no courtier could praise or mock it.
“Then why risk it?”
You drew the thread through cloth.
“Because there must be some part of me he has not been handed.”
There were judgments twice that week. Aerion made you sit beside him for both.
The first was a knight accused of carrying letters westward to men who still drank to the Black Dragon when doors were barred. The second was a household steward from a minor Reach house whose cousin had served your father. The hall was cold despite summer heat. The accused men stood below the dais, pale and sweating, while courtiers craned for a better view.
Aerion offered you his arm before the court.
You took it because refusing would be spectacle, and spectacle was always his chosen ground.
“How fortunate you are here,” he murmured as he led you to the raised seats. “You may learn what becomes of men who mistake old loyalties for living ones.”
“I have learned many things at court, my prince.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Name one.”
You sat beside him, hands folded, face still.
“That mercy is loudest when it wishes to be admired.”
His eyes found yours. For a breath, the hall seemed to tilt. Then Aerion smiled.
“Charming,” he said. “You must say such things more often. I do enjoy wondering whether to be pleased or offended.”
“Whichever serves you best, my prince.”
His smile did not fade, but something sharpened beneath it.
During the judgments, he watched you more than the condemned.
He watched when the steward begged. He watched when the knight denied knowing any Blackfyre sympathizers, though his voice broke over the lie. He watched when punishment was pronounced. Not death. Not that day. Mutilation for one. The Wall for another.
Your stomach turned itself to ice. You did not look away. That, too, displeased him. Or pleased him. With Aerion, the two were often twins.
At feasts, he made you ask permission.
“To leave, my prince?”
His goblet paused near his mouth. “Already?”
“The hour is late.”
“Is it? I had not noticed.”
The table listened.
You stood beside his chair, every inch the graceful lady, every inch the captive thing.
“May I be excused?”
Aerion looked up at you with lazy delight. “You may.”
A murmur passed down the table. As you turned, his voice followed.
“Little traitors tire easily.”
You stopped. Only for a heartbeat. Then you looked back and smiled.
“Then your mercy in allowing me rest shall be praised all the more.”
His goblet touched his lips. His eyes burned over the rim.
You refused wine from his hand once. Only once, and before too many witnesses.
He offered it during a supper where singers played beneath the gallery and heat pooled under the high windows.
“Drink,” he said.
The cup was his own. Gold. Dragon handled. Red wine dark as blood. You looked at it. Then at him.
“I thank you, my prince, but I am not thirsty.”
The hall seemed not to notice. Aerion did.
His fingers tightened on the stem.
“Are you afraid I have poisoned it?”
“Of course not.”
“Then drink.”
You let the silence stretch just long enough to become visible. Then you took the cup. But you did not drink. You lifted it, bowed your head slightly, and set it untouched beside your plate.
Aerion laughed. It was a beautiful sound. That was perhaps the worst of it. The court laughed with him, relieved to discover they were allowed. But after that, he watched your mouth whenever you drank from anything else.
You had not won. There was no winning in a cage. But you had denied him something small, and the denial lived between you like a candle refusing to go out.
Then came the dancing.
The court loved dancing because it could pretend cruelty was ceremony if music played beneath it.
Aerion chose you before the hall had grown warm. He crossed the floor with all the ease of a prince born beneath chandeliers, and every lady near you lowered her eyes in envy or pity. Perhaps both.
“My lady Peake,” he said, extending his hand. “You will dance.”
Not would you. Not may I.
You placed your hand in his.
“My prince.”
His fingers closed around yours and the music began.
He danced as he did all things...beautifully, precisely, with a violence hidden so deep in grace that only the person held by him could feel it. He guided you through each turn as though displaying a conquered banner. His hand at your waist did not bruise. It did not need to. Every watching eye understood the claim.
“You are very quiet tonight,” he said.
“I feared I might interrupt myself.”
His mouth curved. “Was that wit?”
“Only obedience, my prince. You so often speak for me that I presumed I should leave room for you.”
His grip tightened. There it was again, not anger, not quite. Interest, irritation, appetite.
“You dislike being looked at,” he said.
You turned beneath his arm, red skirts sweeping the floor like spilled flame.
“I dislike being mistaken for an object.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Yes,” you said. “For the object, especially.”
He drew you closer on the next step, too close for propriety, not close enough for scandal.
“You think yourself brave.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I think myself watched. There is a difference.”
Aerion stared at you. For one strange moment, his face altered. Not softened. Never softened. But sharpened inward, as though you had placed before him a puzzle he resented wanting to solve.
Then the music ended. He bowed over your hand and kissed the air above your knuckles.
“To be watched,” he said, low enough that only you heard, “is the first lesson of belonging to me.”
You wanted to say you did not belong to him. You wanted to say no vow had been spoken, no cloak placed, no bedding witnessed, no gods called down to bind you.
Instead, you curtsied.
“My prince.”
The tourney was held three days before the wedding. The court called it celebration. You knew better. It was rehearsal.
You were seated among noble ladies beneath a canopy of red and black silk, your gown chosen by Aerion himself. Black velvet, red sleeves, rubies at your throat like drops of conquered blood. Beneath the left sleeve, hidden against your skin, the little seam of Peake orange scratched softly whenever you moved.
A secret. A wound. A prayer.
“You look splendid,” Lady Mooton said beside you.
“Dragon colors do wonders for her,” another replied.
You smiled.
The stands were crowded bright with banners. Gold lions, green towers, purple grapes, silver trout, crimson dragons. Knights rode below in painted armor, lances raised, horses tossing plumed heads. Trumpets split the air. Sunlight glanced off helms and made every man seem briefly holy.
Aerion shone most of all...
He entered the lists in armor dark as polished night, chased with red and gold flame. His helm bore the three headed dragon. The crowd loved him because beauty and danger were easy to adore from a safe distance. He raised his lance, and applause moved through the stands like wind through wheat.
You clapped when the ladies clapped. You smiled when eyes turned toward you. You performed loyalty with hands that felt far away from your body.
Then Ser Duncan the Tall entered the lists. The laughter began almost at once. He was enormous, awkwardly noble in a way the court did not know how to forgive. His armor was plain and ill matched. His horse lacked ornament. No great house colors streamed behind him, no ancient blood announced him before his name could. He looked like a man who had walked out of the earth itself and been told, too late, that the sky belonged to princes.
“A hedge knight,” someone behind you whispered.
“Seven save him. Does he know who he faces?”
“Look at his shield.”
“Look at his boots.”
A lady near you laughed behind her fan. The sound scraped against your nerves.
You looked toward Aerion. You tried to keep your gaze there, where duty had placed it. He sat straight in the saddle, radiant, careless, adored. Born to be watched. Born to be praised. Born to turn the world’s gaze into a mirror and find himself glorious in it.
Below, Dunk adjusted his grip on his lance. Men laughed louder. And he did not answer to it. That was the first thing you noticed. Not his height. Not his plainness. Not the absurd courage of standing where everyone expected him to fall. His restraint.
The herald called and then the horses charged.
Aerion rode like a song of war. Swift, bright, terrible. His lance struck cleanly, and the crowd roared. Dunk swayed but did not fall. When he returned for the next pass, dust clung to him. Someone shouted that hedge knights were harder to knock down because mud loved its own.
The ladies laughed again. Your hands tightened in your lap. Another pass. Then another.
Dunk fought plainly, without flourish. There was no cruelty in him. No hunger to humiliate. When Aerion pressed him hard, sharper than sport required, Dunk did not answer with spite. When the crowd mocked him, he did not spend his strength hating them. He endured.
That was what undid you. Not admiration. Recognition.
You knew what it was to stand dressed for judgment before people waiting to see how well you would bleed. You knew what it was to be laughed at softly because open laughter would be indecorous. You knew what it was to be outnumbered by eyes.
Then came the moment. Aerion’s horse turned too sharply after a pass. Perhaps the ground betrayed him. Perhaps pride did. He slipped in the saddle, only slightly, but enough. Dunk had the angle. He could have taken advantage. He did not.
Instead, he checked his horse. A murmur passed through the crowd. It was nothing, perhaps. A small mercy. A little courtesy in a world that hoarded them. But to you, it seemed enormous.
Before thought could become caution, before fear could clap a hand over your mouth, you leaned forward.
“Well struck!” you said.
You did not shout it loud but clear enough. The ladies around you went still. One fan snapped shut. Someone gave a small, delighted laugh. You realized what you had done before the words had finished dying. The red and black on your body seemed suddenly brighter than flame. Every ruby at your throat became an accusation. You could feel the women near you looking from your gown to the field, from the field to your face.
Then you looked at Aerion.
He had heard.
His horse stood motionless beneath him. His helm was lifted. Across the lists, across banners and dust and sunlight, his face had gone completely still. No anger. No yelling. No visible wound. Only stillness. It was worse than wrath. Wrath had shape. Wrath could be prepared for. This was a door closing in a room you had not known you stood inside.
For one moment, Aerion looked not like a man, nor even a prince, but like the carved image of some beautiful god to whom a village had forgotten a sacrifice.
Then he forced a smiled. And you knew, with a coldness that began in your bones, that he had not forgiven you.
To you, the words had been pity. No. Not pity. Something cleaner than that. You had seen a man mocked and alone, and for one unguarded heartbeat, you had reached toward him with the only mercy available to you.
To Aerion, it was humiliation.
His betrothed, dressed in his colors, seated before the court as proof of his claim, had praised a hedge knight. A lowborn man. A man with no old blood, no dragon, no splendor, no fear coiled like incense around his name. Worse than praise, it was judgment. As though you had looked upon Aerion’s brilliance and Dunk’s plain honor and found the prince wanting.
You knew this before he spoke to you. You knew because he did not speak to you for the rest of the day.
After the tourney, Aerion grew cold. Not absent. Absence would have been easier. He remained everywhere...at meals , in corridors, in the breath held conversations of courtiers who waited for punishment like boys waiting for war. But he withdrew the sharp warmth of his cruelty and left you with courtesy polished to ice.
He sent notes instead of coming himself.
Lady Peake will attend supper at the hour of the bat.
Lady Peake will wear black tomorrow.
Lady Peake is excused from the gardens.
Lady Peake.
Not little traitor.
Not hostage.
Not even my lady.
It should have been relief. It was not.
His cruelty had frightened you, humiliated you, angered you until you lay awake with your hands clenched beneath the coverlets. But cruelty, at least, had seen you. His coldness passed over you like light over glass. You became an object again, but no longer an interesting one. That hurt. You hated that it hurt.
At dinner, he sat beside you and did not look at you once. When Lord Rowan asked whether the wedding preparations pleased you, Aerion replied before you could.
“Lady Peake is grateful for whatever she is given.”
His tone was mild. Perfect. Not a single person could call it cruel.
You folded your hands beneath the table.
“I am instructed daily in gratitude,” you said.
Aerion lifted his cup. His eyes did not move to yours.
“Not well enough, it seems.”
The words were soft. They cut anyway.
You tried to apologize the next evening.
Not because you believed yourself guilty of desiring another man. Not because you had meant insult. But because the court had sharpened your small mercy into a blade and placed it between you.
You found Aerion in a gallery where the sunset poured blood red through narrow windows. For a moment, with the light behind him, he looked winged.
“My prince.”
He did not turn.
“I wished to speak about the tourney.”
“How tiresome.”
You swallowed. “I did not mean to shame you.”
At that, he looked back. The beauty of him struck you again, as it always did, with unwilling force. He was almost too finely made for decency. Men should not be so lovely and so cruel. It confused the soul.
“No?” he asked.
“No.”
“You praised him by accident, then?”
“I spoke without thought.”
“A dangerous habit for a traitor.”
Your throat tightened.
“I was not cheering against you.”
Aerion crossed the space between you slowly. That was his way. He never rushed toward cruelty. He let dread arrive first and open the door for him.
“No,” he said. “Of course not. You were merely moved by the sight of your hedge knight.”
“He is not mine.”
His eyes flashed then, at last. There was the wound. There and gone again.
“Save your pity,” he said, voice low enough that no servant beyond the archway could hear. “You spent enough of it on your hedge knight.”
The words struck harder than they should have. Because they were wrong. Because they were almost right. Because how could you explain that it had not been Dunk himself, but the loneliness around him? How could you say, Everyone was laughing, and it was cruel, without naming Aerion chief among the cruel? How could you tell a dragon that you had flinched from fire?
“I meant no insult,” you said again, but the words were pale little things.
Aerion leaned close.
“I know what you meant,” he said.
But he did not. That was the tragedy. He did not.
The days before the wedding folded themselves into silence.
You continued as court required. You dressed. You sat. You smiled. You answered when spoken to and held your tongue when Aerion chose to speak over you. But something in you had gone quieter. Not broken. No, never that. Your pride remained, cold and bright, hidden like orange thread beneath dragon cloth. Yet the court had become heavier. The whispers more piercing. The future nearer.
Betha wept one morning while lacing your gown.
“Stop,” you said gently.
“I am sorry, my lady.”
“Do not give them tears on my behalf. They are greedy enough.”
She laughed once, miserably, and wiped her face.
You touched her hand. “I am not dead.”
“No,” she whispered. “But they are burying you.”
You had no answer.
That evening, Aerion noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything and pretended not to. He noticed when your replies shortened by a word. When you ate less fish than before. When you turned your wrist inward to hide the seam where orange silk laid beneath your sleeve. When your smile remained perfect but ceased to reach the place beneath your eyes where real feeling sometimes betrayed itself.
It irritated him. That was what he told himself.
Lady Peake was dull when subdued. Lady Peake’s quiet defiance had been more diverting than this careful, bloodless courtesy. Lady Peake had no right to change in any manner he had not commanded.
So he cornered Betha outside your chamber.
The girl nearly dropped the folded linens in her arms when she saw him.
“My prince.”
“Is your lady ill?”
Betha stared. “Ill?”
Aerion’s gaze was sharp enough to skin. “Do not repeat me like a trained bird.”
“No, my prince. She is not ill.”
“Then why does she wander about like a ghost in borrowed colors?”
Betha went very still. A wiser servant would have lowered her eyes and lied. Betha was frightened. But she loved you.
“She meant no insult, my prince.”
Aerion’s expression hardened at once.
“Did she send you to plead for her?”
“No.” Betha shook her head quickly. “No, my prince. She would be angry if she knew I spoke.”
“Then do not.”
The girl should have obeyed. She did not.
“She did not cheer because she favored Ser Duncan.”
Aerion’s mouth curved without mirth. “How loyal of you to explain your lady’s heart to me.”
“She cheered because everyone was laughing at him,” Betha said, voice trembling now. “Because he was alone, and they wanted him shamed, and still he tried to stand with honor.”
Aerion said nothing.
Betha clutched the linens tighter.
“My lady said she knew how that felt.”
There are some silences that fall. This one opened.
Aerion remained very still. He had remembered your voice as betrayal. Your praise as desire. Your pity as judgment. He had held the moment like a coal and fed it his pride until it burned hot enough to warm his anger. But now the memory altered. The stands. The laughter. Your face turned toward the field, unguarded for once. Not admiring. Not yearning. Stricken.
You had not looked at Dunk and chosen him. You had looked at him and seen yourself. And afterward, Aerion had punished you by making you lonelier.
His anger did not vanish.
Aerion’s pride was not a candle to be blown out by one servant’s trembling confession. The humiliation remained. The court had still heard you. The ladies had still laughed behind their fans. The wound still knew its own shape. But beneath it, something unfamiliar moved. Not remorse. Not yet. Something sharper because it had no name yet.
The wedding came beneath a sky white with heat.
The Sept of Baelor rang with bells and you thought they sounded like iron.
They dressed you in Targaryen colors. Red silk fell over your body in gleaming folds, black lace webbed your sleeves, rubies flashed at your throat and ears and wrists. Your beauty became a weapon in other hands. The ladies praised you until praise itself felt like mockery.
“No bride in the realm could rival you,” one sighed.
“How fortunate Prince Aerion is.”
“How fortunate Lady Peake is.”
That last one nearly made you laugh. Instead, you looked into the polished silver mirror and saw a stranger conquered in red.
Betha stood behind you, pale and silent.
“Inside the left sleeve,” she whispered.
You lowered your gaze. There, hidden where no court could see, she had sewn the smallest strip of orange cloth, crossed by black thread in the shape of a tower. It rested near your wrist. Near your pulse.
Starpike. Dunstonbury. Whitegrove.
One living. Two lost. All remembered.
“Thank you,” you said.
Betha bowed her head, and you pretended not to see her tears.
When you entered the sept, every face turned.
The walk to the altar was not long. It felt endless. Lords and ladies filled the sacred space in jeweled rows, their eyes bright with hunger for beauty, scandal, surrender. Your father stood among them, dressed in Peake orange darkened almost to rust. His face was carved from stone. You wondered whether he saw you as daughter or bargain fulfilled.
Aerion waited beneath the gaze of the Seven. He wore black. Of course he did. Black, slashed with red, a dragon brooch burning at his shoulder. His silver hair caught the light and made of him something unearthly, something too bright for human tenderness. When his eyes found you, they moved at once to your sleeve.
A flicker. He saw. Of course he saw. Your hidden colors might as well have been a banner unfurled from the sept roof.
For one moment, you feared he would expose you. That he would take your wrist before all the court and turn the seam outward, laughing as he stripped even that last private rebellion from you.
Instead, he smiled.
He leaned close when you reached him, his breath stirring the veil beside your cheek.
“Do try not to cheer for another man today.”
The words entered you like a needle. You looked ahead, face still.
“I shall endeavor to remember the occasion, my prince.”
“Not prince,” he murmured. “Not for much longer.”
The septon began. You heard very little. Words rose and fell above you like birds crossing a battlefield. Duty. Union. Loyalty. The eyes of gods and men. Cloaks. Houses. Peace.
Peace.
What a strange name men gave to a woman’s surrender.
Aerion placed the cloak around your shoulders. Targaryen red and black covered you completely. The court watched House Peake disappear.
When it came time for vows, your mouth obeyed because your body had been trained for obedience long before this day. The words tasted of ash.
“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”
Love.
The sept did not crack open. The gods did not strike anyone down.
Aerion’s hands were cool when they took yours. His face was close. Too close. Beautiful enough to grieve over, cruel enough to fear.
When you had to say the word husband, it caught. Only slightly. Only enough for him. His eyes sharpened. Then he kissed you. Not roughly. Not tenderly. Publicly.
The kiss was brief and exact and devastating because all kisses before witnesses belonged partly to the crowd. The court sighed as though they had seen romance. They had seen conquest and called it holy.
When Aerion drew back, his gaze remained on your mouth. For one moment, something passed through his expression that was not mockery. Then applause filled the sept like wings beating in a cage.
The feast was a mercy performed by executioners. Everyone toasted peace. Everyone toasted loyalty. Everyone toasted the wisdom of the crown, the humility of House Peake, the generosity of House Targaryen, the radiant beauty of the bride, the splendor of the groom.
No one toasted the truth.
You sat beside Aerion beneath a canopy of red and black. Your hidden orange thread scratched your wrist whenever you moved. You were grateful for the pain. It reminded you that you were still inside your own skin.
“Starpike has given its fairest jewel to purchase forgiveness,” Lord Costayne said, raising his cup.
A murmur of approval.
You smiled.
“Then may the jewel prove worth more than the debt, my lord.”
He blinked, uncertain whether he had been honored or rebuked. Aerion laughed softly beside you.
Later, a lady with pearls netted through her hair leaned forward.
“You truly do look better in dragon colors, my dear. Orange is such a difficult shade. So loud.”
You touched the stem of your goblet.
“Loud colors are useful, my lady. They make it difficult for history to pretend one vanished quietly.”
The lady’s smile thinned.
Aerion turned his head toward you and you felt his attention like heat. Then a young knight, too drunk on wine and his own courage, called from lower at the table, “How quickly traitor houses learn gratitude!”
Silence trembled.
Your father’s face darkened. You did not look at him. You looked at the knight.
“How fortunate, then,” you said, voice gentle, “that loyal houses are born knowing courtesy, lest they be forced to learn it from traitors.”
A few people coughed. Someone laughed before disguising it badly. The knight flushed scarlet.
Aerion’s fingers rested beside his cup. He tapped once against the table.
“You are bold tonight,” he said.
You turned to him.
“I am married now, husband. Surely I am permitted one virtue.”
The word husband landed between you. Not soft. Not at all willing. A blade wrapped in silk.
Aerion’s eyes darkened.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“Always,” you replied.
He watched you for a long while after that. Not with anger alone. Never that simple. Fascination had begun to eat at him, little by little. You were not what he had expected. You did not break loudly enough to satisfy. You did not plead prettily enough to amuse. You answered cruelty with such perfect grace that the cruel began, by comparison, to look vulgar.
Aerion hated vulgarity. He hated, too, that you could make him feel crude without once disobeying him.
The bedding was called for near midnight.
Voices rose, wine thick and eager. Men laughed too loudly. Women smiled with that peculiar cruelty women were taught to hide beneath custom. Someone shouted that dragons need no encouragement. Someone else called for the bride’s cloak to be taken.
Your whole body went cold. You had known it might come. Knowing did not lessen the horror. All day, you had been watched. Measured. Claimed. Now they wanted to turn even your fear into entertainment.
Aerion stood. The hall quieted by degrees. At first, a few men laughed, thinking him ready to play his part. Then they saw his face.
“No,” he said
One word. Flat as a drawn blade.
“My prince?” a lord ventured, smiling uncertainly.
Aerion looked at him. The smile died.
“No man here touches my wife.”
My wife.
You hated the claim. You hated the relief that followed it. It washed through you so swiftly you nearly swayed. You despised yourself for that, too. That mercy could come dressed as ownership. That protection could sound so like possession. That a cage door could remain locked and still keep wolves out.
Aerion offered you his hand. This time, you took it without delay. His fingers closed over yours. He led you from the hall through a silence richer than music. Only when the doors shut behind you did you breathe.
The wedding chamber was dark except for the hearth. Servants had filled it with flowers, as if sweetness could disguise fear. Roses, myrtle, lilies. Their perfume lay heavy in the air, too lush, too living. The marriage bed stood draped in red.
You looked at it once. Then away.
Aerion dismissed the attendants. Betha looked at you before she left. You gave the smallest nod you could manage.
Then the door closed. No court. No ladies. No father. No one to watch how well you endured. Only Aerion. Only your husband.
He stood by the hearth, removing his gloves finger by finger. The ordinary motion felt unbearable.
“You are trembling,” he said.
You clasped your hands before you.
“The room is cold.”
“No, it is not.”
You said nothing. He came toward you. Slowly. Always slowly. Your body remembered every public humiliation, every soft insult, every command dressed as courtesy. It remembered the wedding cloak. The feast. The laughter. The men calling for the bedding.
Aerion stopped close enough to touch you. He did not.
His gaze moved over your face. Whatever he saw there displeased him. Or perhaps it pleased him too much.
“I do not take trembling things to bed,” he said.
Cruel words. Merciful meaning.
Your breath caught. He saw that too.
His mouth twisted. “Do not look grateful. It makes you dull.”
“I would not dream of boring you, husband.”
The word came bitter this time. His eyes narrowed. Then, to your astonishment, he turned away.
“Sleep.”
You stared.
Aerion crossed to a chair near the fire and sat as though the matter were settled.
“My prince—”
He looked back sharply.
“Husband,” he corrected.
The word burned. You lowered your eyes.
“Husband,” you said, and hated the tremor in it.
Something moved across his face. Not triumph, though he might have made it so. Not tenderness. Something uncertain.
“Sleep,” he said again, quieter.
You did not understand him. That frightened you almost more than cruelty. Cruelty had rules. Terrible rules, but rules. Aerion’s restraint was a door opened onto darkness. You did not know what waited beyond it.
Still, you slept. Poorly. In your wedding gown. With orange thread hidden against your skin and a dragon seated awake beside the fire.
Marriage did not soften Aerion. Not in the way songs might have begged it to. He remained cruel.
He still called you little traitor when the mood took him, though less often before those whose laughter displeased him. He still corrected you in public when he wished to feel the shape of his power. He still made you wear red and black to court, still watched every room understand that you had been claimed.
But the cruelty changed. It turned inward. Grew intimate. Complicated itself.
He sent gifts. A necklace of garnets dark as old wine. Gloves stitched with silver thread. A comb of carved ivory. A gown so fine the fabric seemed made from midnight poured over flame. No notes came with them. No tenderness. Only objects laid before you like offerings from a god too proud to kneel.
“What does he expect me to say?” you asked Betha one morning, looking down at a pair of earrings shaped like dragons biting their own tails.
Betha hesitated. “Thank you? ”
“I have thanked executioners for cleaner cuts.”
Yet you wore the earrings and Aerion noticed.
At supper, he looked at your ears once and said nothing. But for the rest of the evening, his mood sharpened into something dangerously bright, as though your obedience had pleased him and his pleasure offended him.
He protected you, too, though never sweetly.
When a lord who had drunk too much leaned close enough for his breath to touch your cheek, Aerion appeared at your shoulder.
“Step back,” he said.
The lord laughed nervously. “My prince, I meant only—”
“I did not ask what you meant.”
The man stepped back.
Later, you had said, “I did not need rescuing.”
“No. You needed better enemies. That one was beneath you.”
You looked at him, startled. Aerion’s face closed at once.
“Do not preen. It was not praise.”
“Of course not, my prince.”
“Husband.”
You turned away.
“My prince.”
His silence followed you for the rest of the corridor.
You continued your small rebellions.
You called him my prince when no ceremony forced otherwise. You kept Peake colors hidden in seams, ribbons, underthings, once even a black thread braided through an orange ribbon tied beneath your hair where only Betha could see. You refused to cry where Aerion might witness it. You answered insults with courtesy so fine it cut the hand that received it.
And Aerion continued to notice contradictions in himself with mounting disgust.
He noticed when you were tired and ordered you to bed as though annoyance, not concern, moved him. He noticed you preferred pears to figs and had them placed near your plate, then mocked you for looking surprised. He noticed you lingered near windows facing west. He noticed you did not sing, though once, passing your chamber, he heard you humming very softly through the door. He stood outside for longer than he should have. When he realized it, he left angry. Not at you.
That was new and intolerable.
Something had begun in him, something he had no language for except possession. He wanted your attention and called it obedience. He wanted your smiles and called it vanity. He wanted your trust and had no idea what name to give such a foolish, defenseless thing.
Aerion knew fear. He knew how to summon it. How to feed it. How to wear it in another’s eyes like a jewel. He did not know how to be wanted without command. So he tried to purchase softness. Jewels. Silks. Protection. Power displayed at your feet like severed heads. You accepted none of it the way he wished. That made him want more.
The first time you realized he cared, he did not say it.
Aerion was not a man made for confession.
It happened at a feast held for visiting lords from the Reach, where every cup was filled too often and every courtesy had a second meaning. You sat beside Aerion in black velvet, a red girdle at your waist. Beneath it, hidden against your ribs, lay a scrap of orange silk.
Lord Ambrose, a cousin to some house that had never risked enough to be punished for anything, raised his cup with a smile too broad to be kind.
“To Lady Peake,” he called. “Who has traded orange and black for worthier colors. A wise exchange. Some houses must lose honor before they learn taste.”
Laughter pricked the hall.
Your face remained still. Inside, something old and tired folded around itself. You had answered such insults before. You could answer this one. A graceful phrase. A little blade. A pretty smile over a bleeding thing.
But before you spoke, Aerion stood. The laughter thinned and you turned to him. At first you saw only his face, pale and remote, terrible in its calm. Then you saw his sleeve. At the cuff of his black doublet, worked so finely one might miss it until the light found the thread, was a line of orange embroidery.
Your breath stopped.
A black castle pin rested near his heart. Not a dragon. A castle.
The lining of his cloak shifted as he moved, and there, unmistakable, hidden until he chose to reveal it, burned orange silk. Peake colors. On Aerion Targaryen.
The hall understood by degrees. Silence spread outward, table by table, lord by lady, smile by dying smile.
Aerion lifted his cup.
“An odd thing, Lord Ambrose,” he said, voice silken, “to speak of honor while displaying so little of it.”
The lord went pale.
Aerion continued, almost lazily, “My wife’s colors are not yours to mock.”
My wife.
This time the words did not sound only like a cage. They sounded like a shield. A dangerous shield. A possessive shield. A shield with a blade on its rim. But a shield still.
You stared at the orange thread at his cuff.
He sat again as though he had not just overturned the hall. You could barely speak.
“You should not have done that.”
Aerion looked at you. “Do not look so stricken. They are only colors.”
“No,” you said softly. “They are not.”
His face changed then. Only a little. Enough.
“No,” he said. “They are not.”
An almost confession. No sweeter words could have undone you so thoroughly.
After that, wanting became a thing with weight. It entered rooms before you did. It stood between you at windows. It sat beside you at feasts. It found you in silences when Aerion looked at your mouth too long and you forgot, for one dangerous breath, every reason to hate him.
You did not forgive him. Not then.
Memory remained. The sept. The cloak. Little traitor. The feast where he made you ask permission to leave. The tourney wound. The wedding night fear. The many small humiliations he had offered the court like entertainment.
But beside memory, another truth had taken root. Aerion could choose restraint. Not easily. Not naturally. Not always. But he could. And sometimes, for you, he did. That frightened you more than cruelty because it asked something of your heart.
Then Starpike rebelled.
The raven came before dawn.
By noon, the Red Keep rang with it.
House Peake had broken faith. Men loyal to your father had stirred in the Reach. Letters had been intercepted, bearing promises to those who still dreamed of a Blackfyre return. Riders had been sent toward Starpike. There were whispers of men mustering beneath old banners, of lords who spoke of rescue, of stolen daughters and dragon tyranny.
Rescue.
The word made you ill.
They had given you away. Now they named the taking theft because rebellion required prettier language than regret.
Your father’s message reached you by secret hand, hidden in the binding of a prayer book.
Daughter,
You were taken from us under threat. Blood remembers blood. Starpike has not forgotten you. Endure a little longer. You will be brought home.
Home...
You read it three times. Then once more. Each time, it grew colder. Not one line asked what you wanted. Not one.
You sat by the window until the light faded, the letter open in your lap.
Aerion found you there.
“Is it true?” you asked before he could speak.
He did not pretend confusion. “Yes.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“And they claim it is for me?”
Aerion’s mouth curled. “Men love noble motives. They dress treason in them whenever possible.”
You looked down at the letter.
“They gave me to you.”
Aerion went still. You had never said it so plainly before.
You lifted your eyes to him.
“They gave me to you when it saved them. Now they want me back because it serves them. They call that love.”
His expression was unreadable. Perhaps because he heard the accusation beneath it. You too...you also treated me as something to be possessed.
Aerion crossed the room. “I will burn their rebellion to ash.”
“No.”
His eyes flashed. “No?”
“Punish the guilty. Not Starpike.”
“Starpike raised banners against my house.”
“Starpike has children in its walls. Servants. Smallfolk. Stable boys and washerwomen and cooks who have never written to a Blackfyre in their lives.”
His voice cooled. “You ask mercy for traitors.”
“I ask justice for the innocent.”
“You ask me to spare those who would take you from me.”
You rose then. Fear moved through you, but pride moved with it.
“I ask you not to become the monster they call you.”
The room darkened around his face. For a moment, you thought you had gone too far. Perhaps you had.
Aerion stepped close, violet eyes bright and terrible.
“You think I fear that word?”
“No,” you whispered. “I think you have worn it so long you no longer know where it ends and you begin.”
Silence.
His hand lifted. Not to strike. You knew that before it reached you. Yet your body flinched from old expectation, from court, from marriage, from men and power and rooms without witnesses.
Aerion saw.
His hand stopped in the air.
Something broke across his face so swiftly you might have missed it if you had not been watching him for weeks, learning the language of his smallest cruelties and rarer restraints.
He lowered his hand.
“I will punish the guilty,” he said.
Each word seemed dragged from him by iron hooks.
“Starpike will stand if it yields.”
Relief nearly took your knees.
“Thank you.”
His laugh was harsh. “Do not thank me. Mercy tastes foul enough without gratitude.”
But he had listened. That was the beginning of the end of one thing, and the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Prince Maekar summoned him two days later.
You were not meant to attend. You went anyway.
Perhaps you should not have. Perhaps a wiser woman would have remained behind tapestry and rumor, waiting for men to decide the shape of her life as they always had. But you were tired of being absent from rooms where your fate was discussed.
You entered quietly enough to hear Maekar’s voice before either man saw you.
“She has made you weak.”
Aerion stood before his father in the solar, spine straight, face pale with fury held on a leash. Maekar was hard where Aerion was bright, iron where his son was flame. A prince made of discipline and expectation, with a soldier’s contempt for softness.
“The Peakes defied the crown,” Maekar said. “Your wife was meant to remind them of obedience, not teach you hesitation.”
“My wife asked that Starpike be spared if it yields.”
“Your wife,” Maekar repeated, and the word was scorn. “A traitor’s daughter.”
Aerion smiled. It was the kind of smile you had once feared most.
“Choose your next words carefully.”
Maekar stepped closer.
“You dare warn me? You wear her colors before court. You let lords see you marked by a disgraced house. You speak of restraint while rebels gather courage from the thought that Aerion Targaryen can be softened by a pretty face.”
Your breath caught.
Aerion’s head tilted.
“Do you imagine beauty is all she has?”
Maekar’s hand twitched.
“You were always vain enough to mistake possession for strength.”
The words struck Aerion. You saw it, though he hid it well.
Maekar saw it too.
“That is what this is,” his father said. “Not love. Do not flatter yourself with songs. You have found a toy that resists you, and because it does not break when pressed, you have mistaken frustration for feeling.”
Aerion said nothing. His silence was terrible.
Maekar’s gaze moved to the orange thread at his cuff.
“Take those colors off.”
“No.”
The word was quiet. The room seemed to draw breath.
Maekar struck him. Or would have.
You moved before thought.
There was no courage in it. Not the kind songs praise. No shining calculation. No noble speech. Only the sight of his father’s hand rising, and the sudden unbearable knowledge that you did not want the blow to land.
You stepped between them and the slap caught you across the face.
Sound vanished. Everything vanished in that room.
Your head turned with the force of it. Pain bloomed hot along your cheek, bright and humiliating. For a moment you saw nothing but white light and the edge of the table and your own hand gripping it to remain upright.
Then stillness.
Maekar stared at you.
Aerion did not move and you looked at him.
Whatever had been in his face before was gone. He was utterly silent. Shattered into stillness. You had seen Aerion angry. You had seen him amused. You had seen him wounded, proud, vicious, fascinated. You had never seen him afraid. Not for himself. For you.
His hand rose, slowly this time, as if approaching some wounded bird that might die of fright. He did not touch your cheek. Not at first. His fingers hovered near the mark his father had made.
His voice, when it came, was almost unrecognizable.
“Leave us.”
Maekar’s face darkened. “Aerion—”
“Leave.”
There was dragonfire in that word.
Maekar looked from his son to you, then back again. Something like understanding passed over his face, grim and displeased. Then he left and the door closed.
Aerion turned to you. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, with care so fierce it looked almost painful, he took your wrist and led you from the room.
His chambers were quiet.
He sat you before the hearth and stood over you as though guarding a battlefield after the slaughter had ended. His fingers flexed once at his side. Then again.
“Let me see,” he said.
You lifted your face. The mark had risen red across your cheek.
Aerion stared at it. Violence meant for him, written upon you. That was the thing he could not bear. Not because you belonged to him. Because you had chosen it.
You had stepped between pain and him with nothing to gain. No court had watched to praise you. No father had commanded it. No vow had required it. You had protected him not because he was gentle, not because he deserved it, not because you had forgotten what he had done.
You had done it because somewhere in the ruin between you, he had become yours too.
Aerion understood fear. He understood obedience. He understood taking, breaking, possessing, punishing. He did not understand this. So it broke him open.
“Why?” he asked.
A prince, a dragon, a cruel and beautiful creature of fire and pride, reduced to one bare word.
You could have lied. You did not.
“Because I did not want him to hurt you.”
His throat moved.
“He has struck me before.”
“I know.”
“Then why would you put yourself in the path of it?”
You looked at him, cheek burning, heart worse.
“Because knowing does not make it right.”
He laughed once, but it was not laughter. It was a broken exhale.
“I am not good.”
“No.”
“I have been cruel to you.”
“Yes.”
“I frightened you.”
“Yes.”
His face twisted. Perhaps he had expected denial. A mercy he had not earned. You gave him truth instead.
“You humiliated me,” you said softly. “You made my wedding feel like a sentence. You called me traitor until the word followed me into sleep. You made me wear your colors so everyone would know I had been conquered.”
Aerion closed his eyes, only briefly. When he opened them, they were bright with something more dangerous than tears because he did not know how to shed them.
“And yet?” he asked, bitterly.
“And yet,” you said, “you wore mine.”
The silence after that was not empty. It was full of every unsaid thing pressing its hands against the walls.
Aerion knelt before you. The sight of it startled you so deeply you forgot to breathe.
He did not seem to know what to do once there. Gentleness was foreign country to him. His hand lifted again, and this time, with terrible care, his fingertips touched the unmarked edge of your jaw.
“I will kill him for this,” he said.
“My father?”
“My father. Yours. Anyone who places a mark on you and calls it duty.”
“You cannot kill every man who has hurt me.”
His mouth curved, humorless. “I can try.”
Despite yourself, you almost smiled. Almost.
“Aerion.”
His name changed the room. You had not used it often. Names were intimate things. Dangerous things.
He looked at you as though you had touched him.
“Punish the guilty,” you said. “Spare Starpike.”
His jaw tightened.
“You ask again.”
“Yes.”
“You know what they did.”
“I know what they did to the crown. I know what they did to me. I know my father traded me, then called for my return when I became useful again.” Your voice trembled, but did not break. “I am not asking because they are innocent. I am asking because I will not let the innocent burn for their pride.”
Aerion looked at the mark on your face. Then at your eyes.
“My mercy will not be gentle,” he said.
“I did not expect it to be.”
“No. You never make that mistake.”
He rose.
When judgment came, it came with teeth. The men who had plotted rebellion were seized. Lords who had written treason in careful hands found those hands bound. Ravens flew. Riders rode. Starpike’s gates opened before dragon banners, and because they opened, the castle did not burn.
Lord Gormon Peake was brought to heel. Not slain, for you had asked that much with a face still marked by another prince’s hand. But stripped of command. Sentenced before witnesses. His lands watched, his household divided, his pride cut down to a stump.
Aerion stood before court in black and red, with orange at his cuff and a black castle near his heart.
“Starpike stands,” he declared, “because my wife asked it of me.”
The hall listened, breathless.
“If House Peake mistakes her mercy for weakness, I will correct them. If any man claims her name as excuse for treason again, I will teach him the difference between a woman’s compassion and a dragon’s patience.”
No one laughed. No one whispered this time.
You stood beside him, still in Targaryen colors, but not swallowed by them now. Beneath your sleeve, Peake orange rested against your skin. At Aerion’s wrist, it burned where all could see.
For the first time since leaving Starpike, you felt not displayed, but witnessed.
That night, he found you in the garden.
Moonlight silvered the leaves and turned the fountains pale. The city below muttered in its sleep. For once, there were no courtiers. No ladies with fans. No fathers. No banners raised like accusations.
Only you and him him.
Aerion wore no crown, no courtly smile, no easy cruelty. His black cloak was lined in orange. You saw it at once. He saw you see it. This time, he did not mock you.
“Your city wanted you back badly,” he said.
There it was...the cruelty he reached for when fear came too near.
His voice was light. His eyes were not.
“Go, then,” he said. “If that is what you want. Starpike stands. Your father lives. The bargain has been remade prettily enough for singers to choke on. Go home.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“You do not mean that.”
His smile cut. “Do I not ?”
“No.”
“How fortunate that you know my mind so well.”
“I know when you are trying to bleed before you can be wounded.”
The smile vanished.
A breeze moved through the garden, stirring the orange lining of his cloak like a small, secret flame.
“I frightened you,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I humiliated you.”
“Yes.”
“You hate me.”
You could have said yes. Once, it would have been simple. Now truth had become harder.
“I hated what you did to me,” you said. “I hated the way you made me small. I hated that everyone watched and you let them. I hated that my wedding felt like the end of myself.”
Aerion stood very still.
“But House Peake made me small too,” you continued. “They gave me away when it saved them. Then they tried to reclaim me when it served them. They called both duty. They called both love. Neither time did they ask what I wanted.”
“And what do you want?”
No command or mockery.
You stepped closer.
“I want to choose.”
His face changed.
You wondered whether anyone had ever offered Aerion a choice that was not also a test, a weapon, or a trap.
“Then choose,” he said.
His voice was rough.
You looked at him...beautiful, cruel, wounded, dangerous. A dragon who had burned you and shielded you with the same fire. He was not redeemed. Not purified. Not made gentle by the shape of your hand. Some part of you would always remember the girl in the sept beneath the red cloak, the hostage in silk, the bride led to the dragon’s mouth.
But you remembered other things too. A bedding refused. A cup left untouched. A black castle near his heart. A prince kneeling before you, undone by the sight of your pain.
You chose yourself first. That was the vow no septon had given you. Then you chose him.
You touched the orange lining of his cloak.
“These are my colors,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You should not wear them.”
“No,” Aerion said. “I should not.”
“You do anyway.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“Yes.”
You kissed him first.
It was not like the kiss in the sept. That had belonged to gods and lords and hungry witnesses. This belonged to no one but you. Aerion went still beneath it, as though struck not by force but by wonder. Then his hand rose to your face, careful of the fading mark on your cheek, and he kissed you back with a restraint so fierce it trembled.
He wanted. You felt that. But more than wanting, he waited. That was what broke your heart open.
When you drew away, his forehead nearly touched yours.
The garden was quiet around you.
“My prince,” you whispered.
His mouth tightened.
Then you corrected yourself.
“My husband.”
Aerion stopped breathing. The word hung between you, no longer sentence, no longer surrender.
Choice.
He looked at you as if the whole court, the crown, the war, the old stains of blood and treason had fallen away, leaving only one impossible mercy he had not known how to ask for.
“Say it again,” he said.
Not as an order. Almost as a plea.
You touched the orange thread at his cuff.
“Husband.”
And this time, when Aerion closed his eyes, he looked not conquered, but saved from conquest. Only a little and only with you.
pls i’m begging PLEASSSEEEEEE more butcher simon x mother reader
Continuation to this little thing with Butcher!Simon and Single mom!Reader
Thinking about Butcher Simon slowly encroaching in your life, chipping away at the wall piece by piece, till he can fit his big hat through the whole and take a good look around.
Simon likes how careful you are, how you don't let go of your boy no matter what, how even around someone as, now, familiar as Simon you are mindful to keep an eye on your lad. Can't be too careful in a big city when you've got no one to look out for you, no one to soften the blow if it comes to knock the wind out of you.
You mention in passing that the father is not in the picture, only he gets a feeling that the dad was left in the other frame that you squeezed yourself out of the first chance you got, running. Took your boy with you, took his things and his stuffed toy and his favourite book.
Took only a backpack of your own things. Simon saw them, when he got into your apartment while you two were out. A couple sweaters, jeans, one good pair of boots and a coat.
He toys with the idea of rummaging through your underwear drawer, but it wouldn't be fair. You don't have much right now, you are in no position to splurge for more than necessary for your kid. Not even for yourself.
You are a good mom, he thinks, stomach tightening hot and slow, when he lies on your bed for a couple minutes, nose in your pillow. Swallowing your scent, sleep-soft and a little salty with the hint of your sweat.
You must taste delicious, Simon noses at your pillow, hand snaking down to unbuckle his belt. He's been popping up here and there all over the narrow road of your life to offer some extra meat, a helping hand or a kind word. He knows the importance of making himself a safe unchanging fixture in your life.
You don't need no surprises, you need someone dependable. Someone you can rely on and someone who's not going to strain you any further.
Someone you can trust, Simon thinks, scarred palm wrapping around his cock when he presses his face into your pillow. It's hard to breath like that, air hot and cotton stuffing his mouth when he pants into it, stroking himself, calloused finger rubbing the underside of his head, till his hips twitch.
Till he's even hungrier, rocking his hips in the hand, cool air of your bedroom nipping at the hot sensitive skin of his. Your pillow smells like you and Ghost burrows his face in it, so he doesn't breath much, so his head goes light and empty - your careful glances up at his face imprinted on the inside of his eyelids.
You are so good, he murmurs, slurred and wet, drool filling his mouth, gums itching for him to sink his teeth in. Such a good mum, gonna be good to him too, yeah? Gonna let him take care of you in turn, won't you?
Orgasm shudders through him, spills into the tight fist of his hand so it doesn't marr your duvet covers. He didn't bring you anything proper this time, can't go getting too greedy now.
Simon heaves into your pillow, wet spot of his drool forming and fucking hell, he'll need to do something about it before leaving.
You don't have to know that he was there, not yet. Not until he got an actual invitation in your home, marking another goalpost reached.
He tilts his head at you next time you walk into his shop, bundled up in your coat, eyes shiny with glee at the first snow and something in his chest warms up, like a faulty heater that finally got a proper kick to start working.
Maybe it was worth getting sent to early retirement and work right back where he started 15 years ago.
You smile at Simon for the first time since he met you, shoulders no longer as tight and the corners of his lips twitch. Pretty.
Wonder if you are gonna smile at him too when he's got his mouth on your-
"What can I get you today, luv?" He cuts his train of thought before it can reach the station, because the counter is high enough but there is no need to pop a boner out in the open. Can't afford to spook you before the teeth of the steel trap called 'Ghost' close above your head.
"The usual, please." You respond, no longer that scared exhausted thing from the first day in his shop, nowadays you have more and more smalltalk with your favourite butcher. "The weather's chilly today, but God, the snow's absolutely lovely."
He's got to be your favourite, Simon thinks, weighing the meat and like always throws in a little something in addition, no way you are going to any shop other than his. Not like any other dimwit can feed you as good as he does.
"That it is." He just hums in response and glances at your son staring him up. "You take care of yer mum, lad?" Simon asks, eyes flickering to the way your smile widen's when your 3-year old nods immediately.
"He does." You respond instead of your son and the affection in your voice is so thick that Ghost in him tugs the air in, aching to stretch out in your direction and curl around like a big beast that he was. "Don't know what I'd do without him."
Your boy always sticks close to you, watching strangers with curious eyes, his hair disheveled when in the warmth of the shop you take his knitted hat off, tucking it under your arm so he doesn't sweat too much while you two wait.
"Think the feeling's mutual." Simon says, without planning too, but you giggle, short happy sound and something in his brain sparks to life. So that's how you sound when you laugh.
"I sure hope so." You grin at him, eyes crinkling and Simon doesn't know what to do with the traitorous heat in his face when he passes you the meat, grazing your fingers as you take the bag.
How stupid is that?
Simon would like to hear you laugh at things he says for the rest of his empty life.
He watches you leave, eyes following you and your boy walking down the street - his hand in yours as he starts chatting your ear off about something immediately. A chatterbox when he's around his mum, huh?
You are warm in the best way possible, when you look at him and hold the elevator when you spot him in the entrance to your apartment building, eyes crinkling again. Like he's a friend.
Ghost in him itches to crack your locks and sink into the space behind your bedroom door so he can watch you sleep, so he can stay there in close proximity to the light that you emanate, to the family that you have with that little boy, to the prospect of belonging someplace warm and soft.
Could maybe give you another baby, he thinks idly in the evenings, staring at the orange light of his oven. There is beef inside, slowly baking until he knows its gonna be soft and tender enough for you to swallow without chewing. Something else to sustain you, to fill out the hollowed out edges and bring some shine to your eyes.
Being mum is hard, Simon reasons, palms clasped together in his lap. His kitchen is small and dark, only light of his oven softening the shadows around him. And you ain't taking any of his money, even if he offered, he knows that you won't. But you'll take food.
Can't say no to a good bite and if there's something that Simon knows it's meat.
He didn't cook much since he joined military, but nowadays he's got a lot more free time and space in his head that needs to get stuffed with something other than an occasional urge to sharped the knives again and get out in the dark to split someone's skin under his knuckles.
More of a habit, really, his bones aren't used to not getting strained and cracked every once in a while. It's been a minute since he's got an adrenaline crash and he'd like to say that he hates it.
He did.
And then you walked in, nervous and tired, your boy on your hip - head tucked against your shoulder.
Being retired wasn't that bad after it, eh, mate? Ghost hums in the still quiet of his flat, deft fingers wrapping the cooked meal in tinfoil and packing it up for tomorrow.
Maybe he could talk you into eating with him if you go all shy on him all of a sudden, his mind continues the chain of thought, weaving a picture for him to press his face into. The almost of it stratching over his skin like saran wrap, tight around the misaligned bridge of his nose, pressing insistently over his cheekbones.
You probably ain't letting him handfeed you, but a bloke can dream, right?
For now he could settle for just watching you eat something he made. Cutting into bite-sized pieces for your boy if he'll be with you tomorrow.
Good thing Simon so used to being painfully patient, swallowing down every urge and every want, choking down the impulse to rush in and make a mess of a perfectly good timeline of this relationship.
Hell, was he even ten years younger, he would have probably already squeezed himself in your doors, inviting himself over to your dinner.
Would have taken all of the space and then some, would have molded his whole body against every corner of your life, smothering even the flicker of resistance.
Ghost would have moved in with you while you were sleeping, knowing that you aren't going to outright tell him to leave.
Ghost would have bitten off the entire hand if you gave him a single finger and then he would go for the throat, sinking his teeth in to rip at the carotid.
But Simon isn't Ghost anymore.
And Simon doesn't want to smother your flame. He'd like to warm himself up on it and for that you need to let him closer. For that, he'd need to be patient for you.
He sucks his teeth, inspecting the packed dish. Makes sure nothing's going to leak.
Gotta make a good first impression with this small offering, right? So when he comes back with more you wouldn't have the itch to pretend you've got to run.
He sighs heavily, eyeing the clock the next day, restless urge within him growing when you don't come at your usual 4 o'clock. Should've been here by now, he knows how long it takes you to get from your job to daycare to him and then home.
Simon walked the route a couple times, following you and your son, just to time it for himself. A little self assurance, can't be too prepared in matters of war and love.
When the bell above his entrance door sways, alerting him, Ghost in him is scratching slow and annoyed to go see what's wrong and what caused the deviation in usual routine when usually there isn't any.
"The usual, luv?" He calls out, walking out of the backroom, wipes his hands off on the towel before he turns to you (knows better than to come in with his hands bloody and shoulders tense). "You'r a bit later today." Simon points out, glancing at the spot you usually occupy by his cash register.
You aren't smiling at him, is the first thing that pops into his head before he assesses the situation and wordlessly opens the latch to herd you behind the counter.
Sits you down on a stool, murmuring 'come on, luv' so you'd let him help you out of the coat. Maybe the roast will come in handy after all.
Just not the way he hoped for.
You are quiet and glassy-eyed, your eyelids swollen and hands trembling when you let Simon tuck you behind the counter and silently accept the fork that he passes you.
"This is delicious, Simon." You say after another few minutes of chewing, fat tears welling in your eyes when you look at him and it's not his roast, Ghost thinks. He ain't that good at cooking to make you actually shed a tear because of it.
"Somethin' happened?" He just asks, looking you in the eyes and you look back down at the plastic tupperware he brought out for you. The meat is in fact good.
Really really good.
Your first meal of the day, you remember distantly and sniffle, taking another bite.
It isn't right to burden Simon with your problems, not when he has already been good to you since you walked into his shop. But you just...you just want to tell someone before you might have to run again.
You don't look at him when you do, words spilling about the man you have left behind, about the way money was never enough, about the yelling and the smashed dishes.
About him throwing the dish at you.
You've dodged it, you joke, fingers tight around the fork and Simon sits there, quiet, his eyes a physical weight on your nose.
But your boy was crying and then you noticed that he's got glass in his hair, you share after a moment, throat tight. You had to spend an evening just picking out all the shards to make sure he's not going to cut himself on it.
"Had to go after that." You murmur, swallowing another wave of tear and Simon nods. "We left before he came back and I just...small country, I suppose. He wants to meet up and says that its his son too, that I can't keep him from his child and-" You suck the breath in, lightheaded and ice cold with terror, voice cracking in half.
Simon makes a quiet affirming sound, his wide palm landing on your back and you blink through the tears, trying not to sob again when he slowly pulls you a little closer, giving you a hug.
It will be embarassing later how you just sob into his sweater, chest gurgling with tears and panic, arms wrapped around the big butcher who has been so nice to you and it's not fair, it's so unfair that you have to leave everything again.
"D'you want to see the bloke again?" Simon asks, tone calm as he hunches his shoulders to let you cry into him as much as you need to. "And do you want your boy to see 'im again, luv?" He adds, palm stroking your shivering back.
When you shake your head, hiccuping, Ghost nods and presses a small kiss to your hair, not tightening his hold on you because this is not what you need right now.
What you need is for the problem to go away.
"Where'd you leave the lad, luv?" Ghost murmurs, voice coarse and low when you finally look up at him and explain that you left your son with a friend from work because she lives nearby. That you didn't want to take any chances if you run into your ex outside.
If he maybe waits for you back at your flat.
"I feel so fuckin' daft." You mumble, suddenly angry at yourself and Ghost huffs out air, kisses your cheek then, eyes calm and dark.
"You'r not daft, luv. Go to your friend, okay? I finish in 'bout an hour. I'll walk you two home. Check for any...surprises." He doesn't offer, but state, wrapping up the rest of the roast for you.
Ghost kisses your other cheek as goodbye, knowing that you are too out of it to process everything right now. And that's okay.
You've got Simon, don't you?
And Simon's got a couple mates that still go all dark behind the eyes at the offer of doing some work in their spare time. Something a bit off the books for their lieutenant.
The phone gets picked up on the second ring, cheery voice on the other end familiar like his own right hand.
"Didn't pack yer bags yet, did you, Johnny?" Ghost in him humms, phone pressed between the shoulder and his ear. "Got a bit of a rush job for you 'nd Garrick."
Soap on the other end laughs like the mean bastard he is, promising to wake up Kyle and be there in ten, all too happy that their trip to Manchester isn't going to be boring after all.
"We goin' for a ride, l.t.?" Johnny asks like he knows the answer and Simon thinks for a moment.
"No rides." Ghost says, dragging his apron off. "Got an hour to get it done. I've got dinner plans."
Simon doesn't know much about how good families work, doesn't always know what's the right thing to say, but Ghost in knows what to do when there is someone breathing his sweetheart's air and dimming her shine.
"Tell Garrick he's on clean up tonight." He says and sergeant grumbles in the back of the phone call, audibly sleepy.
After all, Kyle did tell him a couple years back that he always wanted to see if anyone other than Ghost could get out after getting buried alive.
Good cop bad cop but with doctors/scientists. One barking orders "I said lie STILL" the other holding you down, tightening the restraints "just do as he says, sweetheart okay?"
